University of Virginia Library

Lady, whose sojourn in our simple town
Hath been an angel's visit, showering down,
From the far regions of its own bright skies,
Streams of pure love, and kindliest sympathies;
O lady, whom most fain would I address
With all St. John's pastoral tenderness,
Beseeching thee that we might love each other,
For the truth's sake, like sister and like brother.
(Or if a holier name than these there be
In Christian Friendship's phraseology,
Would, lady, such might serve for thee and me,)
If our past year of intercourse (most sweet
To me and mine) allow it—I entreat
Bear with me while I weave thee a rough song,
(For verse and I have lost each other long)
Of friendliest thoughts and feelings, such, in sooth,
As, scarce experienced in my prime of youth,
I little deem'd would e'er have glow'd again
In this worn heart and care-encumber'd brain.
Thanks to thee, friend revered, for thus revealing
These unsuspected springs of blissful feeling!
These deep, rich veins of comfort pure and high,
This growth of fresh and fervent sympathy;
These treasures of affection, long unknown,
Till the sweet sunbeams of thy friendship shone
Into my spirit's depths, and brought to light
A world of pleasures new and exquisite.
O! untold thanks to thee, that thou hast shown
What, but for thee, I haply ne'er had known
In its most bright and captivating dress—
The perfect beauty of true holiness,
With every sweet accomplishment combined
Of female grace, and more than female mind.
Thanks for the knowledge thou so well hast taught,
That 'tis not only youth's impassion'd thought,
And glowing fancy, which makes this world bright,
Gilding each object with unreal light,
And making us discern, in all we view,
Worth so transcendent if it were but true;
Till the fond heart, too frequently deceived,
Suspects all goodness, which it once believed,
E'en like the apples on the Dead Sea shore,
Goodly without, but ashes at the core.
From such drear thoughts by thee for ever freed,
And taught a nobler and more cheerful creed,—
Taught to perceive, with Reason's sober eye,
A loveliness unknown to phantasy,
To know, by ripe experience, that our earth
Possesses treasures of sublimer worth
Than young imagination e'er conceived,
Or faith, unpractised in the world, believed;
How gladly may I welcome middle age!
How cheerily pursue my pilgrimage,
Secure that nought can wholly darken life,
While thou'rt my friend, and—thou know'st who, my wife.

Call not this flattery, deeply valued friend;—
I fear thou wilt; yet could invention lend
Words still more fervent, all too cold would be
To speak the gratitude I owe to thee
For the last year's rich blessings. But no more,
Lest I should pain thee, while thy heart, still sore
From recent grief, shrinks sadlier than before
From praise. I know that death hath been a guest
By the fireside of some whom thou lov'dst best
Of many who love thee; that anxious fears,
Too soon succeeded by swift gushing tears
And funeral laments, have been the lot
Of thy sweet household; yet I mock thee not
With wailings for the dead; for she rests well—
Asleep in Jesus, safe from the rough swell
Of this world's troubled and tempestuous sea,
In the calm haven where we all would be.
Nor will I grieve for thee, in whose tried soul
Faith hath her perfect work, and doth control
The tides of passion nobly. Life for thee
Hath lost some part of its anxiety:
Thy heart hath been sore chasten'd, and no more
Shall ache, as it hath ached in days of yore,
At the drear touch of sorrow; thy worst woe
Hath been endured long since, and nought below
Henceforth shall move thee from thy perfect trust,
Till thine own body shall return to dust,
Thy soul to its Creator. Death hath given
By this last blow one treasure more to Heaven,
Snapp'd one more bond which held thee down to earth,
And all condolence would be little worth
To one whose conversation is, like thine,
Ever more nearly among things divine.
But there's another dear to me and thee,
Thine own bright L---, oh! how fareth she
In this sad wreck of love, beneath this stroke
Of Heaven's own lightning, which at once hath broke
Friendship's strong bonds, worn through so many years,
And strengthen'd in the wearing: are her tears
Yet dry, or does their flowing bring relief
To that absorbing and most passionate grief,
Which only hearts like hers, of finest mould,
Feel as she feels it? Ere that grief grows old,
May He who sent it, and doth never send
A causeless sorrow, shape it to that end
For which I know thy constant prayers ascend
To His eternal presence; may that mind
So proudly gifted, and e'en now inclined
To all things lovely, noble, pure and good,
Be, by this heart-stroke, to His will subdued,
And fix'd on things above.

Now let me greet
The second daughter of thy love, my sweet
And pensive-hearted M---. Hath she grown
In grace and spiritual beauty, shown
In her most gentle and heart-winning ways?
In that retiring meekness, which to praise
Were to insult it? in that quiet love
To things on earth, but more to things above?
In those mild eyes, serene as summer even,
Which speak of frequent communings with Heaven?
In the sweet zeal with which she doth explore
The fountains, deep and vast, of sacred lore,
To drink of Truth's pure stream? Tell her, from me,
The record of her last year's industry
Now lies upon my table; whereon I
Pore ever and anon with critic eye,
Which yet finds nought to blame, but much to praise. [OMITTED]
Yet haply make the path which must be trod
By my own footsteps heavenward, more secure,
By dint of guiding youthful souls and pure
Up to their home and mine.

Shall I forget
Mirthful E---, or disclaim my debt
Of kind remembrances to her? Not so—
Most gladly let me pay her that I owe;
Thanks for her childhood's friendship, a sweet boon
Made up of pure affections, which too soon
Our cold world will sophisticate, unless
Thy most discreet maternal tenderness,
Aided and blest by guidance from above,
Preserve the spring untainted;—may such prove
The crown of thy endeavours, and may she
Enjoy, while yet she can, the fancy-free
And happy days of childhood—happier still
To have the wanderings of her human will
Check'd by a Christian mother.

But how fares
The grave-eyed E---? Academic cares
Prove not, I trust, too heavy for his frail
And spirit-wasted strength. Is he still pale
From studious nights and days of contest high,
Struggling for hard and doubtful victory.
With his well-match'd compeers! Success attend
His struggles, and mayst thou, high-hearted friend,
Be well repaid for all thy pious care
Of his past years, reaping a harvest fair
Of hopes fulfill'd in him.

Now wouldst thou learn
Somewhat of me and mine? The bay of Herne,
Hard by the towers of Canterbury old,
Doth, with its huge and shingly arms, enfold
Her whom reluctantly I spare from mine;
There she disporteth in the amorous brine,—
A mixture (pleasant as such mixtures be)
Of seaweed and Thames mud, miscall'd “the Sea,”
Wherein brave Maggie and her children three,
Her mother and two sisters, brave as she,
Plunge like so many mermaids merrily.
Heaven send the strength she needs (thou too wilt share,
Dear friend, in this my oft repeated prayer),
And give her to her household cares again,
Such as we both would have her, from all pain
And weakness quite deliver'd.

For myself
I wander here, a melancholy elf,
'Mid the sweet scenes in which my childhood roved,
Smiled on by many faces, long beloved,
Though now sore alter'd by the touch of years;
Yet lovelier far each well known spot appears
E'en than it did in youth; I know not why,
Unless perhance, that childhood's artless eye,
Familiarized too soon to scenes like these,
Saw not what now my riper manhood sees,
Nor my heart felt what now it deeply feels
In Nature's loveliest forms.

But sadness steals
O'er my poor heart, to find itself alone
Where least 'twould be so; where each rock and stone,
Green hill and gurgling stream, and stately tree,
Seem to demand, “Thy loved one, where is she?
Where the sweet pledges of her love to thee?”
Alas that 'tis so! that these weeks of rest
'Midst scenes and places which should cheer me best,
Should find me a lone widower. Yet so
High Heaven hath will'd; and hence the thoughts that flow
From heart to heart, the feelings that are sent
To gladden wedlock, must find other vent,
Best found, by me, in verse; therefore do I
Weave my thin woof of flimsy phantasy
(Poor substitute for sober household bliss,
And store of wedded joys) in strains like this,
Bidding thought wander to each distant scene
Of pleasure yet to be, or which hath been.
Therefore my present poverty I cheer
By reckoning up the treasures rich and dear
Which I possess elsewhere, and (best of all)
Think of thy friendship, lady, and recall
Thy virtues and thy kindnesses;—but now
'Tis time to rest this weary heart and brow
On my lone couch: all guardian angels dwell
With thee and thine for ever—so farewell.