The Emigrants: Book I

Scene, on the Cliffs to the Eastward of the Town ofBrighthelmstone in Sussex. Time, a Morning in November, 1792.

Slow in the Wintry Morn, the struggling lightThrows a faint gleam upon the troubled waves;Their foaming tops, as they approach the shore5And the broad surf that never ceasing breaksOn the innumerous pebbles, catch the beamsOf the pale Sun, that with reluctance givesTo this cold northern Isle, its shorten'd day.Alas! how few the morning wakes to joy!10How many murmur at oblivious nightFor leaving them so soon; for bearing thusTheir fancied bliss (the only bliss they taste!),On her black wings away!--Changing the dreamsThat sooth'd their sorrows, for calamities15(And every day brings its own sad proportion)For doubts, diseases, abject dread of Death,And faithless friends, and fame and fortune lost;Fancied or real wants; and wounded pride,That views the day star, but to curse his beams.20Yet He, whose Spirit into being call'dThis wond'rous World of Waters; He who bidsThe wild wind lift them till they dash the clouds,And speaks to them in thunder; or whose breath,Low murmuring, o'er the gently heaving tides,25When the fair Moon, in summer night serene,Irradiates with long trembling lines of lightTheir undulating surface; that great Power,Who, governing the Planets, also knowsIf but a Sea-Mew falls, whose nest is hid30In these incumbent cliffs; He surely meansTo us, his reasoning Creatures, whom He bidsAcknowledge and revere his awful hand,Nothing but good: Yet Man, misguided Man,Mars the fair work that he was bid enjoy,35And makes himself the evil he deplores.How often, when my weary soul recoilsFrom proud oppression, and from legal crimes(For such are in this Land, where the vain boastOf equal Law is mockery, while the cost40Of seeking for redress is sure to plungeTh' already injur'd to more certain ruinAnd the wretch starves, before his Counsel pleads)How often do I half abjure Society,And sigh for some lone Cottage, deep embower'd45In the green woods, that these steep chalky HillsGuard from the strong South West; where round their baseThe Beach wide flourishes, and the light AshWith slender leaf half hides the thymy turf!--There do I wish to hide me; well content50If on the short grass, strewn with fairy flowers,I might repose thus shelter'd; or when EveIn Orient crimson lingers in the west,Gain the high mound, and mark these waves remote(Lucid tho' distant), blushing with the rays55Of the far-flaming Orb, that sinks beneath them;For I have thought, that I should then beholdThe beauteous works of God, unspoil'd by ManAnd less affected then, by human woesI witness'd not; might better learn to bear60Those that injustice, and duplicityAnd faithlessness and folly, fix on me:For never yet could I derive relief,When my swol'n heart was bursting with its sorrows,From the sad thought, that others like myself65Live but to swell affliction's countless tribes!--Tranquil seclusion I have vainly sought;Peace, who delights solitary shade,No more will spread for me her downy wings,But, like the fabled Danaïds--or the wretch,70Who ceaseless, up the steep acclivity,Was doom'd to heave the still rebounding rock,Onward I labour; as the baffled wave,Which yon rough beach repulses, that returnsWith the next breath of wind, to fail again.--75Ah! Mourner--cease these wailings: cease and learn,That not the Cot sequester'd, where the briarAnd wood-bine wild, embrace the mossy thatch,(Scarce seen amid the forest gloom obscure!)Or more substantial farm, well fenced and warm,80Where the full barn, and cattle fodder'd roundSpeak rustic plenty; nor the statelier domeBy dark firs shaded, or the aspiring pine,Close by the village Church (with care conceal'dBy verdant foliage, lest the poor man's grave85Should mar the smiling prospect of his Lord),Where offices well rang'd, or dove-cote stock'd,Declare manorial residence; not theseOr any of the buildings, new and trimWith windows circling towards the restless Sea,90Which ranged in rows, now terminate my walk,Can shut out for an hour the spectre Care,That from the dawn of reason, follows stillUnhappy Mortals, 'till the friendly grave(Our sole secure asylum) "ends the chace 1 ."95Behold, in witness of this mournful truth,A group approach me, whose dejected looks,Sad Heralds of distress! proclaim them MenBanish'd for ever and for conscience sakeFrom their distracted Country, whence the name100Of Freedom misapplied, and much abus'dBy lawless Anarchy, has driven them farTo wander; with the prejudice they learn'dFrom Bigotry (the Tut'ress of the blind),Thro' the wide World unshelter'd; their sole hope,105That German spoilers, thro' that pleasant landMay carry wide the desolating scourgeOf War and Vengeance; yet unhappy Men,Whate'er your errors, I lament your fate:And, as disconsolate and sad ye hang110Upon the barrier of the rock, and seemTo murmur your despondence, waiting longSome fortunate reverse that never comes;Methinks in each expressive face, I seeDiscriminated anguish; there droops one,115Who in a moping cloister long consum'dThis life inactive, to obtain a better,And thought that meagre abstinence, to wakeFrom his hard pallet with the midnight bell,To live on eleemosynary bread,120And to renounce God's works, would please that God.And now the poor pale wretch receives, amaz'd,The pity, strangers give to his distress,Because these Strangers are, by his dark creed,Condemn'd as Heretics--and with sick heart125Regrets 2 his pious prison, and his beads.--Another, of more haughty port, declinesThe aid he needs not; while in mute despairHis high indignant thoughts go back to France,Dwelling on all he lost--the Gothic dome,130That vied with splendid palaces 3 ; the bedsOf silk and down, the silver chalices,Vestments with gold enwrought for blazing altars;Where, amid clouds of incense, he held forthTo kneeling crowds the imaginary bones135Of Saints suppos'd, in pearl and gold enchas'd,And still with more than living Monarchs' pompSurrounded; was believ'd by mumbling bigotsTo hold the keys of Heaven, and to admitWhom he thought good to share it--Now alas!140He, to whose daring soul and high ambitionThe World seem'd circumscrib'd; who, wont to dream,Of Fleuri, Richelieu, Alberoni, menWho trod on Empire, and whose politicsWere not beyond the grasp of his vast mind,145Is, in a Land once hostile, still prophan'dBy disbelief, and rites un-orthodox,The object of compassion--At his side,Lighter of heart than these, but heavier farThan he was wont, another victim comes,150An Abbé--who with less contracted browStill smiles and flatters, and still talks of Hope;Which, sanguine as he is, he does not feel,And so he cheats the sad and weighty pressureOf evils present;---- Still, as Men misled155By early prejudice (so hard to break),I mourn your sorrows; for I too have knownInvoluntary exile; and while yetEngland had charms for me, have felt how sadIt is to look across the dim cold sea,160That melancholy rolls its refluent tidesBetween us and the dear regretted landWe call our own--as now ye pensive waitOn this bleak morning, gazing on the wavesThat seem to leave your shore; from whence the wind165Is loaded to your ears, with the deep groansOf martyr'd Saints and suffering Royalty,While to your eyes the avenging power of HeavenAppears in aweful anger to prepareThe storm of vengeance, fraught with plagues and death.170Even he of milder heart, who was indeedThe simple shepherd in a rustic scene,And, 'mid the vine-clad hills of Languedoc,Taught to the bare-foot peasant, whose hard handsProduc'd 4 the nectar he could seldom taste,175Submission to the Lord for whom he toil'd;He, or his brethren, who to Neustria's sonsEnforc'd religious patience, when, at times,On their indignant hearts Power's iron handToo strongly struck; eliciting some sparks180Of the bold spirit of their native North;Even these Parochial Priests, these humbled men;Whose lowly undistinguish'd cottagesWitness'd a life of purest piety,While the meek tenants were, perhaps, unknown185Each to the haughty Lord of his domain,Who mark'd them not; the Noble scorning stillThe poor and pious Priest, as with slow paceHe glided thro' the dim arch'd avenueWhich to the Castle led; hoping to cheer190The last sad hour of some laborious lifeThat hasten'd to its close--even such a ManBecomes an exile; staying not to tryBy temperate zeal to check his madd'ning flock,Who, at the novel sound of Liberty195(Ah! most intoxicating sound to slaves!),Start into licence--Lo! dejected now,The wandering Pastor mourns, with bleeding heart,His erring people, weeps and prays for them,And trembles for the account that he must give200To Heaven for souls entrusted to his care.--Where the cliff, hollow'd by the wintry storm,Affords a seat with matted sea-weed strewn,A softer form reclines; around her run,On the rough shingles, or the chalky bourn,205Her gay unconscious children, soon amus'd;Who pick the fretted stone, or glossy shell,Or crimson plant marine: or they contriveThe fairy vessel, with its ribband sailAnd gilded paper pennant: in the pool,210Left by the salt wave on the yielding sands,They launch the mimic navy--Happy age!Unmindful of the miseries of Man!--Alas! too long a victim to distress,Their Mother, lost in melancholy thought,215Lull'd for a moment by the murmurs lowOf sullen billows, wearied by the taskOf having here, with swol'n and aching eyesFix'd on the grey horizon, since the dawnSolicitously watch'd the weekly sail220From her dear native land, now yields awhileTo kind forgetfulness, while Fancy brings,In waking dreams, that native land again!Versailles appears--its painted galleries,And rooms of regal splendour, rich with gold,225Where, by long mirrors multiply'd, the crowdPaid willing homage--and, united there,Beauty gave charms to empire--Ah! too soonFrom the gay visionary pageant rous'd,See the sad mourner start!--and, drooping, look230With tearful eyes and heaving bosom roundOn drear reality--where dark'ning waves,Urg'd by the rising wind, unheeded foamNear her cold rugged seat:--To call her thenceA fellow-sufferer comes: dejection deep235Checks, but conceals not quite, the martial air,And that high consciousness of noble blood,Which he has learn'd from infancy to thinkExalts him o'er the race of common men:Nurs'd in the velvet lap of luxury,240And fed by adulation--could he learn,That worth alone is true Nobility?And that the peasant who, "amid 5 the sons"Of Reason, Valour, Liberty, and Virtue,"Displays distinguish'd merit, is a Noble245"Of Nature's own creation!"--If even here,If in this land of highly vaunted Freedom,Even Britons controvert the unwelcome truth,Can it be relish'd by the sons of France?Men, who derive their boasted ancestry250From the fierce leaders of religious wars,The first in Chivalry's emblazon'd page;Who reckon Gueslin, Bayard, or De Foix,Among their brave Progenitors? Their eyes,Accustom'd to regard the splendid trophies255Of Heraldry (that with fantastic handMingles, like images in feverish dreams,"Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire,"With painted puns, and visionary shapes;),See not the simple dignity of Virtue,260But hold all base, whom honours such as theseExalt not from the crowd 6 --As one, who longHas dwelt amid the artificial scenesOf populous City, deems that splendid shows,The Theatre, and pageant pomp of Courts,265Are only worth regard; forgets all tasteFor Nature's genuine beauty; in the lapseOf gushing waters hears no soothing sound,Nor listens with delight to sighing winds,That, on their fragrant pinions, waft the notes270Of birds rejoicing in the trangled copse;Nor gazes pleas'd on Ocean's silver breast,While lightly o'er it sails the summer cloudsReflected in the wave, that, hardly heard,Flows on the yellow sands: so to his mind,275That long has liv'd where Despotism hidesHis features harsh, beneath the diademOf worldly grandeur, abject Slavery seems,If by that power impos'd, slavery no more:For luxury wreathes with silk the iron bonds,280And hides the ugly rivets with her flowers,Till the degenerate triflers, while they loveThe glitter of the chains, forget their weight.But more the Men, whose ill acquir'd wealthWas wrung from plunder'd myriads, by the means285Too often legaliz'd by power abus'd,Feel all the horrors of the fatal change,When their ephemeral greatness, marr'd at once(As a vain toy that Fortune's childish handEqually joy'd to fashion or to crush),290Leaves them expos'd to universal scornFor having nothing else; not even the claimTo honour, which respect for Heroes pastAllows to ancient titles; Men, like these,Sink even beneath the level, whence base arts295Alone had rais'd them;--unlamented sink,And know that they deserve the woes they feel.Poor wand'ring wretches! whosoe'er ye are,That hopeless, houseless, friendless, travel wideO'er these bleak russet downs; where, dimly seen,300The solitary Shepherd shiv'ring tendsHis dun discolour'd flock (Shepherd, unlikeHim, whom in song the Poet's fancy crownsWith garlands, and his crook with vi'lets binds);Poor vagrant wretches! outcasts of the world!305Whom no abode receives, no parish owns;Roving, like Nature's commoners, the landThat boasts such general plenty: if the sightOf wide-extended misery softens yoursAwhile, suspend your murmurs!--here behold310The strange vicissitudes of fate--while thusThe exil'd Nobles, from their country driven,Whose richest luxuries were their's, must feelMore poignant anguish, than the lowest poor,Who, born to indigence, have learn'd to brave315Rigid Adversity's depressing breath!--Ah! rather Fortune's worthless favourites!Who feed on England's vitals--PensionersOf base corruption, who, in quick ascentTo opulence unmerited, become320Giddy with pride, and as ye rise, forgettingThe dust ye lately left, with scorn look downOn those beneath ye (tho' your equals onceIn fortune , and in worth superior still ,They view the eminence, on which ye stand,325With wonder, not with envy; for they knowThe means, by which ye reach'd it, have been suchAs, in all honest eyes, degrade ye farBeneath the poor dependent, whose sad heartReluctant pleads for what your pride denies);330Ye venal, worthless hirelings of a Court!Ye pamper'd Parasites! whom Britons payFor forging fetters for them; rather hereStudy a lesson that concerns ye much;And, trembling, learn, that if oppress'd too long,335The raging multitude, to madness stung,Will turn on their oppressors; and, no moreBy sounding titles and parading formsBound like tame victims, will redress themselves!Then swept away by the resistless torrent,340Not only all your pomp may disappear,But, in the tempest lost, fair Order sinkHer decent head, and lawless AnarchyO'erturn celestial Freedom's radiant throne;--As now in Gallia; where Confusion, born345Of party rage and selfish love of rule,Sully the noblest cause that ever warm'dThe heart of Patriot Virtue 8 --There ariseThe infernal passions; Vengeance, seeking blood,And Avarice; and Envy's harpy fangs350Pollute the immortal shrine of Liberty,Dismay her votaries, and disgrace her name.Respect is due to principle; and they,Who suffer for their conscience, have a claim,Whate'er that principle may be, to praise.355These ill-starr'd Exiles then, who, bound by ties,To them the bonds of honour; who resign'dTheir country to preserve them, and now seekIn England an asylum--well deserveTo find that (every prejudice forgot,360Which pride and ignorance teaches), we for themFeel as our brethren; and that English hearts,Of just compassion ever own the sway,As truly as our element, the deep,Obeys the mild dominion of the Moon--365This they have found; and may they find it still!Thus may'st thou, Britain, triumph!--May thy foes,By Reason's gen'rous potency subdued,Learn, that the God thou worshippest, delightsIn acts of pure humanity!--May thine370Be still such bloodless laurels! nobler farThan those acquir'd at Cressy or Poictiers,Or of more recent growth, those well bestow'dOn him who stood on Calpe's blazing heightAmid the thunder of a warring world,375Illustrious rather from the crowds he sav'dFrom flood and fire, than from the ranks who fellBeneath his valour!--Actions such as these,Like incense rising to the Throne of Heaven,Far better justify the pride, that swells380In British bosoms, than the deafening roarOf Victory from a thousand brazen throats,That tell with what success wide-wasting WarHas by our brave Compatriots thinned the world.