University of Virginia Library

This poem, as far as the 64th line, was written in the chaise, returning from Coleshill to Lichfield, the author having accompanied Mr Hayley so far on his road to London in December 1781.

Perhaps the generality of people have not sufficiently attended to the operation of their minds, respecting the personal idea they retain of the long absent, or the dead, so as clearly to comprehend the eight ensuing lines.

No picture, be it ever so well painted, can vie with the memory in that exactness, with which she presents, early in absence, the image of that form and face, whose lineaments are dear to us. Therefore, actual pictures of beloved friends would not be so eagerly coveted, but that we render this darling, internal image indistinct, by recalling it too frequently; as that strength of line, which gives sharpness and spirit to a copper-plate, becomes injured after a certain number of impressions have been taken off. By repeated use, the plate, if not retouched, will produce only a dim and shadowy mass, in which the features and countenance cannot be very distinctly discerned.

So it is with the memory, after continual recurrence, and pressure of the affections upon the image she presents, which, for a considerable period, she had presented with that perfect precision, to which no powers of the pencil can attain;—but, in time, the image becomes indistinct, not from any decay in the powers of memory; not from the affections growing cold, but merely from intense and incessant recurrence. Yes, it is beneath the constant glow of ardent imagination, that the impression, given by memory, has faded. Then it is that a good, nay even an indifferent picture, or a paper-profile of a dear lost friend, strengthens our recollection, in the same manner that retouching a copper-plate restores its power of giving animated impressions.

The author wishes that all who peruse these remarks, and have dispositions sufficiently affectionate to contemplate fervently, and often, in their own minds the image of one, fondly beloved, whom they have, for a length of years, or for ever lost, would recollect if, after a time, they were able to recall that image with equal precision, as they could remember the features, and air, of other deceased, or absent persons, with whom they had been well acquainted, but of whom, being less interesting to their affections, they had only casually thought. The superior distinctness with which the less beloved image comes back to the mind, upon its summons, proves the philosophic truth of these remarks, and is the cause why we so fondly desire the penciled remembrance of those we love, to refresh that ideal image which intense and perpetual contemplation had rendered evanescent. Locke says—“The pictures drawn in our minds of our absent friends, are laid in fading colours, which, if not sometimes refreshed, will vanish and disappear.” It might have been expected that a philosopher so accurate and discriminating, would have pursued the observation, and reminded us, that there are two causes, exactly opposite to each other, which produce this vanishing; viz. the mind not having dwelt upon the originals of those its pictures often enough to make their image strong and vivid after long absence; —and, its too frequently casting upon such inshrined resemblances, the dazzling light of fervent meditation. It is not meant that fervent meditation will produce forgetfulness of the general idea of the persons of those we fondly regret, but that it will, in time, make us unable to recall them with that precision we desire, without the help of the pencil.

The celebrated painter.

Alluding to the tradition of a battle fought in the time of the Romans, and to the remains of the warriors' tombs on the scene of action, Berocop Hill, near the city.

Lichfield stood a siege by Cromwell's army, in the civil war of that period.

—Johnson and Garrick were both edueated at Lichfield, under the author's maternal grandfather, the Rev. John Hunter, Prebendary of the Cathedral, and Master of the Free-School.

—It was Mr Hayley's custom, during his fortnight's residence at Lichfield, to walk in the side aisles of the Cathedral during choir-service at evening prayers, which are always performed by candle-light in winter. The arches of those aisles were then open at top into the choir. When the church was altered, in the year 1788, the arches were closed up, which prevents all the fine effect of dubious light and shadow, described in the ensuing lines. On week days the choir is but imperfectly illuminated.

Unforeseen business obliged Mr Hayley to abridge his purposed visit to Mr Seward and his daughter.

Stow church stands in the little rural valley, overlooked by the east front of the Bishop's palace, the residence of Mr Seward and his family.

Milton, in the close of his sonnet to Mr Laurence, insinuates that there is danger in too frequently indulging the luxury of intellectual society, thus—