Poems (Betham)/The Old Shepherd's Recollections
THEOLD SHEPHERD'S RECOLLECTIONS.
"Low, heavy clouds are hanging on the hills,And half-impatient of the sun's approach,Shake sullenly their cold and languid wings!Oh! it is fine to see his morning beamsBurst on the gloom, while, in disorder'd flight,The shuddering, mournful vapours steal away;Like the tenacious spirit of a man,Shrinking from the loud voice of cheerfulness,When it breaks in, so sadly out of tune,Upon his quiet musing, and dispelsThe waking dream of a dejected heart:The dream I cherish in this solitude,In all the wanderings of my little flock, That which beguiles my loneliness, and takesIts charm and change from the surrounding scene.
Oh! how unwelcome often are to meThe gayest, most exhilarating sounds!When slow and sickly Memory, tempted forthBy dint of soft persuasion, brings to lightHis treasures—and, with childish eagerness,Arranges and collects—then suddenlyTo have him startled by discordance, drag,Without discrimination, all away—And with them leap to his deep hollow cave—Not easily to be withdrawn again,Grieves one who loves to think of other times,To talk with those long silent in the grave,And pass from childhood to old age again.
Behold this stony rock! whose rifted crest,Lets the rough, roaring torrent force a way,And, foaming, pour its waters on the vale! Behold them tumbling from their dizzy height,Like clouds, of more than snowy whiteness, thrownPrecipitate from heav'n, which, as they fall,Diffuse a mist, in form of glory, round!This was my darling haunt a long time past!Here, when a boy, in pleasing awe, I sate,Wistfully silent, with uplifted eye,And heart attun'd to the sad, lulling soundThey made descending. Far below my feet,Near where yon little, ruin'd cottage lies,Oft, at the pensive hour of even-tideI saw young Osborne bearing on his harp,And, trusting to an aged mother's care,His darkling steps: Beneath that falling beech,Whose wide-spread branches touch the water's edge,He lov'd to sit, and feel the freshen'd galeBreathe cool upon him.
Breathe cool upon him.Then that falling beechWas a young, graceful tree; which, starting up, Amid the looser fragments of the rock,Rear'd boldly in the air its lofty head,While, struggling with the stone, the nervous rootsPursued their own direction, elbowing out,Their flinty neighbour; who, o'erspread with moss,Of varied hues, and deck'd with flow'ring heath,That from each fissure hung luxuriant down,Became a seat, where, king of all the scene,The harper sate, and, in sweet melodies,Now like the lark rejoicing at the dawn,Now soothing as the nightingale's sad note,Hail'd the departing sun, whose golden raysGlitter'd upon the surface of the wave,And, as a child upon its mother's armSeeks to delay the coming hour of rest,'Till sudden slumbers steal upon his smilesAnd veil him in a drean1 of love and joy,He seem'd reluctant to withdraw his beams;And, rich in roseate beauty, for awhileKept the green waves beneath his glowing head.
Kind, gentle Osborne! half a centuryHas silver'd o'er the crisp and yellow locksOf thy young auditor, but memory stillGrasps the torn record of my weary life,And finds full many a page to tell of thee!Oh! ye who have a friend ye truly love,One whom your hearts can trust, whose excellenceWas not obtruded boastingly to view,But time and happy circumstance reveal'd,Rays of quick light upon a diamondWhich else had lain unnotic'd in the waste!Oh' hasten! hasten speedily to payEach debt of fond affection! lock not upSo cautiously the tribute due to worth!Nor let reserve, as I have often done,Enslave the sweetest feelings of the soul!And hang around them like an envious mist,O'er the bright radiance of the morning star,Leaving us nothing but a spot of lightBereav'd of all its lustre! For my friend, He never knew that there was one on earth,After a parent felt the touch of death,And Love, a weeping pilgrim, turn'd awayFar from his dwelling—Oh! he never knew,That there was one who would have follow'd him,With steady kindness, even to the grave!
Thou dear, neglected friend! to whom I oweAll that sustains my heart, and makes me thinkThe gift of life a blessing, Oh! forgiveThat in thy sorrows, my forgetful tongueSpake not of zeal and service; of the debtWhich gratitude was emulous to pay!I might have trimm'd the dying lamp of hope,And cheer'd the bitter hours of banishment:But Oh! my youth was fearful, and I feltSo deep an awe of that unspotted worthAnd saint-like gentleness—such a mistrustOf my own powers to tell him what I wish'd,That I resisted all my feelings claim'd, In anguish I resisted; but a spellHung o'er me and compell'd me to be mute.
Methinks I still behold him! tall and fair,He had a look so tranquil and so mild,That something holy stole upon the senseWhen he appear'd; his language had such powerIn converse, that the hearer, as entranc'dSate lingering on to listen; while in song,Or skill upon the many-stringed harpWas never heard his equal! Then he knewAll our old ballads, all our father's tales,All the adventurous deeds of early times,The punishment of blood or sacrilege,And the reward of virtue, when it seem'dDeserted by the world, and left alone,A prey to scorn, oppression, contumelyAnd all the ills which make the good despair.
When-e'er we circled round him, one young girlWas always present, of a nicer ear,And more refin'd perception than the rest.Now she was lost in thought, while on her cheekLay silent tears—and then that cheek grew paleIn wild amazement—but, when he beganTo speak of noble deeds, she rais'd her head,Bending with looks of mingled awe and love,And zealous admiration, on the youth,Alone insensible of all around,To the soft charm of symmetry and grace,The smile intelligent, the look benign,And all the outward raiment of the soul.Yet, though he saw her not, it was his fateTo have an inward and discerning sense,Which spake of Lora's gentleness and worth.He lov'd in her the fondness of his art,And taught her many wild and simple airs,Suiting the plaintive tenor of her voice,Which he would mimic with sweet minstrelsy. When she was absent, and with strange delight,Repeat her parting words, her kind adieu,Or sweetly-spoken promise of return.
And that return was prompt: she linger'd oftTill evening wet the ground with heavy dew,Or came to take her lesson in the morn,Before her father's anxious eyes unclos'd,To look upon her beauty with delight,And soothe the rugged temper of his soul,By views of future grandeur for his child:Not thinking that her elegance of mind,The modest dignity of humble worthWhich fits the low-born peasant to becomeA crowned monarch, and to wield with graceThe golden sceptre, had instructed herTo feel no paltry jealousy of power,No bold aspiring, and no wish beyondThe bounded confines of her present state:Had counsell'd her, that even mines of wealth, Could purchase nothing to content the wise,Esteem or friendship, tenderness or love:That power at best was but a heavy weight;If well employ'd, a dubious, unpaid toil,If ill, a curse, to tempt men to their fate.
Her cheek had often felt the blush of shame,At his proud boasting; and her heart had sunkAt the cold arrogance that scorn'd the poor;But she was fain to turn aside, and weep,To wring her hands in secret, and to raise-The eye of silent anguish up to heaven;For though he dearly lov'd her, he would ne'erSubmit to hear a murmur at his will.Oft with her heart oppress'd, and her blue eyesFull of unshedden tears, she bent her wayAlone to Osborne's lowly cot, and whenHer faint voice call'd the fond inquiry forth,Would say, "'tis true, my friends, that I am sad.Nay sick, with vain repining. O! I wish, That I were either indigent myself,Or that I had the power, the blessed powerOf cheering the unhappy! for [ want,By Kindness to prevent the act of guilt,And ward the arrows of incroaching Death,Who comes, before the time, upon his prey.Think that there should be means to stay his wrath,To purchase health, life, comfort, innocence,And yet those means withholden!
O! my heart!It dies with sorrow! and where most I love,Sheds all its bitterness; delighting stillTo tell the many miseries that flitAt times across me! Those I lightly prizePartake the sunshine of my happier hours,Although I seek them with far less delight!The loud laugh dwells not here, the sportive dance,The carol of unconscious levity,And yet how oft, how willingly I come!"
"Know'st thou not, Lora," cried the youthful sage,"That there are things the mind must prize aboveWhat captivates the senses! That in themShe feels no interest, and she takes no care!That though sometimes an alien, she receivesDelighted back the ensigns of her power,And takes her truant vassals into grace!That when thou bring'st to us that wounded mind,The grave of many feelings, language isAs yet too poor to utter, thou canst giveNo richer, dearer token of regard."
"Were man indeed the only hope of man,I never would reprove thee for thy tears!But, they are vain! man has a surer trust!The helpless, weary, miserable wretch,Left by his fellows in the wilderness,Shall be supported in that trying hour,By a right arm, which, in his days of strength,He did not lean upon! A gracious arm, Which wounds the sick, and heals them by the stroke.O! Lora! to the Father of the world,A Judge so patient and so merciful,That he refuses not the latest sigh,Nor suffers sorrow but as means to save,Canst thou not trust the objects of thy care!
Hadst thou the power to help them—it were well,To be most anxious. To collect thy freightOf human sorrow, and, by merchandize,Exchange it for the riches of the world:For health, for comfort, nay, perchance for life,That gem of countless value, which sometimes,Not all the treasures of the East can buy,Tender'd with supplications and with tears,Is often purchas'd at a petty price,Nay, in exchange for courtesy. What joyMust in that moment fill the merchant's heart,To win a jewel, kings monopolizeThe sole disposal of! Be patient then! This glorious privilege may yet be thine!Deserve it only by fulfilling allThe gentler duties that have present claimsWith cheerfulness and zeal—Let no neglectPress on thy father's age, no discontentSour thee with thy companions, no mistrustGive pain to friendship, and thy usefulnessThough calm and bounded, has no mean award."
Thus, like a prophet, did he still enforceOnly the virtues and rare qualitiesCongenial with her after destiny;Yet, not foreseeing evil, he himselfWas unprepar'd, and when her father led,Her opposition and entreaty past,The hapless Lora forth, to promise loveAnd honour to a man, whose vacant mind,Throughout a course of long succeeding years,She vainly strove to soften and to raise, Though he had taught her patience till that hour,His own at once forsook him, and he fled.
She murmur'd not, nor even seem'd to mourn,But losing all her love of solitude,Appear'd so active in each new pursuit,So wholly what her anxious father wish'd,That he repented not his cruelty.Believing in her happiness, he feltHimself the author, and became more proudOf his own wisdom: yet she often heardHis wayward taunt or querulous complaint,And, from the lordly partner of her fate,The harsher sound of ignorant rebuke.She was a matchless woman, when she lostThe timid graces of retiring youth,She still was lovely, for her shaded eyesBeam'd with a lofty sweetness, a contentBeyond the pow'r of fortune to destroy. Careless of let or hindrance, she went on,Nor shrunk nor started at the many thornsStrew'd in her toilsome path; still looking forthTo others' weal, forgetful it would seem,Perchance in heart despairing of her own.The friend, the help, the comforter of all,No voice was heard so cheerful, nor a stepSo bounding and so light. 'Twas wonderful!For I have seen her, when her polish'd armHas clasp'd the nurseling, with her face conceal'dBent fondly o'er; and I have mark'd each limbTo boast a fine expansion, as if thrill'dWith the deep feelings of maternal loveAnd aching tenderness, too highly wroughtFor happy souls to cherish! they delightIn painless joys, and, on the infant's cheek,Rounded and glowing with a finer bloomThan the wild-rose, careless imprint the kiss,Which sorrow always sanctions by a prayer.They in the radiance of its glancing eyes See nothing to suffuse their own with tears!Borne forward on the easy wing of Time,They travel on, they scarcely meet with Thought,Or, like a summer cloud, he passes by,His shadow rests one instant, and againThe scene is calm and brilliant as before!
Not so with Lora, trouble, sickness, death,Were busy with the residue of peace,When years and care had weaken'd her regrets,Veil'd the sad recollection of past days,And overgrown the softness of her mind,As the close-creeping ivy hides and rustsThe smooth and silver surface of the beech.An orphan and a widow—she becameDecisive, watchful, prudent, nay severeTo wilful disobedience or neglect;Though generous where she perceiv'd desert.She taught her children with unceasing zeal,Sought knowledge for their sakes, and, more than all, Anxious, inquisitive about the heart,Search'd all the motives, all the incidentsIn which it was unfolded; fencing stillEach treacherous failing with a double guard,And oft repeated warnings; well conceal'd,Or given with so much kindness, that they serv'dTo draw more closely every knot of love.Nor did she cease to urge her pious caresBy constant vigilance, till riper ageHad fix'd the moral sense, when, as a bowFor a long active season tightly strain'dRelaxes, tumult and contention o'er,She sunk into indulgence, glad to yieldTo mildness, nature, and herself again.
Youth, e'en when wise and good, requires a change,Delights in novelty, and hears of noughtWhich suddenly it asks not to behold;And Lora's children oft assail'd her earTo let them journey to some rumour'd scene, Some feast, or village wake, or sprightly dance,Urging her still to bear them company. .She lov'd to give them pleasure, and one time(The fav'rite legend of our country folkHath oft the tale repeated) as they mix'dCarelessly in the crowd, remember'd notesStruck by a harper in a distant tent,Sweet and soul-piercing as the midnight songs,Which are, they say, the harbingers of death,Flow'd on her car—when, with impulsive spring,As if a magic spell had wing'd her feet,Fearing the sounds wou'd vanish into air,And prove delusion ere she reach'd the spot,She forward rush'd, and soon beheld the friend,The dear companion of her youth. She seiz'dThe hand that lay upon the quivering chords,Stopping their melody and resting mute.The pause was awfu'—He at length exclaim'd,In a deep, labour'd cry, "Ye heavenly powers!If Lora lives, the hand I feel is hers!" She could not speak, but with her other handClasp'd his, and sigh'd and rais'd her eyes to heaven,When straight the big, round tears began to flow;"And is it thee, dear Lora! Art thou comeAgain to gladden one, who never found'Mid countless who are good, a heart like thine!Oh! speak! that I may know if still my earRetains a true remembrance of that voice!For since, it has not drunk so sweet a sound."
"Hail happy day!' cried Lora, "which restores"The friend whose absence I have mourn'd so long!For thou, O! Osborne! must with me return,Me and my children! They shall hear againThose counsels which inform'd their mother's heart;Gave courage in the hour of enterprize,Calmness in danger, patience under illsThat like a swarm of insects buz around,And vex the spirit which they cannot rouse.Return, my early, long-lost friend! with us Thou shalt enjoy repose: our cheerful homeShall gather round thee many an honest heartWhich knows thy virtues, and will hold thee dear."
She paus'd, and Oshorne joyful gave assent.Fair hopes of joy engag'd his faultering mind,For long-time had he dragg'd a weary life,Lone, or bereav'd of relative or friend,Careful to tend his health, and to divertHis sadness; each succeeding hour had press'dWith its slow-passing wing his gentle headDrooping and prematurely silver'd o'er,(Like snows depending on the autumn leaf)Yet warm, benevolent, serene, resign'd,And like an angel save in youth and joy.
A winding path round yonder wooded hill,Leads to a spot where Nature decks herselfIn loveliness and beauty: far belowSpreads the green valley, where a silent stream Turns, like a serpent writhing in its course;And, rarified by distance, kissing heaven,In many noble and fantastic shapes,A giant range of purple mountains sleeps.Grand is the scene, and in the centre standsThe tomb of Osborne—after many yearsOf happiness and friendship, Lora rais'dThis plain memorial, and her children plac'dA mother's near, to tell succeeding yearsTheir talents and their virtue. They themselvesMore forcibly express the worth of both,For they are wise and good, without a shadeOf cold severity or selfish pride."