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TO FRANCIS
THE EXILE'S LAY
PART
FIRST
Sweet muse from sacred
mountain! if thy fruits
Be index of thy glorious
attributes;
Thy holy origin I fain
would trace,
Not to the gods, but to a
higher place:
I'd deem thee seraph, from
a brighter world,
Who hath thy soft and
lovely wings unfurled,
And left in pity yon
celestial bowers,
To hover round this sinful
world of ours.
Dropping thy heavenly manna
here and there,
Smiling on man, smoothing
his brow of care;
Passing thy magic wand
before our eyes,
That we may know where
truth and beauty lies;
Teaching us what to shun,
what to admire,
And raising all our
groveling natures higher,
A glorious boon to wretched
mortals given,
To make this less an earth,
and more a heaven!
O! come, enchantress, with
they sacred lyre,
And lend a portion of
celestial fire!
Infuse its subtle essence
through each part,
And melt the filial burden
from my heart;
Assist a stranger on a
foreign strand,
To tell the story of his
native land;
With glowing pride to chant
her noble fame,
And in sad numbers tell her
wrongs and shame;
With bliss the genius of
And place myself and labors
at her feet;
To join the
Until its echoes swell and
reach the old.
Though warm my blood no
southern sun looked forth,
From scorching eyelids, on
my place of birth;
But where his veiled ray
and genial smile
Beams bright in the
southwest of
I was not cradled where gay
turret high
Doth greet the passing
clouds and kiss the sky;
Nor in old castle gray,
with ponderous gate,
Defying siege of foe, and
time, and fate;
Nor gentry's mansion, with
its park and lawn,
Where feed the deer and
sport the nimble fawn.--
I was not rocked, disturbed
by city's din,
Where smoke and walls
scarce let the sun peep in;
But in a lovely cotage,
white as snow,
Where creeping vines, and
well trained wall fruit grow,
In winding vale it stands
alone; and near,
But rural sights and sounds
we see or hear;
Hard by a crystal, gentle
stream doth stray,
And murmurs sweetly o'er
its rocky way;
Which hath at eventide,
times without number,
With its soft music, lulled
me into slumber;
Behind it is the steep and
sheltering hill,
Beyond it stands the old
time-honored mill,
Its walls with venerable
ivy crowned, --
Its mossy, busy wheel
revolving round,
The lazy swine, and miller
powdered o'er,
And neighbor with his
grist, are at the door:--
Around are seen the
shelting oak and elm,
Which storms may bend, but
never can o'erwhelm;
The orchard, where I passed
full many an hour;
And garden where I gathered
many a flower,
Whose double hawthorn
hedge, in snowy bloom,
Loads the wing'd zephyrs
with its sweet perfume;
The mead, where violet and
primrose too,
With modest daisies, smile
at dawn in dew;
There, every morn and eve
doth float along,
The mingled notes of birds,
and milkmaid's song,
Aaccomp'nied by a voice
more loud than all,
The distant bass of dashing
waterfall.
The valley, lower, down
more narrow grows;
Its side more steep, a
heavier shadow throws;
The stream's west bank the
solemn woods crown,
And opposite the rugged
hill looks down.
Here at its base, scooped
out by ancient hand,
A mirror spring doth rise
mid moss and sand:
Pure fount of tears, from
nature's generous heart!
Oft dost thou make the
village maiden start,
When seeing with agreeable
surprise,
As she bends o'er, a lovely
image rise
From its clear depths;
(like young love's first appearing,
In her pure heart, seraphic
image wearing;)
She on its bank a moment
lingering waits,
Loth to destroy the beauty
she creates;
Then dips her pitcher,
scares the form aside,
And homeward strays then
with a smile of pride,
With heavier load, but with
a heart more light,
For having gazed upon that
vision bright.
And lower still the smiling
hamlets sleep,
Like ships at anchor on the
quiet deep.
Thou lovely vale, where at
the close of day,
Lovers and poets would
admire to stray:
The one find inspiration
all around,
The others' hearts with
purer rapture bound.
Shall I e'er welcome more
thy evening shade?
Or dash again the dew drop
from thy blade?
To gaze on thee once more
is it denied?
Where I was born and where
my mother died!
Yet others nobler far doth
By smiling southern and
bold northern coast;
Where Fal flows by
Pendenni's castle walls,
And idly sways as ocean
swells and falls;
Where rapid Tamar hastes to
meet the tide,
Midst bending fruitful
trees on either side;
And Camel strides toward
the northern shore,
Adding its mite to broad
Cornubia!* Scene of
legend and of story,
Still, still I love thee,
rugged promontory!
The ancient Briton here
fresh courage drew,
And Saxon daunted, dared
not to pursue;
For sheltered here among
thy hills they broke,
The terror of their iron
conqurer's yoke.
Here Arthur bold, perchance
from Row-Tor's height,
Led down his warriors to
successful fight;
Rolled back the tide of war
with vengeful blow,
And kept at bay th' exterminating
foe;
Did sally unawares with
followers true;
And punished treachery and
aggression too.
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*Cornubia is the ancient name for the
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Druidic priests once more
here found repose;
Again in peace the smoking
incense rose;
Upon thy hills with
superstitious eyes,
The people gathered round
the sacrifice:-
Then ancient bard forgot
his battle song,
And poured in rapture
peaceful themes along;
The echoing hills took up
the joyful strain,
And weary warriors smoothed
their brows again,
Hung up their battle axes,
bows and blades,
And used once more their
shepherd's hooks and spades;
Watched flocks and herds by
mountain, field and flood,
And tilled the soil
enriched with saxon blood!
Thou range of hills, from
either shore remote,
Free pasture for the poor
man's cow and goat;
Though nought but
barrenness thy sides unfold;
Thy bosom heaves, with
mineral wealth untold!
Tin, iron, copper, lead,
and silver ore,
Here gleam and sparkle in a
boundless store.
Thy snow-white clay, in an
exhaustless vein,
Supplies full half the
world with porcelain.
Science and enterprise do,
here combined,
An ample field of operation
find.
Thy peaty sod, warms many a
poor man's cot,
Thy heath in brooms, to
many a door is brought.
Upon thy beacon'd peaks, in
by-gone days,
Was seen the high-piled
faggots fearful blaze;
When all unknown the
telegraphic wire,
The news of war, was sped
on wings of fire!
And ready warriors,
snatched the blade and bow,
And hastened to hurl back
the threatened blow.
To mount the flame still
higher, the labor'd mound,
O'ertopping all was raised,
and still is found.
Old forts, now nothing but
their sites retain;
High banked enclosures are
all that remain,
Leaving the antiquarian
much in doubt,
Whether they kept the wolf
or Saxon out;
Whether they were a
peaceful shepherds fold,
Or barrier raised 'gainst
warriors stern and bold.
There one can view the
south and northern shore,
And here can listen to
their distant roar:
For when the ocean in his
rage doth rise,
And heaves, and rolls, like
mountains to the skies;
When breaks each tumbling,
rapid, foaming wave,
'Gainst towering cliff,
through hoarse resounding cave;
When roused and furious
from his coral bed,
'Tis then old
Resounds a hundred furlongs
from the strand,
And like an earthquake,
shakes the solid land!
Thou Isle of Isles! thou
richest, fairest gem,
That sparkles in old
Ocean's diadem!
Away from thy hold, stern,
and classic shore;
Thou cradle of my sickly,
infant years,
Thou witness of my early
hopes and fears,
Can I forget thee, ere in
death I sleep?
Thou Ocean Bower! from
whence I took my leap!
By the emerald of thy
vales, -
Fragrance of thy summer
gales, -
Winding streams through
ancient woods,
Garden'd fields, and
mountain floods;
Hills of grazing flocks and
herds,
Myriads of singing birds;
Sailing on the passing
cloud,
Lark's gay music, sweet and
loud;
And the cuckoo's voice in
spring,
Making woods and vallies
ring;
Robin's notes that never
fail,
And the pensive
nightingale;
Loveliness of moonlit
waters,
Beauty of thy rosy
daughters:
Modest, pure, fair and
round,
As the shapes on fairy
ground;
By the bravery of each son,
(Room for cowards thou hast
none,)
Festive dance in shady
dells,
Music of thy merry bells;
Evening tale and jovial
song,
From a care defying throng;
Round the fireside blazing
high,
Or beneath a summer sky,
By the early huntsman's
horn,
Starting up the slumbering
morn;
Beauty of thy summer
showers,
Grandeur of thy old gray
towers:-
Setting sun at dewy hour,
Lingering long in
Twilight's bower;
Ere he pass with golden
crest,
His bright portals in the
west:
Evening gun* and
curfew bell, +
Funeral train with solemn
knell!
Slow, and solemn, and
subline
As the onward march of
time!
While the requiem of the
fair
Melts in sadness on the
air. #
By the graves that hold in
trust,
My forefather's mouldering
dust,
Resting place of a kind
brother,
Sacred tomb of a fond
mother!
(How consoling 'twould have
been,
If her last fond look I'd
seen;
Ere she closed her weary
eyes,
Till the dead again shall
rise;
Could I on mother's bier,
But have dropped one
burning tear;
Or have heard the solemn
toll,
For her dear, departed
soul!
'Twould have lightened me
in part,
Of the burden on my heart;
Who was far beyond the
wave,
When they bore her to her
grave.
By that well remembered
spot,
Dewy vale, and native cot:
Zephyr's notes from forest
dim,
Sweet as distant matin
hymn;
Softly soothing as a lay,
Of a holy by-gone day:
Or some treasured scenes
that rise,
Plain to memory's thousand
eyes.
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* The gun fired at the forts every evening at
+ The ringing of the curfew bell is now an almost
discontinued
custom which originated in
William the Conquerer's time. He
compelled the people to put
their fires and lights out when the
signal by ringing the bell
was given. Curfew means cover fire;
hence the term.
# It is the custom in
corps by hand, and at
intervals a choir preceding the coffin sing
a solemn tune to some
appropriate hymn.
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By the meads where I have
strayed,
And the nooks where I have
played;-
Garden path, and lilac
bower,
Where I've passed, so many
an hour,
While the summer moon was
shining:
Roaming pensive, or
reclining:
Pondering as each season
rolled,
What the future might
unfold.
First when cupid met mine
eyes,
There I fanned my heart
with sighs;
I its feeling could not
rule,
Sighs nor tears would keep
it cool.
'Twas upon that fairy
ground,
My rude harp one night I
found,
When I touched its magic
wire,
Heard its tone, and felt
its fire;
I could seem to realize,
Half the bliss of
And I trembled half afraid,
At the sounds that I had
made;
All in doubt their source
and worth,
So unlike the jars of
earth,-
By my kindred lengthy
train,
Whom I ne'er may see again!
Aged father's hoary locks,
Bleached by eighty winter's
shocks;
By his kindness since my
birth,
And his moral, pious worth:
His example, pure and
great,
Which I hope to imitate;
Sisters, brothers, uncles,
aunts,
And their numerous olive
plants:
From the infant to the
hoary,
They would fill a
territory.
None have empty titled
birth,
Most have claim to sterling
worth;
In religion, or in parts,
In their heads or in their
hearts;
Nature none in both has
slighted;
Oft'ner far has both
united.
When the many stood aloof,
Wesley 'neath grandfather's
roof,
Found protection, and good
cheer,
And what was to him more
dear,
Piety the most sincere.
So religion ought to fall,
Down by heirship to us all!
Some glow with a holy ire,
And with intellectual
fire,-
While from sacred desk they
shed,
Gospel light on sinner's
head;
Or in
Training youth for holy
ground.
Many on Apollo wait:
Music is a family trait;-
Some have tried the poet's
lay,
But their notes have died
away:
For with timid hand they
struck,
And then soon the harp
forsook.
You, who with cold sceptic
look,
Dare review the Sacred
book,
And deny its inspiration,
(Cutting off your own
salvation,)
Having modern creeds
outgrown,
With a theory of your own;
You who hold that man if
wise,
May on wings of virtue
rise,
High as piety can bear him,
(But alas! cannot prepare
him,
Death to meet with hopeful
eyes,
Such as when the Christian
dies:)
Wit and humor, can
dispense,
And the sweets of
eloquence,
With a fervid, constant
flow,
While thy handsome features
glow,
With an influence I could
feel,
But can ne'er by words
reveal:
How unlike thy sainted sire,
Whom to see, is to admire.
He, with bald and reverend
head,
To the village church is
led:
Tears roll down his
sightless eyes,
While the anthem strains do
rise:
Touching compliment indeed,
To the choir be used to
lead.
How his pious bosom swells,
While his hopeful fancy
dwells
On that broad celestial
plain,
Where his sight will come
again!
Britain! by thy mighty
name!
Thy imperishable fame!
Ancient Empire's sounding
story,
Can't outvie thy well
earned glory!
Tho' it gleams from ancient
pages,
Thundering down through
dust of ages!
Thou has ne'er thy flag
unfurled,
To reduce ('tis true) a
world;
As the Romans did of old,
Or the Macedonian bold;
But, what nations stood in
awe,
As thou stamped, and read
the law?
Dared Napoleon to th'
attack!
With all Europe at his
back!
What was Asia's coward host
Source of Alexander's
boast?
Caesar mid his battle's
gore,
Won the laurels that he
wore,
With victorious well
trained bands,
As he scoured the northern
lands.
But the nations that he
slew,
Arts or arms then scarcely
knew;
And, in barbarous state,
could be
Merely in their infancy;
Such as England in her
power
Might as easily devour,
If she thought such savage
foes,
Worthy of her giant blows!
By thy Empires martial
might,
By thy trophies won in
fight;
On the land and ocean too,
From Poictiers to Waterloo!
And from time when Spanish
fleet
Met such terrible defeat,
When they sought invading
war,
Down to Nile, and
Trafalgar!
By the laurels that
surround
Thy bold heroes, far
renowned:
Won 'mid bloody battle's
crash;
Thunderbolt from cannon's
flash!
Where the bayonet and
sword,
Their harsh music did
afford;
And where bursted murderous
shell,
Like a meteor from hell!
This and more thy sons have
stood,
Calm as statues in a
flood;-
Firm as heedless giant
rock,
To old Ocean's surging
shock!
By a Wolf's proud victory,
And a Nelson on the sea;
By the wonders that were
done,
Through old iron
Wellington!
And especially the last,
Where Napoleon's die was
cast!
By thy keen cutting blade,
which too oft thou hast plied;
Thy boldness, which hath
modern Europe defied;
By the eagles of France
thou has humbled in gore,
Though taught by a
Bonaparte's genius to soar.
By thy conquering power,
like the tide rolling forth,
Until thy vast empire
encircles the earth!
Tho' twilight is creeping
o'er land, sea, and crag,
The sun never sets on thy
meteor flag!
And as night travels
onward, all darkly and dumb,
She keeps step all the time
by the roll of thy drum!
Thy emblem is good, for the
lion we find,
Is like proud Anglo Saxon
to the rest of mankind.
Ancient tigers went forth,
mangling, thirsting for blood:
Saxon's lion goes forth,
merely craving for food.
The ancients hewed down, to
gaze on the slain,
The moderns do battle, for
conquest and gain;
By instinct goes forth,
bids the savage retire,
From the soil his proud
millions bye-and-bye will require!
By thy bays won in peace,
ah! more lasting by far,
Than all thy vast trophies
of conquest and war!
Mammoth bee-hive of
industry! (with many a drone,)
Turning all things to gold,
like th' "philosopher's stone;"
Fountain head of thy
wealth! thy artisans hand,
Sending forth its
productions t' each civilized land.
By thy broad wings of
commerce, that flap o'er the seas!
That ride out on each tide,
and float in on each breeze!
For all countries the
workshop, the storehouse, and mart,
Every part of the globe,
feels the throb of thy heart!
Thou creditor, broker, on a
gigantic scale,
The world's business would
suffer, should thy credit fail.
By the limits now set, to
thy monarchy's power,
That safely have borne thee
through each trying hour;
The progressing liberty
thou dost possess,
Although sure, it is slow
(with a sigh I confess):-
Thy unshackled press, and
thy freedom of speech,
That's faithfully guarded, and
granted to each.
By the laurels thou hast by
philanthropy won,
In what Wilberforce
wrought, and what Howard hath done;
And whose followers,
worthy, though on a far smaller scale,
Shelter many from fate and
misfortune's rude gale.
By the liberty granted to
all sections and creeds,
From Papists with cross,
holy water, and beads;
Through Wesleyans down to
loud Bryanite screams,
And Southcoate's and
Swedenburg's crack-brain-ed dreams!
By the poets you've
cradled, a fond cherished host,
Who have echoed the thunders
of thy rock-bound coast!
Wrought thy beauty and
grandeur into many a theme,
And put words to the music
of each murmuring stream;
Whose fancies have soared
beyond earth, beyond time;
On Eternity's shore, lay
their pathway sublime!
At their will, Heaven
opened her golden gates wide;
And hell yawned beneath,
with its red liquide tide!
With the wand of a wizard,
brought the dead to new life,
And made them react scenes
of love, hate, and strife.
Thy Milton, and Shakspeare,
old time hath defied,
Their strains will be
echoed as long as thy tide!
Thou mirror of nature, thou
warm-hearted Burns!
How cold is the heart that
in rapture not turns
To thy rich glowing
pictures, songs, humor, and tales,
That sparkle like dewdrops
along thy own vales;
Thy Dryden's bold hand, and
thy Pope's flowing line,
Pious Cowper, whose morals
and truthfulness shine:
And powerful Byron, with
sad ending tale,
With spirits high, low,
like the tide or the gale;
Whatever the prying find in
him to blame,
His muse is eternally
wedded to fame:
And the lyre of Scott, if
not sweetest in tone,
Its sound had a spell that
was wholly its own;
And Hemans, and Landon, who
are fled with a train,
Whose harpstrings ah! never
will vibrate again!
By thy orators many, sweet,
brilliant, and great,
Who have honored the
pulpit, the forum, and state;
Lord Chatham the lofty, the
eloquent sage,
Whoes speeches will echo
through each coming age;
And the Autocrat Pitt,
whose proud giant thrust,
Brought progressing
Bonaparte down in the dust!
Thy Whitfield, and Hall,
Fox, Canning and Pell,
Who could reach heart or
head, if 't were not lead or steel,
By the light of thy science
a Newton has shed;
The Philosophy Bacon and
Lock has outspread:-
By the practical genius of
Arkwright and Watt,
And the marvellous change,
loom and engine hath wrought!
By thy patronage given to
talent and art,
In which Ben of the West
bore a prominent part;
Thy Opie, trained up in
Cornubian mine,
Thy Reynolds, and Hogarth,
whose humor doth shine:-
Though an ocean now rolls 'twixt
my home and thee,
And I'm cheerful and happy
in the land of the free;
Though strangers have
welcomed, and flattered, and smiled,
And every regret of my
bosom beguiled;
Till mem'ry decays, ah! my
thoughts oft will flee,
To thy surf-beaten shores,
thou gem of the sea.
Ah, light is the mind, that
to home never turns,
And corrupt is the heart,
that for home never burns.
On the surf beaten shores,
where my boyhood was spent,
I might have been happy,
had I been content;
But scorning to delve and
improve other's soil
I longed for a spot of my
own where to toil.
Though my pride it was
wounded, and my heart it was bleeding,
When at last in the
distance, native shores were receding;
Yet hope smiled upon me;
and Philosophy chided:
"Columbians are
brothers though by ocean divided!
"Would you envy their
country, which Nature hath given?
"Would you grieve for
the freedom for which they have striven?
"Disown them because
they a tyrant withstood?
"And fought for their
rights, as bold Britons should?
"Would'st thou have
them prove false to the blood in their veins?
"Dost thou wish thy
own race, to be clanking their chains?"
So I learned that tho'
banners be different, and name,
The blood of our kindred
flows ever the same.
That where 'er Anglo
Saxon wins bays, you may place
The deed to the credit of the whole iron race!
And in laws, education, and
liberty too,
Old England has much yet to
learn from the New;
And to me 'tis a wonder, to
herself a disaster
That the model held up she
don't imitate faster.
Farewell to Cornubia! a
lasting farewell
To each hill, and green
valley, and deep shady dell:
And thou, smiling cottage,
the place of my birth,
No more wilt thou witness
my sorrow or mirth:
Where the brook sweetly
warbles a soft, chiding tune,
No more shall I stray, by
the light of the moon!
Adieu, to thy daughters, so
bright eyed and fair,
(How oft have I roamed with
them, free from all care,
When the landscape look'd
gay, under bright summer skies,
'Neath the light of the
stars, and the glance of their eyes!)
Nor again where of yore,
(tho' I scarcely knew how,)
With delight strike my
lyre, as I followed the plough;-