Lyrical tales — Context and Discussion

This little joke, Miss DEBBY taught him, To vex a young and pretty neighbour; But by her scandal-zealous labour To shame she brought him! For, the Old PARROT, like his teacher Was but a false and canting preacher, And many a gamesome pair had sworn Such lessons were not to be borne.

At last, Miss DEBBY sore was flouted And by her angry neighbours scouted; She never knew one hour of rest, Of ev’ry Saucy Boor, the jest: The young despis’d her, and the Sage Look’d back on Time’s impartial page; They knew that youth was giv’n to prove The season of extatic joy, That none but Cynics would destroy, The early buds of Love. They also knew that DEBBY sigh’d For charms that envious Time deny’d; That she was vex’d with jealous Spleen That Hymen pass’d her by, unseen.

For though the Spinster’s wealth was known, _Gold_ will not purchase Love—_alone_. She, and her PARROT, now were thought The torments of their little Sphere; He, because mischievously taught, And She, because a maid austere!— In short, she deem’d it wise to leave A Place, where none remain’d, to grieve.

Soon, to a distant town remov’d, Miss DEBBY’s gold an husband bought; And all she had her PARROT taught, (Her PARROT now no more belov’d,) Was quite forgotten. But, alas! As Fate would have it come to pass, Her Spouse was giv’n to jealous rage, For, both in _Person_ and in _Age_, He was the partner of his love, Ordain’d her second Self to prove!

One day, Old JENKINS had been out With merry friends to dine, And, freely talking, had, no doubt Been also free with wine. One said, of all the wanton gay In the whole parish search it round, None like the PARSON could be found, Where a frail Maid was in the way. Another thought the Parson sure To win the heart of maid or wife; And would have freely pledg’d his life That young, or old, or rich or poor None could defy The magic of his roving eye!

JENKINS went home, but all the night He dream’d of this strange tale! Yet, bless’d his stars! with proud delight, His partner was not young, nor frail. Next morning, at the breakfast table. The PARROT, loud as he was able, Was heard repeatedly to cry, “_Who with the Parson toy’d? O fie!_”

Old JENKINS listen’d, and grew pale, The PARROT then, more loudly scream’d, And MISTRESS JENKINS heard the tale And much alarm’d she seem’d! Trembling she tried to stop his breath, Her lips and cheek as pale as death! The more she trembled, still the more Old JENKINS view’d her o’er and o’er; And now her yellow cheek was spread With blushes of the deepest red.

And now again the PARROT’s Tale Made his old Tutoress doubly pale; For cowardice and guilt, they say Are the twin brothers of the soul; So MISTRESS JENKINS, her dismay Could not controul! While the accuser, now grown bold, Thrice o’er, the tale of mischief told.

Now JENKINS from the table rose, “_Who with the Parson toy’d?_” he cried. “So MISTRESS FRAILTY, you must play, “And sport, your wanton hours away. “And with your gold, a pretty joke, “You thought to buy a pleasant cloak; “A screen to hide your shame—but know “I will not _blind_ to ruin go.— “I am no _modern Spouse_, dy’e see, “_Gold_ will not _gild disgrace_, with me!” Some say he seiz’d his fearful bride, And came to blows! Day after day, the contest dire Augmented, with resistless ire! And many a drubbing DEBBY bought For mischief, she her PARROT taught!

Thus, SLANDER turns against its maker; And if this little Story reaches A SPINSTER, who her PARROT teaches, Let her a better task pursue, And here, the certain VENGEANCE view Which surely will, in TIME, O’ERTAKE HER.

Dark was the dawn, and o’er the deep The boist’rous whirlwinds blew; The Sea-bird wheel’d its circling sweep, And all was drear to view— When on the beach that binds the western shore The love-lorn ZELMA stood, list’ning the tempest’s roar.

Her eager Eyes beheld the main, While on her DRACO dear She madly call’d, but call’d in vain, No sound could DRACO hear, Save the shrill yelling of the fateful blast, While ev’ry Seaman’s heart, quick shudder’d as it past.

White were the billows, wide display’d The clouds were black and low; The Bittern shriek’d, a gliding shade Seem’d o’er the waves to go! The livid flash illum’d the clam’rous main, While ZELMA pour’d, unmark’d, her melancholy strain.

“Be still!” she cried, “loud tempest cease! “O! spare the gallant souls: “The thunder rolls—the winds increase— “The Sea, like mountains, rolls! “While, from the deck, the storm worn victims leap, “And o’er their struggling limbs, the furious billows sweep.

“O! barb’rous Pow’r! relentless Fate! “Does Heav’n’s high will decree “That some should sleep on beds of state,— “Some, in the roaring Sea? “Some, nurs’d in splendour, deal Oppression’s blow, “While worth and DRACO pine—in Slavery and woe!

“Yon Vessel oft has plough’d the main “With human traffic fraught; “Its cargo,—our dark Sons of pain— “For worldly treasure bought! “What had they done?—O Nature tell me why— “Is taunting scorn the lot, of thy dark progeny?

“Thou gav’st, in thy caprice, the Soul “Peculiarly enshrin’d; “Nor from the ebon Casket stole “The Jewel of the mind! “Then wherefore let the suffering Negro’s breast “Bow to his fellow, MAN, in brighter colours drest.

“Is it the dim and glossy hue “That marks him for despair?— “While men with blood their hands embrue, “And mock the wretch’s pray’r? “Shall guiltless Slaves the Scourge of tyrants feel, “And, e’en before their GOD! unheard, unpitied kneel.

“Could the proud rulers of the land “Our Sable race behold; “Some bow’d by torture’s Giant hand “And others, basely sold! “Then would they pity Slaves, and cry, with shame, “Whate’er their TINTS may be, their SOULS are still the same!

“Why seek to mock the Ethiop’s face? “Why goad our hapless kind? “Can features alienate the race— “Is there no kindred mind? “Does not the cheek which vaunts the roseate hue “Oft blush for crimes, that Ethiops never knew?

“Behold! the angry waves conspire “To check the barb’rous toil! “While wounded Nature’s vengeful ire— “Roars, round this trembling Isle! “And hark! her voice re-echoes in the wind— “Man was not form’d by Heav’n, to trample on his kind!

“Torn from my Mother’s aching breast, “My Tyrant sought my love— “But, in the Grave shall ZELMA rest, “E’er she will faithless prove— “No DRACO!—Thy companion I will be “To that celestial realm, where Negroes shall be free!

“The Tyrant WHITE MAN taught my mind— “The letter’d page to trace;— “He taught me in the Soul to find “No tint, as in the face: “He bade my Reason, blossom like the tree— “But fond affection gave, the ripen’d fruits to thee.

“With jealous rage he mark’d my love; “He sent thee far away;— “And prison’d in the plantain grove— “Poor ZELMA pass’d the day— “But ere the moon rose high above the main, “ZELMA, and Love contriv’d, to break the Tyrant’s chain.

“Swift, o’er the plain of burning Sand “My course I bent to thee; “And soon I reach’d the billowy strand “Which bounds the stormy Sea.— “DRACO! my Love! Oh yet, thy ZELMA’s soul “Springs ardently to thee,—impatient of controul.

“Again the lightning flashes white— “The rattling cords among! “Now, by the transient vivid light, “I mark the frantic throng! “Now up the tatter’d shrouds my DRACO flies— “While o’er the plunging prow, the curling billows rise.

“The topmast falls—three shackled slaves— “Cling to the Vessel’s side! “Now lost amid the madd’ning waves— “Now on the mast they ride— “See! on the forecastle my DRACO stands “And now he waves his chain, now clasps his bleeding hands.

“Why, cruel WHITE MAN! when away “My sable Love was torn, “Why did you let poor ZELMA stay, “On Afric’s sands to mourn? “No! ZELMA is not left, for she will prove “In the deep troubled main, her fond—her faithful LOVE.”

The lab’ring Ship was now a wreck, The shrouds were flutt’ring wide! The rudder gone, the lofty deck Was rock’d from side to side— Poor ZELMA’s eyes now dropp’d their last big tear, While, from her tawny cheek, the blood recoil’d with fear.

Now frantic, on the sands she roam’d, Now shrieking stop’d to view Where high the liquid mountains foam’d, Around the exhausted crew— ’Till, from the deck, her DRACO’s well known form Sprung mid the yawning waves, and buffetted the Storm.

Long, on the swelling surge sustain’d Brave DRACO sought the shore, Watch’d the dark Maid, but ne’er complain’d, Then sunk, to gaze no more! Poor ZELMA saw him buried by the wave— And, with her heart’s true Love, plung’d in a wat’ry grave.

_The TRUMPETER_, _AN OLD ENGLISH TALE_.

It was in the days of a gay British King (In the old fashion’d custom of merry-making) The Palace of Woodstock with revels did ring, While they sang and carous’d—one and all: For the monarch a plentiful treasury had, And his Courtiers were pleas’d, and no visage was sad, And the knavish and foolish with drinking were mad, While they sat in the Banquetting hall.

Some talk’d of their Valour, and some of their Race, And vaunted, ’till vaunting was black in the face; Some bragg’d for a title, and some for a place, And, like braggarts, they bragg’d one and all! Some spoke of their scars in the Holy Crusade, Some boasted the banner of Fame they display’d, And some sang their Loves in the soft serenade As they sat in the Banquetting hall.

And here sat a Baron, and there sat a Knight, And here stood a Page in his habit all bright, And here a young Soldier in armour bedight With a Friar carous’d, one and all. Some play’d on the dulcimer, some on the lute, And some, who had nothing to talk of, were mute, ’Till the Morning, awakened, put on her grey suit— And the Lark hover’d over the Hall.

It was in a vast gothic Hall that they sate, And the Tables were cover’d with rich gilded plate, And the King and his minions were toping in state, ’Till their noddles turn’d round, one and all:— And the Sun through the tall painted windows ’gan peep, And the Vassals were sleeping, or longing to sleep, Though the Courtiers, still waking, their revels did keep, While the minstrels play’d sweet, in the Hall.

And, now in their Cups, the bold topers began To call for more wine, from the cellar yeoman, And, while each one replenish’d his goblet or can, The Monarch thus spake to them all: “It is fit that the nobles do just what they please, “That the Great live in idleness, riot, and ease, “And that those should be favor’d, who mark my decrees, “And should feast in the Banquetting Hall.

“It is fit,” said the Monarch, “that riches should claim “A passport to freedom, to honor, and fame,— “That the poor should be humble, obedient, and tame, “And, in silence, submit—one and all. “That the wise and the holy should toil for the Great, “That the Vassals should tend at the tables of state, “That the Pilgrim should—pray for our souls at the gate “While we feast in our Banquetting Hall.

“That the low-lineag’d CARLES should be scantily fed— “That their drink should be small, and still smaller their bread; “That their wives and their daughters to ruin be led, “And submit to our will, one and all! “It is fit, that whoever I choose to defend— “Shall be courted, and feasted, and lov’d as a friend, “While before them the good and enlighten’d shall bend, “While they sit in the Banquetting Hall.”

Now the Topers grew bold, and each talk’d of his right, One would fain be a Baron, another a Knight; And another, (because at the Tournament fight He had vanquished his foes, one and all) Demanded a track of rich lands; and rich fare; And of stout serving Vassals a plentiful share; With a lasting exemption from penance and pray’r And a throne in the Banquetting Hall.

But ONE, who had neither been valiant nor wise, With a tone of importance, thus vauntingly cries, “My Leige he knows how a good subject to prize— “And I therefore demand—before all— “I this Castle possess: and the right to maintain “Five hundred stout Bowmen to follow my train, “And as many strong Vassals to guard my domain “As the Lord of the Banquetting Hall!

“I have fought with all nations, and bled in the field, “See my lance is unshiver’d, tho’ batter’d my shield, “I have combatted legions, yet never would yield “And the Enemy fled—one and all! “I have rescued a thousand fair Donnas, in Spain, “I have left in gay France, every bosom in pain, “I have conquer’d the Russian, the Prussian, the Dane, “And will reign in the Banquetting Hall!”

The Monarch now rose, with majestical look, And his sword from the scabbard of Jewels he took, And the Castle with laughter and ribaldry shook, While the braggart accosted thus he: “I will give thee a place that will suit thy demand, “What to thee, is more fitting than Vassals or Land— “I will give thee,—what justice and valour command, “For a TRUMPETER bold—thou shalt be!”

Now the revellers rose, and began to complain— While they menac’d with gestures, and frown’d with disdain, And declar’d, that the nobles were fitter to reign Than a Prince so unruly as He. But the Monarch cried, sternly, they taunted him so, “From this moment the counsel of fools I forego— “And on Wisdom and Virtue will honors bestow “For such, ONLY, are welcome to Me!”

So saying, he quitted the Banquetting Hall, And leaving his Courtiers and flatterers all— Straightway for his Confessor loudly ’gan call “O! Father! now listen!” said he: “I have feasted the Fool, I have pamper’d the Knave, “I have scoff’d at the wise, and neglected the brave— “And here, Holy Man, Absolution I crave— “For a penitent now I will be.”

From that moment the Monarch grew sober and good, (And nestled with Birds of a different brood,) For he found that the pathway which wisdom pursu’d Was pleasant, safe, quiet, and even! That by Temperance, Virtue and liberal deeds, By nursing the flowrets, and crushing the weeds, The loftiest Traveller always succeeds— For his journey will lead him to HEAV’N.

_The DESERTED COTTAGE._

Who dwelt in yonder lonely Cot, Why is it thus forsaken? It seems, by all the world forgot, Above its path the high grass grows, And through its thatch the northwind blows —Its thatch, by tempests shaken.

And yet, it tops a verdant hill By Summer gales surrounded: Beneath its door a shallow rill Runs brawling to the vale below, And near it sweetest flowrets grow By banks of willow bounded.

Then why is ev’ry casement dark? Why looks the Cot so chearless? Ah! why does ruin seem to mark The calm retreat where LOVE should dwell, And FRIENDSHIP teach the heart to swell With rapture, pure and fearless?

There, far above the busy croud, Man may repose in quiet; There, smile, that he has left the proud, And blest with liberty, enjoy More than Ambition’s gilded toy, Or Folly’s sick’ning riot.

For there, the ever tranquil mind, On calm Religion resting, May in each lonely labyrinth find The DEITY, whose boundless pow’r Directs the blast, or tints the flow’r— No mortal foe molesting.

Stranger, yon spot was once the scene Where peace and joy resided: And oft the merry time has been When Love and Friendship warm’d the breast, And Freedom, making wealth a jest, The pride of Pomp derided.

Old JACOB was the Cottage Lord, His wide domain, surrounding, By Nature’s treasure amply stor’d; He from his casement could behold The breezy mountain, ting’d with gold, The varied landscape bounding!

The coming morn, with lustre gay, Breath’d sweetly on his dwelling; The twilight veil of parting day Stole softly o’er his quiet shed, Hiding the mountain’s misty head, Where the night-breeze was swelling.

One lovely Girl, Old JACOB rear’d And she was fair, and blooming; She, like the morning Star, appear’d, Swift gliding o’er the mountain’s crest, While her blue eyes her soul confess’d, No borrow’d rays assuming.

’Twas her’s, the vagrant lamb to lead, To watch the wild goat playing: To join the Shepherd’s tuneful reed, And, when the sultry Sun rose high, To tend the Herds, deep-lowing nigh, Where the swift brook was straying.

One sturdy Boy, a younker bold, Ere they were doom’d to sever, Maintain’d poor JACOB, sick and old; But now, where yon tall poplars wave, Pale primroses adorn the grave— Where JACOB sleeps, for Ever!

Young, in the wars, the brave Boy fell! His Sister died of sadness! But _one_ remain’d their fate to tell, For JACOB now was left alone, And he, alas! was helpless grown, And pin’d in moody madness.

At night, by moonshine would he stray, Along the upland dreary; And, talking wildly all the way, Would fancy, ’till the Sun uprose, That Heav’n, in pity, mark’d the woes— Of which his soul was weary.

One morn, upon the dewy grass Poor JACOB’s sorrows ended, The woodland’s narrow winding pass Was his last scene of lonely care, For, gentle Stranger, lifeless there— Was JACOB’s form extended!

He lies beneath yon Poplar tree That tops the church-yard, sighing! For sighing oft it seems to be, And as its waving leaves, around, With morning’s tears begem the ground The Zephyr trembles, flying!

And now behold yon little Cot All dreary and forsaken! And know, that soon ’twill be thy lot, To fall, like JACOB and his race, And leave on Time’s swift wing no trace, Which way thy course is taken.

Yet, if for Truth and feeling known, Thou still shalt be lamented! For when thy parting sigh has flown, Fond MEM’RY on thy grave shall give _A tear_—to bid thy VIRTUES live! Then—Smile, AND BE CONTENTED!

_The FORTUNE-TELLER_, _A GYPSY TALE_.

LUBIN and KATE, as gossips tell, Were Lovers many a day; LUBIN the damsel lov’d so well, That folks pretend to say The silly, simple, doting Lad, Was little less than loving mad: A malady not known of late— Among the little-loving Great!

KATE liked the youth; but woman-kind Are sometimes giv’n to range. And oft, the giddy Sex, we find, (They know not why) When most they promise, soonest change, And still for conquest sigh: So ’twas with KATE; she, ever roving Was never fix’d, though always loving!

STEPHEN was LUBIN’s rival; he A rustic libertine was known; And many a blushing simple She, The rogue had left,—to sigh alone! KATE cared but little for the rover, Yet she resolv’d to have her way, For STEPHEN was the village Lover, And women pant for Sov’reign sway. And he, who has been known to ruin,— Is always sought, and always wooing.

STEPHEN had long in secret sigh’d; And STEPHEN never was deny’d: Now, LUBIN was a modest swain, And therefore, treated with disdain: For, it is said, in _Love_ and _War_,— The boldest, most successful are!

Vows, were to him but fairy things Borne on capricious Fancy’s wings; And promises, the Phantom’s Airy Which falsehood form’d to cheat th’ unwary; For still deception was his trade, And though his traffic well was known, Still, every trophy was his own Which the proud Victor, Love, display’d. In short, this STEPHEN was the bane Of ev’ry maid,—and ev’ry swain!