CLIFTON HILL. Written in January 1785.

CLIFTON HILL . Written in January 1785. In this lone hour , when angry storms descend , And the chill'd soul deplores her distant friend ; When all her sprightly fires inactive lie , And gloomy objects fill the mental eye ; When hoary Winter strides the northern blast , And Flora's beauties at his feet are cast ; Earth by the grisly tyrant desert made , The feather'd warblers quit the leafless shade ; Quit those dear scenes where life and love began , And , cheerless , seek the savage haunt of man ; How mourns each tenant of the silent grove ! No soft sensation tunes the heart to love ; No fluttering pulse awakes to Rapture's call ; No strain responsive aids the water's fall . The Swain neglects his Nymph , yet knows not why ; The Nymph , indifferent , mourns the freezing sky ; Alike insensible to soft desire , She asks no warmth — but from the kitchen fire ; Love seeks a milder zone ; half sunk in snow , Lactilla , shivering , tends her fav'rite cow ; The bleating flocks now ask the bounteous hand , And crystal streams in frozen fetters stand . The beauteous red-breast , tender in her frame , Whose murder marks the fool with treble shame , Near the low cottage door , in pensive mood , Complains , and mourns her brothers of the wood . Her song oft wak'd the soul to gentle joys , All but his ruthless soul whose gun destroys . For this , rough clown , long pains on thee shall wait , And freezing want avenge their hapless fate ; For these fell murders may'st thou change thy kind , In outward form as savage as in mind ; Go , be a bear of Pythagorean name , From man distinguish'd by thy hideous frame . Tho' slow and pensive now the moments roll , Successive months shall from our torpid soul Hurry these scenes again ; the laughing hours Advancing swift , shall strew spontaneous flowers ; The early-peeping snowdrop , crocus mild , And modest violet , grace the secret wild ; Pale primrose , daisy , maypole-decking sweet , And purple hyacinth together meet : All Nature's sweets in joyous circle move , And wake the frozen soul again to love . The ruddy swain now stalks along the vale , And snuffs fresh ardour from the flying gale ; The landscape rushes on his untaught mind , Strong raptures rise , but raptures undefin'd ; He louder whistles , stretches o'er the green , By screaming milk-maids , not unheeded , seen ; The downcast look ne'er fixes on the swain , They dread his eye , retire , and gaze again . 'Tis mighty Love — Ye blooming maids , beware , Nor the lone thicket with a lover dare . No high romantic rules of honour bind The timid virgin of the rural kind ; No conquest of the passions e'er was taught , No meed e'er given them for the vanquish'd thought . To sacrifice , to govern , to restrain , Or to extinguish , or to hug the pain , Was never theirs ; instead , the fear of shame Proves a strong bulwark , and secures their fame ; Shielded by this , they flout , reject , deny , With mock disdain put the fond lover by ; Unreal scorn , stern looks , affected pride , Awe the poor swain , and save the trembling bride . As o'er the upland hills I take my way , My eyes in transport boundless scenes survey : Here the neat Clifton Church . In this church-yard the Author's Mother was buried . dome where sacred raptures rise , From whence the contrite groan shall pierce the skies ; Where sin-struck souls bend low in humble prayer , And waft that sigh which ne'er is lost in air . Ah ! sacred turf ! here a fond Parent lies , How my soul melts while dreadful scenes arise ! The past ! Ah ! shield me , Mercy ! from that thought , My aching brain now whirls , with horror fraught . Dead ! can it be ? 'twas here we frequent stray'd , And these sad records mournfully survey'd . I mark'd the verse , the skulls her eye invite , Whilst my young bosom shudder'd with affright ! My heart recoil'd , and shun'd the loathsome view ; " Start not , my child , each human thought subdue , " She calmly said ; " this fate shall once be thine , My woes pronounce that it shall first be mine . " Abash'd , I caught the awful truths she sung , And on her firm resolves one moment hung ; Vain boast — my bulwark tumbles to the deep , Amaz'd — alone I climb the craggy steep ; My shrieking soul deserted , sullen views The depths below , and Hope's fond strains refuse ; I listen'd not — She louder struck the lyre , And love divine , and moral truths conspire . The proud It is supposed this word is derived , though not very legitimately , from Croesus . Croesean crew , light , cruel , vain , Whose deeds have never swell'd the Muse's strain , Whose bosoms others sorrows ne'er assail , Who hear , unheeding , Misery's bitter tale , Here call for satire , would the verse avail . Rest , impious race ! — The Muse pursues her flight , Breathes purer air on Vincent's rugged height ; Here nibbling flocks of scanty herbage gain A meal penurious from the barren plain ; Crop the low niggard bush ; and , patient , try The distant walk , and every hillock nigh : Some bask , some bound , nor terrors ever know , Save from the human form , their only foe . Ye bleating innocents ! dispel your fears , My woe-struck soul in all your troubles shares ; 'Tis but Lactilla — fly not from green : Long have I shar'd with you this guiltless scene . 'Tis mine to wander o'er the dewy lawn , And mark the pallid streak of early dawn ; Lo ! the grey dusk that fill'd the vacant space , Now fleets , and infant light pursues the chace ; From the hill top it seeks the valley low ; Inflam'd , the cheeks of morn with blushes glow ; Behold it 'whelm'd in a bright flood of day , It strives no more , but to the God gives way . Ye silent , solemn St. Vincent 's rocks , between which flows the River Avon . , strong , stupendous heights , Whose terror-striking frown the school-boy frights From the young daw ; whilst in your rugged breast The chattering brood , secured by Horror , rest . Say , Muse , what arm the low'ring brothers cleft , And the calm stream in this low cradle left ? Coëval with Creation they look down , And , sunder'd , still retain their native frown . Beneath those heights , lo ! balmy springs The Hot Wells . arise , To which pale Beauty's faded image flies ; Their kindly powers life's genial heat restore , The tardy pulse , whose throbs were almost o'er , Here beats a livelier tune . The breezy air , To the wild hills invites the languid fair : Fear not the western gale , thou tim'rous maid , Nor dread its blast shall thy soft form invade ; Tho' cool and strong the quick'ning breezes blow , And meet thy panting breath , 'twill quickly grow More strong ; then drink the odoriferous draught , With unseen particles of health 'tis fraught . Sit not within the threshold of Despair , Nor plead a weakness fatal to the fair ; Soft term for Indolence , politely given , By which we win no joy from earth or heaven . Foul Fiend ! thou bane of health , fair Virtue's bane , Death of true pleasure , source of real pain ! Keen exercise shall brace the fainting soul , And bid her slacken'd powers more vigorous roll . Blame not my rustic lay , nor think me rude , If I avow Conceit's the grand prelude To dire disease and death . Your high-born maid , Whom fashion guides , in youth's first bloom shall fade ; She seeks the cause , th'effect would fain elude , By Death's o'erstretching stride too close pursu'd , She faints within his icy grasp , yet stares , And wonders why the Tyrant yet appears — Abrupt — so soon — Thine , Fashion , is the crime , Fell Dissipation does the work of time . How thickly cloth'd , yon Leigh Wood . rock of scanty soil , Its lovely verdure scorns the hand of Toil . Here the deep green , and here the lively plays , The russet birch , and ever-blooming bays ; The vengeful black-thorn , of wild beauties proud , Blooms beauteous in the gloomy-chequer'd crowd : The barren elm , the useful feeding oak , Whose hamadryad ne'er should feel the stroke Of axe relentless , 'till twice fifty years Have crown'd her woodland joys , and fruitful cares . The pois'nous reptiles here their mischiefs bring , And thro' the helpless sleeper dart the sting ; The toad envenom'd , hating human eyes , Here springs to light , lives long , and aged dies . The harmless snail , slow-journeying , creeps away , Sucks the young dew , but shuns the bolder day . ( Alas ! if transmigration should prevail , I fear Lactilla's soul must house in snail . ) The long-nosed mouse , the woodland rat is here , The sightless mole , with nicely-pointed ear ; The timid rabbit hails th'impervious gloom , Eludes the dog's keen scent , and shuns her doom . Various the tenants of this tangled wood , Who skulk all day , all night review the flood , Chew the wash'd weed driven by the beating wave , Or feast on dreadful food , which hop'd a milder grave . Hail , useful channel ! Commerce spreads her wings , From either pole her various treasure brings ; Wafted by thee , the mariner long stray'd , Clasps the fond parent , and the sighing maid ; Joy tunes the cry ; the rocks rebound the roar ; The deep vibration quivers 'long the shore ; The merchant hears , and hails the peeping mast , The wave-drench'd sailor scorns all peril past ; Now love and joy the noisy crew invite , And clumsy music crowns the rough delight . Yours be the vulgar dissonance , while I Cross the low stream , and stretch the ardent eye O'er Nature's wilds ; 'tis peace , 'tis joy serene , The thought as pure as calm the vernal scene . Ah , lovely meads ! my bosom lighter grows , Shakes off her huge oppressive weight of woes , And swells in guiltless rapture ; ever hail , The tufted grove , and the low-winding vale ! Low not , ye herds , your lusty Masters bring The crop of Summer ; and the genial Spring Feels for your wants , and softens Winter's rage , The hoarded hay-stack shall your woes assuage ; Woes summ'd in one alone , 'tis Nature's call , That secret voice which fills creation all . Beneath this stack The beautiful unfortunate Louisa , fugitive Foreigner , lived three years in a state of distraction under this hay-stack , without going into a house . She once confessed , in a lucid interval , that she had escaped from a Convent , in which she had been confined by her father , on refusing a marriage of his proposing , her affections being engaged to another man . Louisa's dwelling rose , Here the fair Maniac bore three Winters snows . Here long she shiver'd , stiffening in the blast , The lightnings round their livid horrors cast ; The thunders roar , while rushing torrents pour , And add new woes to bleak affliction's hour ; The heavens lour dismal while the storm descends , No Mother's bosom the soft maid befriends ; But , frighten'd , o'er the wilds she swiftly flies , And drench'd with rains , the roofless hay-stack tries . The morn was fair , and gentle — sought These lonely woodlands , friends to sober Thought ; With Solitude , the slow-pac'd maid is seen Tread the dark grove , and unfrequented green , Well — knew their lurkings ; Phoebus shone , While , musing , she pursued the track alone . O , thou kind friend ! whom here I dare not name , Who to Louisa's shed of misery came , Lur'd by the tale , sigh'd o'er her beauteous form , And gently drew her from the beating storm , Stand forth — defend , for well thou canst , the cause Of Heaven , and justify its rigid laws ; Yet own that human laws are harshly given , When they extend beyond the will of Heaven . Say , can thy pen for that hard duty plead , By which the meek and helpless maid's decreed To dire seclusion ? Snatch'd from guiltless joys , To where corroding grief the frame destroys ; Monastic glooms , which active virtue cramp , Where horrid silence chills the vital lamp ; Slowly and faint the languid pulses beat , And the chill'd heart forgets its genial heat ; The dim sunk eye , with hopeless glance , explores The solemn aisles , and death-denouncing doors , Ne'er to be past again . — Now heaves the sigh , Now unavailing sorrows fill the eye : Fancy once more brings back the long-lost youth To the fond soul , in all the charms of Truth ; She welcomes the lov'd image ; busy Thought Pourtrays the past , with guiltless pleasures fraught ; 'Tis momentary bliss , 'tis rapture high , The heart o'erflows , and all is extacy . Memory ! I charge thee yet preserve the shade , Ah ! let not yet the glittering colours fade ! Forbear the cruel future yet to view , When the sad soul must bid a long adieu , E'en to its fancied bliss — Ah ! turn not yet Thou wretched bankrupt , that must soon forget This farewel draught of joy : lo ! Fancy dies , E'en the thin phantom of past pleasure flies . Thought sinks in real woe ; too poor to give Her present bliss , she bids the future live ; The spirit soon quits that fond clasp , for see , The future offers finish'd misery . Hope quite extinct , lo ! frantic thro' the aisles She raves , while Superstition grimly smiles . Th'exhausted mourner mopes , then wildly stalks Round the drear dome , and seeks the darkest walks . The glance distracted each sad sister meets , The sorrow-speaking eye in silence greets Each death-devoted maid ; Louisa here Runs thro' each various shape of sad despair ; Now swells with gusts of hope , now sick'ning dies ; Alternate thoughts of death and life arise Within her panting soul ; the firm resolve , The new desire , in stronger fears dissolve . She starts — then seiz'd the moment of her fate , Quits the lone cloyster and the horrid grate , Whilst wilder horrors to receive her wait ; Muffled , on Freedom's happy plains they stand , And eager seize her not reluctant hand ; Too late to these mild shores the mourner came , For now the guilt of flight o'erwhelms her frame : Her broken vows in wild disorder roll , And stick like serpents in her trembling soul ; Thought , what art thou ? of thee she boasts no more , O'erwhelm'd , thou dy'st amid the wilder roar Of lawless anarchy , which sweeps the soul , Whilst her drown'd faculties like pebbles roll , Unloos'd , uptorn , by whirlwinds of despair , Each well-taught moral now dissolves in air ; Dishevel'd , lo ! her beauteous tresses fly , And the wild glance now fills the staring eye ; The balls , fierce glaring in their orbits move , Bright spheres , where beam'd the sparkling fires of Love , Now roam for objects which once fill'd her mind , Ah ! long-lost objects the must never find . Ill starr'd Louisa ! Memory , 'tis a strain , Which fills my soul with sympathetic pain . Remembrance , hence , give thy vain struggles o'er , Nor swell the line with forms that live no more .