Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Live, if ye may, and strike your roots in earth,
Poor flowerets of my fancy's second spring;
Whose unexpected and spontaneous birth
From grief's tear-water'd soil, did lately fling
A soothing fragrance o'er my home and hearth,
Sadden'd awhile by Death's first visiting.
Live, if ye may, and take abiding root,
Forerunners, haply, of autumnal fruit.

348

II

Feeble, in truth, and fading ye appear;
For my mind's garden, once o'erstock'd with flowers,
Hath been devote, for many a busy year,
To sterner culture, till its laurel bowers,
Too long neglected, have grown thin and sere,
And the scant labour of these leisure hours
May not the fulness of that bloom restore,
Which, suffer'd once to fade, revives no more.

III

I know not of what depth the soil may be
By which your growth is nurtured; but I know
That, henceforth, never shall it yield for me
Such gaudy wildflowers and rank weeds as grow
In the parterres of wanton phantasy,
But all its poor fertility bestow
On holier produce—lays of faith and love,
And His great praise who died, and reigns above.

IV

High theme, and worthy to attune the strings
Of seraph harps to symphonies divine;
Whereat the angels, folding their bright wings
In trance-like silence, should wrapt ears incline
To strains which told them of profounder things
Than thought of theirs can fathom;—and shall mine
Venture beyond them? daring flight, I ween,
For grovelling fancy, such as mine hath been.

V

Twelve years, life's summer, have for ever fled,
Bringing strange changes, since the Muse I woo'd,
Even then by fits, as whim or wildness led,
In many a wayward and capricious mood:

349

And now that youth is o'er, and passion dead,
And nature, as I trust, in part subdued;
Almost would I forget, the strains I sung
In those rash days, when hope and I were young.

VI

'Tis true, men praised them; they were fit to please
The popular ear; well stored with fancies strange,
And quaint conceits, and yet could pass, with ease,
From gay to grave, and skilfully exchange
Mirth and wild wit for tenderest melodies;
So wide and well young phantasy could range;
Yet had her flight been tamer, I had now
Had less to grieve my heart and cloud my brow.

VII

My soul had then from self-reproach been free
For lawless revellings of uncheck'd thought;
For wanton sallies of untimely glee;
For errors, half perceived, yet boldly taught;
For dogmas crude, and false philosophy;
For vain applause by reckless satire bought;
For many an idle thought and idler dream,
Which seem'd not to me then so vile as now they seem.

VIII

And may I now redeem, in middle age,
The wasted powers and mis-spent days of youth,
And, in my wane of fancy, dare to wage
High warfare in behalf of deepest truth?
Is it too late to consecrate my page
To themes of holy love and heavenly ruth?
Too late to use aright the powers which Heaven,
For deeds of high emprize and steadfast aim, hath given?

350

IX

I know not;—in the silent flight of Time
Much hath been lost which I can ne'er regain:
The freshness and the fervour of life's prime;
The buoyant heart, the ever teeming brain;
The power to shape things lovely or sublime,
And people with bright dreams this world's domain.
All these, as life steals on, have pass'd away,
Like morn's last stars that fade before the light of day.

X

For me no more may young imagination
The treasures of her shadowy world disclose,
With many a wild and wondrous revelation
Stealing my spirit from this vale of woes
Into those realms of dreamy contemplation
Wherein the world-worn heart may find repose
From grave reality and vexing care,
Breathing awhile sweet draughts of unpolluted air.

XI

This world, this solid world, hath closed around me
Its prison bars and bolts; I could not break,
Even if I would, the fetters which have bound me,
Nor from my neck its yoke of bondage shake;
And yet 'tis well that earthly care hath found me,
'Tis well my spirit hath been forced to awake
From its day-dreams; that I can be no more
The idler that I was in days of yore.

XII

So now my summer wreath is cull'd and twined,
Sweet be its breath to gentle hearts and wise;
But April and warm May have left behind
Some stray memorials of their changeful skies,

351

Various of scent and hue, of form and kind:
Some which stern critics will perchance despise;
Some which harsh censors will perchance condemn:—
So let it be—they were not meant for them.

XIII

But to the lowly, and the pure of heart,
These, my young fancy's offspring, I commend;
Not without hope that they may bear their part
In virtue's aid, and truth's high cause defend,
Though framed with careless aim and slender art,
In boyhood some, and all ere youth did end.
Nor, haply, vain the contrast they display
Between the noon and morning of my day.

XIV

So fare thee well, my book; and ye farewell
Once more, serene and pleasant paths of song;
Welcome grave cares, on which my heart must dwell,
And pastoral toils, not intermitted long.
Hereafter if again I tune my shell
To court the ear of the world's busy throng,
More “certain” be its sound, and every theme
Such as my graver tasks most fitly may beseem.