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XXI.

The lovely Gertrude, safe from present barn, Then came of every race the mingled swarm;

Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of est Far rang the groves, and gleam'd the midnight grass,

On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his are With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm;

Enclos'd, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wix As warriors wheel'd their culverins of brass,

alarm! Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines:

XXVII. And first the wild Moravian yargers pass,

But short that contemplation-sad and short His plumed host the dark Iberian joins- (shines. The pause to bid each much-lov'd scene adjet! And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland thistle

Beneath the very shadow of the fort, (ties:

Where friendly swords were drawn, and bassen XXII.

Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian cres And in, the buskin'd hunters of the deer,

Was near?-yet there, with lust of murd'rous desde To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal throng:

Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view, Rous'd by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer,

The ambush'd foeman's eye-his volley speeds

, Old Outalissi woke his battle song,

And Albert-Albert - falls! the dear old father And, beating with his war-club cadence strong,

bleeds! Tells how his steep-stung indignation smarts, Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long,

XXVIII. To whet a dagger on their stony hearts,

And tranc'd in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd; And smile aveng'd ere yet his eagle spirit parts.

Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zote,

Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound, XXIII.

These drops i-Oh God! the life-blood is het ox0; Calm, opposite the Christian father rose.

And falt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom thoxyPale on his venerable brow its rays

Weep not, O Love!'-she cries," to see me blerte Of martyr light the conflagration throws;

• Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone One hand upon his lovely child he lays,

• Heaven's peace.commiserate ; for scarce I keed And one th' uncover'd.crowd to silence sways;

* These wounds ;-yet thee to leave is death, is dead While, though the battle flash is faster driv'n,

indeed. Unaw'd, with eye unstartled by the blaze, He for his bleeding country prays to Heav'n,

XXIX. Prays that the men of blood themselves may be for

• Clasp me a little longer on the brink given.

• Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;

. And when this heart bath ceas'd to beatod! XXIV.

* And let it mitigate thy woe's excess Short time is now for gratulating speech;

• That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began

• And friend to more than human friendship jest. Thy country's flight, yon distant tow'rs to reach, “Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, Look'd not on thee the rudest partisan

' And by the hopes of an immortal trust, [dose? With brow relax'd to love! And murmurs ran As round and round their willing ranks they drew,

God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van.

XXX. Grateful, on them a placid look she threw,

Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, Norwept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu !

' The scene thy bursting tears too deep will more, XXV.

• Where my dear father took thee to his heart,

• And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove Past was the flight, and welcome seem'd the tow'r, • With thee, as with an angel, through the grore That like a giant standard-bearer, frown'd . Of peace,-imagining her lot was cast Defiance on the roving Indian pow'r.

• In heav'n; for ours was not like earthly love

, Beneath, each bold and promontory mouud, · And must this parting be our very last per With embrasure emboss'd, and armour crown'd, • No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is And arrowy frieze, and wedged ravelin, Wove like a diadem its tracery round

XXXI. The lofty summit of that mountain green; [scene. * Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, Here 'stood secure the group, and ey'd a distant "And thee, more lov'd, than aught beneath the sea XXVI.

• If I had liv'd to smile bat on the birth

Ofone dear pledge ;-but shall there then be nebe, A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, In future times--no gentle little one, And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;

• To elasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? And for the business of destruction done,

Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run, Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow.

' A sweetness in the cup of death to be, There, sad spectatress of her country's woe!

Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee."

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XXXII.

XXXVII. Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland To-morrow let us do or die! Aud beautiful expression seem'd to melt

• But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, With love that could not die! and still his hand • Ah! whither then with thee to fly, She presses to the heart no more that felt.

Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Ah heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, • Seek we thy once-lov'd home -
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. • The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:
Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,-

• Unheard their clock repeats its hours! Of them that stood encircling his despair,

• Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs! He heard some friendly words;-but knew not what • And should we thither roam, they were.

• Its echoes and its empty tread

• Would sound like voices from the dead! XXXIII. For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives

XXXVIII.
A faithful band. With solemn rites between, • Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives, • Whose streams my kindred nation quaff’d;
And in their deaths had not divided been.

• And by my side, in battle true,
Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene, • A thousand warriors drew the shaft?
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd:- "Ah! there in desolation cold,
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen The desert serpent dwells alone,
To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-lov'd

• Where grass o'ergrows each mould'ring bone, shroud

"And stones themselves to ruin grown, While woman's softer soul in woe dissolv'd aloud.

• Like me, are death-like old.

• Then seek we not their camp-for thereXXXIV.

• The silence dwells of my despair! Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth;

XXXIX.
Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid

• But hark, the trump!-to-morrow thou
His face on earth;-him watch’d, in gloomy ruth, • In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears :
His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe « Ev'n from the land of shadows now
The grief that knew not consolation's name:

My father's awful ghost appears,
Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,

• Amidst the clouds that round us roll; He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that came

• He bids my soul for battle thirstConvulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame! • He bids me dry the last-the first

• The only tears that ever burst XXXV.

• From Outalissi's soul ; • And I could weep;'-th'Oneyda chief

• Because I may not stain with grief His descant wildly thus begun;

• The death-song of an Indian chief.' • But that I may not stain with grief • The death-song of my father's son! • Or bow this head in woe;

HOHENLINDEN. • For by my wrongs, and by my wrath ! • To-morrow Areouski's breath,

On Linden, when the sun was low, (That fires yon heav'n with storms of death), All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, • Shall light us to the foe:

And dark as winter was the flow • And we shall share, my Christian boy!

Of Iser, rolling rapidly. • The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

But Linden saw another sight,
XXXVI.

When the drum beat, at dead of night,

Commanding fires of death to light * But thee, my flow'r, whose breath was giv'n The darkness of her scenery. • By milder genii o'er the deep, • The spirits of the white man's heav'n

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, • Forbid not thee to weep :

Each horseman drew his battle blade, • Nor will the Christian host,

And furious every charger neigh'd, • Nor will thy father's spirit grieve

To join the dreadful revelry. « To see thee, on the battle's eve, Lamenting, take a mournful leave

Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n, • Of her who lov'd thee most :

Then rush'd the steed to battle driv'n, • She was the rainbow to thy sight!

And louder than the bolts of heaven • Thy sun—thy heav'n-of lost delight!

Far flash'd the red artillery.

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THE BIRD-BOY.

Through tangling thickets headlong on they go, If fields are prisons, where is liberty?
Then stop and listen for their fancied foe;

Here still she dwells, and here her votaries stu; The hindmost still the growing panic spreads, But disappointed hope untunes the soul; Repeated fright the first alarm succeeds,

Restraints unfelt whilst hours of rapture flow, Till folly's wages, wounds and thorns, they reap: When troubles press, to chains and barriers grow Yet glorying in their fortunate escape,

Look then from trivial up to greater woes ; Their groundless terrors by degrees soon cease, From the poor bird-boy with his roasted sloes, And night's dark reign restores their wonted peace. To where the dungeon'd mourner heaves the sigui For now the gale subsides, and from each bough Where not one cheering sun-beam meets his eye. The roosting pheasant's short but frequent crow Though ineffectual pity thine may be, Invites to rest; and huddling side by side,

No wealth, no pow'r, to set the captive free; The herd in closest ambush seek to hide;

Though only to thy ravish'd sight is given Seek some warm slope with shagged moss o'erspread, The radiant path that Howard trod to Heaves; Dry'd leaves their copious covering, and their bed. Thy slights can make the wretched more forier, In vain may Giles, through gath'ring glooms that fall, And deeper drive affliction's barbed thorn. And solemn silence, urge his piercing call: Say not, “ I'll come and cheer thy gloomy cl Whole days and nights they tarry midst their store, With news of dearest friends; how good, how wel: Nor quit the woods till oaks can yield no more. I'll be a joyful herald to thine heart:"

Then fail, and play the worthless trifler's party

,

To sip flat pleasures from thy glass's brim, Far weightier cares and wider scenes expand; And waste the precious hour that's due to his. What devastation marks the new-sown land! In mercy spare the base, unmanly blow: “ From hungry woodland foes go, Giles, and guard Where can he turn, to whom complain of you? The rising wheat; ensure its great reward:

Back to past joys in vain his thoughts may stray, A future sustenance, a Summer's pride,

Trace and retrace the beaten, worn-out way, Demand thy vigilance: then be it try'd:

The rankling injury will pierce his breast,
Exert thy voice, and wield thy shotless gun: And curses on thee break his midnight rest.
Go, tarry there from morn till setting sun.”

Keen blows the blast, or ceaseless rain descends;
The half-stript hedge a sorry shelter lends.
O for a hovel, e'er so small or low,

THE APPEARANCE OF A WINTER SKY.
Whose roof, repelling winds and early snow,

In part these nightly terrors to dispel, Might bring home's comforts fresh before his eyes!

Giles, ere he sleeps, his little flock must tell. No sooner thought, than see the structure rise, From the fire-side with many a shrug he hiesa In some sequester'd nook, embank'd around, Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes, Sods for its walls, and straw in burdens bound: And through th' unbroken stillness of the night Dried fuel hoarded is his richest store,

Shed on his path her beams of cheering light. And circling smoke obscures his little door;

With saunt'ring step he climbs the distant stile, Whence creeping forth, to duty's call he yields,

Whilst all around him wears a And strolls the Crusoe of the lonely fields.

There views the white-robid clouds in clusters On whitethorns tow'ring, and the leafless rose,

And all the glorious pageantry of Heaven. (driven, A frost-nipt feast in bright vermilion glows: Low, on the utmost bound'ry of the sight

, Where clust'ring sloes in glossy order rise,

The rising vapours catch the silver light; He crops the loaded branch; a cumbrous prize; Thence fancy measures, as they parting fr

, And o'er the flame the sputt'ring fruit he rests,

Which first will throw its shadow on the eye, Placing green sods to seat his coming guests;

Passing the source of light; and thence away, His guests by promise ; playmates young and gay: Succeeded quick by brighter still than they. But ah! fresh pastimes lure their steps away!

Far yet above these wafted clouds are seen He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain, (In a remoter sky, still more serene,) Till feeling disappointment's cruel pain,

Others, detach'd in ranges through the air, His fairy revels are exchang'd for rage,

Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair; His banquet marr’d, grown dull his hermitage.

Scatter'd immensely wide from east to west

, The field becomes his prison, till on high

The beauteous semblance of a fluck at rest. Benighted birds to shades and coverts fly.

These, to the raptur'd mind, aloud proclaim Midst air, health, daylight, can he prisoner be?

Their mighty shepherd's everlasting name.

WINTER

placid smile;

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GEORGE CRABBE.

THE VILLAGE.

BOOK I.

The village life, and every care that reigns
D'er youthful peasants and declining swains,
What labour yields, and what, that labour past,
Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last;
What form the real picture of the poor,
Demand a song—the Muse can give no more.

Fled are those times, when, in harmonious strains,
The rustic poet prais'd his native plains:
No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse,
Their country's beauty or their nymphs' rehearse;
Yet still for these we frame the tender strain,
Still in our lays fond Corydons complain,
And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal,
The only pains, alas! they never feel.

On Mincio's banks, in Cæsar's bounteous reign, If Tityrus found the golden age again, Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong, Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song? From truth and nature shall we widely stray, Where Virgil, not where fancy, leads the way?

Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains,
Because the Muses never knew their pains:
They boast their peasants' pipes; but peasants now
Resign their pipes, and plod behind the plough;
And few, amid the rural-tribe, have time
To number syllables and play with rhyme;
Save honest Duck, what son of verse could share
The poet's rapture and the peasant's care?
Or the great labours of the field degrade
With the new peril of a poorer trade?

From this chief cause these idle praises spring,
That themes so easy few forbear to sing ;
For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask,
To sing of shepherds is an easy task:
The happy youth assumes the common strain,
A nymph his mistress and himself a swain;
With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer,
But all, to look like her, is painted fair.

I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms
For him that grazes or for him that farms;
But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace
The poor laborious natives of the place,
And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray,
On their bare heads and dewy temples play;
While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts,
Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts:
Then shall I dare these realills to hide
In tinsel trappings of poetic pride?

No; cast by fortune on a frowning coast, Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast; Where other cares than those the Muse relates, And other shepherds dwell with other mates; By such examples taught, I paint the cot, As truth will paint it and as bards will not : Nor you, ye poor, of letter'd scorn complain, To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain; O’ercome by labour and bow'd down by time, Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme ? Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed? Can their light tales your weighty griefs o’erpower, Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er,

[poor;
Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring
From thence a length of burning sand appears,
Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears;
Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,
Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye:
There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,
And to the ragged infant threaten war;
There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil;
There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil;
Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,
The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf;
O’er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade,
And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade;
With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,
And a sad splendour vainly shines around.
So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn,
Betray'd by man, then left for man to scorn;
Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose,
While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose;
Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress,
Exposing most, when most it gilds distress.

Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race,
With sullen woe display'd in every face;
Who, far from civil arts and social fly,
And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye.

Here to the lawless merchant of the main
Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain;
Want only claim'd the labour of the day,
But vice now steals his nightly rest away.

Where are the swains, who, daily labour done,
With rural games play'd down the setting sun ;
Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball,
Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall;
While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong,
Engag‘d some artful stripling of the throng,

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And fell beneath him, foil'd, while far around Till long-contending nature droops at last,
Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return’d the sound? Declining health rejects his poor repast,

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Where now are these?-Beneath yon cliff they stand, His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees, TO
To show the freighted pinnace where to land; And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.
To load the ready steed with guilty haste,

Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell, To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste,

Though the head droops not, that the heart is wel; TI Or, when detected, in their straggling course, Or will you praise that homely healthy fare, To foil their foes by cunning or by force;

Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share! Or, yielding part (which equal knaves demand), Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel, TH To gain a lawless passport through the land. Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal;

Here, wand'ring long, amid these frowning fields, Homely not wholesome, plain not plenteous, seh I sought the simple life that nature yields;

As you who praise would never deign to touch. TE Rapine and wrong and fear usurp'd her place, Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, (please; And a bold, artful, surly, savage race ;

Whom the smooth stream and smoother societ Who, only skill'd to take the finny tribe,

Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share

, The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe,

Go look within, and ask if peace be there; Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high, If peace be his—that drooping weary sire, On the tost vessel bend their eager eye;

Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire; Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way,

Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand Theirs, or the ocean's, miserable prey. [stand, Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand! As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows

Nor yet can time itself obtain for these And wait for favouring winds to leave the land; Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease; While still for flight the ready wing is spread:

For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age So waited I the favouring hour, and fled

Can with no cares except his own engage; Fled from these shores where guilt and famine

Who, propt on that rude staff, looks up to see reign

The bare arms broken from the withering tree, And cry'd, Ah! hapless they who still remain;

On which, a boy, he climb'd the loftiest borgo, Who still remain to hear the ocean roar,

Then his first joy, but his sad emblem nov. Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore;

He once was chief in all the rustic trade; Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway,

His steady hand the straightest furrow made; Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away;

Full many a prize he won, and still is proud When the sad tenant weeps from door to door, To find the triumphs of his youth allow'd; And begs a poor protection from the poor!

A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes, But these are scenes where nature's niggard hand He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sigše: Gave a spare portion to the famish'd land;

For now he journeys to his grave in pain; Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain

The rich disdain him;

disdain:

nay, Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain;

Alternate masters now their slave command, But yet in other scenes inore fair in view,

Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand, Where plenty smiles-alas! she smiles for few- And, when his age attempts its task in vain, And those who taste not, yet behold her store, With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore,

Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep, The wealth around them makes them doubly poor.

His winter-charge, beneath the hillock weep; Or will you deem them amply paid in health,

Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth?

O'er his white locks, and bury them in snow, Go then! and see them rising with the sun,

When, rous'd by rage and muttering in the meta, Through a long course of daily toil to run;

He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn:See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat,

“Why do I live, when I desire to be When the knees tremble and the temples beat;

At once from life and life's long labour free!
Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er
The labour past, and toils to come explore;

Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away,

Without the sorrows of a slow decay; See them alternate suns and showers engage,

I, like yon wither'd leaf, remain behind, And hoard up aches and anguish for their age;

Nipp'd by the frost and shivering in the wiad; Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue,

There it abides till younger buds come on, When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew;

As l, now all my fellow-swains are gone; Then own that labour may as fatal be

Then, from the rising generation thrust

, To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee.

It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust. Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride

6 These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide;

Are others' gain, but killing cares to me; There may you see the youth of slender frame To me the children of my youth are lords, Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame; Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words: Yet, urg'd along, and proudly loth to yield,

Wants of their

own demand their care; and who etrives to join his fellows of the field:

Feels his own want, and succours others too?

the poor

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