A Ballad

The Lawns were dry in Euston Park;(Here Truth inspires my Tale)The lonely footpath, still and dark,Led over Hill and Dale.

Benighted was an ancient Dame,And fearful haste she madeTo gain the vale of Fakenham,And hail its Willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops,But follow'd faster still;And echo'd to the darksome CopseThat whisper'd on the Hill;

Where clam'rous Rooks, yet scarcely hush'd,Bespoke a peopled shade;And many a wing the foliage brush'd,And hov'ring circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing DeerThat sought the Shades by day,Now started from her path with fear,And gave the Stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fearsCame o'er her troubled mind;When now, a short quick step she hearsCome patting close behind.

She turn'd; it stopt;--nought could she seeUpon the gloomy plain!But, as she strove the Sprite to flee,She heard the same again.

Now terror seiz'd her quaking frame;For, where the path was bare,The trotting Ghost kept on the same!She mutter'd many a pray'r.

Yet once again, amidst her frightShe tried what sight could do;When through the cheating glooms of night,A MONSTER stood in view.

Regardless of whate'er she felt,It follow'd down the plain!She own'd her sins, and down she knelt,And said her pray'rs again.

Then on she sped: and Hope grew strong,The white park gate in view;Which pushing hard, so long it swungThat Ghost and all pass'd through.

Loud fell the gate against the post!Her heart-strings like to crack:For, much she fear'd the grisly GhostWould leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the Goblin went,As it had done before:--Her strength and resolution spent,She fainted at the door.

Out came her Husband much surpris'd:Out came her Daughter dear:Good-natur'd Souls! all unadvis'dOf what they had to fear.

The Candle's gleam pierc'd through the night,Some short space o'er the green;And there the little trotting SpriteDistinctly might be seen.

An Ass's Foal had lost its DamWithin the spacious Park;And simple as the playful LambHad follow'd in the dark.

No Goblin he; no imp of sin:No crimes had ever known.They took the shaggy stranger in,And rear'd him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle roundUpon the Cottage floor:The Matron learn'd to love the soundThat frighten'd her before.

A favorite the Ghost became;And, 'twas his fate to thrive:And long he liv'd and spread his fame,And kept the joke alive.

For many a laugh went through the Vale;And some conviction tod:--Each thought some other GoblinPerhaps, was just as true.

An Old French Mariner am I,Whom Time hath render'd poor and gray;Hear, conquering Britons, ere I die,What anguish prompts me thus to say.

I've rode o'er many a dreadful wave,I've seen the reeking blood descend:I've heard the last groans of the brave;--The shipmate dear, the steady Friend.

'Twas when De Grasse the battle join'dAnd struck, on April's fatal morn:I left three smiling boys behind,And saw my Country's Lily torn.

There, as I brav'd the storms of Fate,Dead in my arms my Brother fell;Here sits forlorn his widow'd Mate,Who weeps whene'er the tale I tell.

Thy reign, sweet Peace, was o'er too soon;War, piecemeal, robs me of my joy:For, on the bloodstain'd first of JuneDeath took my eldest favorite Boy.

The other two enrag'd arose;'Our Country claims our lives,' they said.With them I lost my Soul's repose;That fatal hour my last hope fled.

With BRUYES the proud NILE they sought;Where one in ling'ring wounds expir'd;While yet the other bravely foughtThe Orient's magazine was fir'd.

And must I mourn my Country's shame?And envious curse the conquering Foe?No more I feel that thirst of Fame;--AllI can feel is private woe.

E'en all the joy that Vict'ry brings,(Her bellowing Guns, and flaming pride)Cold, momentary comfort flingsAround where weeping Friends reside.

Whose blighted bud no Sun shall cheer,Whose Lamp of Life no longer shine:Some Parent, Brother, Child, most dear,Who ventur'd, and who died like mine.

Proud crested Fiend, the World's worst foe,Ambition, canst thou boast one deed,Whence no unsightly horrors flow,Nor private peace is seen to bleed?

Ah! why do these old Eyes remainTo see succeeding mornings rise!My Wife is dead, my Children slain.And Poverty is all my prize.

Yet shall not poor enfeebled AgeBreathe forth revenge;--but rather sayO God, who seest the Battle's rage,Take from men's hearts that rage away.

From the vindictive tongue of strifeBid Hatred and false Glory See;That babes may meet advancing life,Nor feel the woes that light on me.