What water, of the still unfrozen spring,

In the loose marsh or solitary lake,

Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.

These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks 305

Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,

Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death;
Mix'd with the tender anguish Nature shoots
Thro' the wrung bosom of the dying Man,
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen.

In vain for him th' officious wife prepares

IN

The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm;
In vain his little children, peeping out

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Into the mingling storm, demand their sire,

With tears of artless innocence. Alas!

315

Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold;
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve

The deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense;

And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,

Lays him along the snows, a stiffened corse;

320

Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast.
AH little think the gay licentious proud,

Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;

Ah little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,

And all the sad variety of pain.

325

How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame. How many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt Man and Man.
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms;
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread

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335

Of misery. Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,

How

many shrink into the sordid hut

Of cheerless poverty. How many shake

With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,

Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse;

340

Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life,

They furnish matter for the tragic Muse.

Ev'n in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell,

With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,

How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop 345 In deep retir'd distress. How many stand

Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,

And point the parting anguish. Thought fond Man

Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one incessant struggle render life,
One scene of toil, of suffering and of fate;
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think;
The conscious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide wish Benevolence dilate;

350

355

The social tear would rise, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social passions work.

AND here can I forget the generous band,

Who, touch'd with human woe, redressive search'd Into the horrors of the gloomy jail?

Unpitied, and unheard, where misery moans;

361

Where sickness pines; where thirst and hunger burn, And poor misfortune feels the lash of vice.

While in the land of liberty, the land

365

Whose every street and public meeting glow

With open freedom, little tyrants rag'd;

Snatch'd the lean morsel from the starving mouth;
Tore from cold wintry limbs the tatter'd weed;
Ev'n robb'd them of the last of comforts, sleep; 370
The free-born BRITON to the dungeon chain'd,

Or, as the lust of cruelty prevail'd,

At pleasure mark'd him with inglorious stripes;

And crush'd out lives, by secret barbarous ways,

That for their country would have toil'd, or bled. 375 O great design! if executed well,

With patient care, and wisdom-temper❜d zeal.

Ye sons of mercy! yet resume the search;

Drag forth the legal monsters into light,

Wrench from their hands oppression's iron rod, 380

And bid the cruel feel the pains they give.

MUCH still untouch'd remains; in this rank age,

Much is the patriot's weeding hand requir'd.
The toils of law, (what dark infidious Men
Have cumbrous added to perplex the truth,
And lengthen simple justice into trade)
How glorious were the day! that saw these broke,
Man within the reach of right.

And

every

By wintry famine rous'd, from all the tract
Of horrid mountains which the shining Alps,
And wavy Appenine, and Pyrenees,
Branch out stupendous into distant lands;
Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave!

Burning for blood! bony, and gaunt, and grim!
Assembling wolves in raging troops descend;
And, pouring o'er the country, bear along,
Keen as the north-wind sweeps the glossy snow.
All is their prize. They fasten on the steed,
Press him to earth, and pierce his mighty heart.
Nor can the bull his awful front defend,

Or shake the murdering savages away.
Rapacious, at the mother's throat they fly,
And tear the screaming infant from her breast.
The godlike face of Man avails him nought.

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390

395

400

Ev'n beauty, force divine! at whose bright glance 405
The generous lion stands in softened gaze,
Here bleeds, a hapless undistinguish'd prey.
But if, appriz'd of the severe attack,

The country be shut up; lur'd by the scent,

On church-yards drear (inhuman to relate!)

410

The disappointed prowlers fall, and dig

The shrouded body from the grave; o'er which, Mix'd with foul shades, and frighted ghosts, they howl.

AMONG those hilly regions, where embrac❜d

In peaceful vales the happy Grisons dwell;

Oft, rushing sudden from the loaded cliffs,

Mountains of snow their gathering terrors roll.

415

From steep to steep, loud-thundering down they come, A wintry waste in dire commotion all;

And herds, and flocks, and travellers, and swains, 420 And sometimes whole brigades of marching troops,

Or hamlets sleeping in the dead of night,

Are deep beneath the smothering ruin whelm'd.

Now, all amid the rigours of the year,

In the wild depth of Winter, while without
The ceaseless winds blow ice, be my retreat,

425

Between the groaning forest and the shore

Beat by the boundless multitude of waves;
A rural, shelter'd, solitary scene;

Where ruddy fire and beaming tapers join

430

To cheer the gloom. There studious let me sit,

And hold high converse with the MIGHTY DEAD;

Sages of ancient time, as gods rever'd;

As gods beneficent, who blest mankind

With arts, with arms, and humaniz'd a world. 435 Rous'd at th' inspiring thought, I throw aside.