The Emigrant Poem by Charlotte Dacre

Oh! I shall ne'er forget thee, wretched wight!
While memory holds forget thee shall I never;
Thy conscious form, that shunn'd the garish light,
The tatter'd garb, that mock'd thy vain endeavour:

Thy pallid cheek, which meagre want had worn,
And reckless pluck'd the rose of health once blooming,
The sunken eye, where dignity and scorn
Yet sat, to check the rabble's vile presuming—

The sunken eye, that mark'd me as I pass'd,
Oh, I shall ne'er forget the look soul-wounding!
'Twas pitiful, yet greatly sad its cast,
It struck upon my heart, with folly bounding.

Expression various in that look was seen;
At once 'twas proud, and yet it was imploring;
Something of stern contempt, and grief between;
The man was sunk, but yet his soul was soaring.

My eyes were fix'd in contemplation sad,
While he, poor soul! his thin hand faintly raising
O'er a wide rent which cruel time had made,
Sought to conceal it from my pensive gazing.

Instinctive pride!—Oh, Man! when truly great,
Not e'en adversity the soul's high feeling
Can ever blunt; but, ling'ring with thy fate,
It still exists, and still it mocks, concealing.

A momentary fire illum'd his eye,
A pale, pale blush his sallow check o'erspreading;
He pass'd me with a sad and falt'ring sigh,
Wishful to speak, but yet rebuke seem'd dreading.

Palsying the best emotions of the heart,
Thou tyrant, Custom! how I loath thy folly!
Lest sneering Ignorance should fling her dart
I durst not soothe this wretch's melancholy.

Perhaps on some cold stone his head to lie
He slowly pass'd, in secret so despairing,
Alone to wander, or alone to die,
Perhaps scarce knowing whither, perhaps not caring.