 | Blank verse (1798) |  |
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LINES TO A BROTHER.
September 20, 1797.
My Robert, since we met at that abode
How many scenes I've trod; how many joys
And griefs have swoln my breast! Thinking of thee,
Dearest companion of my youthful hours,
I have subdued hard disappointment's pang,
Till it assum'd a shade so soft and sweet,
That it seem'd like very comfort. Oftentimes
Do I recall the days of infancy,
When we did wander hand in hand, and shar'd
Our tears and smiles, our tasks and sports, together.
Thou, younger than myself, hast ever known
How I have labour'd with a fervent zeal
To discipline thy heart for the keen wrongs,
The cruel buffettings that here await
Man journeying heavenward! When passion's gust
Or childhood's fitful pangs gnawing the breast,
Have vex'd the better part, oft have we sought
The lonely walk, and with sincerest love
Pouring out all our troubles, every wo
That ach'd within, have commun'd till our souls
Mingled with kindliest yearnings, and have felt
How sweet it is (pondering on the same path
Of future life) to lose ourselves in one,
A friend we dearly love!
How many scenes I've trod; how many joys
And griefs have swoln my breast! Thinking of thee,
Dearest companion of my youthful hours,
I have subdued hard disappointment's pang,
Till it assum'd a shade so soft and sweet,
That it seem'd like very comfort. Oftentimes
Do I recall the days of infancy,
When we did wander hand in hand, and shar'd
Our tears and smiles, our tasks and sports, together.
Thou, younger than myself, hast ever known
How I have labour'd with a fervent zeal
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The cruel buffettings that here await
Man journeying heavenward! When passion's gust
Or childhood's fitful pangs gnawing the breast,
Have vex'd the better part, oft have we sought
The lonely walk, and with sincerest love
Pouring out all our troubles, every wo
That ach'd within, have commun'd till our souls
Mingled with kindliest yearnings, and have felt
How sweet it is (pondering on the same path
Of future life) to lose ourselves in one,
A friend we dearly love!
And surely thou
Recall'st those moments when we frisk'd along
That path so often trod (a path mine eye
Dare hardly gaze on now) t' embrace the friend
Whose most intelligible smiles of love
Gather'd around her cherish'd dwelling-place
The choicest hours of youth! I was not by
When thou didst hear the tidings of her death!
And oh, my Brother! with what hollow speech,
With what misgiving, and averted looks,
Must we conceal the dull heart's heaviness,
When on that same spot we shall meet again!
Enough!—With grief's unprofitable pangs
I would not wound thy breast: for in this world
All grief is vain, which taketh not from guilt
The hues of fascination. Thee I know
Of tenderest soul; and I would not subdue
Thy mind with the indolence that ever waits
On pamper'd feeling, and the delicate train
Of coward sympathies! Bear thou right on!
Dream not of happiness, nor of the glow
That fills the inebriate soul, and satisfies
Its infinite cravings! The sweet consciousness
Of rectitude support thee, and the thought
That (in thy day fulfilling as thou mayst
The work assign'd by thy great master) thou
With sure feet pressest to perfection's goal!
Recall'st those moments when we frisk'd along
That path so often trod (a path mine eye
Dare hardly gaze on now) t' embrace the friend
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Gather'd around her cherish'd dwelling-place
The choicest hours of youth! I was not by
When thou didst hear the tidings of her death!
And oh, my Brother! with what hollow speech,
With what misgiving, and averted looks,
Must we conceal the dull heart's heaviness,
When on that same spot we shall meet again!
Enough!—With grief's unprofitable pangs
I would not wound thy breast: for in this world
All grief is vain, which taketh not from guilt
The hues of fascination. Thee I know
Of tenderest soul; and I would not subdue
Thy mind with the indolence that ever waits
On pamper'd feeling, and the delicate train
Of coward sympathies! Bear thou right on!
39
That fills the inebriate soul, and satisfies
Its infinite cravings! The sweet consciousness
Of rectitude support thee, and the thought
That (in thy day fulfilling as thou mayst
The work assign'd by thy great master) thou
With sure feet pressest to perfection's goal!
| Blank verse (1798) | |