'i:iii!i;i;;;);i( 3 '^ '-^ POETIC VIGILS. BY BERNARD BARTON. " Dear night ! this world's defeat ; The stop to busie fools; cares' check and curb: The day of Spirits ; my soul's calm retreat Which none disturb !" Henry Vaitghan's Silex Scintillaiii- LONDON : PRINTED FOR BALDWIN, CRADOCK, AND JOY, PATERNOSTER-ROW. 1824. A LONDON : PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS. I I TO THE MEMORY OP JOHN BARTON, THE FOLLOWING PACKS ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY HIS SON BERNARD. Had lengthen'il years been granted thee. Far more than this had been thy claim ; Yet grateful may his spirit be Who honours thus thy cherish'd Name. £l^GLiSH PREFATORY SONNET. The springs of Life are failing, one by one. And Age, with quicken'd step, is drawing nigh ; Yet would I heave no discontented sigh, Since cause for cold ingratitude is none. If slower through my veins life's tide may run, The heart's young fountains are not wholly dry ; Though evening clouds shadow my noontide sky. Night cannot quench the Spirit's inward sun ! Once more, then, ere the eternal bourn be pass'd. Would I my lyre's rude melody essay : And, while amid the chords my fingers stray. Should Fancy sigh—" these strains may he its last !' Yet shall not this my mind with gloom o'ercast. If my day's work be finish'd with the day ! PEEFACE. The Author had hoped that the preceding Sonnet would have spared his Readers and him- self any further prefatory matter : but, to save himself from the imputation of intentional pla- giarism in one particular Poem, it seems desirable to observe that the Piece entitled " Pity for poor little Sweeps" was written some months prior to the pubhcation of the painfully interesting Volume lately edited on their behalf; and that, at the time of writing it, the Author had not seen a line of Poetry on the subject. On the Title he has adopted, the Author could also wish briefly to remark, that it was chosen viii PREFACE. 1 athcr in default of any better presenting itself, than for its peculiar appropriateness. It is not a very easy matter to find an unaffected, un- hackneyed designation for a Volume of Miscella- neous Verses: and the contents of these pages have, at least, this claim to the Title given them, that they are the production of hours snatched from recreation or repose. WOODBRIDGE, 5th Mo. 25th, 1824. CONTENTS. Page Morning and Evening . . • • 1 A Poet's Thanks . . . . . 5 To Charlotte . • . • -10 Verses on the Death of Helen M — M— . . .14 Man's Long Home . • • .18 An Ode to Time . . . • • '^ 1 Stanzas to a Young Friend . . . .31 To a youthful Pupil in the School of Adversity . • 33 Sonnet to Elia . . . • . . 35 The Abbot turned Anchorite . • . . 36 Sonnet on leaving Leiston Abbey . • .40 The Butterfly . . . . • -41 To Louisa . ... .46 To the Memory of Edwin Price . . . . 50 To the Evening Primrose • . . -57 Verses to the Memory of Bloomfield . • . 59 Faith and Scepticism . . ■ • . 65 Leiston Abbey by Bloonlight . .66 X CONTENTS. Page Landgiiard Fort • . . . . 69 Heath Musings . . • . . 74 The Heart's Motto . • • • • 77 Stanzas to a clerical Friend . . . .80 From the Italian of Lorenzo de' Medici . . .82 Bishop Hubert ... . .84 Sonnet . . • • . . 88 On a Portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence . . 89 To the Orwell . • . . . . 91 A \A'inter Landscape . . . .95 EUen's Dirge . . . . . 97 To a Sprig of Mignonette gathered in Winter . . 99 Dives and Lazarus . . • . .101 A Memorial of John Woolman . . . . 1 06 The Poet's Lot . . . • .111 Lines written in the first Leaf of a Friend's Album .118 To Switzerland . . . . . . 120 Flowers .... . . 122 To James Montgomery . . . . . 132 A Thought . . ... .137 To Nathan Drake, M.D. . . . . 138 On the Alienation of Friends in the Decline of Life . 141 Verses to the Memory of a young Friend . .149 To Robert Southey . . . . .132 A Day in Autumn . . . . . 153 Pity for poor little Sweeps . . . .184 Hymn ... ... 189 The Maniac . . . . . . 192 Winter Evenings . . . . .195 CONTENTS. XI Page Sonnet to Patience . . . . 198 Prayer for Gospel-light . . . .199 Written in Sickness . . . . . 203 A Poet's noblest Theme . ... 205 Temporals and Spirituals . . . .210 A 3Iemorial of James Nayler . . . .213 To Death . . . . . . 2G0 Woman ..... . 224 The Mourner's Hope ... . . 229 A Relique of Napoleon . . . .231 Night Musings ...... 237 A IVIemorial of Mary Dyer . . . . 240 Ive-Gill ... ... 242 To my Home Circle ... . . 246 A Commentary on a Line of Salvator Rosa . .247 To my Carlisle Cousins . . . . 249 Stanzas composed in the Library at Benhall Rectory . 25 1 Recollections of a Visit to Cambridge . . . 253 To a nameless Friend . . . . .257 Verses on the Approach of Spring . ... 260 To tlie River Deben . . . .263 'I'o the Owl . . . . . . 266 Izaak Walton .... . 270 To a young Lady nursing a sick Child . . . 273 A Poet to his Candle ..... 275 To a Friend in Sickness . . . .277 Translation from the French . ... 280 Disappointment . . . . .282 Simplicity and Humility .... 286 + + Xll CONTENTS. 1 Page Violets . . . . . . 288 Sabbath Days . . . • . '2^0 Sonnet . . • • . . 291 To my Daughter . . . . .292 Home ........ 294 A Spring Thought . . . . .297 Bealings House . ; . . . . 298 To an old Disciple ..... 299 A last Memorial . . . . • 302 MORNING AND EVENING. How beautiful is morn ! When day-light, newly born. From the bright portals of the east is breaking ; While songs of joy resound From countless warblers round. To light and life from silent slumber waking. The parting clouds unfold Their edges ting'd with gold ; Bright is the summit of the lofty mountain ; The glist'ning tops of trees, Touch'd by the rustling breeze, Are bright and tuneful as the Muses' fountain. B 2 MORNING AND EVENING. As upward mounts the sun. The valleys, one by one. Ope their recesses to the living splendour ; The mighty ocean's breast Heaves upward to be blest, And bids its waves reflected liglit surrender. Each humble flower lifts up Its dewy bell or cup. Smiling through tears that know no tinge of sadness ; The insect tribes come out, And^ fluttering all about. Fill the fresli air with gentle sounds of gladness. Oh ! who can witness this. Nor feel tlie throb of bliss With which creation's ev'ry pulse seems beating ? Or who, 'mid such a store Of rapture flowing o'er. The tribute of the heart forbear repeating ? Yet have I known an hour Of more subduing power Tiian this of beauty glowing — music gushing ; — An hour whose quiet calm Diflfus'd an holier balm. Whose watch-word "Peace, be still!" the inmost heart was hushing. MORNING AND EVENING. It is the close of day. When evening's hues array The western sky in all their radiant lustre ; When round the setting sun, His goal of glory won. Resplendent clouds in silent beauty muster. 'Tis when day's parting light, Dazzling no more the sight. Its chastened glory to the eye is granting, That " thoughts too deep for tears," Unearthly hopes and fears, And voiceless feelings in the heart are panting. While thus the western sky Delights the gazing eye. With thrilling beauty, touching, and endearing ;- What still of earth is fair Borrows its beauty there. Though every borrow'd charm is disappearing. Ere yet those charms grow dim. Creation's vesper hymn. Grateful and lovely, is from earth ascending ; 'Till, with that song of praise, The hearts of those who gaze ^Vith solemn feelings of delight are blending. b2 4 MORNING AND EVENING. Then from those portals bright A farewell gleam of light Breaks with unearthly glory on the vision ; And through the folding doors The eye of thought explores Seraphic forms, and phantasies elysian. These pass like thought away ! Yet may their haUow'd sway Rest on the heart, — as dew-drops round adorning The drooping, silent flowers. Feed them through night's dark hours, And keep them fresh and living till the morning. Thus should the sun-set hour. With soul- absorbing power. Nurse by its glories the immortal spirit ; And plume its wings for flight To realms of cloudless light, Regions its God hath form'd it to inherit. "O' Fair, bright, and sweet is JMorn ! When day-light, newly born, In all its beauty is to sense appealing ; Yet Eve to me is fraught With more unearthly ihoughl, And purer touches of immortal feeling ! A POET'S THANKS. Nay ! let not sorrow cloud thy brow. Nor thus in thought repine. Because thou see'st my vigour bow. My drooping health decline ; This heart is yet in love unchill'd. My spirit is as free. My feelings still as fondly thrill'd. Whene'er I turn to thee. I know, although thou speak' st them not. The thoughts which fill thy mind ; Thou think'st thy minstrel's earthly lot Unworthily assign'd : Could wish of thine that lot dictate. Much brighter it would be ; Yet far from cheerless is his fate Who finds a friend like thee. f) A poet's thanks. I own I should rejoice to share What poorest peasants do: To breathe heaven's heart-reviving air, And hail its vault of blue ; To see great Nature's soul awake In flow'rct, bush, and tree. And childliood's early joys partake In quiet haunts with thee. Yet more, far more, 't would soothe my soul With thee, dear friend, to stray Where ocean's murmuring billows roll In some secluded bay ; The silent cliffs, the speaking main. The breezes blomng free. These could not look, speak, breathe in vain, If felt and shared with thee. But though such luxuries as these Remain to us unknown. We from our scanty store may seize Some joys of tend'rest tone : — Proudest Prosperity had brought No purer bliss to me, Than bleak Adversity has caught In darkest hours from thee. A POET S THANKS. Had fortune on our prospects smil'd, And sunshine round us flung. Had flowers alone our path beguil'd, Where many a thorn has sprung, — That thornless path, those sun-bright skies, Though lovely they might be. Could ne'er have taught my heart to prize What most I prize in thee. The bird whose soft and plaintive song Is heard alone at night. Whose note outvies the warbling throng That hail day's garish light, — The flower that spreads in wilds remote Its blossom to the bee, — These, these, the touching charms denote Which I discern in thee. Thy voice in care, in grief, in pain. Has been to me as dear As Nature OAvns that night-bird's strain In watches dark and drear ; What to the bee that flow'ret's bloom. Or sun-light to the sea,— All this and more, in hours of gloom. Have I oft found in thee. A POET S TUANKS. Wliile some, as every joy decreas'd. Their sympathy denied. Or like the Levile and the Priest, Pass'd on the other side ; INIy cares Thou didst not coldly scan. Nor from my sorrows flee ; The kind, the good Samaritan Was still a type of thee^ Though I may darkly pass away. As in the noon of life. And sink, by premature decay. From being's feverish strife ; Yet thou, at least, hast been a friend, A noble friend to me. Nor with my mortal life can end The tribute due to thee. Believe it not ! the love that gives To life its truest zest. The warm affection that outlives The sunshine of the breast ; — These, these are boons surpassing far. What bends the worldling's knee ; These, which the world can never mar, I owe, dear friend, to thee. A poet's thanks. 9 And should some fragments of my song. Which thy applause endears. Borne on the stream of time along. Survive to distant years; May such around thy cherish'd name A fadeless garland be. And with the Poet's purest fame Be twined his love for thee. 10 TO CHARLOTTE WITH VERSES ON THE DEATH OF HELEN. Dkar friend of her, whose early fate These simple lines rehearse, To thee I well may dedicate This tributary verse ; For in thy heart, with many a thrill, Our Helen's memory lingers still. Nor would'st thou willingly expel From such a heart as thine One whose remembrance bears a spell So gentle and benign. That sorrow for her sake appears Too sweet to call forth bitter tears. TO CHARLOTTE 11 True, griefs there are which seem to form Our Nature's heaviest doom ; — Which, like some dark and dreadful storm, O'ershade the mind with gloom ; And with the tempest's direful wrath, Leave devastation in their path. But others, as soft summer-showers, Descend upon the heart ; And to its most delightful flowers Fresh loveliness impart ; Awakening feelings not of earth, Which could not owe to joy their birth. 'Tis thus when loveliness and youth. Affections warm and high, — Feelings replete with guileless truth, All seem to bloom — and die ! While one brief, sunny hour is seen Their blight and blossoming between. It is a lot that well may touch Hearts by the world unsteel'd ; But O ! of blessedness how much Is in such lot reveal'd ! And spirits unto whom 'tis given Appear the favorites of Heaven. 12 TO CHARLOTTE How can we think, with grief, of hearts Young, innocent, and gay; Who shar'd each bliss that earth imparts. Nor saw that bliss decay;, — But, while e'en happiness was new, Unto a happier world withdrew ? Life's banquet unto such appear'd A scene that could not cloy ; And Pleasure's bowl, its dregs unfear'd, Th' Amreeta cup of joy ! Whence, having for one moment quaff' d. They grew immortal from the draught. If thus our Helen lived — and died, — Be her remembrance now With not one thought of gloom allied. To cloud affection's brow ; But let us think of her as one Whose memory not e'en Mirth would shun. When Life appears most truly sweet ; When Death itself is view'd As something we could bear to meet With smiling fortitude ; O then be every thought of her Joy's spell and Hope's interpreter ! TO CHARLOTTE . 13 Farewell ! and though in other eyes My song might worthless seem. Thy heart these simple lines may prize, Since Helen is their theme : — And I, with pride, would have it known That Charlotte's friend was once my own. 14 VERSES ON THE UlOA'ill OF UKLEN M M . Thekk seems no need of bitter tears For such an one as thou. And sorrow's fount, which once was sweet, Is seal'd unto me now ; Yet might I shed such tears as fall From childhood's guileless eye, Dear Helen ! o'er thy early grave My own would not be dry. But could I o'er that distant spot A transient mourner bend, I would not mourn with childish grief Thy life so soon should end. Reflecting what life is to most To whom 'tis longest given, I rather would rejoice in hopes That follow thee to Heaven. ON THE DEATH OP H. M M . 15 'Tis true that what thou yet hadst knowu Of being here beh)W Had shone so bright, it seem'd to bask In sunshine's sweetest glow ; For though some fleecy clouds might shade The kmdscape's lovely mien, Yet these, like Summer's morning-mists. But beautified the scene. And thou hadst to thy parents' arms Return'd from Albion's shore, And joy's anticipated cup To them seem'd running o'er ; And hearts were full, and hopes were lu'gh, With schemes of future bliss, Wliile filial and parental love Revived with every kiss. Such is the picture Fancy gives. With little magic aid ; Nor can its brightest, softest tints For ever sink in shade : — To thee that shadow now is past, And dark as may appear The cloud that veils thy parents' patli. Thy name must still be dear. 16 ON THE DEATH OF H. M M . ^V^hen spent the agony of grief, iMay this their solace be. That many fondly cherish'd hopes Had been fulfill'd in thee ! This thought may seem at first to feed The source of saddest tears, . But it may yield unearthly bliss In days of future years. 'Tis something to have held awhile A gem like thee in trust ; And though 'tis painful to resign Its casket to the dust, It must be soothing, still — to think What once has been their own, And that they have but given it up Unto its God alone ! For us, dear girl ! with whom were pass'd Thy childliood's fleeting liours. Who watch'd Avith pleasure and with pride Thy mind's unfolding powers ; Beneath whose glance, from grace to grace, Thy form in stature grew — For us to some few ling'ring hopes 'Tis hard to bid adieu ! ON THE DEATH OF H. M M . 17 Although we scarce might hope, on earth, To see thy smiles again. Yet some such tlioughts must still survive, Where life and love remain : — The first, with thee is closed ! the last — Shall still thy witness be ; Not e'en thy death can overcast The hours once spent with thee. But O ! amongst us there is one Whose hopes Avere so entwined With thee ; thy death scarce seems to leave An earthly joy behind : — Yet unto her — Religion yields Hopes more exalted still. Which, born of Faith, and fix'd on Heaven, God only can fulfil. 18 MAN'S LONG HOME. " Man goeth to his long home." There is a spot of earth Which mars the hour of mirtli, Knowing that there its merriment must cease ; But to the mourner's breast It whispers thoughts of rest. And seems tlie haven where he hopes for peace. It is the silent Grave ! From which no art can save The proud, the rich, the gay, the brave, the fair ; All, — all in turn must come To that appointed home, And wait the awful sound of the last trumpet there. man's long home. 19 The fearful thought of this May to the Worldling's bliss Be like tlie canker-worm that works unseen ; Those whoj like Dives, know Their good things here below. May wish Eternity what Time has been. But can they reason thus Who, with poor Lazarus, Find in this life its evil things their lot ? Who, with the morning light, And each returning night, 3Iourn for what is, and sigh for what is not ? These well may comprehend " The world is not their friend," Nor yet the sordid world's " unfeeling laAv:" — Then wherefore cling to life. When, from such hopeless strife. Death gives the welcome signal to withdraw ? What can existence give. To those who only live 3Ioments of sunshine in long years of shade ? And find alike in each A grief defying speech. The sickness of the heart from hope delay'd ? c2 20 man's long home. One hope for such remains ! When Death shall break the chains. That God may take them to his glorious rest, And through the vict'ry won By His Redeeming Son, Their souls may own Earth's hst long home — its best ! 21 AN ODE TO TIME. Spirit ! if I may call thee such, Beneath whose silent sway Structures, defying grosser touch, In fragments fall away : Essence, or shadoAV, whatsoe'er Thou art ; — with mingled hope and fear, I frame this votive lay : For feelings I can ill define With every thought of thee combine. 22 AN ODE TO TIME. I court no fabled INIuses' aid To scatter spells around ; For long before their presence made Parnassus classic ground. Thou from dark chaos' depths didst spring Elate — on thy expanded \ving, Which never since has found. In all the boundless realms of space. One moment's tranquil resting-place. " Let there be light !" — Jehovah said ; And with that fiat. Thou, Thy wings for instant flight outspread, Becam'st — what thou art now ! A viewless thing, whose very name Fancy's most daring flights may tame. And furrow Wisdom's brow : Given — and recall'd — with vital breath ; Thine entrance — Life ! thine exit — Death ! AN ODE TO TIME. 23 And yet that seeming death, which tells That we have done with thee ; And Thou no less with us ; — compels Our Spirits still to be ! That parting from thee does but seem Like launching from some shallow stream Into a soundless sea. Upon whose thought-o'erwhelming brink, Thy Cent'ries into Moments shrink ! But to that soundless, shoreless deep I now must bid adieu ! — Enough it is for me to keep IMy subject theme in view ; Far more of thought in Thee may dwell. Than even Poesy can tell, Or fancy can pursue : — For, short of Things Eternal, thine Must closest round our heart entwine. 24 AN OIJE TO TIME. Our human liopcs, our human fears. In thee and thine have birth ; And, by their varied smiles and tears. Evince thy present worth ; In truth, 'tis thy engrossing " Now" Which gives to every thoughtless brow Its fickle gloom or niirth : All Sense can feel, or hear, or see, While Sense endures — is found in Thee. What is the haughtiest despot's power Contrasted with thine own ? He sways his sceptre of an hour. And fills his transient throne : Thou sweep'st the empty pageant by ; — A moment — and to mortal eye His place no more is known ! And one brief line records his lot, " He was ! — and now on Earth is not !" AN ODE TO TIME. 25 The works of Man confess by turns Thy mute resistless sway ; Towers, temples, pyramids, and urns. Before thy touch decay. At Man's command they rose on earth ; Awhile they tell who gave them birth ; Then mingle with his clay ! And vague Tradition, in despair. Can but conjecture what they were. Nor less is Nature's every grace. Romantic, grand, and rude. As thou pursuest thy forward race, By thee destroy'd — reneAv'd : — Leaves bud, and fade ; flowers bloom, and die ; Suns rise, and set ; — by stars on high Their courses are pursued : — All seem, indeed, the same to be. Yet find incessant change in thee. 26 AN ODE TO TIME. Even the vast and wond'rous deep, Where navies come and go, Which, whether luli'd in dreamless sleep, Or foaming to and fro. Appears just what it was of yore ; — This, too, is changing evermore. With every ebb and flow ; And seeming to defy thy power. In essence varies every hour. But what avails it to recal, Or dwell on truths so trite ? — Vicissitude awaits on all. As day succeeds to night ; And nothing in Creation's range Escapes thy transmutations strange, Or robs thee of thy right : — Whilst thou, with cold unalter'd mien, Remain'st — what thou hast ever been. AN ODE TO TIME. 27 This annual offering at thy shrine May well thy power attest ; " Precept on precept, line on line," By thee are here imprest ! Man is, indeed, thy Chronicler, But thou thy varied Calendar Canst stiU interpret best ; And Contemplation must impart Its moral uses to the heart. Unto her pensive, musing eye Each feast or fast appears A fruitless effort to defy The silent lapse of years : — And yet some soothing thoughts are blent With such a transient monument ; And noblest hopes and fears By turns elate and awe the soul. As we thy records thus unrol. 28 AN ODE TO TIME. Such fears and hopes our hearts engage- In silence turning o'er Thy brief obituary page. Its annals to explore : — There, each succeeding year we find The exit of some mighty mind. Whose rich and varied store Fulfill'd the purposes of Heaven, For which its ample wealth was given. There too, perchance, are found enroU'd Some scarcely known to Fame ; Of whom, though little can be told The World's applause to claim, A brief inscription points the lot. And for a while keeps unforgot Their Being's end and aim ! " The single talent, well employ'd," Redeems them from oblivion's void. AN ODE TO TIME. 29 And though that respite may be brief, — Though these but seem to share The fate of Autumn's wither'd leaf. And pass— we know not where ! Yet, while their cherish'd memory lives. Fresh strength to other minds it gives Life's weary lot to bear ; Unveiling to the mental eye Hopes, feelings, thoughts, — which cannot die. But not to Man ; — his death or birth,- Nor aught by him design'd To be his monument on earth, Thy records are confin'd :— In them we trace the rise, the fall. The ever-restless change of all Mortality can bind ; — And whUe thy potent spell is shown. See Power more glorious than thy own. 30 AN ODE TO TIME. The power of Him, whose mighty one On sea and earth shall tread ; With face all radiant as the sun, A rainbow round his head ; Pillars of fire — his feet shall gleam ; Dark clouds of heaven — his vesture seem ; His voice— a sound of dread; While thunders echoing far away, Shall publish thy departing sway. Then the immutable decree, So long by Heaven deferr'd. Shall, in the destin'd close of Thee, Fulfil its solemn word : — Through boundless space, by thought .untrod, The DELEGATED VOICE OF GOD Shall awfully be heard, — Proclaiming, as foretold of yore, " The Myst'ry finish'd ! Time xo more !" 31 STANZAS TO A YOUNG FRIEND, FLOWER ON THE WAY-SIDE OP A YOUNG PILGRIM, WHO LOOKS FOR MANY THORNS, BUT WHO KNOWS THERE IS BALM IN GILEAD." No mortal hand can scatter flowers, To soothe or bless the mourner's way. But such as, cull'd from earthly bowers. Are found as briefly bright as they : For every blossom born of earth Is doom'd to wither from its birth. Yet even these — if fed by dew Which silently descends from heaven, — Indebted for each brighter hue. To Light its glorious Sun has given, — And freshen'd by its gentlest breeze, — Thus rear'd — e'en earthly flowers may please. + + 32 STANZAS TO A YOUNG FRIEND. I will not say, my youthful friend, That such may fitting emblems be Of aught that I have ever penn'd. Or now presume to offer thee : But as a bard, my highest bliss Were to approximate to this. To touch, to please, to win the heart, To calm and virtuous feelings prone, Not by mere rules of minstrel art. Or fancied genius of my own, — But by those holier charms, whose birth Is not of man, nor caught from earth- Yet were I gifted thus, — O how Could I thy path with flowers adorn, — When grief too often clouds my brow To find my own has many a thorn, Whose rankling wounds a pledge might 1)(' How little I could succour thee ? But " there is Balm in Gilead !" — There The Great Physician can be found, Whose Love and JMercy still prepare An antidote for every wound : — His hand can scatter flowers divine. And Faith in Him may make them thine ! 33 TO A YOUTHFUL PUPIL IN THE SCHOOL OP ADVERSITY. No chast'ning we may rest assured. While suffer'd— joyous seemeth ; And yet, if patiently endured. With heavenly fruit it teemeth. Peaceable fruits of righteousness, A prize beyond expression ! Of far more power the heart to bless. Than earth's most proud possession. Dear friend, if in life's early bloom Thy path seem darkly shaded By sorrow's clouds, beneath whose gloom Some brighter tints have faded — 34 TO A YOUTHFUL PUPIL. Still hope and trust in Him, whose love Can turn each pain to pleasure, And thou may'st find those clouds shall prove Replete with richest treasure. The rose, which in the sun's bright rays Might soon have droop'd and perish'd, With grateful scent the shower repays. By which its life is cherish'd. And thus have e'en the young in years Found Jiotvers within — that flourish. And yield that fragrance, fed by tears, Joy's sunshine could not nourish ! 35 SONNET TO ELIA. Delightful Author ! unto whom I owe Moments and moods of fancy and of feeling, Afresh to grateful memory now appealing. Fain would I "bless thee — ere I let thee so!" From month to month has the exhaustless flow Of thy original mind, its wealth revealing, With quaintest humour, and deep pathos healing The World's rude wounds, revived Life's early glo^\' : And, mixt with this, at times, to earnest thought Glimpses of truth, most simple and sublime By thy imagination have been brought Over my spirit. From the olden time Of authorship thy patent should be dated. And thou with INIarvell, Brown, and Burton mated. d2 36 THE ABBOT TURNED ANCHORITE. Under A. D. 1331, in Chronicon Butley, is the following pass- age. " John Grene, relinquishing his abbacie by choice, was consecrated an anchorite, at the Chapel of St. Mary ", in the old Monastery near the Sea." Beauties of England and Wales. A MOST impressive change it must, Methinks, to such an one have been, To abdicate the abbot's trust. And seek this solitary scene. It might not then seem so forlorn. As now this crumbling wreck appears ; But more within the common bourn Of human hopes, and human fears. • An interesting, though very humble relic of antiquity is still standing about a mile and a half nearer to the sea than tlie ruins of Leiston Abbey ; which for aught I know, being no Antiquarian, may be the remains of the Chapel of St. Mary. This idea, and the reflections to which it gave rise in some pleasing rambles on this solitary beach, induced me to attempt these verses. THE ABBOT TURNED ANCHORITE. 37 Yet to resign the ampler sway Of yon fair abbey's outstretch'd lauds. For this small cell, this silent bay. And barren beach of drifted sands :— Such a transition must suggest. Whether thou wert or not — sincere, To thought and feeling many a test. At once protracted and severe. It might be spleen, it might be pride. Or monkish bigotry's stern voice Which bade thee on this step decide ; — If so — who must not mourn thy choice .'' That choice might have a nobler source. And from far holier motives spring ; Which, bearing blessings in their course, Might prove a pleasing offering. Thou might'st have proved how little all Religion's outward pomp and power The soul from earth can disenthral. And fit it for its parting hour. 38 THE ABBOT TURNED ANCHORITE. And haviii"; thus been taug-ht to trace Snares in the path thy feet had trod ; Thou sought'st this solitary place, Here to " prepare to meet thy God !" I love to think it thus might be ; — For e'en the very thought appears To shed upon this spot, and thee, A charm my inmost soul reveres. P'or though the act which gave it birth, View'd in itself, I may not prize ; My spirit feels, and owns the worth Of self-devoting sacrifice ! I love to trace the latent good Which dwells in widely difF'rent creeds ; Which still, in thought's divinest mood. With every purer votary pleads. I love to think that while thine o^vn Held much by mine rejected, — still The " tried, the precious corner-stone" Of each — was brought from Calv'ry's Hii.h. THE ABBOT TURNED ANCHORITE. 39 Thine may a prouder dome ha:ve built, — An humbler tabernacle — ^mine ; To BOTH — the blood which there was spilt Alone could sanctify the shrine. 'Tis sootliing thus to feel, and think, jNIusing upon this spot, and thee ; And fancy on the grave's dread brink That such thy feelings, thoughts might be. That here, through many a lonely day. And many a solitary night. Thy life and converse might display The truly Christian anchorite. Thy matins — many a tuneful strain, From gladsome nature's feather'd throng ; The hoarser music of the main Thy still more solemn vesper-song. Thus fancy paints thy parting years. Their close — a calm, and hopeful scene ; And thee, bewail'd by peasants' tears, A Follower of the Nazarene ! 40 SONNET ON LEAVING LEISTON ABBEY. Farewell ! beloved asylum, for awhile : — I now must turn me to the world again ; And in the busier haunts of bustling men Pursue life's daily duties. — Rev'rend pile ! Although between us many a weary mile Must shortly intervene, yet may I, when I leave the scene which now inspires my pen. Bear with me thoughts that have no worldly guile. The CHAiNLESs SPIRIT Will at times elope. And visit scenes it prizes ; so may mine. In hours of lawful leisure, seek this shrine. To feed each purer feeling, nurse each hope Call'd forth in gentle musings here, to cope With things of earth, and soar to things divine ! 41 THE BUTTERFLY. Beautiful creature ! I have been Moments uncounted watching thee. Now flitting round the foliage green Of yonder dark, embow'ring tree ; And now again, in frolic glee, Hov'ring around those opening flowers, Happy as nature's child should be. Born to enjoy her loveliest bowers. And I have gazed upon thy flight. Till feelings I can scarce define, Awaken'd by so fair a sight. With desultory thoughts combine Not to induce me to repine. Or envy thee thy happiness; But from a lot so bright as thine To borrow musings born to bless. 42 THE BUTTERFI.Y. For unto him whose spirit reads Creation with a Christian's eye, Each happy living creature pleads The cause of Him who reigns on high ; Who spann'd the earth, and arch'd the sky, Gave life to every thing that lives, And still delighteth to supply With happiness the life He gives. This truth may boast but little worth, Enforced by rhet'ric's frigid powers ; — But when it has its quiet birth In contemplation's silent hours ; When Summer's brightly peopled bowers Bring home its teachings to the heart, Then birds and insects, shrubs and flowers Its touching eloquence impart. Then thou, delightful creature, who Wert yesterday a sightless worm, Becom'st a symbol fair and true Of hopes that own no mortal term ; In thy proud change we see the germ Of Man's sublimer destiny. While holiest oracles confirm The type of immortality ! THE BUTTKKFLY. A change more a;lorious far than thine, E'en I, thy fellow- worm, may know. When this exhausted frame of mine Down to its kindred dust shall go : When the anxiety and woe Of being's embryo state shall seem Like phantoms flitting to and fro In some confus'd and feverish dream. For thee, who flittest gaily now. With all thy nature asks — supplied, A few brief summer days, and thou No more amid these haunts shalt glide, As hope's fair herald — in thy pride The sylph-like genius of the scene, But, sunk in dark oblivion's tide, Shalt be — as thou hadst never been ! While Man's immortal part, when Time Shall set the chainless spirit free. May seek a brighter, happier clime Than Fancy e'er could feign for thee : Though bright her fairy bowers may be. Yet brief as bright their beauties fade. And sad Experience mourns to see Each gourd Hope trusted in — decay'd. 4:5 44 THE BUTTERFLY. But in those regions, calm and pure, To which our holiest wishes cling, Joys, that eternally endure. Shall bloom in everlasting Spring : There seraph harps, of golden string. Are vocal to the great I AM, And souls redeem'd their anthems sing Of grateful praises to The Lamb ! Shall they who here anticipate. Through Faith's strong vision, eagle-eyed. Those joys immortal that await Angelic spirits purified. Shall such, however deeply tried. E'er cast their glorious hopes away ? Oh ! be those hopes their heaven-ward guide. Their stedfast anchor, and their stay. Though many a flower that sweetly deck'd Life's early path, but bloom'd to fade ; Though sorrow, poverty, neglect — Now seem to wrap their souls in shade ; — Let these look upward, undismay'd. From thorny paths, in anguish trod To regions where — in light array'd. Still dwells their Saviour, and their God. THE BUTTERFLY. 45 Sport on then, lovely Summer fly, With whom began my votive strain : — Yet purer joys their hopes supply. Who, by Faith's alchemy, obtain Comfort in sorrow, bliss in pain. Freedom in bondage, light in gloom. Through earthly losses heavenly gain. And Life ibimortal through the tomb. 46 TO LOUISA I SAT beside thy couch of pain, I trust, with no unfeeling heart ; Yet seem'd more prompt— *w;j;jor/ to gain, Than consolation to impart. And it was grateful thus to feel (For thy sake, and my own no less) The mute, yet eloquent appeal Of unrepiuing cheerfulness I I felt how little Friendship's power. Or fond Affection's dearer voice Could lend— in many a lingering hour. To teach a Sufferer to rejoice. TO LOUISA 47 I thought how much more powerless still The idle tinkling of the lyre. Though Genius might combine with Skill To wake for thee its trembling wire. Thus thinking, with delight I saw And felt, if feeling — thought — were mine. That thou could' st consolation draw From a deep fountain more divine. E'en from that hidden, holier spring. Which, like Bethesda's healing wave. Owns the descending Angel's wing Ruffle its waters but to save ! The waters of that far fam'd pool Were, to the outward eye, as clear. And to the outward touch as cool. Before the Visitant drew near. But while untroubled, they possess'd No healing virtue ! — gentle friend. Is there no fount within the breast, To which an Angel may descend ? 48 TO LOUISA O'er which, with influence from on high, A spirit hovers, prompt to bless ; Whose presence, hid from mortal eye. The waken'd feelings oft confess ? Oh ! if thou hast, as I conceive. Known aught of this reveal'd within ; May strength be given thee to believe In the Great Sacrifice for Sin. In Him, now risen and thron'd above, Whose word the impotent made wliole ; Who is no less in boundless love The Great Physician of the Soul. Welcome, with humble joy His power ; By present suffering undeterr'd : — To know of Grace the healing dower, The Heart's deep fountain 7nust be stirr'd! While in unruffled calm it lies, Its mirror only can display — However beautiful their dyes. The forms of things that pass away. TO LOUISA . 41) Nor can it, in its natural rest. However pure to outward view. Be with that holier virtue blest. Which life and vigour can renew. But when its troubled waters own A Saviour's touch ; in every wave The healing power of Grace is known. And found omnipotent to save. A glimpse of glories far more bright Than earth can give — is mirror'd there ; And grateful love and cloudless light The presence of its God declare ! 50 TO THE MEMORY OF EDWIN PRICE, OF NEATH ABBEYj GLAMORGANSHIRE: WRITTEN AFTKlt PERUSING THE ACCOUNT OF HIS I.AST ILLNESS, AND DEATH. There needs no more ! it is enough To trace this sketch of thee ! The heart must be " of sterner stuff" Than poet's, sure, should be. Which this IMemorial fails to melt ;— Which has not deeply, fondly felt The truths it well may teach. How patient gentleness can prove The power of everlasting love. And silent suffering preach. TO THE MEMORY OP EDWIN PRICE. 51 Not lengtlien'd life, had life been given, Perchance had more avail'd To show to hearts, with anguish riven, A spirit meekly mail'd ; Mail'd — not in armour forg'd by pride Of human strength, but that supplied To humble prayer alone, The shield of Faith, the Spirit's sword. The presence of that Conq'ring Lord, Whose arm supports his own. The spirit of a Man may bear The minor ills of life. Yet well may shrink in dumb despair From Nature's closing strife ; — Except in that appalling hour. Redeeming Grace afford the power To bless, with parting breath. Him " who ascended up on high^. Who robb'd the grave of victory. And took its sting from death !" E 2 52 TO THE MEMORY OF EDWIN PniCE. Such lot was thine : — but not to thee. Or Man, the praise be given ; As such, on sorrow's billowy sea Thy bark had vainly striven ; Vain, vain had been the idle boast Of life more spotless far than most On earth below display; i^nd vain the confidence inspired By manners, feelings, tastes admired In thee — through Life's brief day. But these when sanctified by Him Who gave, who claim'd them all, Instead of growing dark or dim. At Death's resistless call, Display'd an influence more divine, And seem'd with added light to shine, As smiling at the gloom With which our Reason's vaunted might, Left to itself, would clothe in night The entrance to the tomb. TO THE MEMORY OF EDWIN PRICE. 53 In thee that straight and narrow way Awoke no fearful dread ; There Christian Hope's unclouded ray. There Mercy's hue was shed ; Thou saw'stj by holy Faith reveal'd, Him whose atoning blood repeal'd The law of Death and Sin ; — GiveUj through the Covenant of Life, From frail mortality's last strife Immortal bliss to win. Yet, ere that victory was obtain'd Which crowns the Christian race, By pureness, meekness, love unfeign'd. Was shown the gro^vth of Grace : — Before the glorious Crown was worn. By thee the Christian Cross was borne, Relinquish'd earth's pursuits, — And patience, gentleness, and prayer, Gave thee, while in the flesh, to bear The Spirit's genuine fruits. 54 TO THE MEMORY OF EDWIN PRICE. And cold indeed must be the heart Which owns not, nor can feel Of this brief record, void of art. The eloquent appeal ; — "Wlierein the lesson thus supplied Of natural feelings sanctified By hopes that soar'd above — Can give no aspiration force. Wake no desire to seek the Source Of all-absorbing Love. That Love with which thy heart o'erflo\\''d- Which, in the trying hour. On Nature's dearest ties bestow'd A purer, holier power ; Which gave thee strength to comfort those Who to the painful conflict's close Their part so well discharged ; AVhich in a servant own'd a friend. Proving how Earth's distinctions end In Souls by Heaven enlarged. TO THE MEMOKY OF EDWIN PRICE. 55 Well might thy pious parent own This spirit-touching sign. By which affinity was shown To heaven's pure law divine : — 'Tis as our spirits upward mount, 'Tis as our souls approach love's fount. Where fears no more appal. That thought and feeling, soul and sense, Own its baptizing influence. And God is all in all ! Think not the unknown bard who pays This tribute to thy worth. For thee, or for himself would raise One thought allied to earth: — What most he loves in thee — deriv'd Its light from heaven, and still surviv'd Death's transitory night ; Each thought, each feeling he would wake, Link'd with thy memory, should partake Its own immortal light. 56 TO THE MEMORY OP EDWIN PRICE. Even the tears afFcctiou brought To grace thine early bier. Could scarcely be with anguish fraught, But panglesS;, sweet, and clear ; And hearts most closely knit to thine. Though wounded, dared not to repine. Or heave one bitter sigh. When to Faith's ear The Spirit said Blessed for ever are the dead. Who in their Saviour oit ! 57 TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. Fair Flower, that shunn'st the glare of day. Yet lov'st to open, meekly bold, To evening's hues of sober grey Thy cup of paly gold ; — Be thine the offering, OAving long To thee, and to this pensive hour. Of one brief tributary song. Though transient as thy flower. I love to watch at silent eve Thy scatter'd blossoms' lonely light. And have my inmost heart receive The influence of that sight. 58 TO TUB EVENING PRIMROSE. I love at such an hour to mark Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill, And shine, mid shadows gathering dark, The garden's glory still. For such 'tis sweet to think the while. When cares and griefs the breast invade. Is friendship's animating smile In sorroAv's dark'ning shade. *» Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup Glist'ning amid its dewy tears. And bears the sinking spirit up Amid its chilling fears. 'B But still more animating far. If meek Religion's eye may trace Even in thy glimm'ring earth-born star The holier hope of Grace. The hope — that as thy beauteous bloom Expands to glad the close of day. So through the shadows of the tomb IVIay break forth Mercy's ray. 59 VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF BLOOMFIELD, THE SUFFOLK POET. Thou should'st not to the grave descend Unmourn'd, unhononr'd^ or unsung ; — Could harp of mine record thine end. For thee that rude harp should be strung, And plaintive sounds as ever rung Should all its simple notes employ, Lamenting unto old, and young. The Bard who sansr The Farmer's Boy. '& Did Eastern Anglia boast a lyre Like that which gave thee modest fame. How justly might its every wire Thy minstrel honours loud proclaim : And many a stream of humble name. And village-green, and common wild — Should witness tears that knew not shame. By Nature won for Nature's child. 60 VERSES TO THE The Harvest Home's rejoicing cup Sliould pause — when that sad note was heard ; The Widow turn iikk Hour-glass up. With tenderest feeling newly stirr'd ; And many a pity-waken'd word. And sighs that speak when language fails, Should prove thy simple strains prcfcrr'd To prouder poet's lofty tales. Circling the old oak table round. Whose moral worth thy measure owns. Heroes and heroines yet are found. Like Abner and the Widow Jones ; There Gilbert Meldrum's sterner tones In virtue's cause are bold and free ; And e'en the patient sufferer's moans. In pain, and sorrow — plead for thee. Nor thus beneath the straw roof 'd cot. Alone, should thouglits of thee pervade Hearts which confess thee unforgot On heathy hill, in grassy glade ; In many a spot by thee array'd With hues of thought, with fancy's gleam. Thy memory lives ! — in Euston's shade. By Barniiam Water's shadeless stream ! MEMORY OP BLOOMFIELD. 61 And long may guileless hearts preserve Thy memory and its tablets be : — While nature's healthful feelings nerve The arm of labour toiling free. While childliood's innocence and glee With green old age enjoyment share ; Richards and Kates shall tell of thee, Walters and Janes thy name declare. On themes like these, if yet there breath'd A Doric lay so sweet as thine. Might artless flowers of verse be wreath'd Around thy modest name to twine : And though nor lute nor lyre be mine To bid thy minstrel honours live. The praise my numbers can assign It still is soothing thus to give. There needs, in truth, no lofty lyre To yield thy muse her homage due ; The praise her loveliest charms inspire Should be as artless, simple too ; Her eulogist should keep in view Thy meek and unassuming worth. And inspiration should renew At springs which gave thine own its birth. 62 VERSES TO THE Those springs may boast no classic name To win the smile of letter'd pride. Yet is their noblest charm the same As that by Castaly supplied ; From Aganippe's crystal tide No brighter, fairer waves can start. Than nature's quiet teachings guide From feeling's fountain o'er the heart. 'Tis to THE HEART Song's noblest power — Taste's purest precepts must refer ; And Nature's tact, not Art's proud dower. Remains its best interpreter : lie who shall trust, without demur. What his own better feelings teach. Although unlearn'd, shall seldom err. But to the hearts of others reach. It is not quaint and local terms Besprinkled o'er thy rustic lay. Though well such dialect confirms Its power unletter'd minds to sway. It is not these that most display Thy sweetest charms, thy gentlest thrall, - Words, phrases, fashions, pass away. But Truth and Nature live throujjh all. MEMORY OF BLOOMFIELD. (J.'i These, these have given thy rustic lyre Its truest, and its tenderest spell ; These amid Britain's tuneful choir Shall give thy honour'd name to dwell : And when Death's shadowy curtain fell Upon thy toilsome earthly lot. With grateful joy thy heart might swell To feel that these reproach'd thee not. How wise, how noble was thy choice To be the bard of simple swains, — In all their pleasures to rejoice. And soothe with sympathy their pains"; To paint with feeling in thy strains The themes their thoughts and tongues discuss, And be, though free from classic chains. Our own more chaste Theocritus. For this should Suffolk proudly own Her grateful, and her lasting debt ; How much more proudly — had she known That pining care, and keen regret. Thoughts which the fever'd spirits fret, And slow disease, — 'twas thine to bear ; — And, ere thy sun of life was set. Had won her Poet's grateful prayer. 64 VERSES, ETC. 'Tis now TOO late ! the scene is clos'd. Thy conflicts borne, thy trials o'er ; And in the peaceful grave repos'd That frame which pain shall rack no more ! — Peace to the Bard whose artless store Was spread for nature's humblest child ; Whose song, well meet for peasant lore, Was lowly, simple, undefil'd. Yet long may guileless hearts preserve The memory of thy song and thee : — While nature's healthful feelings nerve The arm of labour toiling free. While Suffolk Peasantry may be Such as thy sweetest tales make known. By cottage-hearth, by green-wood tree, Be Bloomfield call'd with pride ihcu- oivn ! 65 FAITH AND SCEPTICISM, A SONNET, I SAW, in visions of still thought reveal'd. Two silent forms before me : both were fair. Yet oh ! how much unlike that voiceless pair. Except in outward beauty. One appeal'd To all, save hearts by pride or passion steel'd, With meek-eyed gentleness ; and seem'd t<» ^\ car JMixt with each human charm an heavenlier air, To which Humanity had wisely kneel'd. Beautiful was the other speechless shade. And call'd herself PhUosophy — but proud. Cold, statue-like, she look'd upon the crowd Who to the lovelier Spirit homage paid: — Her name was Scepticism ! that gentler Maid Was titled Faith by acclamations loud ! 66 LEISTON ABBEY, BY MOONLIGHT. liMPOSiNG must have been the sight. Ere desolation found thee. When morning's radiance, breaking bright, With new-born glories crown'd thee. When, rising from the neighb'ring deep, The eye of day survey'd thee, Arous'd thine inmates from their sleep. And in his beams array 'd thee. E'en now my fancy half recals That scene of long-past splendour. And sees thy proudly-sculptur'd walls Reflected light surrender. LEISTON ABBEY. 67 I see the bright sun's glorious rays Thine eastern oriel light'ning. Where saints and martyrs by its blaze In rainbow hues are bright'ning. Nor thus to fancy's eye alone Thine earlier glories glisten; — Her ear can dwell on many a tone To which 'tis sweet to listen. Methinks I hear the matin sonff From those proud arches pealing ; Now loud and clear, — now borne along On echo softly stealing. And yet, however grand the scene My thoughts have been pourtraying, To me more touching far, I ween. What now I am surveying. More touching, at this moonlight hour. Art thou in desolation. Than in thy once resplendent power Of earlier decoration. f2 68 LEISTON ABBEY. More softly beautiful, by far. Thy silent ruins, sleeping In silvery moonshine, — with that star Through yonder proud arch peeping. How lovely seems that wall-flower fringe. Which crests thy turrets hoary, Touch'd by the moonbeams with a tinge Of long-departed glory. How sweetly looks that fleecy cloud Upon you tall tower resting ; Contrasted with the ivy shroud Its lofty height investing. How spirit-soothing is the sound Of night-winds, softly sighing Through roofless walls and arches round,— And then in silence dying. Oh ! let thy charms be what they would. When first thy towers were planted, A nobler still, in thought's best mood. Is to thy ruins granted. 60 LANDGUARD FORT. Landguard Fort stands upon a point of land two miles from the Cliff at Felixstow, at the south-east corner of the county of Suf- folk ; and has the appearance, at high-water, of being surrounded by the sea. A pretty little vignette view of it is given in Raw's Pocket Book, for 1824. In boyhood it was mine, by chance, 'Mid thy embattled walls to stray; When all that met my eager glance Heighten'd a school-boy's holiday : The sun shone bright, the scene was gay, Array'd in Fancy's glowing hue ; And well the summer billows' play Suited the heaven's o'er-arching blue. If engines of destruction round A sadder thought, or sigh might raise. That transient feeling soon was drown'd. That shade dispell'd — by Glory's rays ; False Glory, whose delusive blaze Bewilders childhood's thoughtless eye. And makes it e'en with rapture gaze On what should wake its sympathy. 70 ^ANDGUARDTORT. Thus much that might awaken feeling Which now would qualify delight. Then only to the eye appealing But gratified my roving sight : Boy-like, I fancied then — how bright JMust gleam the banner of the brave. How the proud thunders of the fight Would echo o'er the buoyant wave. Then — had imagination rear'd Her airy edifice,— I ween Phantoms by chivalry endear'd Had beautified thy barren scene ; And on the marge of ocean green Thou wouldst have shone in feudal pride, While all thine inmates, too, had been With gallant deeds of arms allied. But should I seek thy fortress now — That Time, with his relentless hand. Has tam'd my thoughts, and touch'd my brow ;- These idle dreams, by Fancy plann'd. No more would decorate thy strand ; — They were but like the forms we trace At ebb of tide upon the sand. Which soon returning waves eflface. LANDGUARD FORT. 71 For it has been my lot to know. Since I thus idly look'd on thee. Full many an ebb, and many a flow Of Time's for ever restless sea. Whose morning sunshine used to be So beautifully bright of yore. Where now the mists of eve — to me. Seem slowly, darkly gath'ring o'er. But morning's beams were not more bright Than evening's mists may be serene ; Nor e'en their darkness should affright, If, while it sheds its shado^vy screen On busy Life's concluding scene. Some glimm'rings of eternal day Through parting clouds may intervene, To chase their sadder gloom away. This is the last, most glorious hope. And triumph of immortal mind; And he who gives its influence scope, Whate'er his lot on earth assign' d. Whether neglected by mankind, Or prais'd, — the idol of an hour. May, in his aspirations, find The meed of intellectual power ! 72 LANDGUARD FORT. That power is granted unto all By whom its genuine worth is known ; — And he who will not basely fall Before a worldly idol's throne, Shall meekly bear the coldness shown By Mammon's crew^ and Folly's crowd. And with his mind's true wealth his own. Be cheaply rich, and humbly proud. Nor, should I now revisit thee. The subject of this artless song. Could Fancy fail to furnish me From objects which to thee belong. Of soothing thoughts a countless throng. And some memorial of thee raise ; Yet seek no theme for verse among The memories of departed days. For thou beside the vast profound Of ocean, still maintain'st thy sway; Thou hast thy lonely burial-ground, Adorn'd with low stones, moss'd and grey. Whose brief inscriptions waste away Beneath the ocean-breeze's spell ; And there, beneath the moon's pale ray, Still walks the nightly centinel. LANDGUARD FORT. 73 On each, on all these passing themes A minstrel wreath might weU be won ; But Time, who heeds no Poet's dreams. Reminds me that my race is run ; — In thought I hear thy sun-set gun. Which tells the flight of parting day; And like that softly-setting sun. My minstrel vision fades away ! 74 HEATH MUSINGS; COMPOSED ON SUTTON WALKS. I LOVE upon a Summer's eve. The solitary heath to trace ; And let my feelings — thoughts receive The tone of its uncultur'd grace. »' To be the denizen, awhile, Of free-born Nature's sylvan reign. And feel her rudest charms beguile My bosom of its fev'rish pain. " Unknown, unplough'd, untrodden shore," As Campbell sang of scenes more wild, " For man's neglect I love thee more !" Thou by the world art undefil'd. HEATH MUSINGS. 7"^ Gain's breathless silence, prone to chill Each generous impulse of the heart. May vie not with the purer thrill Thy soothing solitudes impart. And Glory's din, howe'er elate Its most triumphant shouts may be. Can boast no music that may mate With melody supplied by thee. Thy stillness is the tranquil hush Of thoughts and feelings born of earth ; Thy harmony — the happy gush Of praise to Him who gave it birth. Well may the Bard delight to roam In such a meditative scene ; His canopy heaven's vaulted dome. His carpet earth's enamell'd green. His orchestra — the warbled lay Of many a viewless, happy bird. The bleat of lambs, the fitful bay Of shepherd's dog, at distance heard. 76 HEATH MUSINGS. Such are the sounds that greet mine ear ; Nor lacks the eye its own delight. For many a simple flower springs here. To feast the roving loit'rer's sight. Though these the florist might despise. Their native charms my homage claim ; Their graceful forms, and beauteous dies IMight rival those of prouder fame. In them I contemplate the lot Too oft by suff'ring genius known, To live unheeded, and forgot. And die neglected, and alone. Yet no ! — if thus may bloom and die. The soul-less tenant of the sod. Genius, immortal, builds on high Its purest hopes, and soars to God ! 77 THE HEART'S MOTTO. " FOKGET ME NOT *.'' Appealing language ! unto me How much thy words impart ; Most justly may they claim to be The Motto of the Heart ; Whose fondest feelings^ still the same^ Whate'er its earthly lot. Prefer alike this touching claim, And say " Forget me not !" The Soldier — who for glory dies. However bright may seem The fame he wins in others' eyes. Would own that fame a dream. Did he not hope its better part Would keep him unforgot ; — The chosen motto of his heart Is still — " Forget me not !" * Written for a 3Iiscellany, published annually by R. Acker- man, under the above title. 78 THE heart's motto. The Sailor — tost on stormy seas. Though far his bark may roam. Still hears a voice in every breeze That wakens thoughts of home : — He thinks upon his distant friends. His wife, his humble cot, And from his inmost heart ascends The prayer — " Forget me not !" The Sculptor — Painter, — while they trace On canvas, or in stone. Another's figure, form, or face. Our IMotto's spirit own ; Each thus would fondly leave behind His semblance, — and for what ? But that the thought which fills his mind Is this — " Forget me not !" The Poet, too, — who borne along In thought to distant time. Pours forth his inmost soul in song, Holds fast this hope sublime ; He would a glorious name bequeath Oblivion shall not blot ; And round that name his thoughts enwreath The words — " Forget me not !" THE heart's motto. 7^ Our Motto isj in truth, the voice Of Nature in the heart ; — For who from mortal life, by choice, Forgotten would depart ? Nor is the wish by Grace abhorr'd, Or counted as a spot ; Even the language of Our Lord Is stiU — " Forget me not !" Within the heart His Spirit speaks The words of truth divine ; And by its heavenly teaching seeks To make that heart His shrine : This is the " still, small voice," which all In city, or in grot. May hear, and live ! — its gentle call Is " Man, Forget me not !" m STANZAS TO A CLERICAL FRIEND, RESIDENT ON A REMOTE CURACY. A LONELY residence is thine, A solitary cure ; Yet there may Gospel graces shine. With lustre meek and pure. Well pleased am I to think thy choice Hath led to such a spot ; jNIay it be given thee to rejoice In thy secluded lot. The streamlet which through gardens flows May shine with added pride. Exulting in each flower that grows Upon its cultur'd side : STANZAS TO A CLERICAL FRIEND. 81 But more delightful, in my view. That brook whose hidden grace Gives Health's Avarm tinge, and Hope's fresh hue To some lone, desert place. Then bear thee up, my friend, as one Who knows of souls the cost ; No Christian duty left undone To seek and save the lost. So may the frowning wilderness. And lonely place be glad ; The barren desert joy confess. And be with roses clad. May the once parched ground become A crystal pool profound ! The thirsty land, where, life seem'd dumb. With gushing springs resound. 'Till hearts that once His love abhorr'd. Turn to its saving light. And with the glory of the Lord Thy solitude be bright ! (i 82 FROM THE ITALIAN OP LORENZO DE' MEDICI. Follow that fervour, O devoted spirit ! With which thy Saviour's goodness fires tliy breast ; Go where it draws, — and when it calls — Oh ! hear it. It is thy Shepherd's voice, and leads to rest. In this thy new devotedness of feeling — Suspicion, envy, anger, have no claim ; Sure Hope is highest happiness revealing. With peace, and gentleness, and purest fame. For, in thy holy and thy happy sadness. If tears or sighs are sometimes so^-vn by thee ! In the pure regions of immortal gladness Sweet and eternal shall thine harvest be. FROM LOHENZO DE' MEDICI. 83 Leave them to say " This people's meditation Is vain ;md idle !" — sit with ear and eye Fix'd upon Christ in child-like dedication, O thou inhabitant of Bethany. 62 84 BISHOP HUBERT. 'Tis the hour of even now, When, with pensive, thoughtful brow. Seeking truths as yet unknown. Bishop Hubert walks alone. Fain would he, by earnest thought. Nature's secret laws be taught ; Learn the destinies of Man, And Creation's wonders scan. From these data he would trace Hidden mysteries of Grace, Dive into a deeper theme. Solve Redemption's glorious scheme. BISHOP HUBERT. So he flings aside to-day- Mitre's pomp, and crosier's sway, Seeks the desert's silent scene. And the marge of ocean green. Far he has not roam'd — before. On that solitary shore. He has found a little child. By its seeming play beguil'd. In the drifted, barren sand It has scoop'd, with baby hand. Small recess, in which might float Sportive Fairy's tiny boat. From a hollow shell, the while, See ! 'tis filling, with a smile. Pool as shallow as may be With the waters of the Sea. Hear the smiling Bishop ask " What can mean such infant task?" Mark that infant's answer plain, " 'Tis to hold yon mighty main !" 85 86 BISHOP HUBERT. ' Foolish triricr !" — Hubert cries, " Open, if thou canst, thine eyes; Can a sliallow, scoop'd by thee, Hope to hold yon boundless sea ? " Know'st thou not its sjjace transcends • All thy fancy comprehends ? — Ope thy childish eyes, and know Fathomless its depths below." Soon that child — on ocean's brim, Opes its eyes, and turns to Him ! Well does Hubert read its look. Glance of innocent rebuke. While a voice is heard to say " If the pool, thus scoop'd in play. Cannot hold yon mighty sea, ^'ain must thy researches be. " Canst thou hope to make thine own Secrets known to God alone ? Can thy faculties confined Fathom The Etkrnal Mind? " BISHOP HUBERT. Bishop Hubert turns away. He has learnt enough to-day; Learnt how little Blan can know While a Pilgrim here below. ^&' 87 Reader ! wouldst thou wiser be. Let this truth suffice for thee. Seek not what is sought in vain. Knowledge by Obedienck gain. Be presumption's sin abhorr'd ; For the secrets of the Lord, If reveal'd to IMortals here Dwell with those who love, and fear ! 88 SONNET. O LKT it not be said that, in our isle. The Poet's page, which should be consecrate To truths the Scriptures bid us venerate. Bestows its aid to darken, and defile ! Let us not forfeit meek Religion's smile, Hopes, cherish'd by the wise, the good, the great. And blindly bow to dark, mysterious Fate, Because the Sceptic may those hopes revile. Here Milton's harp has rung a Saviour's praise, With classic majesty, and christian power ; And Cowper's Muse, in sweetly varied lays Prov'd how exhaustless was her home-born dower : Then let not later Bards, in evil hour, Show that our lot has fallen on dark, degen'rate days. 89 ON A PORTRAIT BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE. A CORONET or crown might well Adorn that regal brow ; And radiant there — its magic spell Would bid the vulgar bow. But to the Poet's gifted eye The rich tiara's aid No powers nor graces could supply That are not here pourtray'd. All rank or royalty can give. With them must pass away ; The attendant stars can ne'er outlive Their planet's dying ray ! !)0 ON A PORTRAIT. But features bright as these, alone A prouder homage win ; Here shines the intellectual throne, The immortal mind within. Where beauty, talent, taste combine — The Muses' humblest lay Shares with the Spirit of the shrine Its freedom from decay : — The hidden spell from which it springs - Mind — Mind alone — can wake. And makes it, like the Soul it sings. Immortal for its sake. 91 TO THE ORWELL. The sun may as brightly illumine thy stream ; The moonlight as softly may sleep on thy tide ; As green and luxuriant the foliage may seem Of the beautiful groves which embellish thy side : — All these may, unchanged in their loveliness, be What they were when their charms were delightful to me. And hearts that beat lightly, as mine used to beat, And eyes that are carelessly happy and gay. With the same throbs of pleasure thy beauties may greet. With the same glance of rapture thy landscape survey : — But to me, could I now by thy waters sojourn. The feelings they waken'd no more could return. 92 TO THE ORWELL. 'Tis not that indifF'rence has stol'n o'er my heart. Or shed aught of dimness to weigh down mine eye ; To the first thou couldst still some emotions impart. To the last thou couldst yet true enjoyment supply ; But the heart-thrilling feelings thy beauties once fed. With the morn of existence for ever have fled. The spell which in boyhood such magic convey'd To thy fairest of features, was never thine own ; The brightness and beauty which over them play'd Were shed on those features by childhood alone : — Half the fancy and feeling which rose from thy wave The freshness of life to my young spirit gave. For fancy and feeling, while Life is yet new. Can brighten its sunshine, and soften its shade, 'Till the landscape around us is deck'd, to our view. With borrow'd attractions, that charm but to fade : While youth, ever ardent, and hopes in their prime Believe those attractions enduring as time. TO THE ORWELL. 93 It is good to believe thus, in youth's happy hour ; While it can be unbroken, O ! break not the spell ; When those exquisite hopes of the heart are in flower, It is sweet on their fragrance and beauty to dwell ; And wiser to fancy 'twill always be thus. Than, coldly ungrateful, their date to discuss. The Creator is honour'd ! existence adorn'd — By the blissful enjoyments, and hopes of the young. Ere the heart's early homage from good is suborn'd. Or its innocent feelings restrain'd from the tongue ; It is good to believe in such visions of youth. And the dictate of wisdom to trust in their truth. But O ! it is better, and wiser by far. When the cloudless effulgence of youth is gone by, And the mists and the storms of the world seem to mar The glory which once so enchanted the eye ; It is better and wiser, in sorrow and pain. Through faith and through patience our hopes to sustain. 94 TO THE ORWELL. Tliosc hopes, humbly cherish'd, may render it sweet To recur to attractions too lovely to last ; And the scenes they have brighten'd more fondly we greet. When a pledge for the future is drawn from the past ; And, in Faith's eagle vision 'tis given us to see From what we once have been, what yet we may be. Flow on, then, sweet Orwell ! nor will I regret That some of thy earlier enchantments have flown ; Enough if their memory remain to me yet. And this be the lesson their charms have made known. That when the warm raptures of boyhood are past, Faitu, Hope, and Endurance their sway can out- last. 95 A WINTER LANDSCAPE. The riowret's bloom is faded. Its glossy leaf grown sere ; The landscape round is shaded By Winter's fro\vn austere. The dew, once sparkling lightly On grass of freshest green. In heavier drops unsightly On matted weeds is seen. No songs of joy to gladden From leafy woods emerge ; But winds, in tones that sadden. Breathe nature's mournful dirge. 96 A WINTER LANDSCAPE. All sights and sounds appealing, Through merely outward sense, To joyful thought and feeling. Seem now departed hence. But not, with such is banish'd The bliss that life can lend ; Nor with such things hath vanish'd Its truest, noblest end. The toys that charm, and leave us. Are fancy's fleeting elves ; All that should glad, or grieve us. Exists within ourselves. Enjoyment's genuine essence Is virtue's godlike dower ; Its most triumphant presence Illumes the darkest hour. 97 ELLEN'S DIRGE. I SAW thee borne unto the tomb. With thoughts too sweet for sorrow ; For thou, thus wither'd ere thy bloom, IVIayst know a brighter morrow. No stately train the feeling chill'd Thy early death excited ; Thy simple funeral rites but thrill'd Bosoms which pomp had slighted. 'Twas meet thou thus shouldst sink in earth, Each stormier passion ending ; That from thy grave should spring to birth Calm thoughts, with pure hopes blending. H 98 Ellen's dirge. In that calm hope may they be hush'd Who follow'd, sad and slowly ; And others, whose warm tears have gush'd, Confess its influence holy. Let such not darkly grieve for thee With hopeless lamentation ; But in thy happier portion see And feel their consolation. 99 TO A SPRIG OF MIGNONETTE, GATHERED IN WINTER. The lingering perfume of thy flower. Its {lying fragrance, sadly sweet. Though faint to that of Summer's bower. It still is soothing thus to greet. The gusty winds, the dark'ning cloud. The chilly mists, and rain, and dews. And drifted leaves which half enshroud Thy beauties, — all delight my Muse, And boast a charm that far outvies The grace of Summer's proudest day, When varied blooms of richer dyes Unfolded to the sun's warm ray. h2 100 TO A SPRIG OP MIGNONETTE. To me thy yet surviving bloom And lingering sweetness can recall Hearts which, unchill'd by gath'ring gloom. Can meekly live and love through all. From such, in seasons dark and drear. Immortal hopes of noblest worth. Feelings and thoughts to virtue dear. Gush like thy dying fragrance forth. And fling a holier charm around Than prosperous hours could ever know ; For rapture's smile less fair is found Than that which Patience lends to Woe ! 101 DIV^ES AND LAZARUS. " And it came to pass that the Beggar died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom : the rich man also died, and was buried." In wakeful dreams of thought Before my view was brought. By Fancy's vivid art, the solemn hour When Lazarus, revil'd. And Dives, Fortune's child. Alike confess'd stern Death's resistless power. How opposite the scene ! The first, with brow serene, Receiv'd the mandate with a grateful smile ; A smile that seem'd to say What here should tempt my stay ? What from the peaceful grave my thoughts beguile ? 102 DIVES AND LAZARUS. Him Death's stern herald found By dogs encompass'd round. By dogs less brutal than Wealth's pamper'd son ; For they, at least, reliev'd The Suff'rer, hope-bereav'd. Whose only solace there from them was won. The sight, methought, awoke In him who dealt the stroke A sense of pity ; — with a gentle hand, And glance that none could dread. Upon the Beggar's head He for a moment dropp'd his chilling wand. That touch suffic'd ! — for, straight Before the Minion's gate A lifeless, loathsome mass the Beggar lay. Which e'en the dogs with fear Beheld, and drew not near. But left to rav'ning birds their nat'ral prey. Yet from that loathsome sight Up sprang a form of light. Radiant and beautiful as angels are : And round that form, I ween, A heavenly host were seen Of seraphs bright^ immortal, waiting there. DIVES AND LAZARUS. 103 These with unfeign'd delight Prepar'd to guide its flight To the fair regions of eternal day ; And soon from outward gaze. With songs of joy and praise. The glorious vision pass'd in light away- But see ! the rich man's gate. Where Lazarus of late Lay, an unheeded spectacle of woe. Shows an unwonted change. And wears an aspect strange. As sage and solemn passers come, and go. These are no liv'ried train, Who get their daily gain By servile fawning on the pomp of wealth ; These are the men of skill. Whom Dives trusteth still. From whom his ample hoards shall purchase health. Vain, vain the idle dream ! Baffled is every scheme Of boasted science to defraud the grave : Mortality is just, • And calls alike to dust Mammon's rich minion, Poverty's vile slave. 104 DIVES AND LAZARUS. " The rich man also died !" But — was there nought beside ? He died, and he was buried ! — Haste ! prepare The pomp of funeral woe. And lay his reliques low With solemn music, and with torches' glare. Or let the proud array Amid the blaze of day Flaunt yet more coldly on the eye and heart ; And shoAV how little power Has wealth in such an hour One thrill of genuine feeling to impart. What is there in the throng Who slowly bear along The cumbrous splendour of the gorgeous bier ? What in the guise of woe. Are mourners following slow. Whose do^vncast eyes confess no gen'rous tear ? Cold, blank, and lifeless all ; — A pageant to appal ! An empty mockery of idle state. To that heart-touching change. And transformation strange. Known by the Beggar at his palace-gate. DIVES AND LAZARUS. 105 Reader ! with envious eye. Or discontented sigh. Hast thou upon the worldling's splendour gaz'd ? 'Mid poverty and care. Hast thou in dumb despair To Heaven a glance of hopeless anguish rais'd ? Are " evil thitigs" thy lot ? Yet BEAR, and murmur not ! Ill can short-sighted Man his good discuss ; Brief pleasure could it give Like Dives here to live. Eternal joy to die like Lazarus ! 106 . A MEMORIAL OF JOHN WOOLMAN; A MINISTER OF THE GOSPEL, AMONG THE QUAKERS. There is glory to me in thy Name, Meek follower of Bethlehem's Child ! IVIore touching by far than the splendours of Fame, With which the vain world is beguil'd : — 'Tis the glory of goodness, the praise of the just. Which outlives even death, and is fragrant in dust. The warrior may win for his brow The proud victor chaplet of bay; — But innocent blood sheds a stain on the bough. And steals all its verdure away : While Humanity turns from the pageant aside, By the sorrows and sufF'rings of others supplied. A MEMORIAL OF JOHN WOOLMAN. 107 Success on the Bard may bestow The myrtle-wreath, meed of his lays ; And brightly and gaily that trophy may glow In the sunshine of popular praise : — But if Virtue have turn'd from his page with disgust. Soon, soon shall the trophy surrender its trust. A king in his crown may rejoice ; And Rank of its titles be proud ; The Singer exult in the charms of his voice ; And Pomp in the gaze of a crowd ; And the martyr of Wealth, render'd poor by his store. Be bow'd to by those who his Idol adore. Yet the King must descend from his throne When the day of Jehovah shall come ; And titles be trustless, and Pomp stand alone. And the voice of the Singer be dumb ; — And Mammon, once worshipp'd, be loath'd and abhorr'd. In the just and the terrible day of The Lord ! 108 A MEMORIAL OF JOHN WOOLMAN. Then who with acceptance shall stand In the presence of glory and light. Having palm-branch, or censer, or harp in the hand. And array'd in apparel of white, — While that volume its awful contents shall reveal. Which The Lion of Judah alone can unseal ? Even they who through great tribulation Have worshipp'd the holy I AM ! Whose spiritual garments are pure by lavation In the all-cleansing blood of The Lamb ! 'Tis these, and these only, by day and by night. Shall kneel in his temple, and stand in his sight. From them must the chorus ascend Which shall peal through the confines of space. Of " Holy ! thrice holy ! and praise ^vithout end Unto God for the gift of His Grace ; — And praise to The Lamb, who for mortals was slain. Yet Hveth for ever and ever to reign !" A MEMORIAL OF JOHN WOOLMAN. 109 In that heavenly and heart-thrilling song, O Woolman ! can silence be thine ? Or wilt thou not join with the jubilant throng In Hosannas to glory divine ? — Even such the fruition Faith whispers for Thee, Nor happier nor holier could recompense be. For, since those miraculous days When marvellous wonders were rife. When the blind gaz'd with joy, and the dumb sang with praise. And the dead were restor'd unto life, — I know not of one Avhom my heart could allow More worthy the name of Apostle than Thou. Though not upon thee were out-pour'd The gifts of that primitive age. When wonders and signs spoke the power of The Lord, And baffled Priest, Monarch, and Sage, — In the heart's secret temple an altar was thine. And a Priesthood was given in the innermost shrine. 110 A MK3I0RIAL OF JOHN WOOLMAN. Not to outward and visible sense Did that Priesthood or Altar appeal ; Yet pure were the oracles utter'd from thence. And stamp'd with a questionless seal, A seal which their spirits who felt them confest By the power of thy Ckucified IMaster imprest. His glory alone was thy aim. His kingdom's advance was thy scope ; And The Cross which He bore, with its suflf'ring and shame. The object and end of thy Hope ! By faith in this hope was thy spirit sustained. Through that Cross was the Crown of Apostleship gain'd. Then well may 1 think of thy Name, Meek foIloM'er of Bethlehem's Child ! As enwreath'd with a glory more touching than Fame, By which the vain world is beguil'd ; That glory by Christ and His Gospel made known. Which proclaims not thy praise, but thy Master's alone ! Ill THE POET'S LOT. AsKEST thou what it is to be A Poet ? — I will tell thee what ; And show the thoughtless world, and thee. His weary lot. It is to sacrifice each good That Fortune's favour'd minions share ; And in unheeded solitude Her fro'UTis to bear. It is to nourish hopes that cheat ; Which^ when he felt them first beat high, Appear'd so humble, blameless, sweet, Thev could not die. ] 12 THE poet's lot. It is to feel foreboding fears ;— Then fancy them unfounded too, — And last, with pangs too deep for tears. To own them true ! It is to cherish in the heart Feelings the warmest, kindest, best ; — To wish their essence to impart To every breast ; — And then, awaking from such dream. With anguish not to be controll'd. To find that hearts which warmest seem Are icy cold ! 'Tis like the pelican, to feed Others from his warm breast ; but own. Unlike that bird — the Bard may bleed, Unthank'd, unknoAvn. It is to pamper vicious taste. By spurning Virtue's strict control ; Then be Avith Fame and Riches graced, And lose his soul ! THE POET S LOT. Or while his humble verse defends Her cause, her loveliness portrays ; To win from her apparent friends Cold, cautious praise. It is a thorny path to tread. By care, by sorrow overcast ; With but one thought its balm to shed, — " This cannot last !" For soon that thorny path is trod ; From ]Man he has no more to crave ; — Grant him thy mercy, gracious God ! Thou, Earth !— a Grave ! 113 ADDITIONAL STANZAS. If thus disheart'ning may appear. In darker hours, the Poet's doom ; Yet brighter glimpses sometimes cheer His prospects' gloom. I 114 THE poet's lot. The visions, feelings, thoughts — which nurse Those moods that wrap his soul in night. And of " this goodly universe" Eclipse the light ; — In happier, more auspicious hours These, as with energy divine. Seem gifted with immortal powers. And, cloudless, shine ! Though " few, and far between" — the gleams Of their celestial light may break, — As angel-forms that bless our dreams Fade when we wake ; — Not dream-like are the hopes that wait On paths by loftiest Poets trod. But glorious, heavenly, pure, and great. And given of God ! Cast not those deathless hopes away. Thou who hast known and felt their wortli, Nor let desjjondcncy gainsay Their noble birth. THE poet's lot. 115 The purer elements tliat form A Poet — worthy of the name. In brightest sunshine — darkest storm. Are still the same. Firm faith, meek patience, genuine love, Unworldly feelings, views sublime. Aspiring hopes, which soar above The things of Time ; — Such — of the Poet's inmost heart The cherish'd inmates should be known. And to his mental powers impart Their master tone. Grief, care, and poverty may haunt His pathway, strewing many a thorn ; — Fashion's neglect, cold foUy's taunt, The worldling's scorn, — May be his portion ; — slow disease May xindermine his outward frame ; And Calumny, more dread than these. May blight his fame : — i2 IIG . THE poet's lot. But let him still, with fortitude. See that his footsteps onward tend; Aud strive, with faith and hope endued. To wait THE END ! The threat'ning clouds which darkly lower, As if to veil his soul in night, ftlay prove how impotent their power To quench its light. At times that light's reviving ray Shall lend him, even here below. Glory for gloom, turn night to day. Give joy for woe. And in a brighter world than this What here inspir'd his holiest lays, JMay tune his harp to songs of bliss, And endless praise. Bard ! Prophet ! Priest ! * go on in hoj)e ; Gird up thy loins, thy sorrows bear ; Meekly with present trials cope ; Watcli unto prayer ! * " Each torch was kindled at a common flame, And Prophet, Priest, and Poet were the same." RcUglo Clirki. THE poet's lot. J 17 " It is a thorny path" to trace ; Yet other feet its thorns have trod ; Then bear thee up, and humbly place Thy trust in God ! 118 LINES, WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A FRIEND S ALBUM. The Warrior is proud when the battle is won ; The Eagle is proud when he soars tow'rd the sun ; The Beauty is proud of the conquests she gains ; And the humblest of Poets is proud of his strains : — Then forgive me if something like pride should be mine. Thus to claim the first leaf in an Album of thine. The Miser is glad when he adds to his hoard ; The Epicure — plac'd at the sumptuous board ; The Courtier, when smil'd on ; — but hapjjier the lot Of the Friend who, though absent, is still unforgot : Then believe me that something like gladness is mine. Thus to claim the first leaf in an Album of thine. LINES WRITTEN IN A FRIEND's ALBUM. .1 19 But my pride and my pleasure are chasten'd by fears. As I look down the vista of far distant years. And reflect that the progress of time must, ere long. Bring oblivion to friendship, and silence to song ; Thus thinking, what mingled emotions are mine, As I fill the first leaf in this Album of thine. Yet idle and thankless it were to allow Such reflections to sadden the heart, or the brow ; We know that Earth's pleasures are mix'd with alloy. But if Virtue approve them 'tis wise to enjoy; And this brief enjoyment, at least, shall be mine, To inscribe my name first in this Album of thine ! ]20 TO SWITZERLAND. Land of cloud-capt^ piny mountains, Where eternal snow-wreaths shine ; Land of glaciers, lakes, and fountains. Be a Poet's blessing thine. Not for these romantic features. Be that benison bestoAv'd ; Servile slaves, or savage creatures There might fix their foul abode. Thine a nobler race inherit. Nobler inmates there reside ; 'Tis their yet unconquer'd spirit Constitutes thy purest pride. TO SWITZERLAND. 121 Thine is Freedom's glorious charter, Wak'ning thoughts and deeds sublime ; Thine are boons too rich to barter, IVIanners of the olden time ! Long be such thy proud possession. Virtue's pledge, and Honour's spell ; Still hold fast thy high profession. Worthy of the Land of Tell. So may all who fondly claim thee For their birth-place, while they roam. With a Child's affection name thee. As their hearts' most cherish'd Hojie ! 122 FLOWERS : AN INTRODUCTORY POEM, FOR THE ELEVENTH VOLUME OF time's TELESCOPE. He who delights to trace, with serious thought. In all he sees the noiseless steps of Time, Shall find the outward forms of Nature fraught With ample food for many a lofty rhyme ; Or should he fear such dazzling heights to climb. And love to tread a less aspiring way, — Leaving untouch'd the awful and sublime. And seeking humbler objects to portray, May find in such the theme of many a pleasing lay. FLOWERS. 123 What though the glorious Sun, enthron'd on high, May more conspicuously this lesson teach ; Or Moon and Stars, which gem the midnight sky, A yet more touching homily may preach. As day to day still utters ceaseless speech. And night to night yet added knowledge shows, — Far lowlier objects to the heart may reach. And Wisdom purest precepts may disclose, Cull'd from the Lihi's bloom, or gather'd from the Rose ! Yes, — you, delightful handy-works of Him Who arch'd the Heavens, and spann'd this solid Earth, Before whose glory day's proud light is dim. And Art's achievements, if not food for mirth. Display at best its barrenness and dearth, — You, too, instruct us, and with " line on line. Precept on precept," show us by your birth. Your bud, your blossoming, and your decline. Time's never-ceasing flight, and tell us truths divine. 124 FLOWERS. You, as the changing Seasons roll along, Still wait on each, and added beauties lend : — Around the smiling Spring a lovely throng With eager rivalry her steps attend ; Others with Summer's brighter glories blend ; Some grace mild Autumn's more majestic mien ; While some few lingering blooms the brow befriend Of hoary Winter, and with grace serene Inwreath the King of storms with Mercy's gentler sheen. Nor do ye, while ye thus declare the flight Of Times and Seasons, want yet deeper lore ; In you, with eager and unsatcd sight. The gentle Moralist may such explore : — Even Religion's voice has heretofore Pointed a moral, and adorn'd a tale By illustration from your ample store ; Nor could such touching illustration fail When thus The Saviour preach'd, his text the lilies pale. FLOWERS. 125 " Consider ye the lilies of the field, Which neither toil nor spin, — not regal pride, In all its plenitude of pomp reveal'd," Could hope to charm, their beauties plac'd beside : If heavenly goodness thus for them provide. Which bloom to-day, and wither on the morrow. Shall not your wants be from your God supplied. Without your vain anxiety and sorrow ? — . Oh ye of little faith ! from these a lesson borrow ! If such the soothing precepts taught from you. Beautiful blossoms ! well may ye apjiear As silent preachers in the Christian's view ; And while ye decorate the changeful year. Imbued with power the mourner's heart to cheer, — Not gratifying merely outward sense By tints and odours, — but dispelling fear, Awak'ning hope, by your intelligence. And strength'ning humble faith in God's omnipotence ! 126 FLOWERS. Come forthj then;, lovely heralds of the Spring ! Leave at your IMaker's call your earthy bed ; At his behest your grateful tribute bring To light and life, from darkness and the dead ! Thou, timid Snow-drop, lift thy lowly head ; Crocus and Primrose, show your varied dye ; Violets, your ceaseless odours round you shed, Yourselves the while retiring from the eye, Yet loading with your sweets each breeze that passes by. And you, — in gay variety that grace. In later months, with beauty the parterre, " Making a sunshine in the shady place," As Una and her milk-white lamb were there ; Arise ! arise ! and in your turns declare The power of Him who has not only made The depths of Ocean, and the heights of Air, And Earth's magnificence, but has display'd In you that power and skill with beauty's charms array'd. FLOWERS. 127 Uplift, proud Sun-Jlotvcr, to thy favourite orb That disk whereon his brightness loves to dwell ; And, as thou seem'st his radiance to absorb. Proclaim thyself the garden's sentinel : — And thou too, gentle, modest Heathcr-hell, Gladden thy lonely birth-place : Jasmines, spread Your star-like blossoms, fragrant to the smell ; You Evening Primroses, when day has fled. Open your pallid flowers, by dews and moonlight fed. And where my favourite Abbey rears on high Its crumbling ruins, on their loftiest crest. Ye WaU-Jloivcrs, shed your tints of golden dye. On which the morning sunbeams love to rest, — On which, when glory fiUs the glowing west. The parting splendours of the day's decline, With fascination to the heart address'd. So tenderly and beautifully shine. As if reluctant still to leave that hoary shrine. 128 FLOWERS. Convoholus, expand thy cup-like flower. Graceful in form, and beautiful in hue ; Clematis, wreathe afresh thy garden bower ; Ye loftier Lilies, bath'd in morning's dew. Of purity and innocence renew Each lovely thought ; and ye whose lowlier pride In sweet seclusion seems to shrink from view. You of The Valley nam'd, no longer hide Your blossoms meet to twine the brow of chastest bride. And Thou, so rich in gentle names, appealing To hearts that own our Nature's common lot ; Thou, styl'd by sportive Fancy's better feeling, " A Thought," " The Heart's Ease," or " Forget me not," Who deck'st alike the peasant's garden-plot, And castle's proud parterre ; with humble joy Revive afresh by castle and by cot, Hopes which ought not like things of time to cloy, And feelings time itself shall doencn — not destroy. + FLOWERS. 129 Fruitless and endless were the task, I ween, With every Flower to grace my votive lay ; And unto Thee, their long-acknowledg'd Queen, Fairest and loveliest ! and thy gentle sway. Beautiful Rose, my homage I must pay, — For how can minstrel leave thy charms unsung, Whose meek supremacy has been alway Confess'd in many a clime, and many a tongue. And in whose praise the harp of many a bard has rung? iVIine is unworthy such a lovely theme ; Yet could I borrow of that tuneful bird. Who sings thy praises by the moon's pale beam, (As Fancy's graceful legends have averr'd) Those thrilling harmonies at midnight heard, With sounds of floAving waters, — not in vain Should the loose strings of my rude harp be stirr'd By inspiration's breath, but one brief strain Should re-assert thy rites, and celebrate thy reign. K 130 FLOWERS. Vain were the hope to rival bards, whose lyres. On such a theme, have left me nought to sing ; And one more plant my humbler Muse inspires. Round which my parting thoughts would fondly cling; Which, consecrate to Salem's peaceful King, Though ftiir as any gracing beauty's bower. Is link'd to Sorrow like an holy thing. And takes its name from sufF' ring's fiercest hour : — Be this thy noblest fame, imperial Passion-Jlower ! Whatever impulse first conferr'd that name. Or Fancy's dream, or Superstition's art, I freely own its spirit-touching claim. With thoughts and feelings it may well impart : — Not that I would forego the surer chart Of Revelation for a mere conceit ; Yet with indulgence may The Christiaii's heart Each frail memorial of His Master greet. And chiefly what recals his love's most glorious feat. FLOWERS. 131 Be this the closing tribute of my strain ! Be this, fair flowers! of charms — your last and best! That when The Son of God for Man was slain. Circled by you. He sank awhile to rest, — Not the Grave's captive, but a Garden's guest. So pure and lovely was his transient tomb ! And He, whose brow the wreath of thorns had prest. Not only bore for us Death's cruel doom. But won the thornless crown of amaranthine bloom. k2 132 TO JAMES MONTGOMERY. Dear fellow-candidate for Fame ! In fame's most noble sense ; Minstrel ! well worthy of the name. May I, without offence. Thus make my obligations known ; Thus give, what justly is thine own, The meed of grateful praise For many a calm and soothing hour, Beguil'd and gladden'd by the power Of thy exalted lays ? TO JAMES MONTGOMERY. 133 Thou need' St not fear from me to meet The Flatt'rer's artful strain, Whose praise, a specious counterfeit. But seeks for praise again : To thee, as to myself, the worth Of all approval — is its birth In thoughts and feelings pure : Devoid of these, tis " given, and gone " With them — its echo lingers on. Enabling to endure ; — Endure the varied change and chance That flesh is heir to here. Each strange and wayward circumstance Which marks Man's brief career : Beneath life's darkly-frowning skies, I know how little this supplies To mitigate their wrath ; Yet are there moments, when its light May fling a gleam of sunshine bright Upon a thorny path. 134 TO JAMES MONTGOMERY. Bless'd be that beam ! Like pilgrim bands We journey on through time ; And he whose inmost heart expands With hopes and views sublime. Will ever gratefully rejoice To hear a brother pilgrim's voice. Whose cheering accents say — " Thy cares, thy sorrows I partake ; With thee I watch, with thee I wake ; Heaven speed us on our way !" They err who deem the minstrel craft To envy is allied ; — None surely feel it who have quafF'd Of Shiloh's hallow'd tide : He who has used the gift of song. As knowing unto whom belong All gifts on man bestow'd, With grateful heart will ever hear The Verse which Faith and Hope would cheer To tread Life's rugged road. TO JAMES MONTGOMERY. 135 Has it a loftier^ sweeter tone Than lays of his possess ? The Christian — " seeking not his otvn," Its harmony can bless : No selfish views of fame on earth Have given his humbler numbers birth ; With joy, devoid of shame. He listens to another's lyre. Whose heavenly sounds, in Virtue's choir, Assert a prouder claim. Thus have I listen'd unto thine. Dear Friend ! — enough for me. If, in my artless, lowly line, I may resemble thee : — Not as an echo, which repeats. Unconsciously, each sound that greets Its own mechanic ear, — But in that kindred soul, and sense. Whose meek and holy influence The wise and good revere. 136 TO JAMES MONTGOMERV. Farewell, then, brother Bard ! farewell ! The time shall shortly come. When thy sweet lyre no tale shall tell, My ruder one be dumb. O ! may we each, while here we wake Their music, touch them for His sake Who claims their various strings ; That, when we shall with time have done. Both, through The Spirit of His Son, Whose death immortal Life hath won. May praise The King of Kings ! 137 A THOUGHT. BrieFj as the beauty of the west. With sunset's glories glowing. Is Fancy's brilliant ray confest. When, o'er " the sunshine of the breast," Gather the clouds of dark unrest, Each moment darker growing. But steady as the pole-star's light. The watchful pilot cheering. Truth's heavenly lamp, whose radiance bright^ In Sorrow's dark and stormy night. Can give the weakest pilgrim might To journey on unfearing ! 138 TO NATHAN DRAKE, M. D. ON READING THE OPENING PAPER IN HIS "WINTER NIGHTS." With •witching eloquence and truths Hast thou describ'd the dear delights. Accessible to Age and Youth, In fro'^vning Winter's stormiest nights. Such pictures, — whether they describe. In truth's own simple eloquence. The frolics of a youthful tribe, Happy in early innocence ; — In whose bright eyes the vivid gleam Of Home's lov'd fire-side gaily glances, While the more mild and chasten'd beam From older ones their mirth enliances ;- TO NATHAN DRAKE, M.D. 139 Or whether they portray the cahn Which erst o'er * Cowper's spirit stole. When Evening, breathing quiet balm. Shed her own stillness o'er his soul ; — Such pictures do not merely pass Before the eye, and fade in air ; Like summer-showers on new-mown grass. They call back living freshness there. Aye ! e'en to lonely hearts, which feel That these things were, and now are not. Not poignant is their mild appeal. But fraught Avith bliss yet unforgot. For joys like these, so calm and pure. Leave blessings with the heart they bless'd ; And still, by Memory's art, endure. To soothe the lonely Mourner's breast. We live not in the present hour : Man's hopes and memories sublime Make him, by their immortal power, Link'd to eternity through time. * See Cowper's beautiful apostrophe to Evening, in the fourth Book of The Task. 140 TO NATHAN DRAKE, M.D. For thee, my Friend ! if cordial prayer Of mine might hope to call down bliss ; Could I wish thee, or thine, to share A more delightful boon than this ? — Than that thy mother's green old age May be her childi-en's portion too ; And that each charm that decks thy page. Thy lov'd fire-side may oft renew ? 141 ON THE ALIENATION OF FRIENDS IN THE DECLINE OF LIFE. " Mlien I see leaves drop from their trees in the beginning of Autumne, just such, thinke I, is the friendship of the world. Whiles the sap of maintenance lasts, my friends swarme in abundance ; but in the winter of my need, they leave me naked. He is an happy man that hath a true friend at his need ; but lie is more truly happy that hath no need of his friend." Warwick's Sparc Minutrs. The flower that blooms beneath the ray Of Summer's cloudless sky. May see its blossoms torn away. And yet not whoUy die : The summer sun-beams still are warm ; It dreads not winter's distant storm ; And Heaven is bright on high : It spreads its leaves each breeze to greet ; — Beauty is gone, but Life is sweet. 142 ON THE ALIENATION OF FRIENDS It may not bloom again, — but still Its leaf is green and bright ; Of Evening's dew it drinks its fill. And smiles in Morning's light : The bee may find no honey there ; But round its foliage, fresh and fair. And lovely to the sight. The butterfly, on beauteous wing Will hover, — there for shelter cling. Not so the flower, which Autumn's smile. Instead of Summer's blaze. Seduces, by its specious wile. To bloom in later days : Scarce hath its opening blossom spread. When all that charm'd it forth, has fled ; It droops — and then decays ! Blasted in birth, its blight complete. And Winter's snow its ^vinding-sheet. IN THE DECLINE OP LIFE. 143 How could it hope, the beam, which nurs'd Its bud, would bless its bloom ? The languid rays which warm'd the first. But mock the latter's doom : Instead of genial shower and breeze. Come rains that chill, and winds that freeze ; Instead of glory — gloom. How could it then but loathe to live. When Life had nothing left to give ? Thus fares it with the human mind. Which Heaven has seem'd to bless With each capacity to find In Friendship— Happiness : — Its earliest and its brightest years Predict no pangs, forebode no fears ; No doubts awake distress : Within it finds a cloudless sun. Without a friend in every one. 144 ON THE ALIENATION OP FRIENDS How soon, ere youth itself be flown. It learns that friends are few ; Yet fancies, fondly stiU, its own Unchangeable, and true ! The spell is broken ; and the breast On which its hopes had lov'd to rest. Is prov'd but human too ; And Disappointment's chilling blight Strikes its first blossom of delight. But if that blow be struck when Life Is young, and hopes are high. Passion will yet maintain the strife. Though Pain extort the sigh : The heart, though wounded, still can beat With something of its earlier heat, And feels too young to die : It may not glow with rapture's thrill. But better feelings haunt it still. + + IN THE DECLINE OF LIFE. 145 Not so, if in Life's after hours. The Autumn of our day. While yet we feel our mental powers Unconscious of decay :— If then we fancy that we share In friendship, we but ill can bear To see it torn away : — It brings a pang, a soul-felt grief, That withers more than Jhrver or leaf'! Yet are there spirits which have borne With many a hidden woe. Whom blighted love hath left forlorn. And chill'd hope's vivid glow ; Sustain'd through all : — believing this — They still might share the soothing bliss Which Friendship can bestow ; Which, though the sun of joy had set. Hoped that its moon might light them yet. L 14(> ON THE ALIENATION OF FRIENDS Such, when that moon's new-risen light Around them seems to shine. Forget that Nature's final night Is near at day's decline : — These, when that orb is clouded o'er. Suffer intensely ; — ten times more Than boyhood can divine ! And sunless, moonless, starless gloom Welcomes the wanderer to the tomb. 1818. A POSTSCRIPT. Though sunless, moonless, starless seem Such sufferer's lonely state. There is a light, whose cheering beam Its gloom can dissipate : It comes with healing on its wings. And heavenly radiance round it flings. IN THE DECLINE OF LIFE. 147 It rises on the darken'd mind. In lustre brighter far Than that to outward orb assign'd Of sun, or moon, or star ; And matchless is its mild control Over the desolate in soul. There is a Friend more tender, true. Than Brother e'er can be ; Who, when all others bid adieu. Remains — the last to flee ; Who, be their pathway bright or dim. Deserts not those that turn to Him. The heart, by Him sustain'd, though deep Its anguish, still can bear ; The soul He condescends to keep. Shall never know despair : In nature's weakness, sorrow's night, God is its strength, its joy, and light. l2 148 ON THE ALIENATION OF FRIENDS, ETC He is the Friend, who changeth not In sickness or in health. Whether on earth our transient lot Be poverty or wealth : In joy or grief, contempt or fame. To all who seek Him still the same. Of human hearts He holds the key- Is Friendship meet for ours ? O ! be assur'd that none but He Unlocks its purest powers : He can recal the lost, the dead. Or give us nobler in their stead. Of earl hly friends — who finds tliem true, IMay boast a happy lot ; But happier still, life's journey through. Is he who needs them not : * A lleaveidy Friend — to know we need ; To FEEL WE HAVE, — is bliss indeed. 1823. 149 VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG FRIEND. No need there is, in hymning thee. Passionate epithets to borrow ; Thy requiem should rather be A tender strain of gentle sorrow. None of the hopeless gloom of woe Should haunt the Poet's heart who sings thee ; There lovelier images should glow — Thoughts, such as now thine image brings me. 'Tis true that Death, e'en death like thine. Is more than slumber's " brief forgetting ;" E'en Summer's suns, howe'er they shine, INIay not be cloudless at their setting : — 150 VERSES TO THE ME3I0RY But if that setting hour be mild, Those clouds the more enhance its splendour ; And round thy own, meek Nature's child ! Are some such graces, pure and tender. Voung, guileless, gentle, and belov'd By the small circle who best knew thee ; Fond recollections, unreprov'd. When thou art nam'd, still cling unto thee. No tears may start — for Hope supplies. For thee, thoughts unallied to anguish ; But pensive looks, and softest sighs. Tell how we lov'd, and for thee languish. For me, I own, though months had past, Ere thy departure, since I met thee. Such charms are round thy memory cast, I cannot, gentle friend ! forget thee. Some pleasant hours I spent with, thee. Were dear from various mingled causes ; Moments, from worldly turmoil free. For thought and fancy breatliing pauses. OF A YOUNG FRIEND. 151 And they were spent, not in the din Of crowded streets ; their still lapse found us Where nature's charms were sure to win, With fields, and flowers, and sunshine round us. Hence, when I think of thee, I seem To muse on one not disunited From life and joy; — a cherish'd theme. On which fond thoughts may dwell delighted. I look on thee as one, who, born In scenes where peace and virtue blossom, Living, didst those retreats adorn. And now sleep'st calmly in their bosom ! 1821. 152 TO ROBERT SOUTHEY*. When first this wreath of verse was twin'd. Its blossoms only were design'd. Like wild-flowers^ which unsought we find. To please the friendly few Whose smile to me was more than fame ; — Yet, as they sought that humble aim Beneath the sanction of thy Name, That sanction let me once more claim. To bid them charm anew. * A very small impression of the following Poem was printed, for little more tlian private circulation, and inscribed to Robert Southey. 153 A DAY IN AUTUMN. " It was a day that sent into the heart A summer feeling !" — and may Memory, now. Its own inspiring influence so impart Unto my fancy, as to teach me how To give it fitting utterance. Aid me, thou Most lovely season of the circling year ! Before my leaf of life, upon its bough. In the chill blasts of age shall rustle sere. To frame a votive song to hours so justly dear. 1'"'4 A DAY IN AUTUMN. Autumn ! soul-soothing season ! thou who spreadest Thy lavish feast for every living thing ; Around whose leaf-strew'd path, as on thou treadest. The year its dying odours loves to fling. Their last faint fragrance sweetly scattering ; ! let thy influence, meek, majestic, holy. So consciously around my spirit cling. That its delight may be remote from folly. In sober thought combin'd with gentle melancholy. If, in the morning of my life, to Spring 1 paid my homage with a heart elate ; And with each fluttering insect on the wing, Or small bird, singing to his happy mate. And Flora's festival, then held in state ; — If joyous sympathy with such was mine; — O ! stni allow me now to dedicate To Thee a tenderer strain : that tone assign Unto my murmuring lyre, which Nature gives to thine ;— . A DAY IN AUTUMN. U)5 A tone of thrilling softness, now, as caught From liglit winds sweeping o'er a late-reap'd field ; And, now and then, be with those breezes brought A murmur musical, of winds conceal'd In coy recesses, by escape reveal'd : — And ever and anon, stiU deeper tone Of winter's gathering dirge, at distance peal'd By harps and hands unseen, and only known To some enthusiast's ear when worshipping alone. No more of invocation ! Bright the day Arose ; as if the glorious sun was bent, (Like some proud monarch whose declining sway Is still majestic and magnificent) On once more filling his own firmament With undiminish'd splendour : if, at first. His beams, 'mid clouds where richest hues were blent. Shone struggling, soon his rays those clouds dispers'd. And from heaven's eastern gate in royal pride he burst 156 A DAY IN AUTUMN. Upon a grateful Avorlcl ! It seem'd a day, IVIight send into the heart a summer thrill ; For, as its visible ruler held his way. His Maker's radiant mission to fulfil, Vanish'd the mists of morn, and lovelier still Of garden, lawn, and trees the smiling mien : The atmosphere itself, now scarcely chill. Was such as suited well that glorious scene Of blue sky, auburn woods, and waves that flow'd between. And now upon the encircled board was set The matin meal ; and roiAid the steaming urn Youth, manhood, infancy, with pleasure met. While social greetings all exchang'd in turn : And well might stranger from those greetings learn That visitants were there, from distant home. Who now no longer might as guests sojourn Beneath that happy, hospitable dome ; — Prepar'd this beauteous day still further on to roam. A DAY IN AUTUMN. 157 But tliough sensations of regret might be Attendant on this knowledge, yet they threw No gloom upon the calm festivity. The friendly circle, thus collected, knew. No ! the last hour, spent ere we bid adieu To those united by pure Friendship's tie. Possesses witchery more tender, — true. In its brief sweetness as it hurries by. Than hours of mirthful mood before it can supply. It is not when we meet, — with gratulation. And eager question, glance encountering glance. Tongues turn'd to welcome, and anticipation Chang'd to reality of circumstance ; — It is not then (although the spirits dance. As if inspir'd by some resistless spell) We know those purer pleasures, that enhance. Beyond the power of even verse to tell, Tlic feelings which precede that simple word, " Fare- well !" 158 A DAY IN AUTUMN. For in them are call'd forth the truest, best. And tenderest feelings of our nature ; those Which give to joy its most delightful zest. And brighten tears which transient sorrow knows. I speak not now of agonies and woes By guilt inflicted ; nor of that deep pain Affection feels at Nature's solemn close, fV/ien tears seem life-drops from a staunchless vein ; — I speak of Friends who part, on earth to meet again. And in such parting hours may be reveal'd More exquisite delight, than in the flush Of eager joy that our first meetings yield ; Aye ! far beyond it — as the tranquil hush Of eve delights more than the joyous blush Of morning's beauty ; or the dying fall Of music's melting close outvies the gush Of its first prelude, as it seems to call On Echo to prolong its soul-subduing thrall. A DAY IN AUTUMN. 159 But wherefore dwell on parting's mild delights ? Our circle is not doom'd to sever yet : — I left it sharing in the festive rites Of morning meal ; unconscious of regret. And only happy once more to have met. That meal is past ; — the Christian Volume now Is open'd, and we hear how Chkist was set A mark for impious scoffers, wond'ring how To gentleness like his knees could in mockery bow. It was a solemn chapter, and was grac'd By one good action left upon record ; — That Woman's pious deed, whose seeming waste By those around was thoughtlessly deplor'd ; — She who upon her Saviour's head outpour'd The box of ointment ; — doing all she could Against the burial of her gracious Lord, And winning that pure fame which virtue should. From Him whose lips pronounc'd the work she wrought was good ! 160 A DAY IN AUTUBIN. O ! how that -action, 'mid the chronicle Of darkest crimes, with which the chapter teems, Shines forth, with lustre inexpressible. Unearthly brightness shedding from its beams ! All uneclips'd its gentle glory seems By the dense clouds that -wrap our lower sphere ; We turn to it, from those more painful themes — Iscariot's treachery, and Peter's fear. The Priest's hypocrisy, the soldiers' cruel sneer ; — From such we turn to it — as to a thing Gentle, compassionate, pure, holy, good ! And the heart's better feelings, as they cling Unto its memory, in thought's pensive mood. Make virtue's genuine essence understood : Set free from speculative creeds, which draw The mind's attention from its heavenly food. We feel this truth impress'd, with holy awe : — That Love is in itself fulfilment of God's law ! A DAY IN AUTUMNt 161 Tell me, thou strenuous advocate of creeds. Dogmas, and systems ; overlooking still Those milder charities, and Christian deeds. Without which faith is dead : — with aU thy skill Know'st thou not this — the Letter can but kill. The Spirit giveth life ? O ! far above The proudest theorists, does he fulfil The precepts of our faith, whose actions prove That he has learnt aright this truth — that God is Love ! Return we to our theme. The Book is clos'd ; A pause of silence — eloquent appeal To hearts awake, affections well-dispos'd. Upon that record stamps its solemn seal. And they who erst enjoy'd that social meal. Prepare them to obey each various call Duty or inclination shall reveal : — The younger urchins, eager, joyous all. Begin their morning sports, delights that seldom pall. 162 A DAY IN AUTUMN. He who noAV traces by his taper's light, Risen long ere dawn of day, this simple page ; Upon that well-remembcr'd morning might To wealth or rank have proudly thrown his gage. And challeng'd any on life's pilgrimage To show more joyous company than he ; — A hypochondriac's mood it might assuage To have look'd round upon that scene of glee — Of smiles devoid of care, and brows from sorrow free. The bright sun thrcAv his glory all around ; And then the balmy, mild, autumnal breeze Swept, with a musical and fitful sound. Among the fading foliage of the trees ; And, now and then, a playful gust AA'ould seize Some falling leaf, and, like a living thing. Which flits about wherever it may please. It floated rodnd in many an airy ring. Till on the dewy grass it lost its transient wing. A DAY IN AUTUMN. lb'3 We wander'd on, for I was not alone ; Though such a scene, and such a morning, might Have suited well the contemplative tone Of some secluded, saintly anchorite, Whose dreams had peopled it with phantoms bright : To me how needless ! for around me were Beings more real ; who, in my delight. Though less romantic, were well pleas'd to share. When we stood still to gaze, or held high converse there. " High converse," — gentle reader ! dost thou ask, With scornful doubt, what mighty themes were ours ? Thy scorn I heed not ; 'tis a grateful task. Spite of the frown which on thy forehead lowers. For me to tax my memory's willing powers. And tell of themes — that freshly summon nigh Past pleasures : — we convers'd of donjons, towers. Hid in * St. John's vale from Sir Roland's eye. Or melting, soon as seen, into the vapoury sky. * Vide Scott's Bridal of Trieimair. m2 164 A DAY IN AUTUMN. We talk'd of Byron's vagrant, lawless "^ Childe ;" Of Moore's enchanting lovely Nourmahal ; Or of tliat other tale so sweetly wild. Of what the gentle Peri did befal, Who told, so tenderly, that over all The flowers of Eden which on earth can bloom, A heavenly eye can pensively recal That " Serpent's trail," who sipp'd their first per- fume. And left their tainted charms to wreathe his victims' tomb. We talk'd of Wordsworth, whose unequall'd skill In loftier moods no critic dares deride ; And I avow'd my admiration stiU Of his more lowly songs ; though at my side Were pouting lips prepar'd my taste to chide ; And laughing eyes, which spake of " Peter Bell:" — If mine were vocal, every glance replied " Rail at my taste ; I like the story well. And should be passing proud just such an one to tell." A DAY IN AUTUMN. 165 " Is this then converse high ?" some reader cries. Whose heart, perchance, its charm hath never known. Ungentle critic, wliy my taste despise ? Be, if thou canst, contented with thine OAvn, And leave me to enjoy the visions shown By Poesy to those who feel her sway ; For in those visions, o'er the soul are thrown Glimpses of light surpassing that of day, And prouder heights of thought than sense can e'er survey : — Far prouder heights ! but O ! let man beware. Nor walk their summits without humble dread ; For scatter'd round is many a hidden snare. By man's unwearied adversary spread ; And " fools rush in where angels fear to tread ;" — That he who climbs Parnassus' lofty hill. Should ponder well his steps, nor there be led By spurious taste, or fond ambition's thrill ; But, having gain'd its top, look up to Calvary still ! 16(5 A DAY IN AUTUiMN. The wreath which honours most a Poet's brow Offends not pure Religion : — witness thine. Delightful CoAvper ! greater e'en than thou The sightless Milton, who before a shrine ]\Iore glorious far than of the fabled Nine, Pour'd forth his soul. Nor want our later days Some worthy votaries of an art divine — Divinest when it hymns The Giver's praise. And bids a Saviour's love inspire its sweetest lays. Not that a Christian Poet is denied The graceful use of transitory themes ; — Though palms unfading grow on Shiloh's side. Beneath whose shade flow everlasting streams To satisfy the soul : — it wiser seems In those who would their truest worth enjoy. To show them more respect than pleasant dreams, Which fancy's idle moments may employ, Lest too familiar use their reverence should destroy- A DAV IN AUTUMN. 167 Yet he who scans aright the proudest end For which the Poet's talent is bestow'd. Will ever bid his loftiest strains ascend In Virtue's praise ; and seek to strew the road That leads to her immortal, blest abode. With amaranthine flowers : — ev'n when he plays With lighter theme, in seeming mirthful mode. Or nature's loveliness in song portrays. His end and aim through all should be The Giver's praise. And inexhaustible the beauties are Of this fair universe. — The boundless main ; Heaven's out-stretch'd cope, begemm'd with many a star ; And earth's rich loveliness ; the ample plain, And stream which marks it like a silver vein ; INIountain and forest, lake and water-fall : Can minstrel e'er want subject for his strain. While these on feeling, thought, and fancy call ? Or how, while singing them, forget who form'd them all? 168 A DAY IN AUTUMN. O Poesy ! thou dear delightful art ! The most ennobling, and the most sublime ! Who, acting rightly thy illustrious part. Art Virtue's handmaid, censor stern of crime. Nature's higli priest, and chronicler of time ; The nurse of feeling ; the interpreter Of purest passion ; — who, in manhood's prime. In age, or infancy, alike canst stir The heart's most secret thoughts : — Thee still I must prefer To worldly honours. Unto thee I owe Nor wealth, nor fame ; yet hast thou given to me Some secret joys the world can iU bestow — Delights, which ope not to its golden key. And bend not to its sordid pride the knee : For thou hast nourish'd, in those lonely hours, That have been spent in intercourse with thee. Kind feelings, chasten'd passions, mental powers. And hopes which look through time. These are not worldly dowers. A DAY IN AUTUMN. 169 For such I thank thee ! Thou hast granted all I could expect in life ; yet, when I must Throw off this mortal nature's fleshly thrall. And yield my outward elements to dust ; When I go down to darkness ; — take in trust Some scatter'd fragments of my transient name. I ask no storied urn, no marble bust : These move me not ; yet could I wish to claim From some few left behind a dearer meed than fame : — I mean that tender feeling, which out-hves. In the survivor's heart, the silent grave. And such as slumber in it ; that which gives To those it mourns for all their hearts would crave. I ask no laurels o'er my turf to wave ; But, when the sun of my brief day be set, I would not so all softer ties out-brave. As not to wish, when those I love be met. For me that cheeks be wan, and eyes with sorrow wet. 170 A DAY IN AUTUMN. And should some portion of my song survive The death of him who frames it ; may it be Such only as may keep his name alive In hearts of spotless truth and purity. Of virtuous feeling, gentle sympathy. And elevated thoughts ; such have I known. IMay these but cherish pensive thoughts of me In some few silent hours, when left alone. And " fame's obstreperous trump" I A^-illingly disown. Of minstrel aspirations now no more : ' Yet, ere, sweet Poesy ! from tliee I turn ; While the fond love of thy delightful lore Bids in my breast thy blameless ardours burn With gentle fires, such as illume the urn Of Hesper, shining in eve's cloudless sky — Fain would I sing, how, unto those who learn To love thee truly, thou canst bliss supply. Though such have never dared their skill in song to try. A DAY IN AUTUMN. 171 " Fain would I sing — much yet unsung remains," How thy pure influence is not all confin'd To such as, hymning thy enchanting strains. Have round their harps undying wreaths entwin'd. Scattering their sweets unto the vagrant wind. Music and odour wafting far abroad ; Until, surcharg'd with raptures so combin'd. Soul, sense, and passion, spell-bound, overaw'd. We venture not to praise, but silently applaud. But there be many, though they ne'er have striven To tune their harps, nor had a harp to tune — Whose warm aflfiections genuine proof have given Of love to thee, by reverencing each boon Thy impulses confer. These, when the moon Unveils her cloudless glory to the sea. Or, on a still and lovely night in June, Shoots her soft radiance through some leafy tree — These at such moments turn instinctively to thee; 172 A DAY IN AUTUMN. Conscious, while soft emotions round them throng. Of more than language ever can convey : Their thoughts are poetry ! their feelings — song ! As if they dwelt not in these forms of clay. But walk'd with spirits. Or if such should stray. Like me, in those departed hours I sing. When nature's charms were yielding to decay. With chosen friends among them loitering — To such an Autumn day no transient joy may bring. I must not linger,- though well pleas'd I might, (And Memory would enjoy the dear delay) Upon each hour that wing'd its noiseless flight Over my head on that delightful day. Yet would I not, in this my faint essay To trace its tranquil pleasures, AVTong it so. As not endeavour briefly to portray Our morning's ride ; though lacking power to show Those lovely scenes attir'd in Autumn's richest glow. A DAY IN AUTUMN. 173 For they indeed were beautiful ! we drove Through bowering lanes; their lofty trees, between, Whose leaves were ting'd with colours far above Spring's gayest flowers, or turf of freshest green : Their blending shades of every tint were seen ; Pale amber, half transparent in the ray Of the bright sun ; AA'hile others, in his sheen Assum'd more gorgeous beauty ; others, gray, Wither'd, and lifeless now, bestrew'd our narrow way. Nor was the distant scenery aught surpass'd By nearer objects: there, expanding wide, And by unclouded sunshine brightly glass'd, Flow'd, Orwell ! thy serenely rippling tide. Hemm'd in by hilly slopes on every side. Whose tufted woods upon its margin break. It more resembled, as by us descried. Some quietly reposing inland lake. Than ocean's briny branch, Mhich ebb and flow o'er- take : 174 A DAY IN AUTUMN. And on its bosom, mark'd by vivid gleam Of sunny glory, peacefully did sleep A single vessel, whose white sail might seem Tlie lonely monarch of its little deep : And where its banks arose abruptly steep. Though cliffs it boasts not, lines of lengthen'd shade Over its silvery breast appear'd to creep : Yet those soft shado^vy lines but lovelier made Its sjiarkling radiance seem, by contrast's height'ning aid. OrAvell ! lov'd stream, at thought of thee I pause. To pay that tribute thou mayst justly claim. Scene of my boyish pleasures ! for that cause Worthy such song as IMuse of mine can frame. Not mine the power to bid thy cherish'd name To aught of classic dignity aspire ; Yet all I can bestow of fleeting fame Thy sweet recesses from my song require. And well might these demand a worthier, louder lyre. A DAY IN AUTUMN. 175 England may boast of streams more beautiful, IMore boldly grand^, romantically wild ; From whose enchanting banks a bard might cull Rich flowers of fancy as he rov'd beguil'd. With rocks on rocks around him rudely piled. Whose clustering pinnacles half hide the sky : — But storm has seldom lower'd, or sunshine smil'd Upon a stream, whose features could supply With harvests passing thine a poet's quiet eye. The bolder forms of mountain scenery. When floating mist, or gleam of partial light. With picturesque efi^ect enchants the eye, Cojnmand that praise thy quiet charms invite : But though the former fill the roving sight With mute astonishment, ere long it grows Sated with wonder, and, bewilder'd quite. Longs for some scene on which it may repose; Such scenes as thy sweet banks so lavishly disclose. ]76 A DAY IN AUTUMN. Thus in the deepest, strongest fascination Beauty can boast, in woman's lovely face, Cliarms there may be that waken admiration. When Jir St beheld, that have no dwelling-place On INIemory's tablet ; while thereon we trace Features less perfect, and less mark'd at first, But made indelible by softer grace ; Too unobtrusive all at once to burst Upon the gazer's soul : — once known, for ever nurs'd With cherish'd fondness, for the much lov'd sake Of purest happiness, Avhich these alone Have had the power A\athin our hearts to wake, By loveliness peculiarly their own. Such faces live, e'en when that life is flown Which made their smiles so truly eloquent, And gave such harmony to every tone And accent, that, united with them, lent Unto their passing spell an influence permanent. A DAY IN AUTUMN. 177 They rise upon us in our sweetest dreams By night ; they break on sorrow's cloudiest day ; And on the soul far more than sunshine gleams From their blest smiles : it seems a heavenly ray Vouchsaf 'd to dash the darkness all away. And let in glorious light upon the soul. Alas ! too rare their visits, brief their stay ; Such soothing visions own not our control ; They rise, they shine, they set — like orbs in heaven that roll. Orwell, farewell ! thy cherish'd image must Be with me as a thing that cannot die. Until my memory shall resign its trust Of what life's brightest moments can supply — Hopes, friendships, love, that charm'd me, and pass'd by: Though far apart, perchance, we may not sever ; And sometimes I may gaze, with pensive eye. Upon thy ^"inding shores ; yet never, never. Canst thou recal again enjojTnents fled for ever ! N 178 A DAY IN AUTUMN. And now our morning's ride is ended ; past Another social meal ; and closing eve TeUs him who frames this legend, that at last Of the kind circle he must take his leave. Nor would he foolishly repine, or grieve. Though some there be whom he may meet no more; E'en should it prove so, why should this bereave His breast of some sweet thoughts unknown before. Which friends till then unmet have added to its store ? No ! every object worthy of our love. Esteem, or friendship, in a world like this, (Where mortal man, a pilgrim doom'd to rove. Some thorns of anguish cannot hope to miss) — Must, when cncounter'd, wear the form of bliss. And e'en confer it ; though its angel smile. Like a bright star in night's profound abyss. By clouds surrounded, beam but for awhile ; Yet when it does break forth, the gloom it may be- guile. A DAY IN AUTUMN. 170 And if its loveliness awaken ausht »" Of grateful feeling ; if it leave behind Of human nature one relenting thought. Gentle, affectionate, indulgent, kind ; Convincing us how closely are entwin'd All human hearts whose element is Love ; — O ! doubt not then it boasts a charm refin'd. The momentary joys of sense above. Which He who form'd the heart will graciously approve. The day is over ; it is night, dark night ! But such as should succeed a day so fair : Nought is there in its darkness to affright ; No gusty winds approaching storms declare. But peaceful silence fills the dewy air : E'en such a night as nwv, %vith voiceless spell, Has gather' d round me : can I then forbear A little longer o'er my task to dwell — The present hour to paint ; Night's calm delights to tell } n2 180 A DAY IN AUTUMN. Soul-soothing season ! period of repose ! Or calm, collected thought, which day debars ! Can language paint, can Poetry disclose The magic of thy silence, dews, and stars ? When the loud mirth of day no longer mars Our better feelings with its empty sound When we forget, awhile, the cruel jars Our souls in worldly intercourse have found. How welcome are thy shades, with peaceful quiet crown'd ! They gather round us, from their silent \\'ings Scatt'ring kind blessings ; to the wretched, dear : Prosperity to gaudy day-light clings. But thou art Sorrow's chosen, meek compeer : Thou hid'st her from the cold and heartless sneer Of wealth's sleek minions, piude's contemptuous crew ; Hushest her sigh, conceal'st her bitter tear ; And, by thy healing influence, dost renew Her fortitude to bear ! her courage to subdue ! A DAY IN AUTUMN. 181 Thee the poor Poet blesses : who so well. With grateful heart, may hymn thy praise, as he. Who hears with joy the friendly curfew-bell Proclaim that fancy, feeling, thought are free ? Then for awhile his spirit seems to be In bless'd communion with the great of yore. To whom the knowledge of their age in fee Seem'd granted as a portion ; still their store Contains exhaustless wealth for study to explore. Or would such lonely student turn ^vith^n, Anxious to know, and use the treasures there ; ]More from thy thoughtful watches he may win. Than day's turmoil will suffer him to dare. '•' A tower, where he might oft out- watch the Bear," Was Milton's aspiration ; thought sublime ! A gem thy star-lit brow may proudly wear. And he might justly offer Thee, whose rhyme Has prov'd thy silent hours the noblest part of Time. K)2 A DAY IN AUTUMN. What various charms are thine ! for still in Thee Is ample scope for Poesy's fair themes ; And Thou, O Night ! art guardian of the key That opes the portal of the land of dreams. Touch'd by thy wand, our roving fancy teems With things to which Day has no parallel ; And gentlest forms, that shun its garish beams — Sprites too ethereal upon earth to dwell — Fling round the Poet's couch a soft mysterious spell. But some there be who scorn such wilder Hight, As joy ideal, unsubstantial, vain ; And some are strangers to the calm delight Thy power bestows on Sorrow's pallid train : Yet even these may bless thy tranquil reign ; For thy revolving periods health renew Unto our wearied nature ; flush again Beauty's wan cheek, curtain her eye of blue, Or with fresh splendours fill its orb of darker hue. A DAY IN AUTUMN. 1B3 One topic more, O Night ! will yet intrude Upon my serious thought, while hymning Thee : — Thou art the emblem, type, similitude Of silence yet more awful ; although we Regret the approach of Death's dark night to see ! Father of mkrcies ! Thou, whose goodness gave Thy Son Belov'd, man's sacrifice to be ; Grant that in life's last hour my soul may crave. Nor crave in vain. His love to light me through the Grave ! 184 PITY FOR POOR LITTLE SWEEPS. The morn was dark, the wind was high With many a gusty swell ; And from the moonless, starless sky The rain in torrents fell : An hour it was when sleep seem'd dear. And wakefulness allied to fear. 'Tis pleasant, on a summer night. From tranquil rest to wake. And see the moonbeams' silvery light In gentle glory break Through opening clouds or leafy trees. Whose whispers own the passing breeze. PITY FOR POOR LITTLE SWEEPS. 185 And 'tis delightful, just as day Illumes the eastern skies. To hear the first bird's matin lay. Or cock's shrill clarion rise ; To list, with unclos'd lids, and then Gently to sink in sleep again. But, on a stormy winter morn. When all is dark and drear ; When every sound, too, seems forlorn Which breaks upon the ear, — If sleep be from the pillow gone. The restless hours creep slowly on. Such lot was mine not long ago ; When to my ear was brought A plaintive outcry, faint and low, - , At first as faintly caught ; But soon the doleful whine of " Sweep .'" Betray'd its source, and " murder'd sleep." For who could sleep, while such a strain. By childish accents pour'd. Brought all its wretchedness and pain To be by thought explor'd. And Fancy felt compell'd to range Through sufferings varied, new, and strange ? Ui6 PITY FOR POOR LITTLE SWEEPS. The sea-boy, in the fearful din Of wild waves crested white, Constrain'd the top-mast's height to win In some tempestuous night, — His giddy, awful task may scan With feelings worthy of a IMan. The winds may rock him to and fro. The thunder loudly rave. The lightnings flash, the waves below ]\Iay yawn, — an opening grave ; Yet with him to his post may climb The germs of sentiments sublime ; — Of danger brav'd, of honour won By confidence and skill ; Memories of feats by others done ; Proud hopes he may fulfil ; And cheering tlioughts within may glo^v Of messmates' watchful eyes below. But thou, poor abject child ! Avhosc cry StiU haunts my memory's ear. What can thy weary lot supply The aching heart to cheer ? Poor outcast, what a doom is thine ! And nought save fruitless pity mine. PITY FOR POOR LITTLE SWEEPS. 187 To brave the stormy winter's morn. Half naked, sparely fed ; Dark, dangerous labyrinths forlorn, With limbs benumb'd, to thread ; To lead this life from day to day. Of filth and misery the prey; — To have been train'd to such a course By menaces and blows ; To follow it with pain, perforce. Through all its varied woes ; — A weary lot is thine, indeed. Which, thus epitomiz'd, can plead. Yet thou, poor Child ! wast once, perchance, A widow's darling joy. Whose speaking smile and sparkling glance Dwelt fondly on her boy; Whose heart for thee fram'd schemes of bliss, Whose lips press'd thine with many a kiss. But she is dead ! and thou art left To live thy weary day ; Of friends, of parents, hope bereft. With none to cheer thy way ; With none thy footsteps to reclaim From ignorance, and vice, and shame. 188 PITY FOR POOR LITTLK SWEEPS. What though to outward sight thou wear The human form divine. How desolate thy scanty share Of what it should enshrine, — Of all that is Religion's fruit. And raises IMan above tlie Brute ! Yet hast thou an immortal Soul, For which a Saviour died ; And thou, at Judgment's awful goal. Thine audit must abide : — A solemn thought this, sure, should he To those who now might rescue Thee ! 189 HYMN. Give glory unto God on high ! To Him who arch'd the vaulted sky ; Who mighty Earth's circumference spann'd. And weigh'd its waters in his hand ; Who form'd the countless orbs that gem Dark Night's resplendent diadem ; Gave life unto each living thing ; Created IVIan their earthly king ; Then gave his Son for man to die ; — Give glory unto God on high. 190 HYMN. Give glory to tlic Son, wlio came Cloth'd in our fieshlyj mortal frame ; Who bore our sins, vouchsaf 'd to give Himself to die, that we might live ; Who — holy, harmless, undefil'd. Was patient — spurn'd, was dumb — revil'd ; Who, in the agonies of death, Pour'd for his foes his parting breath ; Was perfect God and Man in one ; — Give glory to the Incarnate Son ! Give glory to the Holy Ghost ! Who, on the day of Pentecost, From heaven to earth in mercy came, Descending as in tongues of Hame ; The promis'd Comforter and Guide, Through whom the soul is sanctified ; Who still is manifest within. To prompt to good, convict of sin ; — Ye saints on earth, ye heavenly host, Give glory to the Holy Ghost ! HYMN. 191 Join all on earth, in heaven above, In honour, blessing, glory, love ! Sing praises to the great I AIM ; Sing praises to the spotless Lamb ; Sing praises to that Power Divine Who sanctifies the inner shrine ; That so the Father's glorious Name All creatures hallow'd may proclaim ; And, through the Spirit shed abroad. Confess that Jesus Christ is Lord ! Though Reason gives not finite IVIan Divine infinitude to scan, Yet Man may his Creator own ; May bow before a Saviour's throne ; The Comforter wdth awe receive ; Their true Divinity believe : And while he chants the Father's love. Who sends the Spirit from above To win dominion for the Son — With joy confess that God is One ! 192 THE MANIAC; WRITTEN AFTER READING TUKE 6 ACCOUNT OF THE RETREAT. To see the liuman mind o'erturn'd ; Its loftiest heights in ruin laid ; And Reason's lamp, which brightly burn'd, Obscur'd, or quench'd in frenzy's shade — A sight like this may well awake Our grief, our fear, for Nature's sake. It is a painful, humbling thought — That the proud empire of the mind. With wit endow'd, with science fraught, Is fleeting as the passing wind ; And that the richest boon of Heaven To man — is rather lent than given. THE MANIAC. ^^^'^ To-day he sits on Reason's throne. And bids his subject powers obey ; Thought, IMemory, Will, all seem his own. Come at his bidding, list his sway : To-morrow, from dominion hurl'd, IMadness pervades the mental world ! Yet think not, though forlorn and drear The IManiac's doom, his lot the worst ; There is a suffering more severe Than these sad records have rehears'd : — 'Tis his — whose virtue struggles still In hopeless conflict with his will. There are before whose mental eye ■ Truth has her chastest charms display'd ; But gaudier phantoms, flutt'ring by. The erring mind have still betray'd ; Till gathering clouds in awful night Have quencli'd each beam of heavenly light. There are whose mental ear has heard " The still small voice !" yet, prone to \\'rong, Have proudly, foolishly preferr'd The sophist's creed, the siren's song ; And stak'd, upon a desperate throw. Their hopes above, their peace below. o 194 THE 3IANIAC. There are whose mournful days present One constant scene of painful strife ; Who hourly for themselves invent Fresh conflicts ; — till this dream of Life Has made their throbbing bosoms ache ; And yet, alas ! they fear to wake. With their's compar'd, the Maniac's doom, Though abject, may be counted blest ; His mind, though often veil'd in gloom. At times may know a va6ant rest : — Not so while thought and conscience prey Upon the heart which slights their sway. O Thou ! whose cause they both espouse. In mercy bid such conflict cease ; Strengthen the wakening sinner's vows. And grant him penitence and peace. Ere frenzied anguish o'er the soul The dark'ning clouds of horror roll. 195 WINTER EVENINGS. The Summer is over. The Autumn is past. Dark clouds round us hover. Loud whistles the blast ; But clouds cannot darken, nor tempests destroy, The soul's sweetest sunshine, the heart's purest joy. The bright fire is flinging Its splendour around ; The kettle, too, singing. And blithe is its sound : Then welcome in evening, and shut out the day. Its soul-fretting troubles — O ! tempt not their staV' <)2 196 WINTER EVENINGS. Of care, and of sorrow. Each day brings its share ; From eve let us borrow Fresh patience to bear : And the clouds that pass o'er us by day shall look bright In the gentle effulgence of evening's warm light. Our days are devoted To trial and toil ; To conflicts unnoted ; And scanty their spoil : No respite for feeling has day-light made known, But the quiet of evening may still be our o^\■n. Our path is no bright one From morning till eve ; Our task is no light one Till day takes its leave : But now let us gratefully pause on our wdx, And be thankfully cheerful, and blamelessly gay- We'll turn to the pages Of History's lore ; Of Bards and of Sages The beauties explore ; And share, o'er the records we love to unroll. The calm " feast of reason, the flow of the soul." WINTER EVENINGS. 197 To you, who have often. In life's later years. Brought kindness to soften Its cares and its fears — To you, with true feeling, your Poet and Friend The joys you have heighten'd may fondly commend. When sorrow has sadden' d. Your smiles shed their light ; When pleasure has gladden'd, You made it more bright : And with you Winter Evenings enjoyments can bring More dear to your IMinstrel than Mornings of Spring. 198 SONNET TO PATIENCE. Bright are Hope's laughing eyes, and sweet the smile Playing on Fancy's lips ; and Pleasure's brow, Unfurrow'd yet by Sorrow's ruthless plough, Has beauty which the thoughtful may beguile To brief forgetfulness. E'en I, erewhile. Thought these were beautiful ; but lovelier Tliou, Beneath whose influence I would gladly bow, Howe'er the World thy gentle charms revile. Thy parentage 'twere needless to inquire ; For those who love thee trace thy high descent. Pure as that peace which is thy element. From holy Faith, who is thy heaven-born Sire ; Thy IMother — meek-eyed Love, whose thoughts aspire To be in every state and lot content. 199 PRAYER FOR GOSPEL-LIGHT. Moreover the light of the moon shall be as the light of the sun, and the light of the sun shall be seven-fold, as the light of seven days, in the day that the Lord bindeth up the breach of his people, and healeth the stroke of their wound." Isaiah, xxx. 26. Arise, arise, thou glorious Light ! Surpassing that of day, And o'er the spirit's starless night Diffuse thy dawning ray : Thy gentle splendour, from on high. Alone can holy hope supply To pilgrims Zion-ward, Alone can dissipate their fear. And tell them that the time draws near Of healing from the Lord : — 200 PRAYER FOR GOSPEL-LIGHT. The time for binding up the breach Which sin and death have made ; For healing wounds beyond the reach Of Reason's vaunted aid : Of such our spirits own the woe ; A mightier must the bahn bestow ; — But all around is dark ; Night stiU our onward path enshrouds, And, to the spirit's eye, its clouds Are resting on the Ark. Fain would we turn to thee, O Lord ! For we have wander'd far ; But, while our wand'rings are abhorr'd. We wait thy guiding star : That star the Eastern Sages saAV, And follow'd with devoted awe. O ! bid its light arise ; Disperse the clouds that veil our ark. That we may journey toward the mark,- Press forward for the prize. PRAYER FOR GOSPEL-LIGHT. For us that glorious Child was born ; For us vouchsaf d to give Himself to poverty and scorn ; And died, that we might live ; For us the Holy Spirit's tones Plead, in unutterable groans. Before thy mercy-seat : Then open on our mental eye Thy joyful day-spring from on high. To guide our erring feet. While in thine outward Word we trace Each promise of thy love. Grant us thy gift of saving Grace, Their life and power to prove : Give us in living faith to feel A Saviour every wound can heal. And every breach repair ; That so each feeling and each thought Into obedience may be brought. And perfect love declare. 201 202 PRAYER FOR GOSPEL-LIGHT. Then on the moonlight path we tread, Thy sun shall pour its rays ; That sun, no more cclips'd, shall shed Around a seven-fold blaze ; And we, in light, and faith, and love. Shall journey to our home above, A City pure and bright, Wliere Sun nor Moon thy power declare. Nor e'en a Temple rear'd for prayer ; But Thou, O God ! art present there. Thy presence — praise and light ! 203 WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. Though sleepless nights and weary days Awhile my portion be. Teach me, O Lord ! in prayer and praise To lift my heart to Thee : In prayer — for faith and patience still ; For hopes that soar above ; For meek submission to Thy will ; Conviction of Thy love : — In praise — for mercies left me yet. With grateful thoughts to share ; — O ! teach my heart to feel the debt My tongue cannot declare ! 204 WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. ]\Iy heart, my tongue ! — Lord ! what am I, That I the knee shoukl bend. Or hope, where angel voices vie. My praises should ascend ? My only hope — a worm of earth I For praise or prayer of mine. Must be, as these derive their birth From thy pure Grace Divine. Be this their source : then may they rise Before Thy holy throne ; There plead a Saviour's sacrifice, xVnd trust His power alone. So shall the hosts, who ne'er have striven With sin and guilty shame. More sweetly still, for Man forgiven, Give glory to Thy Name ! 205 A POET'S NOBLEST THEME. The works of Man may yield delight. And justly merit praise ; But, though awhile they charm the sight, That charm in time decays : The Sculptor's, Painter's, Poet's skill, — The art of Mind's creative will, In various modes may teem ; But none of these^, however rare Or exquisite, can Truth declare A Poet's noblest theme. 206 A poet's noblest theme. The Sun, uprising, may display His glory to the eye. And hold in majesty his way Across the vaulted sky; Then sink resplendent in the west. Where parting clouds his rays invest With beauty's softest beam ; — Yet not unto the Sun belong The charms, which consecrate in song A Poet's noblest theme. The ]VIoon, with yet more touching grace. The silent night may cheer. And shed o'er many a lonely place A charm to feeling dear ; The countless stars which grace her reign, A voiceless, but a lovely train. With brilliant light may gleam ; But she, nor they, though fair to see. And forni'd to love, can ever be A Poet's noblest theme. A poet's noblest theme. 2(>i The Windsj whose music to the ear With that of Art may vie. Now loud awakening awe and fear. Then soft as pity's sigh ; — The mighty Ocean's ample breast. Calm or convuls'd, in Avrath or rest, A glorious sight may seem ; — But neither winds, nor boundless sea. Though beautiful, or grand, can be A Poet's noblest theme. The Earth, our own dear native Earth ! Has charms all hearts may own ; They cling around us from our birth — More lov'd as longer known : Her's are the lovely vales, the wild And pathless forests, mountains pild On high, and many a stream. Whose beauteous banks the heart may love ; Yet none of these can Truth approve A Poet's nobkst theme. 208 A poet's noblest tiiejie. The Virtues, wliich our fallen estate With foolish pride would claim, May, in themselves, be good and great ; To us an empty name : Truth, Justice, Mercy, Patience, Love, May seem with ]Man on earth to rove. And yet may onlif seem : To none of these, as Man's, dare I The title of my verse apply — " A Poet's noblest theme." To God alone, whose Power divine Created all that live ; To God alone, can Truth assign This proud prerogative : — But how shall Man attempt IIis praise, Or dare to sing in mortal lays Omnipotence supreme ! When Seraph Choirs, in Heaven above. Proclaim His Glory, and His Love, Their noblest, sweetest theme ? A poet's noblest theme. 209 Thanks be to God ! His Grace has shown How sinful man on earth May join the songs which round his throne Give endless praises birth : He gave His Son for man to die ! He sent His Spirit from on high To consummate the scheme : O be that consummation blest ! And let Redemption be confest A Poet's noblest theme. 210 TEMPORALS AND SPIRITUALS. What is lovelier far than the Spring can be. To the gloom of dark Winter succeeding. When the blossoms are blushing on flower and tree. And the lambs in the meadows are feeding ; While the earth below, and the heavens above, Resound with the anthems of joy and love? 'Tis the Spring of the soul ! when on Sin's dark night A ray from above is descending. And the tear of contrition, lit up by its light. With its beauty is silently blending ; When the heart's brolcen accents of prayer and praise Are sweeter than Nature's softest lays. TEMPORALS AND SPIRITUALS. 211 What is stronger and brighter than Summer's sun, In his noon-tide eftuljience shinino; ? Yet gentler than he, when his goal is won, And his beams in the Avest are declining? More glorious than Summer's most cloudless day. Whose loveliest splendour soon passes away ? 'Tis the Christian's zenith, the Summer of him Whose strength to his God is devoted ; Who, whether his path-way be bright or dim. By mortals admir'd or unnoted — From strength to strength, and from grace to grace. Outshines the Sun in his glorious race. What is richer than Harvest ? what gladdens the heart Beyond Autumn, with bounty o'erflowing ? What is wealthier than all the proud trophies of art ; IMore ripe than the red vintage glowing ; Yet majestic and touching as Autumn's eve. When the Sun's calm glory is taking its leave ? 'Tis the Saint's ripe harvest ; the gathering-in To the garner of thanks and of glory ; His prayer and praise for redemption from sin ; His hopes, now his locks are hoary. That the mercy and goodness, vouchsaf'd him long. May still be his stay, and his even-song. p 2 212 TEBIPORALS AND SPIRITUALS. What is stiller and fairer than Winter's night, When the full moon and stars are unclouded ; When earth is bespangled witli glory and light, Though its life deep within it be shrouded ; When all is so calm and so lovely around. That a whisper might startle the ear by its sound ? 'Tis the parting hour of the Saint, when his cheek Is ting'd with delightful emotion ; When his eye and his smile in silence speak The spirit's sublimest devotion ; When his earthly beauty and vigour have flown, But the brightness of Heaven is over him thrown. 213 A MEMORIAL OP JAMES NAYLER, THE REPROACH AND GLORY OF QUAKERISM. I KNOW thy fall to some appears Our sect's reproach and shame ; That the dark clouds of distant years StiU hover round thy name ; That not the sceptic's taunt alone. And bigot's harsh upbraiding tone. Have been to thee unjust ; But some, who ought thy worth to feel. Thy weakness gladly would conceal. And view thee with distrust. 214 A MEMORIAL OF JAMES NAYLER. These think that nothing can atone For such a hipse as thine. And wish oblivion's cnrtain thrown O'er every word and line Which tells of thy o'crclouded hour, Of darkness' and delusion's power. The strange and fearful tale ; As if their silence could efface Each humbling, yet instructive trace Of one who prov'd so frail. Fruitless the wish, if such there be. Thy weakness to forget ; Though there be much combin'd with thee To waken keen regret ; Much to excite compassion's tear ; To prompt humility and fear. And vigilance to teach ; — Yet in thy penitence and shame Not less might strictest Truth proclaim. Which every heart should reach. A MEMORIAL OF JA>IES NAYLER. 215 Be it then known — though dire thy fall, And dark thy error's night. Thy spirit rose from every thrall To liherty and light ; — That, through the Saviour's grace divine, A peaceful, hopeful end was thine. His matchless power to tell ; And Gospel precepts, undefil'd. From lips no more by doubt beguil'd, In dying accents fell. " There is a spirit which I feel That would revenge no -wrong. Whose calm endurance can reveal The Hope that maketh strong ; — That Hope, which can all wrath outlive. Contention's bitterness forgive. The scoffs of pride endure ; Can wear out cruelty; subdue Whatever is oppos'd unto Its nature meek and pure. 216 A MEMORIAL OP JAMES NAYLER. " It sees to all temptation's end ; And^ while it suffers not Aught evil with itself to blendj No brother's name would blot : Betray'd, it bears it, for its ground And spring is IMercy ! — it is crown'd With meekness, love unfeign'd ; It takes its kingdom but by prayer. Not strife, — and keeps with humble care What lowliness has gain'd : " In God alone it can rejoice. Though none regard beside : He only owns its humble voice. Who first its life supplied : In sorrow Avas it first conceiv'd, Brought forth unpitied ; — is it griev'd ? Oppress'd ? — no murmur flows ; Through suffering only comes its joy ; For worldly pleasures would destroy The hidden life it knows. A MEMORIAL OF JAMES NAYLER. 217 " I found this hope, when left alone, From man's communion hurl'd ; Therein sweet fellowship have known With outcasts of the world ; With them who lived in dens of earth. Desolate places, far from mirth ; But whoj through death to sin, A glorious resurrection gain'd. And holy, steadfast hope obtain'd Eternal life to win !" If such thy dying words — if such Thy parting spirit's tone — Should not thy Memory waken much For Fellowship to own ? If few have ever fallen as Thou, Yet few or none can Truth avow So gloriously restor'd ; And plac'd before the Christian's eye A monument to testify The goodness of The Lord ! 218 A MEMORIAL OF JAMES NAYLER. So highly does my spirit prize Thy truly Christian fume. Our History boasts not, in my eyes, A more illustrious Name ; — Not one to which I oftener turn. Afresh the excellence to learn Of watching unto praver ; Of deep humility the worth ; Of Hope, which owes to Grace its birth. Where Nature would despair ; — Of shame and suffering, meekly crown'd With glory from above ; Of strength in conscious weakness found. And life in fervent love : These may be lessons hard to learn By those, who only will discern What outward sense can see ; But fools, in worldly wisdom's view, Confess them excellent and true. Exemplified in Thee. A MEMORIAL OF JAaiES NAYLER. 219 An ardent mind may be decciv'd By wild enthusiast dreams. Then doubt the light it once believ'd. Though brightly still it beams ; But from such visions to awake. Their dark delusions to forsake. And see The Light yet shine ; — To own, to follow, love it still. In self-abasedness of will,-^ Was worthy Faith like thine ! Note. In the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth stanzas of this Poem, I have attempted to embody in verse some of Nayler's expressions on his death-bed, as given in Sewell's History. That I have done very inadequate justice to the original, I cheerfully concede; but the difficulty of success can be only appreciated by those who feel the beauty of that original ; and they, I am sure, would for- give even a failure more complete, for the sake of the feelings which led to the attempt.— There is a simple sublimity, a spiritual unction, if I may so term it, in the style of Nayler's age, which a modern poetical paraphrase can scarcely hope to convey. 220 TO DEATH. It is an awful thing to die ! But did not Man thy form supply With terrors not its own^ Not thus to life would mortals cling, Nor view thee as a gloomy thing To waken fear alone. But we have ransack'd Fancy's realm For frightful symbols to o'erwhelm Life's nerveless^ weakest hour : At distance, Ave defy thy dart ; When thou draw'st nigh, with coward art We aggravate thy power. TO DEATH. 221 Thy form would we personify, A hideous monster greets the eye. Gaunt, ghastly, fleshless, dire ; We give thee emblems, too, as dull — A scythe, and bones, and naked skull. Fresh horrors to inspire. With stifled breath \\e speak thy name, Whene'er this perishable frame Would thy approach declare ; And when we feel that thou art nigh. We turn away, as if to die Were more than man could dare- Not only do we strive to blind Ourselves, — but, with intentions kind. From others we conceal Thy stealthy pace, thy lifted arm. As if our silence had the charm Thy sentence to repeal. Thus to attempt ourselves to cheat, Is folly's, and not wisdom's feat ; And in another's case, 'Twere wiser, kinder, more sincere. To teach the sufferer without fear To look thee in the face. 222 TO DEATH. To doul)t such courage may be won, Is more than Reason's voice to shun ; This might excuse supply ; Not so the covert treason shown To Him, who has thy power o'erthrown, And taught us how to die. Thou mayst be terrible, O Death ! To those who hold by vital breath Each treasure of the heart ; Whose happiness is found below ; Who with this life, must all forego — From all they prize must part. But to the Christian, who, serene. Has look'd through Faith on things unseen - Thy solemn, trying hour Is far from dreadful ; for his soul Knows who can Nature's fears control, And trusts a Saviour's power. His treasure is laid up on high, " Where moth and rust can come not nigh. Nor thieves break through and steal ;" The only bonds which hold him here Are duty, reverential fear. And ties that all should feel. TO DEATH. 2AS But dutyj is he call'd above. Prompts upward, and perfected love Can east out every fear ; And Nature's ties, though strong their force, Are loos'd by God, their purest Source, Who gave them earth to cheer. Then thou, the last and deadliest foe Of IMan, art laid for ever low. No longer to appal ; From sin redeem'd, with humble trust. The spirit waits to join the just. Where God is all in all. And thou art stingless ! while the grave No victory over such can crave ; — Through Faith and Hope sublime. Heaven over Earth the triumph gains ; Joys yet to be o'er present pains ; Eternity o'er Time ! 224 WOMAN. Too oft on thee, in wayward mood, Has Satire pour'd its spiteful lays. And Flattery found its choicest food In greeting thee with servile praise : The artless tribute I would raise. From flattery and from satire free, In simple truth, alone, essays To speak my gratitude to Thee. How vast, how complicate the debt I owe to thee, 'twere vain to tell : — In childhood, can I e'er forget The voice, which, like a soothing spell, Beguil'd each grief ? how softly fell On youth's fond ear a gentler tone ! How sweet, e'en now, it is to dwell On thy lov'd voice, and thine alone ! + + ■ WOMAN. 225 I owe thee much. For I was rear'd Beneath thy kind and fost'ring care ; Thy smiles my earliest joys endear'd ; — As life advanc'd more priz'd they were. Prompting me manhood's ills to bear ; And now, of all created things. Thou, chiefly, chidest dark despair. And unto thee Hope fondly clings. They feel not thy transcendent worth Who love thee most in sun-bright hours ; I know thy smile can heighten mirth, As day-light gladdens opening flowers ; I know that e'en thy playful powers In sportive mood, — thy look, thy voice. When some light cloud around us lowers. Can bid Man's grateful heart rejoice. But 'tis in seasons far more drear. Of outward, inward gloom combin'd. When sorrow knows no bursting tear. But dark despair o'erclouds the mind — 'Tis then in thee the \vretched find That purer, gentler power display' d. Which, fond, yet firm, appears design'd To dissipate each darker shade. Q 226 WOMAN. None, none can paint, who have not known Such hours, what thou canst then reveal ; Tliat charm peculiarly thy own. Which seems, by art that aU can feel, The sufferer from himself to steal ; Tlie balm of sympathy to shed On wounds wliich God alone can heal. And call back hope as from the dead. 'Tis not thy beauty that can give This influence o'er the mourner's heart ; This pure, this high prerogative Is gain'd thee by no studied art : A fever'd spirit's rankling smart Heeds not a face, nor form, nor air ; The charm that thou canst then impart Proclaims that something else is there. It is tlie patient, quiet power Of deep affection, given with birth ; Thy richest, and thy noblest dower. Far, far above thy smiles of mirth : That love which knows no wintry dearth In bleak adversity's chill blast, But whose meek, self-forgetting worth Endures unshaken to the last. WOMAN. 227 Vet though this glorious gift appear Thy nat'ral birth-right here below. Let meek humility and fear Its holiest source both feel and know : JMcre earthly love may come and go. As meteors o'er our path may shine ; But that which lives through care and woe. Religion's influence must refine. This only gives that higher zest To which thy spirit should aspire ; Thy influence o'er IMan's grateful breast By this dominion should acquire : The painter's hues, the poet's lyre. Thy mortal graces may display ; But thou shouldst for thyself desire. And seek a yet more deathless sway. Man is immers'd in worldly cares. And ceaseless conflicts ; — science, fame. Commerce, — the world's uncounted snares — Beset his every earthly aim : Thine is the privilege to claim A more sequester'd path ; — O ! strive To cherish that ethereal flame Which shall mortality survive. q2 228 WOMAN. The busiest life that ]\Ian can lead Has many a moment's breathing space : Seek thou for wisdom, strength to plead In such for pure Religion's grace ; Then shalt thou in thy proper place JNIeekly the Gospel's power adorn, And prove, in more than form or face, " ]Man is," indeed, " of Woman born." 229 THE MOURNER'S HOPE. " The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown." Cowper- Words of more triitli than these Shall Blourner never hear ; Albeit they fail to please ' The Worldling's itching ear. Who by a flowery path that land would gain. Would there with Lazarus live, yet here with Dives reign. Fruitless the idle aim Each earthly joy to woo, And yet expect to claim Heaven's bright reversion too. Who can, like Esau, here his birth-right sell. Yet hope the blessing that on Jacob fell ? 230 THE mourner's hope. Nor need we mourn for this ; — Low — brief — the joys of Time ; But Heaven's immortal bliss Eternal and sublime : And Sorrow's thorny path, if meekly trod. May lead at last to happiness and God ! Let but those thorns, awhile, Which here we must partake. His Spirit reconcile. Who bore them for our sake ; Who through their anguish unto Glory pass'd, And wore them for his dying crown at last. Then, Mourner ! bear thee up ; Be Se^ still sacrific'd; Drink of thy Master's cup ; Be with thy Lord baptiz'd ; Thus art thou His disciple ; and to Thee His Name The Resurrection — Life — shall be ! 231 A RELIQUE OF NAPOLEON, OR VERSES ON A LEAF GATHERED FROM HIS GRAVE. Is this, departed scourge of earth ! A Relique worthy Thee ? In many it would waken mirth. Its littleness to see ; While some — that in my peaceful eyes Such relique should be deem'd a prize, Would more oflFended be ; — And chide the feeling that would save One leaf that flutter' d o'er thy grave. 232 A REHQUE OF NAPOLEON. But to a Poet's tliouglitful view This frail memorial teems With feelings, fancies, tender, true. Worth all ambition's dreams ; Nor could a homily express More on the empty nothingness Of conquest's wildest schemes. Than this poor wither'd leaf displays To meditation's thouglitful gaze. Those who regard with dazzled eye Thy comet-like career. May pass this slight memento by With cold, contemptuous sneer ; And think a pyramid's proud height. To awe, and overwhelm the sight. Should be emblazon'd here. In whose enduring, giant frame. Fancy might typify thy Fame. A RELIQUE OF NAPOLEON- 233 Ill-judging INIen ! Thy reliques foiiiul A tomb by Nature plann'd. And frowning rocks, that hem them round. Their guardians seem to stand : Oft, when those cliffs emerge to sight. Crested Avith clouds, or tipt A\ath light. The seaman's outstretch'd hand Shall show, uprising from the wave. The lonely isle which is thy grave ! What could Ambition's self desire To tell its votary's lot ? Where would its wildest dreams aspire. If this content them not ? Imagination can supply No cenotaph to heart, or eye. Like that rock-girdled spot. Which saw thy sun go down in gloom ; Which was thy prison — is thy tomb ! 234 A RELIQUE OP' NAPOLEON. Had but thy fame (for fame was thine) Been truly good and great. No monument could Art assign With such an one to mate : Those who most idolize thy name Could scarcely wish for thee to claim Sublimer funeral state. Or mausoleum more august To tell thy death, and guard thy dust. For me, though through thy stormy day I reverenc'd not thy power. And mourn'd to see thee cast away A monarch's noblest dower ; Yet often have I tum'd awhile To thee on thy far distant isle. In Fortune's adverse hour ; — Nor Avould I willingly deface This relique of thy resting-place. A RELIQUE OF NAPOLEON- 235 'Tis all I ^vish it : — just enough To waken thoughts of thee. Which need not dread a Slave's rebuff, Much less offend The Free : Let those thy eulogies invent Who to the living tyrant bent A selfish, servile knee : — And they who feel not for the dead, May triumph o'er thy narrow bed. Rather would I, in thoughtful frame. O'er this poor relique bend. Which seems to say, " Of earthly fame Behold the fruitless end : Alike the monarch and the slave. The fool and wise, the base and brave. To silent dust descend : — I sprang up from a buried Chief, And am, like him, a wither'd leaf. 23G A RELIQUE OF NAPOLEOX. " Time was, when o'er his cro;vTiless head INIy beauty lov'd to bow. Green as the victor-wreaths that shed Theirs round his living brow ; Glorious and dazzling as they seem'd. While fickle sunshine round tliem gleam'd, They are — what / am now ! ^ The leaf that withers not is known Upon ' The Tree of Life' alone !" 23: NIGHT-MUSINGS. Hasten, O Lord ! that happj- time When, through thy Spirit's light, Our souls shall offer songs sublime To thee in hours of night ; And own that " few and evil days" Are far too brief to chant thy praise. Hasten the hour, when songs shall rise From hearts that long have slept. As when with holy sacrifice Solemnity is kept ; And gladness of the heart is known Before tjiine omnipresent throne. 238 NIGHT-MUSINGS. As when, with pipe's melodious sound. One goeth to thy Hill, To spread thy glorious praise around. And magnify thy will. Telling what gracious deeds are done By ancient Israel's IMighty One. Not songless would night-watches be. If, through the hours of day. Our hearts, O Lord ! were turn'd to Thee, Their surest, holiest stay ; With earnest cravings to be fed By thee with daily, living bread. But we, a fall'n and sinful race. In quest of shadows roam. O'er look the treasures of thy Grace, Forget our future home ; And day's delights, its cares, and noise. Leave Night no zest for holy joys. O ! hasten, then, that happier hour. When bright within shall shine Thy Holy Spirit's teaching power. With ministry divine. Whose sacred teachings strength can give, And bid the soul obey and live ! NIGHT-MUSINGS. 239 When, througli thy Son's great sacrifice, Our souls shall pardon find. And feel, and own how vast the price He paid for lost mankind — A thought, a feeling, that should raise Unceasing gratitude and praise : — Then shall a song, as in the night. Be given to JMan to sing. And earth's brief darkness shall seem bright Through Heaven's Eternal King : Day unto day shall utter speech ; Night unto night shall knowledge teach. 240 A MEMORIAL OF MARY DYER, ONE OF THE EARLY WORTHIES AND MARTYRS IN THE SOCIETY OF QUAKERS. We too have had our Martyrs. Such wert Thou, Illustrious Woman ! though the starry croAvn Of martyrdom have sate on many a brow. In the World's eye, of far more wide reno^vn. Yet the same spirit grac'd thy fameless end. Which shone in Latimer^ and his compeers. Upon whose haUow'd memories stiU attend IManhood's warm reverence. Childhood's guileless tears. Well did Ihetj win them : may they keep them long ! Their names require not praise obscure as mine ; Nor does my Muse their cherish'd memories wrong, By this imperfect aim to honour thine. A MEMORIAL OF MARY DYER. 241 Heroic Martyr of a sect despis'd ! Thy name and memory to my heart are dear : Thy fearless zeal^ in artless childhood priz'd. The lapse of years has taught me to revere. Thy Christian worth demands no Poet's lay. Historian's pen, nor Sculptor's boasted art : What could the proudest tribute these can pay To thy immortal spirit now impart ? Yet seems it like a sacred debt to give The brief memorial thou mayst well supply ; Whose life display'd how Christians ought to live ; Whose death — how Christian Martyrs calmly die. R 242 IVE-GILL; A DAY DREAM. The brute, the bird, the insect race. Which live their little day. Enjoy their transient dwelling place. Then pass from sight away. Feeling, enjoyment, life are theirs ; But thought, — its bliss or woe. Prospective, retrospective cares. Or joys — they cannot know. To Man has God vouchsaf 'd to give The proud, distinctive poAver, Out of himself, by thought to live. In fancy's busy hour ; To bid imagination wake His ancestors again. Or Avith his latest seed partake Their pleasure and their pain. IVE-GIIiL. 243 Then chide not him, whose musing thought Reverts to days of yore, And comes back bearing visions fraught With speculative store ; Day-dreams of those whose name he bears, The scenes in which they dwelt. Till in their long-past joys and cares He feel as they have felt. The pride that springs from high descent May be no pride of mine ; My lowlier views are well content To claim a hiimbler line : Fancy shall wing no daring flight. And rear no lofty dome — Ive-gill's small hamlet her delight. And Ive-gill's modest home. And now before my mental eye I see a lowly vale ; The silent stars are in the sky. And moonlight's lustre pale Illumes its scatter'd cots and trees. And, with its tuneful song, Louder and steadier than the breeze, IvE gladly flows along : — r2 244 IVE-GILL. It flows on o'er its pebbly bed; And Fancy's wistful ear Is on its gentle music fed With thoughts and feelings dear. — But lo ! a dream-like change takes place : The dawn of day is nigh ; Its bright'ning blush I seem to trace Far in the eastern sky : — The sun comes forth, the valley smiles In morning's blithe array ; The song of birds the ear beguiles From every glist'ning spray ; The bee is on its journey gone To store its humble hive ; And, still in music rolling on, Is heard the gladsome Ive. In such a spot I love to dream That ancestor of mine Once dwelt, and saw on Ive's fair stream IMorn's cloudless glory shine : I love to trace back " kith and kin " To air so fresh and free. And cherish still an interest in The bonnie North countrie ! IVE-GILL. 245 " The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall :" Bright be his glory there ! And sweetly may the moon-beams fall On Eden's waters fair ; And long may memories that I prize Amid those scenes survive. As sweetest sounds to me arise From dear, though distant Ive. No more. — If, Reader ! unto thee My dream but idlesse seems. Remember Fancy, Thought are free To choose their favourite themes : And themes so pure may bless the heart, If, with their strongest claim. One \irtuous impulse they impart To keep a spotless name. Note. A Poet, I think, must be very deficient in those feelings which rank amongst the purer elements of his art, whose imagination does not at times revert to his progenitors. I frankly confess mine often has done so; and I am quite as well content to trace back my remotest ancestor (at no very distant period) to the humble home I have here attempted to describe, as I could have been to have found him enrolled at the Herald's Office. 246 TO MY HOME CIRCLE; WRITTEN IN A VOLUME PRESENTED TO THEM. Whether these pages win for me. In other eyes, a Poet's name, Allow them in your o\vn to be A pledge of Friendship's dearer claim. The proudest fame the World can give Scarce pays the Bard whose wishes roam : The fame for which 'tis sweet to live. Must come from eyes, lips, hearts — at home! 247 A COMMENTARY ON A LINE OF SALVATOR ROSA. " Nasci poena, vita labor, necesse mori." O ! say not that the boon of birth Is punishment alone : God, who bestow'd it, knew its worth ; The gift was all His own — Design'd to serve a noble end. Would but thy thoughts to Him ascend. Think not that Life is nothing more Than labour : — hath it not, 'Mid paths by thorns besprinkled o'er. Full many a flowery spot. Whence gentle feelings, musings high. May soar to immortality .'' 248 A COMMENTAUY, ETC Nor look on Death, IVIan's latest foe. As necessary ill : Seek but Thy Saviour's power to know, And do thy JMaker's will — And Death, the end of care and strife. Shall be the door of endless life ! 249 TO MY CARLISLE COUSINS; ON THEIR PRESENTING ME WITH THE PORTRAIT OF MY FATHER. My courteous Cousins ! you have won. Both from the Poet and the Son, Thanks publicly recorded ; And could I hope my lay might give Your praise in deathless verse to live. You should be well rewarded. But see how hopeless is my case ! CowPER, with all a Poet's grace. And all a son's affection. Has so pre-occupied the ground. That my poor verse, by his, were found Unworthy of inspection. 2i)0 TO MY CARLISLE COUSINS. When I peruse the page, whose fame Enshrines his Cousin Bodham's name. It chills my emulation : To rival it I could not hope; And who, where feeling should have scope, ' Could stoop to imitation ? Themes which comparisons i?ivile Put minor Bards in doleful plight ; 'Tis policy to shun them : Then let warm thanks, in one brief line, Content a grateful heart like mine, And yours, who well have won them. 251 STANZAS COMPOSED IN THE LIBRARY AT BENHALL RECTORY, O ! I methinks could dwell content A spell-bound captive here ; And lind^ in such imprisonment. Each fleeting moment dear ; — Dear, not to outward sense alone. But thought's most elevated tone. '»' The song of birds, the hum of bees. Their sweetest music make ; The March winds, through the lofty trees. Their wilder strains awake ; Or from the broad magnolia leaves A gentler gale its spirit heaves. 252 STANZAS. Nor less the eye enraptur'd roves O'er turf of freshest green. O'er bursting flowers, and budding groves. And sky of changeful mien. Where sunny glimpses, bright and blue. The fleecy clouds are peeping through. Thus sooth'd, in every pausing mood. How sweet each gifted page. Rich with the mind's ambrosial food. The JMuses' brighter age ! How sweet, communion here to hold With them, the IMighty Bards of old ! With them — Avhose master spirits yet In deathless numbers dwell. Whose works defy us to forget Their still-surviving spell ; — That spell, which lingers in a name. Whose very echo whispers Fame ! Could aught enhance such hours of bliss. It were in converse known With him who boasts a scene like this. An Eden of his own ; Whose taste and talent gave it birth. And well can estimate its worth. 253 RECOLLECTIONS OF A VISIT TO CAMBRIDGE. One calm and lovely even-tide. And one long, joyous summer-day, Granta ! thy classic stream beside, A wand' ring Bard, I chanc'd to stray : Though long those hours have flown away. And dream-like now their memories live ; Yet oft-times does their gentle sway A hush'd and pensive pleasure ^ive. 'Tis soothing to look back on hours So sweet, though they have long since fled Time has but given yet deeper powers To aU that fancy, feeling fed : — Years but a softer tint have shed On what was beautiful and bright ; And Memory o'er the scene but spread The mildness of her lunar light. + + 254 RECOLLECTIONS. In sliadoAvy gleams oft rise to view. In moods of meditative thought. Each separate feature's form and hue. As then its loveliness was caught : Yet is that indistinctness fraught With feelings that enhance the whole. When, like a silent dream, 'tis brought Before the vision of the soul. And seldom sleep has shed o'er me Visions more lovely in my eyes. Than, Granta ! when I turn to thee. Before the A^ew of thought arise. First ting'd in sun-set's richest dyes. Thy choirs and cloister'd roofs I trace ; And then the hue of moon-light skies Lends thy tall spires a gentler grace. The morn now rises on thy towers As brightly as it then arose ; Thy mossy turf, thy walks, thy bowers, Touch'd by its ray, new charms disclose : As noon-tide's splendour fiercer glows, Thy cloister'd walks, thy gardens fair, Invite the wanderer to repose. And woo the coolness ling'ring there. RECOLLECTIONS. 255 When I, a nameless stranger, sought These scenes, all silent they appear'd ; And as I roam'd in musing thought. Which no intruding footstep fear'd. Far more that loneliness endear'd Each garden-walk, each pillar'd shade ; And Art's proud structures, round me rear'd, Seem'd haunts for quiet musing made. Of Greece — of Rome^ the antique lore. To me is but a volume seal'd. Save but for those, who heretofore For me have plough'd that richer field. And bade our English garden yield Faint semblance of the glorious spoil. Which there luxuriantly reveal'd. Repays the scholar's midnight toil. Granta ! if then — no son of thine, I roam'd through chapel, cloister, hall ; — If none of that proud thrill was mine, ' Which they alone can feel, who call Thee " IMoTHER blest" to them : — on all I look'd with, no repining eye. But felt that purer, better thrall. Which haunts like thine may well supply. 256 RECOLLECTIONS. And now, though distant far the day When through those scenes I fondly rov'd. Yet in them Memory can survey IMuch worthy to be priz'd and lov'd ; — Much on which Fancy unreprov'd With pleasure unalloy'd may dwell. And grateful feelings, not unmov'd. May cherish as no vulgar spell. 257 TO A NAMELESS FRIEND. Once more for thee my grateful Muse Her tributary strain renews ; Though verse of mine can feebly speak Thoughts wliich for utterance vainly seek. Did I not know the modest pride With which thou lov'st from man to hide Each act of gen'rous kindness shoMTi, — Thou shouldst not thus be thank'd unknown. But some there are who love to shun The tribute they have justly won ; Who thanks and praise alike disclaim ; " Do good, and blush to find it fame." 258 TO A NAMELESS FRIKND. These, tlicse are they who sow beside The waters that in silence glide. Trusting no echo will declare That they have ever Avander'd there. Their noiseless footsteps pass away ; The stream flows on, as yesterday ; Nor would it by the eye be seen . A benefactor there had been. O ! think not that the seed is dead. Which such in lonely spots have spread : It lives ! it lives ! the spring is nigh. And soon its life shall testify. That silent stream, uncultur'd ground. No more unlovely shall be found ; But scatter'd flowers, of simplest grace. Shall clothe the solitary place. The loiterer there may never know Who bade the flowers around him glow ; The sower may carefully conceal What many proudly may reveal : — TO A NAMELESS FRIEND. 259 Tlie flowers may wither ; — but their seed That spot, once desolate, shall feed ; Still lingering blossoms shall betray What such a soil can ill repay. And, soon or late, a time will come. When witnesses, that now are dumb. With grateful eloquence shall tell From whom the seed there scatter'd fell. s2 260 VERSES ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING, ADDRESSED TO MY LITTLE PLAY-FELLOW. Rejoice, m}'- little merry mate ! The blithesome Spring is coming, When thou shalt roam, with heart elate. To hear the wild bee humming ; To hear the \vild bee humming round. The primrose sweetly blowing. And listen to each gentle sound Of gladsome music flowing. The birds shall sing from many a bower, Joy like thy own obeying ; And, round full many a blooming flower, The butterfly be playing ; — Be playing, love ! on wings as light As heart in thy young bosom. And showing tints as fair and bright As does the opening blossom. VERSES ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 261 The snow-drops, by our garden-walk, Long since to life have started ; They wither now upon the stalk; Their beauty is departed : Their beauty is departed, — but Flowers in the fields are springing. Which by and by shall ope and shut. As to the glad birds' singing. The robin, from the pear-tree bough. Gives us of song our ear- full ; The morns are getting lightsome now. The evenings growing cheerful : And soon they'll be more long and light, With warm and pleasant weather ; And we, to see the sun-set bright, IVIay go abroad together. Then shall our summer haunts again Renew their former pleasures ; The poplar grove, the shady lane. For thee be full of treasures : For flowers are treasures unto thee. And well thou lov'st to find them ; To gather them with childish glee. And then in posies bind them. 262 VERSES ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. Spring is to me no merry time ; Its smiles are touch'd with sadness ; For vanish' d, with Life's early prime. Is much tliat gave it gladness : Yet, merry play-mate ! for thy sake I will not sing of sorrow ; But since thou canst its joys partake, I would 'twere Spring to-morrow ! 263 TO THE RIVER DEBEN. Could Muse of mine give fame to thee. Thy name unhonour'd should not be, Nor shouldst thou seek the billov/j' main Without thy tributary strain. Shakspeare has shed on Avon's stream The glory of his quenchless beam ; Nor can the " bonny banks of Doon " Resign their Burns's minstrel boon. While flows the winding Ouse along. It murmurs still of Cowper's song ; And e'en the Lavant's puny wave Recals a hapless Poet's grave. 264 TO THE RIVER DEBEN. An unromantic stream art thou. And I a bard of ^vTeatllless brow ; Yet thou my Isis art, — my Cam ; And I thy lowly laureat am. Have I not seen thy waters bright With the sun's splendour, moon's soft light ? Have I not heard them, rippling near. Make sweetest music to mine ear ? Though many a river's banks outvie Thy own in much that charms the eye. Yet may thy " shelving marge" impart Beauties which win thy minstrel's heart. In graceful curve thy waters glide. And flowery meadows deck thy side. With scatter'd copses, bright and green. And vet'ran trunks where woods have been. And, worthier still of Poet's lay. Beside thy winding current stray Faces as lovely, hearts as kind. As tuneful verse has e'er enshrin'd. TO THE RIVER DEBEN. 265 I sought thy shore a youth unknown. And much of grief has been my own ; Yet sunny gleams from thee, and thine. Have oft forbade me to repine. Though since I knew thee years have sped. And life's, and love's first bloom have fled ; — Their memory gives thee added power To soothe and bless the present hour. Then roll thy waters to the sea. But with them bear one strain from me ; Nor ask I sweeter earthly fame. Than blending with thy own my Name* 266 TO THE OWL. Bird of the solemn midnight hour ! Thy Poet's emblem be ; If arms might be the IMuses' dower. His crest were found in thee : Though flippant wits thy dulness blame. And Superstition fondly frame Fresh omens from thy song ; — With me thou art a favourite bird. Of habits, hours, and haunts, preferr'd To day's more noisy throng. TO THE OWL. 267 Are not thy habits grave and sage. Thyself beseeming well. Like hermit's in his hermitage, Or nun's in convent cell ? Secluded as an anchorite. Thou spend'st the hours of garish light In silence, and alone : 'Twere well if nuns and hermits spent Their days in dreams as innocent. As thine, my bird ! have flown. Are not the hours to thee most dear. Those which my bosom thriU ? Evening — whose charms my spirit cheer. And Night, more glorious still ? I love to see thee slowly glide Along the dark wood's leafy side. On undulating wing. So noiseless in thy dream-like flight. Thou seem'st more like a phantom-sprite Than like a living thing. 268 TO THE OWL. I love to hear thy hooting cry. At midnight's solemn hour. On gusty breezes sweeping by. And feel its utmost power : From Nature's depths it seems to come, Wlien other oracles are dumb ; And eloquent its sound. Asserting Night's majestic sway. And bearing Fancy far away To solitudes profound ; — To wild, secluded haunts of thine. Which hoary eld reveres ; To ivied turret, mould'ring shrine. Gray with the lapse of years ; To hollow trees by lightning scath'd ; To cavern'd rocks, whose roots are bath'd By some sequester'd stream ; To tangled wood, and briery brake. Where only Echo seems awake To answer to thy scream. TO THE OWL. 269 While liabits, hours, and haunts, so lone And lofty, blend with thee. Well mayst thou, bird of night ! be prone To touch thought's nobler key ; To waken feelings undefin'd. And bring home to the Poet's mind. Who frames his vigil-lay. Visions of higher musings born. And fancies brighter than adorn His own ephem'ral day. 270 IZAAK WALTON. VERSES WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF THE COMPLETE ANGLER. Cheerful old man! whose pleasant hours were spent Where Lea's still waters through their sedges glide. Or on the fairer banks of peaceful Trent, Or Dove, hemm'd in by rocks on either side ; — Clieerful old man ! my grateful INIuse would fain Honour thy memory with one votive strain. IZAAK WALTON. 271 Although no brother of the rod and line. Needless such brotherhood a grace to give Unto thy artless pages : these shall shine. And thouj depicted in them, long shalt live. In eyes, and hearts, to which thy art may be A thing unknown, untried, as 'tis to me. But though no angler, loth were I to close Mj better feelings to meek Nature's love, ^Vhich in thy little volume sweetly glows. Bestowing beauty prouder charms above : This to thy quaint simplicity imparts A pleasure ever new to musing hearts : — The quiet gushings forth of genuine feeling ; The simple workings of unworldly thought ; Imaginative glimpses, light revealing. From more than outward sunshine brightly caught : — These are not things thy craft alone may scan ; They speak not to the Aitgler, but the Man. 272 IZAAK WALTON. For while I feel their gentle eloquence, ■ All thy insignia gladly I forget ; Viewing thee in a loftier, nobler sense. And feeling tow'rds thee a more lasting debt. Thy book is redolent of fields and flowers. Of freshly flowing streams, and leafy bowers. And deeper touches hast thou to revere. In which more hidden graces meekly shine, Blending thy own with memories justly dear. And names our hearts with gratitude enshrine ;■ Holy George Herbert, Wotton, Ken, and Donne, The pious Hooker, Cranmer, Sanderson ! Note> Not the mere lovers of angling only, but the cordial lovers of green fields and still waters, the Contemplatist, and the Philoso- pher, are indebted for no sUght gratification to the beautiful reprint of Walton's book, by iMajor, of Fleet-street. + 273 TO A YOUNG LADY, NURSING A SICK CHILD. Young and gay, yet gentle maiden ! Though oft-times my Muse be sad. Think her not so sorrow-laden. But for once she can be glad — Glad to wake a livelier strain ; Do not thou that note disdain. Notes of joy not often waken From this humble lyre of mine ; By the fitful night-breeze shaken, Ivy-^v^eaths its strings entwine : Pendent on the willow tree. How should such be tuned for thee ! T 274 TO A YOUNG LADY, ETC. Yet I'll take it from that willow ; Bid it breathe her gentle praise. Who by childhood's restless pillow Love's fond tribute duly pays ; And, thougli blithe as bird of air, Sits with cheerful patience there. Fair the butterfly, which hovers Summer's gayest flowers above ; Lovelier graces thought discovers In the fondly-watching dove : Beauty charms, and passes by. But Afl*ection cannot die. If but idle Poets' praises. She who wins them thus shall find That the heart's approval raises Richer trophies there enshrin'd : Never praise can greet the ear. Which deserves to be so dear. Love, while duty it discharges, IMakes the heart more lovely still ; Its capacity enlarges. Woman's gentle sphere to fill : — In that sphere what joys combine ! JIMaidcn ! be their sweetest thine. 275 A POET TO HIS CANDLE. Be thou for once thy Poet's theme, Whose cheerful and propitious light Sheds o'er my page its friendly beam. Witness alone of what I write : Though late the hour, thy lustre bright Still shines forth with unalter'd ray ; While I, in more exhausted plight. Feel mine decay. At times, indeed, thy ray but flings A feeble lustre round my room. As though its fitful glimmerings Taught " light to counterfeit a gloom :" Like some lone lamp which cheers a tomb, Its wavering radiance sinks and gleams. Seeming to illustrate the doom Of Poets' dreams. t2 276 A POET TO HIS CANDLE. Then it recals to thought the light Which burns some sick man's bed beside ; Or vvherCj through watches of the night. Some widow'd mother, wakeful-eyed, Hangs o'er her babe till morning tide. And thinks of hours for ever flown, Wlien the fond hopes that thrill a bride Were all her own. But soon these images of woe. Thoughts by thy slumb'ring splendour nurs'd. Like brighter fancies, from me go. And with thy dimness are dispers'd : Decapitated ! — as at first. Thy full effulgence beams once more. And rays yet brighter from thee biirst Than did before. Could but thy Bard be snufli''d like thee. It might revive his languid Muse, Set Fancy's shackled pinions free. And raise Imagination's views : Yet I such snuffing should not choose ; For though mine be an aching head. Rather than I that head would lose, I '11 go to bed ! 27: TO A FRIEND IN SICKNESS. Nay ! thank me not for moments spent Thy hours of pain to cheer : If such to thee have pleasure lent. To me they must be dear ; Nor would I yield what they bestow. For any moods that Mirth can know. They have convinc'd me that, to those Who feel its latent worth. The House of Mourning can disclose Far more than that of Mirth ; — More of those thoughts and views sublime Which are not limited to Time. 278 TO A FHIEND IN SICKNESS- Not that I mean to arrogate. For converse such as ours. Those higher attributes that wait On mind's unfetter'd powers ; For much of weakness has been thine — A Friend's most humble province mine. But though from lassitude or pain Thou art but seldom free. And conversation's loftier vein Be unassum'd by me, — Yet purest Friendship's genuine tone By us has silently been known. Its influence often has shone forth In brighter glance of thine ; Imparted more than native worth To social powers of mine ; And understood intelligence Has been its richest eloquence. Then fancy not, that unto me Thy thanks, thy praise are due : I am rewarded, when I see That cheek its smiles renew ; Or, glancing from that kindling eye, A gleam of brighter light espy. TO A FRIEND IN SICKNESS. 27^ IMore rich has been my recompense. When in thy pensive mien Hope has beheld some evidence Of thought that works unseen; Of feelings, cherish'd in the heart, Which patient gentleness impart. I would not cloud thy brow with gloom By one brief, sober strain : Young as thou art, thou know'st from whom E'en youth may wisdom gain ; Who gives or poverty or wealth. Withholds or grants the boon of health. To gain access to Him, there need But Love, and Faith, and Prayer ; His eye is on the heart, to read The thought up-springing there : His Word has made a Saviour known ; Be simple, child-like faith thy own. Then, though thy present suffering seems At times a weary lot. His Love shall prove, by bright'ning gleams. That He forsakes thee not ; And thou shalt gratefully confess His goodness, and his mercy bless. 280 TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH.* Great Grod ! thy judgments equity fulfil ; To be propitious thou art ever prone ; But I so much have disobey'd thy will, That justice would be shock'd by mercy shoA\Ti. Yes, God ! my wickedness, its depths disclos'd, But leaves the choice of punishment to thee : Thy interest to my pardon stands oppos'd. And e'en thy mercy vengeance craves on me. Pour then thy righteous vials on my head. Since glorious unto thee thy just desire : Be thou offended with the tears I shed — Tears but call'd forth by thy indignant ire. " It is rather hazardous to place a translation beside an ori- ginal ; but conscious, that for the sake of preserving the uniformity TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH. 281 Strike, timely thunder ! -wrong for ^vrath must call ; I, perishing, adore thine anger just : — But on what spot shall e'en thy thunder fall. Whence Christ's atoning blood may plead not from the dust ? of my stanzas, I have in the third expanded two lines into four, it seems only just to give the copy whence my version has been attempted. French Sonnet. Grand Dieu ! tes jugemens sont remplis d'equite; Toujours tu prens plaisir a nous etre propice : Mais j'ai tant fait de mal, que jamais ta bonte Ne me pardonnera sans choquer ta justice. Oui, mon Dieu ! la grandeur de mon impiete Ne laisse a ton pouvoir que le choix du supplice ; Ton interet s 'oppose a ma felicity, Et ta clemence meme attend que je perisse. Contente ton desir, puisqu'il t'est glorieux ; Offense toi des pleurs qui coulent de mes yeux. Tonne ! frappe ! il est temps, rends moi guerre pour guerre t J' adore, en perissant, la raison qui t'aigrit : Mais dessus quel endroit tombera ton tonnerre, Qui ne soit pas couvert du sang de Jesus Christ ? 282 DISAPPOINTMENT. So melt away in empty air. Some hopes, wliose animating sway Had given my spirit strength to bear Its burthen on from day to day : Though oftentimes their long delay Brief sickness of the heart has brought. The recompense they yet might pay. Has shed some gleams of brighter thought. But let it pass, and let them go, As all an idle dream at best : Not worthless was the transient glow Such have awaken'd in my breast : The visions which my fancy bless'd Of labour in a wider sphere ; Of hours employ'd with higher zest. In loftier tasks, — may still be dear. DISAPPOINTMENT. 283 Nor worthless the result may be, Though painful for awhile the blow, If it instruct my eye to see, JMy grateful heart to feel and know — That He who orders all below Has once again display'd his Love, And bade these phantoms come and go. To raise my views to things above. Darkly we scan our power or will His glorious cause to advocate ; We dream the future shall fulfil All Fancy can anticipate ; That, could a diflferent lot await Our onward path, we might be found Among the Avise, the good, the great. Whose efforts with success are crown'd. 'Tis well to cherish such desires. And humbly nurse each lofty aim : He who to no such hope aspires. Degrades the Man's, the Christian's name. The candidate for earthly fame IVIay well the shame of failure shun ; He who a higher meed would claim. Rich recompense may still have won. 284 DISAPPOINTMENT. Even to what appears defeat. Some soothing, noble feelings cling. Which worldly trinmph, e'er so sweet. Could never to its votary bring : Each aspiration opes a spring Of comfort, hid from mortal gaze ; And every struggle wakes a string. Whose slightest touch still vibrates praise ! Pleasant it is, with Avind and tide, To give the canvas to the gale. And on the glassy current glide With steady helm, and swelling sail ; And sweet the destin'd port to hail, A brief and stormless passage o'er. With nothing adverse to bewail. Since first we loosen'd from the shore. Yet is it greater far to brave The dark'ning clouds, the stormy wind. The terrors of the mountain wave. The rocks and quicksands, all combin'd : To brave them \vith a soul resign'd. To good, or ill ; to be, or not ;— Is far more noble, than to find A victory, unoppos'd, our lot. DISAPPOINTMENT. 28.) In his own spirit, Man is still Or most debas'd, or dignified : If there his duty he fulfil, And, faithful to his Heavenly Guide, Walk on in hope ; — though clouds may hide At times his pole-star's cheering ray, Those clouds, at seasons thrown aside. Shall give a glimpse of glorious day : — Of day more bright, and skies more pure. Than ever dawn'd or shone on earth ; Of hopes, that Faith shall render sure. Since Faith alone could give them birth : And, in the all-transcendent worth Of thoughts unearthly and sublime. The soul, with joy surpassing mirth. Shall triumph o'er the cares of Time. 286 SIIMPLICITY AND HUMILITY. " The Lord preservetli the simple : I was brought low, and He helped me." Psahn cxvi. 6. God grantetli to the simple heart The boon of preservation ; And Love Divine will aid impart To true humiliation : Then be, O Lord ! to me assign'd A simple heart — a lowly mind. Think not Simplicity allied To folly, or to Aveakness ; It is obedience, testified By Love, and Faith, and Meekness : Though child-like may aj^pear its charm, 'Tis IManhood's strength in God's right arm. SIMPLICITV AND HUMILITY. 287 Nor in Humility deplore A mean or servile spirit ; Its ^•otaries' hopes to Heaven may soar. Their might — A Saviour's merit : And they, in purer realms above. Be more than conq'rors, through His Love. The simple are the truly wise. The humble the most glorious ; That power and wisdom Heaven supplies, Alone are found victorious : And as Man's nothingness is shown. Salvation from the Lord is known. 288 VIOLETS, A SONNET. Bkautiful are you in your lowliness ; Bright in your hues, delicious in your scent ; Lovely your modest blossoms, doAvnward bent. As shrinking from our gaze, yet prompt to bless The passer-by with fragrance, and express How gracefully, though mutely eloquent. Arc unobtrusive worth, and meek content. Rejoicing in their own obscure reces^. Delightful floAverets ! at the voice of Spring Your buds unfolded to its sunbeams bright : And though your blossoms soon shall fade from sight. Above your lowly birth-place birds shall sing, And from your clust'ring leaves the glow-worm fling The emerald glory of its earth-born light. 289 SABBATH-DAYS; MODERNIZED FROM "SON-DAYES/' IN VAUGHAn's Types of eternal rest — fair buds of bliss. In heavenly flowers unfolding week by week — The next world's gladness imag'd forth in this — Days of whose worth the Christian's heart can speak ! Eternity in Time — the steps by which We climb to future ages — lamps that light IVIan through his darker days, and thought enrich. Yielding redemption for the week's dull flight. Wakeners of prayer in I\Ian — his resting bowers As on he journeys in the narrow way. Where, Eden-like, Jehovah's walking hours Are waited for as in the cool of dav. u 290 SABBATH-DAYS. Days fix'd by God for intercourse with dust. To raise our thoughts, and purify our powers— Periods appointed to renew our trust — A gleam of glory after six days' showers ! A milky way mark'd out through skies else drear, By radiant suns that warm as well as shine — A clue, which he who follows knows no fear. Though briars and thorns around his pathway twine. Foretastes of Heaven on earth — pledges of joy Surpassing fancy's flights, and fiction's story — The preludes of a feast that cannot cloy. And the bright out-courts of immortal glory ! 29] SONNET WILLIAM COWPER. I KNOW how ill my harp, of artless string, Cgii celebrate a Name so dear as thine. Or offer tribute at thy Memory's shrine. Which aught of added fame might hope to bring Unto thy IMuse : but thoughts that fondly cling To hours thy page has brighten'd, would entwine For thee one simple votive Avreath of mine. Which round thy urn with fearful hand I fling. The just Memorial of thy genuine worthy Genius and feelings like thy o^vn must claim. And where can these be found? yet, while the flame Which sanctifies The Altar, and Home's hearth. Shall warm and cheer thy " native nook of earth *," England with gratitude shall bless thy Name. * IMost of my readers will recollect the application of this epithet to his country, by Cowper, in one of the most patriotic passages of his truly English poetry. u2 292 TO MY DAUGHTER. Thy parent stem by death was sear'd. Nor liv'd to nurse thy opening bloom ; And thou hast been a graft uprear'd 'Mid gleams of light, and clouds of gloom. Yet may the memory of that flower Which bore thee, to thy heart be dear ; And, in temptation's darkest hour. Maternal love be ever near. We hope no vintage from the thorn. Though fair and wide its branches spread ; Nor can the purple fig adorn The fruitless thistle's downy head. TO MY DAUGHTER. 293 But when the violet's hue we meet. Where'er the blossom may be found. We hope that perfume still to greet Its parent-flower diffus'd around. There is a richer, sweeter scent. Than e'en the violet can supply; A beauty far more eloquent Than flowers can boast of brightest dye — The fragrance of a spotless name ; The beauty of a soul redeem'd ; Be these, my love, thy chiefest aim. Be these life's noblest end esteem'd. Then shall thy Heavenly Father's Love Thy earthly Sire's defects repair ; And thou, in endless bliss above. Thy angel Mother's lot shalt share. 294 HOME. Where burns the lov'd hearth brightest. Cheering the social breast ? Where beats the foild heart lightest, Its humble hopes possess'd ? Where is the smile of sadness, Of meek-eyed patience born. Worth more than those of gladness, Whicli Mirth's bright cheek adorn ? — Pleasure is mark'd by fleetness, To those who ever roam ; While grief itself has sweetness At Home ! dear Home ! HOME. 295 There blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours of grief. The silver links that lengthen Joy's visits when most brief: There eyes, in all their spendour. Are vocal to the heart. And glances, gay or tender. Fresh eloquence impart : Then, dost thou sigh for pleasure ? O ! do not widely roam ; But seek that hidden treasure At Home ! dear Home ! Does pure Religion charm thee Far more than aught below ? Wouldst thou that she should arm thee Against the hour of woe ? Think not she dwelleth only In temples built for prayer ; For Home itself is lonely Unless her smiles be there : The devotee may falter. The bigot blindly roam ; If worshipless her altar At Home ! dear Home ! 296 HOME. Love over it presideth, With meek and watchful awe. Its daily service guideth. And sliows its perfect law ; If there tliy faith shall fail thee. If there no shrine be found. What can thy prayers avail thee With kneeling crowds around ? Go ! leave thy gift unofFer'd, Beneath Religion's dome. And be her first-fruits proffer'd At Home ! dear Home ! 297 A SPRING THOUGHT. The glad birds are singing. The gay flow'rets springing O'er meadow and mountain, and down in the vale ; The green leaves are bursting ; — My spirit is thirsting To bask in the sunbeams, and breathe the fresh gale. Sweet season ! appealing To fancy and feeling ; Be thy advent the emblem of all I would crave. Of light more than vernal. That day-spring eternal Which shall da^vn on the dark wintry night of the Grave ! 298 BEALINGS HOUSE. A MODEST Mansion, with its garden ground. Where the blithe bee pursues his gladsome chase ; An undulating lawn, where Art's mild grace Is rustic Nature's willing handmaid found ; Fair slopes^ and swelling uplands, cloth'd and crown'd With trees, whose young boughs fondly interlace Their varied foliage ; — such the charms I trace In the familiar landscape smiling round. — Yet, fair as is the scene, its height'ning zest. To me, is not from outAvard features caught. But from bright hours with social converse fraught. When oft, beneath that roof a well pleas'd guest. Pleasure on winged moments has imprest The prouder stamp of fancy, feeling, thought. 299 TO AN OLD DISCIPLE. The votive page that veils thy name. Dares not its simple lay refuse To excellence that well might claim A nobler Bard, a loftier Muse. If mute till noAV my artless song, 'Twas self-denial check'd the strain ; I fear'd so lov'd a theme to vvnrong, — Still more thy humble heart to pain. Yet, would I shun the deep regret Which might, hereafter, wound my heart, If thou, unpaid my Muse's debt, Shouldst from this mortal life depart. 300 TO AN OLD DISCIPLE. I know thou need'st not praise of ]\Ian Thy transient recompense to be ; Yet may'st thou with forgiveness scan Thy honour'd Master's praise in thee. His love allur'd thee in thy youth. From all the fleeting things of Time ; Taught thee the value of His truth. Its purer joys, its hopes sublime. Thou wast obedient to that Light Which faithlessness alone can dim ; And, strengthen'd by thy Saviour's might. Art what thou art through faith in Him. *»'" His grace. His love. His power have lent Thy hoary head its radiant crown ; And He, for whom thy strength was spent. Shall bid thy sun go calmly down. Delightful is it to behold In youlliful hearts the work of Grace ; To see Religion's germs unfold. And growing usefulness to trace : — TO AN OLD DISCIPLE. To Avatch the budding, bursting forth, Of flowers that cannot fade, or die ; Of fruitage, whose immortal worth Shall ripen in a sunless sky. But 'tis more glorious still to mark Young greenness shade a mossy stem. And see a brow, that else were dark. Bright with a heavenly diadem. Religion, thus adorn' d, may wake More than the voice of lyre, or lip. And hallow for The Master's sake. The claims of Old Discipleship. 301 302 A LAST MEMORIAL. G. J. L. Obiit 4 Mo. 16, 1824. " Once in thy mirth thou bad'st me write on thee, And now I write — what thou wilt never see !" Rogers'' s Human Life. With mingled gratitude and grief, Dear Friend ! I bid my final leaf Thy early death record : Thy suff' rings clos'd — our thanks require ; Thy loss may well our grief inspire ; And O ! how justly may my lyre Thy simple dirge award. In hours by Memory now enshrin'd, Thy fancy from these pages twin'd AVreaths round my brow to wave : But long ere noon hath set thy sun r Thy Bard his destin'd task has done ; The flowerless wreath of cypress won — He gives thy early grave ! A LAST MEMORIAL. 303 Not worthless may such offering be To some whose hearts were bound to thee By Nature's fondest ties ; Who o'er thee watch'd in hours of pain^ Who mourn thy loss, though grief be vain. We hope to meet with joy again In brighter, purer skies. Take, then, what justly is thy own. My closing strain : — thus, thus alone * 'Tis meet my task should end : This last memorial shall be Thine ; If there no minstrel graces shine, The Poet's honours I resign. For feelings of The Friend ! THE END. I '!*' LONDON: PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISOX, WHITEFlilARS. 6c UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 380 383 o