THE VERNAL AGUE

Where the pheasant[113] roosts at night, Lonely, drowsy, out of sight,[114]

Where the evening breezes sigh Solitary, there stray I.

Close along the shaded stream, Source of many a youthful dream, Where branchy cedars dim the day, There I muse, and there I stray.

Yet, what can please amid this bower, That charmed the eye for many an hour!

The budding leaf is lost to me, And dead the bloom on every tree.

The winding stream, that glides along, The lark, that tunes her early song, The mountain's brow, the sloping vale, The murmuring of the western gale,

Have lost their charms!--the blooms are gone!

Trees put a darker aspect on, The stream disgusts that wanders by, And every zephyr brings a sigh.

Great guardian of our feeble kind!

Restoring Nature, lend thine aid!

And o'er the features of the mind Renew those colours, that must fade, When vernal suns forbear to roll, And endless winter chills the soul.

[113] "Blackbird."--_Ed. 1786._

[114] "In groves of half distinguish'd light."--_Ib._

GENERAL GAGE'S CONFESSION[115]

Being the Substance of His Excellency's Last Conference with his Ghostly Father, Father Francis

Compa.s.sion!--'tis a stranger to my heart, Or if it comes--unwelcome guest depart,-- Boston, farewell, thy final doom is pa.s.s'd, North hears my prayers, and I'm recall'd at last;[116]

Sailor on high thy canvas wings display, Howl, ye west winds, and hurry me away; Rise, boisterous clouds, and bellowing from on high, Whisk me along, ye tyrants of the sky-- Quick! let me leave these friendless sh.o.r.es that shed Ten thousand curses on my hated head.-- But why so swift, why ask I gales so strong, Since conscience, cruel conscience, goes along?

Must conscience rack my bosom o'er the deep?

I live in h.e.l.l while she forbears to sleep; Come, Father Francis, be my heart display'd, My burden'd conscience asks thy pious aid; Come, if confession can discharge my sin, I will confess till h.e.l.l itself shall grin, And own the world has found in me again A second Nero; nay, another Cain.

_Friar_

Why swells thy breast with such distressing woe?

Your honour surely has the sense to know Your sins are venial--trust me when I say Your deepest sins may all be purged away.-- But if misfortunes rouse this nightly grief, Sure Friar Francis can afford relief: I thought e're this that leaders of renown Would scorn to bow to giddy fortune's frown; See yon bright star (the dewy eve begun) Walks his gay round and sparkles in the sun; Faints not, encircled by the ambient blaze, Tho' pestering clouds may sometimes blunt his rays; But come, confession makes the conscience light, Confess, my son, and be absolv'd this night.

_Gage_

First of the first, I tell it in your ear (For tho' we whisper, heaven, you know, can hear) This faultless country ne'er deserv'd my hate; Just are its pleas; unmerited its fate.

When North ordained me to this thankless place, My conscience rose and star'd me in the face, And spite of all I did to quench its flame, Convinc'd me I was wrong before I came.-- But what, alas, can mortal heroes do, They are but men, as sacred writings shew,-- Tho' I refus'd, they urged me yet the more, Nay, even the king descended to implore, And often with him in his closet pent, Was plagu'd to death to rule this armament; Who could a monarch's favourite wish deny?

I yielded just for peace--ay, faith did I-- If this be sin, O tell me, reverend sage, What will, alas, become of guilty Gage?

_Friar_

If this be sin--'tis sin, I make no doubt, But trust me, honour'd sir, I'll help you out, Even tho' your arms had rag'd from town to town, And mow'd like flags these rebel nations down, And joyful bell return'd the murdering din, And you yourself the master butcher been,-- All should be well--from sins like this, I ween, A dozen ma.s.ses shall discharge you clean; Small pains in purgatory you'll endure, And h.e.l.l, you know, is only for the poor, Pay well the priest and fear no station there, For heaven must yield to vehemence of prayer.

_Gage_

Heaven grant that this may be my smallest sin; Alas, good friar, I'm yet deeper in-- Come round my bed, with friendly groans condole, To gratify my paunch, I've wrong'd my soul; Arms I may wield and murder by command, Spread devastation thro' a guiltless land, Whole ranks to h.e.l.l with howling cannon sweep-- But what had I to do with stealing sheep?[117]

I've read my orders, conn'd them o'er with care, But not a word of stealing sheep is there; Come, holy friar, can you make a shift To help a sinner at so dead a lift?

Or must I onward to perdition go, With theft and murder to complete my woe?

_Friar_

Murder--nay, hold!--your honour is too sad, Things are not yet, I hope, become so bad, Murder, indeed--you've stole, and that I know, But, sir, believe me, you've not struck a blow; Some few Americans have bled, 'tis true, But 'twas the soldiers killed them, and not you.

_Gage_

Well said, but will this subtile reasoning stand?

Did not the soldiers murder by command, By my command?--Friar, they did, I swear, And I must answer for their deeds, I fear.

_Friar_

Let each man answer for his proper deed, From sins of murder I p.r.o.nounce you freed, And this same reasoning will your honour keep From imputations of purloining sheep: Wallace for this to Rome shall post away, And for this crying sin severely pay, And tho' his zeal may think his penance slight, Hair cloth and logs shall be his bed at night, Coa.r.s.e fare by day--till his repeated groans Convince the world he for this sin atones.

_Gage_

Alas, poor Wallace, how I pity thee!-- But let him go--'tis better him than me; Yes, let him harbour in some convent there, And fleas monastic bite him till he swear; But, friar, have you patience for the rest?

Half my transgressions are not yet confest.

_Friar_

Not half!--you are a harmless man, I'm told-- Pray, cut them short--the supper will be cold.

_Gage_

Some devil, regardless of exalted station, In evil hour a.s.sail'd me with temptation, To issue forth a d.a.m.ned proclamation, What prince, what king, from Belzebub is free, He tempted Judas, and has tempted me!

This, this, O friar, was a deadly flaw, This for the civil founded martial law,[118]

This crime will Gage to Lucifer consign, And purgatory must for this be mine.

Next--and for this I breathe my deepest sigh, Ah cruel, flinty, hard, remorseless I!-- How could I crowd my dungeons dark and low With wounded captives of our injur'd foe?

How could my heart, more hard than hardened steel, Laugh at the pangs that mangled captives feel?

Why sneer'd I at my fellow men distrest, Why banished pity from this iron breast!

O friar, could heaven approve my acting so, Heaven still to mercy swift, to vengeance slow?-- O no--you say, then cease your soothing chat, Cowards are cruel, I can instance that.-- But hold! why did I, when the fact was done, Deny it all to gallant Washington?

Why did I stuff the epistolary page With vile invectives only worthy Gage?[119]

Come, friar, help--shall I recant and say I writ my letter on a drunken day?

How will it sound, if men should chance to tell A drunken hero can compose so well?

_Friar_

Your fears are groundless, give me all the blame, I writ the letter, you but sign'd your name, Nor let the proclamation cloud your mind, 'Twas I compos'd it and you only sign'd.-- I, Friar Francis--papist tho' I be, You private papists can't but value me; Your sins in Lethe shall be swallowed up, I'll clear you, if you please, before we sup.

_Gage_