University of Virginia Library

When thoughts like these arise, permitted tests,
Proving my frailty, and Thy mercy, Lord,
Let but Thy ministering angel draw mine eyes
To yonder Book; and, lo! this troublous world
Fades from before me like a morning mist,
And, in a spirit not mine own, I cry,
“Perish all knowledge but what leads to Thee!”

And, was it chance, or thy prevailing taste,
Beloved instructress! that selected first,
Part of my daily task, a portion short,
Culled from thy ‘Seasons,’ Thomson?—Happy choice,
Howe'er directed, happy choice for me!
For as I read, new thoughts, new images,
Thrilled through my heart with undefined delight,
Awakening so th' incipient elements
Of tastes and sympathies that with my life
Have grown and strengthened; often on its course,
Yea, on its darkest moments, shedding soft
That rich warm glow they only can impart—
A sensibility to Nature's charms
That seems its living spirit to infuse,
A breathing soul, in things inanimate,
To hold communion with the stirring air,
The breath of flowers, the ever-shifting clouds,
The rustling leaves, the music of the stream,
To people solitude with airy shapes,
And the dark hour, when Night and Silence reigns,
With immaterial forms of other worlds;
But best and noblest privilege, to feel
Pervading Nature's all-harmonious whole,
The Great Creator's presence, in His works.

Those happy evenings, when, on seat high raised,
By ponderous folio, placed on cushioned chair
Close to the table drawn, with candles snuffed,
And outspread paper, and long pencil, shaved
To finest point—to my unpractised hand
Not trusted yet the sharply dangerous knife,
Like all forbidden things, most coveted—
Oh, blissful hour! when thus installed on high,
In fulness of enjoyment, shapes uncouth,
Chaotic groups, I traced. The first attempt,
Two crooked strokes, that, nodding inward, prop
A fellow pair—a transverse parallel.
The House thus roofed, behold from either end
Tall chimneys twain sprout up like asses' ears,
From which, as from a fiery forge beneath,
Ascend huge volumed smoke-wreaths to the sky.
Next in the stately front, strokes—one—two—three;
There gaps the door, as wide as half the house,
And thick on either hand come cross-barred squares,
Hight windows, that for number would tire out
The patience of that keenly prying wight,
The tax-collector; while from one, be sure,
Looks out some favourite form of absent friend,
Whose house that goodly fabric represents.
Close on each side, two poles, surmounted high
By full round wigs, assume the name of trees;
And up the road, that widens farthest off,
In brave contempt of stiff perspective rule,
Comes coach-and-six, containing—who but me,
And all my friends, to visit that fine house!
Then follow man and horse—a gallant steed,
With legs, and mane, and tail, and all complete,—
The rider so secure upon his back,
He need but stretch his legs, and touch the ground.
Thick flies the dust—out flies the brandished whip—
On, on they go; and if they reach the house,
That horseman tall may take it on his palm.
As erst Glumdalclitch handled Gulliver.
And now a five-barred gate, and sundry pales,
And up aloft a flight of birds, so huge
They must be cranes at least, migrating hence;
Some cocks and hens before the door convened—
A dog and cat, and pig with curly tail,
And lo! the Landscape in all parts complete!

And never artist of the olden time,
Renowned Lorraine, or wonder-working Cuyp,
Or he, the mighty genius of the storm,
Sublime Salvator, on his masterpiece
Such looks of sweet complacency bestowed
As I on mine. And other eyes beheld,
As pleased, as partial; and parental hearts
From the bewildered and incongruous maze
Sweet inference drew of future excellence,
Saw combination in the motley whole,
Conceptions picturesque in crooked strokes,
And taste and genius manifest throughout.
Discernment keen! that with excursive eye
Pierces the dark dropped curtain, wisely dropped!
That shrouds futurity. As he of old,
The fated Goth, in that Toledan cave
Saw shadowed out, “as in a glass revealed,”
Things uncreated yet, that were to be;
But he beheld the downfall of his hopes,
His line extinct, his empire overthrown.
Appalling vision! type of woes foredoomed—
Far fairer that, less faithfully fulfilled,
The pageant that in long perspective view
Reveals, undoubted, to a parent's eye
The future glories of his infant race—
He, while the fairy people round his chair
Hold their gay revel, from the mimic sport
Auspicious omen draws, and sage portent.

That fair, bold boy, with high undaunted brow,
And broad white chest and shoulders, who bestrides
His father's cane—a gallant war-horse feigned,
Himself the warlike rider, and with shout
And brandished arm, and voice of proud command,
Marshals his legions—chairs and cushions ranged
In rank and file—and prances round the room,
The valiant leader of that well-trained host;—
Is not the future hero manifest,
The laurelled victor, in that noble boy?
And he, with curly pate and bright black eyes,
And dimpled mouth of arch significance—
He ever ready with his “quips and cranks,”
And shifts, and windings, and keen subterfuge,
Detected misdemeanour to excuse,
Averting dexterous the suspended rod—
Already fancy hears that prating tongue,
Subtle, ingenious, disputatious, bold,
The organ of a future barrister;
Or round that chubby face, with prouder hope,
Adjusts an awful majesty of wig:
Lo! on that cushion, where he sits sublime
(His woolsack now), the future Chancellor.
That gentle child, with pale transparent cheek,
And large mild eyes, by silken fringes veiled,
Clouds darkly shading their celestial blue,
That melt in dewy sadness if he hears
Some moving tales, how “once two hapless babes
Were left alone to perish in a wood,
And there in one another's arms they died,
And Robin Redbreast covered them with leaves”—
That gentle child must be a man of peace—
He cannot brave the buffets of the world;
And yet, with all his meekness—who can tell?—
The boy may live to be a bishop yet.
And little Annie—what will Annie be?
The fair-haired prattler! she, with matron airs,
Who gravely lectures her rebellious doll—
“Annie will be papa's own darling child,
Dear papa's blessing.” Ah, she tells thee truth!—
The pretty mockbird with his borrowed notes
Tells thee sweet truth! Already, is she not
Thy darling child? Thy blessing she will prove,
The duteous prop of thy declining years.
Thy sons will rove, as various fortune leads,
Haply successful in their several paths,
And, like thyself, in course of years, become
The careful fathers of a hopeful race;
Then will ambitious thoughts and worldly cares
Engross their hearts, and haply steal from thee
A portion of thy former influence then—
But she will never change. That tender heart,
Though wedded love and infant claimants dear
May waken there new interests—new and sweet—
Thine in that loving heart will ne'er decrease;
'Tis rich in kind affections, and can give—
Ay, largely give—without despoiling thee:
Thou wilt partake her ever watchful cares;
Her husband, for her sake, will cherish thee;
Her children will be taught to honour thee;
And while they fondly swarm about thy chair,
Or climb thy knees, th' endearing witchery
Will half renew again her infant days.
It is not love that steals the heart from love;
'Tis the hard world, and its perplexing cares;
Its petrifying selfishness, its pride,
Its low ambition, and its paltry aims.

Those happy evenings! ay, 'twas there I left—
The landscape finished, young invention sought,
Not often baffled, springs of fresh delight,
And found them frequent, Goldsmith, in thy work
Of ‘Animated Nature’—precious book!
Illustrated with pictures, that to me
Rivalled at least the subjects they adorned;
Then with sharp scissors armed—a jealous loan
With many a solemn charge conceded slow—
And fair unwrinkled paper, soon began
The imitative labour: and anon
Wide o'er the table ranged a motley herd,
A heterogeneous multitude, before
Never assembled thus, since that old time
When Noah to the finished ark called in
Of every species the allotted pair.
There first the unwieldy elephant advanced,
Majestic beast! on whose stupendous bulk
Raja or Sultan might have sat sublime;
Next in the line of march, ill-mated pair!
With branching antlers and slight flexile limbs,
Comes on the graceful dweller of the north;
He whose winged swiftness, like an arrow's flight,
Wafts the rude sledge, that bears o'er Lapland snows
The stinted native of those cheerless plains.
The Arab's faithful servant follows next,
The patient camel, useful to the last—
Who, when he sinks upon the burning sand
Beneath his burthen, slakes his master's thirst,
Slain for its sake, with the long-hoarded draught.
Then came the warrior bison, strong ally
Of his rude lord, grim guardian of his herds,
And sharer of his cabin comforts few.

Thus had I learnt of each brief history
From those illumined pages, to relate,
Too oft, I fear, to undelighted ears,
When with triumphant pleasure I displayed
The wonders of that paper menagerie—
But not as then will I enumerate now,
From the grim lion to the timorous hare,
Each by his several title, name, and style—
Or notice, but with glancing mention brief,
Those higher aims of art, creating shapes—
Not likenesses of aught in heaven or earth—
That with self-gratulating pride I called
Orlando and Rogero—names renowned!
And Bradamant, and fair Angelica—
For I had read with eager interest,
Half comprehending,that romantic tale.
And thine immortal Epic, sightless Bard!
In Pope's smooth verse revealed to ears unlearned,
Supplied a subject that, recalled, e'en now
Provokes me to a smile; so strange the choice;
That novel illustration so uncouth.
'Twas when forth issuing from the Cyclops' cave
The wily Ithacan Ulysses came,
Locked in the shaggy fleeces of the ram,
Behind his Centaur flock. Incongruous pairs!
Biped and quadruped together linked.
Ulysses never bound his trembling crew
More carefully beneath the guardian's fleece
Than I secured their paper effigies
To sheep, for height and bulk, proportions huge!
Worthy, indeed, to be a giant's flock.

How vivid still, how deep the hues, the imprint
Left by those childish pastimes! Later joys,
Less puerile, more exciting have I known—
Ah! purer none; from earth's alloy so free—
But Memory hoards no picture so distinct,
In freshness as of yesterday, as those
Life's first impressions, exquisite and strong—
Their stamp, compared to that of later days,
Like a proof print from the engraver's plate,
The first struck off—most forcibly imprest.
Lo! what a train like Bluebeard's wives appear,
So many headless, half dismembered some,
With battered faces—eyeless—noseless—grim
With cracked enamel, and unsightly scars—
Some with bald pates, or hempen wigs unfrizzed,
And ghastly stumps, like Greenwich pensioners;
Others mere Torsos—arms, legs, heads, all gone!
But precious all. And chief that veteran doll,
She from whose venerable face is worn
All prominence of feature; shining brown,
Like chestnut from its prickly coating freed,
With equal polish as the wigless skull—
Well I remember, with what bribery won
Of a fair rival—one of waxen mould—
Long coveted possession!—I was brought
The mutilated favourite to resign.
The blue-eyed fair one came—perfection's self!
With eager joy I clasped her waxen charms;
But then—the stipulated sacrifice!
“And must we part?” my piteous looks expressed—
Mute eloquence! “And must we part, dear Stump!”
“Oh! might I keep ye both!”—and both I kept.

Unwelcome hour, I ween, that tied me down
Restless, reluctant, to the sempstress' task!
Sight horrible to me, th' allotted seam
Of stubborn Irish, or more hateful length
Of handkerchief, with folded edge tacked down,
All to be hemmed; ay, selvidge sides and all.
And so they were in tedious course of time,
With stitches long and short, “cat's teeth” yclept;
Or jumbled thick and thin, oblique, transverse,
At last, in sable line imprinted grim.
But less distasteful was the sampler's task;
There green and scarlet vied; and fancy claimed
Her privilege to crowd the canvass field
With hearts and zigzags, strawberries and leaves,
And many a quaint device; some moral verse,
Or Scripture text, enwrought; and, last of all,
Last, though not least, the self-pleased artist's name.

And yet, with more alacrity of will,
I fashioned various raiment; caps, cloaks, gowns;
Gay garments for the family of dolls;
No matter how they fitted—they were made;
Ay, and applauded, and rewarded too
With silver thimble. Precious gift! bestowed
By a kind aunt; one ever kind and good,
Mine early benefactress! Since approved
By time and trial mine unchanging friend;
Yet most endeared by the affecting bond
Of mutual sorrows, mutual sympathies.

Yet was that implement, the first possessed,
Proudly possessed, indeed, but seldom worn.
Easier to me, and pleasanter, to poke,
As one should poke a skewer, the needle through
With thumb and finger, than in silver thrall
To imprison the small tip, too tiny still
For smallest thimble ever made to fit.
Dear aunt! you should have sought in wizard lore
The name of some artificer, empowered
By royal patent of the Elfin Court
To make Mab's thimble—if the sprightly Queen
Ever indeed vouchsafes in regal sport,
With needle, from the eyelash of a fly,
Plucked sharp and shining, and fine cobweb-thread,
To embroider her light scarf of gossamer.
Not oft, I doubt; she better loves to rove
Where trembling harebells on the green hillside
Wave in their azure beauty; or to slide
On a slant sunbeam down the fragrant tube
Of honeysuckle or sweet columbine,
And sip luxurious the ambrosial feast
Stored there for nature's alchymist, the bee;
Then satiate, and at rest, to sleep secure,
Even in that perfumed chamber, till the sun
Has ploughed with flaming wheels the Atlantic wave,
And the dark beetle, her mailed sentinel,
Winds his shrill signal to invite her forth.
Not on her waking hour such pomp attends,
As when on Ohio's banks magnolias tall
Embalm the dews of night, and living sparks
Glance through the leaves, and star the deep serene.
But even here, in our romantic isle,
The pearl of ocean, girdled with its foam!
Land of the rainbow! even here she loves
The dewy freshness of the silent hour,
Whose gentle waftings have their incense too,
To scatter in her paths; the faint perfume
Of dog-rose pale, or aromatic breath
Of purple wild thyme, clouding the green sward;
And though in air no sparkling myriads dart
Their glancing fires to light the Fairy Queen,
Earth hath her stars, a living emerald each!
And by the lustre of those dewy gems
She trips it deftly with her merry train
In mossy dells, around the time-scarred trunk
Of giant oak, or neath the wych-elm's shade,
Beside some deep dark pool, where one bright star
Trembles reflected, or in velvet meads,
Where, though the limpid blade of tender grass
Bends not beneath the “many-twinkling” feet,
Dark circles on the paler sward defined
Reveal at morning where the dance has been;
Oft thickly studded with a mushroom belt,
The fungus growth of one short summer's night,
The ring so geometrically drawn,
As if the gnomes, with scientific skill,
Forming the fairy sports, had mimicked there
The circling rampart of a Celtic camp,
Or with more apt similitude designed
The Druid's holy ring of pale-grey stones.

There oft the milkmaid, when with shining pail
She seeks the glistening pasture, finds dispersed
The relics of the banquet, leaves and flowers,
From golden kingcups cropped, and poplars white,
The cups and trenchers of the midnight feast.
Ah, lucky lass! when stirring with the lark,
On dairy charge intent, she thither hies,
And finds her task forestalled—the cool tiled floor
Flooded, fresh sluiced—stool, shelf, and slab bright rubbed—
Scalded and sweet the glazy milk-pans all,
And scoured to silver sheen the ready pail,
And, brighter still, within its circle left,
The glittering sixpence—industry's reward.

Me more delighted in the fairy's haunts
To sport, like them an airy gleesome sprite,
Than, prisoner of an hour—e'en that too long—
The needle's task monotonous to ply.
But I have lived to prize the humble art—
To number with the happiest of my life
Those quiet evenings, when with busy hands
I plied the needle, listening as I wrought—
By that mechanical employ, more fixed
Attention apt to rove—to that dear voice
Which from some favourite author read aloud.
The voice is silent, and the task laid by—
Distasteful now, when silence, with a tongue
More audibly intelligent than speech
For ever whispers round me, “She is gone.”

A day to be remembered well was that,
When, by my father taught, I first essayed
The early rudiments of penmanship.
Long-wished-for lesson! by prudential love—
Wisely considerate of my infant years—
Withheld, till granted slow in fair exchange
For some relinquished pleasure; 'twas received
A twofold grant—a boon and a reward.
So I began, long rigorously confined
To rows of sloping strokes. Not sloping all;
At first in straggling piles they jostled rude,
Like raw recruits, till into order drilled,
Maintaining equal distance on their march,
Even and close they ranged like veteran troops,
In ranks symmetrical; and then at last
My long restrained ambition was indulged
In higher flights, with nicer art to shape
The involutions of the alphabet.
Unsteady and perplexed the first attempts—
Great A's, that with colossal strides encroached
On twice the space they should have occupied,
And I's like T's, and R's whose lower limbs
Beyond the upper bulged unseemly out,
And sprawling W's, and V's, and Y's,
Gaping prodigiously, like butter-boats.
But soon succeeded to those shapeless scrawls
Fair capitals and neat round characters,
Erelong in words and sentences combined;
At first restrained between two guiding lines,
Then ranged on one—that one continued long,
Spite of ambitious daring, that would fain
Have strayed, from limit and restriction free;
For ardently I longed to scrawl at will
The teeming fancies of a busy brain,
Not half content, not satisfied, albeit
My father, with a kind and ready pen,
Vouchsafed assistance to the infant muse.