THE GRAVE OF HOWARD. William Lisle Bowles Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Bowles, William Lisle, 1762-1850. The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles, Vol. I. With Memoir, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes by George Gilfillan. Edinburgh James Nichol, 9 North Bank Street... 1855 pp. 42-46.

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THE GRAVE OF HOWARD . Spirit of Death ! whose outstretched pennons dread Wave o'er the world beneath their shadow spread ; Who darkly speedest on thy destined way , Midst shrieks and cries , and sounds of dire dismay ; Spirit ! behold thy victory ! Assume A form more terrible , an ampler plume ; For he , who wandered o'er the world alone , Listening to Misery's universal moan ; He who , sustained by Virtue's arm sublime , Tended the sick and poor from clime to clime , Low in the dust is laid , thy noblest spoil ! And Mercy ceases from her awful toil ! 'Twas where the pestilence at thy command Arose to desolate the sickening land , When many a mingled cry and dying prayer Resounded to the listening midnight air , When deep dismay heard not the frequent knell , And the wan carcase festered as it fell : 'Twas there , with holy Virtue's awful mien , Amid the sad sights of that fearful scene , Calm he was found : the dews of death he dried ; He spoke of comfort to the poor that cried ; He watched the fading eye , the flagging breath , Ere yet the languid sense was lost in death ; And with that look protecting angels wear , Hung o'er the dismal couch of pale Despair ! Friend of mankind ! thy righteous task is o'er ; The heart that throbbed with pity beats no more . Around the limits of this rolling sphere , Where'er the just and good thy tale shall hear , A tear shall fall : alone , amidst the gloom Of the still dungeon , his long sorrow's tomb , The captive , mourning , o'er his chain shall bend , To think the cold earth holds his only friend ! He who with labour draws his wasting breath On the forsaken silent bed of death , Remembering thy last look and anxious eye , Shall gaze around , unvisited , and die . Friend of mankind , farewell ! These tears we shed — So nature dictates — o'er thy earthly bed ; Yet we forget not , it was His high will , Who saw thee Virtue's arduous task fulfil , Thy spirit from its toil at last should rest : — So wills thy God , and what He wills is best ! Thou hast encountered dark Disease's train , Thou hast conversed with Poverty and Pain , Thou hast beheld the dreariest forms of woe , That through this mournful vale unfriended go ; And , pale with sympathy , hast paused to hear The saddest plaints e'er told to human ear . Go then , the task fulfilled , the trial o'er , Where sickness , want , and pain are known no more ! How awful did thy lonely track appear , Enlightening Misery's benighted sphere ! As when an angel all-serene goes forth To still the raging tempest of the north , The embattled clouds that hid the struggling day , Slow from his face retire in dark array ; On the black waves , like promontories hung , A light , as of the orient morn , is flung , Till blue and level heaves the silent brine , And the new-lighted rocks at distance shine ; Ev'n so didst thou go forth with cheering eye — Before thy glance the shades of misery fly ; So didst thou hush the tempest , stilling wide Of human woe the loud-lamenting tide . Nor shall the spirit of those deeds expire , As fades the feeble spark of vital fire , But beam abroad , and cheer with lustre mild Humanity's remotest prospects wild , Till this frail orb shall from its sphere be hurled , Till final ruin hush the murmuring world , And all its sorrows , at the awful blast Of the archangel's trump , be but as shadows past ! Relentless Time , that steals with silent tread , Shall tear away the trophies of the dead . Fame , on the pyramid's aspiring top , With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop ; The feeble characters of Glory's hand Shall perish , like the tracks upon the sand ; But not with these expire the sacred flame Of Virtue , or the good man's honoured name . Howard ! it matters not , that far away From Albion's peaceful shore thy bones decay : Him it might please , by whose sustaining hand Thy steps were led through many a distant land . Thy long and last abode should there be found , Where many a savage nation prowls around : That Virtue from the hallowed spot might rise , And , pointing to the finished sacrifice , Teach to the roving Tartar's savage clan Lessons of love , and higher aims of man . The hoary chieftain , who thy tale shall hear , Pale on thy grave shall drop his faltering spear ; The cold , unpitying Cossack thirst no more To bathe his burning falchion deep in gore ; Relentless to the cry of carnage speed , Or urge o'er gasping heaps his panting steed ! Nor vain the thought that fairer hence may rise New views of life , and wider charities . Far from the bleak Riphean mountains hoar , From the cold Don , and Wolga's wandering shore , From many a shady forest's lengthening tract , From many a dark-descending cataract , Succeeding tribes shall come , and o'er the place , Where sleeps the general friend of human race , Instruct their children what a debt they owe ; Speak of the man who trode the paths of woe ; Then bid them to their native woods depart , With new-born virtue stirring in their heart . When o'er the sounding Euxine's stormy tides In hostile pomp the Turk's proud navy rides , Bent on the frontiers of the Imperial Czar , To pour the tempest of vindictive war ; If onward to those shores they haply steer , Where , Howard , thy cold dust reposes near , Whilst o'er the wave the silken pennants stream , And seen far off the golden crescents gleam , Amid the pomp of war , the swelling breast Shall feel a still unwonted awe impressed , And the relenting Pagan turn aside To think — on yonder shore the Christian died ! But thou , O Briton ! doomed perhaps to roam An exile many a year and far from home , If ever fortune thy lone footsteps leads To the wild Nieper's banks , and whispering reeds , O'er Howard's grave thou shalt impassioned bend , As if to hold sad converse with a friend . Whate'er thy fate upon this various scene , Where'er thy weary pilgrimage hath been , There shalt thou pause ; and shutting from thy heart Some vain regrets that oft unbidden start , Think upon him to every lot resigned , Who wept , who toiled , and perished for mankind . For me , who musing , Howard , on thy fate , These pensive strains at evening meditate , I thank thee for the lessons thou hast taught To mend my heart , or animate my thought . I thank thee , Howard , for that awful view Of life which thou hast drawn , most sad , most true . Thou art no more ! and the frail fading bloom Of this poor offering dies upon thy tomb . Beyond the transient sound of earthly praise Thy virtues live , perhaps , in seraph's lays ! I , borne in thought , to the wild Nieper's wave , Sigh to the reeds that whisper o'er thy grave . The town of Cherson , on the Black Sea , where Howard the philanthropist died , is entirely supplied with fuel by reeds , of which there is an inexhaustible forest in the shallows of the Nieper . — Craven's Travels .