[]
THE EMIGRANTS.
[]
THE EMIGRANTS, A POEM, IN TWO BOOKS.
BY CHARLOTTE SMITH.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL, IN THE STRAND. 1793.
TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.
[]DEAR SIR,
THERE is, I hope, ſome propriety in my addreſſing a Com⯑poſition to you, which would never perhaps have exiſted, had I not, amid the heavy preſſure of many ſorrows, derived infinite conſolation from your Poetry, and ſome degree of animation and of confidence from your eſteem.
The following performance is far from aſpiring to be con⯑ſidered as an imitation of your inimitable Poem, "THE TASK;" I am perfectly ſenſible, that it belongs not to a feeble and feminine hand to draw the Bow of Ulyſſes.
The force, clearneſs, and ſublimity of your admirable Poem; the felicity, almoſt peculiar to your genius, of giving to the moſt familiar objects dignity and effect, I could never hope to [vi] reach; yet, having read "The Taſk" almoſt inceſſantly from its firſt publication to the preſent time, I felt that kind of enchantment deſcribed by Milton, when he ſays,
The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear
So charming left his voice, that he awhile
Thought him ſtill ſpeaking.—
And from the force of this impreſſion, I was gradually led to attempt, in Blank Verſe, a delineation of thoſe intereſting ob⯑jects which happened to excite my attention, and which even preſſed upon an heart, that has learned, perhaps from its own ſufferings, to feel with acute, though unavailing compaſſion, the calamity of others.
A Dedication uſually conſiſts of praiſes and of apologies; my praiſe can add nothing to the unanimous and loud applauſe of your country. She regards you with pride, as one of the few, who, at the preſent period, reſcue her from the imputa⯑tion of having degenerated in Poetical talents; but in the form of Apology, I ſhould have much to ſay, if I again dared to plead the preſſure of evils, aggravated by their long conti⯑nuance, as an excuſe for the defects of this attempt.
[vii] Whatever may be the faults of its execution, let me vindi⯑cate myſelf from thoſe, that may be imputed to the deſign.— In ſpeaking of the Emigrant Clergy, I beg to be underſtood as feeling the utmoſt reſpect for the integrity of their principles; and it is with pleaſure I add my ſuffrage to that of thoſe, who have had a ſimilar opportunity of witneſſing the conduct of the Emigrants of all deſcriptions during their exile in Eng⯑land; which has been ſuch as does honour to their nation, and ought to ſecure to them in ours the eſteem of every liberal mind.
Your philanthropy, dear Sir, will induce you, I am per⯑ſuaded, to join with me in hoping, that this painful exile may finally lead to the extirpation of that reciprocal hatred ſo unworthy of great and enlightened nations; that it may tend to humanize both countries, by convincing each, that good qualities exiſt in the other; and at length annihilate the pre⯑judices that have ſo long exiſted to the injury of both.
Yet it is unfortunately but too true, that with the body of the Engliſh, this national averſion has acquired new force by the dreadful ſcenes which have been acted in France during [viii] the laſt ſummer—even thoſe who are the victims of the Revolution, have not eſcaped the odium, which the undiſtin⯑guiſhing multitude annex to all the natives of a country where ſuch horrors have been acted: nor is this the worſt effect thoſe events have had on the minds of the Engliſh; by confounding the original cauſe with the wretched cataſtrophes that have followed its ill management; the attempts of public virtue, with the outrages that guilt and folly have committed in its diſguiſe, the very name of Liberty has not only loſt the charm it uſed to have in Britiſh ears, but many, who have written, or ſpoken, in its defence, have been ſtigmatized as promoters of Anarchy, and enemies to the proſperity of their country. Perhaps even the Author of "The Taſk," with all his good⯑neſs and tenderneſs of heart, is in the catalogue of thoſe, who are reckoned to have been too warm in a cauſe, which it was once the glory of Engliſhmen to avow and defend— The exquiſite Poem, indeed, in which you have honoured Liberty, by a tribute highly gratifying to her ſincereſt friends, was publiſhed ſome years before the demolition of regal deſpotiſin in France, which, in the fifth book, it ſeems [ix] to foretell—All the truth and energy of the paſſage to which I allude, muſt have been ſtrongly felt, when, in the Parlia⯑ment of England, the greateſt Orator of our time quoted the ſublimeſt of our Poets—when the eloquence of Fox did juſtice to the genius of Cowper.
I am, dear SIR, With the moſt perfect eſteem, Your obliged and obedient ſervant, CHARLOTTE SMITH.
Brighthelmſtone, May 10, 1793.
THE EMIGRANTS.
BOOK THE FIRST.
[]BOOK I.
[]SCENE, on the Cliffs to the Eaſtward of the Town of Brighthelmſtone in Suſſex.
TIME, a Morning in November, 1792.
SLOW in the Wintry Morn, the ſtruggling light
Throws a faint gleam upon the troubled waves;
Their foaming tops, as they approach the ſhore
And the broad ſurf that never ceaſing breaks
On the innumerous pebbles, catch the beams
Of the pale Sun, that with reluctance gives
To this cold northern Iſle, its ſhorten'd day.
Alas! how few the morning wakes to joy!
How many murmur at oblivious night
For leaving them ſo ſoon; for bearing thus
[2] Their fancied bliſs (the only bliſs they taſte!),
On her black wings away!—Changing the dreams
That ſooth'd their ſorrows, for calamities
(And every day brings its own ſad proportion)
For doubts, diſeaſes, abject dread of Death,
And faithleſs friends, and fame and fortune loſt;
Fancied or real wants; and wounded pride,
That views the day ſtar, but to curſe his beams.
Yet He, whoſe Spirit into being call'd
This wond'rous World of Waters; He who bids
The wild wind lift them till they daſh the clouds,
And ſpeaks to them in thunder; or whoſe breath,
Low murmuring o'er the gently heaving tides,
When the fair Moon, in ſummer night ſerene,
Irradiates with long trembling lines of light
Their undulating ſurface; that great Power,
[3] Who, governing the Planets, alſo knows
If but a Sea-Mew falls, whoſe neſt is hid
In theſe incumbent cliffs; He ſurely means
To us, his reaſoning Creatures, whom He bids
Acknowledge and revere his awful hand,
Nothing but good: Yet Man, miſguided Man,
Mars the fair work that he was bid enjoy,
And makes himſelf the evil he deplores.
How often, when my weary ſoul recoils
From proud oppreſſion, and from legal crimes
(For ſuch are in this Land, where the vain boaſt
Of equal Law is mockery, while the coſt
Of ſeeking for redreſs is ſure to plunge
Th' already injur'd to more certain ruin
And the wretch ſtarves, before his Counſel pleads)
How often do I half abjure Society,
[4] And ſigh for ſome lone Cottage, deep embower'd
In the green woods, that theſe ſteep chalky Hills
Guard from the ſtrong South Weſt; where round their baſe
The Beach wide flouriſhes, and the light Aſh
With ſlender leaf half hides the thymy turf!—
There do I wiſh to hide me; well content
If on the ſhort graſs, ſtrewn with fairy flowers,
I might repoſe thus ſhelter'd; or when Eve
In Orient crimſon lingers in the weſt,
Gain the high mound, and mark theſe waves remote
(Lucid tho' diſtant), bluſhing with the rays
Of the far-flaming Orb, that ſinks beneath them;
For I have thought, that I ſhould then behold
The beauteous works of God, unſpoil'd by Man
And leſs affected then, by human woes
I witneſs'd not; might better learn to bear
[5] Thoſe that injuſtice, and duplicity
And faithleſſneſs and folly, fix on me:
For never yet could I derive relief,
When my ſwol'n heart was burſting with its ſorrows,
From the ſad thought, that others like myſelf
Live but to ſwell affliction's countleſs tribes!
—Tranquil ſecluſion I have vainly ſought;
Peace, who delights in ſolitary ſhade,
No more will ſpread for me her downy wings,
But, like the fabled Danaids—or the wretch,
Who ceaſeleſs, up the ſteep acclivity,
Was doom'd to heave the ſtill rebounding rock,
Onward I labour; as the baffled wave,
Which you rough beach repulſes, that returns
With the next breath of wind, to fail again.—
Ah! Mourner—ceaſe theſe wailings: ceaſe and learn,
[6] That not the Cot ſequeſter'd, where the briar
And wood-bine wild, embrace the moſſy thatch,
(Scarce ſeen amid the foreſt gloom obſcure!)
Or more ſubſtantial farm, well fenced and warm,
Where the full barn, and cattle fodder'd round
Speak ruſtic plenty; nor the ſtatelier dome
By dark firs ſhaded, or the aſpiring pine,
Cloſe by the village Church (with care conceal'd
By verdant foliage, leſt the poor man's grave
Should mar the ſmiling proſpect of his Lord),
Where offices well rang'd, or dove-cote ſtock'd,
Declare manorial reſidence; not theſe
Or any of the buildings, new and trim
With windows circling towards the reſtleſs Sea,
Which ranged in rows, now terminate my walk,
Can ſhut out for an hour the ſpectre Care,
[7] That from the dawn of reaſon, follows ſtill
Unhappy Mortals, 'till the friendly grave
(Our ſole ſecure aſylum) "ends the chace1."
Behold, in witneſs of this mournful truth,
A group approach me, whoſe dejected looks,
Sad Heralds of diſtreſs! proclaim them Men
Baniſh'd for ever and for conſcience ſake
From their diſtracted Country, whence the name
Of Freedom miſapplied, and much abus'd
By lawleſs Anarchy, has driven them far
To wander; with the prejudice they learn'd
From Bigotry (the Tut'reſs of the blind),
Thro' the wide World unſhelter'd; their ſole hope,
That German ſpoilers, thro' that pleaſant land
May carry wide the deſolating ſcourge
Of War and Vengeance; yet unhappy Men,
[8] Whate'er your errors, I lament your fate:
And, as diſconſolate and ſad ye hang
Upon the barrier of the rock, and ſeem
To murmur your deſpondence, waiting long
Some fortunate reverſe that never comes;
Methinks in each expreſſive face, I ſee
Diſcriminated anguiſh; there droops one,
Who in a moping cloiſter long conſum'd
This life inactive, to obtain a better,
And thought that meagre abſtinence, to wake
From his hard pallet with the midnight bell,
To live on eleemoſynary bread,
And to renounce God's works, would pleaſe that God.
And now the poor pale wretch receives, amaz'd,
The pity, ſtrangers give to his diſtreſs,
Becauſe theſe ſtrangers are, by his dark creed,
[17] Condemn'd as Heretics—and with ſick heart
Regrets2 his pious priſon, and his beads.—
Another, of more haughty port, declines
The aid he needs not; while in mute deſpair
His high indignant thoughts go back to France,
Dwelling on all he loſt—the Gothic dome,
That vied with ſplendid palaces3; the beds
Of ſilk and down, the ſilver chalices,
Veſtments with gold enwrought for blazing altars;
Where, amid clouds of incenſe, he held forth
To kneeling crowds the imaginary bones
Of Saints ſuppos'd, in pearl and gold enchas'd,
And ſtill with more than living Monarchs' pomp
Surrounded; was believ'd by mumbling bigots
To hold the keys of Heaven, and to admit
Whom he thought good to ſhare it—Now alas!
[18] He, to whoſe daring ſoul and high ambition
The World ſeem'd circumſcrib'd; who, wont to dream
Of Fleuri, Richelieu, Alberoni, men
Who trod on Empire, and whoſe politics
Were not beyond the graſp of his vaſt mind,
Is, in a Land once hoſtile, ſtill prophan'd
By diſbelief, and rites un-orthodox,
The object of compaſſion—At his ſide,
Lighter of heart than theſe, but heavier far
Than he was wont, another victim comes,
An Abbé—who with leſs contracted brow
Still ſmiles and flatters, and ſtill talks of Hope;
Which, ſanguine as he is, he does not feel,
And ſo he cheats the ſad and weighty preſſure
Of evils preſent;—Still, as Men miſled
By early prejudice (ſo hard to break),
[19] I mourn your ſorrows; for I too have known
Involuntary exile; and while yet
England had charms for me, have felt how ſad
It is to look acroſs the dim cold ſea,
That melancholy rolls its refluent tides
Between us and the dear regretted land
We call our own—as now ye penſive wait
On this bleak morning, gazing on the waves
That ſeem to leave your ſhore; from whence the wind
Is loaded to your ears, with the deep groans
Of martyr'd Saints and ſuffering Royalty,
While to your eyes the avenging power of Heaven
Appears in aweful anger to prepare
The ſtorm of vengeance, fraught with plagues and death.
Even he of milder heart, who was indeed
The ſimple ſhepherd in a ruſtic ſcene,
[20] And, 'mid the vine-clad hills of Languedoc,
Taught to the bare-foot peaſant, whoſe hard hands
Produc'd4 the nectar he could ſeldom taſte,
Submiſſion to the Lord for whom he toil'd;
He, or his brethren, who to Neuſtria's ſons
Enforc'd religious patience, when, at times,
On their indignant hearts Power's iron hand
Too ſtrongly ſtruck; eliciting ſome ſparks
Of the bold ſpirit of their native North;
Even theſe Parochial Prieſts, theſe humbled men,
Whoſe lowly undiſtinguiſh'd cottages
Witneſs'd a life of pureſt piety,
While the meek tenants were, perhaps, unknown
Each to the haughty Lord of his domain,
Who mark'd them not; the Noble ſcorning ſtill
The poor and pious Prieſt, as with ſlow pace
[21] He glided thro' the dim arch'd avenue
Which to the Caſtle led; hoping to cheer
The laſt ſad hour of ſome laborious life
That haſten'd to its cloſe—even ſuch a Man
Becomes an exile; ſtaying not to try
By temperate zeal to check his madd'ning flock,
Who, at the novel ſound of Liberty
(Ah! moſt intoxicating ſound to ſlaves!),
Start into licence—Lo! dejected now,
The wandering Paſtor mourns, with bleeding heart,
His erring people, weeps and prays for them,
And trembles for the account that he muſt give
To Heaven for ſouls entruſted to his care.—
Where the cliff, hollow'd by the wintry ſtorm,
Affords a ſeat with matted ſea-weed ſtrewn,
A ſofter form reclines; around her run,
[22] On the rough ſhingles, or the chalky bourn,
Her gay unconſcious children, ſoon amus'd;
Who pick the fretted ſtone, or gloſſy ſhell,
Or crimſon plant marine: or they contrive
The fairy veſſel, with its ribband ſail
And gilded paper pennant: in the pool,
Left by the ſalt wave on the yielding ſands,
They launch the mimic navy—Happy age!
Unmindful of the miſeries of Man!—
Alas! too long a victim to diſtreſs,
Their Mother, loſt in melancholy thought,
Lull'd for a moment by the murmurs low
Of ſullen billows, wearied by the taſk
Of having here, with ſwol'n and aching eyes
Fix'd on the grey horizon, ſince the dawn
Solicitouſly watch'd the weekly ſail
[23] From her dear native land, now yields awhile
To kind forgetfulneſs, while Fancy brings,
In waking dreams, that native land again!
Verſailles appears—its painted galleries,
And rooms of regal ſplendour; rich with gold,
Where, by long mirrors multiply'd, the crowd
Paid willing homage—and, united there,
Beauty gave charms to empire—Ah! too ſoon
From the gay viſionary pageant rous'd,
See the ſad mourner ſtart!—and, drooping, look
With tearful eyes and heaving boſom round
On drear reality—where dark'ning waves,
Urg'd by the riſing wind, unheeded foam
Near her cold rugged ſeat:—To call her thence
A fellow-ſufferer comes: dejection deep
Checks, but conceals not quite, the martial air,
[24] And that high conſciouſneſs of noble blood,
Which he has learn'd from infancy to think
Exalts him o'er the race of common men:
Nurs'd in the velvet lap of luxury,
And fed by adulation—could he learn,
That worth alone is true Nobility?
And that the peaſant who, "amid5 the ſons
"Of Reaſon, Valour, Liberty, and Virtue,
"Diſplays diſtinguiſh'd merit, is a Noble
"Of Nature's own creation!"—If even here,
If in this land of highly vaunted Freedom,
Even Britons controvert the unwelcome truth,
Can it be reliſh'd by the ſons of France?
Men, who derive their boaſted anceſtry
From the fierce leaders of religious wars,
The firſt in Chivalry's emblazon'd page;
[25] Who reckon Gueſlin, Bayard, or De Foix,
Among their brave Progenitors? Their eyes,
Accuſtom'd to regard the ſplendid trophies
Of Heraldry (that with fantaſtic hand
Mingles, like images in feveriſh dreams,
"Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire,"
With painted puns, and viſionary ſhapes;),
See not the ſimple dignity of Virtue,
But hold all baſe, whom honours ſuch as theſe
Exalt not from the crowd6—As one, who long
Has dwelt amid the artificial ſcenes
Of populous City, deems that ſplendid ſhows,
The Theatre, and pageant pomp of Courts,
Are only worth regard; forgets all taſte
For Nature's genuine beauty; in the lapſe
Of guſhing waters hears no ſoothing ſound,
[26] Nor liſtens with delight to ſighing winds,
That, on their fragrant pinions, waft the notes
Of birds rejoicing in the trangled copſe;
Nor gazes pleas'd on Ocean's ſilver breaſt,
While lightly o'er it ſails the ſummer clouds
Reflected in the wave, that, hardly heard,
Flows on the yellow ſands: ſo to his mind,
That long has liv'd where Deſpotiſm hides
His features harſh, beneath the diadem
Of worldly grandeur, abject Slavery ſeems,
If by that power impos'd, ſlavery no more:
For luxury wreathes with ſilk the iron bonds,
And hides the ugly rivets with her flowers,
Till the degenerate triflers, while they love
The glitter of the chains, forget their weight.
But more the Men7, whoſe ill acquir'd wealth
[27] Was wrung from plunder'd myriads, by the means
Too often legaliz'd by power abus'd,
Feel all the horrors of the fatal change,
When their ephemeral greatneſs, marr'd at once
(As a vain toy that Fortune's childiſh hand
Equally joy'd to faſhion or to cruſh),
Leaves them expos'd to univerſal ſcorn
For having nothing elſe; not even the claim
To honour, which reſpect for Heroes paſt
Allows to ancient titles; Men, like theſe,
Sink even beneath the level, whence baſe arts
Alone had rais'd them;—unlamented ſink,
And know that they deſerve the woes they feel.
Poor wand'ring wretches! whoſoe'er ye are,
That hopeleſs, houſeleſs, friendleſs, travel wide
O'er theſe bleak ruſſet downs; where, dimly ſeen,
[28] The ſolitary Shepherd ſhiv'ring tends
His dun diſcolour'd flock (Shepherd, unlike
Him, whom in ſong the Poet's fancy crowns
With garlands, and his crook with vi'lets binds);
Poor vagrant wretches! outcaſts of the world!
Whom no abode receives, no pariſh owns;
Roving, like Nature's commoners, the land
That boaſts ſuch general plenty: if the ſight
Of wide-extended miſery ſoftens yours
A while, ſuſpend your murmurs!—here behold
The ſtrange viciſſitudes of fate—while thus
The exil'd Nobles, from their country driven,
Whoſe richeſt luxuries were their's, muſt feel
More poignant anguiſh, than the loweſt poor,
Who, born to indigence, have learn'd to brave
Rigid Adverſity's depreſſing breath!—
[29] Ah! rather Fortune's worthleſs favourites!
Who feed on England's vitals—Penſioners
Of baſe corruption, who, in quick aſcent
To opulence unmerited, become
Giddy with pride, and as ye riſe, forgetting
The duſt ye lately left, with ſcorn look down
On thoſe beneath ye (tho' your equals once
In fortune, and in worth ſuperior ſtill,
They view the eminence, on which ye ſtand,
With wonder, not with envy; for they know
The means, by which ye reach'd it, have been ſuch
As, in all honeſt eyes, degrade ye far
Beneath the poor dependent, whoſe fad heart
Reluctant pleads for what your pride denies);
Ye venal, worthleſs hirelings of a Court!
Ye pamper'd Paraſites! whom Britons pay
[30] For forging fetters for them; rather here
Study a leſſon that concerns ye much;
And, trembling, learn, that if oppreſs'd too long,
The raging multitude, to madneſs ſtung,
Will turn on their oppreſſors; and, no more
By ſounding titles and parading forms
Bound like tame victims, will redreſs themſelves!
Then ſwept away by the reſiſtlefs torrent,
Not only all your pomp may diſappear,
But, in the tempeſt loſt, fair Order ſink
Her decent head, and lawleſs Anarchy
O'erturn celeſtial Freedom's radiant throne;—
As now in Gallia; where Confuſion, born
Of party rage and ſelfiſh love of rule,
Sully the nobleſt cauſe that ever warm'd
The heart of Patriot Virtue8—There ariſe
[31] The infernal paſſions; Vengeance, ſeeking blood,
And Avarice; and Envy's harpy fangs
Pollute the immortal ſhrine of Liberty,
Diſmay her votaries, and diſgrace her name.
Reſpect is due to principle; and they,
Who ſuffer for their conſcience, have a claim,
Whate'er that principle may be, to praiſe.
Theſe ill-ſtarr'd Exiles then, who, bound by ties,
To them the bonds of honour; who reſign'd
Their country to preſerve them, and now ſeek
In England an aſylum—well deſerve
To find that (every prejudice forgot,
Which pride and ignorance teaches), we for them
Feel as our brethren; and that Engliſh hearts,
Of juſt compaſſion ever own the ſway,
As truly as our element, the deep,
[32] Obeys the mild dominion of the Moon—
This they have found; and may they find it ſtill!
Thus may'ſt thou, Britain, triumph!—May thy foes,
By Reaſon's gen'rous potency ſubdued,
Learn, that the God thou worſhippeſt, delights
In acts of pure humanity!—May thine
Be ſtill ſuch bloodleſs laurels! nobler far
Than thoſe acquir'd at Creſſy or Poictiers,
Or of more recent growth, thoſe well beſtow'd
On him who ſtood on Calpe's blazing height
Amid the thunder of a warring world,
Illuſtrious rather from the crowds he ſav'd
From flood and fire, than from the ranks who fell
Beneath his valour!—Actions ſuch as theſe,
Like incenſe riſing to the Throne of Heaven,
Far better juſtify the pride, that ſwells
[33] In Britiſh boſoms, than the deafening roar
Of Victory from a thouſand brazen throats,
That tell with what ſucceſs wide-waſting War
Has by our brave Compatriots thinned the world.
END OF BOOK I.
NOTES TO THE FIRST BOOK
[]"ENDS the chace."]—I have a confuſed notion, that this expreſſion, with nearly the ſame application, is to be found in Young: but I cannot refer to it.
"Regrets his pious priſon and his beads."]—Leſt the ſame attempts at miſrepreſentation ſhould now be made, as have been made on former occaſions, it is neceſſary to repeat, that nothing is farther from my thoughts, than to reflect invidiouſly on the Emigrant Clergy, whoſe ſteadi⯑neſs of principle excites veneration, as much as their ſufferings compaſſion. Adverſity has now taught them the charity and humility they perhaps wanted, when they made it a part of their faith, that ſalvation could be obtained in no other religion than their own.
"The ſplendid palaces."]—Let it not be conſidered as an inſult to men in fallen fortune, if theſe luxuries (undoubtedly inconſiſtent with their profeſſion) be here enumerated—France is not the only country, where the ſplendour and indulgences of the higher, and the poverty and depreſſion of the inferior Clergy, have alike proved injurious to the cauſe of Religion.
See the finely deſcriptive Verſes written at Montauban in France in 1750, by Dr. Joſeph Warton. Printed in Dodſley's Miſcellanies, Vol. IV. page 203.
"Who amid the ſons
"Of Reaſon, Valour, Liberty, and Virtue,
[36]"Diſplays diſtinguiſhed merit, is a Noble
"Of Nature's own creation."]—
Theſe lines are Thomſon's, and are among thoſe ſentiments which are now called (when uſed by living writers), not common-place declamation, but ſentiments of dangerous tendency.
"Exalt not from the crowd."]—It has been ſaid, and with great ap⯑pearance of truth, that the contempt in which the Nobility of France held the common people, was remembered, and with all that vindictive aſperity which long endurance of oppreſſion naturally excites, when, by a wonderful concurrence of circumſtances, the people acquired the power of retaliation. Yet let me here add, what ſeems to be in ſome degree inconſiſtent with the former charge, that the French are good maſters to their ſervants, and that in their treatment of their Negro ſlaves, they are allowed to be more mild and merciful than other Europeans.
"But more the Men."]—The Financiers and Fermiers Generaux are here intended. In the preſent moment of clamour againſt all thoſe who have ſpoken or written in favour of the firſt Revolution of France, the declaimers ſeem to have forgotten, that under the reign of a mild and eaſy tempered Monarch, in the moſt voluptuous Court in the world, the abuſes by which men of this deſcription were enriched, had ariſen to ſuch height, that their prodigality exhauſted the immenſe reſources of France: and, unable to ſupply the exigencies of Government, the Miniſtry were compelled to call Le Tiers Etat; a meeting that gave birth to the Revolu⯑tion, which has ſince been ſo ruinouſly conducted.
"The breaſt of Patriot Virtue."]—This ſentiment will probably renew againſt me the indignation of thoſe, who have an intereſt in aſſerting that no ſuch virtue any where exiſts.
THE EMIGRANTS.
BOOK THE SECOND.
[]BOOK II.
[]Quippe ubi fas verſum atque nefas: tot bella per orbem
Tam multae ſcelerum facies; non ullus aratro
Dignus honos: ſqualent abductis arva colonis,
Et curva rigidum falces conflantur in enſem
Hinc movet Euphrates, illinc Germania bellum
Vicinae ruptis inter ſe legibus urbes
Arma ferunt: ſaevit toto Mars impius orbe.
GEOR. lib. i.
SCENE, on an Eminence on one of thoſe Downs, which afford to the South a View of the Sea; to the North of the Weald of Suſſex.
TIME, an Afternoon in April, 1793.
LONG wintry months are paſt; the Moon that now
Lights her pale creſcent even at noon, has made
Four times her revolution; ſince with ſtep,
Mournful and ſlow, along the wave-worn cliff,
Penſive I took my ſolitary way,
Loſt in deſpondence, while contemplating
Not my own wayward deſtiny alone,
(Hard as it is, and difficult to bear!)
But in beholding the unhappy lot
[40] Of the lorn Exiles; who, amid the ſtorms
Of wild diſaſtrous Anarchy, are thrown,
Like ſhipwreck'd ſufferers, on England's coaſt,
To ſee, perhaps, no more their native land,
Where Deſolation riots: They, like me,
From fairer hopes and happier proſpects driven,
Shrink from the future, and regret the paſt.
But on this Upland ſcene, while April comes,
With fragrant airs, to fan my throbbing breaſt,
Fain would I ſnatch an interval from Care,
That weighs my wearied ſpirit down to earth;
Courting, once more, the influence of Hope
(For "Hope" ſtill waits upon the flowery prime)
As here I mark Spring's humid hand unfold
The early leaves that fear capricious winds,
While, even on ſhelter'd banks, the timid flowers
[41] Give, half reluctantly, their warmer hues
To mingle with the primroſes' pale ſtars.
No ſhade the leafleſs copſes yet afford,
Nor hide the moſſy labours of the Thruſh,
That, ſtartled, darts acroſs the narrow path;
But quickly re-aſſur'd, reſumes his taſk,
Or adds his louder notes to thoſe that riſe
From yonder tufted brake; where the white buds
Of the firſt thorn are mingled with the leaves
Of that which bloſſoms on the brow of May.
Ah! 'twill not be:—So many years have paſs'd,
Since, on my native hills, I learn'd to gaze
On theſe delightful landſcapes; and thoſe years
Have taught me ſo much ſorrow, that my ſoul
Feels not the joy reviving Nature brings;
But, in dark retroſpect, dejected dwells
[42] On human follies, and on human woes.—
What is the promiſe of the infant year,
The lively verdure, or the burſting blooms,
To thoſe, who ſhrink from horrors ſuch as War
Spreads o'er the affrighted world? With ſwimming eye,
Back on the paſt they throw their mournful looks,
And ſee the Temple, which they fondly hop'd
Reaſon would raiſe to Liberty, deſtroy'd
By ruffian hands; while, on the ruin'd maſs,
Fluſh'd with hot blood, the Fiend of Diſcord ſits
In ſavage triumph; mocking every plea
Of policy and juſtice, as ſhe ſhews
The headleſs corſe of one, whoſe only crime
Was being born a Monarch—Mercy turns,
From ſpectacle ſo dire, her ſwol'n eyes;
And Liberty, with calm, unruffled brow
[43] Magnanimous, as conſcious of her ſtrength
In Reaſon's panoply, ſcorns to diſtain
Her righteous cauſe with carnage, and reſigns
To Fraud and Anarchy the infuriate crowd.—
What is the promiſe of the infant year
To thoſe, who (while the poor but peaceful hind
Pens, unmoleſted, the encreaſing flock
Of his rich maſter in this ſea-fenc'd iſle)
Survey, in neighbouring countries, ſcenes that make
The ſick heart ſhudder; and the Man, who thinks,
Bluſh for his ſpecies? There the trumpet's voice
Drowns the ſoft warbling of the woodland choir;
And violets, lurking in their turfy beds
Beneath the flow'ring thorn, are ſtain'd with blood.
There fall, at once, the ſpoiler and the ſpoil'd;
While War, wide-ravaging, annihilates
[44] The hope of cultivation; gives to Fiends,
The meagre, ghaſtly Fiends of Want and Woe,
The blaſted land—There, taunting in the van
Of vengeance-breathing armies, Inſult ſtalks;
And, in the ranks, "1Famine, and Sword, and Fire,
"Crouch for employment."—Lo! the ſuffering world,
Torn by the fearful conflict, ſhrinks, amaz'd,
From Freedom's name, uſurp'd and miſapplied,
And, cow'ring to the purple Tyrant's rod,
Deems that the leſſer ill—Deluded Men!
Ere ye prophane her ever-glorious name,
Or catalogue the thouſands that have bled
Reſiſting her; or thoſe, who greatly died
Martyrs to Liberty—revert awhile
To the black ſcroll, that tells of regal crimes
Committed to deſtroy her; rather count
[45] The hecatombs of victims, who have fallen
Beneath a ſingle deſpot; or who gave
Their waſted lives for ſome diſputed claim
Between anointed robbers:2Monſters both!
"3Oh! Poliſh'd perturbation—golden care!"
So ſtrangely coveted by feeble Man
To lift him o'er his fellows;—Toy, for which
Such ſhowers of blood have drench'd th' affrighted earth—
Unfortunate his lot, whoſe luckleſs head
Thy jewel'd circlet, lin'd with thorns, has bound;
And who, by cuſtom's laws, obtains from thee
Hereditary right to rule, uncheck'd,
Submiſſive myriads: for untemper'd power,
Like ſteel ill form'd, injures the hand
It promis'd to protect—Unhappy France!
If e'er thy lilies, trampled now in duſt,
[46] And blood-beſpotted, ſhall again revive
In ſilver ſplendour, may the wreath be wov'n
By voluntary hands; and Freemen, ſuch
As England's ſelf might boaſt, unite to place
The guarded diadem on his fair brow,
Where Loyalty may join with Liberty
To fix it firmly.—In the rugged ſchool
Of ſtern Adverſity ſo early train'd,
His future life, perchance, may emulate
That of the brave Bernois4, ſo juſtly call'd
The darling of his people; who rever'd
The Warrior leſs, than they ador'd the Man!
But ne'er may Party Rage, perverſe and blind,
And baſe Venality, prevail to raiſe
To public truſt, a wretch, whoſe private vice
Makes even the wildeſt profligate recoil;
[47] And who, with hireling ruffians leagu'd, has burſt
The laws of Nature and Humanity!
Wading, beneath the Patriot's ſpecious maſk,
And in Equality's illuſive name,
To empire thro' a ſtream of kindred blood—
Innocent priſoner!—moſt unhappy heir
Of fatal greatneſs, who art ſuffering now
For all the crimes and follies of thy race;
Better for thee, if o'er thy baby brow
The regal miſchief never had been held:
Then, in an humble ſphere, perhaps content,
Thou hadſt been free and joyous on the heights
Of Pyrennean mountains, ſhagg'd with woods
Of cheſnut, pine, and oak: as on theſe hills
Is yonder little thoughtleſs ſhepherd lad,
Who, on the ſlope abrupt of downy turf
[48] Reclin'd in playful indolence, ſends off
The chalky ball, quick bounding far below;
While, half forgetful of his ſimple taſk,
Hardly his length'ning ſhadow, or the bells'
Slow tinkling of his flock, that ſupping tend
To the brown fallows in the vale beneath,
Where nightly it is folded, from his ſport
Recal the happy idler.—While I gaze
On his gay vacant countenance, my thoughts
Compare with his obſcure, laborious lot,
Thine, moſt unfortunate, imperial Boy!
Who round thy ſullen priſon daily hear'ſt
The ſavage howl of Murder, as it ſeeks
Thy unoffending life: while ſad within
Thy wretched Mother, petrified with grief,
Views thee with ſtony eyes, and cannot weep!—
[49] Ah! much I mourn thy ſorrows, hapleſs Queen!
And deem thy expiation made to Heaven
For every fault, to which Proſperity
Betray'd thee, when it plac'd thee on a throne
Where boundleſs power was thine, and thou wert rais'd
High (as it ſeem'd) above the envious reach
Of deſtiny! Whate'er thy errors were,
Be they no more remember'd; tho' the rage
Of Party ſwell'd them to ſuch crimes, as bade
Compaſſion ſtifle every ſigh that roſe
For thy diſaſtrous lot—More than enough
Thou haſt endur'd; and every Engliſh heart,
Ev'n thoſe, that higheſt beat in Freedom's cauſe,
Diſclaim as baſe, and of that cauſe unworthy,
The Vengeance, or the Fear, that makes thee ſtill
A miſerable priſoner!—Ah! who knows,
[50] From ſad experience, more than I, to feel
For thy deſponding ſpirit, as it ſinks
Beneath procraſtinated fears for thoſe
More dear to thee than life! But eminence
Of miſery is thine, as once of joy;
And, as we view the ſtrange viciſſitude,
We aſk anew, where happineſs is found?—
Alas! in rural life, where youthful dreams
See the Arcadia that Romance deſcribes,
Not even Content reſides!—In yon low hut
Of clay and thatch, where riſes the grey ſmoke
Of ſmold'ring turf, cut from the adjoining moor,
The labourer, its inhabitant, who toils
From the firſt dawn of twilight, till the Sun
Sinks in the roſy waters of the Weſt,
Finds that with poverty it cannot dwell;
[51] For bread, and ſcanty bread, is all he earns
For him and for his houſehold—Should Diſeaſe,
Born of chill wintry rains, arreſt his arm,
Then, thro' his patch'd and ſtraw-ſtuff'd caſement, peeps
The ſqualid figure of extremeſt Want;
And from the Pariſh the reluctant dole,
Dealt by th' unfeeling farmer, hardly ſaves
The ling'ring ſpark of life from cold extinction:
Then the bright Sun of Spring, that ſmiling bids
All other animals rejoice, beholds,
Crept from his pallet, the emaciate wretch
Attempt, with feeble effort, to reſume
Some heavy taſk, above his waſted ſtrength,
Turning his wiſtful looks (how much in vain!)
To the deſerted manſion, where no more
The owner (gone to gayer ſcenes) reſides,
[52] Who made even luxury, Virtue; while he gave
The ſcatter'd crumbs to honeſt Poverty.—
But, tho' the landſcape be too oft deform'd
By figures ſuch as theſe, yet Peace is here,
And o'er our vallies, cloath'd with ſpringing corn,
No hoſtile hoof ſhall trample, nor fierce flames
Wither the wood's young verdure, ere it form
Gradual the laughing May's luxuriant ſhade;
For, by the rude ſea guarded, we are ſafe,
And feel not evils ſuch as with deep ſighs
The Emigrants deplore, as they recal
The Summer paſt, when Nature ſeem'd to loſe
Her courſe in wild diſtemperature, and aid,
With ſeaſons all revers'd, deſtructive War.
Shuddering, I view the pictures they have drawn
Of deſolated countries, where the ground,
[53] Stripp'd of its unripe produce, was thick ſtrewn
With various Death—the war-horſe falling there
By famine, and his rider by the ſword.
The moping clouds ſail'd heavy charg'd with rain,
And burſting o'er the mountains miſty brow,
Deluged, as with an inland ſea, the vales5;
Where, thro' the ſullen evening's lurid gloom,
Riſing, like columns of volcanic fire,
The flames of burning villages illum'd
The waſte of water; and the wind, that howl'd
Along its troubled ſurface, brought the groans
Of plunder'd peaſants, and the frantic ſhrieks
Of mothers for their children; while the brave,
To pity ſtill alive, liſten'd aghaſt
To theſe dire echoes, hopeleſs to prevent
The evils they beheld, or check the rage,
[54] Which ever, as the people of one land
Meet in contention, fires the human heart
With ſavage thirſt of kindred blood, and makes
Man loſe his nature; rendering him more fierce
Than the gaunt monſters of the howling waſte.
Oft have I heard the melancholy tale,
Which, all their native gaiety forgot,
Theſe Exiles tell—How Hope impell'd them on,
Reckleſs of tempeſt, hunger, or the ſword,
Till order'd to retreat, they knew not why,
From all their flattering proſpects, they became
The prey of dark ſuſpicion and regret6:
Then, in deſpondence, ſunk the unnerv'd arm
Of gallant Loyalty—At every turn
Shame and diſgrace appear'd, and ſeem'd to mock
Their ſcatter'd ſquadrons; which the warlike youth,
[55] Unable to endure7, often implor'd,
As the laſt act of friendſhip, from the hand
Of ſome brave comrade, to receive the blow
That freed the indignant ſpirit from its pain.
To a wild mountain, whoſe bare ſummit hides
Its broken eminence in clouds; whoſe ſteeps
Are dark with woods; where the receding rocks
Are worn by torrents of diſſolving ſnow,
A wretched Woman, pale and breathleſs, flies!
And, gazing round her, liſtens to the ſound
Of hoſtile footſteps—No! it dies away:
Nor noiſe remains, but of the cataract,
Or ſurly breeze of night, that mutters low
Among the thickets, where ſhe trembling ſeeks
A temporary ſhelter—claſping cloſe
To her hard-heaving heart her ſleeping child,
[56] All ſhe could reſcue of the innocent groupe
That yeſterday ſurrounded her—Eſcap'd
Almoſt by miracle! Fear, frantic Fear,
Wing'd her weak feet: yet, half repentant now
Her headlong haſte, ſhe wiſhes ſhe had ſtaid
To die with thoſe affrighted Fancy paints
The lawleſs ſoldier's victims—Hark! again
The driving tempeſt bears the cry of Death,
And, with deep ſullen thunder, the dread ſound
Of cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth;
While, burſting in the air, the murderous bomb
Glares o'er her manſion. Where the ſplinters fall,
Like ſcatter'd comets, its deſtructive path
Is mark'd by wreaths of flame!—Then, overwhelm'd
Beneath accumulated horror, ſinks
The deſolate mourner; yet, in Death itſelf,
[57] True to maternal tenderneſs, ſhe tries
To ſave the unconſcious infant from the ſtorm
In which ſhe periſhes; and to protect
This laſt dear object of her ruin'd hopes
From prowling monſters, that from other hills,
More inacceſſible, and wilder waſtes,
Lur'd by the ſcent of ſlaughter, follow fierce
Contending hoſts, and to polluted fields
Add dire increaſe of horrors—But alas!
The Mother and the Infant periſh both!—
The feudal Chief, whoſe Gothic battlements
Frown on the plain beneath, returning home
From diſtant lands, alone and in diſguiſe,
Gains at the fall of night his Caſtle walls,
But, at the vacant gate, no Porter ſits
To wait his Lord's admittance!—In the courts
[58] All is drear ſilence!—Gueſſing but too well
The fatal truth, he ſhudders as he goes
Thro' the mute hall; where, by the blunted light
That the dim moon thro' painted caſements lends,
He ſees that devaſtation has been there:
Then, while each hideous image to his mind
Riſes terrific, o'er a bleeding corſe
Stumbling he falls; another interrupts
His ſtaggering feet—all, all who us'd to ruſh
With joy to meet him—all his family
Lie murder'd in his way!—And the day dawns
On a wild raving Maniac, whom a fate
So ſudden and calamitous has robb'd
Of reaſon; and who round his vacant walls
Screams unregarded, and reproaches Heaven!—
Such are thy dreadful trophies, ſavage War!
[59] And evils ſuch as theſe, or yet more dire,
Which the pain'd mind recoils from, all are thine—
The purple Peſtilence, that to the grave
Sends whom the ſword has ſpar'd, is thine; and thine
The Widow's anguiſh and the Orphan's tears!—
Woes ſuch as theſe does Man inflict on Man;
And by the cloſet murderers, whom we ſtyle
Wiſe Politicians, are the ſchemes prepar'd,
Which, to keep Europe's wavering balance even,
Depopulate her kingdoms, and conſign
To tears and anguiſh half a bleeding world!—
Oh! could the time return, when thoughts like theſe
Spoil'd not that gay delight, which vernal Suns,
Illuminating hills, and woods, and fields,
Gave to my infant ſpirits—Memory come!
And from diſtracting cares, that now deprive
[60] Such ſcenes of all their beauty, kindly bear
My fancy to thoſe hours of ſimple joy,
When, on the banks of Arun, which I ſee
Make its irriguous courſe thro' yonder meads,
I play'd; unconſcious then of future ill!
There (where, from hollows fring'd with yellow broom,
The birch with ſilver rind, and fairy leaf,
Aſlant the low ſtream trembles) I have ſtood,
And meditated how to venture beſt
Into the ſhallow current, to procure
The willow herb of glowing purple ſpikes,
Or flags, whoſe ſword-like leaves conceal'd the tide,
Startling the timid reed-bird from her neſt,
As with aquatic flowers I wove the wreath,
Such as, collected by the ſhepherd girls,
Deck in the villages the turfy ſhrine,
[61] And mark the arrival of propitious May.—
How little dream'd I then the time would come,
When the bright Sun of that delicious month
Should, from diſturb'd and artificial ſleep,
Awaken me to never-ending toil,
To terror and to tears!—Attempting ſtill,
With feeble hands and cold deſponding heart,
To ſave my children from the o'erwhelming wrongs,
That have for ten long years been heap'd on me!—
The fearful ſpectres of chicane and fraud
Have, Proteus like, ſtill chang'd their hideous forms
(As the Law lent its plauſible diſguiſe),
Purſuing my faint ſteps; and I have ſeen
Friendſhip's ſweet bonds (which were ſo early form'd,)
And once I fondly thought of amaranth
Inwove with ſilver ſeven times tried) give way,
[62] And fail; as theſe green fan-like leaves of fern
Will wither at the touch of Autumn's froſt.
Yet there are thoſe, whoſe patient pity ſtill
Hears my long murmurs; who, unwearied, try
With lenient hands to bind up every wound
My wearied ſpirit feels, and bid me go
"Right onward [...]"—a calm votary of the Nymph,
Who, from her adamantine rock, points out
To conſcious rectitude the rugged path,
That leads at length to Peace!—Ah! yes, my friends
Peace will at laſt be mine; for in the Grave
Is Peace—and paſs a few ſhort years, perchance
A few ſhort months, and all the various pain
I now endure ſhall be forgotten there,
And no memorial ſhall remain of me,
Save in your boſoms; while even your regret
[63] Shall loſe its poignancy, as ye reflect
What complicated woes that grave conceals!
But, if the little praiſe, that may await
The Mother's efforts, ſhould provoke the ſpleen
Of Prieſt or Levite; and they then arraign
The duſt that cannot hear them; be it yours
To vindicate my humble fame; to ſay,
That, not in ſelfiſh ſufferings abſorb'd,
"I gave to miſery all I had, my tears8."
And if, where regulated ſanctity
Pours her long oriſons to Heaven, my voice
Was ſeldom heard, that yet my prayer was made
To him who hears even ſilence; not in domes
Of human architecture, fill'd with crowds,
But on theſe hills, where boundleſs, yet diſtinct,
Even as a map, beneath are ſpread the fields
His bounty cloaths; divided here by woods,
[64] And there by commons rude, or winding brooks,
While I might breathe the air perfum'd with flowers,
Or the freſh odours of the mountain turf;
And gaze on clouds above me, as they ſail'd
Majeſtic: or remark the reddening north,
When bickering arrows of electric fire
Flaſh on the evening ſky—I made my prayer
In uniſon with murmuring waves that now
Swell with dark tempeſts, now are mild and blue,
As the bright arch above; for all to me
Declare omniſcient goodneſs; nor need I
Declamatory eſſays to incite
My wonder or my praiſe, when every leaf
That Spring unfolds, and every ſimple bud,
More forcibly impreſſes on my heart
His power and wiſdom—Ah! while I adore
That goodneſs, which deſign'd to all that lives
[65] Some taſte of happineſs, my ſoul is pain'd
By the variety of woes that Man
For Man creates—his bleſſings often turn'd
To plagues and curſes: Saint-like Piety,
Miſled by Superſtition, has deſtroy'd
More than Ambition; and the ſacred flame
Of Liberty becomes a raging fire,
When Licence and Confuſion bid it blaze.
From thy high throne, above yon radiant ſtars,
O Power Omnipotent! with mercy view
This ſuffering globe, and cauſe thy creatures ceaſe,
With ſavage fangs, to tear her bleeding breaſt:
Reſtrain that rage for power, that bids a Man,
Himſelf a worm, deſire unbounded rule
O'er beings like himſelf: Teach the hard hearts
Of rulers, that the pooreſt hind, who dies
For their unrighteous quarrels, in thy ſight
[66] Is equal to the imperious Lord, that leads
His diſciplin'd deſtroyers to the field.—
May lovely Freedom, in her genuine charms,
Aided by ſtern but equal Juſtice, drive
From the enſanguin'd earth the hell-born fiends
Of Pride, Oppreſſion, Avarice, and Revenge,
That ruin what thy mercy made ſo fair!
Then ſhall theſe ill-ſtarr'd wanderers, whoſe ſad fate
Theſe deſultory lines lament, regain
Their native country; private vengeance then
To public virtue yield; and the fierce feuds,
That long have torn their deſolated land,
May (even as ſtorms, that agitate the air,
Drive noxious vapours from the blighted earth)
Serve, all tremendous as they are, to fix
The reign of Reaſon, Liberty, and Peace!
NOTES TO THE SECOND BOOK
[]"HOPE waits upon the flowery prime.."]—
"Famine, and Sword, and Fire, crouch for employment."]—
SHAKSPEARE.
"Monſters both!"]—Such was the cauſe of quarrel between the Houſes of York and Lancaſter; and of too many others, with which the page of Hiſtory reproaches the reaſon of man.
"Oh! poliſh'd perturbation!—golden care!"]
SHAKSPEARE.
"The brave Bernois."]—Henry the Fourth of France. It may be ſaid of this monarch, that had all the French ſovereigns reſembled him, deſpotiſm would have loſt its horrors; yet he had conſiderable failings, and his greateſt virtues may be chiefly imputed to his education in the School of Adverſity.
"Delug'd, as with an inland ſea, the vales."]—From the heavy and inceſſant rains during the laſt campaign, the armies were often compelled to march for many miles through marſhes overflowed; ſuffering the extre⯑mities of cold and fatigue. The peaſants frequently miſled them; and, after having paſſed theſe inundations at the hazard of their lives, they were ſometimes under the neceſſity of croſſing them a ſecond and a third time; their evening quarters after ſuch a day of exertion were often in a wood without ſhelter; and their repaſt, inſtead of bread, unripe corn, without any other preparation than being maſhed into a ſort of paſte.
[68]
"The prey of dark ſuſpicion and regret."]—It is remarkable, that notwithſtanding the exceſſive hardſhips to which the army of the Emi⯑grants was expoſed, very few in it ſuffered from diſeaſe till they began to retreat; then it was that deſpondence conſigned to the moſt miſerable death many brave men who deſerved a better fate; and then deſpair im⯑pelled ſome to ſuicide, while others fell by mutual wounds, unable to ſurvive diſappointment and humiliation.
"Right onward."]
MILTON, Sonnet 22d.
"I gave to miſery all I had, my tears."]
GRAY.
THE END.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3919 The emigrants a poem in two books By Charlotte Smith. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-6089-D