Hear me! ye firm and uncorrupted few,
Followers of freedom! and of virtue too!
Ye, who are pleading with a noble zeal
For poor men’s rights-rejoicing in their weal;
Friends of the parent-guardians of the child-
Whose frames are wasted, and whose souls defiled
Within these halls of tyranny which stand,
Gloomy and vast, o’er all the sinking land.
Too long, my harp hath breath’d of fancy’s dreams
Too long responded to unworthy themes.
Farewell ye once-lov’d fictions of my youth,
Its future tones shall harmonise with truth.
To rouse the Labourer in peril’s hour;
To cheer the victims of a lawless pow’r;
To wake that slumbering energy of soul
Which brooks no wrong, and spurns unjust control;
To add me feeble voice to that which rings
With awful thunder in the ear of kings;
This is my hourly hope, my daily aim;
If virtuous men approve, I seek no higher fame:
The long drear winter night was gathering fast;
The snow danced wildly on the fitful blast;
Within yon Bastille’s suffocating walls,
(Whose very name my sickening soul appals,)
The gas which burns to light these living graves
Gleam’d on the faces of a thousand slaves.
I saw, and knew one gentle victim there,
The youngest of a widow’d mother’s care:
Hard had he labour’d since the morning hour,-
But now his little hands relax’d their pow’r-
Yet, urg’d by curses or severer blows,
Without one moment’s brief, but sweet, repose,
From frame to frame the exhausted sufferer crept,
Piec’d the frail threads, and, uncomplaining, wept.
While yet the night was boisterous and chill-
While winds were loud, and snows were drifting still,
The bell gave out its long expected sound,
The mighty engine ceased its weary round.
Forth rush’d the captives,-a degraded train!-
Till morn should summon them to toil again.
Some to the maddening ale-cup rashly sped;
Some to the short oblivion of their bed;
But he whose tale is woven in my song-
The first to fall, of that devoted throng-
With mingl’d cold and pain his tears ran o’er,
As the keen ice-wind entered every pore.
I ask’d his ailment, but he did not speak;
His fate was written on his ghastly cheek,-
I strove to help him with a friendly hand:
Alas! poor boy! he could not walk or stand.
I clasp’d my arms around his wasted form,
And bore him through the fury of the storm;
Up the dark street my eager footsteps bent,
Cursing the power that doom’d him, as I went;
His mother met me, with unfeign’d alarms,
And snatch’d the slaughter’d victim from my arms,
Kiss’d his pale lips, and call’d upon his name;
He murmur’d faintly, but no answer came.
I turn’d in grief from her imploring cries;
Unbidden tears were springing in my eyes;
Yet, breathing words of hope, I sought my home,
To ponder upon miseries to come.
The wond’rous wizard, Sleep, had now unfurl’d
His drowsy pennons over half the world;
The widow’s children to their beds were gone,
And left her calm, yet mournfully, alone-
Alone with him, the idol of her heart.
Whose sinless soul was yearning to depart;
She, mute at length, with sorrow and dismay,
Wept, o’er his shattered frame, the night away.
Time was, ere commerce seal’d his early doom;
Shut up in Moloch’s life destroying womb;
Ere yet the roses of his cheeks were pale,
He ran uncurb’d o’er mountain, moor, and vale:
Lur’d by the hives of bees, the voice of birds,
Sweet and familiar, as his mother’s words,-
With buoyant step he sallied forth at morn,
And pluck’d his hasty dinner from the thorn;
He knew each sylvan and sequester’d nook;
He watch’d the secret mazes of the brook
Thread the dark forest; roam’d the laughing fields,
Deck’d with each golden bud that summer yields,
The same, though changeful nature frown’d or smil’d,
A healthful, innocent, and joyous child.
Thus, in the mourner’s harass’d mind were glass’d,
These sad, yet sweet, reflections of the past,
Until these thrilling words her vision broke:-
‘Mother! dear mother!’- twas her boy who spoke.
With fever’d lips he ask’d the cooling draught,
And, long and deeply, from the cup he quaff’d;
But, scarcely had he turn’d his head to rest:
Fondly secure upon his mother’s breast,
A sound, which woke no feeling but of fear,
With well-known import smote his startled ear-
A sound alas! which prov’d his dying knell,-
The horrid clangour of the Bastille bell!
Then, starting up, he gaz’d on vacant space,
Cried, as he listen’d with bewilder’d face,
‘Oh! mother, mother, I can work no more,
My head is painful, and my feet are sore;
Forgive me, mother, if I thus complain-
I fear I never shall be well again;
And if I die, O! do not weep for me,
But make my grave beneath some pleasant tree,
Where summer flowers around its roots may spring,
And summer birds within its branches sing;
And tell my loving sisters when they weep,
I saw my gentle father, in my sleep;
And, as he kindly looked and sweetly smil’d;
I thought he call’d me his own happy child.’
The sufferer spake his last-his eyes grew dim;
The cruel spoiler palsied ev’ry limb;
One sigh-before the victory was won,-
One gentle tremor-and the strife was done;-
Whilst the glad spirit, freed from chains of clay,
Soar’d to her native realms, away, away.
My painful task is drawing to a close;
I would not dwell upon a parent’s woes.
She mourned for him, as mothers always mourn,
Yet, did not seem to wish for his return.
She laid him in the earth with decent pride,
For poor men’s charity the means supplied;
And one poor bard to whom the child was known,
Inscrib’d these lines upon his humble stone:-
EPITAPH
Here sleep the relics of an orphan flower,
Crush’d by the brutal foot of lawless pow’r;
Another victim to the thousands slain
Within the mighty slaughterhouse of gain.
O! come ye kind philanthropists, who feel
The noblest int’rests in the people’s weal,
Pause on this infant-martyr’s new turn’d grave,
Swear to emancipate the British slave;
Tell the oppressor, that the widow’s God,
Injustice, wields an all-avenging rod.
And if the pow’rs of human virtue fail,
The hand of heaven will certainly prevail.
(John Critchley Prince)
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Based on Topics: God Poems, World Poems, Night Poems, Mind Poems, Sadness Poems, Time Poems, Soul Poems, Nature Poems, Faces Poems, Youth Poems, Heaven PoemsBased on Keywords: unfeign, inscrib, ailment, uncorrupted, mingl, slaughterhouse, bastille, emancipate, uncurb, once-lov, harmonise