Miscellaneous Poems | Page 4

passing poor,
Stern, rugged men my conduct view;

They chide my wish, they bar my door,
'Tis hard--I weep--you see
I do. -
Must you, my friends, no longer stay?
Thus quickly all my pleasures
end;
But I'll remember when I pray,
My kind physician and his
friend;
And those sad hours, you deign to spend
With me, I shall
requite them all;
Sir Eustace for his friends shall send,
And thank
their love at Greyling Hall.
VISITOR.
The poor Sir Eustace!--Yet his hope
Leads him to think of joys again;

And when his earthly visions droop,
His views of heavenly kind
remain:
But whence that meek and humbled strain,
That spirit
wounded, lost, resign'd?
Would not so proud a soul disdain
The
madness of the poorest mind?
PHYSICIAN.
No! for the more he swell'd with pride,
The more he felt misfortune's
blow;
Disgrace and grief he could not hide,
And poverty had laid
him low:
Thus shame and sorrow working slow,
At length this
humble spirit gave;
Madness on these began to grow,
And bound
him to his fiends a slave.
Though the wild thoughts had touch'd his brain,
Then was he free:
--So, forth he ran;
To soothe or threat, alike were vain:
He spake of
fiends; look'd wild and wan;
Year after year, the hurried man

Obey'd those fiends from place to place;
Till his religious change
began
To form a frenzied child of grace.

For, as the fury lost its strength,
The mind reposed; by slow degrees

Came lingering hope, and brought at length,
To the tormented
spirit, ease:
This slave of sin, whom fiends could seize,
Felt or
believed their power had end: -
"'Tis faith," he cried, "my bosom
frees,
And now my SAVIOUR is my friend."
But ah! though time can yield relief,
And soften woes it cannot cure;

Would we not suffer pain and grief,
To have our reason sound and
sure?
Then let us keep our bosoms pure,
Our fancy's favourite
flights suppress;
Prepare the body to endure,
And bend the mind to
meet distress;
And then HIS guardian care implore,
Whom demons
dread and men adore.
"THE HALL OF JUSTICE",
IN TWO PARTS.
PART I.
Confiteor facere hoc annos; sed et altera causa est,
Anxietas animi,
continuusque dolor.
OVID.
-------------------
MAGISTRATE, VAGRANT, CONSTABLE, &c.
VAGRANT.
Take, take away thy barbarous hand,
And let me to thy Master speak;

Remit awhile the harsh command,
And hear me, or my heart will
break.
MAGISTRATE.
Fond wretch! and what canst thou relate,
But deeds of sorrow, shame,
and sin?
Thy crime is proved, thou know'st thy fate;
But come, thy
tale!--begin, begin! -
VAGRANT.

My crime!--This sick'ning child to feed.
I seized the food, your
witness saw;
I knew your laws forbade the deed,
But yielded to a
stronger law.
Know'st thou, to Nature's great command
All human laws are frail
and weak?
Nay! frown not--stay his eager hand,
And hear me, or
my heart will break.
In this, th' adopted babe I hold
With anxious fondness to my breast,

My heart's sole comfort I behold,
More dear than life, when life was
blest;
I saw her pining, fainting, cold,
I begg'd--but vain was my
request.
I saw the tempting food, and seized -
My infant-sufferer found relief;

And in the pilfer'd treasure pleased,
Smiled on my guilt, and hush'd
my grief.
But I have griefs of other kind,
Troubles and sorrows more severe;

Give me to ease my tortured mind,
Lend to my woes a patient ear;

And let me--if I may not find
A friend to help--find one to hear.
Yet nameless let me plead--my name
Would only wake the cry of
scorn;
A child of sin, conceived in shame,
Brought forth in woe, to
misery born.
My mother dead, my father lost,
I wander'd with a vagrant crew;
A
common care, a common cost;
Their sorrows and their sins I knew;

With them, by want on error forced,
Like them, I base and guilty
grew.
Few are my years, not so my crimes;
The age which these sad looks
declare,
Is Sorrow's work, it is not Time's,
And I am old in shame
and care.
Taught to believe the world a place
Where every stranger was a foe,


Train'd in the arts that mark our race,
To what new people could I
go?
Could I a better life embrace,
Or live as virtue dictates? No! -
So through the land I wandering went,
And little found of grief or joy;

But lost my bosom's sweet content
When first I loved the
Gipsy-Boy.
A sturdy youth he was and tall,
His looks would all his soul declare;

His piercing eyes were deep and small,
And strongly curl'd his
raven-hair.
Yes, AARON had each manly charm,
All in the May of youthful
pride,
He scarcely fear'd his father's arm,
And every other arm
defied. -
Oft, when they grew in anger warm,
(Whom will not love and power
divide?)
I rose, their wrathful souls to calm,
Not yet in sinful
combat tried.
His father was our