Poems, 1799 | Page 5

time.

'Matthew Paris'.]
[Footnote 3: The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller's works, an
Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found
amusement, and sometimes assistance.]
[Footnote 4: These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida
of William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in
uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of
expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions.
On a rock more high
Than Nature's common surface, she beholds

The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds
Its sacred mysteries.
A trine within
A quadrate placed, both these encompast in
A perfect
circle was its form; but what
Its matter was, for us to wonder at,
Is
undiscovered left. A Tower there stands
At every angle, where Time's
fatal hands
The impartial PARCÆ dwell; i' the first she sees

CLOTHO the kindest of the Destinies,
From immaterial essences to
cull
The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool
For LACHESIS
to spin; about her flie
Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie

Warm'd with their functions in, whose strength bestows
That power
by which man ripe for misery grows.
Her next of objects was that glorious tower
Where that swift-fingered
Nymph that spares no hour
From mortals' service, draws the various
threads
Of life in several lengths; to weary beds
Of age extending
some, whilst others in
Their infancy are broke: 'some blackt in sin,

Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence
Their origin, candid
with innocence;
Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed
In
sanguine pleasures': some in glittering pride
Spun to adorn the earth,
whilst others wear
Rags of deformity, but knots of care
No thread
was wholly free from. Next to this
Fair glorious tower, was placed
that black abyss
Of dreadful ATROPOS, the baleful seat
Of death
and horrour, in each room repleat
With lazy damps, loud groans, and
the sad sight
Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night.
To

this, the last stage that the winding clew
Of Life can lead mortality
unto,
FEAR was the dreadful Porter, which let in
All guests sent
thither by destructive sin.
It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this
passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to
Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of
delight, and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion.]
THE VISION of THE MAID OF ORLEANS.
THE SECOND BOOK.
She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd
Amid the air, such odors
wafting now
As erst came blended with the evening gale,
From
Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form
Stood by the Maid; his wings,
etherial white,
Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun,

Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd
Her THEODORE.
Amazed she saw: the Fiend
Was fled, and on her ear the well-known
voice
Sounded, tho' now more musically sweet
Than ever yet had
thrill'd her charmed soul,
When eloquent Affection fondly told
The
day-dreams of delight.
"Beloved Maid!
Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore!
Hearts in
the holy bands of Love combin'd,
Death has no power to sever. Thou
art mine!
A little while and thou shalt dwell with me
In scenes
where Sorrow is not. Cheerily
Tread thou the path that leads thee to
the grave,
Rough tho' it be and painful, for the grave
Is but the
threshold of Eternity.
Favour'd of Heaven! to thee is given to view
These secret realms. The
bottom of the abyss
Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are

Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased
Must have their
remedy; and where disease
Is rooted deep, the remedy is long

Perforce, and painful."

Thus the Spirit spake,
And led the Maid along a narrow path,
Dark
gleaming to the light of far-off flames,
More dread than darkness.
Soon the distant sound
Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath

Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach
A wide expanded den
where all around
Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze,
Flamed
dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood
The meagre form of Care, and
as he blew
To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd
His
wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus
He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to
reap no end
But endless toil and never-ending woe.
An aged man went round the infernal vault,
Urging his workmen to
their ceaseless task:
White were his locks, as is the wintry snow
On
hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff
His steps supported; powerful
talisman,
Which whoso feels shall never feel again
The tear of Pity,
or the throb of Love.
Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way,

The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall,
Guarded in vain,
submits. Him heathens erst
Had deified, and bowed the suppliant
knee
To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few,
Tho' he the Blessed
Teacher of mankind
Hath said, that easier thro' the needle's eye

Shall the huge camel [1] pass, than the rich man
Enter the gates of
heaven. "Ye cannot serve
Your God, and worship Mammon."
"Missioned Maid!"
So spake the Angel, "know that these, whose
hands
Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil,
Were
Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare
To wring from
Poverty the hard-earn'd mite,
They robb'd the orphan's pittance, they