From rustic bow'r, by nature made,
Beneath the linden's leafy shade,
That crowns the cliff, whose craggy side
Ascends abrupt from Orwell's tide,
Beneath whose slopes and sinuous steeps,
The broad majestic river sweeps;
Where strays the eye delighted o'er
The gently undulating shore,
To scenes thy skill would aptly chuse,
From rustic bow'r I call thee, Muse.
Nor yet the bee, to care alive,
On sounding wing hath left his hive;
The haunt of busier man is still;
The morn beam slants athwart the hill ;
Unconscious draws the blackbird nigh,
Then starts, a stranger form to spy,
And swift, with glossy wing display'd,
Flits fearful through the shrubby glade.
Upon my verdant canopy
All unexal'd night's tear drops lie,
Or gently shook, with soothing sound,
In balmy dew-show'rs patter round.
Those tall acacias gliding bye,
The white sail steals upon my eye:
And ever, as the loitering breeze
Moves the light boughs, or waves the trees,
White cluster'd dwellings, scarcely seen,
And tow'r, and turret, peep between ;
And pennon'd mast, and gilded vane,
A moment shewn, then hid again,
All gaily in the morning ray,
Like youth's fantastic visions play :
While ev'ry graceful form I see,
Inspires the wish to live with thee.
Oft has thy voice, in childhood's hour,
Awoke me in the northern bow'r,
And shall the lyre I tun'd to thee
Hang silent on the southern tree?
Shall cares or pomps my heart controul,
And chase thy pleasures from my soul?
No: still thy voice shall soothe my ear;
Thy harp's wild descant still be dear;
Nor long wilt thou my claim refuse,
When to my bow'r I call thee, Muse.
Come, let us wander thro' the glade,
Where willows throw, in lengthen’d shade,
Their tangling arches o'er the rill,
That steals its source from either hill,
And gently winds its covert way,
Scarce gleaming to the eye of day.
In sooth the wild sequester'd glen
Seems little trod by mortal men:
Its lowly bow'rs of deep'ning green,
So clos'd the woody heights between,
So hid, so still, form meet resort
For fays to hold their sylvan court:
Yet here I've mark'd the Artist* stray,
Here linger out the summer day,
And with enthusiast pencil trace,
Or storm or sunshine's varied grace :
* The banks of this beautiful river were the frequent haunts of that admirable painter Gainsborough, while resident at Ipswich; and afforded ample scope for the exercise of his inimitable pencil. Mr. George Frost, a most ingenious artist of 1pswich, and an ardent admirer of the productions of Gainsborough, and who deems" it distinction enough to catch the slightest of his perfec "tions," is the personage alluded to in the above stanzas.
But chief when golden lights relieve
The dark and giant shades of eve,
He feels his soul to transport warm,
And fixes ev'ry fleeting charm.
And sure, in playful mood, 'tis thine,
Dear Muse! to guide his varying line,
As breathe, in ev'ry form and tone,
Strange feelings scarce to painting known;
Effects sublime, and graces free
That speak the soul of poësy!
Come, rest upon the beetling cliff,
And mark that little rocking skiff:
Though measur'd true the oar's bright stroke,
Its plank is pierc'd, its gunwale broke:
Yet on it glides, and leaves behind
Yon anchor'd bark, where, to the wind,
Long trains of meshy folds display d,
Announce the Fisher's toilsome trade.
And who is this that plies the oar,
The skiff impelling to the shore,
With squalid garments round him flung,
And o'er his bending shoulders hung
A string of perforated stones,
With knots of elm and horses bones?
Say, Muse, may this a mortal be,
Or shape fantastic drawn by thee?
And why his look so wild, so wan?
It is the ancient Fisherman,
Who dreams that wizards, leagued with hell,
Have o'er him cast their deadly spell.
Tho' blanch'd his hair and bow'd his form,
Yet still he toils, in sun and storm;
The boat he plies, the raft he steers,
When swift the rapid whirlwind veers,
When scarce the corvorant can sweep
The surface of the foaming deep.
Tho' pinching pain his limbs endure,
He holds his life by charm secure,
And while he feels the tort'ring ban,
No wave can drown the spell-bound man.
Can Leeches hand, or sages skill,
His pains assuage, his troubles still?
The ills from fancy's pow'r we feel,
'Tis fancy's pow'r alone can heal:
Then, Muse, employ thy sweetest strain
To cure the ancient wand'rer's pain.
"O rest thee, rest thee, sailor bold,
In lowly hut beneath the willow,
Warm fire shall chase the Autumn's cold,
And fragrant woodruffe strew thy pillow."
"I may not rest, I may not sleep,
For spells my weary eyelids strain,
Fierce fiends their watchings by me keep,
And call me to the roaring main.
They shriek around, they ride the blast,
Hang on my nets in vivid fires,
And whirling in fantastic spires,
Like smoky wreaths ascend the mast;
And ever as the midnight hour
Their hate confirms, renews their pow'r;
Infernal forms my couch invest,
Then, Lady, may I, can I rest?”
"O rest thee in the mossy cave,
The falling rill shall soothe thy slumbers; And sweetly to the murm'ring wave
The wild harp breathe its magic numbers."
"I may not sleep with hellish pow'r The wizard works in secret bow'r !
I saw the wretch a mass prepare
Of melted wax and dead men's dust;
From mould'ring sculls he scrap'd the hair,
And worms from eyeless sockets thrust;
Then shap'd the whole-distinct and true,
I saw my very image rise;
My swelling brow, my sunken eyes,
Too soon to dreadful likeness grew;
And as the plastic form he prest,
Some magic words he mutter'd o'er: Then from a living swallow's breast, The reeking heart and liver tore: The bleeding spoil on either side Beneath the moulded arms he tied, And from a cobweb curtain'd nook, The dark demoniac rite to swell, Some half burnt bones the wizard took, I shudder'd, for I knew them well. The bones of her who on the heath,* In flames resign'd her wicked breath;
The persons here alluded to were Margery Beddingfield and Richard Ringe, who were tried and convicted at the Assizes, holden at Bury St. Edmund, March 24th, 1763, for Petty Treason and Murder committed on John Beddingfield of Sternfield, near Saxmundham, farmer, the husband of the said Margery Bedding. field, and master of the said Richard Ringe. They were both executed at Rushmere Heath, on the 8th of April pursuant to their sentence. Ringe was about 22 years of age, and committed the murder at the instigation of his mistress, who was not 21.
The Trial at large may be seen in "the Ipswich Magazine," 8vo. 1799. p. 9-58.
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