Beachy Head: With Other Poems.

]> Beachy Head: With Other Poems.Smith, Charlotte Turner, 1749‐1806Ophelia Yim,creation of electronic text. Electronic edition 161KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956161998.SmitCBeach

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series11Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorBeachy Head: with other poemsSmith, Charlotte [Turner]J. JohnsonLondon1807[This text was scanned from its original in the University of California—Davis, Shields Library Kohler Collection I:1151][Kohler ID no: I:1151. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:1151 mf.]

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[Title Page]

BEACHY HEAD, &c.BEACHY HEAD:withOTHER POEMS,BYCHARLOTTE SMITH.NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.LONDON: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR; AND SOLD BY J. JOHNSON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH‐YARD. 1807.W. Pople, Printer,22,Old Boswell Court, Strand.

ADVERTISEMENT.

AS the following Poems were delivered to the Publisher as early as the month of May last, it may not be thought improper to state the circumstances that have hitherto delayed their appearance.

The fulfilling this duty to the public has since devolved to other hands; for alas ! the admired author is now unconscious of their praise or censure, having fallen a victim to a long and painful illness, on the 28th of October last.

The delay which since that period has taken place, has been occasioned partly by the hope of finding a preface to the present publication, which there was some reason to suppose herself had written, and partly from an intention of annexing a short account of her life; but it having been since decided to publish biographical memoirs, and a selection of her correspondence, on a more enlarged plan, and under the immediate authority of her own nearest relatives, it was thought unnecessary; and the motives for deferring the publication are altogether removed.

The public, who have received the several editions of Mrs. Smith's former Poems with unbounded approbation, will, without doubt, admit the claims of the present work to an equal share of their favour; and her friends and ad‐mirers cannot fail of being highly gratified in observing, that although most of the Poems included in this volume were composed during the few and short intervals of care which her infirmities permitted her to enjoy; yet they bear the most unquestionable evidence of the same undiminished genius, spirit, and imagination, which so imminently distinguished her former productions.

The Poem entitled BEACHY HEAD is not completed according to the original design.␣␣ That the increasing debility of its author has been the cause of its being left in an imperfect state, will it is hoped be a sufficient apology.

There are two Poems in this collection, viz. FLORA, and STUDIES BY THE SEA, which have already been published in Mrs. Smith's“Conversations for the Use of Children and Young Persons”; but as many of her friends considered them as misplaced in that work, and not likely to fall under the general observation of those who were qualified to appreciate their superior elegance and exquisite fancy, and had expressed a desire of seeing them transplanted into a more congenial soil, the Publisher, with his usual liberality, has permitted them to reappear in the present volume.

January 31, 1807.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.BEACHY HEAD. ON thy stupendous summit, rock sublime !That o'er the channel rear'd, half way at seaThe mariner at early morning hails,I would recline; while Fancy should go forth,And represent the strange and awful hourOf vast concussion; when the OmnipotentStretch'd forth his arm, and rent the solid hills,Bidding the impetuous main flood rush betweenThe rifted shores, and from the continentEternally divided this green isle.Imperial lord of the high southern coast !From thy projecting head‐land I would markFar in the east the shades of night disperse,Melting and thinned, as from the dark blue waveEmerging, brilliant rays of arrowy lightDart from the horizon; when the glorious sunJust lifts above it his resplendent orb.Advances now, with feathery silver touched,The rippling tide of flood; glisten the sands,While, inmates of the chalky clefts that scarThy sides precipitous, with shrill harsh cry,Their white wings glancing in the level beam,The terns, and gulls, and tarrocks, seek their food,And thy rough hollows echo to the voiceOf the gray choughs, and ever restless daws,With clamour, not unlike the chiding hounds,While the lone shepherd, and his baying dog,Drive to thy turfy crest his bleating flock. The high meridian of the day is past,And Ocean now, reflecting the calm Heaven,Is of cerulean hue; and murmurs lowThe tide of ebb, upon the level sands.The sloop, her angular canvas shifting still,Catches the light and variable airsThat but a little crisp the summer sea.Dimpling its tranquil surface. Afar off,And just emerging from the arch immenseWhere seem to part the elements, a fleetOf fishing vessels stretch their lesser sails;While more remote, and like a dubious spotJust hanging in the horizon, laden deep,The ship of commerce richly freighted, makesHer slower progress, on her distant voyage,Bound to the orient climates, where the sunMatures the spice within its odorous shell,And, rivalling the gray worm's filmy toil,Bursts from its pod the vegetable down;Which in long turban'd wreaths, from torrid heatDefends the brows of Asia's countless casts.There the Earth hides within her glowing breastThe beamy adamant, and the round pearlEnchased in rugged covering; which the slave,With perilous and breathless toil, tears offFrom the rough sea‐rock, deep beneath the waves.These are the toys of Nature; and her sportOf little estimate in Reason's eye:And they who reason, with abhorrence seeMan, for such gaudes and baubles, violateThe sacred freedom of his fellow man—Erroneous estimate ! As Heaven's pure air,Fresh as it blows on this aërial height,Or sound of seas upon the stony strand,Or inland, the gay harmony of birds,And winds that wander in the leafy woods;Are to the unadulterate taste more worthThan the elaborate harmony, brought outFrom fretted stop, or modulated airsOf vocal science.—So the brightest gems,Glancing resplendent on the regal crown,Or trembling in the high born beauty's ear,Are poor and paltry, to the lovely lightOf the fair star, that as the day declines,Attendant on her queen, the crescent moon,Bathes her bright tresses in the eastern wave.For now the sun is verging to the sea,And as he westward sinks, the floating cloudsSuspended, move upon the evening gale,And gathering round his orb, as if to shadeThe insufferable brightness, they resignTheir gauzy whiteness; and more warm'd, assumeAll hues of purple.␣␣There, transparent goldMingles with ruby tints, and sapphire gleams,And colours, such as Nature through her worksShews only in the ethereal canopy.Thither aspiring Fancy fondly soars,Wandering sublime thro' visionary vales,Where bright pavilions rise, and trophies, fann'dBy airs celestial; and adorn'd with wreathsOf flowers that bloom amid elysian bowers.Now bright, and brighter still the colours glow,Till half the lustrous orb within the floodSeems to retire: the flood reflecting stillIts splendor, and in mimic glory drest;Till the last ray shot upward, fires the cloudsWith blazing crimson; then in paler light,Long lines of tenderer radiance, lingering yieldTo partial darkness; and on the opposing sideThe early moon distinctly rising, throwsHer pearly brilliance on the trembling tide.The fishermen, who at set seasons passMany a league off at sea their toiling night,Now hail their comrades, from their daily taskReturning; and make ready for their own,With the night tide commencing:—The night tideBears a dark vessel on, whose hull and sailsMark her a coaster from the north.␣␣Her keelNow ploughs the sand; and sidelong now she leans,While with loud clamours her athletic crewUnload her; and resounds the busy humAlong the wave‐worn rocks.␣␣Yet more remote,Where the rough cliff hangs beetling o'er its base,All breathes repose; the water's rippling soundScarce heard; but now and then the sea‐snipe's cryJust tells that something living is abroad;And sometimes crossing on the moonbright line,Glimmers the skiff, faintly discern'd awhile,Then lost in shadow. Contemplation here,High on her throne of rock, aloof may sit,And bid recording Memory unfoldHer scroll voluminous—bid her retraceThe period, when from Neustria's hostile shoreThe Norman launch'd his galleys, and the bayO'er which that mass of ruin frowns even nowIn vain and sullen menace, then receivedThe new invaders; a proud martial race,Of Scandinavia the undaunted sons,Whom Dogon, Fier‐a‐bras, and Humfroi ledTo conquest: while Trinacria to their powerYielded her wheaten garland; and when thou,Parthenope ! within thy fertile bayReceiv'd the victors— In the mailed ranksOf Normans landing on the British coastRode Taillefer; and with astounding voiceThunder'd the war song daring Roland sangFirst in the fierce contention: vainly brave,One not inglorious struggle England made—But failing, saw the Saxon heptarchyFinish for ever.—Then the holy pile,Yet seen upon the field of conquest, rose,Where to appease heaven's wrath for so much blood,The conqueror bade unceasing prayers ascend,And requiems for the slayers and the slain.But let not modern Gallia form from hencePresumptuous hopes, that ever thou again,Queen of the isles ! shalt crouch to foreign arms.The enervate sons of Italy may yield;And the Iberian, all his trophies tornAnd wrapp'd in Superstition's monkish weed,May shelter his abasement, and put onDegrading fetters. ␣␣Never, never thou !Imperial mistress of the obedient sea;But thou, in thy integrity secure,Shalt now undaunted meet a world in arms. England ! 'twas where this promontory rearsIts rugged brow above the channel wave,Parting the hostile nations, that thy fame,Thy naval fame was tarnish'd, at what timeThou, leagued with the Batavian, gavest to FranceOne day of triumph—triumph the more loud,Because even then so rare.␣␣Oh ! well redeem'd,Since, by a series of illustrious men,Such as no other country ever rear'd,To vindicate her cause.␣␣It is a listWhich, as Fame echoes it, blanches the cheekOf bold Ambition; while the despot feelsThe extorted sceptre tremble in his grasp. From even the proudest roll by glory fill'd,How gladly the reflecting mind returnsTo simple scenes of peace and industry,Where, bosom'd in some valley of the hillsStands the lone farm; its gate with tawny ricksSurrounded, and with granaries and sheds,Roof'd with green mosses, and by elms and ashPartially shaded; and not far remov'dThe hut of sea‐flints built; the humble homeOf one, who sometimes watches on the heights,When hid in the cold mist of passing clouds,The flock, with dripping fleeces, are dispers'dO'er the wide down; then from some ridged pointThat overlooks the sea, his eager eyeWatches the bark that for his signal waitsTo land its merchandize:—Quitting for thisClandestine traffic his more honest toil,The crook abandoning, he braves himselfThe heaviest snow‐storm of December's night,When with conflicting winds the ocean raves,And on the tossing boat, unfearing mountsTo meet the partners of the perilous trade,And share their hazard.␣␣Well it were for him,If no such commerce of destruction known,He were content with what the earth affordsTo human labour; even where she seemsReluctant most. ␣␣More happy is the hind,Who, with his own hands rears on some black moor,Or turbary, his independent hutCover'd with heather, whence the slow white smokeOf smouldering peat arises——A few sheep,His best possession, with his children shareThe rugged shed when wintry tempests blow;But, when with Spring's return the green blades riseAmid the russet heath, the household liveJoint tenants of the waste throughout the day,And often, from her nest, among the swamps,Where the gemm'd sun‐dew grows, or fring'd buck‐bean,They scare the plover, that with plaintive criesFlutters, as sorely wounded, down the wind.Rude, and but just remov'd from savage lifeIs the rough dweller among scenes like these,(Scenes all unlike the poet's fabling dreamsDescribing Arcady)—But he is free;The dread that follows on illegal actsHe never feels; and his industrious mateShares in his labour.␣␣Where the brook is tracedBy crouding osiers, and the black coot hidesAmong the plashy reeds, her diving brood,The matron wades; gathering the long green rushThat well prepar'd hereafter lends its lightTo her poor cottage, dark and cheerless elseThro' the drear hours of Winter.␣␣OtherwhileShe leads her infant group where charlock grows“Unprofitably gay,” or to the fields,Where congregate the linnet and the finch,That on the thistles, so profusely spread,Feast in the desert; the poor familyEarly resort, extirpating with careThese, and the gaudier mischief of the ground;Then flames the high rais'd heap; seen afar offLike hostile war‐fires flashing to the sky.Another task is theirs: On fields that shewAs angry Heaven had rain'd sterility,Stony and cold, and hostile to the plough,Where clamouring loud, the evening curlew runsAnd drops her spotted eggs among the flints;The mother and the children pile the stonesIn rugged pyramids;—and all this toilThey patiently encounter; well contentOn their flock bed to slumber undisturb'dBeneath the smoky roof they call their own.Oh ! little knows the sturdy hind, who standsGazing, with looks where envy and contemptAre often strangely mingled, on the carWhere prosperous Fortune sits; what secret careOr sick satiety is often hid,Beneath the splendid outside: He knows notHow frequently the child of LuxuryEnjoying nothing, flies from place to placeIn chase of pleasure that eludes his grasp;And that content is e'en less found by him,Than by the labourer, whose pick‐axe smoothsThe road before his chariot; and who doffsWhat was an hat; and as the train pass on,Thinks how one day's expenditure, like this,Would cheer him for long months, when to his toilThe frozen earth closes her marble breast. Ah ! who is happy ?␣␣Happiness ! a wordThat like false fire, from marsh effluvia born,Misleads the wanderer, destin'd to contendIn the world's wilderness, with want or woe—Yet they are happy, who have never ask'dWhat good or evil means.␣␣The boyThat on the river's margin gaily plays,Has heard that Death is there—He knows not Death,And therefore fears it not; and venturing inHe gains a bullrush, or a minnow—then,At certain peril, for a worthless prize,A crow's, or raven's nest, he climbs the boll,Of some tall pine; and of his prowess proud,Is for a moment happy.␣␣Are your cares,Ye who despise him, never worse applied ?The village girl is happy, who sets forthTo distant fair, gay in her Sunday suit,With cherry colour'd knots, and flourish'd shawl,And bonnet newly purchas'd.␣␣So is heHer little brother, who his mimic drumBeats, till he drowns her rural lovers' oathsOf constant faith, and still increasing love;Ah ! yet a while, and half those oaths believ'd,Her happiness is vanish'd; and the boyWhile yet a stripling, finds the sound he lov'dHas led him on, till he has given upHis freedom, and his happiness together. I once was happy, when while yet a child,I learn'd to love these upland solitudes,And, when elastic as the mountain air,To my light spirit, care was yet unknownAnd evil unforeseen:—Early it came,And childhood scarcely passed, I was condemned,A guiltless exile, silently to sigh,While Memory, with faithful pencil, drewThe contrast; and regretting, I compar'dWith the polluted smoky atmosphereAnd dark and stifling streets, the southern hillsThat to the setting Sun, their graceful headsRearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaksWith her white rocks, the strong impetuous tide,When western winds the vast Atlantic urgeTo thunder on the coast—Haunts of my youth !Scenes of fond day dreams, I behold ye yet !Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopesTo climb the winding sheep‐path, aided oftBy scatter'd thorns: whose spiny branches boreSmall woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lambThere seeking shelter from the noon‐day sun;And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf,To look beneath upon the hollow wayWhile heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain,And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hindTo ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stoneThe grating wheel. Advancing higher stillThe prospect widens, and the village churchBut little, o'er the lowly roofs aroundRears its gray belfry, and its simple vane;Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'dBy the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring,When on each bough, the rosy‐tinctur'd bloomSits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.For even those orchards round the Norman farms,Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit,Console them for the vineyards of the south,Surpass not these. Where woods of ash, and beech,And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot,The upland shepherd rears his modest home,There wanders by, a little nameless streamThat from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear,Or after rain with chalky mixture gray,But still refreshing in its shallow course,The cottage garden; most for use design'd,Yet not of beauty destitute.␣␣The vineMantles the little casement; yet the briarDrops fragrant dew among the July flowers;And pansies rayed, and freak'd and mottled pinksGrow among balm, and rosemary and rue:There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blowAlmost uncultured: Some with dark green leavesContrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;Others, like velvet robes of regal stateOf richest crimson, while in thorny mossEnshrined and cradled, the most lovely, wearThe hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.—With fond regret I recollect e'en nowIn Spring and Summer, what delight I feltAmong these cottage gardens, and how muchSuch artless nosegays, knotted with a rushBy village housewife or her ruddy maid,Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleas'd. An early worshipper at Nature's shrine;I loved her rudest scenes—warrens, and heaths,And yellow commons, and birch‐shaded hollows,And hedge rows, bordering unfrequented lanesBowered with wild roses, and the clasping woodbineWhere purple tassels of the tangling vetchWith bittersweet, and bryony inweave,And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups—I loved to trace the brooks whose humid banksNourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil;And stroll among o'ershadowing woods of beech,Lending in Summer, from the heats of noonA whispering shade; while haply there reclinesSome pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers,Who, from the tumps with bright green mosses clad,Plucks the wood sorrel, with its light thin leaves,Heart‐shaped, and triply folded; and its rootCreeping like beaded coral; or who thereGathers, the copse's pride, anémones,With rays like golden studs on ivory laidMost delicate: but touch'd with purple clouds,Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow. Ah ! hills so early loved ! in fancy stillI breathe your pure keen air; and still beholdThose widely spreading views, mocking alikeThe Poet and the Painter's utmost art.And still, observing objects more minute,Wondering remark the strange and foreign formsOf sea‐shells; with the pale calcareous soilMingled, and seeming of resembling substance.Tho' surely the blue Ocean (from the heightsWhere the downs westward trend, but dimly seen)Here never roll'd its surge.␣␣Does Nature thenMimic, in wanton mood, fantastic shapesOf bivalves, and inwreathed volutes, that clingTo the dark sea‐rock of the wat'ry world ?Or did this range of chalky mountains, onceForm a vast bason, where the Ocean wavesSwell'd fathomless ? What time these fossil shells,Buoy'd on their native element, were thrownAmong the imbedding calx: when the huge hillIts giant bulk heaved, and in strange fermentGrew up a guardian barrier, 'twixt the seaAnd the green level of the sylvan weald. Ah ! very vain is Science' proudest boast,And but a little light its flame yet lendsTo its most ardent votaries; since from whenceThese fossil forms are seen, is but conjecture,Food for vague theories, or vain dispute,While to his daily task the peasant goes,Unheeding such inquiry; with no careBut that the kindly change of sun and shower,Fit for his toil the earth he cultivates.As little recks the herdsman of the hill,Who on some turfy knoll, idly reclined,Watches his wether flock; that deep beneathRest the remains of men, of whom is leftNo traces in the records of mankind,Save what these half obliterated moundsAnd half fill'd trenches doubtfully impartTo some lone antiquary; who on times remote,Since which two thousand years have roll'd away,Loves to contemplate.␣␣He perhaps may trace,Or fancy he can trace, the oblong squareWhere the mail'd legions, under Claudius, rear'd,The rampire, or excavated fossé delved;What time the huge unwieldy ElephantAuxiliary reluctant, hither led,From Afric's forest glooms and tawny sands,First felt the Northern blast, and his vast frameSunk useless; whence in after ages found,The wondering hinds, on those enormous bonesGaz'd; and in giants dwelling on the hillsBelieved and marvell'd— Hither, Ambition, come !Come and behold the nothingness of allFor which you carry thro' the oppressed Earth,War, and its train of horrors—see where treadThe innumerous hoofs of flocks above the worksBy which the warrior sought to registerHis glory, and immortalize his name—The pirate Dane, who from his circular campBore in destructive robbery, fire and swordDown thro' the vale, sleeps unremember'd here;And here, beneath the green sward, rests alikeThe savage native, who his acorn mealShar'd with the herds, that ranged the pathless woods;And the centurion, who on these wide hillsEncamping, planted the Imperial Eagle.All, with the lapse of Time, have passed away,Even as the clouds, with dark and dragon shapes,Or like vast promontories crown'd with towers,Cast their broad shadows on the downs: then sailFar to the northward, and their transient gloomIs soon forgotten. But from thoughts like these,By human crimes suggested, let us turnTo where a more attractive study courtsThe wanderer of the hills; while shepherd girlsWill from among the fescue bring him flowers,Of wonderous mockery; some resembling beesIn velvet vest, intent on their sweet toil,While others mimic flies, that lightly sportIn the green shade, or float along the pool,But here seem perch'd upon the slender stalk,And gathering honey dew.␣␣While in the breezeThat wafts the thistle's plumed seed along,Blue bells wave tremulous. ␣␣The mountain thymePurples the hassock of the heaving mole,And the short turf is gay with tormentil,And bird's foot trefoil, and the lesser tribesOf hawkweed; spangling it with fringed stars.—Near where a richer tract of cultur'd landSlopes to the south; and burnished by the sun,Bend in the gale of August, floods of corn;The guardian of the flock, with watchful care,Repels by voice and dog the encroaching sheep—While his boy visits every wired trapThat scars the turf; and from the pit‐falls takesThe timid migrants, who from distant wilds,Warrens, and stone quarries, are destined thusTo lose their short existence.␣␣But unsoughtBy Luxury yet, the Shepherd still protectsThe social bird, who from his native hauntsOf willowy current, or the rushy pool,Follows the fleecy croud, and flirts and skims,In fellowship among them. Where the knollMore elevated takes the changeful winds,The windmill rears its vanes; and thitherwardWith his white load, the master travelling,Scares the rooks rising slow on whispering wings,While o'er his head, before the summer sunLights up the blue expanse, heard more than seen,The lark sings matins; and above the cloudsFloating, embathes his spotted breast in dew.Beneath the shadow of a gnarled thorn,Bent by the sea blast, from a seat of turfWith fairy nosegays strewn, how wide the view !Till in the distant north it melts away,And mingles indiscriminate with clouds:But if the eye could reach so far, the martOf England's capital, its domes and spiresMight be perceived—Yet hence the distant rangeOf Kentish hills, appear in purple haze;And nearer, undulate the wooded heights,And airy summits, that above the moleRise in green beauty; and the beacon'd ridgeOf Black‐down shagg'd with heath, and swelling rudeLike a dark island from the vale; its browCatching the last rays of the evening sunThat gleam between the nearer park's old oaks,Then lighten up the river, and make prominentThe portal, and the ruin'd battlementsOf that dismantled fortress; rais'd what time␣␣The Conqueror's successors fiercely fought,Tearing with civil feuds the desolate land.But now a tiller of the soil dwells there,And of the turret's loop'd and rafter'd hallsHas made an humbler homestead—Where he sees,Instead of armed foemen, herds that grazeAlong his yellow meadows; or his flocksAt evening from the upland driv'n to fold— In such a castellated mansion onceA stranger chose his home; and where hard byIn rude disorder fallen, and hid with brushwoodLay fragments gray of towers and buttresses,Among the ruins, often he would muse—His rustic meal soon ended, he was wontTo wander forth, listening the evening soundsOf rushing milldam, or the distant team,Or night‐jar, chasing fern‐flies: the tir'd hindPass'd him at nightfall, wondering he should sitOn the hill top so late: they from the coastWho sought bye paths with their clandestine load,Saw with suspicious doubt, the lonely manCross on their way: but village maidens thoughtHis senses injur'd; and with pity sayThat he, poor youth ! must have been cross'd in love—For often, stretch'd upon the mountain turfWith folded arms, and eyes intently fix'dWhere ancient elms and firs obscured a grange,Some little space within the vale below,They heard him, as complaining of his fate,And to the murmuring wind, of cold neglectAnd baffled hope he told.—The peasant girlsThese plaintive sounds remember, and even nowAmong them may be heard the stranger's songs. Were I a Shepherd on the hillAnd ever as the mists withdrewCould see the willows of the rillShading the footway to the millWhere once I walk'd with you—And as away Night's shadows sail,And sounds of birds and brooks arise,Believe, that from the woody valeI hear your voice upon the galeIn soothing melodies;And viewing from the Alpine height,The prospect dress'd in hues of air,Could say, while transient colours brightTouch'd the fair scene with dewy light,'Tis, that her eyes are there !I think, I could endure my lotAnd linger on a few short years,And then, by all but you forgot,Sleep, where the turf that clothes the spotMay claim some pitying tears.For 'tis not easy to forgetOne, who thro' life has lov'd you still,And you, however late, might yetWith sighs to Memory giv'n, regretThe Shepherd of the Hill. Yet otherwhile it seem'd as if young HopeHer flattering pencil gave to Fancy's hand,And in his wanderings, rear'd to sooth his soulIdeal bowers of pleasure—Then, of SolitudeAnd of his hermit life, still more enamour'd,His home was in the forest; and wild fruitsAnd bread sustain'd him.␣␣There in early springThe Barkmen found him, e'er the sun arose;There at their daily toil, the WedgecuttersBeheld him thro' the distant thicket move.The shaggy dog following the truffle hunter,Bark'd at the loiterer; and perchance at nightBelated villagers from fair or wake,While the fresh night‐wind let the moonbeams inBetween the swaying boughs, just saw him pass,And then in silence, gliding like a ghostHe vanish'd ! Lost among the deepening gloom.—But near one ancient tree, whose wreathed rootsForm'd a rude couch, love‐songs and scatter'd rhymes,Unfinish'd sentences, or half erased,And rhapsodies like this, were sometimes found— —————— Let us to woodland wilds repairWhile yet the glittering night‐dews seemTo wait the freshly‐breathing air,Precursive of the morning beam,That rising with advancing day,Scatters the silver drops away.An elm, uprooted by the storm,The trunk with mosses gray and green,Shall make for us a rustic form,Where lighter grows the forest scene;And far among the bowery shades,Are ferny lawns and grassy glades.Retiring May to lovely JuneHer latest garland now resigns;The banks with cuckoo‐flowers are strewn,The woodwalks blue with columbines,And with its reeds, the wandering streamReflects the flag‐flower's golden gleam.There, feathering down the turf to meet,Their shadowy arms the beeches spread,While high above our sylvan seat,Lifts the light ash its airy head;And later leaved, the oaks betweenExtend their bows of vernal green.The slender birch its paper rindSeems offering to divided love,And shuddering even without a windAspins, their paler foliage move,As if some spirit of the airBreath'd a low sigh in passing there.The Squirrel in his frolic mood,Will fearless bound among the boughs;Yaffils laugh loudly thro' the wood,And murmuring ring‐doves tell their vows;While we, as sweetest woodscents rise,Listen to woodland melodies.And I'll contrive a sylvan roomAgainst the time of summer heat,Where leaves, inwoven in Nature's loom,Shall canopy our green retreat;And gales that “close the eye of day”Shall linger, e'er they die away.And when a sear and sallow hueFrom early frost the bower receives,I'll dress the sand rock cave for you,And strew the floor with heath and leaves,That you, against the autumnal airMay find securer shelter there.The Nightingale will then have ceas'dTo sing her moonlight serenade;But the gay bird with blushing breast,And Woodlarks still will haunt the shade,And by the borders of the springReed‐wrens will yet be carolling.The forest hermit's lonely caveNone but such soothing sounds shall reach,Or hardly heard, the distant waveSlow breaking on the stony beach;Or winds, that now sigh soft and low,Now make wild music as they blow.And then, before the chilling NorthThe tawny foliage falling light,Seems, as it flits along the earth,The footfall of the busy Sprite,Who wrapt in pale autumnal gloom,Calls up the mist‐born Mushroom.Oh ! could I hear your soft voice there,And see you in the forest greenAll beauteous as you are, more fairYou'ld look, amid the sylvan scene,And in a wood‐girl's simple guise,Be still more lovely in mine eyes.Ye phantoms of unreal delight,Visions of fond delirium born !Rise not on my deluded sight,Then leave me drooping and forlornTo know, such bliss can never be,Unless␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣loved like me. The visionary, nursing dreams like these,Is not indeed unhappy.␣␣Summer woodsWave over him, and whisper as they wave,Some future blessings he may yet enjoy.And as above him sail the silver clouds,He follows them in thought to distant climes,Where, far from the cold policy of this,Dividing him from her he fondly loves,He, in some island of the southern sea,May haply build his cane‐constructed bowerBeneath the bread‐fruit, or aspiring palm,With long green foliage rippling in the gale.Oh ! let him cherish his ideal bliss—For what is life, when Hope has ceas'd to strewHer fragile flowers along its thorny way ?And sad and gloomy are his days, who livesOf Hope abandon'd !Just beneath the rockWhere Beachy overpeers the channel wave,Within a cavern mined by wintry tidesDwelt one, who long disgusted with the worldAnd all its ways, appear'd to suffer lifeRather than live; the soul‐reviving gale,Fanning the bean‐field, or the thymy heath,Had not for many summers breathed on him; And nothing mark'd to him the season's change,Save that more gently rose the placid sea,And that the birds which winter on the coastGave place to other migrants; save that the fog,Hovering no more above the beetling cliffsBetray'd not then the little careless sheepOn the brink grazing, while their headlong fallNear the lone Hermit's flint‐surrounded home,Claim'd unavailing pity; for his heartWas feelingly alive to all that breath'd;And outraged as he was, in sanguine youth,By human crimes, he still acutely feltFor human misery.Wandering on the beach,He learn'd to augur from the clouds of heaven,And from the changing colours of the sea,And sullen murmurs of the hollow cliffs,Or the dark porpoises, that near the shoreGambol'd and sported on the level brineWhen tempests were approaching: then at nightHe listen'd to the wind; and as it droveThe billows with o'erwhelming vehemenceHe, starting from his rugged couch, went forthAnd hazarding a life, too valueless,He waded thro' the waves, with plank or poleTowards where the mariner in conflict dreadWas buffeting for life the roaring surge;And now just seen, now lost in foaming gulphs,The dismal gleaming of the clouded moonShew'd the dire peril. ␣␣Often he had snatch'dFrom the wild billows, some unhappy manWho liv'd to bless the hermit of the rocks.But if his generous cares were all in vain,And with slow swell the tide of morning boreSome blue swol'n cor'se to land; the pale recluseDug in the chalk a sepulchre—aboveWhere the dank sea‐wrack mark'd the utmost tide,And with his prayers perform'd the obsequiesFor the poor helpless stranger.One dark nightThe equinoctial wind blew south by west,Fierce on the shore; —the bellowing cliffs were shookEven to their stony base, and fragments fellFlashing and thundering on the angry flood.At day‐break, anxious for the lonely man,His cave the mountain shepherds visited,Tho' sand and banks of weeds had choak'd their way—He was not in it; but his drowned cor'seBy the waves wafted, near his former homeReceiv'd the rites of burial.␣␣Those who readChisel'd within the rock, these mournful lines,Memorials of his sufferings, did not grieve,That dying in the cause of charityHis spirit, from its earthly bondage freed,Had to some better region fled for ever. THE TRUANT DOVE,FROM PILPAY.A FABLE.A MOUNTAIN stream, its channel deepBeneath a rock's rough base had torn;The cliff, like a vast castle wall, was steepBy fretting rains in many a crevice worn;But the fern wav'd there, and the mosses crept,And o'er the summit, where the windPeel'd from their stems the silver rind,Depending birches wept——There, tufts of broom a footing used to find,And heath and straggling grass to grow,And half‐way down from roots enwreathing, brokeThe branches of a scathed oak,And seem'd to guard the cave below,Where each revolving year,Their twins, two faithful doves were wont to rear;Choice never join'd a fonder pair;To each their simple home was dear,No discord ever enter'd there;But there the soft affections dwell'd,And three returning springs beheldSecure within their fortress highThe little happy family.“Toujours perdrix, messieurs, ne valent rien”—So did a Gallic monarch once harangue,And evil was the day whereon our birdThis saying heard,From certain new acquaintance he had found,Who at their perfect ease,Amid a field of peasBoasted to him, that all the country round,The wheat, and oats, and barley, rye and tares,Quite to the neighbouring sea, were theirs;And theirs the oak, and beech‐woods, far and near,For their right noble owner was a peer,And they themselves, luxuriantly were storedIn a great dove‐cote—to amuse my lord !“Toujours perdrix ne valent rien.”␣␣That's strange !When people once are happy, wherefore change ?So thought our stock‐dove, but communication,With birds in his new friend's exalted station,Whose means of information,And knowledge of all sorts, must be so ample;Who saw great folks, and follow'd their example,Made on the dweller of the cave, impression;And soon, whatever was his best possession,His sanctuary within the rock's deep breast,His soft‐eyed partner, and her nest,He thought of with indifference, then with loathing;So much insipid love was good for nothing.—But sometimes tenderness return'd; his dameSo long belov'd, so mild, so free from blame,How should he tell her, he had learn'd to cavilAt happiness itself, and longed to travel ?His heart still smote him, so much wrong to do her,He knew not how to break the matter to her.But love, tho' blind himself, makes some discerning;His frequent absence, and his late returning,With ruffled plumage, and with alter'd eyes,His careless short replies,And to their couplets, coldness or neglectHad made his gentle wife suspect,All was not right; but she forbore to teaze him,Which would but give him an excuse to rove:She therefore tried by every art to please him,Endur'd his peevish starts with patient love,And when (like other husbands from a tavern)Of his new notions full, he sought his cavernShe with dissembled cheerfulness, “beguiled“The thing she was,” and gaily coo‐ed and smiled.'Tis not in this most motley sphere uncommon,For man, (and so of course more feeble woman)Most strongly to suspect, what they're pursuingWill lead them to inevitable ruin,Yet rush with open eyes to their undoing;Thus felt the dove; but in the cant of fashionHe talk'd of fate, and of predestination,And in a grave oration,He to his much affrighted mate related,How he, yet slumbering in the egg, was fated,To gather knowledge, to instruct his kind,By observation elevate his mind,And give new impulse to Columbian life;“If it be so,” exclaim'd his hapless wife,“It is my fate, to pass my days in pain, “To mourn your love estrang'd, and mourn in vain;“Here in our once dear hut, to wake and weep,“When thy unkindness shall have ‘murder'd sleep;’“And never that dear hut shall I prepare,“And wait with fondness your arrival there,“While me, and mine forgetting, you will go“To some new love.”␣␣“Why, no, I tell you no,—“What shall I say such foolish fears to cure ?“I only mean to make a little tour,“Just—just to see the world around me; then“With new delight, I shall come home again;“Such tours are quite the rage—at my return“I shall have much to tell, and you to learn;“Of fashions—some becoming, some grotesque“Of change of empires, and ideas novel;“Of buildings, Grecian, Gothic, Arabesque,“And scenery sublime and picturesque;“And all these things with pleasure we'll discuss—”“Ah, me ! and what are all these things to us ?”“So then, you'd have a bird of genius grovel,“And never see beyond a farmer's hovel ?“Even the sand‐martin, that inferior creature,“Goes once a year abroad.”␣␣“It is his nature,“But yours how different once !” and then she sigh'd,“There was a time, Ah ! would that I had died,“E'er you so chang'd ! when you'd have perish'd rather“Than this poor breast should heave a single feather“With grief and care.␣␣ And all this cant of fashion“Would but have rais'd your anger, or compassion,—“O my dear love ! You sought not then to range,“But on my changeful neck as fell the light,“You sweetly said, you wish'd no other change“Than that soft neck could shew; to berries bright“Of mountain ash, you fondly could compare“My scarlet feet and bill; my shape and air,“Ah ! faithless flatterer, did you not declare“The soul of grace and beauty center'd there ?“My eyes you said, were opals, brightly pink,“Enchas'd in onyx; and you seem'd to think,“Each charm might then the coldest heart enthrall:“Those charms were mine.␣␣ Alas ! I gave you all—“Your farthest wanderings then were but to fetch“The pea, the tare, the beechmast, and the vetch,“For my repast; within my rocky bower,“With spleenwort shaded, and the blue‐bell's flower,“For prospects then you never wish'd to roam,“But the best scenery was our happy home;“And when, beneath my breast, then fair and young,“Our first dear pair, our earliest nestlings sprung,“And weakly, indistinctly, tried to coo—“Were not those moments picturesque to you ?”“Yes, faith, my dear; and all you say is true.”“Oh ! hear me then; if thus we have been blest,“If on these wings it was your joy to rest,“Love must from habit still new strength be gaining—”“From habit ? 'tis of that, child, I'm complaining“This everlasting fondness will not be“For birds of flesh and blood. ␣␣We sha'nt agree,“So why dispute ? now prithee don't torment me;“I shall not long be gone; let that content ye:“Pshaw ! what a fuss ! Come, no more sighs and groans,“Keep up your spirits; mind your little ones;“My journey won't be far—my honour's pledged—“I shall be back again before they're fledged;“Give me a kiss; and now my dear, adieu !”So light of heart and plumes, away he flew;And, as above the sheltering rock he springs,She listen'd to the echo of his wings;Those well‐known sounds, so soothing heretofore,Which her heart whisper'd she should hear no more.Then to her cold and widow'd bed she crept,Clasp'd her half‐orphan'd young, and wept !Her recreant mate, by other views attracted,A very different part enacted;He sought the dove‐cote, and was greeted thereWith all that's tonish, elegant, and rare,Among the pigeon tribes; and there the roverLived quite in clover !His jolly comrades now, were blades of spirit;Their nymphs possess'd most fascinating merit;Nor fail'd our hero of the rock to prove,He thought not of inviolable loveTo his poor spouse at home.␣␣He bow'd and sigh'd,Now to a fantail's, now a cropper's bride;Then cow'ring low to a majestic powter,Declared he should not suffer life without her;And then with upturn'd eyes, in phrase still humbler,Implor'd the pity of an almond tumbler;Next, to a beauteous carrier's feet he'd run,And lived a week, the captive of a nun:Thus far in measureless content he revels,And blest the hour when he began his travels.Yet some things soon occurr'd not quite so pleasant;He had observ'd that an unfeeling peasant,It silence mounting on a ladder high,Seiz'd certain pigeons just as they could fly,Who never figur'd more, but in a pie;That was but aukward; then, his lordship's sonHeard from the groom, that 'twould be famous funTo try on others his unpractis'd gun;Their fall, the rattling shot, his nerves perplex'd;He thought perhaps it might be his turn next.It has been seen ere now, that, much elated,To be by some great man caress'd and fêted,A youth of humble birth, and mind industrious,Foregoes in evil hour his independance;And, charm'd to wait upon his friend illustrious,Gives up his time to flattery and attendance.His patron, smiling at his folly, lets him—Some newer whim succeeds, and he forgets him.So fared our bird; his new friend's vacant stare,Told him he scarce remember'd he was there;And, when he talk'd of living more securely,This very dear friend, yawning, answered, “Surely !“You are quite right to do what's most expedient,“So, au revoir !—Good bye ! Your most obedient.”Allies in prosperous fortune thus he prov'd,And left them, unregretting, unbelov'd;Yet much his self‐love suffer'd by the shock,And now, his quiet cabin in the rock,The faithful partner of his every care,And all the blessings he abandon'd there,Rush'd on his sickening heart; he felt it yearn,But pride and shame prevented his return;So wandering farther—at the close of dayTo the high woods he pensive wing'd his way;But new distress at every turn he found—Struck by an hawk, and stunn'd upon the ground,He once by miracle escaped; then fledFrom a wild cat, and hid his trembling headBeneath a dock; recovering, on the windHe rose once more, and left his fears behind;And, as above the clouds he soar'd, the lightFell on an inland rock; the radiance brightShew'd him his long deserted place of rest,And thitherward he flew; his throbbing breastDwelt on his mate, so gentle, and so wrong'd,And on his memory throng'dThe happiness he once at home had known;Then to forgive him earnest to engage her,And for his errors eager to atone,Onward he went; but ah ! not yet had flownFate's sharpest arrow: to decide a wager,Two sportsmen shot at our deserter; downThe wind swift wheeling, struggling, still he fell,Close to the margin of the stream that flow'dBeneath the foot of his regretted cell,And the fresh grass was spotted with his blood;To his dear home he turn'd his languid view,Deplor'd his folly, while he look'd his last,And sigh'd a long adieu !Thither to sip the brook, his nestlings, ledBy their still pensive mother, came;He saw; and murmuring forth her dear lov'd name,Implor'd her pity, and with shortening breath,Besought her to forgive him ere his death.—And now, how hard in metre to relateThe tears and tender pity of his mate !Or with what generous zeal, his faithful moitieTaught her now feather'd young, with duteous piety,To aid her, on their mutual wings to bear,With stork‐like care,Their suffering parent to the rock above;There, by the best physician, Love,His wounds were heal'd.—His wanderings at an end,And sober'd quite, the husband, and the friend,In proof of reformation and contrition,Gave to his race this prudent admonition;Advice, which this, our fabling muse, presumes May benefit the biped without plumes:“If of domestic peace you are possess'd,“Learn to believe yourself supremely bless'd;“And gratefully enjoying your condition,“Frisk not about, on whims and fancies strange,“For ten to one, you for the worse will change:“And 'tis most wise, to check all vain ambition—“By such aspiring pride the angels fell;“So love your wife, and know when you are well.” THE LARK'S NEST.A FABLE FROM ESOP.“TRUST only to thyself;” the maxim's sound;For, tho' life's choicest blessing be a friend,Friends do not very much abound;Or, where they happen to be found,And greatly thou on friendship shouldst depend,Thou'lt find it will not bearMuch wear and tear;Nay ! that even kindred, cousin, uncle, brother,Has each perhaps to mind his own affair;Attend to thine then; lean not on another.Esop assures us that the maxim's wise;And by a tale illustrates his advice: When April's bright and fickle beamsSaw every feather'd pairIn the green woodlands, or by willowy streams,Busied in matrimonial schemes;A Lark, amid the dewy air,Woo'd, and soon won a favourite fair;And, in a spot by springing rye protected,Her labour sometimes shared;While she, with bents, and wither'd grass collected,Their humble domicile prepared;Then, by her duty fix'd, the tender mateUnwearied prestTheir future progeny beneath her breast;And little slept, and little ate,While her gay lover, with a careless heart,As is the custom of his sex,Full little recksThe coming family; but like a dart,From his low homested, with the morning springs;And far above the floating vapour, singsAt such an height,That even the shepherd‐lad upon the hill,Hearing his matin note so shrill,With shaded eyes against the lustre bright,Scarce sees him twinkling in a flood of light.But hunger, spite of all her perseverance,Was one day urgent on his patient bride;The truant made not his appearance,That her fond care might be a while supplied,—So, because hunger will not be denied,She leaves her nest reluctant; and in hasteBut just allows herself to taste,A dew drop, and a few small seeds—Ah ! how her fluttering bosom bleeds,When the dear cradle she had fondly rear'dAll desolate appear'd !And ranging wide about the field she sawA setter huge, whose unrelenting jawHad crush'd her half‐existing young;Long o'er her ruin'd hopes the mother hung,And vainly mourn'd,Ere from the clouds her wanderer return'd:—Tears justly shed by beauty, who can stand them ?He heard her plaintive tale with unfeign'd sorrow,But, as his motto was, “Nil desperandum,”Bade her hope better fortune for to‐morrow;Then from the fatal spot afar, they soughtA safer shelter, having boughtExperience, which is always rather dear;And very nearA grassy headland, in a field of wheat,They fix'd, with cautious care, their second seat—But this took time; May was already past,The white thorn had her silver blossoms cast,And there the Nightingale, to lovely June,Her last farewell had sung;No longer reign'd July's intemperate noon,And high in heaven the reaper's moon,A little crescent hung,Ere from their shells appear'd the plumeless young.Oh ! then with how much tender care,The busy pair,Watch'd and provided for the panting brood !For then, the vagrant of the air,Soar'd not to meet the morning star,But, never from the nestlings far,Explor'd each furrow, every sod for food;While his more anxious partner triedFrom hostile eyes, the helpless group to hide;Attempting now, with labouring bill, to guideThe enwreathing bindweed round the nest;Now joy'd to see the cornflower's azure crestAbove it waving, and the cockle grow,Or poppies throwTheir scarlet curtains round;While the more humble children of the ground,Freak'd pansies, fumitory, pimpernel,Circled with arras light, the secret cell:—But who against all evils can provide ?Hid, and overshadow'd thus, and fortified,By teasel, and the scabious' thready disk,Corn‐marygold, and thistles; too much riskThe little household still were doom'd to run,For the same ardent sun,Whose beams had drawn up many an idle flower,To fence the lonely bower,Had by his powerful heat,Matured the wheat;And chang'd of hue, it hung its heavy head,While every rustling gale that blew alongFrom neighbouring uplands, brought the rustic songOf harvest merriment: then full of dread,Lest, not yet fully fledg'd, her raceThe reaper's foot might crush, or reaper's dog might trace,Or village child, too young to reap or bind,Loitering around, her hidden treasure find;The mother bird was bentTo move them, e'er the sickle came more near;And therefore, when for food abroad she went,(For now her mate again was on the ramble)She bade her young report what they should hear:So the next hour they cried, “They'll all assemble,“The farmer's neighbours, with the dawn of light,“Therefore, dear mother, let us move to night.”“Fear not, my loves,” said she, “you need not tremble;“Trust me, if only neighbours are in question,“Eat what I bring, and spoil not your digestion“Or sleep, for this.” Next day away she flew,And that no neighbour came was very true;But her returning wings the Larklings knew,And quivering round her, told, their landlord said,“Why, John ! the reaping must not be delay'd,“By peep of day to‐morrow we'll begin,“Since now so many of our kin“Have promis'd us their help to set about it.”“Still,” quoth the bird, “I doubt it;“The corn will stand to‐morrow.”␣␣So it prov'd;The morning's dawn arriv'd—but never sawOr uncle, cousin, brother, or brother‐in‐law;And not a reap‐hook mov'd !Then to his son the angry farmer cried,“Some folks are little known 'till they are tried;“Who would have thought we had so few well‐wishers !“What ! neither neighbour Dawes, nor cousin Fishers,“Nor uncle Betts, nor even my brother Delves,“Will lend an hand, to help us get the corn in ?“Well then, let you and me, to‐morrow morning,“E'en try what we can do with it ourselves.”“Nay,” quoth the Lark, “'tis time then to be gone:“What a man undertakes himself is done.”Certes, she was a bird of observation;For very true it is, that none,Whatever be his station,Lord of a province, tenant of a mead,Whether he fill a cottage, or a throne,Or guard a flock, or guide a nation,Is very likely to succeed,Who manages affairs by deputation. THE SWALLOW.THE gorse is yellow on the heath,The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,The oaks are budding; and beneath,The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,The silver wreath of May.The welcome guest of settled Spring,The Swallow too is come at last;Just at sun‐set, when thrushes sing,I saw her dash with rapid wing,And hail'd her as she pass'd.Come, summer visitant, attachTo my reed roof your nest of clay,And let my ear your music catchLow twittering underneath the thatchAt the gray dawn of day.As fables tell, an Indian Sage,The Hindostani woods among,Could in his desert hermitage,As if 'twere mark'd in written page,Translate the wild bird's song.I wish I did his power possess,That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee,What our vain systems only guess,And know from what wide wildernessYou came across the sea.I would a little while restrainYour rapid wing, that I might hearWhether on clouds that bring the rain,You sail'd above the western main,The wind your charioteer.In Afric, does the sultry galeThro' spicy bower, and palmy grove,Bear the repeated Cuckoo's tale ?Dwells there a time, the wandering RailOr the itinerant Dove ?Were you in Asia ? O relate,If there your fabled sister's woesShe seem'd in sorrow to narrate;Or sings she but to celebrateHer nuptials with the rose ?I would enquire how journeying long,The vast and pathless ocean o'er,You ply again those pinions strong,And come to build anew amongThe scenes you left before;But if, as colder breezes blow,Prophetic of the waning year,You hide, tho' none know when or how,In the cliff's excavated brow,And linger torpid here;Thus lost to life, what favouring dreamBids you to happier hours awake;And tells, that dancing in the beam,The light gnat hovers o'er the stream,The May‐fly on the lake ?Or if, by instinct taught to knowApproaching dearth of insect food;To isles and willowy aits you go,And crouding on the pliant bough,Sink in the dimpling flood:How learn ye, while the cold waves boomYour deep and ouzy couch above,The time when flowers of promise bloom,And call you from your transient tomb,To light, and life, and love ?Alas ! how little can be known,Her sacred veil where Nature draws;Let baffled Science humbly own,Her mysteries understood alone,By Him who gives her laws. FLORA.REMOTE from scenes, where the o'erwearied mindShrinks from the crimes and follies of mankind,From hostile menace, and offensive boast,Peace, and her train of home‐born pleasures lost;To fancy's reign, who would not gladly turn,And lose awhile, the miseries they mournIn sweet oblivion ? Come then, Fancy ! deign,Queen of ideal pleasure, once again,To lend thy magic pencil, and to bringSuch lovely forms, as in life's happier spring,On the green margin of my native Wey,Before mine infant eyes were wont to play,And with that pencil, teach me to describeThe enchanting goddess of the flowery tribe,Whose first prerogative it is to chaseThe clouds that hang on languid beauty's face;And, while advancing suns and tepid showers,Lead on the laughing Spring's delicious hours,Bid the wan maid the hues of health assume,Charm with new grace, and blush with fresher bloom. The vision comes !—While slowly melt away,Night's hovering shades before the eastern ray,Ere yet declines the morning's humid star,Fair Fancy brings her; in her leafy carFlora descends, to dress the expecting earth,Awake the germs, and call the buds to birth;Bid each hybernacle its cell unfold,And open silken leaves, and eyes of gold ! Of forest foliage of the firmest shadeEnwove by magic hands, the car was made;Oak, and the ample Plane, without entwined,And Beech and Ash the verdant concave lin'd;The Saxifrage, that snowy flowers emboss,Supplied the seat; and of the mural mossThe velvet footstool rose, where lightly rest,Her slender feet in Cypripedium drest.The tufted rush, that bears a silken crown,The floating feathers of the thistle's down,In tender hues of rainbow lustre dyed,The airy texture of her robe supplied,And wild convolvuli, yet half unblown,Form'd, with their wreathing buds, her simple zone,Some wandering tresses of her radiant hair,Luxuriant floated on the enamour'd air;The rest were by the Scandix' points confin'dAnd graced a shining knot, her head behind—While, as a sceptre of supreme command,She waved the Anthoxanthum in her hand. Around the goddess, as the flies that play,In countless myriads in the western ray,The sylphs innumerous throng; whose magic powersGuard the soft buds, and nurse the infant flowers;Round the sustaining stems weak tendrils bind,And save the pollen from dispersing wind;From suns too ardent, shade their transient hues,And catch in odorous cups translucent dews.The ruder tasks of others are, to chaseFrom vegetable life the insect race,Break the polluting thread the spider weaves,And brush the aphis from th' unfolding leaves. For conquest arm'd these pigmy warriors wieldThe thorny lance, and spread the hollow shieldOf lichen tough; or bear, as silver bright,Lunaria's pearly circlet, firm and light.On the helm'd head the crimson foxglove glows,Or Scutellaria guards the martial brows,While the Leontodon its plumage rears,And o'er the casque in waving grace appears;With stern undaunted eye, one warlike chiefGrasps the tall club from Arum's blood‐dropt leaf;This, with the Burdock's hooks annoys his foes,The purple thorn that borrows from the Rose.In honeyed nectaries couched, some drive awayThe forked insidious earwig from his prey;Fearless the scaled libellula assail,Dart their keen lances at the encroaching snail;Arrest the winged ant, on pinions light,And strike the headlong beetle in his flight. Nor less assiduous round their lovely queen,The lighter forms of female fays are seen;Rich was the purple vest Floscella wore,Spun of the tufts the Tradescantia bore;The Cistus' flowers minute her temple graced,And threads of Yucca bound her slender waist. From the wild bee, whose wond'rous labour weaves,In artful folds the rose's fragrant leaves,Was borrow'd fair Petalla's light cymar;And the Hypericum, with spangling star,O'er her fair locks its bloom minute enwreath'd;Then, while voluptuous odours round her breath'd,Came Nectarynia; as the arrowy raysOf lambent fire round pictur'd seraphs blaze,So did the Passiflora's radii shed,Cerulean glory o'er the sylphid's head,While round her form, the pliant tendrils twined,And clasp'd the scarf that floated on the wind. More grave the para‐nymph Calyxa drest;A brown transparent spatha formed her vest;The silver scales that bound her raven hair,Xeranthemum's unfading calyx bear;And a light sash of spiral Ophrys press'dHer filmy tunic, on her tender breast. But where shall images or words be foundTo paint the fair ethereal forms, that roundThe queen of flowers attended ? and the whileBask'd in her eyes and wanton'd in her smile.Now towards the earth the gay procession bends,Lo ! from the buoyant air, the car descends;Anticipating then the various year,Flowers of all hues and every month appear,From every swelling bulb its blossoms rise;Here, blow the Hyacinths of loveliest dyes,Breathing of heaven; and there, her royal browsBegemmed with pearl, the Crown imperial shews;Peeps the blue Gentian, from the soft'ning ground,Jonquils and Violets, shed their odours round;The Honeysuckle rears his scallop'd horn;A snow of blossoms whiten on the thorn.Here, like the fatal fruit to Paris given,That spread fell feuds throughout the fabled heaven,The yellow Rose her golden globe displays;There lovelier still, among the spiny spraysHer blushing rivals glow with brighter dyes,Than paints the summer sun on western skies.And the scarce tinged, and paler Rose unveilTheir modest beauties to the sighing gale.Thro' the deep woodland's wild uncultur'd scene,Spreads the soft influence of the floral queen;See a fair pyramid the Chesnut rear,Its crimson tassels on the Larch appear;The Fir, dark native of the sullen North,Owns her soft sway; and slowly springing forthOn the rough Oak are buds minute unfurl'd,Whose giant produce may command the world !Each forest thicket feels the balmy air,And plants that love the shade are blowing there.Rude rocks with Filices and Bryums smile,And wastes are gay with Thyme and Chamomile. Ah ! yet prolong the dear delicious dream,And trace her power along the mountain stream.See ! from its rude and rocky source, o'erhungWith female fern, and glossy adder's‐tongueSlowly it wells, in pure and chrystal drops,And steals soft‐gliding, thro' the upland copse;Then murmuring on, along the willowy sides,The reed‐bird whispers, and the Halcyon hides;While among sallows pale, and birchen bowers,Embarks in Fancy's eye the queen of flowers. O'er her light skiff, of woven bull‐rush made,The Water lily lends a polish'd shade;While Galium there, of pale and silver hue,And Epilobiums on the banks that grew,Form her soft couch; and as the Sylphs divide,With pliant arms, the still increasing tide,A thousand leaves along the stream unfold;Amid its waving swords, in flaming goldThe Iris towers; and here the ArrowheadAnd water Crowfoot, more profusely spreadSpangle the quiet current; higher there,As conscious of her claims, in beauty rare,Her rosy umbels rears the flow'ring Rush,While with reflected charms the waters blush.The naiad now, the year's fair goddess leads,Through richer pastures and more level meadsDown to the sea; where even the briny sandsTheir product offer to her glowing hands;For there, by sea‐dews nurs'd and airs marine,The Chelidonium blows; in glaucous green,Each refluent tide the thorn'd Eryngium laves,And its pale leaves seem tinctured by the waves;And half‐way up the cliff, whose rugged browHangs o'er the ever toiling surge below,Springs the light Tamarisk.—The summit bare,Is tufted by the Statice; and there,Crush'd by the fisher, as he stands to markSome distant signal or approaching bark,The Saltwort's starry stalks are thickly sown,Like humble worth, unheeded and unknown ! From depths where corals spring from chrystal caves,And break with scarlet branch, the eddying waves,Where Algæ stream, as change the flowing tides,And where, half flower, half fish, the Polyp hides,And long tenacious bands of sea‐lace twineRound palm‐shaped leaves impearl'd with coralline.Enamour'd Fancy now the sea‐maids calls,And from their grottos dim, and shell‐paved halls,Charm'd by her voice, the shining train emerge,And buoyant float above the circling surge;Green Byssus, waving in the sea‐born gales,Form'd their thin mantles, and transparent veils,Panier'd in shells, or bound with silver strings,Of silken pinna; each her trophy bringsOf plants, from rocks and caverns submarine,With leathery branch, and bladder'd buds between;There, its dark folds the pucker'd laver spread,With trees in miniature of various red;There flag‐shaped olive‐leaves, depending hung,And fairy fans from glossy pebbles sprung;Then her terrestrial train the nereids meet,And lay their spoils saline at Flora's feet. O ! fairest of the fabled forms ! that stream,Dress'd by wild Fancy, thro' the poet's dream,Still may thy attributes of leaves and flowers,Thy garden's rich, and shrub‐o'ershadow'd bowers,And yellow meads, with Spring's first honours bright,The child's gay heart, and frolic step invite;And, while the careless wanderer explores,The umbrageous forest, or the rugged shores,Climbs the green down, or roams the broom‐clad waste,May Truth, and Nature, form his future taste !Goddess ! on youth's bless'd hours thy gifts bestow;Bind the fair wreath on virgin‐beauty's brow,And still may Fancy's brightest flowers be woveRound the gold chains of hymeneal love.But most for those, by Sorrow's hands oppress'd,May thy beds blossom, and thy wilds be dress'd;And where by Fortune and the world forgot,The mourner droops in some sequester'd spot,(“Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown,”)O'er blighted happiness for ever gone,Yet the dear image seeks not to forget,But woos his grief, and cherishes regret;Loving, with fond and lingering pain, to mournO'er joys and hopes that never will return;—Thou, visionary power ! mayst bid him viewForms not less lovely, and as transient too;And while they soothe the wearied pilgrim's eyes,Afford an antepast of Paradise. STUDIES BY THE SEA. AH ! wherefore do the incurious say,That this stupendous ocean wide,No change presents from day to day,Save only the alternate tide;Or save when gales of summer glideAcross the lightly crisped wave;Or, when against the cliff's rough side,As equinoctial tempests rave,It wildly bursts; o'erwhelms the deluged strand,Tears down its bounds, and desolates the land ? He who with more enquiring eyesDoth this extensive scene survey,Beholds innumerous changes rise,As various winds its surface sway;Now o'er its heaving bosom playSmall sparkling waves of silver gleam,And as they lightly glide awayIllume with fluctuating beamThe deepening surge; green as the dewy cornThat undulates in April's breezy morn.The far off waters then assumeA glowing amethystine shade,That changing like the peacock's plumeSeems in celestial blue to fade;Or paler, colder hues of lead,As lurid vapours float on high,Along the ruffling billows spread,While darkly lours the threatening sky;And the small scatter'd barks with outspread shrouds,Catch the long gleams, that fall between the clouds.Then day's bright star with blunted raysSeems struggling thro' the sea‐fog pale,And doubtful in the heavy haze,Is dimly seen the nearing sail;'Till from the land a fresher galeDisperses the white mist, and clear,As melts away the gauzy veil,The sun‐reflecting waves appear;So, brighter genuine virtue seems to riseFrom envy's dark invidious calumnies.What glories on the sun attend,When the full tides of evening flow,Where in still changing beauty, blendWith amber light, the opal's glow;While in the east the diamond bowRises in virgin lustre bright,And from the horizon seems to throw,A partial line of trembling lightTo the hush'd shore; and all the tranquil deepBeneath the modest moon, is sooth'd to sleep.Forgotten then, the thundering breakOf waves, that in the tempest rise,The falling cliff, the shatter'd wreck,The howling blast, the sufferer's cries;For soft the breeze of evening sighs,And murmuring seems in Fancy's earTo whisper fairy lullabies,That tributary waters bearFrom precipices, dark with piny woods,And inland rocks, and heathy solitudes.The vast encircling seas within,What endless swarms of creatures hide ,Of burnish'd scale, and spiny fin !These providential instincts guide,And bid them know the annual tide,When, from unfathom'd waves that swell,Beyond Fuego's stormy side,They come, to cheer the tribes that dwellIn Boreal climes; and thro' his half year's nightGive to the Lapland savage, food and light.From cliffs, that pierce the northern sky;Where eagles rear their sanguine brood,With long awaiting patient eye,Baffled by many a sailing cloud,The Highland native marks the flood,Till bright the quickening billows roll,And hosts of sea‐birds, clamouring loud,Track with wild wing the welcome shoal,Swift o'er the animated current sweep,And bear their silver captives from the deep.Sons of the North ! your streamy valesWith no rich sheaves rejoice and sing;Her flowery robe no fruit conceals,Tho' sweetly smile your tardy spring;Yet every mountain, clothed with ling,Doth from its purple brow surveyYour busy sails, that ceaseless bringTo the broad frith, and sheltering bay,Riches, by Heaven's parental power supplied,—The harvest of the far embracing tide.And, where those fractur'd mountains liftO'er the blue wave their towering crest,Each salient ledge and hollow cleftTo sea‐fowl give a rugged nest.But with instinctive love is drestThe Eider's downy cradle; whereThe mother‐bird, her glossy breastDevotes, and with maternal care,And plumeless bosom, stems the toiling seas,That foam round the tempestuous Orcades.From heights, whence shuddering sense recoils,And cloud‐capped headlands, steep and bare,Sons of the North ! your venturous toilsCollect your poor and scanty fare.Urged by imperious Want, you dareScale the loose cliff, where Gannets hide,Or scarce suspended, in the airHang perilous; and thus provideThe soft voluptuous couch, which not securesTo Luxury's pamper'd minions, sleep like yours.Revolving still, the waves that nowJust ripple on the level shore,Have borne perchance the Indian's prow,Or half congeal'd, 'mid ice rocks hoar,Raved to the Walrus' hollow roar;Or have by currents swift convey'dTo the cold coast of Labrador,The relics of the tropic shade;And to the wondering Esquimaux have shownLeaves of strange shape, and fruits unlike their own.No more then, let the incurious say,No change this world of water shows,But as the tides the moon obey,Or tempests rave, or calms repose.—Shew them, its bounteous breast bestowsOn myriads life; and bid them seeIn every wave that circling flows,Beauty and use, and harmony—Works of the Power Supreme, who poured the flood,Round the green peopled earth, and call'd it good ! THE HOROLOGE OF THE FIELDS.Addressed to a Young Lady, on seeing at the House of an Acquaintance a magnificent French Timepiece.FOR her who owns this splendid toy,Where use with elegance unites,Still may its index point to joy,And moments wing'd with new delights.Sweet may resound each silver bell,—And never quick returning chime,Seem in reproving notes to tell,Of hours mispent, and murder'd time.Tho' Fortune, Emily, denyTo us these splendid works of art,The woods, the lawns, the heaths supplyLessons from Nature to the heart.In every copse, and shelter'd dell,Unveil'd to the observant eye,Are faithful monitors, who tellHow pass the hours and seasons by.The green robed children of the SpringWill mark the periods as they pass,Mingle with leaves Time's feather'd wing,And bind with flowers his silent glass.Mark where transparent waters glide,Soft flowing o'er their tranquil bed;There, cradled on the dimpling tide,Nymphæa rests her lovely head.But conscious of the earliest beam,She rises from her humid rest,And sees reflected in the streamThe virgin whiteness of her breast.Till the bright daystar to the westDeclines, in Ocean's surge to lave,Then folded in her modest vest,She slumbers on the rocking wave.See Hieracium's various tribe,Of plumy seed and radiate flowers,The course of Time their blooms describeAnd wake or sleep appointed hours.Broad o'er its imbricated cupThe Goatsbeard spreads its golden rays,But shuts its cautious petals up,Retreating from the noon‐tide blaze:Pale as a pensive cloister'd nunThe Bethlem‐star, her face unveils,When o'er the mountain peers the Sun,But shades it from the vesper gales.Among the loose and arid sandsThe humble Arenaria creeps;Slowly the purple star expands,But soon within its calyx sleeps.And those small bells so lightly ray'dWith young Aurora's rosy hue,Are to the noon‐tide Sun display'd,But shut their plaits against the dew.On upland slopes the shepherds markThe hour, when as the dial true,Cichorium to the towering Lark,Lifts her soft eyes, serenely blue.And thou “Wee crimson tipped flower,”Gatherest thy fringed mantle roundThy bosom, at the closing hour,When night drops bathe the turfy ground.Unlike Silene, who declinesThe garish noontide's blazing light;But when the evening crescent shinesGives all her sweetness to the night.Thus in each flower and simple bell,That in our path untrodden lie,Are sweet remembrancers who tell How fast the winged moments fly.Time will steal on with ceaseless pace,Yet lose we not the fleeting hours,Who still their fairy footsteps trace,As light they dance among the flowers. SAINT MONICA.AMONG deep woods is the dismantled sciteOf an old Abbey, where the chaunted rite,By twice ten brethren of the monkish cowl,Was duly sung; and requiems for the soulOf the first founder: For the lordly chief,Who flourish'd paramount of many a fief,Left here a stipend yearly paid, that they,The pious monks, for his repose might sayMass and orisons to Saint Monica.Beneath the falling archway overgrownWith briars, a bench remains, a single stone,Where sat the indigent, to wait the doleGiven at the buttery; that the baron's soulThe poor might intercede for; there would rest,Known by his hat of straw with cockles drest,And staff and humble weed of watchet gray,The wandering pilgrim; who came there to prayThe intercession of Saint Monica.Stern Reformation and the lapse of yearsHave reft the windows, and no more appearsAbbot or martyr on the glass anneal'd;And half the falling cloisters are conceal'dBy ash and elder: the refectory wallOft in the storm of night is heard to fall,When, wearied by the labours of the day,The half awaken'd cotters, starting say,“It is the ruins of Saint Monica.”Now with approaching rain is heard the rill,Just trickling thro' a deep and hollow gillBy osiers, and the alder's crowding bush,Reeds, and dwarf elder, and the pithy rush,Choak'd and impeded: to the lower groundSlowly it creeps; there traces still are foundOf hollow squares, embank'd with beaten clay,Where brightly glitter'd in the eye of dayThe peopled waters of Saint Monica.The chapel pavement, where the name and date,Or monkish rhyme, had mark'd the graven plate,With docks and nettles now is overgrown;And brambles trail above the dead unknown.—Impatient of the heat, the straggling eweTinkles her drowsy bell, as nibbling slowShe picks the grass among the thistles gray,Whose feather'd seed the light air bears away,O'er the pale relicks of Saint Monica.Reecho'd by the walls, the owl obsceneHoots to the night; as thro' the ivy greenWhose matted tods the arch and buttress bind,Sobs in low gusts the melancholy wind:The Conium there, her stalks bedropp'd with red,Rears, with Circea, neighbour of the dead;Atropa too, that, as the beldams say,Shews her black fruit to tempt and to betray, Nods by the mouldering shrine of Monica.Old tales and legends are not quite forgot.Still Superstition hovers o'er the spot,And tells how here, the wan and restless sprite,By some way‐wilder'd peasant seen at night,Gibbers and shrieks, among the ruins drear;And how the friar's lanthorn will appearGleaming among the woods, with fearful ray,And from the church‐yard take its wavering way,To the dim arches of Saint Monica.The antiquary comes not to explore,As once, the unrafter'd roof and pathless floor;For now, no more beneath the vaulted groundIs crosier, cross, or sculptur'd chalice found,Nor record telling of the wassail ale,What time the welcome summons to regale,Given by the matin peal on holiday,The villagers rejoicing to obey,Feasted, in honour of Saint Monica.Yet often still at eve, or early morn,Among these ruins shagg'd with fern and thorn,A pensive stranger from his lonely seatObserves the rapid martin, threading fleetThe broken arch: or follows with his eye,The wall‐creeper that hunts the burnish'd fly;Sees the newt basking in the sunny ray,Or snail that sinuous winds his shining way,O'er the time‐fretted walls of Monica.He comes not here, from the sepulchral stoneTo tear the oblivious pall that Time has thrown,But meditating, marks the power proceedFrom the mapped lichen, to the plumed weed,From thready mosses to the veined flower,The silent, slow, but ever active powerOf Vegetative Life, that o'er DecayWeaves her green mantle, when returning MayDresses the ruins of Saint Monica.Oh Nature ! ever lovely, ever new,He whom his earliest vows has paid to youStill finds, that life has something to bestow;And while to dark Forgetfulness they go,Man, and the works of man; immortal Youth,Unfading Beauty, and eternal Truth,Your Heaven‐indited volume will display,While Art's elaborate monuments decay,Even as these shatter'd aisles, deserted Monica ! A WALK IN THE SHRUBBERY.To the Cistus or Rock Rose, a beautiful plant, whose flowers expand, and fall off twice in twenty‐four hours.THE Florists, who have fondly watch'd,Some curious bulb from hour to hour,And, to ideal charms attach'd,Derive their glory from a flower;Or they, who lose in crouded rooms,Spring's tepid suns and balmy air,And value Flora's fairest blooms,But in proportion as they're rare;Feel not the pensive pleasures knownTo him, who, thro' the morning mist,Explores the bowery shrubs new blown,A moralizing Botanist.—He marks, with colours how profuseSome are design'd to please the eye;While beauty some combine with use,In admirable harmony.The fruit buds, shadow'd red and white,Amid young leaves of April hue;Convey sensations of delight,And promise fruits autumnal too:And, while the Thrush his home and food,Hails, as the flowering thorns unfold,And from its trunk of ebon wood,Rears Cytisus its floating gold;The Lilac, whose tall head disclosesGroups of such bright empurpled shade,And snow‐globes form'd of elfin roses,Seem for exclusive beauty made:Such too art thou; when light anewAbove the eastern hill is seen,Thy buds, as fearful of the dew,Still wear their sheltering veil of green.But in the next more genial hourThy tender rose‐shaped cups unfold,And soon appears the perfect flower,With ruby spots and threads of gold.That short and fleeting hour gone by,And even the slightest breath of air,Scarce heard among thy leaves to sigh,Or little bird that flutters there;Shakes off thy petals thin and frail,And soon, like half‐congealing snow,The sport of every wandering gale,They strew the humid turf below.Yet tho' thy gauzy bells fall fast,Long ere appears the evening crescent;Another bloom succeeds the last,As lovely and as evanescent.Not so the poet's favourite Rose,She blooms beyond a second day,And even some later beauty shews—Some charm still lingering in decay.Thus those, who thro' life's path have pass'd,A path how seldom strewn with flowers !May have met Friendships formed to lastBeyond the noonday's golden hours.While quickly formed, dissolv'd as soon,Some warm attachments I have knownJust flourish for an hour at noon,But leave no trace when overblown.Minds that form these, with ardent zealTheir new connexions fondly cherish,And for a moment keenly feelAffection, doomed as soon to perish;Incapable of Friendship long,Awake to every new impression,Old friends, becoming ci‐devant !Are still replaced by a Succession. HOPE.A RONDEAU.Parody on Lord Strangford's “Just like Love.”JUST like Hope is yonder bow,That from the center bends so low,Where bright prismatic colours shewHow gems of heavenly radiance glow,Just like Hope !Yet if, to the illusion new,The pilgrim should the arch pursue,Farther and farther from his view,It flies; then melts in chilling dew,Just like Hope !Ye fade, ethereal hues ! for ever,While, cold Reason, thy endeavourSooths not that sad heart, which neverGlows with Hope. EVENING.OH ! soothing hour, when glowing day,Low in the western wave declines,And village murmurs die away,And bright the vesper planet shines;I love to hear the gale of EvenBreathing along the new‐leaf'd copse,And feel the freshening dew of Heaven,Fall silently in limpid drops.For, like a friend's consoling sighs,That breeze of night to me appears;And, as soft dew from Pity's eyes,Descend those pure celestial tears.Alas ! for those who long have borne,Like me, a heart by sorrow riven,Who, but the plaintive winds, will mourn,What tears will fall, but those of Heaven ? LOVE AND FOLLY,FROM THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE.LOVE, who now deals to human hearts,Such ill thrown, yet resistless darts,That hapless mortals can't withstand them,Was once less cruel and perverse,Nor did he then his shafts disperse,So much at random.It happened, that the thoughtless childWas rambling thro' a flowery wild,Like idle lad in school vacation;Where sauntering now, and now at rest,Stroll'd Folly, who to Love address'dHis conversation.On trifles he had much to say,Then laughing he propos'd to play,And stake against Love's bow his bauble;The quiver'd gamester smil'd and won,But testy Folly soon beganTo fret and squabble.Loud and more loud the quarrel grows;From words the wranglers went to blows,For Folly's rage is prompt to rise;Till bleeding Love a martyr stood—A stroke from Folly's weapon rude,Put out his eyes.Then wild with anguish, Venus pray'd,For vengeance on the idiot's head,And begg'd of cloud‐compelling Jove,His swiftest lightening, to destroy,The mischievous malignant boyThat blinded Love.“Folly is immortal,” Jove replied,“But, tho' your prayer must be denied,“An endless penance is decreed him;“For Love, tho' blind, will reign around“The world; but still where‐ever found,“Folly shall lead him.” ON THE APHORISM,“L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes.”FRIENDSHIP, as some sage poet sings,Is chasten'd Love, depriv'd of wings,Without all wish or power to wander;Less volatile, but not less tender:Yet says the proverbs—“Sly and slow“Love creeps, even where he cannot go;”To clip his pinions then is vain,His old propensities remain;And she, who years beyond fifteen,Has counted twenty, may have seenHow rarely unplum'd Love will stay;He flies not—but he coolly walks away. NOTES.NOTES.BEACHY HEAD.Page 1.␣␣Line 3.“The mariner at early morning hails.”

In crossing the Channel from the coast of France, Beachy‐Head is the first land made.

Page 1.␣␣Line 6.“Of vast concussion, when the Omnipotent“Stretch'd forth his arm ——”

Alluding to an idea that this Island was once joined to the continent of Europe, and torn from it by someconvulsion of Nature.␣␣I confess I never could trace the resemblance between the two countries.␣␣Yet the cliffs about Dieppe, resemble the chalk cliffs on the Southern coast.␣␣But Normandy has no likeness whatever to the part of England opposite to it.

Page 2.␣␣Line 15.Terns.—Sterna hirundo, or Sea Swallow.Gulls.—Larus canus.Tarrocks.—Larus tridactylus.Page 3.␣␣Line 1.

Gray Choughs.—Corvus Graculus, Cornish Choughs, or, as these birds are called by the Sussex people, Saddle‐backed Crows, build in great numbers on this coast.

Page 4.␣␣Line 10.“Bursts from its pod the vegetable down.”

Cotton. (Gossypium herbaceum.)

Line 14.“The beamy adamant.”

Diamonds, the hardest and most valuable of precious stones.

For the extraordinary exertions of the Indians in diving for the pearl oysters, see the account of the Pearl Fisheries in Percival's View of Ceylon.

Page 8.␣␣Line 14.“——But now and then the Sea Snipe's cry,”&c.

In crossing the channel this bird is heard at night, uttering a short cry, and flitting along near the surface of the waves.␣␣The sailors call it the Sea Snipe;but I can find no species of sea bird of which this is the vulgar name.␣␣A bird also called inhabits the lake of Geneva.

Page 9“The period, when from Neustria's hostile shoreThe Norman launch'd his galleys, and the bayO'er which that mass of ruin* frowns even nowIn vain and sullen menace, then receivedThe new invaders,”&c.* Pevensey Castle.

The Scandinavians†, and other inhabitants of the north, began towards the end of the 8th century, to leave their inhospitable climate in search of the produce of more fortunate countries.

† Scandinavia—Modern Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Lapland, &c.

The North‐men made inroads on the coasts of France; and carrying back immense booty, excited their compatriots to engage in the same piratical voyages: and they were afterwards joined by numbers of necessitous and daring adventurers from the coasts of Provence and Sicily.

In 844, these wandering innovators had a great number of vessels at sea; and again visiting the coasts of France, Spain, and England, the following year they penetrated even to Paris: and the unfortunate Charles the Bald, king of France, purchased at a high price, the retreat of the banditti he had no other means of repelling.

These successful expeditions continued for some time; till Rollo, otherwise Raoul, assembled a number of followers, and after a descent on England, crossed the channel, and made himself master of Rouen, which he fortified.␣␣Charles the Simple, unable to contend with Rollo, offered to resign to him some of the northern provinces, and to give him his daughter in marriage.␣␣Neustria, since called Normandy, was granted to him, and afterwards Brittany.␣␣He added the more solid virtues of the legislator to the fierce valour of the conqueror—converted to Christianity, he established justice, and repressed the excesses of his Danish subjects, till then accustomed to live only by plunder.␣␣His name became the signal for pursuing those who violated the laws; as well as the cry of Haro, still so usual in Normandy.␣␣The Danes and Francs produced a race of men celebrated for their valour; and it was a small party of these that in 983, having been on a pilgrim‐ age to Jerusalem, arrived on their return at Salerno, and found the town surrounded by Mahometans, whom the Salernians were bribing to leave their coast. ␣␣The Normans represented to them the baseness and cowardice of such submission; and notwithstanding the inequality of their numbers, they boldly attacked the Saracen camp, and drove the infidels to their ships. ␣␣The prince of Salerno, astonished at their successful audacity, would have loaded them with the marks of his gratitude; but refusing every reward, they returned to their own country, from whence, however, other bodies of Normans passed into Sicily*; and many of them entered into the service of the emperor of the East, others of the Pope, * Anciently called Trinacria. and the duke of Naples was happy to engage a small party of them in defence of his newly founded dutchy. Soon afterwards three brothers of Coutance, the sons of Tancred de Hauteville, Guillaume Fier‐a‐bras, Drogon, and Humfroi, joining the Normans established at Aversa, became masters of the fertile island of Sicily; and Robert Guiscard joining them, the Normans became sovereigns both of Sicily and Naples*.␣␣How William, the natural son of Robert, duke of Normandy, possessed himself of England, is too well known to be repeated here.␣␣William sailing from St. Valori, landed in the bay of Pevensey; and at the place now called Battle, met the English forces under Harold: an esquire (ecuyer) called Taillefer, * Parthenope. mounted on an armed horse, led on the Normans, singing in a thundering tone the war song of Rollo. He threw himself among the English, and was killed on the first onset.␣␣In a marsh not far from Hastings, the skeletons of an armed man and horse were found a few years since, which are believed to have belonged to the Normans, as a party of their horse, deceived in the nature of the ground, perished in the morass.

Page 10.␣␣Line 10.“Then the holy pile,” &c.

Battle Abbey was raised by the Conqueror, and endowed with an ample revenue, that masses might be said night and day for the souls of those who perished in battle.

Page 11.␣␣Last line.“Thou, leagued with the Batavian—”

In 1690, king William being then in Ireland, Tourville, the French admiral, arrived on the coast of England.␣␣His fleet consisted of seventy‐eight large ships, and twenty‐two fire‐ships. ␣␣Lord Torrington, the English admiral, lay at St. Helens, with only forty English and a few Dutch ships; and conscious of the disadvantage under which he should give battle, he ran up between the enemy's fleet and the coast, to protect it.␣␣The queen's council, dictated to by Russel, persuaded her to order Torrington to venture a battle. The orders Torrington appears to have obeyed reluctantly:␣␣his fleet now consisted of twenty‐two Dutch and thirty‐four English ships.␣␣Evertson, the Dutch admiral, was eager to obtain glory; Torring‐ ton, more cautious, reflected on the importance of the stake.␣␣The consequence was, that the Dutch rashly sailing on were surrounded, and Torrington, solicitous to recover this false step, placed himself with difficulty between the Dutch and French;— but three Dutch ships were burnt, two of their admirals killed, and almost all their ships disabled. The English and Dutch declining a second engagement, retired towards the mouth of the Thames. The French, from ignorance of the coast, and misunderstanding among each other, failed to take all the advantage they might have done of this victory.

Page 13.“———the humble homeOf one, who sometimes watches on the heights,” &c.

The shepherds and labourers of this tract of country, a hardy and athletic race of men, are almost universally engaged in the contraband trade, carried on for the coarsest and most destructive spirits, with the opposite coast. ␣␣When no other vessel will venture to sea, these men hazard their lives to elude the watchfulness of the Revenue officers, and to secure their cargoes.

Page 14.␣␣Line 15.“Where the gemm'd sun‐dew grows, or fring'd buck‐bean,They scare the plover——”Sun‐dew.—Drosera rotundifoliaBuck‐bean.—Menyanthes trifoliatum.Plover.—Tringa vanellus.Page 15.␣␣Line 9.“By crouding osiers, and the black coot hides—”

Coot.—Fulica aterrima.

Line 16.

“With blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay.”

Goldsmith.

Page 16.␣␣Line 7.“Hostile war‐fires.”

The Beacons formerly lighted up on the hills to give notice of the approach of an enemy. ␣␣These signals would still be used in case of alarm, if the Telegraph now substituted could not be distinguished on account of fog or darkness.

Line 11.“Where clamouring loud, the evening curlew runs.”

Curlew.—Charadrius oedicnemus.

Page 20.“————where Vecta breaksWith her white rocks, the strong imperious tide.”

Vecta.—The Isle of Wight, which breaks the force of the waves when they are driven by south‐west winds against this long and open coast.␣␣It is somewhere described as “Vecta shouldering the Western Waves.”

Page 22.␣␣Line 3.“By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring.”

Every cottage in this country has its orchard; and I imagine that not even those of Herefordshire, or Worcestershire, exhibit a more beautiful prospect, when the trees are in bloom, and the “Primavera candida e vermiglia,” is every where so enchanting.

Page 24.␣␣Line 10.“Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch—”

Vetch.—Vicia sylvatica.

Line 11.“With bittersweet, and bryony inweave.”Bittersweet—Solanum dulcamara.Bryony.—Bryonia alba.Line 12.“And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups—”

Bindweed.—Convolvulus sepium.

Line 14.“Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil.”Harebell.—Hyacinthus non scriptus.Pagil.—‐Primula veris.Page 25.␣␣Line 5.“Plucks the wood sorrel—”

Oxalis acetosella.

Line 8.“Gathers, the copse's pride, anémones.”

Anemóne nemorosa.—It appears to be settled on late and excellent authorities, that this word should not be accented on the second syllable, but on the penultima.␣␣I have however ventured the more known accentuation, as more generally used, and suiting better the nature of my verse.

Page 26.␣␣Line 3.“Of sea‐shells; with the pale calcareous soilMingled, and seeming of resembling substance.”

Among the crumbling chalk I have often found shells, some quite in a fossil state and hardly dis‐ tinguishable from chalk.␣␣ Others appeared more recent; cockles, muscles, and periwinkles, I well remember, were among the number; and some whose names I do not know.␣␣A great number were like those of small land snails.␣␣It is now many years since I made these observations.␣␣The appearance of sea‐shells so far from the sea excited my surprise, though I then knew nothing of natural history.␣␣I have never read any of the late theories of the earth, nor was I ever satisfied with the attempts to explain many of the phenomena which call forth conjecture in those books I happened to have had access to on this subject.

Page 26.␣␣Line 11.“Or did this range of chalky mountains,”&c.

The theory here sligh