Cottage Poems Part 2

Immerged in that precious tide, The soul quickly loses its stains, Though deeper than crimson they're dyed, And 'scapes from its sorrows and pains.

This fountain is opened for you: Go, wash, without money or price; And instantly formed anew, You'll lose all your woes in a trice.

Then cease, foolish heart, to repine, No stage is exempted from care; If you would true happiness find, 'Tis on Calvary--seek for it there.

WINTER-NIGHT MEDITATIONS.

Rude winter's come, the sky's o'ercast, The night is cold and loud the blast, The mingling snow comes driving down, Fast whitening o'er the flinty ground.

Severe their lots whose crazy sheds Hang tottering o'er their trembling heads: Whilst blows through walls and c.h.i.n.ky door The drifting snow across the floor, Where blinking embers scarcely glow, And rushlight only serves to show What well may move the deepest sigh, And force a tear from pity's eye.

You there may see a meagre pair, Worn out with labour, grief, and care: Whose naked babes, in hungry mood, Complain of cold and cry for food; Whilst tears bedew the mother's cheek, And sighs the father's grief bespeak; For fire or raiment, bed or board, Their dreary shed cannot afford.

Will no kind hand confer relief, And wipe away the tear of grief?

A little boon it well might spare Would kindle joy, dispel their care, Abate the rigour of the night And warm each heart--achievement bright.

Yea, brighter far than such as grace The annals of a princely race, Where kings bestow a large domain But to receive as much again, Or e'en corrupt the purest laws, Or fan the breath of vain applause.

Peace to the man who stoops his head To enter the most wretched shed: Who, with his condescending smiles, Poor diffidence and awe beguiles: Till all encouraged, soon disclose The different causes of their woes-- The moving tale dissolves his heart: He liberally bestows a part Of G.o.d's donation. From above Approving Heaven, in smiles of love, Looks on, and through the s.h.i.+ning skies The great Recording Angel flies The doors of mercy to unfold, And write the deed in lines of gold; There, if a fruit of Faith's fair tree, To s.h.i.+ne throughout eternity, In honour of that Sovereign dread, Who had no place to lay His head, Yet opened wide sweet Mercy's door To all the desolate and poor, Who, stung with guilt and hard oppressed, Groaned to be with Him, and at rest.

Now, pent within the city wall, They throng to theatre and hall, Where gesture, look, and words conspire, To stain the mind, the pa.s.sions fire; Whence sin-polluted streams abound, That whelm the country all around.

Ah! Modesty, should you be here, Close up the eye and stop the ear; Oppose your fan, nor peep beneath, And blus.h.i.+ng shun their tainted breath.

Here every rake exerts his art T' ensnare the unsuspecting heart.

The prost.i.tute, with faithless smiles, Remorseless plays her tricks and wiles.

Her gesture bold and ogling eye, Obtrusive speech and pert reply, And brazen front and stubborn tone, Show all her native virtue's flown.

By her the thoughtless youth is ta'en, Impoverished, disgraced, or slain: Through her the marriage vows are broke, And Hymen proves a galling yoke.

Diseases come, destruction's dealt, Where'er her poisonous breath is felt; Whilst she, poor wretch, dies in the flame That runs through her polluted frame.

Once she was gentle, fair, and kind, To no seducing schemes inclined, Would blush to hear a s.m.u.tty tale, Nor ever strolled o'er hill or dale, But lived a sweet domestic maid, To lend her aged parents aid-- And oft they gazed and oft they smiled On this their loved and only child: They thought they might in her be blest, And she would see them laid at rest.

A blithesome youth of courtly mien Oft called to see this rural queen: His oily tongue and wily art Soon gained Maria's yielding heart.

The aged pair, too, liked the youth, And thought him naught but love and truth.

The village feast at length is come; Maria by the youth's undone: The youth is gone--so is her fame; And with it all her sense of shame: And now she practises the art Which snared her unsuspecting heart; And vice, with a progressive sway, More hardened makes her every day.

Averse to good and p.r.o.ne to ill, And dexterous in seducing skill; To look, as if her eyes would melt: T' affect a love she never felt; To half suppress the rising sigh; Mechanically to weep and cry; To vow eternal truth, and then To break her vow, and vow again; Her ways are darkness, death, and h.e.l.l: Remorse and shame and pa.s.sions fell, And short-lived joy, with endless pain, Pursues her in a gloomy train.

O Britain fair, thou queen of isles!

Nor hostile arms nor hostile wiles Could ever shake thy solid throne But for thy sins. Thy sins alone Can make thee stoop thy royal head, And lay thee prostrate with the dead.

In vain colossal England mows, With ponderous strength, the yielding foes; In vain fair Scotia, by her side, With courage flushed and Highland pride, Whirls her keen blade with horrid whistle And lops off heads like tops of thistle; In vain brave Erin, famed afar, The flaming thunderbolt of war, Profuse of life, through blood does wade, To lend her sister kingdom aid: Our conquering thunders vainly roar Terrific round the Gallic sh.o.r.e; Profoundest statesmen vainly scheme-- 'Tis all a vain, delusive dream, If treacherously within our breast We foster sin, the deadly pest.

Where Sin abounds Religion dies, And Virtue seeks her native skies; Chaste Conscience hides for very shame, And Honour's but an empty name.

Then, like a flood, with fearful din, A gloomy host comes pouring in.

First Bribery, with her golden s.h.i.+eld, Leads smooth Corruption o'er the field; Dissension wild, with brandished spear, And Anarchy bring up the rear: Whilst Care and Sorrow, Grief and Pain Run howling o'er the b.l.o.o.d.y plain.

O Thou, whose power resistless fills The boundless whole, avert those ills We richly merit: purge away The sins which on our vitals prey; Protect, with Thine almighty s.h.i.+eld Our conquering arms by flood and field, Wheel round the time when Peace shall smile O'er Britain's highly-favoured Isle; When all shall loud hosannas sing To Thee, the great Eternal King!

But hark! the bleak, loud whistling wind!

Its crus.h.i.+ng blast recalls to mind The dangers of the troubled deep; Where, with a fierce and thundering sweep, The winds in wild distraction rave, And push along the mountain wave With dreadful swell and hideous curl!

Whilst hung aloft in giddy whirl, Or drop beneath the ocean's bed, The leaky bark without a shred Of rigging sweeps through dangers dread.

The flaring beacon points the way, And fast the pumps loud clanking play: It 'vails not--hark! with cras.h.i.+ng shock She's s.h.i.+vered 'gainst the solid rock, Or by the fierce, incessant waves Is beaten to a thousand staves; Or bilging at her crazy side, Admits the thundering hostile tide, And down she sinks!--triumphant rave The winds, and close her wat'ry grave!

The merchant's care and toil are vain, His hopes He buried in the main-- In vain the mother's tearful eye Looks for its sole remaining joy-- In vain fair Susan walks the sh.o.r.e, And sighs for him she'll see no more-- For deep they lie in ocean's womb, And fester in a wat'ry tomb.

Now, from the frothy, thundering main, My meditations seek the plain, Where, with a swift fantastic flight, They scour the regions of the night, Free as the winds that wildly blow O'er hill and dale the blinding snow, Or, through the woods, their frolics play, And whirling, sweep the dusty way, When summer s.h.i.+nes with burning glare, And sportive breezes skim the air, And Ocean's gla.s.sy breast is fanned To softest curl by Zephyr bland.

But Summer's gone, and Winter's here-- With iron sceptre rules the year-- Beneath this dark inclement sky How many wanderers faint and die!

One, flouncing o'er the treacherous snow, Sinks in the pit that yawns below!

Another numbed, with panting lift Inhales the suffocating drift!

And creeping cold, with stiffening force, Extends a third, a pallid corse!

Thus death, in varied dreadful form, Triumphant rides along the storm: With shocking scenes a.s.sails the sight, And makes more sad the dismal night!

How blest the man, whose lot is free From such distress and misery; Who, sitting by his blazing fire, Is closely wrapt in warm attire; Whose sparkling gla.s.ses blush with wine Of mirthful might and flavour fine; Whose house, compact and strong, defies The rigour of the angry skies!

The ruffling winds may blow their last, And snows come driving on the blast; And frosts their icy morsels fling, But all within is mild as spring!

How blest is he!--blest did I say?

E'en sorrow here oft finds its way.

The senses numbed by frequent use, Of criminal, absurd abuse Of heaven's blessings, listless grow, And life is but a dream of woe.

Oft fostered on the lap of ease, Grow racking pain and foul disease, And nervous whims, a ghastly train, Inflicting more than corp'ral pain: Oft gold and s.h.i.+ning pedigree Prove only splendid misery.

The king who sits upon his throne, And calls the kneeling world his own, Has oft of cares a greater load Than he who feels his iron rod.

No state is free from care and pain Where fiery pa.s.sions get the rein, Or soft indulgence, joined with ease, Begets a thousand ills to tease: Where fair Religion, heavenly maid, Has slighted still her offered aid.

Her matchless power the will subdues, And gives the judgment clearer views: Denies no source of real pleasure, And yields us blessings out of measure; Our prospect brightens, proves our stay, December turns to smiling May; Conveys us to that peaceful sh.o.r.e, By raging billows lashed no more, Where endless happiness remains, And one eternal summer reigns.

VERSES SENT TO A LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY.

The joyous day illumes the sky That bids each care and sorrow fly To shades of endless night: E'en frozen age, thawed in the fires Of social mirth, feels young desires, And tastes of fresh delight.

In thoughtful mood your parents dear, Whilst joy smiles through the starting tear, Give approbation due.

As each drinks deep in mirthful wine Your rosy health, and looks benign Are sent to heaven for you.

But let me whisper, lovely fair, This joy may soon give place to care, And sorrow cloud this day; Full soon your eyes of sparkling blue, And velvet lips of scarlet hue, Discoloured, may decay.

As b.l.o.o.d.y drops on virgin snows, So vies the lily with the rose Full on your dimpled cheek; But ah! the worm in lazy coil May soon prey on this putrid spoil, Or leap in loathsome freak.

Fond wooers come with flattering tale, And load with sighs the pa.s.sing gale, And love-distracted rave: But hark, fair maid! whate'er they say, You're but a breathing ma.s.s of clay, Fast ripening for the grave.

Behold how thievish Time has been!

Full eighteen summers you have seen, And yet they seem a day?

Whole years, collected in Time's gla.s.s, In silent lapse how soon they pa.s.s, And steal your life away!

The flying hour none can arrest, Nor yet recall one moment past, And what more dread must seem Is, that to-morrow's not your own-- Then haste! and ere your life has flown The subtle hours redeem.

Attend with care to what I sing: Know time is ever on the wing; None can its flight detain; Then, like a pilgrim pa.s.sing by, Take home this hint, as time does fly, "All earthly things are vain."