The Emigrants — Book II

Quippe ubi fas versum atque nefas: tot bella per orbemTam multæ scelerum facies; non ullus aratroDignus honos: squalent abductis arva colonis,Et curva rigidum falces conflantur in ensemHinc movet Euphrates, illinc Germania bellumVicinæ ruptis inter se legibus urbesArma ferunt: sævit toto Mars impius orbe.Geor. lib. i.

LONG wintry months are past; the Moon that nowLights her pale crescent even at noon, has madeFour times her revolution; since with step,Mournful and slow, along the wave‐worn cliff,Pensive I took my solitary way,Lost in despondence, while contemplatingNot my own wayward destiny alone,(Hard as it is, and difficult to bear!)But in beholding the unhappy lot

Of the lorn Exiles; who, amid the stormsOf wild disastrous Anarchy, are thrown,Like shipwreck'd sufferers, on England's coast,To see, perhaps, no more their native land,Where Desolation riots: They, like me,From fairer hopes and happier prospects driven,Shrink from the future, and regret the past.But on this Upland scene, while April comes,With fragrant airs, to fan my throbbing breast,Fain would I snatch an interval from Care,That weighs my wearied spirit down to earth;Courting, once more, the influence of Hope(For "Hope" still waits upon the flowery prime)As here I mark Spring's humid hand unfoldThe early leaves that fear capricious winds,While, even on shelter'd banks, the timid flowers

Give, half reluctantly, their warmer huesTo mingle with the primroses' pale stars.No shade the leafless copses yet afford,Nor hide the mossy labours of the Thrush,That, startled, darts across the narrow path;But quickly re‐assur'd, resumes his talk,Or adds his louder notes to those that riseFrom yonder tufted brake; where the white budsOf the first thorn are mingled with the leavesOf that which blossoms on the brow of May.Ah! 'twill not be:­­——So many years have pass'd,Since, on my native hills, I learn'd to gazeOn these delightful landscapes; and those yearsHave taught me so much sorrow, that my soulFeels not the joy reviving Nature brings;But, in dark retrospect, dejected dwells

On human follies, and on human woes.­­——What is the promise of the infant year,The lively verdure, or the bursting blooms,To those, who shrink from horrors such as WarSpreads o'er the affrighted world? With swimming eye,Back on the past they throw their mournful looks,And see the Temple, which they fondly hop'dReason would raise to Liberty, destroy'dBy ruffian hands; while, on the ruin'd mass,Flush'd with hot blood, the Fiend of Discord sitsIn savage triumph; mocking every pleaOf policy and justice, as she shewsThe headless corse of one, whose only crimeWas being born a Monarch—­Mercy turns,From spectacle so dire, her swol'n eyes;And Liberty, with calm, unruffled brow

Magnanimous, as conscious of her strengthIn Reason's panoply, scorns to distainHer righteous cause with carnage, and resignsTo Fraud and Anarchy the infuriate crowd.­­——What is the promise of the infant yearTo those, who (while the poor but peaceful hindPens, unmolested, the encreasing flockOf his rich master in this sea‐fenc'd isle)Survey, in neighbouring countries, scenes that makeThe sick heart shudder; and the Man, who thinks,Blush for his species? There the trumpet's voiceDrowns the soft warbling of the woodland choir;And violets, lurking in their turfy bedsBeneath the flow'ring thorn, are stain'd with blood.There fall, at once, the spoiler and the spoil'd;While War, wide‐ravaging, annihilates

The hope of cultivation; gives to Fiends,The meagre, ghastly Fiends of Want and Woe,The blasted land—­There, taunting in the vanOf vengeance-breathing armies, Insult stalks;And, in the ranks, "Famine, and Sword, and Fire,"Crouch for employment."­—Lo! the suffering world,Torn by the fearful conflict, shrinks, amaz'd,From Freedom's name, usurp'd and misapplied,And, cow'ring to the purple Tyrant's rod,Deems that the lesser ill­—Deluded Men!Ere ye prophane her ever‐glorious name,Or catalogue the thousands that have bledResisting her; or those, who greatly diedMartyrs to Liberty­—revert awhileTo the black scroll, that tells of regal crimesCommitted to destroy her; rather count

The hecatombs of victims, who have fallenBeneath a single despot; or who gaveTheir wasted lives for some disputed claimBetween anointed robbers: Monsters both!"Oh! Polish'd perturbation­—golden care!"So strangely coveted by feeble ManTo lift him o'er his fellows;­—Toy, for whichSuch showers of blood have drench'd th' affrighted earth­—Unfortunate his lot, whose luckless headThy jewel'd circlet, lin'd with thorns, has bound;And who, by custom's laws, obtains from theeHereditary right to rule, uncheck'd,Submissive myriads: for untemper'd power,Like steel ill form'd, injures the handIt promis'd to protect­—Unhappy France!If e'er thy lilies, trampled now in dust,

And blood‐bespotted, shall again reviveIn silver splendour, may the wreath be wov'nBy voluntary hands; and Freemen, suchAs England's self might boast, unite to placeThe guarded diadem on his fair brow,Where Loyalty may join with LibertyTo fix it firmly.—­In the rugged schoolOf stern Adversity so early train'd,His future life, perchance, may emulateThat of the brave Bernois, so justly call'dThe darling of his people; who rever'dThe Warrior less, than they ador'd the Man!But ne'er may Party Rage, perverse and blind,And base Venality, prevail to raiseTo public trust, a wretch, whose private viceMakes even the wildest profligate recoil;

And who, with hireling ruffians leagu'd, has burstThe laws of Nature and Humanity!Wading, beneath the Patriot's specious mask,And in Equality's illusive name,To empire thro' a stream of kindred blood­—Innocent prisoner!­—most unhappy heirOf fatal greatness, who art suffering nowFor all the crimes and follies of thy race;Better for thee, if o'er thy baby browThe regal mischief never had been held:Then, in an humble sphere, perhaps content,Thou hadst been free and joyous on the heightsOf Pyrennean mountains, shagg'd with woodsOf chesnut, pine, and oak: as on these hillsIs yonder little thoughtless shepherd lad,Who, on the slope abrupt of downy turf

Reclin'd in playful indolence, sends offThe chalky ball, quick bounding far below;While, half forgetful of his simple task,Hardly his length'ning shadow, or the bells'Slow tinkling of his flock, that supping tendTo the brown fallows in the vale beneath,Where nightly it is folded, from his sportRecal the happy idler.­—While I gazeOn his gay vacant countenance, my thoughtsCompare with his obscure, laborious lot,Thine, most unfortunate, imperial Boy!Who round thy sullen prison daily hear'stThe savage howl of Murder, as it seeksThy unoffending life: while sad withinThy wretched Mother, petrified with grief,Views thee with stony eyes, and cannot weep!­—

Ah! much I mourn thy sorrows, hapless Queen!And deem thy expiation made to HeavenFor every fault, to which ProsperityBetray'd thee, when it plac'd thee on a throneWhere boundless power was thine, and thou wert rais'dHigh (as it seem'd) above the envious reachOf destiny! Whate'er thy errors were,Be they no more remember'd; tho' the rageOf Party swell'd them to such crimes, as badeCompassion stifle every sigh that roseFor thy disastrous lot­—More than enoughThou hast endur'd; and every English heart,Ev'n those, that highest beat in Freedom's cause,Disclaim as base, and of that cause unworthy,The Vengeance, or the Fear, that makes thee stillA miserable prisoner!­—Ah! who knows,

From sad experience, more than I, to feelFor thy desponding spirit, as it sinksBeneath procrastinated fears for thoseMore dear to thee than life! But eminenceOf misery is thine, as once of joy;And, as we view the strange vicissitude,We ask anew, where happiness is found?­­­——Alas! in rural life, where youthful dreamsSee the Arcadia that Romance describes,Not even Content resides!—­In yon low hutOf clay and thatch, where rises the grey smokeOf smold'ring turf, cut from the adjoining moor,The labourer, its inhabitant, who toilsFrom the first dawn of twilight, till the SunSinks in the rosy waters of the West,Finds that with poverty it cannot dwell;

For bread, and scanty bread, is all he earnsFor him and for his household­—Should Disease,Born of chill wintry rains, arrest his arm,Then, thro' his patch'd and straw‐stuff'd casement, peepsThe squalid figure of extremest Want;And from the Parish the reluctant dole,Dealt by th' unfeeling farmer, hardly savesThe ling'ring spark of life from cold extinction:Then the bright Sun of Spring, that smiling bidsAll other animals rejoice, beholds,Crept from his pallet, the emaciate wretchAttempt, with feeble effort, to resumeSome heavy task, above his wasted strength,Turning his wistful looks (how much in vain!)To the deserted mansion, where no moreThe owner (gone to gayer scenes) resides,

Who made even luxury, Virtue; while he gaveThe scatter'd crumbs to honest Poverty.­—But, tho' the landscape be too oft deform'dBy figures such as these, yet Peace is here,And o'er our vallies, cloath'd with springing corn,No hostile hoof shall trample, nor fierce flamesWither the wood's young verdure, ere it formGradual the laughing May's luxuriant shade;For, by the rude sea guarded, we are safe,And feel not evils such as with deep sighsThe Emigrants deplore, as they recalThe Summer past, when Nature seem'd to loseHer course in wild distemperature, and aid,With seasons all revers'd, destructive War.Shuddering, I view the pictures they have drawnOf desolated countries, where the ground,

Stripp'd of its unripe produce, was thick strewnWith various Death­—the war‐horse falling thereBy famine, and his rider by the sword.The moping clouds sail'd heavy charg'd with rain,And bursting o'er the mountains misty brow,Deluged, as with an inland sea, the vales;Where, thro' the sullen evening's lurid gloom,Rising, like columns of volcanic fire,The flames of burning villages illum'dThe waste of water; and the wind, that howl'dAlong its troubled surface, brought the groansOf plunder'd peasants, and the frantic shrieksOf mothers for their children; while the brave,To pity still alive, listen'd aghastTo these dire echoes, hopeless to preventThe evils they beheld, or check the rage,

Which ever, as the people of one landMeet in contention, fires the human heartWith savage thirst of kindred blood, and makesMan lose his nature; rendering him more fierceThan the gaunt monsters of the howling waste.Oft have I heard the melancholy tale,Which, all their native gaiety forgot,These Exiles tell­—How Hope impell'd them on,Reckless of tempest, hunger, or the sword,Till order'd to retreat, they knew not why,From all their flattering prospects, they becameThe prey of dark suspicion and regret:Then, in despondence, sunk the unnerv'd armOf gallant Loyalty­—At every turnShame and disgrace appear'd, and seem'd to mockTheir scatter'd squadrons; which the warlike youth,

Unable to endure, often implor'd,As the last act of friendship, from the handOf some brave comrade, to receive the blowThat freed the indignant spirit from its pain.To a wild mountain, whose bare summit hidesIts broken eminence in clouds; whose steepsAre dark with woods; where the receding rocksAre worn by torrents of dissolving snow,A wretched Woman, pale and breathless, flies!And, gazing round her, listens to the soundOf hostile footsteps­­——No! it dies away:Nor noise remains, but of the cataract,Or surly breeze of night, that mutters lowAmong the thickets, where she trembling seeksA temporary shelter—­clasping closeTo her hard‐heaving heart, her sleeping child,

All she could rescue of the innocent groupeThat yesterday surrounded her­—Escap'dAlmost by miracle! Fear, frantic Fear,Wing'd her weak feet: yet, half repentant nowHer headlong haste, she wishes she had staidTo die with those affrighted Fancy paintsThe lawless soldier's victims­—Hark! againThe driving tempest bears the cry of Death,And, with deep sudden thunder, the dread soundOf cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth;While, bursting in the air, the murderous bombGlares o'er her mansion. Where the splinters fall,Like scatter'd comets, its destructive pathIs mark'd by wreaths of flame!­—Then, overwhelm'dBeneath accumulated horror, sinksThe desolate mourner; yet, in Death itself,

True to maternal tenderness, she triesTo save the unconscious infant from the stormIn which she perishes; and to protectThis last dear object of her ruin'd hopesFrom prowling monsters, that from other hills,More inaccessible, and wilder wastes,Lur'd by the scent of slaughter, follow fierceContending hosts, and to polluted fieldsAdd dire increase of horrors­—But alas!The Mother and the Infant perish both!­—The feudal Chief, whose Gothic battlementsFrown on the plain beneath, returning homeFrom distant lands, alone and in disguise,Gains at the fall of night his Castle walls,But, at the vacant gate, no Porter sitsTo wait his Lord's admittance!­—In the courts

All is drear silence!­—Guessing but too wellThe fatal truth, he shudders as he goesThro' the mute hall; where, by the blunted lightThat the dim moon thro' painted casements lends,He sees that devastation has been there:Then, while each hideous image to his mindRises terrific, o'er a bleeding corseStumbling he falls; another interruptsHis staggering feet­—all, all who us'd to rushWith joy to meet him­—all his familyLie murder'd in his way!­—And the day dawnsOn a wild raving Maniac, whom a fateSo sudden and calamitous has robb'dOf reason; and who round his vacant wallsScreams unregarded, and reproaches Heaven!­—Such are thy dreadful trophies, savage War!

And evils such as these, or yet more dire,Which the pain'd mind recoils from, all are thine­­—The purple Pestilence, that to the graveSends whom the sword has spar'd, is thine; and thineThe Widow's anguish and the Orphan's tears!­—Woes such as these does Man inflict on Man;And by the closet murderers, whom we styleWise Politicians; are the schemes prepar'd,Which, to keep Europe's wavering balance even,Depopulate her kingdoms, and consignTo tears and anguish half a bleeding world!­—Oh! could the time return, when thoughts like theseSpoil'd not that gay delight, which vernal Suns,Illuminating hills, and woods, and fields,Gave to my infant spirits­—­Memory come!And from distracting cares, that now deprive

Such scenes of all their beauty, kindly bearMy fancy to those hours of simple joy,When, on the banks of Arun, which I seeMake its irriguous course thro' yonder meads,I play'd; unconscious then of future ill!There (where, from hollows fring'd with yellow broom,The birch with silver rind, and fairy leaf,Aslant the low stream trembles) I have stood,And meditated how to venture bestInto the shallow current, to procureThe willow herb of glowing purple spikes,Or flags, whose sword‐like leaves conceal'd the tide,Startling the timid reed‐bird from her nest,As with aquatic flowers I wove the wreath,Such as, collected by the shepherd girls,Deck in the villages the turfy shrine,

And mark the arrival of propitious May.­—How little dream'd I then the time would come,When the bright Sun of that delicious monthShould, from disturb'd and artificial sleep,Awaken me to never‐ending toil,To terror and to tears!­—Attempting still,With feeble hands and cold desponding heart,To save my children from the o'erwhelming wrongs,That have for ten long years been heap'd on me!­—The fearful spectres of chicane and fraudHave, Proteus like, still chang'd their hideous forms(As the Law lent its plausible disguise),Pursuing my faint steps; and I have seenFriendship's sweet bonds (which were so early form'd,)And once I fondly thought of amaranthInwove with silver seven times tried) give way,

And fail; as these green fan‐like leaves of fernWill wither at the touch of Autumn's frost.Yet there are those, whose patient pity stillHears my long murmurs; who, unwearied, tryWith lenient hands to bind up every woundMy wearied spirit feels, and bid me go"Right onward"—­a calm votary of the Nymph,Who, from her adamantine rock, points outTo conscious rectitude the rugged path,That leads at length to Peace!­—Ah! yes, my friendsPeace will at last be mine; for in the GraveIs Peace—­and pass a few short years, perchanceA few short months, and all the various painI now endure shall be forgotten there,And no memorial shall remain of me,Save in your bosoms; while even your regret

Shall lose its poignancy, as ye reflectWhat complicated woes that grave conceals!But, if the little praise, that may awaitThe Mother's efforts, should provoke the spleenOf Priest or Levite; and they then arraignThe dust that cannot hear them; be it yoursTo vindicate my humble fame; to say,That, not in selfish sufferings absorb'd,"I gave to misery all I had, my tears."And if, where regulated sanctityPours her long orisons to Heaven, my voiceWas seldom heard, that yet my prayer was madeTo him who hears even silence; not in domesOf human architecture, fill'd with crowds,But on these hills, where boundless, yet distinct,Even as a map, beneath are spread the fieldsHis bounty cloaths; divided here by woods,

And there by commons rude, or winding brooks,While I might breathe the air perfum'd with flowers,Or the fresh odours of the mountain turf;And gaze on clouds above me, as they sail'dMajestic: or remark the reddening north,When bickering arrows of electric fireFlash on the evening sky­—I made my prayerIn unison with murmuring waves that nowSwell with dark tempests, now are mild and blue,As the bright arch above; for all to meDeclare omniscient goodness; nor need IDeclamatory essays to inciteMy wonder or my praise, when every leafThat Spring unfolds, and every simple bud,More forcibly impresses on my heartHis power and wisdom­—Ah! while I adoreThat goodness, which design'd to all that lives

Some taste of happiness, my soul is pain'dBy the variety of woes that ManFor Man creates—­his blessings often turn'dTo plagues and curses: Saint‐like Piety,Misled by Superstition, has destroy'dMore than Ambition; and the sacred flameOf Liberty becomes a raging fire,When Licence and Confusion bid it blaze.From thy high throne, above yon radiant stars,O Power Omnipotent! with mercy viewThis suffering globe, and cause thy creatures cease,With savage fangs, to tear her bleeding breast:Refrain that rage for power, that bids a Man,Himself a worm, desire unbounded ruleO'er beings like himself: Teach the hard heartsOf rulers, that the poorest hind, who diesFor their unrighteous quarrels, in thy sight

Is equal to the imperious Lord, that leadsHis disciplin'd destroyers to the field.——­­May lovely Freedom, in her genuine charms,Aided by stern but equal Justice, driveFrom the ensanguin'd earth the hell‐born fiendsOf Pride, Oppression, Avarice, and Revenge,That ruin what thy mercy made so fair!Then shall these ill‐starr'd wanderers, whose sad fateThese desultory lines lament, regainTheir native country; private vengeance thenTo public virtue yield; and the fierce feuds,That long have torn their desolated land,May (even as storms, that agitate the air,Drive noxious vapours from the blighted earth)Serve, all tremendous as they are, to fixThe reign of Reason, Liberty, and Peace!

"HOPE waits upon the flowery prime."]—"Famine, and Sword, and Fire, crouch for employment."]­—Shakspeare.