1 Mfy^ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES POEMS. POEMS HARTLEY COLERIDGE. WITH A MEMOIR OF HIS LIFE BY HIS BROTHER. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. SECOND EDITION. LONDON : EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 1851. C ■*' O T' f\ O ^ <^ ii ;j AimUKY AND EVAiNS, PRINTERS, WHirEFRIAKS 1^ tx. CONTENTS. Page MISCELLANEOUS SOXXETS 3 SONNETS OF THE SEASONS 69 SONNETS AND OTHER POEMS ON BIRDS, INSECTS, AND FLOWERS — HUMMING BIRDS 81 THE CRICKET 82 LINES WRITTEN OPPOSITE A DRAWING OF A PARROT AND BUTTERFLY 83 WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT 84 THE NIGHTINGALE 86 THE CUCKOO 87 THE ANEMONE 88 EUPHRASIA OFFICINALIS, OR EYE-BRIGHT . . . 90 THE COWSLIP 91 THE COWSLIP AND THE LARK 92 ON A BUNCH OF COWSUPS 93 THE CELANDINE AND THE DAISY . . . . 95 THE SNOWDROP 9C VI CONTENTS. Page SONNETS AND OTHER POEMS — continued. THE GENTIANELLA 97 THE LILY OP THE VALLEY 98 THE DANDELION 99 TO THE PLANT " EVERIu^STING " .... 100 THE FORGET-ME-NOT 105 AZALEA 106 THE GUERNSEY LILY 108 SONNETS AND OTHER POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD CHILDHOOD Ill TO* AN INFANT 112 TO AN INFANT 113 TO AN INFANT. WRITTEN ON A SNOWY DAY . . 114 TO A DEAF AND DUMB LITTLE GIRL . . .115 THE GOD-CHILD 116 TWINS 117 BOYHOOD AND GIRLHOOD 118 TO K. H. 1 119 THOU, BABY INNOCENCE 120 FAIN WOULD I DITE 122 ON AN infant's HAND 12.3 TO JEANNETTE, SIX WEEKS OLD .... 126 TO THE SAME, ON HER FIRST BIRTHDAY . . . 128 TO MARGARET, ON HER FIRST BIRTHDAY . . 130 THE FOURTH BIRTHDAY 131 CONTENTS. vil Page SONNETS AND OTHEB POEMS — Continued. TO DEAR LITTLE KATT HILL 132 TO CHEKTABEL EOSE COLERIDGE . . . .135 LINES, WRITTEN IN A BIBLE PRESENTED BY THE AUTHOR TO HIS GODCHILD 136 PRUHTI^; 137 FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY 138 MEDITATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. — MEMORIAL POEJIS — WHY IS THERE WAR ON EARTH? .... 141 LINES WRITTEN IN THE FLY-LEAP OF A COPY OP LUCRETIUS 143 LINES ON A CAST OP THE INFANT HERCULES . . 145 SUMMER RAIN 148 TO W. W. 149 THE TWO DINAHS 150 WRITTEN AT BELLE-VUE, AMBLESIDE , . . 152 NAWORTH 154 LINES 155 HIDDEN MUSIC 157 I HAVE WRITTEN MY NAME ON WATER . . .158 ON A PICTURE OP A VERY YOUNG NUN . . . 159 BEAUTY 160 FAIRY LAND 162 THE ROYAL MAID 164 ON THE DEATH OP HENRY NELSON COLERIDGE . . 166 AGNES 169 vni CONTENTS. Page MEDITATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES — Continued. FAREWELL ! 171 TO A FRIEND 172 A schoolfellow's tribute to the memory of THE REV. OWEN LLOYD 174 TO THE MEMORY OP JAMES GREENWOOD . . 177 TO A LADY 180 ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS JACKSON . . .181 ON THE LATE DR. ARNOLD 185 EPITAPH ON OWEN LLOYD 189 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, CHIEFLY LYRICAL. PLAYFUL AND HUMOROUS PIECES THE BLIND MAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS LOVE , . . 193 SONG. TO A WELSH AIR, " AR HY'D Y NOS " . .195 ON SEEING THREE YOUNG LADIES ON GRASMERE LAKE 197 MARRIED LIFE 199 A POOR man's REASONS FOR NOT MARRYING . . 200 LINES WRITTEN IMPROMPTU AFTER HEARING A LADY SINGING 201 GOOD NIGHT 202 VALENTINE, BY AN AGED LOVER . . . . 204 AS THE DEW OF THE MORNING .... 205 LINES 205 TO A FRIEND LEAVING GRASMERE .... 206 SONG 207 SONG 208 THE SOLACE OF SONG 209 CONTENTS. ix Page MISCELLANEOUS POEMS — Continued. WHEN I WAS YOUNG 211 A SONf; W^THOUT A TUNE 212 GOD SAVE THE QUEEN 214 A WANTON BARD 216 SONG 218 TO A YOUNG LADY FROM A FOREIGN CLIME . . 219 AN AUTOGEArn 221 SONG 222 THE OLD ARM CHAIR 223 TO THE MAGPIE 228 TO A RED HERRING 231 TO A CAT 233 DE ANIMABUS BRUTORUM 234 TO GOODY TWOSHOES 240 TO ROBERT SOUTHEY ...... 242 THE LARCH GROVE 244 DENT 245 GEOLOGY 246 angels have wings 247 translations — from the german 249 from catullus 250 from catullus 251 Schiller's translation of macbetii . . . 252 statius, lib. i. 493 254 X CONTENTS. Page TRANSLATIONS — Continued. PiEAN OP ARIPHOON THE SICTONIAN . . . 256 PROMETHEUS. A FRAGMENT 257 SKETCHES OF ENGLISH POETS — CHAUCER 289 BPENSEB 291 SHAKESPEARE 293 DRAYTON 294 DONNE 295 DAIfLEL 296 MILTON 296 DRTDEN 297 DRYDEN'S SUCCESSORS 299 PARNELL 300 SWIFT ■ . 301 YOUNG AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES . . . • 301 ■WILKIE, DODSLEY, &C 307 SCRIPTURAL AND RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS — THE BIBLE . . . . . . . . 313 THE LITURGY 314 THE JUST SHALL LIVE BY FAITH . . . ■ 315 BELIEVE ASH PRAY 316 EDEN 317 SETH 318 ENOCH 319 ABRA HA M 320 CONTEXTS. XI Page SCRIPTURAL AND REUGIOrs SUBJECTS — COntimicd. HAGAK 321 ISAAC A>'D EEBEKAH 322 LEAH 323 MOSES IN THE BULRUSHES 324 ON A PICTURE OF JEPHTHAH AND HIS DAUGHTER . 325 IN CONTINUATION 326 RUTH 327 ElZPAH 328 SOLOMON 329 F.T.T.TAH . , 330 EZRA m. 11—13 331 CHRISTMAS 332 SIMEON 337 JESUS PRATING 338 BUT JESUS SLEPT 339 SUNDAY . 340 IN CONTINUATION 341 THE SOUL 342 BE NOT AFEAID TO PRAT 343 CHRISTIAN PRIVILEGES 344 FAITH — HOW GUABDED 345 STAT WHERE THOU ART • 346 PSALM XCI. 1 347 ISAIAH XLYI. 9 348 CHURCH VIEWS 349 xu CONTENTS. scuiPTURAL AND RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS — Continued. RELIGIOUS DIFFERENCES WYTHEBURN CHAPEL AND HUSTEL ON THE CONSECRATION OF A SMALL CHAPEL THE SAME CONTINUED .... THE DESERTED CHURCH .... THE WORD OF GOD ..... A GRACE ...... "MULTUM DLLEXIT" NOTES BY THE EDITOR Page 350 352 354 355 356 358 359 361 363 POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 1850. eKiuv tyw pLaQoiKJiv av^w, kov fxaGovaiv Xifioixai. Aidx- 'A7a(U. ADVERTISEMENT. A SMALL proportion of the Poems in this volume was prepared for the press by the Author. Of the remainder, it is probable that several have not received his last correc- tions; and that some were not intended for publication. But in making the selection from a much larger number, the Editor has had no guide but his own discretion. He has generally, but not uniformly, chosen such as appeared to him most finished. In some cases, he has seen in a hasty sketch sufficient interest to atone, in his opinion, for one or more weak or imperfect lines. A word here and there may have been mistaken from the imperfection of the manuscript; and better copies of some of the pieces, now firet printed, may be in existence. These, and other inaccu- racies, should such be detected, will, it is hoped, be pardoned in a posthumous publication. St. Mabk's College, Chelsea, December, 1850. A FRESH collation of manuscripts has enabled the Editor, in the pi'esent edition, to remove many of the im- perfections, and most of the inaccuracies, which it was apprehended might be found in the fii-st. St. Makk's, Chelsea, September, 1851. SONNETS. I. TO S. T. COLERIDGE. If when thou wert a living man, my sire. I shrank unequal from the task to praise The ripening worth of thy successive days. What shall I do since that imputed fire, Extinct its earthly aliment, doth aspire. Purged from the passionate subject of all lays. From all that fancy fashions and obeys. Beyond the argument of mortal lyre ? If while a militant and sufifering saint. Thou walk'dst the earth in penury and pain, Thy great Idea was too high a strain For my infinnity, how shall I dare Thy perfect and immortal self to paint ".' Less awful task to " draw empyreal air." October 28, 1835. b2 SONNETS. II. Oh ! my dear mother, art thou still awake ? Or art thou sleeping on thy Maker's arm, — Waiting in slumber for the shrill alarm Ordain'd to give the world its final shake? Art thou with " interlunar night " opaque Clad like a worm while waiting for its wings ; Or doth the shadow of departed things Dwell on thy soul as on a breezeless lake ! Oh ! would that I could see thee in thy heaven For one brief hour, and know I was forgiven For all the pain and doubt and rankling shame Which I have caused to make thee weep or sigh. Bootless the wish ! for where thou art on high, Sin casts no shadow, sorrow hath no name. Hast thou not seen an aged rifted tower, Meet habitation for the Ghost of Time, Where fearful ravage makes decay sublime, x\nd destitution wears the face of power ? Yet is the fabric deck'd with many a flower Of fragrance wild, and many-dappled hue. Gold streali'd with iron-brown, and nodding blue. Making each ruinous chink a faii-y bower. E'en such a thing methinks I fain would be. Should Heaven appoint me to a lengthen'd age ; So old in look, that Young and 0\A may see The record of my closing pilgrimage : Yet, to the last, a rugged wrinkled thing To which young sweetness may delight to cling ! SONNETS. Let me not deem that I was made in vain. Or that my Being was an accident, Which Fate, in working its sublime intent, Not wish'd to be, to hinder would not deign. Each drop uncounted in a storm of rain Hath its own mission, and is duly sent To its own leaf or blade, not idly spent 'Mid myriad dimples on the shipless main. The very shadow of an insect's wing. For which the ^'iolet cared not while it stay'd. Yet felt the lighter for its vanishing, Proved that the sun was shining by its shade : Then can a drop of the eternal spring, Shadow of living lights, in vain be made ? SONNETS. Patns I have known, that cannot be again. And pleasures too that never can be more : For loss of pleasure I was never sore, But worse, far worse it is, to feel no pain. The throes and agonies of a heart explain Its very depth of want at inmost core ; Prove that it does believe, and would adore. And doth with ill for ever strive and strain. I not lament for happy childish years, For loves departed, that have had their day, Or hopes that faded when my head was grey For death hath left me last of my compeers : But for the pain I felt, the gushing tears I used to shed when I had gone astray. SONNETS VT, When I review the course that I have run. And count the loss of all my wasted days, I find no argument for joy or praise In whatsoe'er my soul hath thought or done. I am a desert, and the kindly sun On me hath vainly spent his fertile rays. Then wherefore do I tune my idle lays. Or dream that haply I may be the one Of the vain thousands, that shall win a place Among the Poets, — that a single rhyme Of my poor wit's devising may find grace To breed high memories in the womb of time' But to confound the time the Muse I woo ; Then 'tis but just that time confound me too. SONNETS. A LONELY wanderer upon earth am I, The waif of nature — like uprooted weed Borne by the stream, or like a shaken reed, A frail dependent of the fickle sky. Far, far away, are all my natural kin : The mother that erewhile hath hush"d my cry, Almost hath grown a mere fond memory. Where is my sister's smile? my brother's boisterous din ? All ! nowhei'e now. A matron grave and sage, A holy mother is that sister sweet. And that hold brother is a pastor meet To guide, instruct, reprove a sinful age. Almost I fear, and yet I fain would greet ; So far astray hath been my pilgrimage. 10 SONNETS. How many meanings may a single sigh Heave from the bosom ; early, yet too late, I leam'd with sighs to audit mine estate, While yet I deem'd my hope was only shy And wishing to be woo VI. Fain to descry The little cloud I thought could never vex My vernal season, I would still perplex With sighs the counsel of my destiny. Still it moved on, and ever larger gi'ew, And still I sigh'd and sigh'd — and then I panted ; For now the cloud is huge, and close to view. It burst ; the thunder roar'd, the sharp rain slanted, The tempest pass'd, and I was almost fain To sigh forlorn, and hear the sigh again. SONNETS. 1 1 IX. TO A NEWLT-ILVRHIED FRIEND. How shall a man fore-doom "d to lone estate, Untimely old, irreverendly grey, Much like a patch of dusky snow in May, Dead sleeping in a hollow, all too late — How shall so poor a thing congratulate The blest completion of a patient wooing, Or how commend a younger man for doing What ne'er to do hath been his fault or fate ? There is a feble, that I once did read, Of a bad angel, that was someway good. And therefore on the brink of Heaven he stood, Looking each way, and no way could proceed : Till at the last he purged away his sin By loving all the joy he saw within. November, 1843. 12 It were a state too terrible for man, Too terrible and strange, and most unmeet, To look into himself, his state to scan. And find no precedent, no chart, or plan, But think himself an emhryo incomplete. Or else a remnant of a world effete. Some by-blow of the universal Pan, Great nature's waif, that must by law escheat To the liege-lord Corruption. Sad the case Of man, who knows not wherefore he was made ; But he that knows the limit of his race Not runs, but flies, with pi'osperous winds to aid ; Or if he limps, he knows his path was trod By saints of old, who knew their way to God. 13 Think upon Death, 'tis good to think of Death, But better far to think upon the Dead. Death is a spectre with a bony head. Or the toere mortal body without bi'eath. The state foredoom'd of eveiy son of Seth, Decomposition — dust, or dreamless sleep. But the dear Dead are they for whom we weep, For whom I credit all the Bible saith. Dead is my father, dead is my good mother, And what on earth have I to do but die ? But if by grace I reach the blessed sky, I fain would see the same, and not another ; The very father that I used to see, The mother that has nursed me on her knee. 14 SONNETS. What is the meaning of the word " sublime,' Utter'd full oft, and never yet explain'd ? It is a truth that cannot be contain'd In foi'mal bounds of thought, in prose, or rhyme. 'Tis the Eternal struggling out of Time. It is in man a birth-mark of his kind That proves him kindred with immaculate mind, The son of him that in the stainless prime Was God's own image. Whatsoe'er creates At once abasement, and a sense of glory, Whate'er of sight, sound, feeling, fact, or story. Exalts the man, and yet the self rebates, That is the true sublime, which can confess In weakness strength, the great in littleness. 15 XIIT. HOMER. Far from the sight of earth, yet bright and plain As the clear noon-day sun, an " orb of song " Lovely and bright is seen amid the throng (3f lesser stars, that rise, and wax, and wane, The transient rulers of the fickle main ; — One constant light gleams through the d;irk and long And narrow aisle of memory. How strong. How fortified with all the numerous train Oi truths wert thou, Great Poet of mankind, Who told'st in verse as mighty as the sea, And various as the voices of the wind. The strength of passion rising in the glee Of battle. Fear was glorified by thee, And Death is lovely in thy tale enshrined. 16 SONNETS, 'TwERE surely hard to toil without au aim. Then shall the toil of an immortal mind Spending its strength for good of human kind Have no reward on earth but empty fame ? Oh. say not so. 'Tis not the echoed name, Dear though it be — dear to the wafting wind, That is not all the poet leaves behind, Who once has kindled an undying flame. And what is that ? It is a happy feeling Begot by bird, or flower, or vernal bee. 'Tis aught that acts, unconsciously revealing To mortal man his immortality. Then think, Poet, think how bland, how healing. The beauty thou hast taught thy fellow men to see. SONNETS. XV. TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Yes, mighty Poet, we have read thy lines. And felt our hearts the hetter for the reading. A friendly spirit, from thy soul proceeding, Unites our souls ; the light from thee that shines Like the first break of morn, dissolves, combines All creatures with a living flood of beauty. For thou hast proved that purest joy is duty. And love a fondling, that the trunk entwines Of sternest fortitude. Oh, what must be Thy glory here, and what the huge reward In that blest region of thy poesy ? For long as man exists, immortal Bard. Friends, husbands, wives, in sadness or in glee, Shall love each other more for loving thee. March 26, 18.39. 18 SONNETS. XVI. TO THE SAME. And tliose whose lot may never be to meet Kin souls confined in bodies sever'd far, As if thy Genius vrere a potent star, Ruling their life at solemn hours and sweet Of secret sympathy, do they not greet Each other kindly, when the deep full line Hath ravish'd both — high as the haunt divine And presence of celestial Paraclete '? Three thousand years have pass'd since Homer spake, And many thousand hearts have bless'd his name, And yet I love them all for Homers sake. Child, woman, man, that e'er have felt his flame ; And thine, great Poet, is like power to bind In love far distant ages of mankind. April 24—27, 1842. SONNETS. 19 XVII. RYDAL. XiGH to the mansion of a titled dame, A charitable lady, though recluse, Begirt with trees too reverend for use, A village lies, and Rydal is its name. Its natives know not what is meant by fame ; They little know how men in future time Will venerate the spot, where prose and rhyme Too strong for aught but Heaven itself to tame, (xush'd from a mighty Poet. Yet all calm, Calm as the antique trunks whose hollow age The woodman spares, sweet thoughts on every page Breathe for the soul admonitory balm. "Tis Nature teaching what she never knew ; The beautiful is good, the good is true. c2 20 SONNETS. From infancy to retrospective eld, Year after year, we slide from day to day Like a sleek stream, from bay to sinuous bay Wearing the course it evermore hath held. The crumbling banks, that have so long compell'd The stream to wind, to haste, to strive, or stay. Drop down at last and quite choke up the way That once they foil'd. The river that rebell'd Becomes a marsh, prolific of ill weeds. Such is the life of him who streams along A lazy course, unweeting of his deeds ; Till duty, hope, love, custom, prayers and creeds Crumble away, and yield to helpless wrong. That from the mere disuse of right proceeds. SONNETS. '21 XIX. TO ALFRED TENNYSON. Long have 1 known thee as thou art in song, And long enjoy 'd the perfume that exhales From thy pure soul, and odour sweet entails And permanence, on thoughts that float along The stream of life, to join the passive throng Of shades and echoes that are memory's being. Hearing we hear not, and we see not seeing, If passion, fancy, faith move not among The never-present moments of reflection. Long have I view'd thee in the ciystal sphere Of verse, that, like the beryl, makes appear Visions of hope, begot of recollection. Knowing thee now, a real earth-treading man. Not less I love thee, and no more I can. 22 XX. TO A FRIEND. 1 KNOW too little of thee, ray dear friend, Or else too much, — for nothing less than all Were quite enough to guide me to the end And fatal purpose of thine earthly call. I know thy will is stubborn as a wall Against all acts that trespass or offend. I know there is no sin or fault so small Wherewith the cui-rent of thy soul would blend But yet I know that there is something yet Which I know not, a burden on thy breast No joy of earth can make thy heart forget ; The sleepless thought that will not be at rest, That, like a wee bii'd struggling in the net, Still whines and twitters of its distant nest. April. 1846. 23 XXI. TO DR. DALTOX. This world so beautiful cannot produce A thing more beauteous than a head of snow, Or smoothly bald and bright with sunny glow. That has been busied still in things of use. The adventurous restlessness of Scottish Bruce Led him to trace the backward course of Nile ; But I would rather trace that serious smile, That seems habitual to a lip, not loose. Nor yet constrain'd ; a brow not wrinkled much, An eye not dimm'd but disciplined by age. I could not know thee when thou wast the page Of the young Lady Science, ere the touch Unfelt of years had worn thy youth away ; I cannot trace thee to thy youthful day. 24 XXII. TO JOANNA EAILLIE. Long ere my pulse with nascent life had beat, The ripe spring of thy early Paradise With many a flower, and fruit, and hallow'd spice, Was fair to fancy and to feeling sweet. Time, that is aye reproach'd to be so fleet. Because dear follies vanish in a trice, Shall now be clean absolved by judgment nice. Since his good speed made thee so soon complete. But less I praise the bounty of old Time, Lady revered, our Island's Tragic Queen, For all achievements of thy hope and prime. Than for the beauty of thine age serene. That yet delights to weave the moral rhyme. Nor fears what is, should dim what thou hast been. iJ5 XXIII. ON READING THE MEMOIR OF MISS GRIZZLE BAILLIE. Genius, what is 't ? A motion of the brain. And valour is the toughness of a nerve, And the strong virtue that will never swerve Is but the " laz)^ temperance ' of a vein. And what is pity but a twitching pain, Seeking its own relief by pious acts ? Thus wisdom, seeking all things to explain. Out of all good the soul of good detracts. The simple woman that records the worth Of the brave saints to whom she owed her birth, Confutes a doctrine that she never knew. For goodness, more than ever was perceived By sense, or in the visible world achieved, By might of mere believing, she makes true. ti6 While I survey the long, and deep, and wide Expanse of time, the Past with things that were Throng'd in dark multitude ; the Future bare As the void sky when not a star l)eside The thin pale moon is seen ; the race that died While yet the families of earth were rare, And human kind had but a little share Of the world s heritage, before me glide All dim and silent. Now with sterner mien Heroic shadows, names renown 'd in song, Rush by. And, deck'd with garlands ever green, In light and music sweep the bards along ; And many a fair, and many a well-known face, Into the future dive, and blend with empty space. SONNETS. XXV. Ah me ! It is the saddest thing on earth To see a change where much is yet unchanged, To mark a face, not alter'd, but estranged From its own wonted self, by its own hearth So sadly smiling, like the ghost of mirth. That cannot quite desert its long abode. The very sigh that lifts the weary load Of pain, and loosens the constraining girth Within the breast, a semi-tone of laughter ; Though y)j to woe, as light to shade is turn'd The trick of joy is not so soon unlearn 'd : The substance flits, the shadow lingers after. The soul once rich in joy, though poor it be. Will yet be bounteous in its poverty. 28 Accuse not gracious Nature of neglect. Nor doubt the wise intent of Providence. Because a human thing not quick of sense. With scarce a twinkling spark of intellect, With much of body's, more of mind's defect, Hath hobbled upon earth for eighty years ; And now, unconscious of the hopes and fears That the past life of wiser men dissect. Is dozing deathward. Deep and dark immured The corn-seed in the dead-throng'd catacomb, From light shut out, was yet from blight secured And Turk and Mam'luke, in oblivious tomb : And thus, for eighty years, good man, in thee The seed has slept, sepulchred in simplicity. SONXliTS. "29 XXVII. MUSIC. Sweet music steals aloug the jieldiDg soul, Like the brisk wind that sows autumual seeds ; And it hath tones like venial rain that feeds The light green vale, ordain'd ere long to roll In golden waves oer many a wealthy rood ; And tones it hath, that make a lonely hour The silent dwelling of some lovely flower, Sweet Hermitess of Forest solitude. I loved sweet Music when I was a child, For then iny mother used to sing to me : I loved it better when a youth so wild, With thoughts of love it did so well agree ; Fain would I love it to my latest day. If it would teach me to believe and pray. 30 SONNETS XXVIII. TO A LADY, ON HER SIXGING A SWEET OLD AIK. Oh ! that a tone were lasting as a thought, A feeling joy, eternal as a truth ! Then were my spirit charm'd to endless youth, All time enrich 'd with what a moment brought. That one sweet note, so sweet itself, and fraught With all the warbled sweetness of the stream Of rippling sound, continuous as a dream — A dream of song, that waking turns to nought. I cannot find it, I cannot resume The thrilling calm, the gladness so intense. So simple, perfect, neither soul nor sense For hope had need, for hoarding thought had room : Yet shall the moral heart for aye retain The once-seeu songstress, and the once-heard strain. 31 I WOULD, my friend, indeed, thou hadst been here Last night, beneath the shadowy sycamore, To hear the hnes, to me well known before, Embalm'd in music so translucent clear. Each word of thine came singly to the ear, Yet all was blended in a flowing stream. It had the rich repose of summer dream, The light distinct of frosty atmosphere. Still have I loved thy verse, yet never knew How sweet it was, till woman's voice invested The penciird outline with the living hue. And every note of feeling proved and tested. What might old Pindar be, if once again The harp and voice were trembling with his strain. 32 SONNETS. XXX. DIANA AND ENDYMION. It was a learned faucy, that bestowed A living spirit and a human will On those far lights that, whether fixt and still. Or moving visibly along their road, Were mighty to predestine, rule, forebode ; Yea, to disclose, to long observant skill, Not season's course alone, but good and ill. For aye appointed in no changeful code. A freer, yet a gentler wit, devised That quaint old Fable, that beheld the moon Gazing for hours on her Endymion, Till she turned pale, by jocund morn sui^prised While he, wrapped up in trance or vision dim, Sleeps in her sight that ever wakes for him. SONNETS. 33 XXXI. ECLIPSE. So pure, so clear, amid the vast blue lake. Sole regent of the many-scatter 'd isles. Making of myriad million, billion miles One beauty, floats she biilliantly awake. Unconscious of the doom that must o'ertake Her maidenhood before the night goes by, And make a lurid blot upon the sky. And all her cheer transform to dim opaque. But happy art thou, Moon ; no fault of thine. No just displeasure of thy lord, the Sun, Clothes thee in weed of penance, murk and dun ; For thine own self thou still art free to shine. That earth which moves between mankind and thee, Inflicts no stain upon thy purity. 34 SONNETS. XXXII. TO AN AGED BEAUTY. Once thou wert young, 'twas very long ago, Yet some there are to whom thy fixt idea, Even now, is fresh as sea-born Cytherea. The waves of time, that ever backward flow, Behind them leave the quiet tints that glow On each successive billow. Months, nor years. Nor maddest mirth, nor dim heart-wasting tears Attaint the truths that true minds truly know. Once thou wert young, and still art young to me, Though fifty summers faded since we met ; Thy timid glance I cannot cease to see. Thy bird-like voice to me is piping yet. If Time turn back to say that thou art old, I '11 swear he lies, and will thy youth uphold. SONNETS. 35 XXXIII. I SAW thee in the heauty of th}^ spring, And then I thought how blest the man shall be That shall persuade thy maiden modesty To hearken to his fond soliciting. Thou wert so fair, so exquisite a thing, I thought the very dust on which thy feet Had left their mark exhaled a scent more sweet Than honey-dew dropt from an angel's wing. I see thee now a matron and a mother, And I, alas ! am old before my day. Both to myself and thee I owe another — A holier passion, a devouter lay. Each spark of earthly fire I now must smother. And wish for nought for which I dare not pray. D 2 36 SONNETS. XXXIV. TO MISS MARTHA H . Martha, thy maiden foot is still so light, It leaves no legible trace on virgin snows, And yet I ween that busily it goes In duty's path from happy morn to night. Thy dimpled cheek is gay, and softly bright As the fixt beauty of the mossy rose ; Yet will it change its hue for other's woes, And native red contend with piteous white. Thou bear'st a name by Jesus known and loved, And Jesus gently did the maid reprove For too much haste to show her eager love. But blest is she that may be so reproved. Be Martha still in deed and good endeavour. In faith like Mary, at His feet for ever. SONNETS. 37 XXXV. SECOND NUPTIALS. There is no jealousy in realms above : The spirit purified from earthly stain, And knowing that its earthly loss was gain, Transfers its property in earthly love (Tho" love it was she does not yet reprove) To her by Heaven appointed to sustain The honour'd matron's part ; to bear the pain. The joy, the duty, all things that behove A Christian wedded. She that dwells on high May be a guardian angel to the wife That her good husband chooses to supply Her place, vacated in the noon of life ; With holy gladness may support the bride Through happy cares to her by death denied. 67259 38 SONNETS. XXXVI. Not iu one clime we oped the infant eye To the blank light of yet unmeaning day Nor in one language timely taught to pray, Did we lisp out the babies' liturgy. But even then, we both alike did cry Our joys and sorrows in the self-same way, Instinct the same sweet native tune did play, From laugh to smile, from sob to chasten'd sigh. Our tutor'd spirits were alike subdued. What wonder, then, if, meeting iu this isle. We eke imperfect speech with sigh and smile. The catholic speech of infancy renew'd. True love is still a child, and then most true When most it talks, and does as children do. 39 Two nations are there of one common stock ; One in the heart of Europe fortified, The other freshen'd by the daily tide Shaping from age to age her bulwark rock. Two faithful members of the holy flock, In the most holy bond of love allied. Unite the valour, worth, and selfless pride Of two great kindreds, like a braided lock — A braided lock, I 've seen — so nicely braided, With softest interchange of brown and gold, Each into each so exquisitely shaded, That they were ever twain could not be told. E'en so for thee, sweet daughter of my friend, May Albion and Allmain their virtues blend. 40 SONNETS. Right merry lass, thy overweening joy Turns an old man into a merry boy. One hour with thee pays off the long arrears, The heavy debt of almost fifty years. Oft have I view'd that lake so beautiful. And felt its quiet power, benign, to lull The inward being to a soft repose ; Patient, yet not forgetful of the woes That are the heritage of mortal breath, As if one note divided life and death. But thou, sweet maid, with ready mirth dost fill The wide survey of water, wood, and hill. I feel a pulse of pleasure newly born. And scarce believe that " man was made to mourn. SONNETS. 41 XXXIX. KESWICK. The Church is holy still, and consecrate To mute attention and meek whispering prayer, Though he, — the mighty voice, no more is there. That gave the high roof a religious weight, And the tall shaft upraised with hope elate. And hallow'd all the holy well of air. With duteous footstep to the church repair Where lies the good, the kind, the wise, the great. Old Skiddaw stands upon his basement strong, And Wallow Crag is yet a bastion proud. And rough Lodore with thunder-rain is loud, And Greta murmurs yet her ancient song. Revere the vale, where Southei's corpse is laid. Nor fear to pray — where he so long has pray'd. 4-2 XL. EDWARD CHILD AND MAN. I SAW thee, Edward, when thy baby cries Sounded in mother's ears a swift alarm ; I saw thee cradled on thy father's arm. When he, with many smiles and many sighs, Guess'd in the quick gleam of thy new wak'd eyes The inward stirrings, not matured to thought, Not broken to the curb of inust and ought, And yet instinct with all thy destinies. I see thee now a far experienced man. Who from late boyhood to the rear of youth Hast seen in many lands new forms of truth, And haply learn'd with foreign eye to scan Old England's faults ; yet dost thou fondly love her, And with a true friend's boldness, dost reprove her. SONNETS. 43 XLI. TO MISS ISABELLA FENWICK.* Fain wodd I put my meanings in the tongue Familiar, lady, to thy earliest years, That gives the finest edge to social jeers ; The language, which by merry bard was sung In times of old, to ladies fair, among The courts devoted to sublimed amours, By gay trouveurs, and knightly troubadours. Accents o'er which the Scottish Mary hung Her beauteous head enamour'd. Yet I trust Thou wilt not scorn the talk of this old isle, The tongue which Milton raised to themes sublime, On which keen Pope bestow'd his poignant gust, Which Cowper graced with melancholy smile, And Spenser hallow'd with immortal rhyme. March 26, 1839. * Born and educated in France up to her twenty-uecond year. SONNETS. XLII. WRITTEN IN A SEASON OF PDBLIC DISTURBANCE. Calm is the sky : the trees are very calm. The mountains seem as they would melt away, So soft their outline mingles with the day. Surely no sound less holy than a psalm Should interrupt the stillness and the balm Of such a morn, whose' grave monastic grey Clothes the meek east in garment meet to pray With sweet humility, without a qualm. And yet, even now, in this most blessed hour, Who knows but that the murderous shot is sped In the fell jar of poverty and power ? The man but now that lived, may now be dead. Has Nature of her human brood no care. That on their bloody deeds she smiles so fair ? SONNETS. 45 XLIII. TO MRS. CHARLES FOX. Now the old trees are striving to be youug, And the gay mosses of the Christmas days To the fresh primrose must forego their praise Now every flower by vernal poets sung, And every bird the [bursting] woods among, And all the many-dappled banks and braes, Recal remembrance of immortal lays, But speak to me in a forgotten tongue. Yea, dearest lady, they do speak to me As to a banish'd man that hath forgot Almost his mother's language, and cannot, . Without sore pain and stress of memory, Reply to words that yet he hears with joy, And by their strangeness make him half a boy. April. 46 SONNETS. XLIV. THE FIG-TREE RUMINAL. Sweet lady, thou art come to us agaiu : The mouutaius still are in their aucient seats ; Still on the turfy mound the young lamb bleats, Whose coat of March is wash'd with April rain. But since no Philomel can here complain, Let, lady, one poor bard lament to thee The murderous death of many a noble tree, That wont to shade thee in the grassy lane. Would that religion of old time were ours, (In that one article, not all the others,) W^hich the first Romans held, who rear'd the towers. Nigh the moist cradle of the Foundling Brothers, The faith that did in awe and love instal, For many an age, the Fig-Tree Ruminal.* * The Fig-Tree Ruminal, — Fictts ruminalis, beneath which Romulus and Remus, according to the tradition, were found by the shepherd Faustulus. 47 XLV. TO LOUISE CLAUDE. I WOULD not take my leave of thee, dear child. With customary words of compliment : Nor will I task my fancy to invent A fond conceit, or sentence finely filed ; Nor shall my heart with passionate speech and wild. Bewail thy parting in a drear lament. Wit is not meet for one so innocent. Nor passionate woe for one so gaily mild. I will not bid thee think of me, nor yet Would I in thy young memoiy perish quite. I am a waning star, and nigh to set ; Thou art a morning beam of waxing light; But sure the morning star can ne'er regret That once 'twas grey-hair 'd evening"s favourite. 48 XLVI. HOPE. Hope, I have seen thee oft by pilgrim hand Of vagrant artist vividly pourtray'd In the sweet likeness of a wishing maid, Content from day to day on ocean strand. Loving the long-drawn wrinldes of the sand Wrought by the incessant ingress of the sea, Because the waves are rolling from the land Where the dear lad is now, where'er it be. See how the maid upon that anchor leans. Gazing beyond the long horizon's bound. Rude is the picture, but a truth profound Wakes in the heart to tell you what it means ; For Hope still stands beside the vast dark sea. Watching the tides of blank futurity. SONNETS. 49 Say, what is freedom ? What the life of souls Which all who know are bound to keep, or die, And who knows not is dead ? In vain we pry In the dark archives and tenacious scrolls Of written law, tho' Time embrace the rolls In his lank arms, and shed his yellow light On every barbarous word. Eternal Right Works its own way, and evermore controls Its own free essence. Liberty is duty, Not license. Every pulse that beats At the glad summons of imperious beauty Obeys a law. The very cloud that fleets Along the dead green surface of the hill Is ruled and scatter 'd by a Godlike will. XLVIII. TO H. W. In days of old, if any days be old, Beneath the shadow of the ancient hill. We roam'd together by the wandering rill : Thou a light-footed hunter, free and bold, And I a straggler from the self-same fold. Rough, ragged, wild, with haggard looks that still Dwelt on the ground, as if predestined ill Blighted the joy of youth. Twelve years are told, And now we meet again ; thou, like the wind That drives the grey cloud to the infinite sea, Hast traversed all the world's variety, From Western Isles to Oriental Ind ; I am the lazy pool among the heather That slumbers sound in spite of wind and weather. 51 XLIX. TO H. N. COLERIDGE. Kinsman — yea, more than kinsman — brother — friend,- more than kinsman ! more than friend or brother ! My sister's spouse, son to my widow'd mother ! — How shall I praise thee right, and not offend ? For thou wert sent a sore heart-ill to mend. Twin stars were ye, thou and thy wedded love, Benign of aspect as those imps of Jove, In antique faith commission'd to portend To sad sea-wanderers peace ; or like the tree By Moses cast into the bitter pool, Which made the tear-salt water fresh and cool ; Or even as spring, that sets the boon earth free — Fi'ee to be good, exempt from winter's rule : Such hast thou been to our poor family. e2 52 L. FAITH. How much thy Holy Name hath been misused, Beginner of all good, all-mighty Faith ! Some men thy blessed symbols have abused. Making them badge or secret shibboleth For greed accepted, or for spite refused, Or just endured in fear of pain or death. To some, by fearful conscience self-accused, Thou com'st a goblin self, a hideous wraith ! With such as these thou art an inward strife. A shame, a misery, and a death in life. A self-asserting, self-disputing lie ; A thing to unbelief so near allied. That it would gladly be a suicide. And only lives because it dare not die. SONNETS. 53 LI. FEAR. • Dim child of darkness and faint-echoing, space, That still art just behind, and never here, Death's herald shadow, unimagined Fear ; Thou antic, that dost multiply a face. Which hath no self, but finds in every place A body, feature, voice, and circumstance, Yet art most potent in the wide expanse Of unbelief — may I beseech thy grace ? Thou art a spirit of no certain clan. For thou wilt fight for either God or Devil. Man is thy slave, and yet thy lord is man ; The human heart creates thee good or evil : As goblin, ghost, or fiend I ne'er have known thee, But as myself, my sinful self, T own thee. 54 LII. ^ PRATER. Theee is an .awful quiet in the air, And the sad earth, with moist imploring eye. Looks wide and wakeful at the pondering sky, Like Patience slow subsiding to Despair. But see, the blue smoke as a voiceless prayer, Sole witness of a secret sacrifice, Unfolds its tardy wreaths, and multiplies Its soft chameleon breathings in the rare Capacious ether, — so it fades away, And nought is seen beneath the pendent blue, The undistinguishable waste of day. So have I dream'd ! — oh, may the dream be true !■ That praying souls are purged from mortal hue, And grow as pure as He to whom they pray. SONNETS. 55 LIII. There was a seed ■which the impassive wind, Now high, now low, now piping loud, now mute, Or, like the last note of a trembling lute, The loved abortion of a thing design 'd, Or half-said prayer for good of human-kind, Wafted along for ever, ever, ever. It sought to plant itself; but never, never. Could that poor seed or soil or water find. And yet it was a seed which, had it found. By river's brink or rocky mountain cleft, A kindly shelter and a genial ground, Might not have perish'd, quite of good bereft ; Might have some perfume, some faint echo left, Faint as the echo of the Sabbath sound. 56 SONNETS. LIV. FROJI MICHAEL ANGELO. The might of one fair face sublimes my love ; For it hath wean'd my heart from low desires, Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires. Thy beauty, antepart of joys above, Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve ; For oh ! how good, how beautiful must be The God that made so good a thing as thee, So fair an image of the heavenly Dove. Forgive me if I cannot turn away From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, For they are guiding stars benignly given To tempt my footsteps to the upward way ; And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, I live and love in God's peculiar light. 57 LV. HEARD, NOT SEEN. Sounds I have beard " by distance made more sweet," And wbispering sounds, more sweet that they are near. But those glad sounds so close upon mine ear, How bad they made my younger heart to beat ! The bounding strain that rules the silken feet, Like warbling Nymph of old Winandermere, That bubbles music through the crystal clear, Comes soften'd to my solitary seat. Yet though I see it not, I more than dream Of the blithe beauty that is tripping nigh : Mine ear usurps the function of mine eye, As coolly shaded from the maddening beam Of present loveliness, I love the stream Unseen of happiness that gurgles by. August 11, 1846. 58 SONNETS. Still for the world he lives, and lives in bliss, For God and for himself. Ten years and three Have now elapsed since he was dead to me And all that were on earth intensely his. Not in the dim domain of Gloomy Dis, The death-god of the ever-guessing Greek, Nor in the paradise of Houris sleek I think of him whom I most sorely miss. The sage, the poet, lives for all mankind, As long as truth is true, or beauty fair. The soul that ever sought its God to find Has found Him now — no matter how, or where. Yet can I not but mourn because he died That was my father, should have been my guide. 1847. SONNETS SUGGESTED BY THE SEASONS. SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. 61 I. NEW tear's day. A new-year"s day ! Time was that I was glad When the new year was usher 'd into life With midnight fiddle, morning drum and fife. I wonder'd then how any could be sad Because another year had gone to add One figure to the date of human strife. And yet I knew that sin and pain were rife, That age would fain be cold, that youth was mad : All this I knew, yet, knowing, ne'er believed ; And now I know it, and believe it too : But yet I am not of all grace bereaved ; I wish the hope that hath myself deceived May, like the happy year, itself renew. And be at least to one dear maiden true, January 1, 1840. 62 SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. II. FEBRUARY IST, 1842. One month is past, another is begun, Since merry bells rung out the dying year. And buds of rarest green begin to peer. As if impatient for a warmer sun ; And though the distant hills are bleak and dun. The virgin snowdrop, like a lambent fire, Pierces the cold earth with its green-sheath'd spire And in dark woods the wandering little one May find a primrose. Thus the better mind Puts forth some flowers, escaped from Paradise, Though faith be dim as faintest wintry skies, And passion fierce as January wind. O God, vouchsafe a sunbeam clear and kind, To cheer the pining flow'ret ere it dies. SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. 63 III. MARCH, 1846. Now Nature in her vernal green is clad, And windy March puts on the robe of Maj' ; The primrose is abroad, the buds half-way Open their lips ; all things are blithe and glad : Then wherefore should I droop in semblance sad, And contradict the promise of the air ? Ah, me ! I can but think of those that were, And now are not — of those dear friends I had, And have not. Alice, thou art very meek. And hast the faith that makes affliction good. It would be wholesome to my perilous mood If I could see the tear upon thy cheek. Methinks we could talk out a day — a week, Of those we loved. Oh, Alice ! would we could ! 64 SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. IV. THE VERNAL SHOWER. Welcome once more, my pretty Lady Spring ; So young a Spring we have not seen for years. Even thy brief morning fit of girlish tears Was bright and sweet as droppings from the wing Of kindly sylph, through ether voyaging On some good errand to the distant spheres ; And every bud and blade, to which adheres The pure aspersion, seems a conscious thing, Renew'd in spirit. Light the birdie leaps, Shaking translucent gems from every spray : And merrily down the many-shadow'd steeps The streamlets whiten, all in new array. Joy to the vale if Summer do but keep The bounteous promise of this April day. Grasmeke, AprU, 1842. SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. 65 V. 1st of APRIL, 1845. Sweet month of Venus, meekly thus begun, Too pensive for a day of antique folly, In yellow garb of quiet melancholy Thy patient pastures sleep beneath the sun ; And if a primrose peep, there is but one Where wont the starry crowd to look so jolly. Alone, amid the wood, the Christmas holly Gleams on the bank with streaming rain fordone, And yet the snowdrop and the daffodils Have done their duty to the almanack. And though the garden mould is blank and black. With bloom and scent the gay mezereon fills The longing sense ; and plants of other climes In the warm greenhouse tell of better times. 66 SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. VI. MAY, 1840. A LOVELY morn, so still, so very still. It hardly seems a gx'owing day of Spring, Though all the odorous buds are blossoming. And the small matin birds were glad and shrill Some hours ago ; but now the woodland rill Murmurs along, the only vocal thing. Save when the wee wren flits with stealthy wing, And cons by fits and bits her evening trill. Lovers might sit on such a morn as this An hour together, looking at the sky, Nor dare to break the silence with a kiss. Long listening for the signal of a sigh ; And the sweet Nun, diffused in voiceless prayer. Feel her own soul through all the brooding air. SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. 67 TIT. HAT MORNING. In days of yore, while yet the -world was young, Fair nymphs arose to grace the morn of May, And ere the East had doff'd the pearly grey, Went forth to catch the jewell'd drops that hung On the fresh virgin leaves the woods among ; And many a delicate foot-mark might be seen, Tinting the silvery lawn with darker green ; And many a bird, untimely waked, upsprung. Scattering the maythom's white. lovely season. Where art thou gone ? Methinks the cold neglect Of thy old rites, perchance, may be the reason Thou wilt not punctual keep thy wonted time. But, angry at our slothful disrespect, Carest not to quit some duteous happier clime. v2 SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. VIII. MAY 25th, 1844. How Strange the cold ungenial atmosphere, Beneath the cover of so bright a sky ! Each way-side flower hath oped its little eye ; The very coyest buds of all the year Have ventured forth to see if all be clear. Full-leaved the pendant birches droop and sigh ; The oak is clothed iu vernal majesty ; White-chaliced lilies float upon the mere. The very warmth that made this world of beauty Is summon'd to another tract of duty, And leaves a substitute so stern and cold, We half regret old Winter's honest rule. The roaring chimney and the log of yule : May hath such airs as May had not of old. Ambleside, Man 25, 1S44. SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. 69 IX. TO DORA QUILIJNAN. Well, this is really like the poet's Ma3% The merry May of which we used to hear, Big with the promise of the coming year ! The apple-trees their rosy bloom display, The flowerets, mauy-hued, that line the way, Long-soak'd with rain, and chill'd with whistling blast, Look happy now, like maidens, that at last Are to be wedded, after long delay. Oh ! that the joy, the fragrance, and the bloom, That bid all life and even poor man be glad. Might waft a breath of comfort to the room Where she lies smitten, yet not wholly sad. Waiting with frame immortal to be clad, In patient expectation of her doom ! May 29, 1847. 70 SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. Oh, what a joy is in the vernal ah- ! For Nature now is like a budding girl, Whose merry laugh displays, more white than pearl, Teeth that make lovers old as me despair. And yet, though Time has written on my hair A notice from all amorous thoughts to part, This day persuades long slumbering hopes to start, Like cuckoo notes, from winters drowsy lair. Yet, my young love, I hope not for the thing That is the prism of my soul. Oh, no ! I scorn the wish that to my love would bring Laborious days, and poverty, and woe. I only wish thou mayst beloved be By a much better man, as J. love thee. SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. 71 XI. AUTUMN FLOWERS. The flowers of Spring, they come in sweet succession. Snowdrop and crocus, and mezereon, thick Studded with blossom upon leafless stick, And the young ivy, ceaseless in progression ; They triumph in their hour of brief possession. Then Summer comes, with her voluptuous rose, And sweet carnation in half-blown repose ; The plant where pious minds discern the passion, The death by which we live. But I was born When the good year was like a man of fifty, When the wild crabtree show'd a naked thorn, And tall brown fern disguised the red deer's horn ; Like meats upon a board, august yet thrifty. Large flowers blaze out at intervals forlorn. 72 SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. xir. SEPTEMBER. The dark green Summer, with its massive hues, Fades into Autumn's tincture manifold. A gorgeous garniture of fire and gold The high slope of the ferny hill indues. The mists of morn in slumbering layers diffuse O'er glimmering rock, smooth lake, and spiked array Of hedge-row thorns, a unity of grey. All things appear their tangible form to lose In ghostly vastness. But anon the gloom Melts, as the Sun puts off his muddy veil; And now the birds their twittering songs resume. All Summer silent in the leafy dale. In Spring they piped of love on every tree, But now they sing the song of memory. SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. XIII. NOVEMBER. Now the last leaves are hanging on the trees, And very few the flowers that glint along The deep dark lanes and braes, erewhile as throng With peeping posies as the limes with bees ; Nought in the garden but stiff sticks of peas. And climbing weeds inextricably strong ; And scarce a fragment of autumnal song Whistles above the surly morning breeze. Yet still at eve we hear the merry owl. That sings not sweetly, but he does his best ; The little brown bird with the scarlet vest Chirrups away, though distant storms do howl. Then let us not at dark November scowl. But wait for Christmas with a cheerful breast. 74 SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. XTV. WRITTEN IN A PERIOD OP GREAT MONETARY DISTRESS. Though Night and Winter are two gloomy things, Yet Night has stars, and Winter has the moss, And the wee pearly goblets that emboss The lumbering wall on which the redbreast sings. Now the old year spreads wide his dusky wings. And hovers o'er his many children dead ; Few ai'e the blessings on his hoary head Bestow'd by hearts whom cruel memory wrings, And sad forebodings, for no stars are seen In the dull night and winter of distress. The chaliced mosses and the velvet green, That clothe November with a seemly dress. As furry spoils that warm the red-hair'd Russ. Shield not the poor from blasts impiteous. Xovember 3, 1847. SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. 75 XV. CHRISTMAS DAY. Was it a fancy, bred of vagrant guess, Or well-remember'd fact, that He was born When half the world was wintry and forlorn. In Nature "s utmost season of distress ? And did the simple earth indeed confess Its destitution and its craving need, Wearing the white and penitential weed, Meet symbol of judicial barrenness"? So be it ; for in truth 'tis ever so, That when the whiter of the soul is bare. The seed of heaven at first begins to grow, Peeping abroad in desert of despair. Full many a floweret, good, and sweet, and fair, Is kindly wrapp'd in coverlet of snow. 76 SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. XVI. ON A CALM DAT TOWARDS THE CLOSE OF THE TEAR. There never was an hour of purer peace ! Methinks old Time, in mere mortality, Gives up the ghost, contented not to be. And all the pulses of great Nature cease. Whate'er betokens hope, life, or increase. The gladsome expectation, or the dread Of chance and change upon to-morrow fed. Await the expiration of their lease In dumb dull apathy. Not on the tree Stirs the brown leaf; or, if detach 'd, it drop, So very slow it wavers to the ground One might suppose that central gravity, Prime law of nature, were about to stop : Ne'er died a year with spirit so profound. December 22, 1835. SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. 77 XVII. DECEMBER, 1838. The poor old year upou its deathbed lies ; Old trees lift up their branches manifold, Spiry and stern, inveterately old ; Their bare and patient poverty defies The fickle humour of inconstant skies. All chill and distant, the great monarch Sun Beholds the last days of his minion. What is 't to him how soon the old year dies ? Yet some things are, but lowly things and small, That wait upon the old year to the last ; Some wee birds pipe a feeble madrigal. Thrilling kind memories of the summer past ; Some duteous flowers put on their best array To do meet honour to their lord's decay. 78 SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. XVI II. ST. THOMAS' DAY. So dimly wanes the old year to its end ! And now we are attain'd the very day When the blest sun hath sent his dimmest ray From the far south ; and now will northward bend. The days will lengthen, — will the days amend? Alas ! the days or lengthen or decay By law they ne'er would wish to disobey, And only sink the blither to ascend. Few lives are stretch'd to the long weary night Of dull December, and its mizzling veil Of day, brief tarrying in the murky dale : For some in April melt to happier light ; Some burn away in passionate July ; And happier some in ripe October die. SONNETS AND OTHER POEMS BIKDS, INSECTS, AND FLOWEES. 81 HUMMING BIRDS. The insect birds that suck uectareous juice From straightest tubes of curly-petal'd flowers, Or catch the honey-dew that falls profuse Through the soft air, distill'd in viewless showers, Whose colours seem the very souls of gems. Or pai-ting rays of fading diadems : — I have but seen their feathers, — that is all. As much as we can know of poets dead Or living ; but the gilded plumes that fall Float on the earth, or in the wind dispread Go everywhere to beautify the breeze. Sweet wind, surcharged with treasures fair as these, I may not feel : — I never may behold The spark of hfe, that trimm'd in garb so bright That flying quintessence of ruby, gold. Mild emerald, and lucid chrysolite. Yet am I glad that life and joy were there. That the small creature was as blithe as fair. VOL. II. G 82 THE CRICKET. The Naturalist of the Supplement to the British Almanack tells me that Crickets rusticate in Summer, and return to their firesides in Winter. I would I knew this for a fact. A.^oc-TK.o'i/.a.Toi, (fiffma. — 1843. Wheee art thou, merry whistler of the hearth ? What time the grate is stuff'd with arid moss, I miss thy shrill monotony of mirth. And do not love the bar's ferruginous gloss, When summer nights are blinking-dark and cold. And the dim taper cheerless to behold. I thought thee sleeping in some cranny snug, Insensible to human weal or woe, Till earlier night bids shake the lazy rug. And lifts the poker for decisive blo-w. But thou hast left thy ashy winter mansion To air thy crisp-cased wings in wide expansion. If I should see thee in thy summer dress, 'Tis odds if I should know thee, winter friend I 83 The love I have not, but revere no less, That can so closely to thy ^vays attend. And glad am I the cricket has a share Of the wide summer, and the ample air. LINES WRITTEN OPPOSITE A DRAWING OF A PARROT AND BUTTERFLY. Bright creatures are ye, bird and butterfly, The joyous progeny of the breeding sun, Who work'd below, his " 'prentice hand to try," On topaz, ruby, and carnelian. Then, breathing upwards, first essay 'd the rose. Sweet emanation of the soul of earth : Then would the gilded fly its wings disclose. Proud of the beauty of its gorgeous birth. But brightest gems would murmur, if they might, Because for woman, not themselves, they glow. Blest are the insects, brood of warmth and light. Who feel their life, how brief they cannot know ; But happier far the bird that can repeat Sweet words, by sweeter lips made doubly sweet. o2 84 " When Messrs. Hawes and Fellowes ascended Mont Blanc in July, 1827, they obsers^ed a butterfly near the summit. Mr. C. Shewell saw- two crimson moths at nearly the same elevation." Who would have thought, upou this icy cliff, Where never ibex bounded. Nor foot of chamois sounded, Where scarce the soaring hippogriff Would venture, unless truly, To this exalted Thule, He carried the thought of a metaphysician, Or theory of an electrician ; — Who would have dream 'd of seeing thee, Softest of summer's progeny ? What art thou seeking ? What hast thou lost '? That before the throne of eternal frost Thou comest to spread the crimson wing. Thou pretty fluttering thing ? Art thou too fine for the world below ? Or hast thou lived out thy joy and thy spring ? And hast thou sworn To live forlorn An anchorite in a cave of snow, Or Palmer lonely wandering ? 85 Or dost thou fancy, as many have done, That, because the hill-top is nearest the sun, The sun loves better the unthaw'd ice, That does nothing but say that he is bright, And dissect, like a prism, his braided light — Than the gardens of bloom and the fields of spice ? Didst thou think that the bright orb his mystery shrouds In a comfortless mantle of sleet-driving clouds ? Alas ! he never loved this place ; It bears no token of his grace ; But many a mark of the tempest's lash. And many a brand of the sulphurous flash. 'Tis better to dweU amid corn-fields and flowers. Or even the weeds of this world of ours, Than to leave the green vale and the sunny slope. To seek the cold cliff with a desperate hope. Flutter he, flutter he, high as he will, A butterfly is but a butteiily still. And 'tis better for us to remain where we are, In the lowly valley of duty and care. Than lonely to stray to the heights above, \\Tiere there 's nothing to do, and nothing to love. 86 THE KIGHTINGALE. A MIGHTY bard there was, in joy of youth, That wont to rove the vernal groves among, When the green oak puts forth its scalloped tooth, And daisies thick the darkening fallows throng. He listen'd oft, whene'er he sought to soothe A fancied sorrow with a fancied song, For Philomela's ancient tale of ruth, And never heard it, all the long night long ; But heard, instead, so glad a strain of sound, So many changes of continuous glee, From lowest twitter, such a quick rebound, To billowy height of troubled ecstasy — Rejoice ! he said, for joyfully had he found That mighty poets may mistaken be.* Sunday, Sept. 27, 1840. * See Coleridge's Poems, Vol. i., p..211. 87 THE CUCKOO. Tiiou indefatigable cuckoo ! still Thy iteration says the self-same thing, And thou art still an utterance of the spring As constant as a self-determined will. The quiet patience of a murmuring rill Had no beginning and will have no ending ; But thou art aye beginning, never blending With thrush on perch, or lark upon the wing. Methinks thou art a type of some recluse Whose notes of adoration never vary : Who of the gift of speech will make no use But ever to repeat her Ave Mary. — Two syllables alone to thee were given, What mean they in the dialect of heaven ? May 22, 1S48. THE ANEMONE. Who would have thought a thing so slight. So frail a birth of warmth and light, A thing as weak as fear or shame, Bearing thy weakness in thy name, — Who would have thought of finding thee, Thou delicate Anemone, Whose faintly tinted petals may By any wind be torn away. Whose many anthers with their dust, And the dark purple dome their centre, When winter strikes, soon as it likes. Will quit their present rest, and must Hurry away on wild adventure ? What power has given thee to outlast The pelting rain, the driving blast ; To sit upon thy slender stem, A solitary diadem. Adorning latest autumn with A relic sweet of vernal pith ? THE ANEMONE. 89 Oh Heaven ! if, — as faithful I believe, — Thou wilt the prayer of faitliful love receive, Let it be so with me ! I was a child Of large belief, though froward, wild : Gladly I hsten'd to the holy word. And deem'd my little prayers to God were heard. All things I loved, however strange or odd. As deeming all things were beloved by God. In youth and manhood's careful sultry hours. The garden of my youth bore many flowers That now are faded ; but my early faith. Though thinner far than vapour, spectre, wraith. Lighter than aught the rude wind blows away. Has yet outlived the rude tempestuous day. And may remain, a witness of the spring, A sweet, a holy, and a lovely thing ; The promise of another spring to me. My lovely, lone, and lost Anemone ! AiTBLEsiDE, Novemler. 00 EUPHKASIA OFFICINALIS, or EYE-BRIGHT. There is a flower, a tiny flower, Its hue is white, but close within 't There is a spot of golden tint; Therein abides a wondrous juice. That hath, for such as know its use, A sweet and holy power. It is the little Euphrasy, Which you no doubt have often seen 'Mid the tall grass of meadow green ; But never deem'd so wee a wight Endow'd with medicinal might To clear the darken'd eye. And maybe now it hath no more The virtue which the kindly fays Bestow'd in fancy's holy days ; Yet still the gold-eyed weedie springs, To show how pretty little things Were hallow'd long of yore. 91 THE COWSLIP. Lady, beyond the wide Atlantic main Huge trees hast thou beheld, and gorgeous flowers, And poor may be to thee, and dim, and plain The simple posies of this isle of ours ; Yet, lady, humbly I present to thee A flower refined in her simplicity. The lady Cowslip, that, amid the grass, Is tall and comely as a virgin queen. The Primrose is a bonny peasant lass. The bold and full-blown beauty of the green ; She seems on mossy bank, in forest glade, Most meet. to be the Cowslip's waiting maid. But the coy Cowslip — coy, though doom'd to stand In state erect upon the open field — Declines her head ; the lady of the land. That must be public, fain would be conceal'd. Knowing how much she ought to all impart. Yet much retaining with an artless art ; For there is beauty in the cowslip bell That must be sought for ere it can be spied, 92 THE CCrVVSLIP AND THE LARK. And her pure perfume must be known full well Before its goodness can be testified ; And therefore do 1 give the flower to thee, Thinking thee better than I know or see. THE COWSLIP AND THE LARK. Mt pretty lady Cowslip ! prim and shy, Dress'd in the vernal garb of Roman bride, I wish thee sometimes in a long road-side My sohtary dream to purify. And thou, bold Lark ! thou shivering voice on high ! Invisible warbler of the blue expanse ! WTiy wUt thou not, my merry bird, advance. And glad Winander with thy minstrelsy ? The fancy sweet of Persia feign 'd the love. Of the voluptuous rose and nightingale. And Kent flows on, — the merry Lark above And the meek Cowslip bending in the vale ; — What if there be mysterious love between The brave bird of the sky and flow'ret of the green ! 93 ON A BUNCH OF COWSLIPS, GROWN NEAE THE WEAY, AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY A LADY. Sweet stranger lady, of a southern land, And hast thou ventured so far north away ? Has the soft magic of a lady's hand Evoked thy shmness from the cold north clay ? Thy sister Primrose is a damsel bold That will be found, mayhap before we seek ; Thou art a lady, coy, yet not so cold. Tall and erect, though modest, yet not weak. Thou art not lonely in thy bashful mood. But rather, like a sweet devoted Nun, Fearing the guile of selfish solitude. Content of many sisters to be one. I cannot look upon thee, delicate plant, Nor taste the gentleness of thy perfume, And not conceive the living world too scant To give thy beauties and thy meanings room 04 ON A- BtTNCH OF COWSLIPS. What time the Fairies made their orbs of green, And gave to every herb mysterious power, Thou wert the chosen crest of Elfin Queen, Her banner tall in battle's perilous hour. When eve of May, and all its wizard spells, Was aye succeeded by the glad May morn. The pendant Cowslip, with its silent bells. Adorn 'd the pole by village maidens borne. When London yet was but a scatter'd town, Dotting gay fields and garden with her towers, And gravest cits, with a relaxing frown. Let out their tripping girls to gather flowers ; Ah ! surely it had been a lovely sight To see them trooping, ere the sun was high. Back to their frugal homes with garlands dight Of Cowslips pale, in sweetness doom'd to die. The ruddier daughters of the hamlet oft With balls of Cowslips pelted one another, Or heap'd the hay, so flowery, sweet, and soft, With fragrant load some panting nymph to smother. Maybe, these frolics of the antique age Were all too rude, meek lady-flower, for thee : Methinks thy fittest doom, in holy page Of hook devout, to fade in sanctity ; THE CELANDINE AND THE DAISY. 95 Where pious -woman oft is wont to read, And seeing thy pale reUcs, stops to pray, That, like the virgin daughter of the mead, She may be sweet, and hallow"d in decay. July 13, :&14. THE CELANDINE AND THE DAISY. I LOVE the flowers that Nature gives away With such a cai'eless bounty : some would deem She thought them baubles, things of no esteem, Mere idle followers of unthrifty May. See in the lane, where geese and donkeys stray, That golden flower, the countless Celandine : Though long o'erlook'd, it needs no praise of mine, For 'tis one mightier poet's joy and theme. See how the Daisies whiten all yon lea ! A thing so dear to poet and to child, That when we see it on neglected wild. We prize old Nature's generosity. The Celandine one mighty bard may prize ; The Daisy no bard can monopolise. 96 THE SNOWDROP. Yes, punctual to the time, thou 'rt here again. As still thou art : — though frost or rain may vary. And icicles blockade the rockbirds' aeiy, Or sluggish snow lie heavy on the plain. Yet thou, sweet child of hoary January, Art here to harbinger the laggard train Of vernal flowers, a duteous missionary. Nor cold can bhght, nor fog thy pureness stain. Beneath the dripping eaves, or on the slope Of cottage garden, whether mark'd or no. Thy meek head bends in undistinguish'd row. Blessings upon thee, gentle bud of hope ! And Nature bless the spot where thou dost grow- Young life emerging from thy kindred snow I THE GENTIANELLA. Pretty stranger in our gardens, We should beg thee thousand pardons, Long forgotten, far too long, Never mention'd yet in song. Strange it is, that never ditty Ever told thee thou wert pretty : Rondo none, nor ritornella. Praises thee, my Gentianella. Very well I know thee, why Thou art not like the cloudless sky. Nor like the virgin's melting eye. Poets seek in fields and trees (Quaint conceits and similes ; But thine azure is thine own, — Nothing like it have I known : Seems it not of upper earth ; — Surely it must have its birth In the darkness far below. Where the dark-eyed sapphires grow ! Lovely votary of the sun, Never wishing to be won 98 THE .LTLY OF THE VALLEY. By a vain and mortal lover, Shrinking closely into cover. When thy true love hath departed. Patient, pure, and simple-hearted. Like an exile doom'd to roam, Not in foreign land at home, — I will call thy azure hue Brightest, firmest, truest blue. THE LILY OP THE VALLEY. Some flowers there are that rear their heads on high. The gorgeous products of a burning sky, That rush upon the eye with garish bloom. And make the senses drunk with high perfume. Not such art thou, sweet Lily of the Vale ! So lovely, small, and delicately pale, — We might believe, if such fond faith were ours. As sees humanity in trees and flowers, That thou wert once a maiden, meek and good. That pined away beneath her native wood For very fear of her own loveliness, And died of love she never would confess. .I/ayi'4. 1S46. 99 THE DANDELION. Strange plants we bring from lands where CaflS.rs roam, And great the traveller in botanic fame That can inflict his queer and ugly name On product of South Afric sands or loam, Or on the flexile creeper that hath clomb Up the tall stems of Polynesian palms ; And now with clusters, or with spikes, embalms The sickly air beneath the glassy dome In lordly garden. Haply time may be When botanist from fire-born Owhyhee Shall bear thee, milky mother of white down, Back to his isle a golden gift superb ; — Give name uncouth to diuretic herb. And from the Dandelion reap renown. h2 100 TO THE PLANT "EVERLASTING." And is it thus ? Shall roses fade, And violets wither in the shade ? Must the tall lily lose her height, And sickly pale usurp her white ? And shall the luscious woodbine shed The quaint horns of each clustering head ? Must the sweet lady jessamine, Pride of the cottar's porch, resign The virgin pureness of her coronal, And thou sustain no change at all ? The snowdrops, with their fairy bells. Have but one chilly month of beauty ; Then the rank-set daffodils Take the term of vernal duty : And then in order due succeed The cowslip, maiden of the mead, And primrose of the " river's brim," — A village lassie, frank and free, Unlike the cowslip, tall and slim — A lady she of high degree. Like a Roman bride in her bridal trim. TO THE PLANT " EVEHLASTING." 101 But these, and many more as gay, As innocent and frail as they, By Nature strewn in sweet disorder. Or nicely prank'd in bed and border, Babes of April, pets of May, Like joys of childhood pass away. Summer has a hotter grace. Of darker leaf and broader face. I never loved them much, and so I 'm well content to let them go. And yet they tarry, trying ever — Vainly trying to be — what ? To be young in vain endeavour, — Venerable they are not. Never mind ! — we see the stems Of summer flowers, all bare and seedy. Like piinces, stript of diadems, In garden plots hirsute and weedy. And when green Autumn, matron sage, A lady of a " certain age," Majestic trails her sinuous train. And clothes the yellow vales with grain. She hath attendance meet of flowers. As bold and purple, ripe and rosy. As dowagers right red and cosy : Grave matrons in the fairy hospitals. Staid, stately, formal, bearded seneschals ; 109, TO THE 'PLANT " EVERLASTING." The painted pageantry of fairy bowers ; The dai"lings of a region far away, Late-flowering heaths of Southern Africa, Fuchsias from Chili, dahlias from Peru, And strange varieties of motley hue, Or gorgeous tints, that show what art can do. But Winter comes, — They perish ; let them go ! There still are flowers, whose ancestors were born Beneath the southern reign of Capricorn, That deck old Winter under glassy frames. I love them not, and do not know their names. I better like the lichen's crackly scale. The velvet moss, or verdant fox's tail. But thus it seems that Nature ranges In perpetuity of changes ; For every age she hath a symbol. And tells it what it ought to be ; Youth, like Spring-time, light and nimble, Evanescent in its glee ; Middle age, like woman wedded, Should be Summer altogether ; — Only mai'k, it is not needed There should be any rainy weather. Autumn beauties, such there are, Of forty years, or rather more, But not so delicately fair TO THE PLANT "EVERLASTING." 103 As twenty years ago they were, Yet rich and ripe as Autumn's store. And Winter — no, I will not tell How age is Winter's parallel. If like it be in anything, 'Tis nearest to successive Spring. Spring, Summer, Autumn, with their train, Pass away and come again ; For every spray and every flower, When sever'd from the natal stem, May yield its fragrance for an hour In coronary diadem : But having done its best, it dies — Its sweetest odours are its parting sighs. But what art thou, that l.iear'st a name Synonymous with poet's fame ? Thou yellow, husky, arid thing ! Thou mere antipathy to Spring, Not sweet to smell, nor fair to sight. And useless as an anchorite. Who feasted on continual fasting, Art thou indeed " the Everlasting?" Yes, so indeed, 'tis ever so ; 'Tis right that God should only show His goodness for a little while. Brief is the being of a smile. 104 TO THE PLANT " EVEELASTIXG." And pity's tears are quickly tlry, And all good things are born to die ; While things unholy, of small worth, Endure a weary time on earth. But think not, therefore, that the good Is but the Giver's fitful mood. He only lets us have a taste Of heavenly good, and then in haste Withdraws it, that we may be led To seek it at the fountain-head ; While for the earth he leaves a feint, The idol of the permanent, — A something very like, indeed, But not the same ; a worthless weed That hath the form, but not the power, The juice, or fragrance of a flower. 105 THE FOEGET-ME-NOT. Theke is a little and a pretty flower, That you may find in many a garden plot ; Yet wild it is, and grows amid the stour Of public roads, as in close- wattled bower : Its name in English is, Forget-me-not. Sweet was the fancy of those antique ages That put a heart in every stirring leaf, Writing deep morals upon Nature's pages. Turning sweet flowers into deathless sages. To calm our joy and sanctify our grief. And gladly would I know the man or child, But no ! — it surely was a pensive girl That gave so sweet a name to floweret wild, A harmless innocent and unbeguiled, To whom a flower is precious as a pearl. Fain would I know, and yet I can but guess, How the blue floweret won a name so sweet. 106 ' AZALEA. Did some fond mothei', bending down to bless Her sailing son, with last and long-caress, Give the small plant to guard him through the fleet? Did a kind maid, that thought her lover all Bj which a maid would fain beloved be, Leaning against a ruin'd abbey wall. Make of the flower an am'rous coronal, That still should breathe and whisper, " Think of me "? " But were I good and holy as a saint. Or hermit-dweller in secluded grot, If e'er the soul in hope and love were faint, Then, like an antidote to mortal taint, I 'd give the pretty flower Forget-me-not. AZALEA. Welcome, sweet stranger, from the gorgeous East Nature in thee puts forth her beauteous might. For aye array 'd as for a marriage feast, Or like an incarnation of pure light. What man can see thee so superbly drest, Without a thought of her whom he loves best ? 10' Yet when I thiuk of her, whom I love well, I do uot think of such luxurious flowers. Ill suited to a humble home like ours, If you and I, my love, together dwell, Were the rich perfume, and the luscious swell Of herbs that emigrate from Indian bowers. Better for us the plant that feels the showers And the sweet sunshine, — by our mossy well. Better be like the buttercups so many, That in good England no one thinks of any, While yet we grow in our own native land. Than the Azalea, solitary, grand, Perfuming the far banks of Alleghany, Or withering in Australia's thirsty sand. 108 THE GUERNSEY LILY. AMARYLLIS SAMIEXSIS. " This plant was brought from Japan, whore it was found by Kaenifer and also by Thunberg, who visited that country in 1775. It was first cultivated in the garden of John Morin, at Paris, where it blowed for the first time on the 7th of October, 1634. It was then made known by Jacob Cornutus, under the name of ' Narcissus Japonicus flore nitilo.' After tliis it was again noticed by John Ray, in 1665, who called it the Guernsey Lily. A ship, returning from Japan, was wrecked on the coasts of Guernsey, and a number of the bulbs of this plant which were on board, being cast on shore, took root in that sandy soil." — Beckman's Inventimis, vol. iii. Far in the East, and long to us unknown, A lily bloom 'd, of colours quaint and rare ; Not like our lilies, white, and dimly fair, But clad like Eastern monarch on his throne. A ship there was by stress of tempest blown, And wreck'd on beach, all sandy, flat and bare ; — The storm-god bated of his rage to spare The queenly flower, foredoom'd to be our own. The Guernsey fisher, seeking what tlie sea Had stolen to aid his hungry poverty, Starts to behold the stranger from afar. And wonders what the gorgeous thing might be. That like an unsphered and dejected star Gleam'd in forlorn and mateless majesty. SONNETS AND OTHER POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OK INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. The following Poems were, with scarcely an exception, addressed to individuals, or suggested by actual occurrences. They have, however, little or nothing of an occasional character — certainly are never without a general interest. Jll CHILDHOOD. Oh -what a wilclemess were this sad world If man were always man, and never child : If Nature gave no time, so sweetly wild, When every thought is quaintly crisp'd and curl'd. Like fragrant hyacinth with dew impearl'd, And every feeling in itself confiding, Yet never single, but continuous, gliding AVith wavy motion as, on wings unfurl'd, A seraph clips the Empyreal ! Such man was Ere sin had made him know himself too well. No child was born ere that primeval loss. What might have been, no living soul can tell : But Heaven is kind, and therefore all possess Once in their life fair Eden's simpleness. 112 TO AN INFANT. Wise is the way of Nature, first to make This tiny model of what is to be, A thing that we may love as soon as see, That seems as passive as a summer lake When there is not a sigh of wind to shake The aspen leaf upon the tall slim tree. Yet who can tell, sweet infant mystery. What thoughts in thee may now begin to wake ? Something already dost thou know of pain, And, sinless, bear'st the penalty of sin ; And yet as quickly wilt thou smile again After thy cries, as vanishes the stain Of breath from steel. So may the peace within In thy ripe season re-assert its reign. lis TO AN INFANT. Sure 'tis a holy and a healing thought That fills my heart and mind at sight of thee, Thou purest abstract of humanity. Sweet infant, we might deem thy smile was brought From some far distant Paradise, where nought Forbad to hope whate'er of good may be, Where thou could'st know, and feel, and taste, and see That innocence which, lost, is vainly sought In this poor world. Yet, if thou wert so good As love conceives thee, thou had'st ne'er been born ; For sure the Lord of Justice never would Have doom'd a loyal spirit to be shorn Of its immortal glories — never could Exile perfection to an earth forlorn. 114 TO AN INFANT. WRITTEN ON A SNOWY DAY. Some say, sweet babe, thy mind is but a blanlv. As white and vacant as the level field Of unsunn'd suow, that passively must yield To human foot, to vapour dull and dank. To wheel indenting slow, with sullen clank, To wanton tracery of urchin wild. I deem not so of any human child. Nor can believe our nature ever sank To such a lowness. Nay, my pretty boy I In thy shrill laugh there is intelligence ; And though we can but guess, or how, or whence Thy soul was wafted — from what realm of joy Or mere privation thou hast hither come, — Thought has come with thee, happy thought, though dumb. ]15 TO A DEAF AND DUMB LITTLE GIRL. Like a loose island on the wide expanse, Unconscious floating on the fickle sea, Herself her all, she lives in privacy ; Her waking life as lonely as a trance, Doom'd to behold the universal dance, And never hear the music which expounds The solemn step, coy slide, the merry bounds. The vague, mute language of the countenance In vain for her I smooth my antic rhyme ; She cannot hear it, all her little being Concentred in her solitary seeing — What can she know of beaut [eous] or sublime ? And yet methinks she looks so calm and good, God must be with her in her solitude. i2 116 THE GOD-CHILD. I STOOD beside thee in the holy place, And saw the holy sprinkling on thy brow. And was both bond and witness to the vow Which own'd thy need, confirm'd thy claim of grace That sacred sign which time shall not efface Declared thee His, to whom all angels bow. Who bade the herald saint the rite allow To the sole sinless of all Adam's race. That was indeed an awful sight to see : And oft, I fear, for what my love hath done. As voucher of thy sweet communion In thy [sweet] Saviour's blessed mystery. Would I might give thee back, my little one. But half the good that I have got from thee. J17 TWINS. But bora to die, they just had felt the air, When God revoked the mandate of their doom. A brief imprisonment within the womb. Of human life was all but all their share. Two whiter souls unstain'd with sin or care Shall never blossom from the fertile tomb ; — Twin flowers that wasted not on earth their bloom. So quickly Heaven reclaim'd the spotless pair. Let man that on his own desert relies, And deems himself the creditor of God, Think how these babes have earn'd their paradise. How small the work of their small period : Their very cradle was the hopeful grave, God only made them for His Christ to save. lis BOYHOOD AND GIELHOOD. Did our first parents in their happy seat, New from the Maker's hand, a wedded pair, In livelier hues their several sex declare Than that brave boy, and that wee lady sweet ' Though not in measure nor in mind complete They come, a perfect husband and a bride ; Yet is the seal impress'd and testified By prophet Nature, till the season meet. The girl, a girl instinct with simple arts. And all the innocent cunning of her sex ; A very girl, delighting to perplex The eye of love with antic change of parts : Burly and bold the lad, his mien denotes One-hearted manhood even in petticoats. 119 To K. H. I. THE INFANT GRANDCHILD OF A BLIND GRANDFATHER. Oh sweet new-comer to the changeful earth ! If, as some darkling seers have boldly guess'd. Thou hadst a being and a human birth, And wert erewhile by human parents blest. Long, long before thy present mother press'd Thee, helpless stranger, to her fostering breast ; Then -well it is for thee that thou canst not Remember aught of face, or thing, or spot, But all thy former life is clean forgot : For sad it were to visit earth again. And find it false, and turbulent, and vain ; So little better than it was of yore, Yet nothing find that thou hast loved before ; And restless man in haste to banish thence The very shadow of old reverence. But well for us tliat there is something yet. Which change cannot efface, nor time forget ; — The patient smile of passive babyhood ; The brook-like gurglings, murmuring after meaning : J 20 THOU, BABY INNOCENCE. The waking dream ; the shade as softly screening The innocent sweetness of the opening hud, Which future love and sager thought encloses, As dewy moss, that swathes the swelling roses, — Till thought peers forth, and murmurs break to words, With human import in the notes of birds. And thus, sweet maid ! thy voice, so blithe and clear, Pours all the spring on thy good grandsire's ear. Filling his kind heart with a now delight. Which Homer may in ancient days have known. Till love and joy create an inward sight, And blindness shapes a fair woi'ld of its own. Let mutability, then, ■work its will, The child shall be the same sweet creature still. Thou, Baby Innocence ! — unseen of me, New bursting leaflet of the eternal tree, That thou art sweet, is all I know of thee. I know thou must be innocent and fair. And dimpled soft as other babies are ; But then — what impress doth thy beauty bear '? THOU, BABY INNOCENCE. 121 Which most prevails, the mother or the sire ? Are thine eyes like thy father's — made of fire, Keen to discern, and dauntless to inquire ? Or, like thy mother's, meek as summer eve, Gracious in answer, open to receive, Types of a soul most potent to believe ? Is thy chin cleft as sunny side of peach ? And have thy lips their own peculiar speech. And murmurs that can chide, caress, beseech ? Thy little hands are husj, — that I know ; Thy tiny feet are fidging to and fro ; But what 's the inner mood that stirs them so ? Not knowing what thou art, I deem it meet To think thee whatsoe'er I think most sweet, — A bud of promise — yet a babe complete. 12^ Fain would I dive to find my infant self In the unfathom'd ocean of the past ; I can but find a sun-burnt prattling elf, A froward urchin of four years at least. The prettiest speech — 'tis in my mind engrain'd — That first awaked me from my babyhood, — 'Twas a grave saw affectionately feign'd — " We '11 love you, little master, — if you 're good." Sweet babe, thou art not yet or good or bad, Yet God is round thee, in thee, and above thee ; We love, because we love thee, little lad, And pray thou may'st be good — because we love thee. 123 ON AX INFANT'S HAND. What is an infant but a germ, Prophetic of a distant term "? Whose present claim of love consists In that great power that Nature twists With the fine thread of imbecillity, Motion of infinite tranquillity. Joy that is not for this or that, Nor like the restless joy of gnat. Or midge in moty beam so rife. Whose day of pleasure is its life ; But joy that by its quiet being Is witness of a law foreseeing Al] joy and sorrow that may hap To the wee sleeper in the mother's lap. Such joy, I ween, is ever creeping On every nerve of baby sleeping : But, baby waking, longest lingers In tiny hand and tiny fingers. 124 ON AN infant's hand. Much teaching that it ne'er did learn, [Like lamp beside sepulchral urn, Revealing by felicity, Foretelling by simplicity, And preaching by its sudden cries, x\lone with God the baby lies.] How hard it holds ! — how tight the clasp ! Ah, how intense the infant grasp ! Electric from the ruling brain Descends the soul to stir and strain That wondrous instrument, the hand, By which we learu to understand ; How fair, how small, how white and pure, Its own most perfect miniature ! The baby-hand that is so wee, And yet is all it is to be ; Un wee ting what it has to do. Yet to its destined purpose true. The fingers four, of varied length, That join or vie their little strength ; The pigmy thumb, the onyx nail. The violet vein so blue and pale ; The branchy lines where Gipsy eld Had all the course of life beheld : All, to its little finger's tip, Of Nature's choicest workmanship. ON AN INFANTS HAND. 1 '25 Their task, their fate, we hardly guess, — But, oh, may it be happiness I Not always leisure, always play, But worky-day and holy-day ; With holy Sabbaths interspersed. And not the busiest day the worst. Not doom'd, with needle or with pen, To drudge for o'er-exacting men. Nor any way to toil for lucre At frown of he or she rebuker ; But still affectionate and free Their never weary housewifery. Blest lot be thine, my nestling dove. Never to work except in love ; And God protect thy little hand From task imposed by unbeloved command I December 3, iS13. 126 TO JEANNETTE, SIX WEEKS OLD. Our birth aud death ahke are mysteries, And thou, sweet babe, art a mysterious thing, In mute simplicity of passive being, A co-essential symbol of the life Which God hath made a witness of Himself : The all of God which heathen wisdom knew, And heathen ignorance so far mistook, Seeking the substance in the duskiest shade ; Dusky and distant as the pillar'd cloud That never nearer, never farther, taught The chosen seed their journey o'er the wild. But in the promised land was seen no more. Dim is the brightest shadow of the Lord That earth reflects : an infant's life might seem A scarce distinguishable effluence — An air-blown globule of the living ocean. And yet, methinks, sweet babe ! if I should kneel And worship thee for thy meek innocence, I less should err than Egypt's white-swathed priest. Who bade the prostrate toiling race adore TO JEANNETTE, SIX WEEKS OLD. I "27 The cue great life incarnate in the bull, Ibis, or cat, monkey or crocodile, — More wisely sin than did the Persian sage. Who held that God enshrined His majesty In the huge mass of the insensate sun, That loves not when it warms. Yes, baby dear ! In thee do we behold a symbol meet ' For joyous love and reverential musing ; Symbol of all that God through Nature gives To sight, and touch, impai'ted and reveal 'd. But more thou art for hope and holier love — For self-assuring faith, thou art far more Than any sweet and fair similitude Which sense most exquisite could match with thee ; For hopeful love, that loving thy wee self. Loves yet in thee a future nobler being, A Christian maid, maybe a Christian mother : For Faith, that in the utmost thou canst be To mortal sight, though good thou wert, and holy As that dear maiden — mother of her Lord, Sees but a seed, a type unrealised. Not what thou art or shalt be, though the prayer Of parent's heart were answer 'd full in thee, But as all Christ's beloved shall behold Each other in the clearness of His day. When child and parent, husband, wife, the king 128 TO THE SAME,' ON IIER FIRST BIRTHDAY. And lowly subject, scholar and untaught, The babe that drew but once its breath on earth And the grey chronicle of ninety years, Shall meet together in one family, Coeval children of the one great Sire. Ascension Day, May 20, 1841. TO THE SAME, ON HER FIRST BIRTHDAY. 'Tis right the joyous epoch of thy birth Should be a sunshine holyday on earth ; All Nature keeps it : now the boisterous North Holds his chill breath ; the birds are peeping forth. Sweet little things, but yet not half so sweet As thou, sweet flow'ret of a year complete ! I would, my babe, that prayer of force divine. Or dedicated task, or vow of mine To be perform 'd, or suffer'd, as of old Sad saint endured, or errant champion bold Achieved on Syrian plains or Alpine passes cold — That any work more meet for solemn time. More grave and arduous than the easy rhyme "Which now, my love, 'tis well enough I can Make faster far than manv a wiser man — TO THE SAME, ON HER FIRST BIRTHDAY. r29 Could gain for thee the moment of a bliss, Were it no longer than a raptured kiss, Or spare thy little life the pelting pain That soon is past, but comes too soon again. But vain the vow — the very wish is vain. The heaviest cross that mortal can assume. The cavern 'd saint's long life of martyrdom, The knees that leave their dints on convent stone, The breath that is but one perpetual groan. Are useless all one pause of peace to win : No pain of man can expiate a sin. But wherefore dream of what I fain would do. Or prate of pain beneath a sky so blue ? 'Tis Spring with Nature — tender Spring with thee. But the sere Autumn follows hard on me. It may be, pretty babe, ere thou canst know The man that loves thee, and be-rhymes thee so, I may be gone, and never see thee more ; But shall I see thee on the farther shore. Clad in thine infant robes of innocence. Pure even as now, baptised from all offence, A spirit mature — yet with no more to fear Than the sweet infant of a single year. April 5, 1812. 3 30 TO MARGARET, OIv' HER FIRST BIRTHDAY. — ♦ — One year is past, with change and sorrow fraught. Since first the little Margaret drew her breath. And yet the fatal names of Sin and Death, Her sad inheritance, she kno\Yeth not. That lore, by earth inevitably taught. In the still world of spirits is untold ; 'Tis not of Death or Sin that angels hold Sweet converse with the slumb'ring infant's thought. Merely she is with God, and God with her And her meek ignorance. Guiltless of demur, For her is faith a hope ; her innocence Is holiness : the bright-eyed crowing glee That makes her leap her grandsires face to see, Is love unfeign'd and willing reverence. March 3, 1843. N.B. — It was the opinion of certain ancient divines that when babies smile in sleep their guardian angels are whis- pering to them. 131 THE FOURTH BIRTHDAY. Four years, long years, and full of strange event To thee, sweet boy, though brief and bare to me, Of thy young days make up the complement, And far out-date thy little memory. How many tears have dropp'd since thou wert born, Some on the cradle, some upon the grave I Yet having thee, thy father, not forlorn. Felt he had something yet of God to crave. For who hath aught to love, and loves aright, Will never in the darkest strait despair ; For out of love exhales a living light, A light that speaks — a light whose breath is prayer. Sorrow hath been within thy dwelling, child, Yet sorrow hath not touch'd thy delicate bloom ; So, the low floweret in Arabian wild Grows in the sand, nor fades in the simoom. k2 13'2 TO DEAR LITTLE KATY HILL. What thou hast lost thou know'st not, canst not know, Too young to wonder when thy elders moan ; Thou haply think'st that adult eyes can flow With tears as quick and transient as thine own. The swift adoption of an infant's love Gives to thy heart all infant hearts require ; Unfelt by thee, the mortal shaft that clove In twain thy duty, left thy love entii'e. Ne'er be thy birthday as a day unblest. Which thou or thine might wish had never been ; But in thine age, a quiet day of rest, A sabbath, holy, thoughtful, and serene. TO DEAR LITTLE KATY HILL. Oft have I conn'd, in merry mood or grave, For many a babe a sad or meny stave, In merry love of softly smiling baby. Or love subdued by fear of what it may be. But then all babies are so much alike, 'Twere easier far to single out a spike. TO DEAR LITTLE KATT HILL. 133 The fairest spike in all a field of barley ; Or 'mid the drops of dew that late or early Shine to the rising or the setting sun, To mark and memorise a single one ; In a long bank to find the violet That is, or should be, Flora's own dear pet ; To stamp a signet on the sweetest note That spins itself in Philomela's throat ; The very whitest spot of all to show In a flat ocean of untainted snow ; The blackest spot of utter dark to tell, Or do aught else which is impossible, Than to explain to each expectant mother How her sweet thing is sweeter than another. So ancient fathers deem'd, and wisely deem'd, Or, if not so, yet beautifully dream'd. At the last day of God's consummate love, The cherish'd nestlings of the mystic dove Shall spring from earth and meet the promised skies All in one shape, one feature, and one size, Welcome alike before the Almighty throne. Each in the Saviour's likeness, not its own. Alike all blessed, and alike all fair. And only God remember who they were. Yet love on earth will always make or find (They saw but ill who said that Love was blind) 134 TO DEAR LITTLE KATY HILL. In things most like a lovely difference, Distinguish innocence from innocence. And lynx-eyed Love, my little Catherine, Perceives a selj in that smooth brow of thine : Thy small sweet mouth, with speechless meaning rife, Moves, opes, and smiles with something more than life: The lucid whiteness of the flower-soft skin, Transparent, shows a wakening soul within, That ever and anon peeps through those eyes. Soft as the tenderest light of vernal skies, Blue as the shadow of the halcyon's breast, On the calm wave herself has lull'd to rest ; Ittform'd with light, by turns reveal'd and hid By fitful movement of the dewy lid : E'en in the quivering of thy little hands A spirit lives and almost understands. Oh, may each omen of thy form and hue. The lamb's pure white, the clear and hopeful blue. The gracious blending of unbroken lines, Which thy round shape continuously combines, Portend the blended graces of a soul Whose various virtues form a virtuous whole ! 135 TO CHPJSTABEL ROSE COLERIDGE. Nature aud Fortune, aud the doom severe Of my own faults, forbid me to desire Tlie bliss of fathers seated by the fire ; Happy to know their darlings all are near, Happy the crowing note of babe to hear, Happy with lads that, restless to inquire. Ask curious questions that might tease and tire Aught less affectionate than parent's ear. Yet though the name of uncle, in the mind Of childhood, be with horrid deeds combined Of bloody Richard, and that covetous man That left the poor babes in the wildering wood, I would be Uncle Toby if 1 could, Or Oliver* return'd from Hindostan. Sweet Christabel, that hast a lovely name That would the sweetest thing commemorate That ever poet dream'd, be not thy fate * In Sheridan's Play of" The School fur Scandal. " 136 ' LINES. Like liers, to tremble with a faultless shame ! Oh, may no act of thine provoke the blame Which, least deserved, is ever keenest felt ! Thine innocent flesh, that softest touch can melt, May never worldly thought or speech defame ! But in the world thou must be incomplete, For who of Christabel can close the story ? — The name, sweet child, it is an omen meet Of all that earth bestows of good and glory. May'st thou for aye in love and fancy dwell Like thy good grandsire's lovely Christabel I LINES, 'n'RITTEN IN A BIBLE PRESENTED BY THE AUTHOR TO HIS GODCHILD. 'Tis little I can give thee now, And less that I shall leave ; Yet this small present, as T trow, Is, in acquittance of my vow. The very lest That could attest My anxious love For thee, sweet Dove, The best thou canst receive. 137 PEIMITI^. Sweet child ! I write, because I fain would see In thy unspotted book my jagged hand, The rudest sketch and primal prophecy Of what thy wit may win or sense command. Some men would tell thee that thy soul is yet An album, open for all men to write in, I deem not so, for thou canst not forget What now thou art, and what I most delight in. Ere thou wert born "into this breathing world," God wrote some characters upon thy heart. Oh, let them not, like beads of dew impearl'd On morning blades, before the noon depart I But morning drops before the noon exhale, And yet those drops appear again at even ; So childish innocence on earth must fail, Yet may return to usher thee to heaven. ROTiiAY Bank. 138 FAITH, HOPE, AND CHAEITY. The Christian virtues, one, two, three. Faith and Hope and Charity, May all find exercise in thee. In Faith, sweet infant that thou art, Of God's sublime decrees a part, Thy mother holds thee to her heart. Hope is the joy of Faith. It were Sad to behold a babe so fair Without the hope that makes a joy of care. Well 'twill be if we can learn. If loving thee, babe, we discern The love of God, and let it clearly burn. The love which sanctifies desire Is, like the bush, unhurt by fire, — For which God grants what longing souls desire. MEDITATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. MEMORIAL POEMS. 141 AVHY IS THERE WAR ON EARTH'? WRITTEN ON A CALM AND BEAUTIFUL DAY IN MAY, 1848. Why is there war on earth ? Earth is most sweet When all things are at peace, or only strive How to make up the largest sum of joy. 'Tis now sweet Spring. Methiuks 'twere wise to deem Our longest life but a protracted Spring — Hope's blossom swelling in the pregnant bud Of mother Faith, that fosters by concealing, And owes its strength and beauty to a root Unseen below, like dark antiquity. But there is war, because man craves the fruit Of Autumn in the aye-beginning Spring. We would have perfect freedom upon earth ; — Ah, fools ! to think that freedom can consist In selfish singleness of myriad wills, Worse than the old Epicurean fancy Of warring atoms hook'd into a world ! But madder yet to think that million wills, 14'2. WHY IS THEKK WAR ON EARTH? Each crushing other, can compose one will, Constituent of universal truth. We would be the sons of Nature — would be free As Nature is. But can we then forget That Nature is an everlasting law. And free because she cannot disobey ? She hath no self to sacrifice : but man, By sinning, made out of himself a self Alien from Grod, that must be self-destroy "d Ere man can know what freedom is, or feel His spirit enfranchised, — general as the light DiiTused through ether in its purity, And by the various sympathies of earth, Blent and dissected into various hues That all are light, as a good man's good works. All, all are love. Thank God, the times are pass'd Wheii fear and blindly-working ignorance Could govern man. 'Tis Faith and duteous love Out of a multitude must form a state. We have escaped from Egypt ; but we walk Waird by the waters of a blood-red sea, Parted perforce, impatient to o'erwhelm us. Soon as we not believe the awful word. That bids the tide of ruin now to flow. Yet we are spared ; but shall we long be spared 143 In sleep fool-hard j, or ingrate repiniug, When all around, as from the serpent's tooth By Cadmus sown, in the wild Theban fable, Spring armed hosts, all mad for liberty, And yet permitting nothing to be free. Save naked power, unclad with reverend form, Unsanctified by faith, bv love unbalm'd. LINES WlillTEX EY H. f. IS THE FLY-LEAF OF A COPY OF LrCI-.ETIVS PRESENTED BY HIM TO MK. WOKOSWORTIl. Ix the far north, for many a month unseen, The blessed sun scarce lifts his worshipp'd head ; No hardy herb records where he hath been ; But pale cold snows, with dim abortive sheen. Show like the winding-sheet of Nature dead. Yet ofttimes there the boreal morning gleams. Flickering and rustling through the long, long night ; So hid from truth, and its all-cheering beams. The mind, benighted, dawns with gorgeous dreams, Cold, restless, false, unprofitably bright. 144 ' LINES. If such delusion held thy earthly thought, Lucretius, still thou wast a lofty mind ; For, spurning all that hopes and fears had taught, Thy venturous reason, hopeless, fearless, sought In its own pride its proper hliss to find. Oh ! was it fear of what might be in realms Of blank privation made thee seek the peace That the dead faith affords ? — fear that dishelms The vessel of the soul, and quite o'erwhelms The spiritual life, that rather would surcease, Or be an atom, motion, air, or flame, Whose essence perishes by change of form, Than wander through the abyss without an aim. Duty, or joy — to feel itself the same. Though naked, bodiless, weak, amid the storm '? 145 LINES SUGGESTED BY A CAST FUOM AN ANCIEXT STATUE OF THE INFANT HERCULES STRANGLING THE SERPENTS. Behold Art's triumph ? Yea, but what is Art ? Is it the Iris sent from mind to heart ? Or a bright exhalation, raised, refined, And organised with various hues of mind ? Nay, let the mind and heart, as nature meant, Unite to work their Maker's great intent ; As light and heat, diffused by the same sun. To sense are diverse, but in essence one. The poet's craft in easy breath transpires, And the quick music of a thousand lyres, That wake to ecstasy the slumbering air, Dies into nought, or flits we know not where. The patient sculptor views, from day to day, An image that can never pass away ; With resolute faith, which nothing can surprise, Beholds the type in true proportions rise : His progress slow, and every touch as slight As dawn encroaching on a summer night ; VOL. II. L 140 ON A CAST 'OF THE INFANT HERCULES. His purpose sure, for consummated beauty To him is love, religion, law and duty. Long ere our God vouchsafed himself to be A baby God, a human Deity, The vast prophetic impulse of the earth Foretold, and shadow'd forth the mystic birth ; Nor all the art of sacerdotal lies, Nor the world's state, could so incarnalise The strong idea, but that men, set free By pure imagination's liberty. Conceived the fancy of a boy divine. Some fables fashion'd a fierce God of wine, x\bortive issue of intense desire, Begot by Thunder and brought forth by Fire. Some milder spirits cull'd two twinkhng lights From the throng'd biilliance of their Grecian nights, And gave them names, and deem'd them great to save Tbe wandering mariner on the -weltering wave. Some, wiser still, believed the sun on high A deathless offspring of the empyreal sky, A personal power that could all truths reveal. Mighty to slay, and merciful to heal. Some feigu'd — and they came nearest to the truth — A destined husband of eternal youth, Born of a mortal mother, and, ere born, Doom'd to the pilgrim's houseless lot forlorn. ON A CAST OF THE INFANT HERCULES. 147 To fight and conquer, a victorious slave, Strong in subjection, by obedience brave. Such thought possess'd the nameless artist's mind When he the God, the baby God, design 'd. That perfect symbol of awaken'd ■will, Matching its might against predestinate ill. The serpent •writhing round his lower part, His infant arm defies to reach his heart. One mighty act is all the ■wondrous boy, Line, limb, and feature, all are strength and joy. Yet half an hour ago that infant slept, Smiled at his mother's breast, and haply wept : And when his task is done, the serpent slain, Soft in his cradle-shield may sleep again. l2 148 SUMMER EAIN. Thick lay the dust, uncomfortably white, In glaring mimiciy of Arab sands. The woods and mountains slept in hazy hght ; The meadows look'd athirst and tawny tann'd ; The little rills had left their channels bare, With scarce a pool to witness what they were ; And the shrunk river gleam'd 'mid oozy stones, That stared like any famish'd giant's bones. Sudden the hills grew black, and hot as stove The air beneath ; it was a toil to be. There was a growling as of angry Jove, Provoked by Juno's prying jealousy — A flash — a crash — the firmament was split, And down it came in drops — the smallest fit To drown a bee in fox-glove bell conceal'd ; Joy fill'd the brook, and comfort cheer'd the field. 149 TO W. W., ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY. Happy the year, the month, that finds ahve A worthy man in health at seventy-five. Were he a man no further known than loved. And but for unremember'd deeds approved, A gracious boon it were from God to earth To leave that good man by his humble hearth. But if the man be one whose virtuous youth, Loving all Nature, was in love with truth ; And with the fervour of religious duty Sought in all shapes the very form of beauty ; — Feeling the current of the tuneful strain, Joy in his heart, and light upon his brain, Knew that the gift was given, and not in vain ; Whose careful manhood never spared to prune What the rash growth of youth put forth too soon ; Too wise to be ashamed to grow more wise ; Culling the truth from specious fallacies : — Then may the world rejoice to find alive So good, so great a man, at seventy-five. 150 THE TWO DINAHS. " We take no note of time but by its loss :" So spake a Poet in a mood of spleen, To whom the world had lost its vernal gloss, And woe retain'd its churchyard evergreen. But I can note time by a better measure, By God's sweet issues of progressive good ; By happy progress from the lively pleasure Of the brisk child to modest womanhood. I knew ye both, young maidens, when ye dwelt Where I was shelter'd with an aged woman, Whose goodness, often seen but ofter felt, To common duties gave a grace uncommon. For ye were children ; — one a merry lass, A sportive kitten mischievous and gay ; A leveret bounding through the long thick grass, When hounds are mute and winter far away. THE TWO DINAHS. 151 But thou, sweet Dinah, wert a thing sedate, For sorrow was thy comrade from thy birth ; And early wert thou doom'd to feel the fate Ordain'd to wean us from the joys of earth. Years have gone by, yea, many years are flown, And that good aged woman is removed ; And ye, young damsels, both have far outgrown The pretty age which then I liked and loved. Never till now I felt myself so old. As seeing you so tall, such bursting roses, Just at the time when rosy buds unfold Their sweet concealment into summer posies. So may I measure time, nor cease to see His silent work in still maturing graces ; I quite forgive what he has done to me, For what he has bestow'd on your sweet faces. 152 WRITTEN AT BELLE-YUE, AMBLESIDE. Still is it there, the same soft quiet scene, Which, whether sodden with importunate rain, Or sprinkled with the yellow sun, that pours Columnal brightness through the fissured clouds Of autumn eve, or, e'en as now displaj-'d. In the full brightness of the argent moon, Is yet the same, the same beloved scene. Which neither time nor change shall wipe away From the capacious memory of the soul. Oh blessed faculty of inward sight, Safe from disease and mortal accident As love itself, secure from dull caprice Of prohibition ! Blind Maeonides, That, wandering by the myriad-sounding sea, Saw not his footsteps on the passive beach, Nor saw, alas ! the many beauteous eyes That gleam'd with gladness at his potent song, Had yet a world of beauty — verdant hills. Bright with the infinite motion of their leaves ; WRITTEN AT BELLE-VUE, AMBLESIDE. 153 Close-vested towers in olive-groves embower'd, Whence the gold-cinctured dove for ever coo'd. Wide-laughing ocean, rich with southern gleam Purpureal, jewell'd with a hundred isles, Or roused indignant from its slumberous depths To smite the long-presumptuous rampart, piled Without a prayer ; — Achilles vast, reclined, Listening afar the tumults of the field ; — Sweet Helen, sad amidst her loveliness. Taming her once glad motions to the halt Of Priam, leaning on her rounded arm ; — Pelides, glittering like an evil star ; — Or love-struck Hecuba, when first she wept O'er the new-ransom'd carcase of her best. Her fate-devoted Hector. So, if He, Who in bis judgments is for ever good, Should make the brightest noon a night to me, Yet will those fields, those lowly heaving hills, That roving river, that pure inland lake. And those neat dwellings that assure my heai't That not alone I love and linger here, Abide the heir-looms of my inner life. As sweet, as vivid to my happier dreams. As when through tears I saw her snatch 'd away. 154 NAWORTH. When English lads and Scottish chiels were foes, Stern on the angry confines Naworth I'ose ; In dark woods islanded its towers look'd forth, And fi'own'd defiance to the growling North ; With donjon-keep and long embattled wall, Portcullis, portal, and wide-echoing hall, Where erst the warrior carved in gloves of steel, And the stone pavement clang'd with iron heel. The very tj'pe was Naworth of a time Whose sins and woes by age are made sublime. There came the vagrant minstrel — not in vain. For ladies loved, and lords repaid his strain. What though his song was oft of loves unholy, And fights, — fantastic brood of restless folly ? What though the plaudits, clatter 'd on the stones, Bemock'd and deafen'd the poor captive's groans, Doom'd in sad durance pining to abide The long delay of hope from Solway's further side ? Let us in thankfulness our God adore. Because such things have been, and are no more : 155 Nor let a Queen, a matron pure and young, And sweet as e'er by vagrant bard was sung, Conspire with those who would, with eyeless rage. Deface the relics of ancestral age ; But, as her duty, be it still her joy All to improve, and nothing to destroy. So Naworth stands, still rugged as of old, Arm'd like a knight without, austerely bold ; But all within bespeaks the better day, And the bland influence of a Morpeth's sway. LINES. Oh for a man, I care not what he be, A lord or labourer, so his soul be free, Who had one spark of that celestial fire That did the Prophets of old time inspire. When Joel made the mystic trumpet cry. When Jeremiah raised his voice on high. And rapt Isaiah felt his great heart swell With all the sins and woes of Israel ! Not such am I, — a petty man of rhyme, Nursed in the softness of a female time. From May of life to Autumn have I trod The earth, not quite unconscious of my God 156 But apter far to recognise bis power In sweet perfection of a pencill'd flower, A kitten's gambols, or a birdie's nest, A baby sleeping on its mother's breast, Than in the fearful passages of life, — The battle-field, the never-ceasing strife Of policy that ever would be wise, Dissecting truth into convenient lies, — The gallows, or the press-gang, or the press, — The poor man's pittance, ever less and less, — The dread magnificence of ancient crime, Or the mean mischief of the present time. Yet there is something in my heart that would Become a witness to eternal good. Woe to the man that wastes his wealth of mind. And leaves no legacy to human kind ! I love my country well, — I love the hills, I love the valleys and the vocal rills ; But most I love the men, the maids, the wives, The myriad multitude of human lives. 15' HIDDEN MUSIC. Theee came a stream of music on my ear From the dark centre of an aged wood, Now muffled deep, and now ecstatic clear, Bright as a prophecy of coming good. I knew not, and I did not care to know, What voice or what mechanic instrument Utter'd the sounds, whose never-ending flow [Sustain 'd] my soul in such sublime content. 'Twas no small, light, and self-repeating air, The close we guess before 'tis well begun ; 'Twas the uuited voice of everywhere. Past, pi'esent, future, all in unison It was a strain might usher in the birth Of human life, and soothe its earliest cry. And sound the last farewell to mother earth, When souls for heaven mature are glad to fly. 158 I HAVE WRITTEN MY NAME ON WATER. All elements of sound, and all the wealth Of music's universal speech was there, And ever and anon the wily stealth Of Love was murmuring in the fitful air. June 14, 1843. I HAVE WRITTEN MY NAME ON WATEE. THE PROPOSED INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMB OF JOHN KEATS. And if thou hast, where could st thou write it better Than on the feeder of all lives that live ? The tide, the stream, will bear away the letter. And all that formal is and fugitive : Still shall thy Genius be a vital power. Feeding the root of many a beauteous flower. 159 ON A PICTURE OP A VERY YOUNG NUN, A'Or READING A DEVOTIONAL BOOK, AND NOT CONTEMPLATING A CEOCIFl.X PLACED BESIDE HER. So young, too young, consign'd to cloistral shade, Untimely wedded, — wedded, yet a maid ; And hast thou left no thought, no wish behind. No sweet employment for the wandering wind. Who would be proud to waft a sigh from thee, Sweeter than aught he steals in Araby ? Thou wert immured, poor maiden, as I guess, In the blank childhood of thy simpleness ; Too young to doubt, too pure to be ashamed, Thou gavest to God what God had never claim'd, And didst unweeting sign away thine all Of earthly good, — a guiltless prodigal. The large reversion of thine unborn love Was sold to purchase an estate above. Yet by thy hands, upon thy bosom prest, I think, indeed, thou art not quite at rest ; That Christ that hangs upon the sculptured cross Is not the Jesus to redeem thy loss ; ] CO • BEAUTY. Nor will that book, whate'er its page contain. Convince thee that the world is false and vain. E'en now there is a something at thy heart That would be off, but may not, dare not, start ; Yes, yes ! thy face, thine eyes, thy closed lips, prove Thou wert intended to be loved and love. Poor maiden ! victim of the vilest craft At which e'er Moloch grinn'd or Belial laugh 'd, May all thy aimless wishes be forgiven ! May all thy sighs be register "d in Heaven I And God his mercy and his love impart For what thou should'st have been, to what thou art ! BEAUTY. Oh ! why is beauty still a bud, infolding A greater beauty that can never be, Yet always is its faint fair self beholding, In all of fair and good that man may see ? Nay, beauty is with thee the power of life. The germ and sweet idea of thy being ; As beauty fashion'd that first maid and wife, That made primeval man rejoice in seeing. BEAUTY. 161 He dream'd of beauty, and he wish'd to see A form to be the substance of his dream ; So want begot a child on vacancy, And that now is which did before but seem. Adam did love before he look'd on Eve ; He found himself unblest in Eden's bower. A love there is that does not yet conceive Its own existence : 'tis a simple power, — A power that most does recognise its might In weakness, want, and everlasting yearning ; Whose heaven is soaring, seeking, ceaseless flight. Whose hell is thirst and everlasting burning. For what is hell, but an eternal thirst. And burning for the bounty once rejected ? And what is heaven, but good on earth rehearsed, In the calm centre of the Lord perfected ? Then ask not why is beauty but a bud. That never more than half itself discloses ; Sweet flower, like thee is every human good, And love divine is seen in unblown roses. 162 FAIKY LAND. Yes, I am old, and older yet must be, Drifting along the everlasting sea ; And yet, through puzzling light and perilous dark. I bear with me, as in a lonely ark, A precious cargo of dear memory ; For, though I never was a citizen, Enroll'd in Faith's municipality. And ne'er believed the phantom of the fen To be a tangible reality, Yet have I loved sweet things, that are not now, In frosty starlight, or the cold moonbeam. I never thought they were ; and therefore now No doubt obscures the memory of my dream . My Fairy Land was never upon earth. Nor in the heaven to which I hoped to go ; For it was always by the glimmering hearth, When the last fagot gave its reddest glow, And voice of eld wax'd tremulous and low, And the sole taper's intermittent light. Like a slow-tolling bell, declared good night. FAIRY LAND. 163 Then could I think of Peri and of Fay, As if their deeds were things of yesterday. I felt the wee maid in her scarlet hood Real as the babes that wander'd in the wood, And could as well believe a wolf could talk As that a man beside the babes could stalk, With gloomy thoughts of murder in his brain ; And then I thought how long the lovely twain Threaded the paths that wound among the trees, And how at last they sunk upon their knees. And said their little prayers, as prettily As e'er they said them at their mother's knee, And went to sleep. I deem'd them still asleep Clasp'd in each other's arms, beneath a heap Of fragrant leaves ; — so little then knew I Of bare-bone Famine's ghastly misery. Yet I could weep and cry, and sob amain. Because they never were to wake again ; But if 'twas said, " They '11 wake at the last day ! ' Then all the vision melted quite away ; As from the steel the passing stain of breath. So quickly parts the fancy from the faith. And I thought the dear babes in the wood no more true Than Red Riding Hood, — ay, or the grim loup-garou, That the poor little maid for her granny mistook ; I knew they were both only tales in a book. M 2 164 THE EOYAL MAID. Oh, thou sweet daughter and last lingering flower Of a great nation's loyal hope and love, Last of a line of kings whose royal dower Is virgin loveliness sublimed to power, The yearning blossom of the expectant dove On the strong eagle's spacious wings upborne ; Or shall I call thee prophecy of spring, In thine own virgin pureness blossoming, Like the white May-bloom on the naked thorn ; Nay, rather art thou like a flower Crowning some high crazy tower, So sweetly smiling on the rifted wall. That, for thy sake, we would not see it fall. Oh, royal maid, excuse the idle brain That, knowing thee but in thy loved ideal, Plays with thine image, and would very fain Love and revere thee too as something real ; Yet never having seen thee, never heard The human accents of thine innocent thought, Would rather think thee flower, or happy bird, Than the dull lesson that thou hast been taught ; THE ROYAL MAT P. 165 Kather would deem thee bird, that glad and free Warbles its wood-notes wild on greenwood tree, Than tutor'd captive of a gilded cage, Unweeting echo oi 2^ 2)rating age. Alas ! a prisoner born, and bred a slave, But late awaken'd from a happy trance, Reft of the best of what thy fortune gave. Thy childish, aimless, wantless ignorance : — Ah, what a hopeless task it is for thee To govern free men that were never free. Easy it were, I doubt not, to obey. If to obey were duty's consummation ; But throned servility, compell'd to sway A shackled sceptre by the yea and iiay — 166 ON THE DEATH OF HENRY NELSON COLERIDGE. ADDKESSED TO A FRIEND. Gkeat joy was mine to hear a second hope, Another httle maid, was born to thee. On whom your elder darling needs must look With some surprise, as on a legacy From some old miser uncle never seen. And when I learn'd that, on the self-same day That gave that pure ideal of new life, A softly-breathing infant, to the air, The vow confirm'd had made among thy kindred A serious matron of a maiden gay, I did design a furious gush of song, A merry multiplicity of rhymes, Where little sense were needed, save the sense That one delight is in a score of souls. But death had struck me ; God had call'd away One whom the world, and I among the world, Had augur 'd to an honest course of glory ; Whose earliest youth was crown 'd with laureate wreath On the proud banks of Isis and of Cam ; ON THE DEATH OF H. N. COLERIDGE. 161 Eton's prime scholar, and the youth adroit To turn the nicest phrases of the Greeks, The very quintessence of Roman speech, To modern meanings and to modish arts. Which neither Greek nor Roman ever knew. Vain knowledge this, unprofitable skill, So may you think, and truly would you say, But that the mind thus curiously train'd In the pure beauty of Hellenic art, And grandeur elegant of gorgeous Rome, Becomes to beauty feelingly awake, Nice to perceive, glad to believe and love Whate'er of beautiful abides in forms. Hues, sounds, emotions of the moral heart. Feeling a universal harmony Of all good things seen, or surpassing sense : — And for the love of all that lovely is, And for a dauntless spirit unsubdued By a too general lack of sympathy Fighting for truth, — my sister loved him well ! She was a maid — alas ! a widow now — Not easily beguiled by loving words, Nor quick to love ; but, when she loved, the fate Of her affection was a stern religion. Admitting nought less holy than itself. Seven years of patience, and a late consent Won for the pair their all of hope. I saw 168 ON THE DEATH OF II. N. COLEKIDGE. My sweetest sister in her honeymoon, And then she was so pensive and so meek That now T know there was an angel with her That cried, Beware I But he is gone, and all The fondest passages of wedded life And mutual fondling of their progeny, And hopes together felt, and prayers when both Blended their precious incenses, and the wish That they together might behold the growth And early fruit, most holy and approved. Of their two darlings, sinks in viewless night And is no more. Thus ever in this world are joy and woe ; The one before, the other hurrying after, And " cadent tears " * are ever prone to flow In the quaint channels that are made by laughter. JantMry 28, 1843. * King Lear, Act I., Scene IV. 169 AGNES. — ♦ — — In an old house, a country dwelling, nigh A river, chafed by many a wave-worn stone, A good man kept old hospitality, With a warm purse well fill'd by industry And prosperous dealings in the torrid zone. His spouse was comely, stricken well in years ; His daughters' faces lighted all the house. And they had tongues as well as eyes and ears. But one there was, the youngest of the dears, A child sedate, as still as any mouse. Still as a little timid mouse she sat ; And yet her stillness seem'd not to be fear, Like mouse's hiding from the whisker'd cat. Oh no ! whate'er the subject of our chat. She seem'd to drink it in with eye and ear. I cannot say she had a speaking eye. For when my eye with hers would fixin converse, 1 70 • AGNES. She would begin her needle's task to plj, Stirring her little fingers busily ; And, wanting work, the kitten would she nurse. Soon as she could, she unobserved withdrew, Determined of my purpose to defeat me ; And yet I loved her, as I always do All pretty maids that are too young to woo. However scurvily they choose to treat me. Years have gone by, her worthy father dead, And she could deem herself a child no longer. Who can conceive what thoughts in her were bred, When she beheld her elder sisters wed. And womanhood in her grew daily stronger? Or did she feel a warning in her heart, An inward clock that timely struck eleven, And said, sweet Agnes, tender as thou art. One hour is thine ; be ready to depart ; Thy spouse afl&anced waits for thee in heaven ^ I cannot tell, for I was far away. By what slow course of gracious discipline, Through gradual shades of unperceived decay. As moonlight steals on fading summer day, Her spiritual eye was train 'd to light divine. FAREWELL. 171 But yet I trust she never kuew the woe Of body's waste, that brings despair and dearth Unto the soul ; that living death, so slow, That leaves to those that would yet would not go, No love of heaven, but weary hate of earth. Nay, better, loving dearly to the last All that she ever loved, with fond delay The latest hour before her spirit past. Prayed yet, though feeling that her lot was cast. Like Jesus, that the cup might pass away. FAREWELL. Hath the vast ocean, that strange, humorous thing, In all its depths or perilous banks a shell That hath matured a pearl ; let Ocean bring That pearl to thee, and like some gentle spell Which never witch or wicked wizard mutter'd. But still hath dwelt in angel heart unutter'd — Mark on the pearl the sad, sweet word, farewell ! 172 'TO A FRIEND. Hath the dead earth, dead now, but once alive In every atom, every pore and cell, — Relics of life, or fated gems that strive To be their proper selves, and pant and swell Towards Light, the universal mediator. And daily witness of the one Being greater. Hath it aught sadder, sweeter, than farewell ! And hath the aii* — the always gracious air — That ever fleeting yet would gladly dwell For ever in the lowly voice of prayer — Full loth, I ween, when ruder sounds compel Its passive nature to unwilling madness ; — Hath air a joy so meek, so sweet a sadness, As when she murmurs in a last farewell ! TO A FEIEND SUFFERIXG UNDEK A RECENT BEKEAVEMENT. Think not, my friend, my heart or hard or cold Because I do not, and I cannot weep. Too sudden was the knowledge of the woe, And it requu-es some time, some thoughtful pause, Ere we believe what but too well we know. TO A FKIEND. 173 Some men are lesson'd long in sorrow's school, And serve a long apprenticeship to grief, So, -when the ill day comes, their minds are clad In funeral garments. Death came here at once, Like the sun's setting in the level sea ; No meek, pale, warning, melancholy eve, Wean'd the fond eyesight from the joyous day ; Twas full-orb "d day, and then 'twas total night — Sad night for us, but better day for her. Well may 'st thou mourn, but mourn not without hope : Thou art not one, I know, that can believe A pausing pulse, an intermitted breath, Or aught that can to mortal flesh befal, Can turn to nothing any ray of God, Or frustrate one good purpose of our Lord. She was a purpose of her great Creator, Begun on earth, and well on earth pursued, Now in the heaven of heavens consummate. Or only waiting the predestined day, The flower and glory of her consummation. 174 A SCHOOLFELLOW'S TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. OWEN LLOYD. I. I WAS a comrade of his childish days, And then he was to me a little boy, My junior much, a child of winning ways ; His every moment was a throb of joy. Fine wit he had, and knew not it was wit, And native thoughts before he dream'd of thinking Odd sayings, too, for each occasion fit, To oldest sights the newest fancies linking. And his the hunter's bounding strength of spirit ; The fisher's patient craft, and quick delight To watch his line, to see a small fish near it ; A nibble — ah ! what ecstasy ! a bite. Years glided on, — a week was then a year. Fools only say that happy hours are short ; Time lingers long on moments that are dear. Long is the summer holiday of sport. TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. OWEN LLOYD. 175 But then our clays were each a perfect round ; Our farthest bourne of hope and fear, to-day ; Each morn to night appear 'd the utmost bound, And let the morrow — be whate'er it may. But on the morrow he is on the cliff — He hangs midway the falcon's nest to plunder ; Behold him sticking, like an ivy leaf, To the tall rock — he cares not what is under. T traced with him the narrow winding path Which he pursued when upland was his way ; And then I wonder'd what stern hand of wrath Had smitten him that wont to be so gay ! Then would he tell me of a woful weight — A weight laid on him by a bishop's hand, That late and early, early still and late. He could not bear, and yet could not withstand. Of holy thoughts he spake, and purpose high, Dead in his heart, and yet like spectres stirring ; Of Hope that could not either live or die. And Faith confused with self-abhorr'd demurring. 170 TO THE MEMOHY OF THE REV. OWEN LLOYl*. How beautiful the feet that from afar Bring happy tidings of eternal good ! Then kiss the feet that so bewilder 'd are ; They cannot farther go where fain they would. I saw his coffin — 'twas enough. I saw That he was gone — that his deep wound was lieal'd No more he struggles betwixt faith and law, The fulness of his bliss is now reveal'd : He rests in peace ; iu Langdale's peaceful vale He sleeps secure beneath the grassy sod ; Ah, no ! he doth not — he hath heard "All hail, Thou faithful servant," from the throne of God ! 17- TO THE MEMOKY OF JAMES GEEENWOOD. Oh, Death ! thou art indeed an awful thing, Did we believe in all we ought to know ; Yet ever brooding, thine invisible wing Casts not a shadow on the vale below. With vernal thyme the turfy hillocks swell, Old Fairfield's side is sweet with fragrant larches, And the slim lady birch he loved so well With paly verdure decks her graceful arches. The lovely things to which he gave a soul, Till they became a body to his miud. Are what they were before the booming toll Declared his corse to hallow'd earth consign 'd. Yet in one house, that stands upon the brow, One thought of death and of the dead is all ; Their depth of grief is all their comfort now. They pray to God to help their tears to fall. 178 TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES GREENWOOD. II. He whom they miss, he was not of this land, No grey-coat shepherd of the hill or plain ; For he was born wliere the tall chimneys stand, And the hot wheels are whirring still for gain. And yet as well he loved the mountain height As he himself had been a mountain boy, As well he loved the croft with daisies dight As one that never knew a fiercer joy. Sure thou hast seen, whoever thou may'st be, If thou hast ever seen a Loudon square, A pining thing that ought to be a tree, And would be so if not imprison 'd there. And haply thought how beautiful and large The limbs and leaves of that imprison'd thing Had been, if planted by the emerald marge Of dripping well to shade the grateful spring. 'Twas so with him : in office close and dun Full soon he learn'd the needful lore of trade ; Skill'd to compute how much the bargain won. And ponder hard if more might have been made. TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES GREENWOOD. 179 But not the spirit of the world which grew Still more and more beyond the state's control, Could quench his thirst of beauty or subdue The love of Nature which possess'd his soul. So he became a dweller of the hills, And learn'd to love the village ways so well, He prized the stream that turn'd the wealthiest mills Less than the syke that trickles down the fell. Sad doth it seem, but nought is really sad. Or only sad that we may better be ; We should in very gulphs of grief be glad, The great intents of God could we but see. Think of the souls that he in heaven will meet, Some that on earth he knew and loved most dearly And whose perfection at their Saviour "s feet, Without a stain of earth, will shine so clearly. Think, too, of souls on earth unknown to him, Whom he will know as well as kin or neighbours- Laborious saints, that now with seraphim Expect the blessed fmit of all their labours. n2 180 TO A LADS:. Think that he is what oft he wish'd to be While yet he was a mortal man on earth ; Then weep, but know that griefs extremity Contains a hope which never was in mirth. June, 1845. TO A LADY, ON THE DEATH OF HEE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. Sara, — so let me call thee, since that name Is most familiar to thj friendly ear. And for a mother that is now no more, And for a sister, passing dear to me — Long time it seems since thou and I have spoken In verse or honest prose, or, happier still, With nmning comment of looks, lips, and eyes. And silence, when our mutual thought was heard, Discoursed by mute and secret sympathy. Interpreted by some half-melting star, That seem'd a part of twilight, or akin To the retiring, pensive, tawny hill, So dim reflected in the dozing lake. It wot not of its presence ; — lake once proud Of diamonds dripping from thy silvery oar. TO A LADY. 181 When thou, thy boat, and its long-beaded wake, Seem'd like the shadow of a Glendoveer, Floating above in smallest skiff of heaven, So shy, he would and yet would not be seen. Those times are past, and I have known thee tamed To sober womanhood and matron grave. Yet like the ever-glad Hesperian tree, Whose summer fruitage gleams through vernal flowers : And I have seen thee, too, in double grief For two pure souls removed, so like each otlier. They may be playmates in the bowers of bliss, For souls like theirs receive no taint of time. And who can doubt that each fine faculty, But half-develop 'd in the prophet spring Of thy sweet Katherine's little life, shall bloom In God's own light, consummate and fulfill 'd? 182 ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS JACKSON, LATE OF LOW WOOD INN, WHO DIED BY A FALL FROM AN APPLE TREE. There is the lake and there the quiet hills, A casual passer would observe no change ; No sign would see of widow's grief that kills Even Nature's joy, and makes old beauty strange. The last time I beheld thee, lovely lake, Thou wert composed in that expectant calm, Which any sigh of love-sick maid might shake, Or dying close of penitential psalm. I thought of Death. Who doth not think of Death ? And felt how sweet a boon that death might be, Were it indeed a calm to feel the breath, Whene'er it came, of stirring Deity. I thought of Death. But did not think how near That awful sound to its most awful meaning ; The babe that feels its mother's breast so dear, Slumbers and sucks and never dreams of weaning. ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS JACKSON. 183 And even so we thought his honest face Would ever greet us when we came again ; It seem'd a natural product of the place, Warm'd by the sun and freshen 'd by the rain. But he is gone, the form we long have seen, The vivid image that we bore away, Is now a shadow of what once hath been, The spectre of a body in decay. The lake is there, the hills their distance keep, The tall trees stand as if they mourn 'd for ever, But leave the widow'd house alone to weep, Nor seek the widow'd heart from grief to sever. For he is gone that was to us a smile. An honest face to welcome when we came ; Short was the time, but yet a weary while When Death was struggling with the shatter'd frame. And many thoughts he had, as may be guess'd. And shows of earth that with the vision blended ; Shows that at times perplex'd, but later bless 'd The spirit equipp'd just ere the strife was ended. Perhaps the latest object to employ His parting thought upon the death-bed pillow. Was the dear image of his orphan boy. With small foot challenging the frisky billow. 184 ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS JACKSON. Whatever sight or souud possess'd him last, Whatever sound of nature toll'd his knell, Gentle the sounds and fair the forms that pass'd Before his closing eye, and all was well. Yes, all was well, for 'twas the will of Him, Who knows both when to sow and when to reap And now amid the smiling cherubim. Beholds the tears of them he bad to weep. False is the creed, because the heart is dead. That blames the widow's or the orphan's tear ; Eyes that beheld the Lord full oft were red With human sorrow while they tarried here. Mourn, for 'tis good for all of us to mourn, In this dark valley where our way we grope ; Our very sorrow proves us not forlorn ; We mourn, but not as mourners without hope. The lake is still the same, the changeful skies Change by a Law that we may not control ; Sage Nature is not bound to sympathise With every passion of a single soul. Look not for sorrow in the changeful skies. The mountain many-hued, or passive lake, But look to Him, who sometimes will chastise Those whom he loves, but never will forsake. 185 ON THE LATE DR. ARNOLD. Spirit of the Dead ! Though the pure faith of Him that was on earth Thy subject and thy Lord forbids a prayer — Forbids me to invoke thee, as of yore Weak souls, that dared not meet their God alone, Sought countenance and kind companionship Of some particular saint, whose knees had grazed The very rock on which they knelt, whose blood Had made or sanctified the gushing well,* Round which their fond, mistaken piety Had built a quaint confine of sculptured stone : — Yet may I hope that wheresoe'er he is. Beneath the altar, by the gi-eat white throne. In Abraham's bosom, or amid the deep Of Godliead, blended with eternal light, One ray may reach him from the' humble heart That thanks our God for all that he has been. What he is now we know not : he will be A beautiful likeness of the God that gave * Many of the holy wells are said to liavc sprung from the blood of .Martyrs i for example, St. Winifred's in Wales. 186 ON THE LATE DR. ARNOLD. Him work to do, which he did do so well. Whom Jesus loves, to them he gives the grace For Him to do and suffer in the world ; To suffer /or the world was His alone. But he in whom we joy'd — for whom we mourn- Did he not suffer '? Worldly men say, No ! Of ills which they call ill he had not many ; The poverty which makes the very poor Begrudge a morsel to their very child, Was never his ; nor did he " pine in thought," Seeing the lady of his love possess 'd By a much richer and no better man. To him the lady of his love was wed, Soon as his manhood authorised a wife ; And though the mother of his many babes, To him she still was young, and fair, and fresh. As when the golden I'ing slipp'd from his hand Upon her virgin finger. Yet he suffer'd Such pains and throes as only good men feel : For he assumed the task to rear the boy, The bold, proud boy unto a Christian man. 'Twas not with childhood that he had to do, Its wayward moods and ready penitence. That still is prompt to kiss, if not the rod. At least the hand that wields it ; not to watch Sweet instinct reaching after distant reason. ON THE LATE DE. ARNOLD. 187 And mere afFection train'd to duteous love (Though such the solace of his happy home, Else how had he the hard behest endured ?) — Nor was it all — oh, bliss ! if it had been — To teach the young capacious intellect How beauteous Greece and Rome, the child* fore- doom'd To catch the sceptre from its parent, spake, Fitting high thoughts with words, and words with deeds. 'Twas his to struggle with that perilous age Which claims for manhood's vice the privilege Of boyhood ; — when young Dionysus f seems All glorious as he burst upon the East, A jocund and a welcome conqueror ; And Aphrodite, sweet as from the sea She rose and floated in her pearly shell, A laughing girl ; — when lawless vrill erects Honour's gay temple on the mount of God, * •'Rome, the child," &c. Alhiding to the heathen prophecy, that Metis, Thetis, &c., were destined to prodnce a child more potent than his sire, which gave Jupiter so much alarm. t Dionysus, Aphrodite — nacchus, Venus. But the Greek divinities were not originally identical with the Roman idols, by whose names they are generally called. Dionysus, or Bacchus, was in all probability an Indian type of the sun, or rather of the great productive energy of the Universe, said to be the youngest of the gods, because his worship was last introduced into Greece. There can be no doubt that the (J reeks blended the traditions of their local heroes with the astronomical mythology derived from Egypt and Phoenicia, of which the earliest form survives in India, especially among the wide-spreading Boodhists. 188 ON THE LATE DR. ARNOLD. Axid meek obedience bears the coward's brand ; While Satan, in celestial panoply, With Sin, his lady, smiling by his side, Defies all heaven to arms ! 'Twas his to teach, Day after day, from pulpit and from desk. That the most childish sin which man can do Is yet a sin which Jesus never did When Jesus was a child, and yet a sin For which, in lowly pain, He lived and died : That for the bravest sin that e'er was praised The King Eternal wore the crown of thorns. In him was Jesus crucified again ; For every fault which he could not prevent Stuck in him like a nail. His heart bled for it As it had been a foul sin of his own. Heav)' his cross, and stoutly did he bear it, Even to the foot of holy Calvaiy ; And if at last he sunk beneath the weight. There were not wanting souls whom he had taught The way to Paradise, that, in white robes, Throng'd to the gate to hail their shepherd home ! 189 EPITAPH ON OWEN LLOYD. Could love devout, or longing sighs, or tears, From God obtain a grant of leugtben'd years, Then, wandering reader, thou hadst never stood Beside the grave of one so young and good. Still in the small but consecrated place He spake of judgment and he spake of grace ; Of judgment dread, and merciful delay : And latest spake of that, the latest day. When those, — how few I — that may compare with him, Shall mount on high with brightest seraphim ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, CHIEFLY LYRICAL. PLAYFUL AND HUMOEOUS PLECES. 193 THE BLIND MAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS LOYE. \. There is a beauty in the mind, Tliat makes thee fair to me, Sweet Mary Anne, though I am blind, And blind I still must be. I sit in darkness ; but I know If thou to me art near, Through all my limbs I feel a glow, A sudden gush of cheer. Put thy least finger's smallest tip Upon my wildest hair. Each vein and nerve in me will skip, — I know that thou art there. ^ They tell me thou art fair to see, And of thy waist so trim ; I know thou art straight as poplar tree. And delicately slim. 194 THE BLIND MAN's ADDRESS TO HIS LOVE. They tell me that thiue eyes are black, As black as burning coal : I look, but find my eye-balls lack The light that 's in my soul. Thy hand is very soft I know — They tell me it is white ; But it is not like the falling snow, Because it does not bite. For cold and biting are the flakes, The melting flakes of snow, When the blinding snow-storm overtakes The blind men as they go. But thy hand is soft, it melts away. And then I hear thee speak ; And ever thy words are blithe and gay, But thy voice is smooth as thy cheek. ^ So well I love the thought I have, I do not wish to see ; I will live on in my darksome cave, So thou wilt live with me. 195 SONG. TO A WELSH AIR, " AR HYD Y XOS." Old I am, yet not past feeling. Maiden, think not so ; Time, the thief, for ever stealing Moments as they go. Still the moment dear has left me. Moment that of self bereft me, Moment that did wound with healing. Cause and cure of woe. Hope, and yet not hope, it gave me — Oh ! that lovely smile — Hope, alas ! too brief to save me, Yet 'twas sweet the while. Bright as joy, and soft as pity. Little like thyself, and pretty. Nought beside can now enslave me, Nothing else beguile. o2 190 SONG TO A WEESH AIR, " AR HYD Y KOS. Old I am and daily older, Not in days alone, Yet, methinks, that I am bolder Since that grey I 'm grown ; Young. I had not dared address thee, Old, I may presume to bless thee ; Hope is dead, and fancies moulder, All but Love is flown. Smile again. The look that gazes. Asks not, wants not, no ; Laugh at me and all my praises, Laugh at all my woe. But when I have done with sighing. In the quiet churchyard lying, Softly smile upon the daisies On my grave that grow. 197 ON SEEING THREE YOUNG LADIES ON GRASMERE LAKE. Within the compass of a little vale There lies a Lake uuknown in Fairy tale, Which not a Poet knew in ancient days, When all the world believed in Ghosts and Fays ; Yet on that Lake I have beheld a Boat That seem'd a fairy Pinnace all afloat, On some bless'd mission to a distant isle, To do meet worship to some ruin'd pile. Where long of yore the Fairies used to meet And haply hallow with their last retreat ; For all alone the boat was on the waters, And in it three of " Beauty's " youngest daughters. Sometimes at rest, like infant on a pillow, Then gliding soft as light upon a billow, When lady's hand drew nigh to lady's breast The oar, so fond : — yet there it might not rest. But thence dispatch'd, went forth like errant knight For new achievement on the plain so bright. 198 THREE YOUNG LADIES ON GRASMERE LAKE. Oh ! when it stopp'd, the boat, and damsels three Charmmg the calm air with their triple glee, While all the shadows on the lake projected. Moved little as the mountains they reflected ; It seem'd a thing ordain'd for aye to stay Just where it was and sleep from day to day. And when it moved with slide and gentle stroke, Rippling the shadow of the hanging oak, Sole motion, only life on all the mere, 'Twas like the motion of the lapsing year. Which none would more expect or wish to cease Thau his own pulse. The fancy of old Greece That gave to beauty and to loveliness The definite outline and the shape express, Could not conceive, and therefore could not make, Aught so divine as that still evening Lake, With shadow deep, with gold and purple glowing. And those three lovely maids upon its bosom rowing 199 MAKRIED LIFE. WKITTEX OX THE ANNIVEP.SART OF A WEDDIN'G-DAY. The earth once more hath run its annual round, And smiles as faintly at the paling sun As when by holy rite ye twain were bound. And a glad brothers voice proclaim'd ye one ; One in the Lord, as one in heart and choice, For ye alike had chosen the better way, And therefore will with holy glee rejoice. When Autumn grave brings back the wedding-day All hath not haply been as young conceit Of wedded bliss the story would compose. But have ye found the song of love less sweet Because translated into household prose ? Duties there needs must be, and toils, and cares. And there may be some salutary pains. That unexpected come and unawares To all that walk in wedlock's lightest chains. 200 A POOR man's reasons for not marrying. The man who tills the blessed Saviours land, Must sow a seed that oft is long a growing ; And she that would assist with patient hand, Must water daily while her spouse is sowing. The world besieges sore the wedded pair. And many a charm of youth is early blighted, But Heaven preserve ye both from fruitless cai'e. And bless the day whereon ye were united. A POOR MAN'S REASONS FOR NOT MARRYING. 1 HEARD thy voice amid the psalm, Where many voices meet, Yet thy low voice was like a calm. It was so soft and sweet. 'Twas like a calm upon the ocean. When seas have been in wild commotion. I heard thy voice one summer eve Within thy lowly cot. When I am sure thou didst believe That mortal heard it not. LINES AFTKR HEARING A LADY SINGING. 201 And then thy voice was bold and strong, Singing a solitary song. I heard a meagre mother sing, With small and whining note. To soothe a little pining thing, From bare and hungry throat ; And then I thought, lady mine, May never such a song be thine I LINES WRITTEN IMPROMPTU AFTER HEARING A LADY SINGING. Like a blithe birdie in a darksome isle Of changeless holly 'mid a spacious wood ; Such was the song, and such the pensive smile. Robed in the garb of early widowhood. And yet not so, the birdie has a nest. And sings of hopes and joys that yet are coming. When every bush is in its vernal best. And all her callow brood are sunk to rest To thousand thousand insects' joyous humming. But not in hope the human songstress trills The lilt of joy, or long, long note of sorrow ; 202 GOOD NIGHT. We sing not well till frequent proofs of ills Have made us too distrustful of to-morrow ; And yet sometimes we gladly would be gay — So let 's rejoice in joy of yesterday. December 26, 1835. GOOD NIGHT. Good night, good friend, good night to thee, Good night, sweet lady fair and free. For the night has been a good night to me. Though thou art come from a far countree. Smiles soft and still, not laughter high. Have gladden'd our quiet company, And ever and aye with a happy sigh Thou smilest on the baby sleeping by. See how the baby smiles in her sleep. What dream on her soul doth lightly creep ? What fancy so pretty is playing bo-peep With the innocent's thoughts in the fields of sleep ? GOOD NIGHT. QOJJ When slumbering babies smile in a dream, 'Tis their angel, as antique faith would deem, That plays with their hearts like a moonlight beam. Stealing through chinks to a hidden stream. Good night, good night, the smile is past. And I must say good night at last ; I am long a-going, but hark to the blast, And the rain that patters so loud and fast. But I will carry sweet thought away, To sweeten my bread for many a day. When I think of the beautiful babe that lay So calm — yet as bright as an image of May. 204 VALENTINE BY AN AGED LOVER, Some ladies like a man whose hair Is bright as threads of gold, Some the dark youth and some the fair, But few the man that 's old. My locks were jetty black in May, But latest autumn makes them grey. Where is the maiden that will twine Round dodder'd oak a lithe woodbine. And choose an old man for her valentine '? 'Twere vain to say thou shalt be free To merry be or grave ; Better an old man's darling be, Than be a young man's slave. 'Twere vain to talk of common sense. And lessons of experience ; For tears that in the dim eye shine. And trace the wrinkle's furrow'd line. Were never shed by winsome valentine. 20^ As the dew of the morning bestars every blade, But ere noon is no more on the plain. Yet abides in the bell of the flower in the shade Till dew comes at evening again. So the feelings of youth, the fond faith of the heart, In manhood dry up like the dew. Oh ! let them survive in the soul's better part, Till death shall the morning renew. LINES. If I were young as I have been, And you were only gay sixteen, I would address you as a goddess, Write loyal cantos to your boddice. Wish that I were your cap, your shoe, Or anything that 's near to you. But I am old, and you, my fair, Are somewhat older than you were. A lover's language in your hearing Would sound like irony and jeering. Once you were fair to all that see, Now you are only fair to me. •206 TO A FRIEND LEAVING GRASMERE. Sweet Grasmere vale, though I must leave Thy hills and quiet waters, Nor sing again at fragrant eve To glad thy winsome daughters, Yet will I fondly think of thee, And thy fair maids will think of me. When I am far away. I think of thee, but 'tis a thought That has no touch of sadness ; I joy to think that I have brought To thee so mucli of gladness. Such thoughts I fain would leave behind To maidens that are fair and kind. When I am far awav. •207 SONG. — ♦ — Have you seen the stars at morning, How they blend with rising day, Pahng still and still adorning All the morn with their decay ; Paling, blinking, Coyly winking, While the gold usurps the grey ? So the fancies of the heathen, Brightest stars of heathen night, Slowly of their reign bereaven. Lose themselves in Gospel light. Stars of warning Melt in morning. End their task and bid good night. 208 SONG. You ask me to sing — I 'd be glad if I could Sing like a tbnish in the underwood, Like a twinkling lark that sings up in the sky, Or a swan that sings only when going to die. Ere now I have sung, when my heart was young, Like cock-crow loud and clearly, But I cannot sing now I protest, I vow. Because I love you dearly. Could I sing like a syren — but that would I not, Could I sing like a minstrel whose name is forgot, But whose strain is a treasure which all men may borrow. To harmonise joy and to sweeten their sorrow, Oh, then I would sing to my dear, dear thing. Like cock-crow loud and clearly. But I cannot sing now, I protest, I vow. Because I love you dearly, Could I sing what I feel, aud express by a note How wisely esteeming, how fondly I dote. THE SOLACE OF SOXG. -209 Then would music no more be a nice thing of art. But as in old time the true voice of the heart. I couM sing all day long — sing song after song, Like an angel singing clearly, But I cannot sing now, I protest, I vow, Because I love you dearly. THE SOLACE OF SONG. When on my mother's arm I lay A happy helpless thing. Still was I glad by uighl and day To hear my mother sing. Baby, baby, do not cry, It was a lovely lullaby. I was a boy, a wayward boy, And yet I still would cling, With something like a baby joy, To any that could sing. Sing up, sing higli, a merry lay, For "tis a merry holiday. VOL. IT. ' 210 THE SOLACE OF SONG. I was a youth, a sighing youth, A zephyr of the spring, And then I thought that all was truth That 1 was foud to sing. Sweetly, sweetly, let me die In the soft breathing of a sigh. But now, alas, I am a man. And time has pruned my wing, And I have but a little space To flutter and to sing. Singing to the autumn blast, Be my sweetest song my last. And should I live to be an old, An old forgotten thing. Yet never may my heart be cold When holy maidens sing. Holy, holy, may the Psalm My very latest sense embalm ! 211 When I was young T gaily sung, And little cared bow badly ; But sure tbe line Should be polisb'd fine That sings of sorrow sadly. The joke — the fun — The puflf — the pun — However bad they may be, We let them pass As glibly as The babble of a baby. But who would make A good heart ache Should make the good heart stronger For holy grief, Though sharp, is brief, And brings a joy much longer. p2 •2VZ A SONG WITHOUT A TUNE. A SONG without a tune I made in the mouth of June, Eighteen hundred and forty-eight ; 'Tis right to be exact in date. Sweet lassy, parted we have been A full twelvemonth and more, And many a change the world has seen, And many a heart been sore. Kings that were mighty monarchs then. Are not, or nothing are but men. And many a maid that loved a man Of wealth and high degree, Must try to love him, if she can. In perilous poverty. For in the wild creed of the time, To have been rich is deem'd a crime. A SONG WITHOUT A TUNE. 21 i ^Ye were not rich, we were not kings, We are just where we were ; No hope has borne us on its wings, To drop us in despair. I might forget an hour had pass'd Since the sweet hour I saw thee last, Thou art so very like the maid I saw twelve months ago ; And yet almost I am afraid Thou dost not feel it so. Thou art, my love, the same to me, But am I quite the same to thee ? The lines are deeper on ray brow, The corners of my eyes Are quaintly netted, I allow, As wings of dragon flies ; My cheek the red and yellow dapple, INIuch like a last year's russet apple. A year is nothing to a man That forty years hath seen ; But, ah I it is no little span 'Twixt fifteen and sixteen. Now I perceive a year hath flown, And thou almost a woman grown. •214 GOD S.VVK THE QUEEX. A something sure hath cross'd thy view, Or perhaps some lady sage Hath told what to thy hopes is due. And to thy stately age : Yet thou hast not forgot me — no ; But thou would'st very fain do so. Farewell ! I will not vex thee more, — I would not be a hlot On thy fair page, a fretting sore, An ever-tangled knot. What matter what thou think'st on me. While thy young heart is glad and free. GOD SAVE THE QUEEX. A NEW VF-RSIOX. Not what I would, but what I could, I give our little Queen so good, Adapting thus a custom'd strain To the sweet promise of her reign. Whatever men in any part lie, May they be loyal all as Hartley Coleridge. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. 215 God save our Island's hope, Long live the people's hope, God bless our Queen. Still may our Queen be free, Then evermore will she Love that good liberty Which makes her Queen. Oh ! may she prize that gem Bright in lier diadem, Fair on her brow ; So, to the end of days. May God approve her ways. And heaven resound her praise As earth does now. Lord keep her evermore, Pure in her own heart's core. Kind and serene ; So shall the wise and good Reverence her womanhood, And the glad multitude Love their young Queen. May He that dwells on high All her thoughts sanctify : Seraphs unseen •216 Sing up with lioly glee, " Let this maid's name still be Omen of victory," God save the Queen I " Non bene conveniunt nee una in sede morantur Majestas et amor." — Ov. Met., ii. 846. A WANTON bard in heathen time, In sensual age and sensual clime, Hath sung that no accord can be Of love -with god-like majesty. Far other had his sentence been Had gentle Ovid ever seen An English home, a Christian Queen ; For love, content iu cot to dwell, Becomes a British palace well. And our young Queen, whose happy choice Has made a noble land rejoice. Is sure the monarch need not smother The feelings of a wife and mother. A wife and mother truly great, In woman's duties consummate. Such is she now. And every wife And mother wishes joy and life To the good Queen that dignifies The mother's cares, the baby's cries. Yea, every mother in the isle, When she beholds her infant smile, Should have a good wish and a prayer For her the matron (^)ueen so fair ; Who, though a Queen, has that in common With every homely household woman, That she has got a babe to love, And knows there is a God above That will the babes alike receive ; For they have all one mother Eve — May in one well of life be laved. And by one Jesus shall be saved. Oh ! may that God prepare their hearts. Alike to fill their several parts. Decemher. 1840. 218 SONG. In June, when the rose-buds Are ready to blow, We love something in them Far more than we know. When we look on a baby, We love what we see — We love what it may be, And hope it will be. But my love, sweet Mary, For thee, as I know. Is a rose-bud untimely That never will blow. My love is a baby. No blessing will crave, But come, love, however. And smile on its srave. aia TO A YOUNG LADY FROM A FOREIGN CLIME. — ♦ — Thou sweet exotic, lovely brown ! No fair one could be sweeter, — Young as thou art, thou wilt not frown Upon an old man's metre. Rich is the sky where thou wert born. And gorgeous were the flowers ; But yet I trust thou wilt not scorn This cold blue sky of ours. And though the flowers of Westmorland Do not surcharge the wind With burden of perfume so bland As flowers of Western Ind ; Yet are they sweet if they be sought Where careless eyes would miss them ; They crouch so low, as if they thought A maid should stoop to kiss them. 220 TO A YOUNG LADY FROM A FOREIGN CLIME. Our little birds they are not deck'd With hues of molten gems ; Their modest plumes do not reflect The rays of diadems. But yet they twitter sweetly, sweetly, Their little notes so clear, Methiuks they could not sing more fitly To little maiden's ear. There is a blackness in thine hair — A deep black in thine eye — That do not speak of English air. But of a hotter sky And there is something in the mouth, Not easy to be told. That marks thee of the passionate south, And not of northern mould. Then learn to love all simple things, That pretty are and cool. Look how the swallow dips its ■wings, And glints along the pool ; For it hath felt the Afric suns Voluptuously hot. Yet comes to rear its little ones Beside the English cot AN AUTOGIiAPII. 221 So may St thou keep the tropic glow And the full joy of life, Yet tame thy current to the flow Of a cheerful English wife. AN AUTOGRAPH. What is the trifle which you would demand '? The self-betraying of a tremulous hand. That ne'er in useful labour was employ 'd, Though once with self-production overjoy "d. Its strutting capitals and whisking tails. Quaint cyphers, slanting to the veering gales Of vanity and would-be wit, implied That e'en my digits felt a Poet's pride. That pride of rhyme, that pert, pen-jerking joy, Has left me long. I am no more a boy ; For yesternoon, alas ! brought home to me The solemn tidings I was forty-three. At such an age the triumph of the pen Is poor indeed to poor and pensive men. And yet my pen finds something still to fee it. Though mean my name, yet you desire to see it. September 20, 1839. 222 SONG. Rose, and violet, and pansy. Each has told a tale of love, Various with the freak of fancy. Apt and bold the fields to rove, See the pansy ; Seek her not in secret grove. Rose of summer, lovely creature ! Who did ever look on thee. But beheld the very feature Which he most was glad to see, — Fairest, dearest, Whosoe'er the dear may be ? Long ago, when I was roaming. In a shady path I met, Dim and blue as summer gloaming, Far apart from all the rest, Meek and lowly, Her, my own dear violet. 223 THE OLD AEM-CHAIE. AK AUTOBIOC.EAPHICAL SKETCH. High was my lineage, many an age ago My grandsire nursed the mystic mistletoe, By Druid shorn for dark primeval rite, With golden sickle by the pale moonlight. When forests dank of patriarchal oak, " That never echo'd to the woodman's stroke, In boundless contiguity of shade," Possessd the destined seats of wealth and trade. Tlie dappled deer, the sullen shaggy bear, The tall elk, bursting from its bosky lair, And all the natural tribes of earth and air. All, all, familiar with the gnarled tree. Did homage to my sire's antiquity. Had he possess 'd a human heart and speech As sage to know and eloquent to teach As his dark brethren of Dodona, then What tales could he have told of beasts and men ! Of Giant Albion, and his peer in fame, That to far -jutting Cornwall* left his name, — * Cornwall. The Giants Albion and Corineus are memorised by Geoffrey of Monmouth and by Spenser. •^24 THE. OLD ARM-CHAIR. Of Trojan Brutus, and his progeny, The boast of many a long Welsh pedigree, And many a king and chief, forgotten long. Embalm 'd in Geoffrey's prose and Spenser's laureate song : But mute he was, unable to divine The lamentable lot of old Locrine ; Nor aught of Camber* or of Albinact Could he relate, nor of poor Lear distract, Though once, I think, that Lear was fain to house And sing mad songs beneath my grandsire's boughs : And sure the kindly tree bemoan'd his grief. With groaning fibre and with quivering leaf. The Romans came, — they came, they fought, they slew, They conquer"d, reign'd awhile, and then withdrew From Britain's isle. Yet, as wild winds bestrew The long lanes that they make in close defiles Of intertangled underwood for miles. With wrecks and relics of their fatal glee, And trophies of triumphant anarchy ; So, when the hairy myriads of the North O'erleap'd the barrier, — when the Pict rush'd forth. And Caledonia pour'd from cavern 'd rocks. From all her craulding bays and sinuous lochs. * Camber gave name to Cambria and Cumberland : Albinact to Albania, the poetic name of Scotland. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 225 From purple moor, green sliaw, aud quaking fen. Her grisly superfluity of men, — And not to heal, but aggravate the sore, Came the red sea-kings from the Saxon shore, Wave after wave, and blast outhowling blast, Till all despair'd that any v?ould be last ; — Though shy Civility and stately Form Or fled or fell before the human storm, Nor quite effaced were all the steps of Time, For Druid saw was blent with Painic rhyme, — The oak, which Briton bards had sung beneath. And whence the Roman pluck'd his civic wreath. Was still an oak, and grew in power and pride. With its old shade, new kingdoms to divide. My grandsires story it were long to tell, — How long he flourish 'd, how at last he fell 1 Was it his doom in shallow bark to bow His knotty strength, and form a pirate's prow ? Made he the vast beam of a baron's hall, Or board smooth-rubb'd for lavish festival ? Or iron-headed ram, to smite the tottering wall ? Ah no ! He was a dedicated tree From the first germ of his nativity. For many a year in holy peace he stood, The tallest of a noble brotherhood : At length a godly king bestow'd their trunks On a fraternity of studious monks, — VOL. II. Q 220 THE, OLD ARM-CHAIR. Good men, that wore the penitential weed. Unquiet times of such meek men have need. Long was tlie age — some thought an age too much — That I was hallow'd from a woman's touch. I was a mere discomfort of a chair ; Monk could not sit in me, and did not dare : My wooden arms had never clasp 'd the fair. My bones were stiff to plague the bones of others. The long lean length of those long-praying brothers In me have left a dell, a hollow dint, Beyond the date of reminiscent print. But when bluff Harry rent the British rose From the old stalk on which her sister grows, When Luther's trumpet with a voice of storm Defied the Pope and bid the Church reform, Then I, alas ! was but a bit of wood ; For those who lean'd on me, and those that stood. Or knelt beside me in accustom 'd prayer, Became the pensioners of earth and air. Poor wanderers, doom'd from doubting souls to crave The shelter and the food which late they gave. While I — last note of a forgotten ditty, No more a thing of worship, scarce of pity — Am fain to rest unconsecrated now, Like a pale votary forced to break her vow, THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. QiJT The liumble inmate of a genial room, Far from monastic pomp, monastic gloom. I will not say how many men have sat Between ray arms to slumber or to chat ; Wliat flying maid, what panting fugitive, What sinner breathing the last word — forgive ; What lady-love, that dotes on babe so fresh, And feels the life in its soft dimpling flesh ; Nor what besides of sorrow or of mirth I may have witness'd by the glowing hearth. Tis true — (I fear not to reveal the truth) — My later days were gayer than my youth ; Yet may my age for aye respected be, For one good woman's sake that sat on me. Q'2 228 TO THE MAGPIE. What shall we say of thee, pert, perking Mag, Whose every motion seems to fish for praise, Whose whole existence is a game at brag ? Art thou a stranger quite to poet's lays, With black and white thy pretty self adorning, Like a blithe widow in her second mourning ? Thou wert the pet bird of the God of wine, And dear thou art, and should'st be very dear, To that great Son of Jove whose mighty line. After long strife, and many a toilsome year, Regain'd at last their lawful heritage. And reign 'd in southern Greece for many an age. For great Alcides never had a home — No wonder if his loves were vagabond. Once in a hollow vale he chanced to roam. And of a village maid grew sndden fond. TO THE MAGPIE. 229 What shall we say ? — tlie buxom village lass Became the mother of vEchmacoras. * The brawny sire, as usual, went his way, New loves to woo — new monsters to destroy. But the poor mother — she that went astray — All husbandless, with her unfather'd boy — What can she do ? Her ruthless father's curse Bids her conceal a small sin with a worse. She wrapt her baby in a lion's skin, The lion's skin her roving lover gave. And left the helpless witness of her sin In the dark wood. Ye happy wood-nymphs, save, As ye would keep your innocence secure. The helpless thing — like you — so sweet and pure. Nought that the poet feign'd in happiest mood. Or pagan priest invented in his trade. Was ever half so beautiful or good As the kind things that Nature's self hath made : O'er the poor babe the magpie chatters still, Soothes with its wings, and feeds it with its bill. * jEchmacoras, fil. Herculis, ex vitiatCi Phillone, filiii Alcimedontis Uerois; qui ciim in lucem cditus fuisset, ab Alciraedonte, uiik cfim matrc Phillone, in proximo montc feris expositus fiiit : ibi vaf;ieut(!m infantem ci'im pica imitaretur, ad hujus avis vocem, qu6d piierilem esse credidisset, Hercules fort6 illiic iter liabens convcrsus, puellam ct a ae genitum puerum agnovit, ambosque vincul's Uberavit. — Pau.san. in Arcadic. (Hofmanni Lex. Univ.) '230 TQ THE MAGPIE. Ere long the strenuous foe of Hydra came — He came in pride of some new conquest won ; But when he saw how pale the hapless dame. The childless mother, by himself undone, Enraged he rush'd into the forest wild, To seek the pledge of love, the hapless child. I will not say how loud the thickets crash'd, For he would never step an inch aside ; Or how far off the timid lions lash'd Their sides ; or how upcoil'd the serpents eyed The trampling terror. Nought he cared for this — For lion's inward growl, or serpent's smother'd hiss,- But ever onward he pursued the cry, The still repeated one note of the bird. That faithful sat where that poor babe did lie. Still he pursued the note, and never err'd ; And there he found them both — the babe and Mag- In the dark wood, beneath the mossy crag. The babe became a hero in its time ; The bird, its task perform'd, it fled away. To the good bird I dedicate this rhyme ; The hero lives in many an antique lay. Oh could my song preserve thy nest of briar. As thou the babe Herculean for its sire ! 231 TO A RED HERRING. Wonder of art and natui'e ! ocean-born, Like Aphrodite, Queen of Love and Life, And those white nymphs that dwell in crystal bowers, And oft, when ships were rare, and none had burst Into that ocean which first Cortez view'd From Darien's heights, beneath the summer moon. Were wont to weave their labyrinthine dance On the smooth surface of the sacred sea. To minstrelsy of kindred sprites of air ; Child of the waves I whose antique ancestry Saw unappuU'd, say rather with huge joy, The avenging fountains of the deep broke up, And the vast hollow globe of waters pour Dark and continuous o'er the offending eai'th. Then did the creatures of the sea rejoice ! The arrowy shark shot swift o'er cities drown'd, But soon grew sluggish with mere gluttony ; Then herrings fearless stray'd o'er all the world, For even the hungriest tyrants of the floods. The finny aristocracy, o'ergorged 232 TO A RED HERRING. With flesh, for fish had no more appetite Than pious Papist at the 'end of Lent. Herrings wei'e happy then, hut were not red ; The green effulgence of their scaly suit Rippled the sunny sea with emerald light For many a league, what time their countless hosts Sped from their chill septentrion nursery. In numbers without number, numberless ! A tribe to which the whole of Adam's race, By Leuwenhoeck seen through optic lens, With all whom Malthus, and his sage compeers, Extinguish'd in the breeding womb of time By vice and misery — and, oh, ye Gods ! Moral restraint, were but a band elite, A biped aristocracy, as few As Protestants in Erin, as the pale Albino monster upon Afric shore. As gentlemen in Parliament reform'd. As honest men — in any place you please. 233 TO A CAT. — ♦ — Nelly, methinks, 'twixt thee and me There is a kind of sympathy ; And could we interchange our nature, — If I were cat, thou human creature, — I should, like thee, be no great mouser, And thou, like me, no great composer ; For, like thy plaintive mews, my muse With villainous whine doth fate abuse, Because it hath not made me sleek As golden down on Cupid's cheek ; And yet thou canst upon the rug lie, Stretch 'd out like snail, or curl'd up snugly, As if thou wert not lean or ugly ; And I, who in poetic flights Sometimes complain of sleepless nights, Regardless of the sun in heaven, Am apt to doze till past eleven, — The world would just the same go round If I were hang'd and thou wert drown'd ; There is one difference, 'tis true, — Thou dost not know it, and I do. 234 DE ANIMABUS BRUTORUM. No doubt 'twere heresy, or something worse Than aught that priests call worthy of damnation, Should I maintain, though in a sportive verse. That bird or fish can e'er attain salvation ; Yet some have held that they are all possess 'd. And may be damu'd, although they can't be bless'd. Such doctrine broach "d Antonio Margerita, A learned Spaniard, mighty metaphysical. To him the butterfly had seem'd a Lytta, — His wasp-stung wits were grown so quaint and phthisical ; To him the sweetest song of Philomel Had talk'd of nothing in the world but hell. Heaven save us all from such a horrid dream ! Nor let the love of heaven, — of heaven, forsooth! — Make hard our hearts, that we should so blaspheme God for Christ's sake, and lie for love of truth. Poor Tray I art thou indeed a mere machine. Whose vital power is a spirit unclean '.' DE ANIMABUS BRUTOEUM. Q35 If all the lives that throng the air aud earth, And swarm innumerous in the slimy deep, Die once for all, and have no second birth, — If, ceasing once, they do not even sleep. But are no more than sounds of yesterday, Or rainbow tints that come and pass away, — Yet are they not to loving Nature lost; She doth but take them to herself again ! The curious pencilling of moonlit frost Melts in the morning ray, and leaves no stain ; Yet every drop preserved distils in showers, And winds along the veins of dewy flowers. Nor shall they all in their oblivion lie, Nor lack the life, though vain that life may be, Which breathes in strains that wasting time defy : A poet's song can memorise a flea ; The subtle fancy of deep-witted Donne, The wee phlebotomist descanted on. And once that strenuous insect leap'd by chance Upon the white breast of a Gallic dame ; Forthwith the wits of universal France Vied to consign the happy flea to fame I Pasquier, the gravest joker of the age. Berhymed La Puce in many a polish'd page. 236 DE ANIM-ABUS BRUTORUM. The Teian bard, so skittish and so hoary, That loved so well all things that merry be, In honied phrases gave to blithest glory The shrill cicada chirping cheerily ; The bloodless songster drunk with balmy dew. Whose happy being every year is new. That sad old wag, that Peter Pindar hight, Who was no worshipper of William Pitt's, Did whilome soar a bold Pindaric flight To celebrate the progeny of nitts. Telling how once a creature without wings The crown invaded of the best of kings. The insect empress, and her clustering throng Of chemists, famed for geometric skill. Have lent their labour'd sweets to Virgil's song, Their stings bequeath'd to wicked Mandeville ; Wealthy as Tyre their homes, the more their sorrow, Like Tyre despoil'd, and smother'd like Gomorrah. " Go to the ant, thou sluggard, and be wise ! " So said the amorous king that wrote of hyssop, — You know the rest. Nothing that creeps or flies Reads half so good a lesson in all ^Esop. Great Johnson has berhymed the words ; I swear, He 'd better far have left them as they were. DE ANIMABUS BRUTORUM. 237 No question you have heard of Virgil's gnat, Which by our gentle Spenser was transmuted, Though probably I need not tell you that Its authenticity is much disputed ; And 'tis denied also by judgments nice That Homer ever sung of frogs and mice. If Homer did not, some one did, I 'm sure ; The tale is extant in the choicest Greek. Can living tongue express, in phrase so pure. The deep bass croak, and shriller treble squeak ? And Aristophanes no title lacks To his BREKEKEKEX KOAX KOAX. But thou dark dweller of the central rock, Spawn'd ere avenging waves the hills o'erflow'd, Survivor of full many an earthquake's shock, Last of the Troglodytes, primaeval toad. Like antique virtue, hated upon earth. Or trampled under foot, like modest worth, — Time was (or else our ancestors were liars) That thou to mystic verse wert not unknown, When witches danced around Tartarean fires, To screech of owls and mandrake's fatal groan ; For thou could'st drain the marrow, mad the brains. Or foulest passion breed in chastest veins. 238 DE ANIMABUS liRUTOHUM, Most poets are great wanderers by night, And love the moon, though sons of Phoebus call'd ; And well we ken the small scarce-moving light Of the she, wingless, amorous emerald, That keeps her lone lamp burning for her mate, Pining because he always is so late. Unlike her kindred of the glowing zone, That star the dark groves of the tropic even, There the proud earth has comets of her own. And every shoal out-fires the distant heaven, And all the groves and underwoods unfold A gorgeous blossoming of fire and gold. Is it to soothe our sorrow, or deride. That these bright insects leave both flower and tree, And swarm upon the new-heap'd earth beside The pit design'd for dead mortality ? Who has not heard of death-lights on a grave ? And these are death-lights, gay, and bright, and brave ! But who may count, with microscopic eye. The multitudes of lives that gleam and flash Behind the rousing keel, and multiply In myriad millions, when the white oars dash Through waves electric, or at stillest night Spread round the bark becalm'd their milky white '? DE ANIMABUS BRUTORUM. 239 Oh, had the bards that did so sweetly sing In times of old, when poesy was young, Known but the half, in their quick blooming spring. Of what we know, how sweetly had they sung ! Then many a plant, that yet has not a name, Had won a story and a deathless fame ; And many a living thing of instinct wise. Of form majestic, or of brightest plume. That o'er the vast South Sea unwearied flies, Or 'mid the broad magnolia's fiery bloom Builds its low nest, had been beloved of men. Like E,obin Redbreast and plain Jenny Wren. 240 TO GOODY TWOSHOES. Ah, little Goody ! I have known thee long, And feel it strange to call thee Lady Jones. Art thou as happy 'mid the bowing throng As vs'hen thou hadst thy tivo shoes on the stones ? Sole sound of comfort that could reach thy heart. When thy companion child must needs depart. Thy lamb, thy raven, and thy box of letters, Thy love for all the tribes of earth and air, Thy shrewd odd sayings, apt to make thy betters. Or folks so call'd, look round with wondrous stare,. And deeper minds reflect on wisdom given To fortune's waifs by compensating Heaven ; — All these, to curious childhood dear, as new, Retain a value to the satiate age. And pass full oft before the inward view Of souls long strangers to the brief square page, The tinsell'd covers, and the strange old pictures That served our ancestors instead of lectures. TO GOODY TWOSHOES. 241 I 've trembled with thee in the church so cold, And fearful in its soundless solitude. What place so dreary as deserted fold, Where few hours past the shepherd wise and good Had spoke the words that take the sting frora death And change our human tears to wells of faith ? But more of fear and more of pain was thine. And short and smother'd was thy sweet breath, when A little musty hay, a narrow line Of darkness, parted thee from evil men. With horrid whisper plotting crime and plunder, Mocking with mutter'd oaths the awful thunder. A neighbourhood unmeet for one like thee ; Yet out of evil, maids whose minds are right, As thine was in its sweet simplicity, Draw blessings for themselves ; celestial light Beams on the weakest in extreme distresses Assurance, where proud prudence hardly guesses. Such wert thou, Goody, in thy childish days, And though, no doubt, thou didst grow old in time, And wert a spinster much deserving praise. That praise I will not speak in prose or rhyme ; Far rather I 'd believe thee tripping still With Ralph the Raven, and with Baa-Lamb Bill. VOL. tl, R 242 TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, NEITHEE THE ESQUIHE, THE LAUREATE, NOE THE LL.U., BUT THE GOOD MAN, THE MERRY MAN, THE POET, AND HIE UOCTOIi. He was not born beneath the Cumbrian hills ; No mountain breezes lull'd his infant slumbers ; Loud rattling cars, and penny-dropping tills, And blended murmurs of conglomerate numbers, Were the chief sounds that baby Kobert heard : The perking sparrow, his sole household bird. Great Bristol was his nest and natal town, And not till he had cast his baby frock He felt the liberal air of Durdham Down, Or look'd on Avon from St. Vincents rock, Whence many a bark was seen in trim array, Bound on bad quest to hapless Africa. 'Tis hard to say what might have been his lot, If born with Nature from the first to dwell ; Yet am I prone to guess that he would not Have conn'd, or known, or loved her half so well. She was a stranger to bis opening eyes, Clad with the charm of still renew'd surprise. TO ROBEKT SOUTHEY. 243 Aud finding little in the daily round To fashion fancy from the things of sense, His love of kin was all the more profound, Not wide in surface, but in act intense ; Affection still a dutiful reality. The ground and law, and soul of all morality, Yet keeping still his little heart at home, He wander'd with his mind in realms remote. Made playmates of the Fairy, Sylph, and Gnome, And knew each Giant, Knight, and Wight of note, Whate'er of wonderful the East and North, Darkly commingling, gender'd and brought forth. Sweet thought he found, and noble, in the story Of the Wehr-Wolf and sweet Red Ridinghood, Shudder'd at feast of Ogre, raw and gory, And watch'd the Sleeping Beauty in the wood. r2 •244 THE LARCH GROVE. Line above line the nursling larches planted, Still as they clomb with interspace more wide, Let in and out the sunny beams that slanted. And shot and crankled down the mountain's side. The larches grew, and darker grew the shade. And sweeter aye the fragrance of the Spring ; Pink pencils all the spiky boughs array 'd, And small green needles call'd the birds to sing. They gi'ew apace as fast as they could grow. As faiu the tawny fell to deck and cover ; They haply thought to soothe the pensive woe. Or hide the joy of stealthy tripping lover. Ah, larches ! that shall never be your lot ; Nought shall you have to do with amorous weepers, Nor shall ye prop the roof of cozy cot, But rumble out your days as railway sleepers. 245 DENT. I. There is a town, of little note or praise, Narrow and winding are its rattling streets, Where cart with cart in cumbrous conflict meets, Hard straining up or backing down the ways, Where insecure the crawling infant plays. And the nigh savour of the hissing sweets Of pan or humming oven raukly greets The hungry nose that threads the sinuous maze ; Yet there the lesson of the pictured porch. The beauty of Platonic sentiment, The sceptic wisdom, positive in doubt, All creeds and fancies, like the hunter's torch. Caught each from each, perfection find in Dent, Where what they cannot get they do without. 246 GEOLOGY. II. In that small town was born a worthy wight, (His honest townsmen well approve his worth,) Whose mind has pierced the solid crust of earth. And roam'd undaunted in the nether night. His thought a quenchless incorporeal light. Has thrid the labyrinth of a world unknown, Where the old Gorgon time has turn'd to stone Long thorny snake and monstrous lithophyte. Long may St thou wander in that deep obscure, And issuing thence, good sage, bring with thee still That honest face, where truth and goodness shine ; Right is thy creed, as all thy life is pure. And yet if certain persons had their will. The fate of Galileo had been thine. 247 Angels have wings ? Well, let them grow- May it be long before yo^i know Whether they have or not. But geese have wings, and quills as good, Perhaps, as wings of angels could Supply — could they be got. But oh ! dear lady, why contrive To make the vainest man alive Conceited more than ever : I will not call these pens divine. But certain they were pens of thine, And that 's enough, however. 249 TRANSLATIONS. FROil THE GERMAN. There is an angel that abides Within the budding rose ; That is his home, and there he hides His head in calm repose. The rose-bud is his humble home, But thence he often loves to roam ; And wending through the path of Heaven, Empurples all the track of even. If e'er he sees a maiden meek, He hovers nigh, and flings Upon the modest maiden's cheek The shadow of his wings. Oh, lovely maiden, dost thou know Why thy cheeks so warmly glow ? 'Tis the Angel of the Rose, That salutes thee as he goes. 250 FROM CATULLUS. PASSER, DELICI^ MEiE PITELLiE. Little sparrow, pretty sparrow, Darling of my "winsome marrow," Plaything, playmate, what you will, Tiny love, or naughty Phil, Tempted, teased, to peck and hop On her slender finger top. Free to nuzzle and to rest In the sweet valley of her breast ; Her wee, wee comfort in her sorrow's wane. When sinks to sleep the fever of her pain. Little sparrow, come to me, I can play as well as she, And like her I would be fain Thou could'st sport away my pain. Dear to me as fruit of gold, Which by crafty lover roll'd, In that fleet maiden's path, untwisted all The quaint knots of her cincture virginal. 251 FROM CATULLUS. LTTGETE, O VENEBES CrPIDINESQUE. Weep and wail, ye Cupids all, That are pretty and but small ; Weep, ye pretty winged brothers, Weep, ye pretty goddess mothers ; Every soul on earth that 's pretty, Weep and wail for very pity. He is dead, the pretty sparrow. Darling of my " winsome marrow," Dearer than her own eyes to her ; For so well the creature knew her, She did not know her mother better ; Not a moment would he quit her, Hopping hither, flitting thither. Ever blest while he was with her ; Piping shrill and twittering clearly, To her alone whom he loved dearly. Now the dark way he is wending. Whence they say is no ascending. Ill luck be with thee, gloomy hollow. That every pretty thing dost swallow, 252 Schiller's translation of macbeth. To steal away my pretty sparrow ! Alas ! poor bird — oh, deed of sorrow ! My sweet one's eyes, with tears so salt, Are red and swollen ; 'tis all thy fault. SCHILLER'S TRANSLATION OF MACBETH. In Schiller's translation of Macbeth, in the 3rd Scene of the 1st Act, lines, of which the following are & free version, are substituted for the original Conference of the Weird Women, previous to the entrance of Macbeth and Banquo. It was manifestly the purpose of Schiller to discard the witch element altogether out of his '■ Weird Sisters," and to raise them to a level with the Eumenides and Parcse. As a modem poet, writing for time present, and probably for the iinie to come, he might be right in omitting the killing swine, the sailor's thumb, the chestnut munching; but his idea is not in the spirit of ancient or modem demonology. If Schiller showed a more refined taste, Shakspeare exhibits a wider knowledge and a deeper philosophy. First Witch. Sister, let's hear : what hast thou been doing ? Second. On the sea I 've been busy at wrecking and ruin. Third. Sister, what thou ? First. I saw a fisherman all in rags — A very heap of rags was he, — Yet he mended his nets and sang merrily. And cared no more how the old world wags, Than if he 'd the wealth of the sea in his bags. Schiller's translation of macbeth. 253 At his work late and early, The light-hearted churl, he Sang merrily, greeting the eve and the mom. I hated his mirth — 'twas too much to be borne To see him so merry both early and late. I had sworn the deadly oath of hate. And his note must be changed or I forsworn. So the next time that his net he dragg'd, With a golden burden the full net swagg'd. 'Tis down on the nail the yellow ones gliHinier ; He gloats till his peepers wax dimmer and dimmer. He hugg'd the bright devil, he lugg'd it along, And there was an end of his mirth and his song ; And then he lived like the Prodigal Son, And be gave to his lust dominion : But Mammon, the rogue, he soon was gone, — He fled with a lusty pinion. 'Twas faery gold, and he thought "All's well;" He knew not — the fool I — 'twas the loan of hell. And all was spent, and grim Want came ; Away sunk the lads of the revel. Grace cast off him, and he cast oflf shame. And he gave himself up to the Devil. And lie served the fiend with hand and will, And he went to and fro to pillage and kill. I chanced to pass this very day Where on the gold he lighted : 254 TRANSLATION FROM STATIUS. Ou the bare beach I found him howling away. With wan looks scathed and blighted. And hark what said the hope-lorn elf : — " False Avitch, false ocean's daughter, Thou gavest me gold, — thou shalt have myself ! " So plunged in the salt water. STATIUS, Lib. I. 493. Obtutu gelida ora premit, laetusque per artus Horror iit : sensit manifesto numine ductos Affore, quos nexis ambagibus augur Apollo Porteudi generos, vultu fallente fei-arum, Ediderat. Tunc sic tendens ad sidera palmae : Nox, quse terrarum cojlique amplexa labores Ignea multivago transmittis sidera lapsu, Indulgens reparare auimum, dum proximus a>gris Infundat Titan agiles animantibus ortus, Tu mihi perplexis quajsitam erroi'ibus ultro Advehis alma fidem, veterisque exordia fati Detegis : adsistas operi, tuaque omina firmes. Semper honoratum dimensis orbibus anni Te domus ista colet : nigri tibi, diva, litabunt Electa cervice greges, lustraliaque exta Lacte novo perfusus edet Vulcanius ignis. Salve, prisca fides tripodiun, obscui'ique receesus. Deprendi, Fortuna, deos. His chilly lips hard closing at the sight. His every member grueing with dehght. TRANSLATION FROM STATIUS. '^00 At once by tokens manifest he spies That they are here, vrhom quaintly twisted plies And knots and labyrinths of oracular saw, Inspired by Phoebus, named his sons-in-law. In form of beasts foreshown. With palms outspread Towards the sky, in awful accent said The king illumined : Thou, whose compass dread And universal empire dost contain Both heaven and earth, and all their woe and pain ; Night, that transmittest stellar influence With manifold illapse to heal the sense Of weary mortals by a kind renewing, Till Titan bid them to be up and doing : At last in happy hour thou bring'st to me The truth long sought in sore perplexity, — Reveal'st the principles of Destiny. Aid but the work, and make the omen sure. From age to age thy rites shall still endure. Yon house shall honour thee, reverend Night I With sable victims and drink-offerings white Of purest milk. The hallow "d flame shall sup The liquid gifts and eat the entrails up. Hail secret place, all hail thou seat divine, Mysterious symbol of the dreadful Trine ! 256 P^AN OF ARIPHOON THE SICYONIAN. Holiest and first of all the happy powers, Sacred Hygeia ! let me dwell with thee — For all the remnant of my living hours, Come thou, benign, and share my home with me For if there be or good or grace In riches, offering, or high place Of godlike empery or delight. Which, in the hidden nets of Aphrodite, We would inveigle — aught at all That from the gods poor man obtains To soothe him in his toils and pains, — Blest Hygeia I at thy call Blossoms every pleasant thing : With thee the Graces spend their spring; But without thee No living thing can happy be. PEOMETHEUS. A FRAGMENT. ADVERTISEMENT. This fragment, which, if regarded as a dramatic scene, may be read as a whole, was written in or about the year 1820, when it was shown by the author to his father, who was much pleased with the commencement, and took great interest in the work. This may, however, have operated as a virtual discouragement. The elder Coleridge saw in the fable of Prometheus, as treated by ^schylus, a profound and complex philosopheme, which the unsphered spirit of Plato might have been taxed to unfold. Fully to master the idea, required a tension of mind which, it may be, the younger poet did not bring to the task. To work up such stem materials into poetry might have seemed to him im- practicable, or at least foreign to his own genius ; and indeed, whoever will cast his eye over the disquisition on this sub- ject, in the second volume of " Coleridge's Literary Remains," will not be surprised that the youthful Telemachus shnmk from the attempt to bend his father's bow. As the poetry in these volumes is by no means intended exclusively for scholars, it may not be amiss to give a short analysis of the ^schylean di-ama, from which the follo^viug VOL. II. s 258 ADVERTISEMENT. scene is professedly imitated. The Titan Prometheus has stolen fire from heaven, and thereby introduced among man- kind the knowledge of mechanic arts. Jupiter, incensed by his presumption, and nowise approving the pliilauthropic motive by which it was dictated, requires Vulcan to bind the rebel to a rock in Mount Caucasus. Vulcan executes this commission by his ministers, Strength and Force. Pro- metheus is left alone. The Sea Nymphs, and Ocean himself, endeavour to comfort the sufferer, offering to plead with Jupiter in his behalf; but he sternly declines their media- tion. The Egyptian lo appears, to whom Prometheus re- veals the com-se of her wanderings and the extent of her sufferings, in her flight from the persecution of the jealous Juno; and that by one of her descendants, Hercxiles, the son of Jupiter, he himself is destined to be released. He speaks of Jupiter in terms of bold defiance, announcing that he will be dethroned by a son whom lo will bear to him. Mercury (Hermes) is despatched to demand from hirn the disclosure of this secret on pain of further vengeance. Pro- metheus refuses to comply, and is swept away by a thunder- bolt. It is, I am aware, doing sore injustice to the veiy remark- able interpretation of this sublime fable above alluded to, to give the results without detailing the process. For this I must refer to the original essay, which requires, and will, I think, fiilly repay, an attentive and thoughtful perusal. Suffice it to say here, that Jupiter and Prometheus are ex- plained to mean Law and Reason, contrasted, yet akin to each other. Jupiter is Law, stern, imperative, controlling the univei-se ; and in one aspect. Political Law, Juno being the Sacerdotal Cultus, the wedded servant of the state, coerced but unsubmissive, jealous (not, it must bo confessed, without cause) of lo, the mundane Religion migrating from ADVERTISEMENT. 259 land to land : while Prometheus is Reason, the super-sensual light in man, free, though in bonds, and struggling against the despot with a prospect of ultimate emancipation. Hermes is Custom, or I should rather say, marketing expediency, ever worldly and comiilyiug ; while the Ocean Nymphs are the natural solicitings from this visible scene, by which the soul is tempted to forget her original, forego her privileges, and forfeit her destiny. It is easy to sui-mise in what spirit and with what skill this subject would have been handled by Dry den, and in this style I believe that he might have found a worthy suc- cessor in Hartley Coleridge. But to embody so profound an idea not in witty abstractions, but in living forms, " simple, sensuous, passionate," speaking with lyric earnestness, and combined in a progressive action, was a design more easy for the father to conceive than for the son to execute. Sooth to say, the latter was not disposed to bore so deep for the waters of inspiration. His Hippocrene was no Artesian well, though it flowed natm-ally from a living fountain far enough beneath the sm'face. Soon afterwards the subject was taken up by the splendid genius of Shelley, who brought to it vehement impulse, ex- haustless fancy, the music of the spheres, and a diction glittering as sunlight in the midst of a waterfall. He did not bring a clear insight or a sane judgment. His concep- tion, or adaptation of the my thus, stri2:iped of its gorgeous dress, may be called vulgar, at once false and obvious. With him Jupiter is the oppression of the world, secular and reli- gious, " the powers that be," as they appeared to his diseased vision; and Promethexis is relucting, up-surging humanity. However, a poem was produced which might well have dis- heartened a young contemporary from the semblance of competition. s2 260 ADV.ERTISEMENT. Once interrupted, the work could not be resumed. In a letter written eighteen years afterwards, he thus alludes to his intention of completing certain Essays, &c., " and, D. V., Prometheus ; but of this I cannot speak ^vith certainty, so difficult is it to recommence any work of imagination after an interval. I do not think it would have been possible for my father to have continued Christabel, had his health been ever so joyous, or its reception ever so encouraging. He might, indeed, have written a gi'eat deal more about Chris- tabel, and what he wrote could not but have been valuable, but it would not have harmonised with the fragment ; the joining would have been too apparent. I never knew a work in which there was any continuity at all which was success- fully continued." This poem will now be read with pleasure for its choice diction and tender fancy, more especially in the lyric move- ments, which are marked by a peculiar and expressive cha- racter. The pathos is not interrupted by any obtrusion of a secondary meaning, but it appears from the " Conclusion," (itself a very beautiful poem,) that the di'ama was intended to be symbolical. :26L PROMETHEUS. SCENE. — A desolate spot, supposed to lie beyond the limits of the habitable earth. Prometheus discovered chained to a rock. Soft Music is heard in the distance, which, as it c/radually draws nearer, becomes graver and slower. Chorus 0/ Sylphs on the wing, who enter singing as follows: — Lightly tripping o'er the land, Deftly skimming o'er the main, Scarce our fairy wings bedewing With the frothy mantling brine, Scarce our silver feet acquainting With the verdure-vested ground ; Now like swallows o'er a river Gliding low with quivering pinion, Now aloft in ether sailing "Leisurely as summer cloud ;" Kising now, anon descending, Swift and bright as shooting stars, Thus we travel glad and free. Deep in a wilderness of bloom. We felt the shaking of the air 262 PROMETHEUS. Blown o'er deserts vast and idle, O'er ambrosial fields of flowers, O'er many a league, where never man Imprest his footstep on the sand, Or sliook the dry and husky seeds From the tall feathery grass. But 'twas not the liquid voice Of warbling Nymphs their sea-love soothing. 'Twas not tlie billows of the breeze That tells when sister Sylphs are coming ; Nay, 'twas a sound of terror and woe, A noise of force and striving : It was not the meeting of icebergs, Whose crash might out-thunder the thunderer, And their glare make the lightning look dim ; Tt was not the storm of the secret ocean. That lashes the shore to the wild bear's howling; For the loud-throated tempests are silent with horror, And the sea stands still in amaze. 'Twas the piercing cry of immortal agony,^ =That taught a strange tongue to the first waken 'd echoes -Of this dull lump of earth, this joyless mountain. IPerceiving Prometheus. Oh, sight of fear ! What shape is that, what goodly fonn divine. PROMETHEUS. 263 That in yon bare and stoi'm-beleaguer'd rift Stands like a mark for sun and frosty wind By turns to waste their idle shafts upon ? How horribly it glares ! No sign of life, Save in the ghastly rolling of those eyes ! Lives it, indeed ? Or is the loathing spirit Pent in a corse, a gaol, a hulk of flesh, That is no more its own ? Oh ! do not look at it. Or we shall all grow like it. Let us hence, — Yet, hold! it breathes; methinks that I should know — Hark ! did he stir ? Oh, no, he cannot ! — fast. Fast as a frozen sea, quite motionless ! Though every sinew stares as he were bent To unfix the mountain from its rooted base, And whelm us with the ruins ! Ah, poor wretch ! The mountain shall as soon unfix itself As he wipe off" the sweat-drop from his brow, Or make his bosom lighter by a sigh, "He is so fast impaled. His noble limbs And spacious bulk, as tightly manacled As a fair gazelle in the serpent's coil, And eveiy feature of his face grown stiff With the hard look of agony. Prometheus. Oh, me ! Sylpii. Behold, his teeth unlock, his black lips ope. As he would speak to us ! Oh, thou sad spectacle I 264 PROMETHEUS, Prometheus. What now ? Is aught forgotten ? Hath the God, With his wise council, hatch 'd some new device To plague the rebel ? Is it not enough ? Nay, be not slack ; ye 're welcome : — sweet were change. If but a change of tortures ! But to grow A motionless I'ock, fast as my strong prison. Age after age, till circling suns outnumber The sands upon the tide-worn beach ! No hope. Or that sad mockery of hope that fools With dull despair, spanning the infinite ! Torment unmeasurable ! Sylph. Alas I art thou The lofty-soul'd Prometheus ? Prometheus. Ay ! the fool That dared the wrath of Jove, hated of all That share his feasts and crouch before his throne ; The mighty seer, the wise Prometheus. Ah, for himself not wise ! Poor, poor weak slave ! Do ye not scorn me ? But I cannot shake, Or ye might see how fearful I am grown, That nought have more to fear ! Sylph. Oh, fear not us ! A long, long way we come to visit thee ; To this extreme of earth On clipping pinions borne. PROMETHEUS. 265 For the gratiug of fetters, The voice of upbraiding, The deep, earthy groan Of anguish half-stifled ; The ear-piercing shriek Of pain in its sharpness, — A concert, all tuneless, came ruffling the rose-buds, Where sweetly we slumber'd the sultry hours ; So with pinions unsmooth'd, and with tresses un- braided, Our bright feet unsandall'd, we leap'd on the air. Like the sound of the trumpet we shook the wide ether. A moment we quiver'd, then glancing on high, Ascended a sun-ray, light pillar of silver. And seem'd the gay spangles that danced in the beam. Soon in the cool and clear expanse Of upper air we sail'd, so fleet, so smooth, Our feathery oars we waved not, and that flight, Which left whole empires in its rear uncounted. As bubbles in the wake of some swift bark, Seem'd like a sleep of endless blessedness. Thus floating, we arrived At the last confines of the fair creation ; Pdght o'er this spot unholy. Where tired Nature left her work half done. Oh, how unlike those happy fields of light 206 PROMETHEUS. Where late we voyaged ! The thick, dark air, Still pressing earthward, closes o'er our heads With dull and leaden sound, like sleepy waters. Prometheus. Never till this day Did life disturb the dense eternity Of joyless quiet; never skylark's song, Or storm-bird's prescient scream, or eaglet's cry. Made vital the gross fog. The very light Is but an alien that can find no welcome ; So horri'ole the silent solitude, That e'en those vile artificers of wrong, Brute instruments of ghastly cruelty. Whose grisly faces were too fell to dream of, — Even they seem'd comfortable when they turn'd Their backs upon me ! Oh, too bitter shame, I could have wept to beg them tarry longer ! Sylph. And didst thou weep ? And did they leave thee thus ? Oh, i^itiless slaves ! Prometheus. No, I did not weep. Fall'n as I am, I closed my eyelids hard ; They burn'd like fire, and seem'd as they were full. But, no ! the dew of tears was scorch 'd away. I did not — sure they could not see me — weep. I bade them farewell, and my voice was firm : I think it made them tremble, for the sound Of their departure seem'd to shun my ear, PROMETHETJS. 267 As they had done some perilous deed in haste, And dared not look on it. They stole away : The patter of their feet still fretted me, Like drops in caves that evermore are ceasing. Yet never cease, so long they seem'd agoing. Methought 'twere joy to heave a groan unheard, Unmark'd of coward scorn. Nay, do not weep, Or I shall e'en heap shame upon my shame, And all that yet remains of god in me Be quench'd in tears. Alas, my gentle sprights ! But now I wish'd to glide into a stream, And lose myself in ocean's liberty. Leaving my empty chains a monument And hollow trophy of the tyrant's rage ; Or be a lump of ice which you might thaw With the kind warmth of sighs. And hard I strove To put away my immortality. Till my collected spirits swell'd my heart Almost to bursting ; but the strife is past. It is a fearful thing to be a god. And, like a god, endure a mortal's pain ; To be a show for earth and wondering heaven To gaze and shudder at ! But I will live. That Jove may know there is a deathless soul Who ne'er will be his subject. Yes, 'tis past. The stedfast Fates confess my absolute will,— Their own co-equal. I have struggled long. 268 PROMETHEUS. And single-banded, with their triple power, And most opposing, still been most their slave. And yet, the will survived — lord of itself; Free to disclaim tlie foreseen forced effect Of its free workings. Now, we ai'e agreed, I and my destinies. The total world, — Above, below, whate er is seen or known. And all that men, and all that gods enact, Hopes, fears, imaginations, purposes ; With joy, and pain, and every pulse that beats In the great body of the universe, I give to the eternal sisterhood. To make my peace withal ! And cast this husk. This hated, mangled, and dishonour'd carcase Into the balance ; so have I redeem'd My proper birthright, even the changeless mind, The imperishable essence uncontroll'd. Sylph. Strange talk, Prometheus ! Every scorn- ful word, And every bitter threat, may add an age Of torture to thy doom. We would in truth That we might melt thy fetters with our sighs ! But what we can, we will. Hold but thy peace ; Or, if thou wilt forbid us, scoff, revile. But let us beg for thee. Our wilful prayer. By thee forbidden, leaves thy pride uustain'd. Thy will unmaster'd. He did love us once : PROMETHEUS. 269 The miglit}^ Jove did love us. Did? He does. There is a spell of unresisted power In wonder-working weak simplicity, Because it is not fear'd. Prometheus. Fair creature, pause ! I am not so ungentle as to chide The idle chirpings of imprison'd love, That warbles freely in its narrow cage ; But I would bid the nightingale be dumb. Or ere her amorous descant should betray Her covert to the spoiler. Sylph. Spare thy fears ; For we have winning wiles and witcheries, Such incantations as thy sterner wit Did never dream of. Time hath been ere now That Jove hath, listeu'd to our minstrelsy, Till wrath would seem to drop out of his soul Like a forgotten thing. Our smallest note, Catching his ear at any breathing space Amid his loudest threats, would make him mute As wondering childhood. True, thy fault is great, But we are many that will plead for thee ; We and our sisters, dwellers in the streams That murmur blithely to the joyous mood, And dolefully to sadness. Not a nook In darkest woods but some of us are there. To watch the flowers, that else would die unseen. 270 PROMETHEUS. And some tbere are that live among the wells Of bidden waters in the central earth, Or keep their state in caves where diamonds grow, And the soft amethyst and emerald Bask in the streamy and perpetual light Of that mysterious stone that owes the day No tribute for its lustre : in whose beam A thousand gems give out their thousand hues. As to their proper sun ; not, as on earth. By art and toil enforced. Our sisters, they, The friendly sprites, to thee, I guess, well known, Who show the swains w^iere treasured fountains lie ; And those who used to guide thee in thy quest For the earth's riches, brass and valued gold. Prometheus. I well remember, for I know you all, Where'er ye sojourn, and whatever names Ye are or shall be called ; fairies, or sylphs, Nymphs of the wood or mountain, flood or field : Live ye in peace, and long may ye be free To follow your good minds. Sylph. Ah, that we will I Are we not bold to bid a god repent ; To break upon his slumbers with our prayers ; • To watch him day and night ; to wear him out With endless supplication ? Perhaps to beg His kind attention to a pleasant tale ; To cheat him into pity, and conclude PROMETHEUS. 271 Each story with Prometheus ? Prometheus. Bold and rash I Sylph. He shall not 'scape us. Not a hold secure In all his empire but our airy host Shall tliere prevent him. If in quaint disguise He roam the earth, or float adown the streams To tempt or Naiad's love, or woman's eye, Though watchful Juno were deceived, yet we Should know him still. Ha ! then should be our time. Surprise him then, there 's nought he can refuse. Lest we expose him to the laughing sky. As Vulcan did the War-god. Yet no shape Of dreadful majesty, nor sacred haunt, Our close and passionate suit shall overawe ; For he shall hear us in the vocal gloom Of green Dodona's leafy wilderness, And where from all apart he oft retires To brood upon his glory. Ours shall be The one request that he shall ever hear Till thou art pardon'd. Can he then be stern, When all the praise, the sweetness of his reign. The joy that he was glad to look upon. The boundless ether's fitful harmony. And the wild music of the ocean caves, Is turn'd to sighing and importunate grief ^ For poor Prometheus ? Prometheus. Gentle powers, forbear ! 272 pnoMETiiEUs. 'Twere worse than all my miseries foreseen Should my huge wreck suck down the friendly skiffs That proffer'd aid. Oh ! would that Jupiter Had hurl'd me to the deep of Erebus, Where neither god nor man might pity me. Where I might lie unthought of as the star Last outpost of the bright celestial band, That walks its circuit of a thousand years, Shooting faint rays at black infinity. But now shall I become a common tale, A ruin'd fragment of a worn-out world ; Unchanging record of unceasing change, Eternal landmark to the tide of time. Swift generations, that forget each other. Shall still keep up the memory of my shame Till I am grown an unbelieved fable. Horsed upon hippogriffs, the hags of night Shall come to visit me ; and once an age Some desperate wight, or wizard, gaimt and grey, Shall seek this spot by help of hidden lore, To ask of things forgotten or to come. O D But who, beholding me, shall dare defy The wrath of Jove ? Since vain is wisdom "s boast. And impotent the knowledge that o'erleaps The dusky bourne of time. 'Twere better far That gods should quaft' their nectar merrily. And men sing out the day like grasshoppers. PROMETHEUS. 273 So may they haply lull the watchful thunder. Stlph. Ah, happy men, whose evil destiny, Self-haffled, falls ! The fellest storm that blows. The soonest wafts them to an endless calm. Would we were mortal ! Prometheus. Wherefore would ye so ? What coy delight awakes to sun or stai's But e'en a thought conveys you to the cradle Of its young sweetness ? Sylph. True ; but what delight Shall dare awake while all the spacious world Is aguish with the terror of thy pains, And sick for thy afSictiou ? Prometheus. You, at least, Have nought to fear. Your unsubstantial forms Present no scope to the keen thunderbolt ; Nor adamant can bind your subtle essence. Which is as fine as scent of violets, Quick as the warbled notes of melody. And uncoufinable as thoughts of gods. Then go your way. Forget Prometheus, And all the woe that he is doom'd to bear ; pBy his own choice this vile estate preferring LTo ignorant bliss and unfelt slavery. Sylph. Well, we will go, but never to forget Thee, nor omit thy cause. 'Tis vain to strive. For Jove is not one half so merciless VOL. II. T 274 EPvOMETHEUS. As thou art to thyself. But fare thee well ; Our love is all as stubborn as thy pride, And swift as firm. For ere yon full-orb 'd moon, That now emerges from her dark confine, And, scaling slow the steep opposed heaven, Is red and swoln, assume her silvery veil And high career of virgin quietness. Shall we alight upon the topmost peak Of Jove's Olympus. Pkometheus. Ye are free to go Where'er ye will, but not to plead for him Whom Jove abhors. No, not to pity him. Or ye may wish your errant range of wing Were narrow as the evening beetle's rounds. Sylph. Not free to pity ! What were Jove himself If pity had not been ? Was not he once A hapless babe, condemn'd to die ere born ? But when he smiled, unweeting of his doom, And press'd his little hand on Rhea's bosom, Then gentle pity touch'd his mother's heart, Till very softness made her bold to brave The sternness of her hoary husband's ire. Oh, we have hung upon our motionless wings. And watch'd her bending sadly o'er his cradle. Shading his rosy face with her dark locks In such sweet stillness of o'ermaster'd sorrow, As if she fear'd a sigh might wake her bird. PEOMETHEUS. 275 "Or call his ruthless father to devour him. And when at length e'en love to love gave way, And she consented to resign the babe,' To the kind nymph who promised to conceal liim, With all a mother's tender fortitude, She wash'd the tear-drops from his fair round cheek With rain from her own eyes ; for she was melted, Yet nothing shaken. Pity made her firm. Yet when the Oread virgin turn'd away, And he, with baby cries, stretch'd out his arms Over her ivory shoulders, well I ween She would have given her godhead for a heart That might have broken. Then we sang our songs, And soothed her melancholy thoughts with tales How he should come to be a mighty god. And blast his foes with fiery thunderbolts. And day by day, in sunshine or in storm. We posted 'twixt far Ida and Olympus To bear her kisses to her growing babe, And bring back daily tidings of his weal. He was a lovely child, a boy divine; And joy'd to listen to the gurgling music Of Ida's many springs. We little thought That he would prove so stern and tyrannous. Prometheus. 'Tis ever so. Full many an inno- cent flower Is womb and cradle to a poisonous berry. 270 PHOMETHEUS. Mark the cub lion, stolen from its dam, Loved playmate of the youngling foresters. Who laugh to see it shake its maneless neck. And lash Avitb scanty tail, and beat the earth In angry sportiveuess. Wait but awhile, That lion's roar, like the low thunder-groan, That rumbles under foot before an earthquake, Shall send an horrible silence o'er the waste, That every living thing shall send away. Like shadow'd clouds when suu and moon are striving. Sylph. And yet 'twas sweet to listen to his tales, And watch the strivings of the god within him. For all his prattle and his childishness Were godlike, full of hope and prophecy. And so he wax'd lusty, and fair, and tall, And bedded sinew changed his baby flesh, That dimpled erst at every touch of love ; And the loose ringlets of his silky hair Knotted in crisper curls. His deepening voice Told like a cavern 'd oracle the fall Of sky-throned dynasties. He grew, and grew, A star-bright sign of fated empeiy ; And all conspiring omens led him on To lofty purpose and pre-eminence. The mountain eagles, towering in their pride, Stoop'd at his beck and flock'd about his path. Like the small birds by wintry famine tamed ; PROMETHEUS. 277 Or with their dusky and expansive wings Shaded and fann'd him as lie slept at noon. The lightnings danced before him sportively, And shone innocuous as the pale cold moon In the clear blue of his celestial eye. Oft the nigh thunder-clap, o'er Ida's peak, Chiding the echoes that beraock'd it, paused, And with a low abased voice did homage To its predestined Lord. But more than all, With no ambiguous sign, the gifted Themis, Tiiy mother, Prometheus I pointed out The very spot — a lovely spot it was. Untrodden then, and wild, without a sound. Save old ^sopus and his lonely song. Where the glad sons of the deliver'd earth Shall yearly raise their multitudinous voice. Hymning great Jove, the God of Liberty ! Then he gi-ew proud, j'et gentle in his pride. And full of tears, which well became his youth. As showers do spring. For he was quickly moved. And joy'd to hear sad stories that we told Of what we saw on earth, of death and woe, And all the waste of time. Then would he swear That he would conquer time ; that in his reign It never should be winter; he would have No pain, no growing old, no death at all. And that the pretty damsels, whom wc said 278 PROMETHEUS. He must not love, for they would die and leave him, Should evermore be young and beautiful ; Or, if they must go, they should come again, Like as the flowers did. Thus he used to prate, Till we almost believed him. Oft at eve We sang the glories of the coming age, And oft surprised the wanderer in the woods With bodements sweet of immortality. Peometheus. Aye, ye were blest with folly. Who may tell What strange conceits upon the earth were sown And gender'd by the fond garrulity Of your aereal music ? Scatter'd notes, Half heard, half fancied by the erring sense Of man, on which they fell like downy seeds Sown by autumnal winds, grew up, and teem'd With plenteous madness. Legends marvellous Of golden ages past, and dreams as wild. As sweetly wild, of that auspicious birth. That glorious advent of delight unfading, Which brooks, and vesper gales, and all divine Mysterious melodies, in sleep or trance, Or lonely musing heard, to that blind race So oft announced. Yain phantasies and hopes. That shall be hopes for aye, from sire to son Descending ; chaunted in a hundred tongues Bv errant minstrels borne from land to land. PEOMETHEOS. 279 And in the storm-bewilder'd bark convey 'd To furthest isles, where yet unheard of man The surges roar around. The various tribes, Condemn 'd alike to ever-present woe, With various phantoms of futurity Shall soothe their weary hour. Beneath the wain Of slow Bootes, where a mimic moon, Like fiery ensign of a spiritual host. Flick 'ring and rustling, streams along the sky ; Where the black pine- woods splinter in the blast That rides tempestuous o'er a wilderness Of ancient snow, whose ineffectual gleam Thwarts the pale darkness of the long long night, And Ocean, slumbering in his icy bed, Hears not the shrill alarum of the storm. There Scalds uncouth, in horrid accents screaming. To clash of arms and outcries terrible. Tuning their song, shall tell of shadowy realms Where the brave dead, the mighty of old time, Urge the fierce hunt, the bloody banquet share, And drink deep draught nectareous from the skulls Of slaughter'd foes. But, in the perfumed groves. Of the soft, languid, dreaming Orient, And where, 'mid billowy sands, in the broad eye Of an unprofitable, dewless heaven. The lonely phoenix roams, shall hoary seers And pensive shepherds, to believing maids 280 PRQMETIIKUS. And meekest mothers, when their babes are hush'd, Repeat the cherish'd tale at eventide, <)f a new world where peace shall ever dwell. No armed hoof shall crush the daisy bold That flaunts it in the sun, nor ambush 'd foe Invade the lurking violet in her bower. Where beauty fades not, love is ever true, And life immortal like a summer day. ; Oh ! happy creatures that, uncursed with love, . Look for a land they know not where, but deem It may be girdled by the burning waste, Or safely treasured in the secret ocean ; Or, haply, in the moon, where they shall live Beneath the sole and everlasting sway Of him, the babe benign, mighty and wise, Whose might and wisdom are but innocence And childish simpleness. Thrice happy they Who ne'er have found and never can believe ' That innocence is mere defect of might — Simplicity the very craft of Nature, To hide the piteous void of ignorance, ' Till guile is grown of age . Too soon 'tis seen ' The great are ever best when least themselves. The weakest wind that wantons with your curls, Grown strong would be a scouring hurricane. SvLPH. Alas ! thy words are like this spot, unholy, Thou could'st not speak them in a better place. PROMETHEUS. 28 1 Prometheus. What place so hoi}- where they are not true ? Ye see no tumult in the host of stars, Xo taint of falsehood in the clear blue sky. Yet there was ancient Uranus enthroned And treason impious, foul, unnatural, O'erwhelm'd his stellar and primeval seat With horror and with shame. Sylpii. And pleasant hills were those Where the vast brood of Titan used to dwell, Bathing their golden locks in morning light. And sunn'd with even's latest, sweetest smile — Her parting smile that bids the earth adieu. Where are they gone, that giant brotherhood. Lords of the mountains ? Past like clouds away. And seen no more — save when their misty shades. Among the lonely peaks they loved so well. Far off beheld, astound the mountaineer. Prometheus. Ay, they arc gone ; and he that holds their place Is like them, strong and blind. What wonder, then. Though he fall mightily ? Sylph. The tale is told Of Uranus and old Hyperion, And that great mother : huge and sluggish powei-s That just awoke from their eternal sleep 282 PROMETHEUS. To gaze upon the new and vacant world, Then sank to sleep again. And glad were we When Saturn and his howling train were sent To fright their slumbers in the nether void. But must the youthful thunder-wielder fall, For whom we sung the song of victory ? Fall from his high, his unapproached throne. Which never god may touch, nor mortal eye Pierce through the veil of congregated clouds, That wave on wave, a dark and soundless sea, Beneath it ebb and flow ? Thus islanded, 'It hangs enshrined in clear and crystal air. And owns no kindred with the lower orb. Oft have we seen that solitary height, As gay we glanced athwart the sunny beam. Or wash'd our pinions in the unfall'n dew, 'And thought no peril and no change were there. Prometheus. 'Tis a fair spot, and holy. I have known. When Pihea's boy hath wonder'd what it was, That other silver star that staid behind, When Phosphor left the sky. Yet now he deems - His godhead as th-e light immutable, That cares not whether it be morn or even. Sylph. There is a dark foreboding in thy speech ; Thine eyes flash fearfully a moody joy That augurs a new downfall. Whence arise PROMETHEUS. Q83 These desperate hopes, that seem to make thee fond Of lowest misery ? Prometheus. I know it all — All ye would ask. But ne'er shall hope be mine 'J'ill the dread secret works its fatal will In daylight visible, with wrath and scorn, And ceaseless memory of forgotten things. Then Jove shall learn what all his sulphurous bolts, Soul-piercing torments, earthquakes, fiery plagues. Disease, and loathsome, black deformity, And all confounding shame, shall ne'er persuade Mv voice to utter. THE SONG OF NYMPHS.* Ye patient fields, rejoice I The blessing that ye pray for silently Is come at last ; for ye shall no more fade, Nor see your flow'rets droop like famishing babes Upon your comfortless breasts. Close, pent-up woods I Open your secrets to the prying sun ; For den nor forest dark shall longer hide The noisome thing. Take heart, poor flutterer ! Nor fear the glitter of the serpent's eye : » Printed as a Fragment of Callimacliiis in tlif "■Winter's >Vrfath " for 1831. 284 PROMETHEUS. No more it shines to harm thee. Sing aloud, Toss high the shrillness of thy gurgling throat, And wake the silence of Olympian bowers, That Jove may hear thee — he, the lovely boy. The son of Saturn, mightier than his sire, L And gentler far. Thou hollow earth ! resound, And, like the maddening drum of Cybele, Roll with delight thro' all thy sparry caves A many-echoed peal. And, oh ! ye soft And wandering elements — ye sighing floods — And thou, great treasury of light and music — Embracing air with all your wealth of sounds, And bodiless hues, and shadows glorified, Of what on earth is terrible and fair The fairer effluence and the living form. With all your music, loud and lustily, With every dainty joy of sight and smell, Prepare a banquet meet to entertain /' The Lord of Thunder, that hath set you free I, From old oppression. Melancholy brook ! That creep'st along so dull and drowsily, Wailing and waiting in the lazy noon. In merry madness roar, and whirl, and bound. Blithe as thy mountain sisters. Ne'er again Shall summer drought, or icy manacle. Obstruct thy tuneful liberty. Thou breeze, That mak'st an organ of the mighty sea, PROMETHEUS. 285 Obedient to thy wilful phantasies, Provoke him not to scorn ; but soft and low, As pious maid awakes her aged sire, On tiptoe stealing, whisper in his ear The tidings of the young god's victory. Then shall he rouse him on his rocky bed. And join the universal hymn with strains Of solemn thankfulness and deep delight — The blended sweetness of a thousand waves. But where is he, the voice intelligent Of Nature's minstrelsy ? Oh, where is man — That mortal god, that hath no mortal kin Or like on earth ? Shall Nature's orator — The interpreter of all her mystic strains — Shall he be mute in Nature's jubilee ? Wilt thou be last in bliss and benison That wast the first in lamentable wail. And sole in conscious pain ? Haply he fears (The bitter doom, tliat out of sweetness makes fits sad memorial. Mortal ! fear no more, — The reign is past of ancient violence ; And Jove hath sworn that time shall not deface, Nor death destroy, nor niutalility Perplex the truth of love. SKETCHES OE ENGLISH POETS. IN RHYMES. These sketches were written by the Author on the fly- leaves and covers of his copy of Anderson's British Poets. Unfortunately, the volume containing Pope was missing, which occasions a break in the series. The idea appears to have been taken from Addison's "Account of the greatest English Poets," a youthful composition addressed by him to Mr. Henry Sacheverell, April 3, 1694, in the twenty -second year of his age. The following extract from this poem will show the likeness and difference between the original and the imitation, if such it is to be considered. Long had our dull forefathers slept supine, Nor felt the rapture of the tuneful nine, Till Chaucer first, a merry hard, arose. And many a story told in rhyme and prose. But age has rusted what the poet writ, Worn out his language, and ohscured his wit. In vain he jests in his unpolish'd strain. And tries to make his readers laugh in vain. Old Spenser next, warm'd with poetic rag In ancient tales amused a harbarous age; An age that, yet uncultivate and rude. Where'er the poet's fancy led, piu^sued Through pathless fields and unfrequented floods, To dens of dragons and enchanted woods. But now the mystic tale that pleased of yore, Can charm an understanding age no more. The long-spun allegories fulsome grow. While the dull moral lies too plain below. We view, well-pleased, at distance all the sights Of arms and palfries, battles, fields, and fights, And damsels in distress, and courteous knights ; But when we look too near, the shades decay. And all the pleasing landscape fades away. 289 CHAUCER. How wayward oft appears the poet's fate, Who still is born too early or too late ! If a bold, fond, imaginative age, Instinct with amorous, and with martial rage, Enact more wonders than the mind conceives, And all that fancy can devise believes, Produce a man by natural right a bard, To whom long thought, and chance perplex'd and hard, And books and men, and pensive cells and courts, And politic lore, and trade, and knightly sports, And, more than all, his own repented sin Have shown the outer world and that within ; — The fleeting language, to its trust untrue, Vext by the jarring claims of old and new, Defeats his beauty, makes his sense the fee Of a blind, guessing, blundering glossary. Thus Chaucer, quaintly clad in antique guise. With unftimiliar mien scares modern eyes. VOL. u. 290 . CHAUCER. No doubt he well invented — nobly felt — But, ye powers ! how monstrously he spelt. His syllables confound our critic men, Who strive in vain to find exactly ten ; And waste much learning to reduce his songs To modish measurement of shorts and longs. His language, too, unpolish'd and unfixt, Of Norman, Saxon, Latin, oddly mixt — Such words might please [th'] uneducated ears That hail'd the blaring trumpets of Poictiers. They shared the sable Edward's glee and glory. And, like his conquests, they were transitory. But how shall such old-fashion'd lingo cope With polish, elegance, and Mister Pope ? Yet, thou true Poet ! let no judgment wrong Thy rich, spontaneous, many-colour'd song ; Just mirror of a bold, ambitious age. In passion furious, in reflection sage I — An age of gorgeous sights and famous deeds. And virtue more than peace admits or needs ; When shiver'd lances were our ladies' sport, And love itself assumed a lofty port ; When every beast, and bird, and flower, and tree. Convey 'd a meaning and a mystery ; And men in all degrees, sorts, ranks, and trades. Knights, Palmers, Scholars, Wives, devoted Maids, SPENSER. Ji91 In garb, and speech, and manners, stood coufest To outward view, by hues and signs exprest, And told their state and calling by their vest. SPENSER. Sweet was the youtia of vii'gin Poesy, That virgin sweetness which she gave to thee, My Spenser, bard of happy innocence ! For thou didst with a bridegroom's love intense Caress the fair inventions of thy brain. Those babes of paradise, without the pain Of mortal birth, to fairest heritage Born in the freshness of their perfect age. Thy Faery Knights had all the world in fee, For all the world was Faeryland to thee. Thine is no tale, once acted, then forgot ; Thy creatures never were, and never will be not. Oh ! look not for them in the dark abyss Where all things have been, and where nothing is- The spectral past ; — nor in the troubled sea Where all strange fancies are about to be — The unabiding present. Seek them where For ever lives the Good, the True, the Fair, u2 292 ■ SPENSER. In the eternal silence of the heart. There Spenser found them ; thence his magic art Their shades evoked in feature, form, and limb. Real as a human self, and bright as cherubim. And what though wistful love and emulous arms, And all the wizard might of mutter'd charms, — Though slimy snakes disgorge their loathly rage, And monstrous phantoms wait on Archimage : These are but dreams, that come, and go, and peep Through the thin curtain of a morning sleep. But leave no pressure on the soul, that wakes And hails the glad ci'eation that it makes. 293 SHAKESPEARE. Shakespeare, what art thou? Could'st thou rise again To praise thyself, thy praise were old and vain ; Thy highest flight would sink beneath thy due ; Thy own invention would find nothing new. In the whole orb of nature that thou art, Complete in essence, and distinct in part ; No theme, no topic, and no simile, But busy men have stolen in praise of thee. Then let thy cumbrous critics keep their shelves ; We find thy truest comment in ourselves. In thee our thoughts find uttei'ance, and combine Their airy substance with those thoughts of thine. By thee our feelings all are judged, acquitted, Reproved, condemn'd, with seemly action fitted. What chance, or change, affection, or the faith Of hope and fear, the benison or scathe Of Fortune infinite can make of man, — What man has been since first the world began, Thou well hast shown. One task alone remains. One great adventure for succeeding brains ; :294 The golden branch upon the mystic tree, Unpluck'd, to show — man as he ought to be. DRAYTON. Hail to thee, Michael ! true, pains-taking wight. So various that 'tis hard to praise thee right ; For driest fact and finest faery fable Employ 'd thy genius indefatigable. What bard more zealous of our England's glory, More deeply versed in all her antique story, Recorded feat, tradition quaint and hoary ? What muse like thine so patiently would plod From shire to shire in pilgrim sandal shod, Calling to life and voice, and conscious will. The shifting streamlet and the sluggish hill ? Great genealogist of earth and water, The very Plutarch of insensate matter. •^9[ DONNE. — » — Rrief was the reign of pure poetic truth ; A race of thinkers next, with rhymes uncouth, And fancies fashion'd in laborious brains. Made verses heavy as o'erloaded wains. Love was their theme, but love that dwelt in stones, Or charm'd the stars in their concentric zones ; Love that did erst the nuptial rites conclude "Twixt immaterial form and matter rude ; Love that was riddled, sphered, transacted, spelt. Sublimed, projected, everything but felt. Or if in age, in ordei's, or the cholic. They damn'd all loving as a heathen frolic; They changed their topic, but in style the same, Adored their maker as they wooed their dame. Thus Donne, not first, but greatest of the line. Of stubborn thoughts a garland thought to twine ; To his fair Maid brought cabalistic posies. And sung quaint ditties of metempsychosis ; " Twists iron pokers into true love-knots," Coining hard words, not found in polyglots. 296 DANIEL. Not such was Daniel, gentle, bland, and good, The wisest monitor of womanhood ; Plain morals utter'd in plain mother tongue, And flat historic facts he plainly sung. And yet by earnest faith bestow'd a grace On bald event and ancient common-place. The oldest truths to him were always new ; No wonder, for he always felt them true. The bootless battles of the red and white. Which few can read, he patiently could write. MILTON, 297 DRYDEN. Then Dryden came, a mind of giant mould, Like the north wind, impetuous, keen, and cold ; Born to effect what Waller but essay 'd, In rank and file his numbers he array 'd. Compact as troops exact in battle's trade. Firm by restraint, and regularly strong. His vigorous lines resistless march along, By martial music order'd and inspired, Like glowing wheels by their own motion fired. So as a nation long inured to arms. And stirring strains, fierce pleasures, brisk alarms, Disdains a calm, and can no longer bear A soft, a pensive, or a solemn air ; Thus Dryden taught the English to despise The simply sweet, long-lingering melodies That lovely Spenser and his thoughtful peers Had warbled erst to rapt attentive ears. 5i'en Milton's billowy ocean of high sound, Delighted little, though it might astound ; The restless crowd impatient turn'd away, And sought a shorter, shriller, lighter lay 29(S " DRTDEN. Yet Dryclen nobly earn'd the poet's name, And won new honours from the gift of fame. His life was long, and when his head was grey, His fortune broken, and usurp'd his bay. His dauntless genius own'd no cold dismay ; Nor in repining notes of vain regret He made his crack'd pipe pitifully fret. But when cashier'd and laid upon the shelf, To shame the court exceU'd his former self. Who meant to clip, but imp'd bis moulted wings, And cured his ancient itch of flattering kings. He sat gigantic on the shore of time, And watch'd the ingress of encroaching slime, Nor dream 'd how much of evil or of good Might work amid the far unfathom'd flood. 299 DRYDEN'S SUCCESSORS. Sad were the times in Dryden's latter day, He saw all genius but his own decay ; Poor Otway starved, and Lee in misery dead. The laurel torn from his own hoary head, Like a frail father, he was doom'd to trace His vices only in his spurious race ; For many a rhymer claim'd him for a sire, With all his soot and less than half his fire. Their boast to reconcile — a vain pretence — The old antipathy of wit and sense. To write in rhyme as men might talk in prose. And win the frigid praise of critic beaux. But though their general theme was worldly man, Small was their skill the living heart to scan ; Their fancy little and the wisdom less. No inward truth their flippant lines express ; No image to the inward eye convey, Keveal no secret impulse to the day. Action or passion there were seldom found. Or the sweet magic of heart-stirring sound 300 'PARNELL. Smooth was their verse indeed; their turns were nice, Quick, neat, exact, as if they moved on ice ; They skimm'd the surface of the chilly town, And sought from courts and clubs a brief renown. PARNELL. A GENTLE wit was pure, polite Parnell, By many praised, for many loved him well. His muse glides on " with gentle swimming walk,' And e'en while singing only seems to talk. In fact she is an English gentlewoman, Whom no one would believe a thing uncommon. Till, by experience taught, we find how rare Such truly English gentlewomen are. 301 SWIFT. First in the list behold the caustic Dean, Whose muse was like himself compact of spleen Whose sport was ireful, and his laugh severe. His very kindness cutting, cold, austere. YOUNG AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES. Tis sad to think, of all the names that strive For immortality, how few survive ; How many leave preferment's open ways, Smit with the love of hard-eam'd, barren praise, Defying poverty, and worldly shame, And self-reproach, to win the puff of fame ; Unhappy breathe, and unregarded rot. First starved to death, and soon as dead forgot. Eternal laurels shall the bust entwine Of Young at once a poet and divine. 309 YOUNG AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES. And Gray, while Windsor's antique towers shall stand. Or spring revisit Britain's favour 'd land ; While those old bards whose praise he sung so well Shall keep their place in memory's haunted cell ; While the green churchyard and the hallow'd tower Attract your steps at eve's soft, solemn hour ; As long as men can read, and boys recite. As long as critics sneer, and bards endite. And lavish lords shall print their jingling stuff, Mid ample margin, leaving verge enough ; So long shall Gray, and all he said and sung. Tang the shrill accents of the school-girl's tongue ; So long his Ode, his Elegy, and Bard, By lisping prodigies be drawl'd and marr'd. For LiTTELTON, he gain'd the name of poet ; But, made a lord, might easily forego it. West tried to soar on Pindar's ample pinion, And bring his strains beneath our king's dominion. All praise to him for what he well intended ; Of his success least said is soonest mended. Moore, Cawthorne, Cunningham, and Brown and Green, Not much remember'd nor forgotten clean, YOUNG AND HIS CONTEMPOEARIES. 303 Of Britain's poets swell the lengthy list, Scarce mark'd if present, nor if absent miss"d. BoYCE, sad example of the poet's lot. His faults remember'd and his verse forgot. From cold contempt a morsel doom'd to crave, And owe to public charity a grave. In want's worst miseries ran his woeful race, And all his fame was but proclaim'd disgrace. Peace to his dust, and may his spirit soar Where mortal frailty shall beset no more ; Where want shall never tempt to deeds of shame. And Heaven's pui'e light shall cleanse the tainted name ! Chuechill, by want and rage impell'd to write. Whose muse was auger, and whose genius spite, With satire meant to stab, and not to heal, The morbid, bloated, feverish commonweal ; Too proud to yield to humble virtue's rule. Smote half the world with reckless ridicule. Wit, honour, sense, to him did Heaven impart, But not that last, best gift, a pious heart. He blazed awhile in fortune, fame, and pride. But unrespected lived, untimely died. But gentler Goldsmith, whom no man could hate. 304 YOUNG AND HIS CONTEMPOIiARTES. Beloved of Heaven, pursued by wayward fate, Whose verse shall live in every British mind, Though svveet, yet strong ; though nervous, yet refined ; — A motley part he play'd in life's gay scene, The dupe of vanity and wayward spleen ; Aping the world, a strange fantastic elf ; Great, generous, noble, when he was himself. Gbainger possess 'd a true poetic vein, But why waste numbers on a Sugar-cane ? Say, Doctor, why, since those who only need Thy blank instructions, sure will never read? CooPEK essay 'd a vein to England new. To be the poet of refined virtu. His muse, half French, half English, trips away, A nymph presentable, though rather gay. Brought up at Paris, and not half at ease Where British morals hold their strict decrees. But ill the gentleman supports his claim To Gresset's wit or old Anacreou's name. Smollett and Armstrong, both of Psean's band, Compatriot offspring of a thoughtful land, A land severe, whose mettle yet unbroke Toils in the team, and yet disdains the yoke. YOUNG AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES. 305 In mind Athenian, but in spirit still The land of Wallace wight, and Christie's Will.* Such then was Scotland, nor could learning, art. Or finest genius quite subdue that heart. So neither keenest sense nor soundest morals Could keep her brightest sons from needless quarrels. And oft 't would seem her literary men Reluctant changed the claymore for the pen. Scots were they both by temper as by birth. And both were racy of their native earth ; But pensive Armstrong, though he heir'd a name For bloody deeds of old bequeath 'd to fame, On Liddal's banks renown'd and sands of Drife, Was yet almost too indolent for strife. And little of the Scot was in him seen, Save now and then a passing fit of spleen. And sure the man of whom our Thomson sung (Thomson a Scot in nothing but his tongue) In such a gentle strain of kind reproof. As could be dictated by nought but love, Could not be other than a kindly soul. Who oft forgot the doctor o'er a bowl ; And when he spied the humming, sparkling cream Of bright champagne, or snuff'd of punch the steam. Even as a poet would forget his theme, ' See Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. iii., \). 105. Second Edition. VOL. II. X 306 YOUNG ANT) UIS CONTEMPORARIES. Yet in his graver mood he lectured well On ills which haply oft himself hefell. And with small practice, but with some small wealth, He turn'd to stately verse the Art of Health ; And justly earn'd a lofty place among The masters of the blank didactic song. Correct his judgment, he knew where to stop, And smells by no means often of the shop. Yea, though a learn'd disciple of St. Luke, He never once alludes to purge or puke ; Nor with hard words of most portentous omen Describes the thorax, pelvis, or abdomen, Nor winds his numbers thro' the duodenum, Nor of the small guts sings, or tells you how to clean 'em. 307 WILKIE, DODSLEY, &c. WiLKiE, the Scottish Homer, so 'tis said ; I will uot censure what I never read. Had Homer been a chiel of merry Tweeddale, And had his trumpet been an old Scotch fiddle, His Pegasus a shuffling Shetland pad, Homer had wrote the Epigoniad. Good DoDSLEY, honest, bustling, heartj- soul, A footman, verse-man, prose-man, bibliopole ; A menial first beneath a lady's roof, Then Mercury to guttling Dartineuf, His humble education soon complete. He learnt good things to write, good things to eat. Then boldly ventured on the buskin'd stage, And show'd how toys may help to make us sage : Nay, dared to bite the great with satire's tooth. And made a Miller tell his King the truth. In tragic strain he told Cleone's woes, The touching sorrows and the madd'ning throes n08 WILK^E, DODSLEY, ETC. Of a fond mother and a faithful wife. He -wrote " The Economy of Human Life." For flights didactic then his lyre he strung, Made rhymes on Preaching, and blank verse on Dung; Anon with soaring weaiy, much at his ease, Wrote Epigrams, and Compliments, and Kisses. All styles he tried, the tragic, comic, lyric, The grave didactic and the keen satii'ic ; Now preach 'd and taught as sober as a dominie, Now went pindaric-mad about Melpomene ; Now tried the pastoral pipe and oaten stop, Yet all the while neglected not his shop. Fair be his fame, among a knavish clan His noblest title was an honest man. A bookseller, he robb'd no bard of pelf. No bard he libell'd, though a bard himself. Far other fate was thine, unhappy Kit,* Luckless adventurer in the trade of wit. A bitter cup was oiler'd to thy lip, Drugg'd with the wants and woes of authorship. Untimely thrust upon this mortal stage. No childish pastime could thy thoughts engage. Books were thy playmates. In a happy dream Thy hours unmark'd would glide along the stream • Christopher Smart, bom April 11, 1722; died May 21. 1773. WILEIE, DODSLEY, ETC. 309 Of fancies numberless, and sweet, and fair ; Link'd like the notes of some voluptuous air. For ever varying as the hues that deck With changeful loveliness the ring-dove's neck. Still rising, flitting, melting, blending. For ever passing, and yet never ending. Sweet life were this, if life might pass away Like the soft numbers of a warbled lay ; Were man not doom'd to carefulness and toil, A magic lamp with unconsuming oil. Truth is a lesson of another school, And duty sways us with a stricter rule. The stream of life awhile that smoothest flows, 'Ere long is hurried down the steep of woes. Or, lost in swamps of penury and shame. Leaves the foul vapour of a tainted name. Like fate, or worse, poor Cuthbekt,* made thy life A woful monument to thy dead wife. With her of virtue and of hope bereft, Thou and thy passions in the world wert left. True, thou hast sweetly mourn 'd thy youthful bride, But well it were if thou with her hadst died. For Langhoene, Reverend let him still continue, Although his mind had very little sinew. » Cuthbert Shaw, born 1738 or 1739; died September 1, 1771. 310 WILKIE, DODSLET, ETC. 'Twas his to ape our reverend ancient lays With mincing prettiness of modern phrase. As some fine ladies mimic in their dress The simple finery of a shepherdess ; And shape their silks and muslins to the cut That decks the dwellers of the mud-built hut. SONNETS AND OTHER SHORT POEMS SCRIPTURAL AND RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS. It was the intention of the Author to have published a series of Sonnets and other short Poems, exchisively on Scriptural subjects, as a Christmas present. The greater part of the pieces in the jiresent collection were written with this design, (which, as explained in the Memou', was never executed,) about ten or twelve years before his death. To these are now added several others, of an expressly religious character, but in which the personality of the author is less concealed. The beautiful sonnet which I have placed at the close of the series, was wiitten in a fi-ieud's house in the year 184S; the last of his mortal life. Rcspice finem. 313 THE BIBLE. How very good is God ! that he hath taught To every Christian that can hear and see Both what he is and what he ought to be, And how and why the saints of old have fought. Whate'er of truth the antique sages sought, And could but guess of his benign decree. Is given to Faith affectionate and free, Not wrung by force of self-confounding thought. How many generations had gone by 'Twixt suffering Job and boding Malachi ! 'Twixt Malachi and Paul — how mute a pause ! Is the book finish 'd ? May not God once more Send forth a prophet to proclaim his laws In holy words not framed by human lore ? 314 THE LITUEGY. Oft as I hear the Apostolic voice Speaking to God, I blame my heart so cold That with those words, so good, so pure, and old, Cannot repent nor hope, far less rejoice. Yet am I glad, that not the vagrant choice, Chance child of impulse, timid, or too bold. The volume of the heart may dare unfold With figured rhetoric, or unmeaning noise. Praying for all in those appointed phrases, Like a vast river, from a thousand fountains, Swoll'u "with the waters of the lakes and mountains. The pastor bears along the prayers and praises Of many souls in channel well defined, Yet leaves no drop of prayer or praise behind. 315 THE JUST SHALL LIVE BY FAITH. ' ' The just shall live by faith," — and why? That faith By which they live is all that makes them just, The sole antagonist to the inborn lust And malice that subjects them to the death Which Adam earn'd, Cain, Abel suifer'd, Seth Bequeath "d to all his progeny ; who must Suffer the primal doom of dust to dust. And for uncertain respite hold their breath. Think not the faith by which the just shall live Is a dead creed, a map correct of heaven, Far less a feeling fond and fugitive, A thoughtless gift, withdrawn as soon as given. It is an aflSrmation and an act That bids eternal truth be present fact. 316 BELIEVE AND PRAY. Believe and pray. Who can believe and pray Shall never fail nor falter, though the fate Of his abode, or geniture, or date. With charms beguile or threats obstruct his way. For free is faith and potent to obey. And love content in patient prayer to wait, Like the poor cripple at the Beautiful Gate, Shall be relieved on some miraculous day. Lord, I believe ! — Lord, help mine unbelief ! If I could pray, I know that thou would'st hear ; Well were it though my faith were only grief, And I could pray but with a contrite tear. But none can pray whose wish is not thy will. And none believe who are not with thee still. 31' EDEN.* No revelation hath -withdrawn the veil That God hath deigned to cast o'er Eden's bowers. How many generations of sweet flowers Young Eve beheld, before the Serpent's trail Through the long alleys winded fraught with bale, No tongue hath told, no wit of man divined : — The blessed twain, the sole of human kind Dreamed not that love or life could ever fail. But Eden was an isle by God exempted From sin or stain, a spot of special grace ; Age upon age, ere mother Eve was tempted, Heaped world on world and bony race on race : — What was it all to Adam or his wife ? 'Tis from their day of sin we date their life. * See Memoir. 318 SETH. Sad was the Mother of Mankind to see The sad fulfilment of the primitive curse ; The gentle babe she was so fond to nurse, Her duteous Abel, that would clasp her knee, So meekly heark'ning to the history' Of the sweet hours his parents pass'd, before They learn'd of good and ill the fatal lore, Or pluck'd the fruit of that forbidden tree. — What is he now ? A helpless lump of earth ! Nay, thou poor Mother, do not so distrust The Lord, that raised thy husband from the dust, For he shall give to thee another birth, A holy babe, whose seed shall save his brother. And give back Abel to their common Mother. 319 ENOCH. — • — He walk'd with God, and like the breath of prayer, His earthly substance melted all away : So much he loved the Lord, his mortal clay Abolish'd quite, or blent with pervious air, Soft as a rainbow, mix'd with things that were And are not. Surely God did love him well. And he loved God so much, he could not dwell Where God was not. The world was blank and bare ; He was most wretched, for he could not love. But the good Lord took fhy on his woe : For woe it is, with all the heart above, To walk a heartless corpse on earth below. He faded from the earth, and was unseen ; A thou"ht of God was all that he had been. 320 ABRAHAM. When Abram was a boy tlie years were long, As ours might be, did we for every hour Extract the good and realise the power, And train the notes to everlasting song. And Abram was a comely youth, and strong, And nimbly 'mid the silky reeds he trod. When he resolved — " the Lord shall be my God, And knew the only God can do no wrong. Had he not felt that God is God alone, As holy, as almighty, and all-seeing, — Foul were his sin, that would with blood atone, And court the favour of unselfish Being. But long experience taught him God was true, And could the life he took by grace renew. 321 HAGAR. — ♦ — Lone in the wilderness, her child and she, Sits the dark beauty, and her fierce-eyed boy ; A heavy burden, and no winsome toy To such as her, a hanging babe must be. A slave without a master — wild, not free, With anger in her heart I and in her face Shame for foul wrong and undeserved disgrace. Poor Hagar mourns her lost virginity ! Poor woman, fear not — God is everywhere ; Thy silent tears, thy thirsty infants moan. Are known to Him, whose never-absent care Still wakes to make all hearts and souls his own He sends an angel from beneath his throne To cheer the outcast in the desert bare 322 ISAAC AND REBEKAH. The child of promise, spared b}- God's command. He grew and ripeu'd, till bis noon of life, As days were then, deserved and claim'd a wife ; But she must be no toj' of faithless land ; So the good stewaixl o'er the thirsty sand His prescient camels follows to the well, Where the sweet daughter of old Bethuel Supplies his need with white and courteous hand. And oh ! what meeter than a maid so fair To be the answer to that good man's prayer? And then how sweetly did the Spirit move her, Without a word of maidenly delay. Or coy petition for a farewell day, To quit her home, and seek an unseen lover I 523 LEAH. Most patient of all women, unbeloved, Yet ever toiling for thy husband's grace, Methiuks I see thee, with thy downcast face, Pondering on tasks that should not be reproved. For seven long years their tents were not removed, And Leali work'd for Jacob all the while, And yet she hardly got a sullen smile, — So good a wife, and mother duly proved. Yet sore it must have been to see her mate Rising at morn to work, and working late, And know he work'd so hard to get another ; And yet she bore it all, in hope to be, What her sweet offspring was, by God's decree. The better Eve, the second Adam's mother. Y 1 324 MOSES IN THE BULRUSHES. Shp: left her babe, and went away to weep, And listen'd oft to hear if he did cry ; But the great river sang his lullaby, And unseen angels fann'd his balmy sleep, — And yet his innocence itself might keep. The sacred silence of his slumb'rous smile Makes peace in all the monster-breeding Nile ; For God e'en now is moving in the sweep Of mighty waters. Little dreams the maid. The royal maid, that comes to woo the wave With her smooth limbs beneath the trembling shade Of silver-chaliced lotus, what a child Her freak of pity is ordain 'd to save ! How terrible the thing that looks so mild I October 6, 1830. 3-25 OX A PICTURE OF JEPHTHAH AND HIS DAUGHTER. BY STRDZZI. IN THE POSSESSION OF J. BRANCKEK, ESQ. I. 'Tis true the painter's hand can but arrest The moment that m Nature never stays, But fleets impatient of the baffled gaze. Yet if that single moment be the best Of many years, commission'd to attest The excellence, whose beauty ne'er decays, Let not the mute art lack a rightful praise, That shows tlie lovely ever loveliest : And thou, sweet maid ! for ever keep that look : Thou never hadst so sweet a look till now. Read in thy father's face, as in a book. Thy virgin doom, the irrevocable vow. Well were it if thy father ne'er had shook Away the doubt that hangs upon his brow. 326 IN CONTINUATION. II. What if the angry God hath made thy arm Di'ead as the tlimaderholt or solid fire, Or pest ohedient to his vengeful ire, Think'st thou thy oath was like a wizard's charm, Or hadst thou need, with proffer'd hlood, to farm Jehovah's might ? It proves thy faith unsure, Thy creed idolatrous, thy heart impure ; Thy god a greedy traflScker in harm, Not Israel's hope. But she, thy daughter, mild. Whose eager love and over-hasty greeting. Has made thee murderer of thy blameless child, Loves not the less for that unhappy meeting ; — Guiltless she dies, to save thee from the guilt Which must be thine, though her pure blood be spilt. 3iJ7 RUTH. — * — Maxy and fierce the battles that the sons Of Jacob fought for their predestined land, And often for their wives and little ones With blood they stain'd the wilderness of sand A tale of bloodshed is their history, And to all Christian hearts a mystery. Rut in the bleakest wild is sometimes seen A grove of palms beside an oozy spring ; There way-worn pilgrims bless the spot of green. And the weak bird lets drop her weary wing ; Such, in the wild and waste of Bible truth. Is the sweet storv of the faithful llutli. 328 KIZPAH. Blood will have blood. Here is a grievous pest, And Gibeon craves tbe blood of guilty Saul. And what can David do ? He gives not all — One he reserves, to death resigns the rest. Poor Rizpah, mother of a brood unbless'd, Must see Anioni and Mephibosheth For Israels life to ignominious death. Because their sire so fatally transgress 'd, Consign 'd tho' guiltless. She, sad mother, staid On her stern seat of sackcloth day by day, And, like a statue, scared the fowls away, 'Till genial rain the thirst of earth allay d. Patient in grief, she won the historic Spirit, To make immortal mention of her merit. 329 SOLOMON. Then Salomon sat on tlie thvoiie as king ; So had his sire appointed : — great and least, Hebrew and Stranger, warrior chief and pi-iest, With one glad shout make air, earth, rock to ring. Ah ! sons of Abraham, is it sucli a thing Tiiat yoiu- old monarcli is so nigh deceased '? And ye must blow your horns, as if the feast Of tlie ripe harvest and the hopeful spring Fell on one day. Tis well the old man dies. The sweetest string in all the lioly lyre Cracks when the old man heaves his latest sighs, And wilh his breath the highest tones expire. Ten thousand minstrels play for Solomon — What are they all, if David be not one ? 330 ELIJAH. — * — A LiiTLE cake he ask'd for, that was all ; And that she gave — 'twas all she had to give To the poor hungry Prophet fugitive ; Not knowing quite, she yet believed the call. And she was blest. Within her cottage wall. By day the Prophet prays, at night he lies, Whose prayer and presence daily multiplies The meal and cruse that, let what will befal. Shall still suffice for each successive day. She gave a little, and he gave enough. And taught us how to use the passive stuff That earth affords, — to give and still to pray. Hope be the Prophet, and the cruse Content ! Where Hope abides the cruse shall ne'er be spent. 331 EZRA, III., n— 13. Hark I what a shout I Alas I it sounds but tliin, Though the sad remnant like one man unite, And the lorn widow brings her widow's mite. Few are the tribes, and feeble is their din. Subdued with memory of ancestral sin, Opprest with conscience of a guilty fear And faint distrust, and hope but half sincere. That asks the end before they well begin The lioly renovation. Drear the tone Of joyous hymns in trembling accents piped ; And faces stain 'd with seltish tears uuwiped. Til emulate the upturn'd look that shone In God's own light, what time the Cherubim Made the first Temple's gilded glory dim. 332 CHRISTMAS. Now the day of joy is come, Let's be joyful all and some ; We were waked to life By the thrilling life, And the dub-a-dub of the rumbling drum. Through the twists and the turns of the winding horn The news is loud sounded — The Mighty is born ! The Mighty to conquer — the Mighty to save ! Here's a health to all friends on the land or the wave I But she that bare Him, where was she At this high time of jollity ? Virgin mother — Virgin bride, With her Baby by her side ; There she lies on musty straw, In crazy stall, by many a flaw Of many a winter, drill "d and holed. Weak, and comfortless, and cold ; CHRISTMAS. :333 With no sister, and no mother. None of woraankind to soothe her. Only he, ordain'd to wed, And never take her to his bed. Yet her husband and defender. Watches nigh to cheer and tend her. Mary — mother undefiled, She smiles and weeps on her mysterious Child. Not of her unheard, I guess. When her mother's pains were blending With the mother's blessedness. Hymn of angels, low descending, Tlirough tlie abysmal depth of sky — Peace be to men on earth, glory to God on high. She lifted up her thankful eyes, Yet all her thanks were sobs and sighs ; And ever with a pensive gi'ace She gazes on her Baby's face ; And ever and anon she sighs. And weeps awhile, and then she prays, And looks upon her Bal)e witli downcast gaze, As if she knew the wee thing by her side Must be despised, and spit upon, and crucified I 334 _ CHRISTMAS. Watching shepherds have had warning Of the sweet and gracious morning ; They leave their lambs upon the sod, And come to see the Lamb of God. The Baby smiles — He cannot speak, For He is as mute and weak As any other sou of man ; — He smiles, and tliat is all He can. For He in heaven has left behind All that could mark him from mankind, And years shall pass before the hour Tliat He shall first display creative power. But, lowly shepherds, unto you 'tis given To see what God did ne'er before disclose, A wonder to the sagest thrones in Heaven — Your Lord Himself, disguised in swaddling clothes. What angels could not guess before 'twas done — The secret lies asleep with that sweet little one. Lowly shepherds, haste away, Ye have done whate'er ye could ; Y"e can only praise and pray. Seek your flocks beside the wood ; — Beside the wood, and on the glimmering plain : Lord f^rant ve have not seen vour Lord in vain I CHRISTMAS. 335 And now the Babe sits upright on her knee. Calm is the mother, as a humble soul Is ever calm when it receives a dole Of grace, that makes it more devout and free. But there has been a star, That hath summon'd from afar. Even from the farthest East, from burning realms, Which oft the sandy tempest overwhelms, — From tribes tliat haply have survived the wreck Of ancient knowledge, whom Melchisedech Led eastward ever towards the Suns nativity. Up steep Himaus" height and down his sharp declivity, — Three venerable men, Most reverend all, as aged men should be ; But who they were abides beyond the ken Of Time-defeating History. Three men there were, with frankincense and myrrh. Knelt before Mary and entreated her. For her sweet Infant "s sake — for all That he might be, and. men might holy call. To take their gold and frankincense and myrrh. The maiden smiled, the Baby smiled likewise ; Vet there was somethin'^ in his mien and eves, 336 , CUPJSTMAS. That said — I take it as the gift of love : Ye seek to please an infant with a toy. So go your ways. Back to your spicy grove ; But Christ is not, for aye, a baby boy : I do not love your incense or your gold, Like the sweet welcome from the shepherds' fold. But since that maiden mother, meek. Within a little, little week. Such strange adventures had to bear. So fearful strange, — she did not dare To ask of God, or her own heart What holy truth they might impart : And since the tears were still in Mary's eyes Till her blest Son received her in the skies, — Let not the heart, whose sorrow cannot call This Christmas merry, slight the festival : Let us be merry that may merry be, But let us not forget that many mourn ; The smiling Baby came to give us glee. But for the weepers was the Saviour born. 337 SIMEON. In the huge temple, deck'd by Herod's pride, Who fain would bribe a God he ne'er believed. Kneels a meek woman, that hath once conceived, Tho' she was never like an earthly bride. And yet the stainless would be purified, And wash away the stain that yet was none. And for the birth of her immaculate Son With the stern rigour of the law complied : The duty paid received its due reward When Simeon bless'd the Baby on her arm ; And though he plainly told her that a sword Must pierce her soul, she felt no weak alarm. For that for which a Prophet thank'd the Lord Once to have seen, could never end in harm. 338 JESUS PRAYma. LUKE VI. 12. He sought the mountain and the loneliest height, For He would meet his Father all alone, And there, with many a tear and many a groan. He strove in prayer throughout the long, long night. Why need He pray, who held by filial right. O'er all the world alike of thought and sense. The fullness of his Sire's omnipotence ? Why crave in prayer what was his own by might ? Vain is the question, — Christ was man in deed. And being man, his duty was to pray. The Son of God confess'd the human need. And doubtless ask'd a blessing every day. Nor ceases yet for sinful man to plead, Nor will, till heaven and earth shall pass away. 339 BUT JESUS SLEPT. " But Jesus slept." The inland sea was wild, And the good son of Mary was asleep, , For sleep He did, an infant meek and mild, When fain He would, and fain He would not weep ; As peevish, fond, as any other child. Close to the Virgin breast He long'd to creep. And feel the warmth of mother undefiled. And now the Shepherd of the chosen sheep. Doth He not watch ? Oh, vain and faithless quest ! He slept a man, — but, lo ! He wakes our God ! What man is this, at whose almighty nod The wuids are still, and every wave at rest ? Tis He whose seeming sleep approves our faith, But ever wakes to save us from the death. z 2 340 SUNDAY. ——* — Thou blessed day ! I will not call thee last. Nor Sabbath, — last nor first of all the seven. But a calm slip of intervening heaven, Between the uncertain future and the past ; As in a stormy night, amid the blast. Comes ever and anon a truce on high, And a calm lake of pure and starry sky Peers through the mountainous depth of clouds amass'd. Sweet day of prayer ! e'en they whose scrupulous dread Will call no other day, as others do, Might call thee Sunday without fear or blame ; For thy bright morn deliver'd from the dead Our Sun of Life, and will for aye renew To faithful souls the import of thy name. 341 IN CONTINUATION The ancient Sabbath was an end, — a pause, — A stillness of the world ; tlie work v.'as done I But ours commemorates a work begun. Why, then, subject the new to antique laws'? The ancient Sabbath closed the week, because The world was finish'd. Ours proclaims the sun, Its glorious saint, alert its course to run. Vanguard of days ! escaped the baffled jaws Of slumberous dark and death, — so fitly first Is Sunday ranked before the secular days ; Unmeetly clad in weeds, with arms reversed, To trail in sullen thought by silent ways. Like the fresh dawn, or rose-bud newly burst, So let our Sabbath wear the face of praise ! 342 THE SOUL. Is not the body more than meat ? The soul Is something greater than the food it needs. Prayers, sacraments, and charitable deeds, They realise the hours that onward roll Their endless way " to kindle or control." Our acts and words are but the pregnant needs Of future being, when the flowers and weeds, Local and temporal, in the vast whole Shall live eternal. Nothing ever dies ! The shortest smile that flits across a face, Which lovely grief hath made her dwelling-place Lasts longer than the earth or visible skies ! It is an act of God, whose acts are truth, And vernal still in everlasting youth. 843 PRAYER. Be not afraid to pray — to pray is right. Pray, if thou canst, with hope ; but ever pray, Though hope be weak, or sick with long delay ; Pray in the darkness, if there be no light. Far is the time, remote from human sight, When war and discord on the earth shall cease ; Yet every prayer for universal peace Avails the blessed time to expedite. Whate'er is good to wish, ask that of Heaven, Though it be what thou canst not hope to see : Pray to be perfect, though material leaven Forbid the Spirit so on earth to be ; But if for any wish thou darest not pray. Then pray to God to cast that wish away. 344 PRIVILEGES. Good is it to be born in Christian land, Within the hearing of sweet Sabbath bells, To con our letters in the book that tells How God vouchsafed His creatures to command. How once He led His chosen by the hand, Presenting to their young and opening sense Such pictures of His dread Omnipotence, As all could see, though none might understand. Oh ! good, it is to dwell with Christian folk, Where even the blind may see, the deaf may hear. The words that Paul hath wrote, that Jesus spoke. By book or preacher shown to eye or ear, Where Gospel truth is rife as song of birds — " Familiar in our ears as household words." 345 FAITH— HOW GUARDED. Yes, thou dost well, to arm thy tender mind With all that learning, and stern common sense Living hath spoke, or dying left hehind ; To hlank the frowardness of pert pretence With long experience of a mighty mind. That, daring to explore the truth immense, Subsided in a faithful reverence Of the best Catholic hope of human kind. Yes, thou dost well to build a fence about Thine inward faith, and mount a stalwart guard Of answers, to oppose invading doubt. All aids are needful, for the strife is hard ; But still be sure the truth within to cherish, — Truths long besieged too oft of hunger perish. 346 STAY WHEEE THOU ART. Stay where thou art, thou canst not better be, For thou art pure and noble as thou'rt sweet, And thy firm faith still -working, will complete A loveW picture of the Deity. For tis in thee, mild maid, and such as thee. Whose goodness would make any features fair, I find the faith that bids me not despair, But know there is a Saviour even for me. May God in mercy from thy knowledge hide All but the path in which thou art advancing. For evil things there are, on either side, Dark flames on one, like antic demons dancing, And on the left a desert waste and wide. Where is no star, no chart, no compass, and no guide. 347 PSALM XCI. V. 1. " He that tlwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty." Where is that secret place of the Most High ? Aud who is He ? Where shall we look for Him That dwelleth there ? Between the cherubim, That o'er the seat of grace, with constant eye. And outspread wing, brood everlastingly ? Or shall we seek that deeper meaning dim, And as we may, walk, flutter, soar, and swim, From deep to deep of the void, fathomless sky ? Oh ! seek not there the secret of the Lord In what hath been, or what may never be ; But seek the shadow of the mystic word — The shadow of a truth thou canst not see : There build thy nest, and, like a nestling bird, Find all thy safety in thy secresy. 348 ISAIAH XLVI. V. 9. When I consider all the things that were, And count them upwards from the general flood, The tricks of fraud, and violent deeds of blood. Weigh down the heart with sullen, dull despair. I well believe that Satan, Prince of Air, Torments to ill the pleasurable feeling ; But ever and anon a breeze of healing Proclaims that God is always everywhere. 'Twas hard to see Him in the times of old, And harder still to see our God to-day ; For prayer is slack, and love, alas ! is cold, And Faith a wanderer, weak and wide astray : Who hath the faith, the courage, to behold God in the judgments that have pass'd away ? 349 THE CHURCH. Oh ! do not think I slight, or scorn, or hate The zeal wherewith ye view the strong and vast Dominion of the Church in ages past, And giant splendour of her huge estate ; For in her outward semblance she was great. — A mighty mansion, fit to entertain All nations, whom the mountain or the plain, Or Nature, in the length of time, could generate. Ye wish, I know, we could as one unite. And have a Church as ample as the sky. Whence every Church might draw its whole of light, And not divide, but only multiply. Good is your purpose ; but, ye English youth. Are ye quite sure that this is perfect truth ? 350 RELIGIOUS DIFFERENCES. Yea. we do differ, differ still we must, For language is the type of tliougbt, and thought The slave of sense ; and sense is only fraught With cheques and tokens taken upon trust. Not for their worth but promise. Earth is all One mighty parable of Hell and Heaven. The portion we can read at best is small ; Tis little that we know, and if befal That faith do wander, like the restless raven. That rather chose without an aim to roam O'er the blank world of waters, tlian to seek In the one sacred ark, a duteous home, May good be with it ! Yet the bird so meek, The missive dove, that ne"er begrudged her pain, But duly to the ark returu'd again, And brought at last the promise and the pledge Of peace, hath won a dearer privilege, — RELIGIOUS DIFFERENCES. 351. To be of birds the most beloved of maids, — To be the emblem and security Of mother's love and wedded puiity ! And see the mystic dove that sinks and fades In unreflected light on Jordan river, Upon the Mighty Sin Forgiver ! Sweet dove, sweet image of the faith that rests All doubts, all questions past, Tn babe-like love at last. With that dear Babe divine, between the N'irgin's breasts. Yes, we do differ when we most agree, For words are not the same to you and me. And it may be our several spiritual needs Are best supplied by seeming diffei-ent creeds. And differing, we agi-ee in one Inseparable communion, If the true life be in our hearts — the faith. Which not to want is death ; To want is penance ; to desire Is purgatorial fire ; To hope, is paradise ; and to believe Is all of Heaven that earth can e'er receive. 352 WYTHEBUEN CHAPEL AND HOSTEL. Here, traveller, pause and think, and duly think What happy, holy thoughts may heavenward rise, Whilst thou and thy good steed together drink Beneath this little portion of the skies. See ! on one side, a humble house of prayer. Where Silence dwells, a maid immaculate, Save when the Sabbath and the priest are there. And some few hungrv souls for manna wait. Humble it is and meek and very low, And speaks its purpose by a single bell ; But God Himself, and He alone, can know If spiry temples please Him half so well. WYTHEBURN CHAPEL AND HOSTEL. <35IJ Then see the world, the world in its best guise, Inviting thee its bounties to partake ; Dear is the Sign's old time-discolour 'd dyes, To weary trudger by the long black lake. And pity 'tis that other studded door, That looks so rusty right across the way, Stands not always as was the use of yore. That whoso passes may step in and pray. 354 ON THE CONSECRATION OF A SMALL CHAPEL. I. There was a little spot of level ground, For many an age unmark'd by casual eyes, Bleak hills afar and sinuous banks around, And terraced gardens, graduate mound on mound, With every season's sweet variety. And there uprose an house devote to God, As lowly as befits a house of prayer ; Yet large enough to sanctify the sod. The heaving earth that may conceal a clod. Which human love may wish to treasure there. Lord ! methinks to give this spot to Thee Did hardly need an act of consecration : 1 deem the pile no wilful novelty, But a good purpose — old as Thy creation. 355 THE SAME SUBJECT CONTIXUED. ir. And yet I deem we rightly may rejoice When the cliief shepherd of the many flocks, That wait the high call of his pastoral voice On sunny lawns or yellow pastures choice, Or crop the turf beneath the sheltering rocks, Comes to unite this lone and sever'd fold, That feed so gently on their native flowers, With the blest sheep that bled in days of old. Oh ! should we not be thankful to behold Our shepherd chief in such a fold as ours ? Now may the Sabbath utterance of the dell, With all the churches, make a mighty one. And with the minster organ's gorgeous swell The simple psalm combine in unison. 356 THE DESERTED CHURCH. Aftkk long travail on my pilgrimage, I sat me down beside an aged heap, For so it seem'd, with one square shatter 'd keep, Pensively frowning on the wrecks of age. The river there, as at its latest stage. Sinks in the verdure of its Sunday sleep. And sings an under-song for them that weep O'er the sad blots in life's too open page. I look'd within, but all within was cold I The walls were mapp'd with isles of dusky damp, The long stalls look'd irreverently old, The rush-strewn aisle was like a wither'd swamp. And mark'd with loitering foot's unholy tramp; The chancel floor lay thick with sluggish mould. Hark ! do you hear the dull unfrequent knell. Survivor sad of many a merry peal. Whose Sabbath music wont to make us feel Our spirits mounting with its joyous swell. That scaled the height, that sunk into the dell ? THE DESERTED CHURCH. 357 Now lonely, lowly swinging to and fro, It warns a scatter 'd flock e'en yet to go, And take a sip of the deserted well. And, dost thou hear? — then, hearing, long endure. The Gospel sounds not now so loud and bold As once it did. Some lie in sleep secure, And many faint because their love is cold ; But never doubt that God may still be found, Long as one bell sends forth a Gospel sound ! . 358 THE WORD OF GOD. In holy books we read how God hath spoken To holy men in many different ways ; But hath the present work'd no sign or token ? Is God quite silent in these latter days ? And hath our heavenly Sire departed quite. And left His poor babes in this world alone, x\nd only left for blind belief — not sight — Some quaint old riddles in a tongue unknown '? Oh ! think it not, sweet maid ! God comes to us With every day, with every star that rises ; In every moment dwells the Righteous, And starts upon the soul in sweet surprises. The word were but a blank, a hollow sound, If He that spake it were not speaking still, — If all the light and all the shade around Were aught but issues of Almighty will. A GRACE. 359 Sweet girl, believe that every bird that sings, And every flower that stars the elastic sod, And every thought the happy summer brings To thy pure spirit, is a word of God. A GRACE. Sweetest Lord ! that wert so blest On thy sweetest mother's breast. Give to every new-born baby Food that needs — as good as may be. Jesus ! Lord, who long obey'd The sainted sire, the Mother Maid, Teach my young heart to submit, — Deign thyself to govern it. Babe, and boy, and youth, and man, All make up the mighty plan ; And these the Saviour sanctified, For He was all — and then He died. Whate'er He gives us we may take. But still receive it for His sake. 360 A GRACE. But might the prayer within my breast Make others blest, as I am blest ; And might my joy in thanking Thee Make for all hungry souls a plea ; Then would I praise and Thee adore, And ever thank Thee, more and more Rejoicing, if Thou would'st but bless Thy creatures for my thankfulness. 361 "MULTUM DILEXIT." She sat and wept beside His feet ; the weight Of sin oppi'ess'd her heart ; for all the blame, And the poor malice of the worldly shame, To her was past, extinct, and out of date, Only the sin remain'd, — the leprous state ; She would be melted by the heat of love, By fires far fiercer than are blown to prove And purge the silver ore adulterate. She sat and wept, and with her untress'd hair Still wiped the feet she was so blest to touch ; And He wiped off the soiling of despair From her sweet soul, because she loved so much. I am a sinner, full of doubts and fears. Make me a humble thing of love and tears. NOTES BY THE EDITOE. Sonnet I. The first sketch of this sonnet was sent by the Autlior in a letter to his mother, when it had been proposed to him to write an Essay on his fatlier's life and genius. Sonnet X, page 12, lines 3, 4. Aliter — And tinged by time like patch of snow in ISIay In hollow cove for winter' left to uait. Sonnet XIII, page 15. This sonnet, with that ou Freedom, page 4 J), are variations, and, as the Editor thinks, improvements upon those bearing the same name in the first volume, — if, indeed, they be not the original sketches. Sonnet XIV, page 16. On this sonnet the author observes: "It was written in haste, and contains little more than a general hint, or perhaps a few turns of phrase." 364 Sonnet XXIII, page 25. The last six lines of this sonnet are thus expressed in what appears to be the first copy : — Far otherwise the creed of her that made This brief memorial of two noble lives. Though she sustained the penalty of wives Unwisely wedded, woe did not degrade Her faith in good which cannot be achieved, Yet surely is, because it is believed. Another variation is as follows : — The simple woman that hath written here This brief memorial of her parents dear Confutes a doctrine that she never knew ; A good not found by keen anatom)', Nor decomposed by fiery chemistry, By force of mere believing she makes true. Sonnet XXXII, page 34. Aliter — Once thou wast fair — God knows how long ago ; Yet some there are to whom thy fixed idea. Even now is fresh as sea-born Cytherea. The waves of time, still ebbing as they flow, Behind them leave the quiet tints that glow On each successive billow. Years on years, Nor all varieties of mirth and tears, Cau make hearts ignorant of what they know. Once thou wert fair, and still art fair to me ; Though fifty summers faded since we met. Thy timid glance I cease not yet to see, And thy young voice I never can forget. Though all the world should say that thou art old, To me thou still art young — thy true self I behold. 365 Sonnet XL, jjuge 43. A liter — I saw thee, Edward, when thy baby cries Sounded in mother's ears a swift alarm : I saw thee cradled on thy father's arm, When he, with many smiles and many sighs. Guessed in the gleamings of thy infant eyes, The infant feelings not matured to thought, And ail the strife of must and will and ought, Doomed to untwist thy tangled destinies. I see thee now a far-experienced man. That can dispute the axioms of my mouth, With knowledge netted in the Afric South. And thou hast learned with foreign eye to scan Old England's faults; — and yet thy heart is still. Quick and responsive to the mountain rill. Ambleside, Octobers, 1840. Sonnet XLIU, page 45, line 5. And every bird t\\t pusMny (sic) woods among, Sonnet XLIV, page 47. Aliter — Sweet lady, thou art come to us again: Old Loughrigg still is on his wonted seat ; Still on the springy mound the young lambs bleat ; The wee birds chirp as if to see thee fain. Then why should I, no Philomel, complain ? Yet can I but lament for what must be, The untimely death of many a noble tree. Would that religion of old times were ours, (In that one article, not all the others) Which those brave shepherds held, who reared tlie towers, Nigh the moist cradle of the foundling Brothers, The faith that did in awe and love instal For many an age the Fig-Tree Ruminal. 366 NOTES. Page 88. Tlie Anemone. The last line of this beautiful poem was probably written My lovely, lone, and last Anemone. Page 130. To Margaret, on her first birthday. The ninth and eleventh lines of this sonnet should have been punctuated as follows : — Merely she is with God, and God with her ; And her meek ignorance, guiltless of demur For her is faith and hope. Page 152. Why is t/iere war on earth ? The conclusion is thus varied in another — perhaps an earlier copy : — We have escaped from Egypt, but we lack — We lack, or heed not, the prophetic voice Which Israel had, but would not always hear. Hence from the corse of vanquished tyranny Spring armed hosts, all eager to be slaves. Crying for liberty, but meaning nought Save naked power, unclad with reverend form, Unsanctified by faith, by love uubalmed. Page 319. Mnoch. A liter — He walked witli God, and like the breath of prayer His earthly substance melted quite away : So much he loved the Lord, his mortal clay Was changed to living light, and blent with air 367 Sort as a rainbow, joined the spirits that were On the first day, who sang the primal morn. Weary and joyless Enoch's brief sojourn Where God is hid. In all the world so fair Nought could lie find that he could love for love, Till the good Lord took pity on his woe ; For woe it is with all the heart above A heartless corse to tread the earth below. He faded from the earth, and was unseen : A thought of God was all that he had been. Page 327, line 10. Ruth. A liter — The swift-foot ostrich stills its flightless wing. The above variations arc believed to be for the most part earlier than the corresponding readings in the printed text. It is not often that an alteration is introduced into a poem, however it may improve the phraseology, without some violence to the delicate logic of feeling. Where any doubt of this kind was entertained, the Editor has considered it a matter of curiosity, if not of justice, to give the reader the opportunity of com])arisou. LONSOX: SU KVAS». PKINTKllS, WlllTKPRIARS %1JJ:. '^^Ht / This booh is DUE on the last date stamped below 1 '> 1*4^ NOV RiAH l ' T!EC'D Mf 23200J D %u 'f^ otc: JflNlU981 \JQ cm ITMC DM RcniniiiAi I iDD.'.RY I AA 000 974 1 01 8