To deck Aurora's vest;
The host of heaven in bright array,
To me, by turns, their homage pay.
The silent cave, the sparkling grot,
In unknown realms, I ween,
Where foot of mortal enters not,
Nor vulture's eye hath seen→→→
"Tis there I love to steal along,
And pour my everlasting song.
And there with pearl and amber crowned,
I hold my gentler court,
While freshest breezes play around,
And merry mermaids sport;
And thousand graceful Naiads stand,
With streaming urns in either hand.
THERE once was a man who contrived a balloon,
To carry him whither?-why, up to the moon.
One fine starlight night he set sail for the sky,
And joyfully bid our poor planet good-by.
He mounted aloft with incredible speed,
And saw the green earth every moment recede.
"Farewell," he exclaimed, "to thy pride and conceit,
Oppression and injury, fraud and deceit;
Thy flagrant abuses, thy luxury too,
And all thy gay pageants, for ever adieu.
Thy festivals, spectacles, learning and lore;
My share in thy pleasures I gladly restore:
Thy kings and thy nobles, lords, ladies, and squires,
And all the poor world in its dotage admires.
From its factions and parties and politics free,
The statesmen and heroes are nothing to me:
Bonaparte in his cage, on Helena's wild shore,
And all his devices, to me are no more.
Farewell to thy valleys, in verdure arrayed ;
Farewell to thy merchandise, traffic and trade;
Thy wide-swelling rivers that roll to the seas;
Thy dark waving forests, that sigh to the breeze:
From Britain to China, or Ganges' wide stream,
All fades on my sight like a vanishing dream."
He spoke, and with pleasure soon darted his eyes on
The moon, just appearing above the horizon;
And sitting upright with his hand in his pocket,
Shot up the dark sky into space, like a rocket.
But the swiftness with which his light vehicle sped,
Brought on such a giddiness into his head,
That he lay a long time in his boat without knowing
How long he had been or which way he was going.
At length he aroused from his stupor, when lo!
The beautiful planet was shining below!
Already so near was he come, as to see
Its mountains and valleys, as plain as could be.
With feelings. no language could well represent,
He quickly prepared his machine for descent.
A fine open plain, much resembling, he said,
Some spots in old England, before him was spread,
Whose smoothness and verdure his presence invited;
And there, all amazement, our traveller alighted.
What thrillings of rapture what tears of delight,
Now melted this signally fortunate wight:
And thus he expressed his astonishment soon · "Dear me, what a wonder to be in the moon!"
'T was now early morning, the firmament clear;
For there the sun rises, the same as down here.
He took out his pocket-book, therefore, and wrote
Whatever he saw that was worthy of note.
For instance, the soil appeared sandy and loose;
The pasture much finer than we can produce.
He picked up a stone, which he wished he could hand
To some learned geologists down in our land.
A blue little weed next attracted our writer,
Not very unlike to our hare-bell, but brighter,
And looked, as he said, most decidedly lunar:
-He wished he had come on this enterprise sooner.
But still he was far more impatient to trace
What sort of inhabitants lived in the place.
Perhaps they were dragons, or horrible things,
Like fishes with feathers, or serpents with wings.
Thus deeply engaged in conjectural thought,
His eye by an object was suddenly caught;
To which, on advancing, he found, you must know,
"T was just such a mile-stone as ours are below;
And he read, all amazed, in plain English this line-
"Twelve miles to old Sarum, to Andover nine."
In short, the whole wonder at once to explain,
The man had alighted on Salisbury Plain.
-SHE sailed in her pride from the regions of day;
Her cargo was rich, and her pennons were gay:
Long homeward she scudded, defying the blast,
Till Britain's green hills were descried from the mast.
Then gathered the tempest, then heightened the gale:
The hearts of her bravest were ready to fail :
Night adds to the horror, and deepens the roar :-
She lies in the morning a wreck on our shore.
And Heaven in its mercy has rescued the crew ;
They live and return to their country anew:
But one sickly stranger—unfriended, unknown,
Is left by his comrades to perish alone.
He thinks of his home, for no shelter has he;
His wife and his mother are over the sea:
He came from the Islands of Spices afar,
-The dark Asiatic, the gentle Lascar.
He stretches in anguish the languishing limb,
Expecting no pity, no mercy for him;
-But England has pity-and O, there was one,
Who saw his dark face, and the kindness was done.
She took him, she nursed him with tender address;
And fair was the hand that relieved his distress:
She came like the angel of mercy from far,
To minister health to the dying Lascar,
His wants and her pity could only be known
By broken expressions, and sympathy's tone:
But pity has language no words can supply,
And gratitude speaks from the eloquent eye.
He watches her coming, for all must appear
In safety and comfort, if Madame be near;
He sits in her casa, unclouded by care,
For nothing is wanting if Madame be there.
Her care is rewarded: the sick man is well;
And now he must bid her a final farewell:
Have pity, ye sailors, ye sons of the brave!
Oh, bear him in tenderness over the wave!
Borne on by the swell of the ocean he goes
To tell to his kindred the tale of his woes;
To tell his dark beauty, with many a tear,
Of Madame's kind casa, that sheltered him here.
And O, that the knowledge she strove to impart, May lighten the gloom of his desolate heart! And long as he lives will be heard from afar, The blessings and prayers of the grateful Lascar. Marazion, November, 1815.
I'm a poor little beggar, my mammy is dead;
My daddy is naughty, and gives me no bread:
O'er London's wide streets all the day long I roam,
And when night comes on, I've got never a home.
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