University of Virginia Library

Once more among my earliest haunts!—once more
A solitary man, from home delights
Familiar, and the sounds of childish mirth,
And sweet endearments of connubial love,
Secluded for awhile;—beneath the roof
Which shelter'd me in childhood, and which still
Shelters my parents' age, for some few days,
A welcome guest, I sojourn. Years long past,—
The pleasant spring, and seed-time of my life,—
Revisit my mind's eye, with all their train
Of youthful thoughts and feelings, by these scenes
Mysteriously revived. Nor meets me here
One outward token from that newer world
Of cares and duties, fears and hopes and aims,
Sorrows and joys, in which I live and move,
A husband and a parent. Far away,
On the green banks of her beloved Doon,
My wife imbues our children's opening minds
With love of Caledonia's hills and glens;
Meanwhile inhaling, near her native coast,
From the bold mountains, and the breezy sea,
New health and vigour,—by her childhood's friends,
As I by mine, surrounded. So complete
Is thus my separation from all cares
Domestic and parental, that almost,
Methinks, by strong imagination led,
I might forget the two-and-twenty years
Of life, long since mature, which time hath stolen,
Since I, as boyhood melted into youth,
Bade sad farewell to Eton's long loved shades,
And these fair scenes together;—might forget
What all those years have made me,—what rich gifts
Their course hath brought,—what cares those gifts produce,—
And be once more the dreaming, brain-sick boy
That then I was. And what if I give scope
To memory's pensive rovings?—What if now,
In this calm interim between the calls
Of active duty and of worldly care,
I bid my heart keep holiday,—forget
The Present and the Future in the Past,—
Live o'er again my long departed years
In tranquil meditation,—and perchance,
Comparing what I was with what I am,
Amidst that multitudinous array
Of thoughts and feelings which have come and gone,
Discern, in twilight gaze, the embryo state
Of what is now my being?—Haply thus
My time may not be lost;—Not for myself,
Nor for some gentle spirits, who may find,
Nor scorn to learn, a lesson from my lay,
Such as all records of Man's life might teach.

Dim and mysterious to the dreamer's eye,
Retracing the first gleams of consciousness,
Is Infancy and Childhood's fairy-land.
Scarce through the glory, as of other worlds,
Enveloping its outline, is discern'd,
At intervals distinctly, here and there,
A streak of clear reality,—some fact,
Or feeling, or sensation,—some event
To Childhood's eyes momentous, and thenceforth
Indelibly inscribed on Memory's page,
Only with life to be expunged. Even here,
Surrounded, as I am, by objects fraught
With old associations, and none else—
Wandering, at will, through old familiar rooms,
And gazing on old hills, and fields, and lanes,
And human forms, the first I ever knew,
And faces which I loved ere I could speak—
Even here, my first remembrances of life
Seem dim and distant. Scarce at intervals,
Events and epochs, few and far between,
Stand forth in clear relief;—a colour'd frock,—
A picture-book replete with marvels strange
To young imagination;—a quaint tale
Told by my grandam;—my first cloth pelisse,
With rows of glittering buttons all ablaze,
The envy of my infantine compeers;
And mix'd with these, at times, a tender gleam
Of somewhat (whether fantasy or love
I know not,)—a strange instinct lighting up
My heart beneath the glance of woman's eyes;—
A sense of beauty and mysterious power,
By beauty wielded, stirring to its depths
The soul of man, while he is yet a child.
So fares the world within;—around me crowd
Familiar objects;—our old nursery stands
Unalter'd, save that now it bears no trace
Of infantine or childish tenantry;—
Cradle, or crib, or tiny chair, or store
Of scatter'd toys, or window fenced with bars,
Or fire-place, guarded close from rash approach,
By lofty fender. Time's relentless march
Hath made strange havoc with the furniture
Once consecrate to childhood's mimic sports.
The chairs which, yoked and harness'd, served as steeds
To whirl us, on imaginary cars,
In pomp and pride of glorious coachmanship,
At length have disappear'd through slow decay;
Their wood-work fractured, and their horsehair seats
Worn bare by long attrition. Many a year,—
Yea, far into my manhood's lusty prime,
They stood where they were wont, and seem'd to bear
A charmed life. In sooth, I could have named
Each individual courser,—told the marks
Which once distinguish'd, to our childish thought,
The chestnut from the grey, the bay from brown;—
Which to each several brother was assign'd,
His own especial property;—which work'd
As wheeler,—which as leader. All are gone,—
The steeds, and they who drove them. Many a change,
Within doors and without, hath changed the face
Of the old dwelling, e'en within the span
Of my remembrance. Casements, which sufficed
The vicars of a less luxurious age,
First from the old stone frontage disappear'd,
Supplanted by broad panes.—A few years pass'd,
Riches increased, and lo! a pile arose
Of bright red brick, with slate cerulean roof'd,
Encroaching on the garden, and but ill
Consorting with the grey, time-mellow'd stone,
To which 'twas wedded. On the study's site,
Somewhat extended, straightway there appear'd
A gay and gilded drawing-room, o'er which,
Piled, story above story, tier on tier,
New bed-rooms tower'd, in ample space and height
Mocking the old and humble vicarage.
With pride we mark'd the building, as it grew,
(I and my brothers) deeming that at last
Our mansion should eclipse the squire's itself,
And we be counted greater than the squire.
Yet when the work was finish'd, and we dwelt
Like nobles, as we deem'd,—methinks, we found
Small compensation in our ceiled state,
For old associations swept away
With our abolish'd play-room—for the fall
Of shrubbery laurels, underneath whose thick
And sun-proof foliage we were wont to frame
Our mimic houses, with inventive skill
Arranging and imagining;—nor lack'd
To those umbrageous mansions aught that taste
Or ingenuity of modish art
Might fashion, or caprice of luxury
Deem needful for convenience. Banquet-halls
Were there, with banquets spread, from time to time,
Of sugar'd cakes and gingerbread, served up
On fragments of crack'd china; Drawing-rooms
Well furnish'd, and adorn'd with stately couch,
And ottoman and sofa, soft repose
Inviting and prolonging; closets cramm'd
With household stores; kitchen and scullery range,
With culinary implements complete;
And overhead, among the thickleaved boughs,
Our verdant dormitories. Oh! how well
Wrought then imagination, by strange art,
Enduing her creations with what seem'd
Most absolute reality. Our sports
To us were scarcely sports, but still appear'd
Our gravest occupations.—In our world,
(That fairy world created by ourselves),
We lived and had our being. All day long,
(Our tasks once ended) how we toil'd and toil'd
At that fantastic architecture!—how,
Absorb'd, and reckless of all outward things,
We shaped and moulded our whole dream of life
To match our habitation! Our desires
Roam'd not beyond that garden's narrow bounds.
There was our universe.—Reluctantly
We left its pastimes for a daily walk
Through the green fields and pleasant shelter'd lanes
Of this delicious region; for, in us,
The sense of beauty, with majestic forms
And glorious hues investing hill and wood,
As yet was undevelop'd, and it seem'd
Dire interruption of important toil
And business which allow'd of no delay,
To force us from our fair ideal realm
E'en to the pleasures of reality.

And yet, from time to time, strange pleasures came;
Some by succession of the seasons brought,
Or revolution of the calendar;
Some at uncertain epochs, racier still
Because unlook'd-for. First, the spring produced
Its primrose tufts and constellated stalks
Of cowslip, which, with eager chase, we sought,
And strung together into fragrant balls;
Or (proud of such unwonted usefulness)
Heap'd for the flowery vintage. Summer shone
(Summer seem'd then all sunshine, and as yet
Asthma was not) on fields of new-mown grass,
And us among the haymakers. Ah me!
The raptures of that season!—with what pride
(Our tiny rakes and pitchforks in our hands)
We follow'd, with the rest, the mower's track,
And spread the levell'd crop beneath the sun!
At noon, with what keen appetite we shared
The rustic luncheon,—feasted to the full,
Beside some hedge, on piles of bread and cheese,
And from its wooden flagon quaff'd the beer,
Listening meanwhile to tale and homely jest,
Pass'd round by jovial peasants. Then, at eve,
When the day's toil was ended, home we rode
In the returning waggon,—joy of joys!
The world hath now none such. With autumn came
The village wake, and (if remembrance serves)
The fair, with stalls of tempting gingerbread,
And glittering toys, and shows majestical;
While, (for 'twas then the stirring time of war)
Recruiting sergeants gaily to and fro
Paraded, to the sound of drum and fife,
Their colours and cockades. To us they seem'd
Almost like gods of war, and oft our hearts
Beat high, to think how blest a fate it were
To fight old England's enemies, and die
Victorious on some well-won battle-field.

'Twas then that on the Nation's startled ear
Burst the glad news of naval victory,
Sadden'd by Nelson's death. Those news awoke,
Methinks, in me, my first ideal sense
Of warlike triumph, of heroic deeds,
And glory by a nation lost or won.
Then first I felt that 'twas a noble lot
To be a Briton;—then, with earnest heart,
Rejoiced at England's joy, and wept her griefs,
A patriot five years old. Some nameless fears
Had stirr'd my soul already, when I heard
(What then was widely bruited in men's mouths)
Of near invasion, of impending strife,
And danger and defeat. The might of France
Was, to my heart, a dark, mysterious thought,
More hateful from the vagueness of alarm
With which 'twas blended, and my midnight dreams
Would oft reverberate Napoleon's name,
Dreadful as Dæmogorgon's. Oft, in sleep,
I heard the thrilling cry, “The French are come,”
And straightway through the street, in long array,
With shout of hostile triumph, with deep roll
Of drum, and peal of trump, and clang of arms,
Battalion on battalion, host on host,
Defiled the invading myriads;—Britain's fight,
Men said, was fought and lost, and she was now
In bondage to her foes. Ere long the scene
Grew darker; in my father's house appear'd
Strange faces,—heralds by the victors sent
To cite my parents to the judgment seat,
And haply to the scaffold. In that fear,
Grim and perplex'd, the bonds of sleep were burst,
And I, in agony of tears, awoke!
Such terrors, waking or asleep, were mine,
Till news of victory came:—oh, then at once
My breast was lighten'd. Ne'er shall I forget
The fervour, the wild frenzy of delight,
Which, when the news first reach'd our little town,
Thrill'd through its English heart. That week had seen
A daughter born into my Father's house;
And, I remember, in my Mother's room
We stood, and from the silent window gazed
On bonfires blazing in the street, and crowds
Of villagers and peasants round the flame
Promiscuously group'd.—The ruddy light
Flash'd fitfully on faces bright with joy,
And forms in active motion. To the sky
Rockets, from time to time, in fiery track
Soar'd, blazed, and, bursting, scatter'd, high in air,
Bright showers of stars; while ever and anon,
From the near steeple, our six bells rang out
Their loud and lusty changes,—now in notes
Harmoniously attuned to concord sweet
With the deep stream of joy in every heart,—
Now mimicing, with simultaneous clang,
The cannons' deafening roar. At intervals,
From every quarter, musket-shots were heard,
Follow'd by shout, and cheer, and loud huzzah!
From congregated throats. The nation's voice,
Even among us, arose from Earth to Heaven
In chorus of exultant jubilee,
Yet with religious fervour not unmix'd,
Nor thankless to the God of victories
For triumph thus bestow'd.—Men's warlike pride,
By recollection of their hero's death,
Was soften'd and subdued. It was a night
Greatly to be remember'd. With our dreams,
When we, with hearts untired, reluctantly
Had gone to rest, the tumult of the street
Still mingled, and awoke a phantom world
Of imagery in the mysterious depths
Of Childhood's spirit, shedding wondrous gleams
Of glory on the visions of the night.
Since then have five-and-thirty years flown by,
And boyhood, youth, and early manhood pass'd,
With all their changes; yet even now a peal
Of merry village bells recalls to mind
The raptures of that night, and conjures up
The ghosts of thoughts and feelings, in my heart
Long buried;—thus with joys of rustic life—
A birth, a wedding, or a festival,
Associating the glories of the Past.

I was not born ambitious;—never long'd
For honour to be won by warlike deeds,
Nor wish'd myself a hero;—else, methinks,
The atmosphere of war, in childhood breathed,
Had fed such fancies bravely, and perchance
Made me unlike, in all things, what I am.
For scarce a village in old England, then,
But dared heroic enterprize. The threat
Of near invasion had awoke all hearts
To simultaneous valour. Peasants beat
Their pruninghooks and ploughshares into swords;
And pale-faced artisans forsook the loom
And shuttle, to encumber their spare limbs
With the grim garb of war. The smith exchanged
His hammer for a halberd. Tailors, fired
With martial ardour, from the shop-board leap'd,
And let their needles rust, to grasp the spear
With fingers which of late the thimble wore.
Short-winded, pursy men forgot their fat
And scantiness of breath, in tight-drawn belt
Bracing their bulk abdominal, to serve
As lusty volunteers in some new corps
Raised for the nonce. We too, albeit the least
Among Britannia's thousands, furnish'd forth
Our sixty musqueteers—a gallant band
In uniform complete;—to me they seem'd
A host invincible, prepared to hurl
Napoleon from his throne. Sublime they shone
In scarlet regimentals faced with green;
Their military caps by towering plumes
Surmounted, while their burnish'd firelocks flash'd,
Like lightning, in the sun, with bayonets fix'd,
Bristling in bright array. The squire himself,
Forsaking for awhile his mimic war
With birds and beasts, and buckling on his arms,
Was proud to be their captain. Next in rank,
Nor less in arms illustrious—passing then
Life's vigorous prime, and by his portly shape
And peaceful air, less fitted, as it seem'd,
For martial prowess than luxurious ease,
Our neighbour, the attorney, took the field.
Him, not unfit at social boards to shine,—
A man of easy humour and frank mirth,—
Sluggish withal, and simple as a child
In this world's ways, had fortune's wild caprice
First doom'd to be a lawyer, and next thrust
Into the full accoutrements of war
And regimental lace. Alike unfit
Was he for scarlet, and for chancery suit;
Alike unskill'd in pleadings and in war;
In deeds of arms and deeds of law alike
Ill-graced and awkward; for his nature, pure
And harmless as the dove's, could never learn
The serpent's wisdom;—gentle as the lamb,
He lack'd the lion's valour.—He was form'd
For upright acts of honest friendliness,
For charity and bland good neighbourhood,
Not for the tumult of the battle-field,
Or trickery of the law-court. Mild, sedate,
His usual air;—few were the words he spoke,
And slow his utterance; but when friend met friend
Around his hospitable board, and wine,
After the fashion of those ruder days,
In circling brimmers flow'd,—oh, who was then
His match for fun and frolic? Then his eye
(Dull and professionally grave before)
Twinkled and gleam'd with humour;—then (all care
For formal rules of etiquette cast off)
His mirth ran riot in wild, boylike freaks
Of unrestrain'd extravagance. But now,
Silent and grave, beside his corps he march'd;
And if,—when cups were sparkling on the board
Of absent friends, while he, on full parade,
Did active service,—nature would at times
Grow weary of manœuvres manifold,
Marchings and counter-marchings, mimic-fights,
Retreats and charges, ambuscades, assaults,
Volleys of awkward musketry, and balls
Shot wide of targets,—he, with noble pride
Of self-control, repress'd all outward signs
And tokens of impatience,—proud to be
In Albion's cause a martyr. Him of late
I mark'd, an aged man, well-nigh fourscore,
Still, in the parish church, his wonted seat
Maintaining, and himself but little changed
In all these years from that which he appear'd
When first I knew him;—undiminish'd still
His lusty bulk,—unwrinkled still his brow,—
Unspectacled his nose;—yet Death's grim shades
Must soon be closing round him, and the friends,—
The boon companions of his earlier days,—
His comrades in the field and at the feast,—
Have, one by one, departed from his side,
And dropp'd into the grave. His housekeeper
(For never hath he worn connubial yoke),
Large as himself, and rosy, and rotund,
The despot of his house, hath gone the way
Appointed for all flesh;—his well-fed steed
Hath vacated the true prebendal stall
In which he lived to eat, asthmatic long
And martyr to repletion;—his lank pair
Of greyhounds (sole lank things in all that house)
Sleep, with their old companion, side by side,—
Their last course run and ended. Be their lord's
Decease, when it shall come, as calm as theirs,
But not, like theirs, uncheer'd by Christian hope
Of immortality and endless bliss.

With him there march'd, as ensign of the corps,
A tall, spare man, his kinsman, some ten years
His senior, whose high forehead, silver'd o'er,
At fifty-five, with eighty winters' snow,
Assumed, beneath his feather'd, fierce cock'd hat,
A veteran aspect;—yet a peaceful man
Was he, and had, in Gloucester's busy vales,
Been bred a manufacturer. The mill,
Embosom'd yonder between wooded banks,
Was built, and many years possess'd by him;
Till, with an ample store of this world's wealth,
He and his wife, with none to be their heirs,
(For theirs had ever been a childless home)
Retired to spend their calm decline of life
In affluent ease and leisure. Twenty years
Were they our next-door neighbours. As a child,
I well remember, when the parsonage
On rare occasions oped its festal doors
To guests invited, how, amidst the throng,
His was the gravest face, the stateliest step,
The hoariest head; with what a solemn grace
He at quadrille or whist would take his seat,
Confronted with some bulky dowager,
Or spinster of threescore. The dark brown coat,
White waistcoat, breeches of demurest drab,
And hose of spotless cotton, (for as yet
Silk was, with us, a luxury only known
To clergymen and squires,) the polish'd shoes
Of rustic make, and thicker than need was,
Still dwell in my remembrance. On his arm
Hung his good-humour'd partner, all bedight
In finery, such as fifty years before
Had shone in metropolitan saloons.
Herself ungraced by the accomplishments
Of modish education, and, in truth,
What some call vulgar, but, beyond her peers,
From all vulgarity of soul exempt;—
Kind-hearted, full of charity, unchill'd
By niggard thrift,—for all the neighbouring poor
Prompt ever both to spend and to be spent;
Alike unfit to hear and to repeat
The scandal of the tea-table. They lived
(She and her mate) a blameless, peaceful life,
Through fifty years of wedlock, till at last
Disease, in cancerous shape, assail'd the wife,
Marring her features, and extending wide
Its fibres through her flesh.—For some few years
She pined and wasted, with assiduous care
Still tended by her husband, whose whole life
Was so entwined with hers, that, when she died,
The old man's heart seem'd broken.—From that hour
He never cross'd the threshold of his door,
Save when he went to church,—but sat and sat
Beside his lonely hearth from morn to night;
Now poring o'er his Bible,—now absorb'd
In dreamy thought,—his eyes suffused with tears,—
His heart with her whom he had lost,—in Heaven.
Nor sought he other company; though oft,
When friends or neighbours came to visit him,
He would converse in no uncheerful tone,
Nor close his heart to sympathy with those
Who sympathized with him. Some habits, form'd
In happier days,—some customs, shared with her,
He still retain'd;—still every Sunday eve
(The service done) he with his kinsman dined,
Whose jovial humour, soften'd now by years,
Was, in his presence, temper'd to a grave
And reverential sadness:—each with each
Held soothing fellowship, till life's frail thread
At last, in one, gave way. His race is run;
His story told;—he rests with her he loved.

A melancholy joy, in truth, it is,
When half a life has fled, to see once more
Places long loved;—to mark how Nature's face
Remains unchanged,—how little Art has wrought
Of transformation in insensate things,
While human forms familiar—men who lived,
Thought, felt, rejoiced, and sorrow'd, hoped and fear'd,
Hated and loved, in time's relentless flight,
Have been, by generations, swept away,
Like shadows, from the earth. But sadder still,
Methinks, the alteration wrought by age
In those who yet remain. These thirty years
A house hath scarce been built, a tree cut down,
A new shop open'd,—scarce a public-house
Been deck'd with a new sign, or changed as yet
Ought but its owner's name, in all this street.
The castle ditch alone, (last remnant left
Of feudal recollections,) hath indeed
Long since, by hands barbarian, been plough'd up
And planted with potatoes; its rich shade
Of beeches levell'd, and the fair alcove
Which crown'd its spacious bowling-green, pull'd down.
Nought else seems alter'd, save the face of man;
But that, how strangely! Yesterday I pass'd
An infant school-room, echoing to the hum
Of children's voices on their tasks intent;
And, through the open window, could discern
The features of their mistress. 'Twas a face,
Almost the first which Memory, looking back
Through forty years, remembers to have loved;—
The face of one long since our nursery-maid,
The beauty of the village. Around her
Our young imaginations fondly clung,
And, in her features, seem'd to recognize
The bright ideals of our fairy tales
Mysteriously embodied. In our eyes,
She was the princess Eglantine, adored
Of Valentine and Orson;—we the twins
Contending for her hand. The Sabra she
Who loved St. George of England, and by him
Was lost amidst the forest; then straightway
Protected by a lion. She alone
Seem'd gentle Graciosa's living type,
Through depths unknown of trouble and distress,
Still constant to her Percinet.—Nor lack'd
Our spite a fitting representative
Of old malicious Grognon,—that foul hag
Who persecuted beauty, youth, and love,
For very ugliness. Her, to the life,
We found depicted in a spinster sour,
The despot of our nursery;—one whose tried
And unimpeach'd devotion to her charge
Compensated, in fond parental eyes,
For all her inborn crabbedness; who ruled
With undisputed, arbitrary sway
The rising generation, and the risen;
Queen'd it supreme o'er mistress and o'er maid;
And thus, by rigour of tyrannic rule,
Combined in close-knit league against herself,
Us and our pretty play-mate. In revenge
Of wrongs, supposed or real, her we named
Witch, ogre, wicked fairy, goblin, imp,
Giantess, evil genius, Afrit, goule,
And whatsoever abhorr'd and hateful thing
Imagination of the East or West
Hath ever bodied forth. And yet, in truth,
Much cause had we to love her, could the love
Of children be obtain'd by honest zeal
Apart from gentleness;—and if sometimes
She yielded to infirmity,—if years,
Approaching to threescore, had fail'd to quench,
In her, the wish to be a wife, and thus
Made her too oft the dupe of needy men,
Seeking not her but hers, and furnish'd food
For laughter even to us,—be that forgot
In the remembrance of her faithful life
And melancholy death. For,—after years
In strict discharge of anxious duty spent,
Worn out at last by the incessant fret
And fever of a spirit ill at ease,
And, haply, vex'd by our perversity
Almost beyond endurance,—she resolved
To quit our parents' service, and retire,
On the small savings by long labour earn'd,
To end her days in peace;—then changed her mind,
Through love for us and ours;—again resolved,—
And yet again repented;—till at last,
Wearied by what, in her, appear'd caprice,
Our parents lost all patience, and resolved
She should indeed depart. Thenceforth no more
She lifted up her head, nor could regain
Her full command of reason:—from her home
She wander'd and return'd not:—in the end,
After long, anxious search, her corpse was found
Beneath the Severn waters.

But the maid,—
The dark-eyed heroine of fairy-land,—
How hath her fortune sped? Alas! her tale
Is one of kindred sorrow. Long ago
(So long that I can scarce remember when)
She married; and had he, to whom she gave
Her hand and heart, been worthy of the gift,
Might now have held her head above the crowd
With decent self-respect:—alas! he proved
A drunkard and a brute. Soon ruin came,
And gaunt-eyed famine stared them in the face:
Her children proved rebellious, and she lived
A broken-hearted woman, struggling still,
In unsubdued nobility of soul,
With care, and want, and sorrow; till at length
Compassion and respect for her meek worth,
From those whom she had served in early youth,
Made her the mistress of that infant school
Where yesterday I found her;—but alas!
How should a wounded spirit, such as hers,
Bear up against her task?—what energy,
In her, remains to vary and sustain
Perpetual sallies of exciting sport,
And stimulative effort?—how should she,
Whose heart is bleeding for her husband's sin,
Her offspring lost, her home left desolate—
How should she feel the interest, here required,
In children not her own? With listless air
She sits, in dull, mechanical routine,
Dragging along her weary load of tasks;
Dispensing vain rewards and punishments;
Dispirited and jaded by the sound
Of voices which she heeds not; till the clock,
With wish'd-for stroke, announces her release,
Emancipating from ungrateful toil
The teacher and the taught.—Thus Life's romance
Begins and ends:—its moral,—that our world
Is, was, and, till redemption's closing day,
Must evermore remain a vale of tears.

Yet there are spots of sunshine even on Earth;—
Green islands in the desert, which the sands
Entomb not, nor the tempests overwhelm:—
Spots which, long cherish'd in our heart of hearts,
Then, after many years revisited,
We find still fresh and fragrant. Yonder lane,
Which,—from the church-yard gate commencing, skirts
The school enclosure and the castle ditch,—
Leads, in the space of some two hundred yards,
Beside a lonely cottage, from the path
Divided by a wicket. It was once,
(Far within my remembrance,) the abode
Of a kind aged couple, who, when years
Had made the man unfit to earn his bread
At that mechanic craft which he had learnt
And practised, as a builder, all his life,
From business and its cares at length withdrew,
Surrendering to a son-in-law their trade
And daily occupation. In their home,
The latter, with his wife, their only child,—
(Themselves, in middle age, a childless pair,)
Came to reside; and though her husband seem'd
To some a vain and consequential man,
The frank and noble nature of his wife
Made more than full amends for what appear'd
Deficiencies in him. There seem'd to rest
A blessing on that house;—Content was there,
And filial duty, with connubial love
Holding, in one warm bosom, constant sway,
And spreading through the home in which it dwelt
Perpetual sunshine. Between them and us
(The cottage and the vicarage) grew up
A friendship, such as we had sought in vain
Beneath less humble roofs. Nature had set
On that old man and woman, at their birth,
The seal of true gentility, which they
Transmitted to their daughter. Oft in her,
When other sources fail'd, was found advice
And consolation, sympathy and help,
Amidst those worldly troubles which must fall
On rich and poor alike. Full oft was she
The confidante of sorrows, to no ear
But hers entrusted; and, for us, whose age
Reck'd of no nice distinction between ranks,
But clung to kindness, wheresoever found,
With instinct true and keen,—in all the world
There was no heart like hers. Day after day,
In pairs or singly,—sometimes all at once,—
We stole from home, to prattle and to play
In that old cottage and the timber-yard
Adjacent. I shall never, while I live,
Forget the old man's cheerful countenance,
Lit up with gleams of humour, as he sat
And welcomed us in his accustomed seat
Within the chimney corner;—his broad jests,—
His cordial fun,—his brown, close, curly wig,
His straight blue coat with monstrous buttons starr'd,—
His nether garments, plush or velveteen,—
The sky-blue worsted stockings on his shanks,—
The buckles in his shoes. His busy wife,
Unbroken by the weight of fourscore years,
Meanwhile, with ceaseless footsteps, roam'd about,
And plied her household tasks, with ready tact
Assisted by her daughter, and by us
Impeded sorely;—yet they never lost
Patience or kindness, but still bore our freaks
And follies with a spirit imperturb'd;
Nor wearied of such pert impertinence
As would have wearied Job. On baking-days,
Which we by instinct knew, their batch contain'd
(Nor ever fail'd) one smoking cake for us,—
One smoking, butter'd cake!—Their cider-press
Ream'd with rich draughts for us;—their garden teem'd
With gooseberries and currants, which to us
Yielded unstintingly their luscious juice.
We were the lords of all that fair domain,—
Too oft, perhaps, the tyrants. Time roll'd on;
We left the place and country,—nor return'd,
Till thirteen years had pass'd. The old man then
Had, in the ripeness of full ninety years,
Been gather'd to his fathers; and his wife
Slept with him side by side. The cottage still
Shelters the younger pair, who, in their turn,
Themselves have sunk into the vale of years;
And to our children are, what once, to us,
Their parents used to be. Nay, so robust
Their age appears, that haply they may see
Another generation. To their house
Our steps still daily turn, when we renew
Our visits to the neighbourhood, and still
They welcome us as they were ever wont,
And spoil our children with as right good will
As once they spoil'd the parents. All remains
Beneath that roof unchanged;—upon the shelves
The clean, white rows of plates, and in the midst,
One of green wedgwood, still uncrack'd; above
The chimney-piece, its old abundant store
Of tin and pewter, amidst which appears
(Chief ornament) a glittering brazen cross,
Which, fifty years ago, the husband bore,
Surmounting the blue staff, on festal days,
Borne by the members of the Friendly Club.
The wife (except that threescore years and ten
Have silver'd o'er her hair) continues still
The same in form and feature. Age hath tamed
The loftier spirit of her partner down;
Who, when I visited their cottage last,
Was reading, with a fix'd abstracted look,
The Olney hymns. To me it seems as though
That couple and the world must live and die
Together; and whene'er their humble roof
Shall shelter other tenants, 'twill be time
For me to close, for ever, Memory's book,
And cease to think on scenes and days gone by.

With feelings different far, yet not unmix'd
With melancholy interest, I behold
Yon square-built house, by jealous walls and gates
(Enclosing, in its front, a spacious court,)
Shut out and barricaded from the street.
A proud, aristocratic Hall it seems,
Not courting, but, discouraging approach,
Save from a favour'd few. For many a year
That house hath been to me a place forbid,—
Impervious, inaccessible. And yet
Few are there with remembrances more rich
Of young enjoyment in my thought combined;
Enjoyment brief, but pure. 'Twas long the home
Of one with deepest sorrow conversant;
A wife and mother, o'er whose later years,
Blameless, yet broken-hearted, be a veil
Of reverential silence drawn by me.
Her elder sons and daughters had grown up
Almost to youthful prime, while I was yet
A boy unbreech'd,—the youngest, some few years
My senior;—we could scarce be playfellows,
And yet were oft companions. 'Twas to them
A dignified delight to guide our sports,
And teach us new ones;—to protect and aid
Our tender age;—and well did they discharge
Such duty, self-imposed. On Sunday noons,
As we return'd from church, we never fail'd
To greet each other in the street,—and then,
To us, it was the proudest joy on earth
To be invited, (as full oft we were,)
To end the day with them:—at will we roam'd
Around their spacious garden, and at will
Wander'd, with them, about the fields at eve,
Until the sun had set:—then, to beguile
The twilight hours, the book of Common Prayer,
Adorn'd with wondrous prints, was summon'd in;
And sometimes hymns were sung, which still, methought,
Sounded most sweetly from that Lady's lips.
So pass'd our Sunday blameless; nor alone
Our Sunday,—for on week-days too we met
Not rarely, nor with stinted intercourse;
Until between our parents discord fell,
From pastoral duty faithfully perform'd,
And marr'd our old companionship.—Not ours
The fault,—and yet to us the fruits it bore
Appear'd most bitter. I remember well,
The evening when (all prospect being past
Of reconciliation) our young friends
Came, at their father's bidding, to our house,
To bid their last farewell. A sad one 'twas;
And, from that time, a strange unnatural state
Of separation between house and house
For years and years continued. We became
The village Capulets and Montagus;
Yet all save one—(the master of one house)
Most anxious for re-union;—nor, perhaps,
Could his sole pleasure (e'en had he so will'd)
Have ended all communion between those
Whom inclination join'd. From time to time
We met and talk'd together;—it befell,
Day after day, by strangest accident,
That they and we both walk'd at the same hour,
Both hit on the same walks. As years pass'd on,
And youth began to dawn, those walks assumed
A more romantic air. Love-rhymes were writ,
And assignations made, and duly kept,
With more deliberate purpose:—then commenced
The nightly serenade,—the moonlight stroll;
And, but for some disparity of years,
Perchance the hostile houses had not lack'd
A Romeo or a Juliet.—

Those wild days
Have long been over, and the grave hath closed
Above both wife and husband; yet even now
Dark sorrow seems to brood upon that house,
Enwrapping it in gloom—through which appear
Gleams, not, I trust, delusive, of that light
Which shineth more and more to perfect day.

But all too long this retrospective mood
I cherish,—with a fond garrulity
Babbling, at life's full noon, of morning dreams.
'Tis time I should awake:—and yet each spot
Around me teems with recollections, such
As I would fain indulge. There's nought so mean
And insignificant in all this place,
But is endued with power to strike some chord
Of old associations. Yonder barn,
Secluded from the street a little space,
And in no wise distinguish'd outwardly
From others of its class, was once to me
A scene of strange enchantment; for a troop
Of strolling players built up beneath its roof
Their rude and rustic theatre. Till then
The drama was, to us, an unknown world,
Save that when last our family had gone
To visit the metropolis, (a rare
And wonderful occurrence) we all went
To Sadler's Wells and Astley's. Ne'er again
Was such intense illusion to beguile
Our senses and our souls as seized us then.
We were at once translated from this world
Of sober daylight to a fairy realm,
Mysteriously existing in the midst
Of human habitations, yet from all
Distinct and self-compact, by human laws
Ungovern'd, and to rules conventional
Of human custom unamenable.
The theatre itself appear'd to us
A palace of enchantment,—its gay tiers
Of gilded boxes semicircular—
Its mirror'd columns—its glass chandeliers,—
The central lustre, by some means unknown,
But necromantic, as appear'd to us,
Drawn up into the ceiling, and again
Descending to its place—the row of lights,
With sudden blaze emerging from the floor,—
The dark green curtain, veiling from our sight
An unknown world, mysterious,—the first note
Prelusive of the tuning orchestra,
Soon bursting, with sublime and swelling crash,
Into full concord of harmonious sound,—
The rising of the curtain, all at once
Disclosing to our sight transcendent scenes
Of brilliancy and bliss, surpassing all
Our young imagination e'er had dream'd
Of fairy-land—our fairy tales themselves
(For so it chanced) no longer by the mind
Imperfectly received, but to the eye
Reveal'd distinctly—Beauty and the Beast,
Tom Thumb, and Cinderella, by strange art
Converted from mere phantoms of the thought
To visible realities—all this
Was, to our minds, a new creation, fraught
With glory from some brighter world derived.
The very orange-women seem'd to us
Scarce of this earth,—scarce earthly. Such had been
Our earliest joys theatrical: but now
The full illusion was, in part, to cease;
And nature, stripp'd of pomp and circumstance,
To supersede enchantment. Small and low,—
Hung round with tapestry of worn-out scenes,
And, by a thin partition, into pit
And gallery scarce divided—its whole band
One solitary fiddle—sometimes two,—
Its stage cribb'd, cabin'd, and confined—with few
And paltry decorations,—dresses, scenes,
All suited each to each,—that theatre
E'en at first sight, gave warning, by its looks,
That histrionic art within those walls,
Apart from all appliances and means,
Must, by its strength or weakness, stand or fall.
Yet there did mimic talent, with all aid
Of outward show dispensing, in our hearts
Awaken childhood's earnest sympathies.
There we rejoiced with them that did rejoice,
And wept with them that wept;—there learnt to feel
The dignity of Virtue in distress,
And with her triumphs sympathize;—there grieved
For Woman's bitter wrong, and burnt with zeal
Heroic to avenge it. Were such thoughts
And feelings sinful all? In sober truth,
When I review those hours, I deem them not
Mispent or useless;—and if riper years,
Instructing me more fully in the lore
Of good and evil, have reveal'd a world
Of mischief in the stage,—if I forbear
To breathe its dangerous atmosphere, or soil
My priestly garments with the taint it bears,—
Such sacrifice I grudge not, but exult
With thankfulness that I have better joys
To gladden me on Earth:—but then no doubt
Or dim misgiving e'er had cross'd my mind;
No dark suspicion of inherent guilt
Estranged me from its magic:—all the ill
(If ill there was) by me was unperceived;
The good, I think, remain'd with me;—some thoughts
And feelings were develop'd, which perchance,
In after years, have sway'd my inner man
With no unwholesome influence;—some power
Was given me to perform my task on Earth.

Fair valley, verdant pastures, gentle stream
Winding along thy bold and wooded banks,
With most melodious murmur;—noble hills,
Mountains almost, o'ershadowing, with your dark
And craggy grandeur, scenes than which our isle
Can scarcely boast more beauteous;—tranquil town;—
Grey, venerable Church, with steeple white
Up tapering to the dim and distant sky;—
Church in whose gothic aisles I first beheld
And join'd, as childhood could, the solemn forms
Of Christian worship;—thou, too, noble Hall—
Crowning yon wooded hill in gorgeous state
Of architectural magnificence;—
Hall long deserted, and, for many a day,
Connected in our fancies with dark tales
Of Romish priestcraft,—visited sometimes,
And view'd, by me and mine, through all thy suites
Of empty rooms and mouldering furniture,
With somewhat of a superstitious awe;—
And, last and dearest, my paternal roof,
Not yet—not soon, I trust, to pass away,
With this frail life's continuance, from the pair
Whom still it shelters;—each and all, farewell!
There is no spot in all that span of earth
By me best known, to which with livelier grief
I speak that parting word, than this wherein
Ye congregate and crowd upon my sight.
And yet, for me, is Britain studded o'er
With spots to memory dear,—and some almost
As beautiful as this. E'en now I go
To join, in haunts which I have loved for years,
Those whom I love still better:—nothing loth,
And yet with swelling heart, I take my leave
Of this sweet region, in my inmost heart
Cherish'd through life, revisited with joy
Still fresh, still pure as ever!—not for long,
Not, as I trust, for many tedious months
I now depart:—Home of my earliest years!
My heart's first home!—once more—farewell! farewell!

My sons—and ye especially, my first
And second born, whose years already pass
That term which to the schoolboy's dignity
Advances, for the most part, your compeers—
To you this second lay, design'd to tell
A schoolboy's tale, I dedicate.—Ere long,
Or singly, or together, you must launch
Your untried skiffs from this calm harbour, home,
On school's tempestuous sea;—not all unfit,—
Not unprepared by previous discipline,
I trust, albeit home-nurtured, to essay
Such voyage;—for not delicately rear'd
In mind or body, not in nursery cage
Too long immured, nor pamper'd have ye been
With drawing-room delights, nor train'd to trip
In lady-like gymnastics, nor imbued
With lore alone which ladies love to teach;
But, from your tender years, to sports robust
Inured, and manly studies.—Ye could climb,
Ere seven years old, with toil of hands and knees,
The loftiest peak of Arran's mountain ridge,
Where eagles train their nestlings;—ye can breast
The ocean-waves, and buffet them away
With lusty strokes;—on horseback or afoot,
Ye shrink from no fatigue;—thro' Doon's clear pools,
Reckless how deep, the livelong summer day,
With rod in hand ye plunge, nor quit your sport
E'en though the inclement skies should pelt and pour
A deluge on your heads;—and when the frost
With panoply of thickest ice hath mail'd
Our Avon's bosom, ye on trenchant skates
Athwart the glassy surface, swift as light,
Curve within curve describe,—not inexpert
E'en at the “outside edge:”—Nor have your minds
Been all untutor'd, nor with ancient lore
And modern unimbued:—but chiefly ye
Have, by the wisdom of a mother's heart,
And that most holy tenderness of love,
Which none but mothers feel, been taught to know
And reverence Truth and Virtue:—ye have spent
Your infancy and childhood, and the dawn
Of thoughtful life, by impulses to good,
And many a pure, religious influence
Surrounded and impell'd:—no morn hath risen,
No night closed round the world, but ye have knelt
(And oft, I trust, with no unthoughtful prayer,)
Spreading the open volume of your hearts
Before God's throne, in words first taught by her
To whom you owe your earthly, and whate'er
Of heavenly life, is yours:—Her solemn tones
Discoursing, ere you slept, at your bedsides,
Of righteousness, of judgment, and of sin,
Of Providence and duty, oft and oft
Have mingled with your dreams, excluding thence
All foul and hateful images:—your tasks,
Your pleasures, your employments, have by her
Been ruled and guided, sweeten'd and applied
With most prevailing wisdom, to those ends
Which she hath most at heart:—your home hath been
A happy one—the centre and the source
Of healthful joys, which ye have minister'd
Each to the other, or together shared;
And thus have learnt, through mutual self-restraint,
And mutual joy, imparted and received,
To love each other dearly.—I am sure
That—whatsoever may in after years
Befall you,—both will always love your home,—
Your childhood's home,—and that the thought of it
Will be a purifying thought to both,
When we are in our grave. Nor will you lose
E'en yet, I trust, its shelter:—School, to you,
Will bring no exile from the haunts you love,
From cheering and familiar looks and words,
Or from parental aid:—amidst the cares,
The conflicts, and the interests, new and strange,
The doubts and the distresses, which, ere long,
Must chequer your school life, you will retain
One harbour and sure hold;—unlike your sire,
Who, in old times, when railways yet were not,
And coaches travell'd scarce six miles an hour,
At eight years old was sent away to school
A hundred miles from home.

In after-life,
With all its ebbs and flows of joy and grief,
Its tears and smiles, its welcomes and farewells,
There is no separation like that first
Between the child and parent.—I can still
Remember how, when it had been resolved
That I should go to school, it seem'd to me
As though some fearful evil, undefined,
Mysterious, vague, hung over me;—my heart
Presaged, it knew not what,—disruption dire
Of old home ties and sympathies,—dread loss
Of comforts and of kindness, ne'er till then
Esteem'd or valued, and, in place of these,
Harsh treatment, stern restraint, relentless law,
Inexorable justice.—Fearful tales
Of academic discipline severe,
Stripes and starvation, and imprisonment,
Rose up from memory's cells in grim array,
To scare imagination.—Well for me,
It chanced that on our road we were to halt
(My father and myself) for some few days
At an ancestral mansion, there to meet
A cousin, who (my senior by five years,)
Was, at the school to which we both were bound,
To act as my protector.—The last boon
Vouchsafed me was to fix the fatal day
On which we should leave home; and I, who oft
Had been most happy in that ancient Hall,
Of two proposed, decided on the first,
There to prolong my stay; but when I saw
My mother's grieved and disappointed look,
Though she spoke not, I felt my choice was wrong,
And the next moment, would have barter'd worlds
For leave to change it,—yet, through pride or shame,
Still held my peace perversely:—so we went
As it had been resolved, and in few days,
(Our passing visit ended) reach'd the town
Where dwelt my future pedagogue. E'en now
I well remember, how, with lingering wheels,
Our chaise approach'd the house:—it was a low
White plaister'd vicarage, in front of which,
A row of close-trimm'd limes, which interlaced
Their topmost branches, form'd a sort of fence
Between it and the churchyard:—not far off
Stood the old church itself, against whose broad
And battlemented tower, some striplings tall
(Grown men they seem'd to me) were playing then,
Irreverently, I thought, a game at fives.
The master, a hale man of sixty years,
In curl'd and powder'd and full bottom'd wig,
(The symbol, then, of pedagogues) advanced
Beneath the limes to welcome us, and soon,
Within a comfortable parlour housed,
We with his wife, himself, and his two sons,
Assistants and joint partners in the school,
Were holding fearless converse:—the dread spell
Was broken;—school seem'd not so dread a place
As I had still conceived it;—half the weight
That lay upon my heart was taken off;
And not until the parting moment came,—
Not till my parent, seated in the chaise,
Which was to bear him homeward, turn'd him round
To take his farewell look, did I, at last,
Feel all my desolation.—There I stood,
Surrounded by strange faces, each and all
Impertinently curious—every tongue
Let loose in countless questionings;—my name,
Age, parentage, condition, birth-place, home,
Proficiency in Latin—with swift haste,
Ask'd, answer'd, and reported;—I meanwhile
Awkward and shy, and grievously perplex'd
By such unceasing cannonade of talk,
Stood helpless;—here and there a face express'd
Compassion, as I thought, and sympathy:
Nor was I, with my kinsman at my side,
Bereft of all protection;—yet it seem'd
That when, with sudden clang, the bell rang out
Which summon'd us to supper, I was freed,
As by a friendly voice, from the assaults
Of reckless persecution.—But, that meal!—
That first school supper!—how unlike it seem'd
The comfortable board with tea-cups graced,
The glory of my home!—those tables rough,
Unconscious of a table-cloth, with ink
Profusely flooded, and by pocket-knives,
In characters of every size and shape,
With names of generations past inscribed;—
Those masses, huge and square, of flaccid cheese,
And bread unbutter'd, which each ravenous boy,
Plateless and forkless, seized with eager grasp
And carved, like hungry ploughman, with a knife
Drawn from his pouch;—those tall white earthen quarts
Of drink, by men call'd beer, but swipes by boys;—
Such fare, so served, demanded hungrier maw
Than mine yet was, to relish it.—Full soon
The meal was ended, and—without a word
Of grace, or vesper service offer'd up,—
We were dismiss'd to bed;—so prayerless then
Were all our English schools;—but ere I slept,
The thought of home and habits home-instill'd
Came fresh upon my heart:—with bended knee
And clear articulation, undismay'd,
I said my wonted prayer.—Our master's wife,
Who stood beside me, I remember well,
Seem'd touch'd by such unwonted fear of Heaven;
And, bidding me good night, devoutly pray'd
That I might long remain what then I was.
Vain hope!—a martyr's spirit would have quail'd
(Had such been mine) beneath the unpitying storm
Of ridicule and insult, rude reproach,
And scorn contemptuous, which, from that wild rout
Of boisterous urchins burst upon the head
Of such as, like myself, retain'd as yet
Some remnant of home-feelings—some faint trace
Of care for holy things.—It was their pride,—
Their never-failing sport, to drag to light
The secret thoughts of each most gentle heart,
And then, with rude, sarcastic ribaldry,
To set them up for laughing-stocks.—The soul,
Thus outraged, sunk into itself aghast,
And brooded o'er its treasure silently,
Not without deep resentment.—Some there were,
Who, with deceitful show of sympathy,
Would worm their way into the confidence
Of unsuspecting victims,—win complete
And unreserved disclosure of whate'er
Lay nearest to their hearts,—the names they loved,
Their fond remembrances of home-delights,—
The hopes they cherish'd—all that was the food,
The pure refreshment of their inner life;—
Then straight betray the secrets, darkly won,
And, with demoniac insult, rend and crush
The feelings and affections thus evoked
From the soul's inmost depths.—It had been strange
Had spirits, thus abused, retain'd unchill'd
Their innate tenderness.—Ere long, a new
And less confiding nature crusted o'er
The surface of the old:—their hearts were sear'd
And harden'd to the blows they had to bear;
And what they lost in tenderness, perchance
They gain'd in firm endurance,—thus prepared
To grapple with the world, and breathe, unhurt,
Its chilling atmosphere.—Such lot was mine;
Such must be yours, my children.—Be it so;
I seek not to avert what I lament,
But know to be the inevitable doom
Of Man in this rude Earth;—perchance 'tis well
That this, your first collision with the world,
Should also be your bitterest.

Yet think not
That, when that shock is o'er, the schoolboy life
Is otherwise than happy. Time heals o'er
The wounds which the young heart so keenly feels:
Our nature soon conforms itself to that
Of each new world in which it is to dwell,
And takes its form and impress:—such at least
Was my experience;—casting off my shy
Home-nurtured meekness, I began, ere long,
To rough it with my fellows, and soon won
From persecution clear immunity.
Nor, when I now look back on those old days,
Can I discern much real grief mix'd up
With their abundant gladness.—In that school,
Terror and pain and punishment were known
So little, that, ere many days had past,
I learnt to deem the tales, which I had heard
Of magisterial tyranny, profane
And old wives' fables: birchen rods appear'd
Mere figments of the brain; and weeks elapsed
Ere execution on one luckless wight
Duly perform'd, proved that, beyond all doubt,
Such tales were fundamentally correct,
And true at bottom.—Thus our school-hours pass'd,
Not often sadly; and, when school was o'er,
We had abundant change of joyous sports;—
Fives, cricket, foot-ball, in its season each;
And (what to horticultural adepts
Yielded a graver joy) to each his plot
Of garden ground assign'd, producing crops
Of choicest salad herbs,—green lettuces,
Mustard and cress, and radishes, oblong
Or turnip-shaped, which graced our evening meal,
And added to its relish.—Once a year
Each gather'd of green gooseberries, wherewithal,
From his own garden, to compound a pie,
Which, baked at the adjacent pastry-cook's,
Supplied a crowning feast.—On summer eves,
Conducted by our masters, and with them
Sharing the rapturous pleasure, we were wont
In Kennet's silver stream to plunge amain.
Ah me! to think how sorely, at the first,
My heart misgave me!—what a weight of fear
I hid beneath a bold and cheerful brow,
When on the river's grassy marge I stood,
And heard the mill-dam waters, through their gates
Let loose, with thundering torrent rage and roar!
Brief terror! soon succeeded by delight
Extatic. Nor were more romantic joys
Denied us;—to a neighbouring forest, ranged
By herds of the red deer, sometimes we went
On holidays, and underneath an oak
(The forest monarch) spread upon the grass
Our sylvan banquet:—there, from branch to branch
We chased the squirrels, and sometimes, athirst
For manlier sport, assail'd the herd itself,
Like Robin Hood's bold outlaws in the glades
Of Sherwood;—but such holidays were rare:
Our every-day diversions were confined
Almost within the churchyard's narrow bounds.
Amidst the graves we sported, rarely touch'd
By aught of solemn feeling, to the place
Accordant—save that never, after dark,
We loved to pass near one mysterious part
Of the old church—a kind of catacomb
Or mausoleum on the northern side,
Encompassing a single marble tomb,—
A tomb without a name, inscriptionless.
Of him who slept beneath it fearful things
Were rumour'd and believed—a dark, strange tale
Of infant murder—of acquittal gain'd
Through legal subtlety—of large estates,
Held by the owner of a neighbouring Hall,
For service by an ancestor perform'd,
In dread forensic strife for life or death,
To that mysterious tenant of the grave.
'Twas seldom that the door of that dread vault
Was open'd;—when it was, with shuddering awe
Sometimes we ventured in, and there beheld,
Suspended on the wall, the mouldering lines
Of a pale portrait, and what seem'd to us
The etching of some dark mysterious deed
Cut rudely upon brass.

But 'twas not long
Before that churchyard in our eyes assumed
An interest more impressive:—in her home,
After long years of patient slow decline,
Our master's daughter died. Her once I saw
White as a sheeted ghost, with thin blue lips
Emaciate—Death's dread seal upon her brow,—
Yet not, methought, unlovely:—with a friend,—
A female friend, the solace and support
Of her long weary sickness, she conversed
In whisper'd accents,—for her voice was gone;
And when I look'd upon her face, even I
Could tell her end was near:—full soon it came:—
We heard that she was dead, and, in few days,
Were summon'd to attend her to the grave.
That long procession of dejected boys
Following the corpse of one almost as young
As some among themselves, and to the dust
Beholding her, with solemn rites, consign'd,—
That was my first near intercourse with death.
But few months pass'd ere to the daughter's tomb
The mother too was borne, and, with his sons,
Unbroken still, although by grief sore tried,
The father lived a widower.

Shades like these,
Gloomy but transient, swept across the heart
Even of that childish, gay community;
But soon their trace wore off, and joy return'd,
Brighter from brief suspension:—yet, though grief
To us was a rare visitant,—though scarce
Could we, in conscience, whisper to ourselves
That we could well be happier than we were—
With what intense expectant eagerness
We look'd for our deliverance; and when June
Brought back the roses, or December bound
The earth in frosty chains, with what parade
Of science arithmetical we framed
Our calendars of weeks, and days, and hours;
Computing the minutest point of time
Which must elapse before the holidays.
Then, when the wish'd-for morning had arrived,
How we awoke ere sunrise!—if 'twas dark,
How eagerly we watch'd for the first streak
Of candle-light beneath our bed-room doors
Significantly stealing !—in what haste
We huddled on our clothes!—with ears how keen
We listen'd for the roll of distant wheels!
And when, before the gate, the long array
Of chaises, from the neighbouring town dispatch'd
To bear us to our homes, assembled stood,
Who could restrain his transport?—Then what din
Of horns arose!—what ceaseless cannonade
Of pea-shooters and pop-guns!—with what zeal
Of emulative mischief shots were aim'd
At windows which we pass'd!—how proud was he
Who crack'd the largest number!—but even these,
Though joys indeed, were joys of small account
Compared to that intensity of bliss
Which I at least enjoy'd, when I approach'd
Once more my wish'd for home.—Some three miles off,
Familiar haunts and walks which I had loved,
And spots connected, in my heart of hearts,
With pleasant recollections, by degrees
Stole on me in succession;—nor, I think,
Shall I, as long as I exist, forget
How, at one well-known angle in the road,
My Father, who on horseback had come forth
To welcome me, appear'd;—next, some small space
Behind, in mirthful and expectant group,
Brothers and sisters, in full progress all,
To meet and ride home with me in the chaise.
That night I slept once more in my old bed,—
My own old darling bed;—its site unchanged,
The pattern of its curtains still the same;
And if unmix'd contentment e'er was mine,
'Twas in the sober certainty I felt
Of its complete identity.

But Time,
Jealous of day-dreams at life's sober noon,
Forbids me to enlarge upon the joys
And sorrows of those early schoolboy years.
Scarce noticed I pass o'er the Christmas sports
Of multifarious cousins, round one hearth,
From the four quarters of the compass met,
Filling one spacious ancestorial Hall
With the loud uproar of their merriment;
The children's dance—the game at blind man's buff,—
The courtships and flirtations, three parts jest,
And one part earnest, between boy and girl
Already knit in bonds of cousinhood;—
Then,—with a breath dissolving love's light chains,—
Black Monday, and his heart-breaking farewells;—
The swift transition from the land of dreams
Ethereal, bright, Elysian, to the dull
And working-day realities of school;—
The qualms of sad home-sickness, soon dispell'd
By studies and diversions in swift round
Alternating, yet still, from time to time,
Admitting to the mind's abstracted gaze
Bright glimpses of remember'd looks and forms;—
These, and ten thousand griefs and joys like these,—
Successes, disappointments, hopes fulfill'd,
And expectations blighted, friendships form'd
And enmities incurr'd—the good and ill
Strangely commix'd and blended, which make up
The schoolboy's portion—must I leave unsung:
Yet not without a word of grateful praise
And frank acknowledgment of good received,
Would I cast off the thought of that old school
And all its recollections.—I believe
That, not for rudiments of classic lore
Alone, or other knowledge ably taught,
Do I remain its debtor, but for much
Of what is now least blameable, and bad
In all my moral Being.—We were school'd
Not by mere pedants—academic dolts,
With heart and soul all syntax, but by men
With hearts and souls of men, who loved to make
Their pupils their companions,—ate and drank
At the same board, and in their presence spoke
Of what concern'd themselves.—Of open heart
They were, and if the boldness of their speech
And humour sometimes overstepp'd the bounds
Of clerical decorum—if they seem'd
Less strict in their conformity to rules
Conventional—less careful of the shows
Which the world's voice exacts of clergymen,
Than friends desired, or foes could fail to wish—
There was in them a manliness of soul—
A blunt contempt for the world's hollow forms,
And seemings hypocritical, which taught
Us also how to think and act like men.
The spirit of the masters was, in part,
Diffused among the scholars;—we became
Attach'd to them, and to their dwelling-place;
Nor less to one another;—and at last,
When the time came which summon'd me away
For ever, I went forth like one who leaves
His native land and kindred:—sad farewells
Given and received, and benedictions breathed
From no unfervent hearts—pressure of hands,
Sad looks and tears that could not be restrain'd,
Attended my departure as I pass'd
Forth from the door which never more should ope
To me as to an inmate. Once again,
When near twelve years had pass'd, I saw that house,
And spent a day and night beneath its roof,
And slept where I had slept, and traced once more
Each of my boyhood's haunts.—I scarcely think
That now, when others dwell there—now, when life
With me hath reach'd its zenith, and must soon
Begin to sink into the vale of years,—
I e'er again could find it in my heart
There to repeat my visit.

But I turn
To scenes more famous, nor to me less dear,—
Nay dearer, and with feelings more profound
And holy in remembrance close entwined;—
Birth-place, to me, of poesy and love,
Amidst whose classic shades, in after years,
Tarrying, I found and woo'd, and proudly won
Her who, for sixteen years, hath been the stay
And solace of my pilgrimage on earth;
The mother of my children, the unchanged,
Unwearied partner of my joys and griefs.
Fair art thou, with thy crown of ancient towers,
Thy cloister'd dim arcades, thy spacious courts,
Thy verdant fields and venerable trees,
Reflected in the mirror broad and clear
Of thy præterfluent. Thames.—With what a calm
Proud confidence thou seem'st to nestle close
Beneath yon castle's overshadowing wing!
As conscious of the loyalty thou lov'st
To cherish in thy sons.—With reverent heart
I greet thee—not unmindful of the good
For which I am thy debtor; nor, if aught
Of evil was mix'd up with it, upbraid
Thee and thy noble nurture for a fault
In part or all my own.—Etona, hail!
And mayst thou flourish ever!—Far removed
From thy fair shades, which yet, from year to year,
I visit, and with love for ever fresh,
And keen enjoyment, wander thro' and thro',—
I summon from my heart's sepulchral depths
Thy buried image.—Rise, as when I first
Beheld thee, half expectant, half in fear
Of that new world mysterious, unexplored,
Within thy walls awaiting me.—Far off
I saw thee—the grey pinnacles and spires
Of thy majestic chapel o'er the pile
Of dull, brick, massive ivy-mantled towers,
Rising in Gothic pride—thy verdant meads
Sprinkled with youthful cricketers, and bright
With vernal sunshine.—Beautiful thou wast,
And with thy loveliest smiles didst welcome me,
A stranger, to thy bosom;—yet not then
(Albeit a stranger) simple or unversed
In all the ways of schoolboys, but with front
Bold and defiant, and with spirit prompt
To meet, and, if need were, repel the assaults
Of tyrannous oppression:—to such pitch
Of rude blunt valour had experience, gain'd
Through previous buffets, strung me, though in sooth,
By nature not a brawler, nor inclined
To pugilistic exploit:—but amidst
Thy peaceful dwellings slender need I found
Of such heroic daring:—there, enthroned
On meet gradations of ascending ranks,
Reign'd Order;—there, by firmest law secured,
Right triumph'd over Might;—not strength alone,
Nor skill to give, nor stubbornness to bear
Black eye and bloody nose and bruise uncouth,
Won station and respect,—nor kept them, won.
A more mysterious, more majestic power
Diffused through, and controlling, every rank
Of that small commonwealth, was recognised,
Felt, and obey'd.—No robber horde were we,
Anarchical, self-will'd, by force alone
From mutual wrong and violence restrain'd;
But a well-govern'd people, proud to own
Legitimate control, and to maintain
Our glorious constitution unimpair'd.
And what if aristocracy, upheld
By right prescriptive, ruled with feudal sway
Her unenfranchised vassals,—still her yoke
Was milder and less grievous to be borne
Than arbitrary bondage, forced elsewhere
By strength of fist, on the reluctant necks
Of trembling urchins, all too weak to win
The freedom which they sigh'd for.—Hard it seem'd,
No doubt, on summer evenings, when the Thames
Was all alive with skiffs, to toil and pant
With infinite expenditure of breath,
And reeking limbs and weariness of heart,
Fetching and flinging home the volant ball
Of some unflagging cricketer:—hard 'twas
To rise before the lark, on menial tasks
Intent, discharging with one pair of hands
The offices of valet, footman, cook,
Housemaid, and shoeblack;—passing hard to spread,
Hungry oneself and breakfastless, the board
Of some luxurious despot,—he meanwhile
Snoring supine;—and oft would flesh rebel
When summon'd by the cry of ‘Lower Boy,’
To do the bidding of an autocrat.
Yet all such hardships, springing as they did
Not from a tyrant's arbitrary will,
But from the fix'd authority of law
And immemorial custom, were endured
With patience, nay with cheerfulness, as ills
Essential to the state in which we lived,
And not therefrom to be exterminate
Without disruption dire of social bonds
And urgent danger to the common weal:
Transient withal, and soon to be exchanged,
In due succession, for the sweets of power.
Nor lack'd that state of vassalage its rights
And privileges, by the weaker crowd
Not to be lightly valued;—some defence
Against oppression,—patronage and aid
In trouble or distress,—assistance lent
In toils scholastic:—ne'er did thraldom wear
A yoke less galling:—strong attachment oft
Grew up between the master and the serf;
And each, from the relation held to each,
Derived some moral discipline—was taught
Lessons which else he might have never learnt,
Of kindness and forbearance, self-restraint,
Submission and obedience.—Would that I,
With my rash humour and impetuous blood,
Had learnt those lessons better than I did!

Swift flew, on pleasure's wings, those early months,
The months of my noviciate:—slavery seem'd,
(If slave I was) on that enchanted ground,
Freer than freedom elsewhere:—I had broke
A hundred galling fetters of restraint,
For one (and that a light one) on my will
Newly imposed:—a mighty change had past
Across the spirit of my dream of life.
It seem'd as though a new and ampler world
Of Being to my vision was disclosed,
Or that my soul had burst the embryo bonds
Which held it, like the caterpillar, cramp'd,
Till then, in grovelling form, to soar aloft
On wings of new-born joyance. Now no more
Within a playground's narrow bounds confined,
Not without peril to be overpass'd,—
Fetter'd no more to the despised routine
Of sports and occupations which befit
The pre-existent state of private school,—
My spirit might expatiate, uncontroll'd,
Through boundless realms of pleasure:—Space was free—
Time only had its limits;—field and grove,
Water and land,—almost the air itself
Lay open—the whole world before us smiled,
Our portion and inheritance! Nor lack'd
The energies and faculties within
Proportionate development:—our sports,
Plans, enterprises, aspirations, aims,
Were all of manhood, manly:—tops and taws
Were things forgotten;—even the cricket-ground
And fives-court held but secondary rank
Among our recreations:—on the breast
Of Thames, it was our pride in trim-built skiffs
To shoot amain—now singly, now in crews,
With lusty tug of oar, in eager race
Contending;—now along the river's marge
Exploring unknown regions;—and when June
Brought round the birth-day of the good old king,
(Our own especial patron,)—with what pride
And pomp aquatic, in procession long,
Our galleys clave the water!—what wild rout
Of horsemen on the banks!—what jovial glee
Of banqueters!—and when a rocket's blaze,
Scattering its fiery spangles on the sky,
Gave notice that the ten-oar was in sight,
How was each coign of vantage—bank and bridge,
Boatyard and terraced garden, wharf and quay,
Window and roof, with congregated crowds
Of gazers peopled!—what sublime display
Of pyrotechnic wonders seem'd to mock
The all too tardy twilight!—But even this,
For some adventurous spirits, was too dull
And spiritless a joy!—Such burnt to win
The sportsman's noble fame, albeit alloy'd
By ill report of poacher:—with the dawn,
O'erleaping the restraint of bolts and bars,
They ranged, with dog and gun, the near preserves,
Or from forbidden waters bore the lines
Rich with nocturnal spoil:—the river swans,
Breasting, with snow-white swell of downy plumes,
The silvery stream, themselves were not exempt
From rude assault, but stricken through and through
By murderous volleys, yielded up their lives
To daring marksmen; then beneath the shade
Of favouring night brought home, and for the spit
With pomp of culinary skill prepared,
Were roasted and served up—their savoury steam
Provoking the keen appetities of those
Who, like myself, eschewing sportsman craft,
Shared not the sportsman's banquet:—on the turf
Meanwhile athletic cricketers, for strife
With the pick'd champions of some neighbouring club
Preparing, plied the bat and drove the ball
In lusty sport.—Oh! who can e'er forget,
When the day fix'd for final conflict came,
How breathlessly we rush'd, from school let loose,
To view the mighty game!—how, from afar,
Between the umbrageous trees of Poet's walk,
The slim white figures of the combatants
Glanced on our eager sight!—with what suspense,—
What alternations swift of hope and fear,.
We watch'd the progress of the game!—and when
On Eton's side the fatal wicket fell,
Or aught occurr'd presaging her defeat,—
How keen a pang of anguish and dismay
Thrill'd through our trembling ranks!—then, if at last
The fortune of the day declared for us,—
With what a maddening shout of victory
We rent the welkin!—Waterloo itself,
(For Waterloo was fought in those wild days)
Scarce seem'd a mightier triumph than some match
Won against Epsom.

But to loftier strains
Tune we our harp!—Descend, O Muse, and sing
The glories of Long Chamber, ere its name,
By march of innovation, from the earth
Be, with itself, erased.—Ere I became
Its denizen, dire tales had reach'd my ear
Of horrors by its dreadful walls conceal'd;
Of slavery more oppressive than aught known
Or e'en imagined by inventive thought,
Among the happy dwellers in the town;
Of penal torments by no living tongue
Divulged, nor e'er, beyond those prison walls,
Known or conceived;—myself the destined thrall
Of one the most despotic of a race
Of most imperious despots.—Time sped on;
The day arrived on which I was to don
The gownsman's sable garb,—and after due
Examination held, and solemn course
Of ceremonial forms, on bended knee
Observed with silent awe, night saw me housed
Beneath that dreaded roof.—It was an hour
Not soon to be forgotten.—Amidst sounds
Discordant, multifarious,—song and shout,—
Imperious summons and responsive cry
Reciprocal of master and of slave,—
And long shrill whistle through the darkness heard—
(Darkness scarce pierced by the thin glimmering light
Of candle, here and there its feeble ray
Emitting through the interminable gloom
Of that long spectral vault,)—with heart perplex'd,
I sought my destined resting-place:—but where
Might resting-place be found?—forlorn I gazed
On all that endless row of bedsteads rude,
Each bearing what appear'd a mattress coarse,
Cover'd by coarser rug, alternating
With rude mis-shapen semblance of bureaus,
Square, upright, with cerulean paint bedaub'd,—
(Cerulean once, now with ten thousand hues
Distain'd)—sole furniture in that grim den,
Save tapestry of cobwebs, which had seen
The days of the sixth Henry,—here in threads
Of gossamer dependent from the roof,
There curtaining, with folds of filmy mist,
The smash'd and flapping casements:—chair was none;
No, not a three-legg'd stool, nor oaken bench,
Nor aught which ingenuity of need
Might mould into a seat;—no separate nook,
Withdrawn and shelter'd from the public gaze,
Where the poor novice might brief refuge find
From tumult and bewilderment;—all seem'd
A maze of restless motion:—but ere long
From out that weltering chaos was evolv'd
A world distinct and orderly;—the din
And hubbub had subsided;—lights appear'd
Forth starting in succession;—beds arranged
By nice precision of experienced hands,
Were ready, at the apartment's upper end,
For rest luxurious of aristocrats,
Who, in their studies pent, or far apart
In separate chambers, with each other held
Exclusive converse, or with book and pen
Beguiled the lingering hours:—the middle ranks,
In pairs or cluster'd groups, paced to and fro,
Or lounged on unmade beds:—the vulgar herd
(Their menial service done) in haste arranged
Their own hard pallets, pillowless, and soon
Sank into dreamless sleep,—some six or eight
Alone excepted, from the rest in turn
For servitorial functions, week by week,
Selected, on the lordly board to spread
The nightly meal, and do the high behests
Of sixth-form revellers;—to each his task
Duly prescribed, as academic rank
Defined his office;—some, the upper mess,
(So named) above the rest pre-eminent,
Brought from the neighbouring buttery meat and bread,
With foaming cans of beer;—to some 'twas given
To tend the nightly fire, and in their gowns
(Ne'er meant for such base service) to bring home
A ponderous load of coals, upon their backs
Artistically piled;—some, clerkly-wise,
Noted, on tablets fair, with pen and ink
The mandates of their lords,—by one, who watch'd
Outside our prison bars, to be convey'd
Into the farthest town, and thence evoke
Luxurious freightage of nocturnal cheer.
It were a work o'ertasking my poor strength
To tell of half the feats within those walls
Nightly perform'd;—to paint the winter fire,
By signal of the clock at half-past nine,
Fenced round with bedsteads, for the middle ranks
Forming a snug enclosure, within which,
Story, and song, and jest, and laugh went round,
Till bed-time came;—to tell how, many an hour,
While our proud seniors half the livelong night
Conversed, until the embers died away,
We lay awake and listen'd to their talk,
Now serious, now jocose,—with classic lore,
Or speculation philosophical,
Sometimes enrich'd,—sometimes with baser stuff
Degraded and defiled;—and how, on nights
Of revelry, when coolest brains grew hot
With wine and wassail, we, in trembling dread,
Beneath our bedclothes cower'd, till (every light
Quench'd suddenly) in mad, tyrannic sport,
Bedstead and bed, hurl'd suddenly aloft,
Dislodged their luckless tenant, in dire plight,
Heels upward on the floor.—But these were rare
And soon forgotten hardships:—other sports
More genial, nor exclusively enjoy'd
By the patrician few, from time to time
Cheer'd our imprisonment:—in motley form
Of merry masquerade, our mirth full oft
Broke loose and ran mad riot:—High and low,
With Saturnalian licence, burst their bonds
Conventional, and gamboll'd out the night
In frolic unrestrain'd:—sometimes arose,
(As by strange magic of Aladdin's lamp,)
A theatre, complete in all its parts,
With marvellous diversity of scene
And gorgeous decorations, and bright blaze
Of cunningly disposed and countless lights,
Embellishing the histrionic craft
Of our Collegian Roscii:—nor, in sooth,
Lack'd we or comic humour, or, at times,
Some touch of natural pathos:—and, if these
E'er flagg'd, rich compensation still we found
In our grotesque apparel:—'twas a sight
Worthy of more fastidious eyes than ours—
That motley pageant of fantastic garbs
Assembled in our green-room;—boyhood's limbs
Robed in the grave habiliments of age;—
The corpulent round paunch of monk or friar,—
The rustic with red mass of hair unkempt,
Smock frock, and scarlet hose, and nether vest
Of buckskin, begg'd or borrow'd, for the nonce,
E'en from the haunch of veritable clown—
And, (stranger, more fantastic than all else)
The garb, shape, face, and voice of womanhood,
Aped by some beardless boy—his burly waist
Mocking the close imprisonment of stays;
His bust by cunning artifice swoln out
To feminine proportions, and his brow
O'ershadow'd by profusion, rich and rare,
Of borrow'd ringlets, while with mincing gait
Affected, and his voice's tenor pipe
Reduced to a shrill treble, he assumed
The gestures of a maiden—by applause
Obstreperous of the congregated crowd
Not scantily rewarded.—All alike,
Actors and audience, willing both to please
And to be pleased, received and gave, by turns,
Reciprocal enjoyment;—well I wot
None such was ever felt in Drury Lane!

And was this Eton?—in no better lore
Than this doth she instruct the ripening mind,
And train the expanding heart?—Nay, deem not so,
But, in the lengthening retrospect of years,
The sports and conflicts of the schoolboy world,—
Its microcosmic cares, and joys, and griefs,—
The daily intercourse of boy with boy,—
Appear the true realities;—all else,
Which, when 'twas present, seem'd important, now
Looks dim and dwindled:—even the daily task,—
The weekly verses,—the whole grave routine
Of studies, with their prizes and rewards,—
Seem insignificant, minutest spots
In memory's landscape, which the limner's touch
Passes unnoticed.—Yet, among my peers,
(Albeit no sleepless student,) I enjoy'd
A scholar's reputation, nor disdain'd
The accomplishment of verse;—and now, methinks,
Amidst those preludings of boyish thought
And those young classic studies, I discern
The germs of much, which, growing with my growth,
And strengthen'd with my strength, hath since become
A portion of my Being.—If my song
Hath ever found its way to gentle hearts,—
'Twas by the nurture and development
Of dormant powers, then first and only found,
That its wild notes were fashion'd to express
A natural tenderness.—To me, no tale
Of martial prowess, or renown'd exploit,
By poet or historian told of yore,
Was e'er attractive;—little, in my heart,
Responded to the burst of trumpet blast,
Or host with host conflicting;—but I loved
('Twas the first poetry I ever felt)
That ode of Horace, which relates the doom
Of Hypermnestra, daring bonds and death,
For her young bridegroom's sake,—and Ovid's tale
Of grief domestic, that heart-breaking night
Appointed for his exile:—I admired,
With most intense and earnest sympathy,
Alcestis' self-devotion, and rejoiced
With an exceeding joy, when Hercules
Restored her from the grave to life and bliss
And his embraces for whose sake she died.
Among such images of household love
My fancy fondly revell'd, and my heart
Responded to my fancy.—I ne'er form'd
An abstract scheme of bliss, which was not based
On the calm comfort of a home and hearth
Surrounded by bright faces rich with love
Connubial and parental.—Bounteous Heaven,
Exceeding whatsoever hope pourtray'd,
Or young imagination fondly dream'd,
Hath given me more than all my boyish heart
E'er sigh'd for.—Fancy's picture-world is now
To me less glorious than reality.

But my brain teems with spectral forms of thought
Evoked from sleep sepulchral—long withdrawn
From the mind's eye, but unforgotten still
And fresh as heretofore.—I must perforce
Disperse the wildering vision.—Fair retreat,—
Thou cradle of my boyish phantasy,—
Farewell!—with deep and undiminish'd love
I cherish thy remembrance, and rejoice
That o'er thy courts a brighter day hath risen
Than my young eyes beheld;—for thou hast felt
The impulse of the spirit now awake
In the deep bosom of thy mother Church,
And, strong in thy re-animated faith,
Art, as I trust, become a schoolmistress
To bring young hearts to Christ.—Beneath thy towers
Religion, long obscured, once more uplifts
Her venerable head,—not now disguised
And sore degraded by low-mutter'd charm
Of Latin prayers, which, with indecent haste,
Impatient urchins gabbled, unreproved
By teachers as impatient—but infused
Into the fountains and fresh springs of thought,
And mingling her pure essence with its stream,
Which widens as it flows. Nor let me grieve
(Though haply there be cause of real grief)
For old associations, soon to pass
Into the number of the things that were,—
When even Long Chamber from the world's wide face
Shall have been swept for ever.—Be its sins
(Not few, nor venial) with its joys forgot;
And may a better generation find
At least no meaner shelter where it stood!

I have a friend—almost the only one
Who, from our schoolboy days to life's full noon,
Hath kept his heart unchanged and true to me,
Though many a year hath past since last we met,
And more may pass before we meet again;—
One friend—almost one only—faithful found.
To him, in distant vales a sojourner,
Far in the pleasant south, I now commend
(What to my children hath already been
With dedication more express consign'd)
This song—brief record of those early days
In which we were companions.—Different cares
And sympathies have gather'd around each;
And yet, I think, if e'er we meet again,
We shall not feel estranged;—meanwhile to him
And those who love him, though to me unknown,
Be this my pledge of boyish vows unbroke,
And friendship by the world as yet unchill'd.

With Friendship's sacred name my song broke off;—
With Friendship's sacred name shall it resume
Its onward course,—not now on boyish sports,
And boyish cares intent, but borne along
(If from its subject it may yet receive
A kindred impulse) by the swelling flood
Of youthful passion through the veins diffused,
And vigorous thought new-born, and hope unquench'd
By sad experience, lighting up the eye
With gleams which seem prophetic—and are not.
Friend, whom in Granta's academic halls
First met, soon loved—thenceforward to my side
Fast bound by poesy's free-masonry
And mutual veneration for a name
To me most sacred, and by thee beloved
With all a son's affection—Friend, who now
These more than twenty years, with thy profound
And fervent spirit, hast supported mine,—
Transferring whatsoe'er can be transferr'd
From thy rich depths of intellectual wealth
Into this lighter and more sterile soil,
Which yields but scant return;—to thee this strain,
A monument to long departed youth,
I consecrate:—To whom indeed on Earth
If not to thee, my earliest Poet-friend,
Should song of mine be offer'd?—Who but thou,
With earnest converse and assiduous zeal
Of sympathy,—neglectful of the gift
On thee more richly lavish'd,—fann'd in me
The spark of youthful phantasy?—to whom,
If not to thee, is due on my behalf
A debt of deepest gratitude for all
That, in time past, my soul hath ever felt
Of hope and joy poetic?—Small indeed
The fruit of all thy culture:—those long years
Of absence, during which we lived and wrought
In distant vineyards, seem'd to wither up
Whate'er brief promise of more healthful song
Thy care had caused to germinate;—and now,—
When Providence once more hath brought us near
Each to the other,—'tis too late to call
Lost seasons back:—but I have deeper debts
To thee than such as these, and there are bonds
More sacred, knitting fast thy heart to mine,
Than even the electric chain of phantasy:—
Warm sympathies cementing each with each
In joys and sorrows of the world that is;—
Remembrances, now sweet, of conflicts once
Most bitter, but at length with triumph crown'd,
And still imparting to our noon of life
Its best of earthly joys;—the mutual love
Of those respectively beloved by both
Beyond all else that breathes;—and (more than all)
Our hope in worlds to come—our task in this;
For we are, both, ambassadors for Christ,
And thou high honour'd in His English Church
Among her theologians;—in thyself,
No meanly skill'd expounder of her creed,—
Nor worthy of less honour, for that thou
Interpretest the mystic mind of One,
The mightiest thinker of these latter days.
For such, thy late achievements—how much more
Than for whate'er of high philosophy
Or art poetic, in our youthful days,
I from thy lips derived—am I become
Thy glad and grateful debtor.—Thou alone,
With stedfast gaze intent, hast well discern'd,
Through all the mists of error which bedim
Her heavenly features, the true spouse of Christ:—
Not that stern phantom, which, on Isis banks,
Enthusiasts have beheld, and in devout
And abject error worshipp'd—a severe
And loveless idol, from men's sympathies
And craving hearts estranged,—in garb of power
And terrible authority array'd,—
O'erbearing Reason's clear uplifted voice
With frown dogmatic, and converting Faith
Itself into a blind credulity
Most slavish and idolatrous;—not such
The vision thou hast seen, nor (falser yet)
That hard-eyed spectre, by the will of man
Engender'd,—altogether of the earth
And earthy,—which the laws of human realms
Create, and can at pleasure uncreate.
Not this,—not such as this, the Church of Christ,
Seen and with master hand pourtray'd by thee,—
But one, who on her fair and ample brow
Bears the bright impress of Divinity;—
No step-dame, but a mother of brave sons
With all a mother's heart,—the nurse and guide
Of Faith and Reason,—of celestial Truth
The guardian and the witness.—In thy page,
Well reason'd, pregnant with profoundest thought,
I, an unworthy student, seem to hold
Communion with thy spirit afar off;
And sitting at thy feet, as I was wont
In earlier days, with willing mind imbibe
Instruction which makes smooth the way to death.

We are alone:—none other now on Earth
Shares our full bond of friendship.—One there was,
Beloved by both, and who repaid our love
As only natures of the purest mould
Repay the love of others.—Full two years
Have past since we consign'd him to the grave
In life's unripen'd prime,—and still it seems
As if we could not think of him as dead;—
The immortality which dwelt in him
So swallow'd up the mortal.—Yet 'tis true,
“The good die first;” and his celestial part
Was purged so nearly of all earth's alloy,
That 'twere, in us, most selfish to have wish'd
That he would tarry in our homes of clay.
Yet few there were, perchance, but thou and I,
And one,—his own by more especial ties,—
One fondlier cherish'd in his heart of hearts,—
Few but we three, who knew the wondrous depths
Of that mysterious spirit.—To the world
He veil'd, beneath a smooth and smiling brow,
Its fathomless abyss,—with flippant jest,
And poignant sarcasm, and sly equivoque,
And many a coruscation, bright though brief,
Of wit, and humour more akin than wit
To genius—drawing off intrusive eyes
From that intensity of human love
And that most deep and tender sympathy
Close guarded in the chambers of his heart.
His generation knew him not;—he seem'd
To worldly men a trifler,—and when years,
Correcting the rash fervour of his youth,
Taught him to honour much which once he scorn'd,
And guard what he had panted to o'erthrow—
Men deem'd such seeming fickleness the fruit
Of falsehood or caprice, and factious tongues
Were busy to defame him:—he, meanwhile,
Through honour and dishonour, through report
Evil and good,—by rash, misjudging men
Accounted a deceiver, though most true
And strong in his integrity,—maintain'd
His course unalter'd, and in vain assail'd
By obloquy and slander.—Death hath nipp'd
His promise in the bud, or he had rank'd
Among our noblest statesmen, and perchance
Proved to the Church, in this distracted realm,
Her ablest champion in her utmost need.
As such let Her bewail him!—but to us
He leaves a deeper sorrow;—Can that hour
E'er pass away from memory, when we two
With that highminded lady, hand in hand
Knelt by his coffin, till her deeper grief
At last found vent in tears, and we conversed
Of him, and what he was, and what he is,
In words of solemn calmness?—or that morn,
When, one by one, into the room of death,
Hung with funereal black, the mourners stole,—
A sad and silent crowd, by various ties,
Public and private, join'd to him in life,—
All grieving for him dead.—The statesman there
Forgot the war of factions, nor refused
To his untimely loss some natural tears;—
The pale-eyed scholar side by side was seen
With men of wordy strife, who for a day
Suspended their forensic rivalries
To weep upon his grave;—the merchant left
His counting-house,—and friends who had not met
For many a year before, met there to mourn
A nobler friend than all.—She too, his own—
His almost more than wife, (if more there be
In this cold world), regardless of the laws
Of tyrant custom, came with tearless eye
And brow erect, though pale almost as his,
To give him to the grave:—through busy streets
Slowly and sadly moved the funeral train,
Until within the cemetery gates
At length it halted, and the solemn words
Of our sublimest ritual rendered back
Dust to its dust—the spirit to the hands
Of Him who gave it:—painful to the ear
Was that dull, grinding, subterraneous sound
Of some unseen machinery, which, with slow
Scarce visible descent, received the Dead
Into the opening bosom of the earth;
And deep the desolation which oppress'd
Our spirits—the dejection which we felt,
When we (the three who loved and mourn'd him most)
Together bent our steps into the vault
To bid our last farewell.—Between long rows
Of dead, each coffin'd in its separate niche,
Tier above tier—a subterranean vault
Of sepulchres—we walk'd, until we came
To his dark narrow home;—the charnel gusts
Smote close and chill,—our tread, with hollow sound,
Fell echoing, till (the wholesome upper air
And cheerful light of day once more regain'd)
With aching hearts we parted, to renew
Our troubled Dream of Life.

A dream indeed,—
A feverish waking dream—more shadowy still
The longer that it lasts!—Whate'er in youth
Seem'd real, ere our middle age arrives,
Even like a phantom vanishes away,
Or crumbles in our grasp.—Our life itself—
Which once appear'd as if 'twould never end—
Is found to be a shadow, soon to flit
Away, and be forgotten;—even the schemes—
The air-built castles of our early days—
That vigorous hope with which we look'd abroad
Into the opening world—that confidence
In the bright-seeming future, by no fear
Of change or chance diminish'd—were in truth
More tangible possessions in themselves
Than the realities of later life.
And such were thine and mine when first we met
(A freshman thou, and I a junior soph,)
In the Old Court at King's. Unlike, till then,
Had been our several nurtures, each to each;
Thou, from thy birth, a hardy mountaineer,
A poet's child, thyself a Poet born,
And cradled among minds of giant mould,
Hadst, almost with thy mother's milk, imbibed
Philosophy, which with thy growth had grown,
And with thy strength been strengthen'd:—in the north—
A wanderer among lakes and mighty hills—
Scarce conscious e'en of such restraint as curbs
The southern schoolboy—thou hadst kept unstain'd
Thy spirit's freshness and simplicity;
And, in thy native strength of intellect,
O'erleaping the strait bounds of puny thought
Which circumscribed the realm in which we moved,
(Weak jinglers of hexameters,) could'st breathe
In worlds beyond our ken;—I, train'd and taught
In academic craft, and, for my feats
Poetic, with Etonian laurel crown'd—
A schoolboy bard, with schoolboy lore imbued,
And thinking like a schoolboy—what was I,
That I should match with thee?—yet match'd we were,
If not in genius, yet in sympathy;
Each reverencing what the other reverenced—each
Still loving whatsoe'er the other loved;
Our hopes, our aspirations, our desires,
Our plans and projects for the years to come,
Akin, if not identical:—the world
As yet was all before us—the young blood
Ran riot in our veins,—we felt our life
Strong, buoyant, full of hope—and we were free
To “frame” whate'er “high purposes” we would
Of intellectual enterprise, “at war
With fleshly shame;”—so sang thy muse to mine,
Who tuned her chords responsive.—What more blest
Could either of us wish, than to pursue
Together the green paths of poesy,
And cultivate the fair domains of thought
Which nature had assign'd us? Of renown
And rank among our country's sons of song
Methinks we dream'd but little:—fame was not
Our idol, nor the prize for which we strove.
Our phantasy should be its own reward;
Or if we needed other, that should be
The love of woman:—we would pitch our tent
In some sequester'd valley, and there dwell—
We and two gentle beings, who would link
Their lot with ours, and in our arms repose,
And, with serene and fervent sympathy
Sharing and sweetening all our toils and cares,
Diffuse perpetual sunshine through our souls,
Which, by that warmth impregnated, should teem
With most abundant growth of noble thoughts
And lofty speculations, and rich store
Of sweet and bitter fancies.—Dreams like these
At times beguiled us, but our daily talk
Was of more serious matter;—of the laws
Which govern the mysterious heart of man;—
Of dogmas transcendental, to my ear
A theme, till then unknown, though long to thee
Familiar, and with earnest zeal explored;—
Of all the wild and wondrous world of song,
And those who hold its empire—chiefly Him
The myriad-minded;—nor were they forgot,
The mighty masters of our later day,
And Him their Coryphæus, then not yet
Enthroned, as now, on England's inmost heart,
But by a few (the true poetic Church,
As they esteem'd themselves) with earnest zeal
And somewhat of a fond idolatry
Revered, nay, almost worshipp'd.—With such themes
Were mingled yet profounder;—Truth divine
Reveal'd to erring man—Redemptive love,
In all its breadth, and length, and depth, and height,
By thee with theologic gaze intent
Contemplated;—and if from the routine
Of academic study we diverged
Too oft, and were forgetful of the claims
Of curves and squares, and parallelograms,
Cones, angles, sines and cosines, ordinates,
Abscissæ, and the like—methinks, our time,
Though sore mispent, was yet not wholly lost
In converse such as this.

Not wholly lost—
And yet my loss was grievous;—not perchance
So much for the amount of actual lore
Neglected, or of science unattain'd,
As for the loss of discipline incurr'd,
Moral and intellectual,—self-control,
And self-denial,—patience in pursuit
Of knowledge,—perseverance to surmount
Impediments—and firmness to withstand
Temptation, unacquired.—If I am now
Too much an idler—prone to leave undone
My daily task of ministerial toil,
And loiter in my study o'er some page
Of theologic trifling—or forsake
Even that for lighter reading such as charm'd
My young imagination—to those strolls
In part I owe it, which, from day to day,
We two were wont to take, in hours by right
To academic study set apart.
Pleasant they were, and pleasant was the talk
By which they were beguiled;—to me oft rich
In knowledge newly gain'd.—We walk'd and walk'd
As chance directed—by the river side
To Granchester—along the lanes which lead
To Cherry Hinton—out by Trumpington—
And Madingley, sole village from the plague
Of ugliness, in that drear land, exempt:
The Gogmagogs were conscious of our talk;
And I may say that seldom I came home
No wiser than I went.—But in the days
Of early spring, when even those treeless fields
Look'd pleasant in the sunshine, and the lanes
With constellations of bright primrose tufts
Were here and there bestudded,—when the scent
Of the cinque-spotted cowslip was exhaled
From the low meadow grass,—and in the woods
The nightingale (more fitly heard by night)
Sang lustily all day—with what a bound
Of vernal exultation forth we sprang
Into the clear, fresh air!—how recklessly,
Spurning the narrow bounds of space and time,
We rambled in the ways of our own hearts
And sight of our own eyes!—with what dispatch
Of keen and craving hunger we assail'd
Our mid-day luncheon in the village in,
Served haply by the fair domestic hands
Of her, the maid of Quy—that saint whose shrine
By many a Cantabrigian pilgrimage,
(By none more zealous or more pure than ours)
Was, in those days, frequented!—then at eve,
As, homeward bound, through the suburban streets
We wended in grotesque and careless guise—
The very tassels of our trencher caps
With cowslips interlaced,—how cheap we held
The laughter of the mob!—how little fear'd
The frown of Dean or Proctor!—then our meal
Together shared,—the savoury steak sent hot
From the cook's shop—the amber-flowing ale
Of Trinity,—the spare dessert,—the wine
With olives relish'd—and our day's discourse
Prolong'd till midnight!—College life alone
Can boast such joys as these.

Nor let me pass
Unsung, those nights and suppers of the gods—
Feasts of the hungry soul, when, at the close
Of some well argued, eloquent debate
Held in the “Union,” which with lengthen'd roar
Of cheers had shaken Petty Cury's roofs,
Startling the jaded shopman from his sleep,—
The leaders of the war on either side,
(Their strife suspended) to my neighbouring rooms
Adjourn'd, to sup on oysters.—Aid me now,
O Muse, to tell who first, who last engaged
In those keen conflicts of contending wit
And appetite as keen;—who (since renown'd
In senatorial or forensic war)
From their first proof and exercise of arms
Offensive and defensive, came to wield
Less cumbrous weapons in colloquial sport,
At those repasts, with us. First, He whose praise
This song already, though in feeble notes,
Unworthily, hath sung—he, then a youth
Fresh from Etonian discipline, well skill'd
In all her classic craft, and therewithal
Known, ere his sun in Granta's sky arose,
For many a boyish feat, unlike a boy's,
Of sparkling prose and verse,—he graced our board
With that rich vein of fine and subtle wit—
That tone of reckless levity—that keen
And polish'd sarcasm—arm'd with which he waged
A war of dexterous sword-play, wherein few
Encounter'd, none o'ercame him:—by his side
Sat One of ampler brow and ruder frame,—
A presence with gigantic power instinct,
Though outwardly, in truth, but little graced
With aught of manly beauty—short, obese,
Rough-featured, coarse complexion'd, with lank hair,
And small grey eyes,—in face (so many said)
Not much unlike myself,—his voice abrupt,
Unmusical;—yet, when he spake, the ear
Was charm'd into attention, and the eye
Forgot the visible and outward frame
Of the rich mind within; with such swift flow
Of full, spontaneous utterance the tongue
Interpreted the deep impassion'd thought,
And pour'd upon our sense exhaustless store
Of multifarious learning;—for his mind
Had been, from earliest childhood up to youth,
Insatiable of knowledge, and his brain,—
Not like a pedant's, cumber'd and confused
With ill-digested, heterogeneous hoards
Of intellectual matter, but endued
With power to shape and mould its gather'd wealth
As need suggested,—turn'd, with ready tact,
Its huge artillery on whatever point
It pleased him to assail,—and (sooth to say)
He was not over-scrupulous;—to him
There was no pain like silence—no constraint
So dull as unanimity:—he breathed
An atmosphere of argument, nor shrank
From making, where he could not find, excuse
For controversial fight:—yet when the fit
Was off him, and he gave his mind free scope
To follow Nature's bidding—who so full
Of genial thought and feeling?—who so keen
To separate truth from error—to detect
The fallacy in specious terms involved,
Or in the realms of Fiction to discern
The beautiful and just?—He was, in truth,
(So transcendental sages would affirm)
The king of Understanding—unapproach'd,
Unrivall'd in his own particular range
Of thought;—and if that range was not the first—
If there were regions into which his gaze
Pierced not—an intuition more profound
Than he affected—such deficiency
Found ample compensation in the strength
And full perfection of his actual powers,
And the quick tact which wielded them.—Meanwhile
His heart was pure and simple as a child's,
Unbreathed on by the world,—in friendship warm,
Confiding, generous, constant; and though now
He ranks among the great-ones of the earth,
And hath achieved such glory, as will last
To future generations—he, I think,
Would sup on oysters with as right good will
In this poor home of mine, as e'er he did
On Petty Cury's classical first floor
Some twenty years ago.

With him in bonds
Of mutual friendship link'd—in classic lore
His equal, though of less voracious maw,
And slower to digest what he devour'd
Of intellectual food—appear'd a youth
Of comeliest presence, though of brow, perchance,
Less lofty and projecting than the brain
Beneath it would have taught phrenologists
To look for in its owner:—grave he was,
And prone to silence; and whene'er he spake,
'Twas with a slow, sententious utterance,
As if each word that dropp'd was first well weigh'd,
And licensed to go forth;—his manner shy
And somewhat puritanical;—yet none
Possess'd a mind with richer humour fraught,
Or saw, with so acute and quick a glance,
The ludicrous in all things:—not in vain
He woo'd the Muse—with no ungraceful steps
Walk'd through the land of Fancy in its length
And in its breadth; but with more earnest love
He sought profounder lore:—his mind severe,
Patient, exact, with most tenacious grasp
Held fast, and grappled with, and overcame
Whate'er of difficult impediment
Beset his path to knowledge;—nor was truth,
Thus hardly won, less resolutely kept.
The rash vagaries of erratic thought
And venturous speculation, which seduced
More sanguine minds, ne'er raised a doubt in his,
Nor shook the deep foundations of his faith
Even for a moment.—Now, a learned man,
In professorial chair he holds his state
Didactic, and with classic lore imbues
Another generation.

Turn we next
To one but rarely, on those nights, our guest;—
To him—thy kinsman, once my schoolfellow,
And more than most of my compeers at school,
Or thy collateral kindred, to us both
By close-knit bonds united;—in those days
A comely youth, though prematurely grey,
And long ere manhood's noon upon his brow
To wear the stainless silver of old age.
Graceful he was in person and in mind,
Enrich'd with classical accomplishments,
And stores of various study—apt to learn,
And with intense susceptibility
Of soul and sense endued. Some deem'd him proud,
And in himself too confident.—In truth,
'Twas not his nature to dissemble powers
With which he had been gifted, nor the lore
To which he had attain'd; and envious men,
Who hated him for both, were prompt to blame
That which they could not imitate:—yet few
Were cast by nature in a finer mould,
Or arm'd with apprehensions more æcute,
And exquisite of beauty and of truth,
Moral and intellectual. To create
Was not his province; but his mind received,
And treasured, and retain'd, with ready tact,
The lessons by profounder minds instill'd,
Which, with expressive utterance, to the taste
And apprehensions of the world at large
He skilfully adapted.—Hence his task
Was rightly chosen, when, in after years,
He to the teaching of that Master Mind
Subjected his whole soul—content to share
The glory which must rest, in time to come,
On those outpourings of immortal thought
By his sole pen preserved, or by his toil
Collected and arranged. His was, in truth,
A proud and happy lot, to have imbibed
Those lessons, while he lived, and after death
To link his own remembrance with the name
Of Earth's profoundest Teacher:—happier still
In that his toils were sweeten'd and sustain'd
By such rich treasure of connubial wealth
As few have e'er possess'd. Not mine the task
To seize and fix the ethereal lineaments
Of that majestic spirit, which illumed
With rays intense of intellectual light,
Corporeal beauty far surpassing aught
That to the painter's, or the poet's eye,
Imagination ever yet reveal'd
Of loveliness ideal—while the heart,
Unchill'd and unsophisticate, still throbb'd
With woman's deepest love—still sympathized
With whatsoe'er of human joy or grief
Demands or merits sympathy—still shared,
With unaffected, frank simplicity,
The interests and the cares, the healthful sports,
The mingled smiles and tears, which mark the course
Of ordinary life—suggesting thus,
To the discerning and observant mind,
How far inventive phantasy falls short
Of Nature's actual handiwork!—not now—
Not in such strains as these, be her high praise
Attempted;—nor let step of mine invade,
With reckless tread, the still, sepulchral gloom
Which shrouds her recent sorrow.—For the Dead—
For Him, the gentle and the pure of heart,
The generous, the affectionate—from Earth
At life's full noon removed—for him, be tears
Of true and reverential sorrow shed!—
For Her—what more can sympathy desire
Than those divinest gifts already hers?—
Patience and faith to bear the will of Heaven,
And power, while yet on earth, to breathe in worlds
Of pure celestial thought, and cheering hope
Of future bliss, and memory of the Past,
To soothe the o'erburden'd Present.

Next appear'd,
In that superb array of noble minds,
A pale, spare man, of high and massive brow,
Already furrow'd with deep lines of thought
And speculative effort—grave, sedate,
And (if the looks may indicate the age)
Our senior some few years:—no keener wit,
No intellect more subtle, none more bold
Was found in all our host; none deeplier fraught
With stores of various learning;—but, in him,
Imagination, fancy, feeling, taste,
And reverential faith and fervent zeal
Were overlaid by huge incumbent weight
Of understanding—so, of late, defined—
The faculty which judgeth after sense.
With poesy and poets still he waged
Relentless war—deeming all such, in sooth,
Mere cumberers of the ground, or haply worse—
Despisers of plain truth—mad mountebanks,
Who led the minds of simple folk astray
By their fantastic juggleries, and drown'd
The voice of reason with their jingling rhymes.
Such craft to him was hateful;—Truth alone,
Truth tangible and palpable;—such truth
As might be weigh'd and measured,—truth deduced
By logical conclusion, close, severe,
From premises incontrovertible—
This was the mistress of his fond desire—
His first, his only love;—of aught more fair
Or wonderful he dream'd not;—nought to him
Existed, in the whole wide world of thought,
Save what could be defined, mapp'd out, survey'd,
Adjusted to his liking;—to his eye,
Whatever was ideal, seem'd untrue:
The hopes which he profess'd of earthly good
Were limited to that which he could see,
Hear, taste, or feel—ease—pleasure—all the joys
Which wait on wealth—the exercise and use
Of intellect:—in all things he appear'd
A strict utilitarian;—yet the Man
Was nobler than his creed, and though he mock'd
At things, which, to us poets, seem'd almost
The breath of human life—romantic love—
Chivalrous honour—patriotic zeal—
And loyal self-devotion—there were times
When even these very themes would kindle up
The better soul within, and he became,
Unconsciously, the enthusiast he despised.
Courteous he was and gentle, even to those
Whose intellectual rank beneath his own
Lay lowest,—and remembrance, looking back
Through twenty years, still rests upon his name,
As on a pleasant thought.

Unlike him far
In character—in intellect no less,
The pair that follows; for a pair in heart
So closely join'd, so comely each in form,
My song must not divorce;—the first, a youth,
Tall, graceful, well-proportion'd, noble-mien'd,
Tho' something in his air might have been thought
Almost effeminate,—the look of one
Who, delicately nurtured, ne'er had felt
The shocks and buffets which the world inflicts
Even on our boyish years;—and such, indeed,
Had been his earlier lot, for he was born
Heir of a wealthy house, and, from his birth
To dawning manhood, in luxurious ease
And careless affluence rear'd;—his mind untrain'd
By any rigorous discipline—unstored
With much of school-boy learning—ill prepared
(So men might think) to face the frowning world
And grapple with adversity;—and yet,
When fortune changed—as in a moment's time
She did, and hurl'd him from his pinnacle
Of prosperous expectation down almost
To a despised estate—no strongest mind
E'er bore such fall more bravely:—even like one
Who estimates this world at its true worth,
And, loving not its treasures while they last,
Laments them not departed—he address'd
His spirit to its destiny with firm
And tranquil equanimity—content
To do and suffer all the will of Heaven
In his appointed sphere.—And, to speak truth,
Tho' wealth and this world's smiles had pass'd away,
Still, in the costliest treasure Earth can yield,
He was most rich;—for one confiding heart
Still clave to him with woman's deepest love,
And pour'd into his wounds (if wounds he had)
The balm of its affection. She was one—
(That gentle maid)—a foreigner by birth,
Of humbler fortunes, who had loved him long,
But never told her love; for while the world
Look'd bright around him, and the proudest dames
Grew prouder in his smile, she durst not lift
Her heart so high as to indulge a hope
That he would think of her; but when his lot
Was darken'd, and the frivolous, false crowd
Deserted him—O then what rapturous hope
Thrill'd through her bosom, that his loss might prove
Her gain,—and she, who never could have shared
His prouder, might console his humbler lot,
And shed upon his path the tender light
Of her devoted love! Ere I threw off
The purple gown of Trinity, to don
The graduate's sable garb, their wedding day
Arrived, and I remember how they came,
A happy bride and bridegroom, to rebuke
In our own courts, or haply to stir up
To emulation of their better lot
Our Academic celibate.

But He—
The friend so like a brother—in what nook
Lies he conceal'd?—he should not be ashamed,
Methinks, to shew his face; for few have seen
A fairer one on earth;—the Nireus he
Of all our host, though rarely in this field
A combatant,—no man of wordy strife,
Or wrangling disputation, but best pleased
With mild discourse and thought contemplative,
And the luxurious witcheries of art:—
Himself a poet born, and, from a child,
With all a poet's sensibilities,
Even to excess endued:—for him, a boy,
The boisterous sports of boyhood were too rough,—
The sympathy of schoolfellows too coarse,
Save of some few like-minded with himself,
With whom he roam'd apart—to all the rest
A by-word and a laughing-stock;—now climb'd
Some favourite hill—now ranged the vernal woods
In search of wild-flowers.—With advancing youth
Such weakness had worn off, and though he still
Retain'd a woman's beauty, manly thought
Was his, and manly feeling.—Still the paths
Of quiet contemplation—the wild haunts
Of phantasy—and the mysterious realms
Of painting and of music were his choice,—
The world in which his spirit loved to dwell;
And, I believe, no truer eye than his,
No finer ear for concord of sweet sounds,
No spirit more susceptible of pain
Or pleasure from the spells of either art,
Or their diviner sister Poesy,
Was found, that day, among us. Years have since
Develop'd, and expanded, and matured
His intellectual strength:—through many a field
Of art, of science, of philosophy,
With firm and fearless step, he walks at will;
A bold, adventurous thinker, but withal
In heart and hope a Christian.

Last appears
In this long muster-roll, One o'er whose mind
Majestic, deep, imaginative, pure
From aught of worldly taint, which might debase
Or mar its noble energies, the Muse
Laments as lost;—by what mysterious bane
Of physical or mental malady
Disorder'd, none can tell; but so o'erthrown,
That genius, learning, wisdom, the rich gift
Of song, on none, in these our later days,
More bountifully lavish'd, have, in him,
Become a shapeless wreck.—May brighter days
Arise on that dark waste, and heavenly light,
Piercing its spectral gloom, create anew
The wondrous world beneath it!

But 'tis time
To change this lengthen'd scene, and bid farewell
To all its passing phantoms, though the mind
Still grasps them with a fond tenacity.
Not all in vain,—not all in vain,—I trust,
O Granta, though thy wild and wayward son,
And little heedful of the lore which thou
Best lov'st to teach thy children—not in vain
Spent I the spring and seed-time of my youth
Beneath thy reverend towers;—no slender gain
I count it to have known whom I have known,
And with the noblest spirits of my day
Beheld the dawn of manhood;—not ill timed
My sojourn in thy courts—for 'twas my lot
To know a generation nobler far
Than that which went before it—more athirst
For knowledge—more intent on loftiest schemes
And purposes of good—and if more prone
To daring speculation,—apt to tread
More venturous paths—yet purer from the stain
Of gross and sensual vice—which among those,
Our predecessors in the steep ascent
Of academic honour, still had been,
Too oft, allied with genius. 'Twas the note
And token of a scholar, in their day,
To be a jocund reveller,—to spend
The night in mad carousals,—then, perchance,
(The wineflush still upon the burning brow,)
To reel into the lecture-room;—not such
Our folly—though our follies were not few,
Nor all innocuous—for the springs of thought
Had then been newly stirr'd—and Truth, who since
Hath claim'd and won her old supremacy,
Was still at war with error, not, as now,
Unveil'd and understood.

The scene is changed;
The towers and courts of Granta disappear
With all that they contain—and lo, instead,
Green trees, and spacious lawns, and shrubbery-walks
Umbrageous, amidst which is dimly seen
A shelter'd dwelling, with thick-clustering vine
And intermingled ivy overgrown.
In front, not two miles off, majestic spires
Shoot up their tapering outline;—on the left
A castle frowns, with massive towers antique
Cresting a gentle eminence;—hard by
The Severn, scarce yet navigable, rolls
Its waters—and blue undulating hills
Sweep round the dim horizon.—'Tis a scene
On which a poet's eye may rest well pleased;
Nor lacks it such inspection.—From yon house
Even now two youthful brethren of the lyre
Look forth, and in their intervals of rest
From toil (if toil it be to court the Muse,)
Refresh their sense of beauty on that rich
And boldly varied landscape.—We have met
That pair before;—what do they in this land?—
In truth they do but little—though withdrawn
Awhile from academic conflicts dire
To this, the calm sequester'd home of one,
With high intent and purpose to devote
The livelong summer to sublime pursuit
Of science mathematical.—And now
In separate, though adjacent, rooms immured,
Each on his own peculiar task intent,
They commune with Mathesis.—Is it so?
Then hath she brought her geometric craft
To marvellous perfection—hath contrived
To measure worlds that spread beyond all space;—
Hath spann'd Imagination's boundless realm,
And ascertain'd the laws, impell'd by which
Creative thought explores its wondrous way
Even to the Heaven of Heavens.—In those two rooms
Two worlds are now contain'd—two phantom worlds,
Diverse in kind and excellence, but each
A world of beauty,—each a pleasant home
For him whose fancy framed it, (like the web
Spun by the silk-worm,) to protect and house
His spirit from the pressure of the world.
High is the theme of one;—in burning strains
He sings ideal Beauty, to his soul
Reveal'd in trance-like vision;—her he seeks,
In passionate wild flight, through all the realms
Of earth, and air, and sea—and, having found,
Leads her through fairy palaces—prepares
A home, and spreads a couch for her, amidst
The pathless clouds, beneath the green sea waves,
In woody vales, and deep secluded glens—
Infusing still into her heart of hearts
The strong enchantment of his dreamy love.
The other, less ambitious, and endued
With genius less creative, less intense,
Hath, from the beaming regions of the East
Stolen a wild-hearted Fay, with whom, at will,
He wanders through the world from night to morn,
And in her mischievous and magic feats
Finds infinite amusement;—yet his song,
Now gay, and now sarcastic—now in bursts
Of broad rough humour recklessly let loose—
Prefers to linger in the quiet haunts
Of peace and love domestic—knows no world,
In all Imagination's universe,
So blessed as a bright and blazing hearth
Surrounded by glad faces:—joyously
Those two, careering on the wings of song,
Pursue their several paths, from time to time
Relaxing their swift flight, to interchange
Encouragement and counsel, each with each.
Nor lack they recreation, such as soothes
The brain o'erwrought with toil, or by the throng
Of fancies multitudinous inflamed
To over-much excitement—gentle looks
And voices, and the pleasant intercourse
Of brothers and of sisters, shelter'd still
Beneath that roof parental, and the joy
Sedate, although expectant, calm, yet deep,
Of plighted lovers, at the altar soon
To seal their mutual vows:—what lack they more?
—That, without which, even Poesy and youth
Are cold and lifeless—the first dream of love:
Nor shall that long be wanting;—while we gaze,
The scene is changed;—they wander side by side,
Each with a beauteous girl—one ample brow'd
And eagle-eyed—the other light of heart
And simple-minded;—let them dream their dream,
Their short-lived dream of passion, while it lasts:
For theirs, in very deed, is but dream-love:
Not of the heart and will, but of the brain;
—Fantastic, fleeting, which shall pass away
Ere long, and leave the spirit all unchanged,
The fountains of affection undisturb'd,
And fresh as ever:—let them dream their dream,
Till dawn dispel the illusion:—Nobler love
Awaits them, when the fancies and wild freaks
Of youth shall have been tamed by the approach
Of sober manhood, and connubial bliss—
Calm, deep, contented, with life's daily toil
And duty intermix'd—shall put to flight
Those phantoms of unripe and restless thought;
For each, amidst the tumult and turmoil
Of worldly and unworldly cares and aims,
Erecting a sure refuge, housed wherein
The heart may take its rest, and gather strength
To bear its daily burden, and fulfil,
As best it may, the daily task imposed
By love divine on Man, that he, on Earth,
May win the crown which he shall wear in Heaven.

It is a shameless thing, when poets chaunt
The praises of their wives!—so some aver,
Whose judgment I dispute not—rather own
My full assent, albeit in this respect
Myself an old offender.—Hymen's bonds,
And that most deep contentment of chaste love
Within their magic links enclosed and bound,
Are holier things than that a man should sport
With them, as with the gay fantastic gawds
Of wanton gallantry, or to the gaze
Of public curiosity, with rude
And reckless hand, unveil them.—The whole world
Hath scarce a coarser spectacle to show,
Than your fond, foolish, amorous wedded pair
Betraying to all eyes, by act and look,
The giddy transports of their honeymoon!
From such may we for ever dwell apart,
Bride of my youth, and now, in middle age,
Ten thousand-fold beyond a bride beloved,—
My own true-hearted wife!—no sympathy,
And slender toleration can we yield
To such transgressors of love's holy laws,
To such profaners of pure Hymen's bliss.
Yet, not the less, must I inscribe to thee
This portion of my song, design'd to tell
Of manhood's sober cares and temperate joys,
Its sorrows, and their solaces;—for thou
Art still the centre around which revolve
My earthly hopes and fears—to which converge
My yearnings and affections:—there is nought
Within the compass of my daily life,
But takes, in part, its character and form
From thy pervading influence;—nor now
Is this a bridegroom's fondness;—sixteen years
Have spent their noiseless flight since, each to each,
We pledged our nuptial faith.—Our eldest boy
Hath almost reach'd his teens, which were, in thee,
Still incomplete, when thou becam'st a wife;
And, in the full meridian of Life's day,
A staid and sober pair, we now look back
To the gay freaks and follies of our youth,
And forward to the late decline of years,
As worlds which have been and which are to be—
Diverse alike in form from that which is:—
The first remote and dwindling, day by day,
In the still lengthening retrospect—the last
Just looming through the mists of unknown Time,
And daily seen less distant, less unlike
The swiftly changing Present. Years have laid
A gentle hand on thee;—not I alone,
But all who knew thee in the days long past,
Still recognize, unchanged in face or form,
The bride of gay nineteen:—scarce, here and there,
Amidst the clusters of thy raven curls,
Close-peering eyes may trace a silver streak
Threading their ebon gloss;—thy full dark eye
Is yet undimm'd and lustrous, and thy form
Sylphlike, as when the brisk and tingling-blood
Of eighteen summers coursed along thy veins,
And thou, amidst our graver English girls,
In pride and strength of Scottish art elate,
Wast foremost in the dance.—In ruder sort,
Yet not ungently, Time hath dealt with me—
Working perchance but little outward change,
For I, since earliest youth, have look'd so old,
I scarce look older now;—but, as my years
Cross their meridian, I discern and feel
The wane of life within:—the reckless strength
And confidence of health, which knew no change,
Are gone for ever:—Death appears no more
A dim and distant phantom—nor this world,
With all its charms for ear, and eye, and heart,
The permanent abode which once it seem'd.
My old acquaintance, Asthma, pays me still
His annual visit—but not now alone;—
With him his daughter, pale Dyspepsia, comes,
And shows me, in her train, approaching fast,
Gout and his grimmer brother, her twin sons
More hideous than their parent!—It may be
That thou, ere long, wilt have to nurse and tend
With all the patience of thy Woman's love,
A fractious invalid;—and thou wilt do
That office nobly, though with small return
Of gratitude, perchance, from thy self-will'd
And all too froward charge.—But we will not
Anticipate, in thought, impending ills:
Rather, while health suffices, let me seize
And fix, if that may be, the form and hue
Of this existing Present, which, ere long,
Must swell the increasing Past, and be, with it,
From memory's page erased, unless the Muse
Shall, in ambrosial song, embalm it now,
And cause it to become, to me and mine,
An heritage for ever.

I described,
Of late, how poets, in their lusty youth,
Sport with the world of Phantasy;—such sport
In me was past its height, and had begun
To sadden into toil and daily care,
And all the unblest anxieties of life,
When thou and I first met:—young love's first dream
(A dream indeed, unreal, shadowy, brief,)
Was done and ended—and my heart, so far,
Not much the worse for wear:—a heavier blow
Had done it deeper mischief;—Friendship's bonds,
Holy and pure as e'er bound heart to heart,
Had, in the rash and headstrong war of thought—
The conflict of opinions, old and new,—
Been snapp'd, as seem'd, for ever.—I had lost
A mistress, and a friend—and in the void
Of objectless affection, sought in vain
For sympathy and solace—yet even then
Was not forsaken wholly:—I had kept,
Though not unscathed, the faith and hope in which
I had been nurtured, and although not yet,
By ordination and its solemn vows,
Expressly set apart to be a priest
And steward of the mysteries of Christ,
Was storing knowledge, and, with studious thought,
Preparing to devote my after life
To that high office;—Youth, and youth's wild dreams,
Gorgeous and gloomy, sorrowful and gay,
Were fading in the clear and sober light
Of ripening manhood, and the world become
A working place for me.—Then 'twas that thou
Didst rise, a prosperous star, upon my path,
Discern'd at once among the sparkling throng
Of more ignoble fires—discern'd and loved,
And by the Muse's aid (who never yet
Did bard more blessed service) woo'd and won.
Not smooth, nor altogether unbeset
By trouble or perplexity, to us
Was true love's course;—we shared the common lot
Of such as deem that life is more than meat,
The body more than raiment, and the mind,
With its inborn capacities of bliss,
Than all the wealth of this world.—Yet, in truth,
Our conflict with adversity was short,
Though stubborn while it lasted—and, that done,
Sweet were the days of courtship,—fair the haunts
Through which we wander'd, a wild-hearted pair,
Framing our pleasant plans of future life,
Its duties and employments. O'er our heads,
The forest oaks of Windsor interlaced
Their dark umbrageous branches, as we roam'd
Through many a brake and dell and bosky bourn,
Arm link'd in arm,—or, on our gallant steeds,
With fleet and fearless gallop, plunged amain
Into the forest's heart.—Along the marge
Of that majestic river, dear to me
From boyhood, as to thee romantic Doon—
Through Datchet's fabled mead—beyond that grey
And ivy-mantled tower, sole relic left
Of what was Upton Church—across the lane
Misnamed of cut-throats,—o'er that well-known stile
Where first our faith was pledged, (supplanted since
By a trim upstart lodge)—thence through the fields
Of Eton, with remembrances intense
Of early joy and sorrow in my heart
Indissolubly link'd,—we roam'd and roam'd;
While thou, with patient ear, to many a tale
Of boyhood, by those well-known scenes recall'd,
Didst listen, and in turn, with earnest speech,
Discourse of all that thou hadst known and loved
In thy own mountain land. So pass'd the months—
The pleasant months of courtship, till, at length,
The Day of days arrived, for many a year
With fond anticipation imaged forth
To Hope's keen earnest gaze—Life's crowning day,
The blest fulfilment of the purest dreams
On which young Fancy feeds.—Without a cloud,
Calm, clear, serene, the summer's loveliest child,
(A summer such as England seldom knows,)
It rose, and shone, and set!—Before the lark
I left the lonely couch of my unrest,
And to the river's bank, as I was wont,
But in far other than my wonted mood,
Directed my wild steps:—the clear cold stream
Received me in its bosom, cooling thus
The fever of my own;—with practised arms
I clave the waters, and from shore to shore
Cross'd and recross'd,—now striving with the stream,
Which mock'd and overbore my puny strength,—
Now floating down its current,—now supine
On the smooth surface of some tranquil pool,
With face upturn'd to the blue, cloudless sky,
Lay gazing on its beauty, and inhaled
The freshness and the fragrance of the morn
From air, and earth, and water,—to myself
Repeating oft “It is my wedding day!—
No dream, but a reality!” And now
The hour was come;—before the altar-rails
We two stood side by side;—the solemn vows
Were utter'd,—and I wonder'd, while we knelt,
That I should feel so calm!—The wedding peal
Rang briskly out,—around the well-spread board
The wedding guests assembled,—all due rites
Were decently perform'd,—and, ere 'twas noon,
(Friends, kinsfolk, feasters, bridemaids, thy old home
And all who dwelt within it left behind)
We were alone, and with our faces set
Toward Cambria's mountain region.—Till 'twas eve,
Conversing in such sort as lovers use,
We journey'd;—then above the horizon rose
The towers of Oxford—spire and pinnacle,
And stately dome, and cupola, relieved
In outline clear against the cloudless sky
With sunset tints suffused.

—Our hasty meal
Dispatch'd—till twilight faded into night,
We roam'd amidst those silent palaces:—
Through broad and spacious courts, deserted then,
Nor echoing to the students' sober tread,
Nor (as sometimes) by bacchanalian roar
Of revellers profaned—through long arcades,
And many a pillar'd aisle, and cloister dim,
We stroll'd, and mark'd the moonbeams, as they stole
Through gorgeous panes of stain'd and storied glass,
Gild the rich fretted roofs and marble floors
Of those time-hallow'd temples.—On our hearts
The spirit of the place descended, calm
And solemn, and the day which rose in smiles
Accordant to our sunbright morn of hope
And hymeneal gladness, closed at last
(Meet emblem of a Christian life's decline)
In contemplations tranquil and serene,
Of life, of death, and of eternity.

And we were wedded !—and life's young romance
Henceforth to fade away and be dissolved
In the clear daylight of reality!
Yet, for the space of some three years, or more,
The vision seem'd to tarry:—household cares
So long we knew not, nor the pleasant sound
Of children's voices, nor had yet commenced
Those pastoral duties, amidst which hath past,
Since then, the prime of life:—my daily task
Employ'd, but not oppress'd me, nor engross'd
So large a space of time but more remain'd
For pleasant studies and amusements, such
As we might share together:—Life was still
Almost a constant holiday to us;
And when the waning summer set us free
Even from that gentle yoke which gall'd us not,
With what exultant eagerness we broke
Our bondage, and, uncheck'd by nursery ties,
Shaped our swift flight, as fancy might direct,
Or old affection urge—now skimm'd the lakes
And climb'd the mountains of thy native land;
Now, on green Devon's slopes, forgot the ways
Of artificial life, and grew adepts
At old Arcadian usages; and now
In deep Salopian vales, amidst the homes
And habitations of my kindred, shared
Familiar joys, feeding our gaze meanwhile
On nature's richest beauty!—Dreamlike still,—
A trance Elysian,—was our Dream of Life.

It is not good that years should pass away
Unburden'd by the weight of care and toil
Which is Man's lot and portion here on Earth.
Those years—I mourn them not—nor wish them back,
Though pleasant in the retrospect—unlike
(O how unlike!) the round of varied tasks,
And duties which employ my noon of life!—
The daily load of ministerial care,—
The parent's anxious toil of head and heart,—
The ceaseless stir and tumult of the world!—
It is by these that men must live—in these
Our Father's spirit breathes. No easier lot
I covet,—only ask for heartier zeal,
And strength according to my need, and faith
Working by love, to do and to endure
Whatever Heaven may will, till the day close,
And the night come wherein no man can work.

There is a little town, within short space
Of England's central point, of various brick
Irregularly built, nor much adorn'd
By architectural craft—save that, indeed,
As you approach it from the south, a pile
Of questionable Gothic lifts its head
With somewhat of a grave collegiate air,
Not unbefitting what, in truth, it is,—
A seat of academic discipline
And classic education:—at its base
Stretches a broad expanse of verdant turf
With stately trees bestudded—the resort
Of schoolboys from their studious toil released,
And bent on sport athletic:—but for this,
The place might pass unnoticed—to speak truth,
As insignificant a market-town
As may be seen in England. Far around
Extends a pastoral glade, to numerous herds
Yielding abundant herbage, but ungraced
By much of rural beauty—featureless,
And to the poet's and the painter's eye
Alike insipid ;—a wide, weary tract
Of hedgerow upon hedgerow.—Rock nor hill,—
Nor graceful undulation here is seen;
The very stream which waters the fat meads
(Shaksperian Avon) hath not yet attain'd
The breadth and beauty of his later course,
But winds between his flat and reedy banks,
A thin, meandering, melancholy thread
Of slow, dull, slimy water:—the sole charms
Of which, with truth, the unvaried landscape boasts,
Are verdure and fertility:—the grass
Grows freshly, and the hedgerow trees present
Masses of summer foliage, with rich tints
Diversified in Autumn:—there is nought
To seek or shun, to hate or fondly love,
For miles and miles around! Amidst such scenes,
The lines are fallen to me ;—amidst such scenes
I own a goodly heritage—content,
In the fulfilment of allotted tasks,
Here, if Heaven will, to live, and here to die.

Strange to the youthful minister of Christ,
Yet not unmixt with pleasure, is the awe
And anxious curiosity with which
He first approaches his appointed sphere
Of pastoral duty—first inspects the fold
Of which he is the shepherd, and looks round
On faces which henceforth he is to know
In joy and grief, in sickness and in health,
Through many a chance and change of mortal life,
In many a close relation; he meanwhile—
(Though haply versed in theologic lore)—
Unpractised, inexperienced in the ways
Of Man's mysterious heart,—unused to guide,
To comfort, to reprove, exhort, convince,
Or do the thousand offices of love
And Christian wisdom at his hands required,
And pressing on his heart. With what keen sense
Of high responsibilities, incurr'd
By weakness (then, if ever, deeply felt,)
He first ascends the pulpit !—first surveys
The motley congregation closely pack'd,
And all intent, with curious eye and ear,
To see, hear, criticise—some few to learn
And welcome, with devout and docile hearts,
Him, their commission'd teacher! In their homes,
And by their hospitable hearths, for him
With festal fires ablaze,—at social board,
Or cheerful tea-table, whence fairest hands
Dispense the nectarous fluid, to his taste
With nicest art adapted—each new face
Arrests his anxious eye; each voice conveys
To his awaken'd and attentive ear
Some token, faint perchance, of fear or hope,
Of comfort or discouragement.—To whom,
Among these cordial guests, in years to come,
Shall he resort for counsel? Which shall aid,
With sympathy and solace pure and true,
His ministerial toil—and which oppose,
Impede, embarrass,—sometimes haply mar
His all too feeble efforts to promote
The welfare of his flock?—Which shall be found
His friend, and which his enemy?—With whom,
At intervals of rest from pastoral care,
Shall he take pleasant counsel, and converse
On subjects which unbend, but not unnerve
The else o'er-labour'd mind?—Such thoughts, perchance,
Flit swiftly thro' his brain:—Meanwhile he knows
Himself the mark of scrutinizing eyes,
And curious observation:—apt remarks
Are ventured—subtle questions ask'd, to probe
And fathom his opinions:—“Is he Whig
In Politics, or Tory?—Orthodox
In creed, or Evangelical?—What sect
Within the Church,—what party in the State,
Minutely in the parish imaged forth,
Shall find him its ally?—Will he adhere
To old establish'd customs, and uphold
The right prescriptive of a parish priest
To hunt, and shoot, and fish, and be the first
In all convivial revels?—strong at whist,
And matchless at back-gammon?—or, imbued
With puritanic scruples, will he shun
The world and all its pleasures—in their stead
Frequenting the resort of serious folk,
Committee-rooms and platforms—where the stage
And its profane excitements are eclipsed
(As some aver) by oratoric feats
Of reverend men, who spurn alike the rules
Of grammar and the Church, and, in glib phrase,
Clip the Queen's English,—worthily repaid
For such achievements by the breath and bruit
Of popular applause?—Or will he prove
A stern ascetic, in Tractarian lore
Profoundly versed, entangling simple souls
In bonds from which the Gospel sets them free—
Enjoining strict observance of the round
Of festivals and fasts and daily prayers,
And inconvenient alms-deeds,—apt himself
To fast and watch and mortify the flesh
With superstitious rigour,—teaching much
By precept and example, against which
We must perforce contend?”—With such profound
And profitable queries, others mix
Less abstract speculations—“Is he one
Accessible as yet to Beauty's charms?—
A prize to be contested by the skill
Of mothers and their daughters?—the church glebe
Is rich and ample, and the Parsonage
(Judiciously enlarged) might well be made
A comfortable mansion.”—Cease, fair dames,
Such musings, which the invulnerable man
With grim, sly smiles suspects.—In distant bowers,
The lady of his love already twines
Her nuptial wreath, and, ere six months have flown,
The bells from yon grey tower, with deafening peal,
Shall blithely welcome to their destined home
The Rector and his Bride.

It ill beseems
The poet—him especially whose crown
Of laurel must surmount the sober garb
For reverend clerks appointed—to select,
Amidst the present scenes of actual life,
The subjects of his song. This week-day world—
Its cares—its toils—its sharp anxieties—
The friends and foes of living flesh and blood,
With whom we sympathise and strive by turns—
These to Reality's dull realm belong,
And scarcely from that realm can be transferr'd
To Phantasy's domain, without neglect
Or partial violation of the laws
Of social life.—Such fault be far from me!
Not in the Present, but the dreamy Past,
And not among the Living, but the Dead—
The unforgotten tenants of the grave—
The men o'er whose infirmities and faults
Remembrance draws a veil of shadowy haze,
Which glorifies their virtues—among such
Would I once more, in retrospective thought,
Live over my young days of pastoral care,
And interweave with this historic song
Some faint reflection of departed worth
And excellence still honour'd, which perchance,
Not by surviving eyes unrecognized,
May to surviving hearts recall a train
Of pleasant recollections, nor incur
Reproach or censure—rather, let me hope,
Awaken kind and not unthankful thoughts
Tow'rd him who, if he could, would thus embalm,
In unguent mix'd of grave and sportive verse,
Their loved and lost on Earth.

At the town's end
There is a neat and unpretending house,
Which you approach through a low wooden gate
Beneath an arch of laurel;—a small porch
Of trellis-work, with odorous jessamine
And most luxuriant clematis entwined,
Shelters the expectant visitor, whose knock
Is yet unanswer'd;—a bay window, fill'd
With flowering shrubs, on the left hand, admits
The late effulgence of the western Sun
To what, when first I knew it, long had been
The favourite room of one in many a heart
Still honour'd and remember'd—then my kind
And hospitable host. An aged man,
Already on the verge of full fourscore,
Was he, and, in his youth and middle age,
Had on the seas, beneath old England's flag,
Fought and commanded; but for many a year
(The toils and perils of the deep foregone)
Had led a quiet and secluded life
In that snug dwelling, by the general voice
Of friends and neighbours quaintly named, from him,
“The Admiralty.” Seldom hath a heart
So frank and simple dwelt within a frame
So burly and gigantic; lustier voice
Than his, on shipboard, never yet outroar'd
The thunder, or was heard above the din
Of battle:—he was, all in all, compact,
Heart, voice, soul, sinews, bulk;—colossal—vast,
As of the race of Anak,—yet, withal
As gentle as a lamb:—no kindlier smile
Than his e'er beam'd on childhood—(and, in truth,
He had his share of grandchildren;)—no brow
Was e'er unbent on Woman with more bland
And guileless show of love; and if his laugh
Was somewhat over-boisterous, and his jest
Couch'd in sea-phrase, and, like a seaman's speech,
Blunt and unpolish'd,—if fastidious ears
Might shrink from his sea-ditties, thunder'd forth
As though a broadside roar'd—the daintiest dame
Forgot such venial trespass in the sense
Of that inborn benignity which glow'd
And glisten'd in his look, and was diffused
Through his whole soul and spirit. Him all ranks
And classes loved and honour'd;—to his house
Gentle and simple, country squire and clown,
Scholar and tradesman, pedagogue and peer,
Each sure of his appropriate welcome, came.
The nobles of the land were not ashamed
To leave awhile their lordly palace halls,
And spend an hour beneath that humble roof
In pleased, familiar talk with the old man,
Who on his part received them with blunt phrase
Of unaffected courtesy;—the poor
Flock'd to him as their friend:—in grief and joy
He sympathized with all.—Two serving-maids,
Some twenty years his juniors,—one obese
And rubicund,—the other spare and lean,—
With a red-nosed, ill-manner'd serving-man,
Who rather ruled than served his easy lord,—
These form'd his household:—an asthmatic steed
Was, like his master, pension'd on half-pay,
Or rarely into active service call'd
From the near paddock. Such, for some few years
From the first date of my incumbency,
Continued his establishment, by laws
Most primitive and patriarchal ruled,
And unprofaned by aught of modish taste
Or over-costly luxury, though rich
In whatsoever to the incorrupt
And unsophisticated heart affords
Repose and satisfaction.—At the end
Of that brief time, with little outward change,
Or more decided symptom of decay,
After some days of sickness, meekly borne,
With calm expression of a Christian's hope
The old man fell asleep. Light lie the turf
On that stout heart, as simple and sincere,
As gentle and as brave as ever throbb'd
Beneath a sailor's bosom!—be his sleep
The sleep of Paradise, till the last trump
To resurrection and their final doom
Summon the awaken'd dead!

Nor let me pass
Unnoticed or unhonour'd in this lay
One who; by me but little known, hath yet
Left on my memory the abiding trace
Of his urbane and cordial courtesy,
By scholarship and classic taste refined;
—A courtly, polish'd man, of bland address,
And clerical attire with rigorous taste
Adjusted and adorn'd—his reverend head
Well powder'd and pomatum'd—even the crown,
Which five and fifty winters had made bald,
With scrupulous exactness frosted o'er;—
His central bulk, spruce, dapper, and rotund,
In silk and broadcloth of correctest cut
And sablest hue array'd;—his nether parts
In hose unwrinkled of the finest woof,
And breeches, silver-buckled at the knee,
Display'd their plump proportions:—voice and look,
Gesture and phrase, to the discerning mind,
Proclaim'd the pedagogue—one of a race
Now passing from the earth;—no man of thought,
Deep, earnest, serious, seething in the brain
Incessantly;—no framer of vague plans
And purposes, imperfect, ever new,
From the rich depths of an exhaustless mind,
By the strong working of a Christian heart
Evolved;—no rash enthusiast, labouring still
To purify, exalt, and bless mankind,
And using education as the means
By Heaven, beyond all other means, ordain'd
To accomplish that high task.—Such men our age,
In this beyond preceding ages blest,
Hath seen, and loved, and mourn'd;—but unlike these
The generation which preceded ours,—
The teachers of our sires and of ourselves.
Less lofty was their aim;—more moderate praise
Contented their ambition.—The dead tongues—
Their prosody and syntax—the nice rules
Of composition—the mysterious craft
Of metres—these to them were all in all—
The end of education, not the means.
Nor be it held dispraise to speak of one
Not last, nor least distinguish'd in his day,
As walking in the ways of his compeers
With steps which equall'd theirs, but not outstripp'd.
It was enough, for him of whom I speak,
To guard, with rigid and punctilious zeal,
That which he found establish'd;—to maintain,
Unchang'd and unimpair'd, the old, tried course
Of classic education, handed down
From those who went before him. This he did
With firm, unbending purpose, and became
The perfect model of a schoolmaster,
Such as our sires respected—such as we,
In the vain pride of our conceited age,
Are prone to undervalue—blind alike
To what exalts the Present—what the Past.
Far juster was the estimate which he
Form'd of himself:—proud was he of his craft,
Nor would abate one tittle of its claims
To honour and respect:—his air and tone
Were those of one who felt himself high raised
Above unlearned, unscholastic men;
And, in or out of school, with equal pomp,
Right stately did he bear himself:—all rules
Of etiquette—all nice formalities,
He practised and exacted—was, in truth,
In discipline a very martinet;
And when, in annual chair of state enthroned—
Surrounded by aristocratic groups,
The county's high nobility,—he sat
Dispensing prizes—the world could not shew
A prouder, happier man! Yet deem him not
Haughty or arrogant,—in manners stiff,
Cold and repulsive:—kindly was his heart,
Gentle he was and affable to all;
And, when the labour of the day was done,
Loved with his neighbours at the social board
To spend a joyous hour, well pleased to reign
Supreme o'er mirth and music, whist and wit,—
Assuming and receiving at all hands
Precedency of place, and recognized
As absolute Dictator.

Yet such rank
Was not, without resistance and dispute,
At once assign'd him:—Our Republic found
A Brutus for this Cæsar.—One there was
Whom Nature's hand had moulded to resist
Unconstitutional autocracy,
And hold it at defiance—a true son
Of Albion—all her dauntless Saxon blood
Careering in his veins—a brave, blunt man,
Laborious, energetic, shrewd of wit,
And resolute of action:—no adept
Was he at rules conventional—no slave
To forms of etiquette—no worshipper
Of rank or sounding titles:—small respect
He own'd or felt for academic grade,
Or dignity ecclesiastical,
Save as the visible and outward garb
Of solid worth within:—his piercing eye,
Disdaining shows and seemings, ever sought
That which was real:—he esteem'd the man,
And not the cloak—the kernel, not the husk.
Whate'er himself possess'd of place, or wealth,
Or credit with the world, had been acquired
By the innate and energetic strength
And vigour of his mind,—by industry
And persevering toil of head and heart—
By due discharge of honourable trust
In the far Indies, whence he had return'd,
After few years in public duties spent,
A rich and prosperous man. Such energy,
Moral and intellectual, as could work
What he had wrought,—could bear what he had borne,
And gain what he had gain'd—and such alone,
He honour'd and esteem'd in other men.
All else—diplomas—dignities—degrees—
Hereditary rank—ancestral pride—
Whate'er weak minds revere—he held dirt cheap,
And view'd, with somewhat of a jealous eye,
Monopolies of homage from of old,
In this aristocratic land, assign'd
To place, and station, and official rank,
Or well or ill maintain'd, with small regard
To aught which truly dignifies them all,
And gives them actual value:—hence he grew,
Almost by Nature's strong necessity,
Antagonistic to the Powers that were—
A stout and sturdy oppositionist,
Obstructing, by all lawful ways and means,
What seem'd encroachments of despotic sway;
Asserting and maintaining the plain rights
Of social independence against all
Which look'd like usurpation. Hence arose
Occasional sedition—tart debate
Colloquial—insurrection, to restrain,
Within legitimate and wholesome bounds,
Monarchical prerogative.—Meanwhile
The Monarch was not slow to take the field,
With such offensive and defensive arms
As courteous scholars use—grave irony—
Sarcastic repartee—serenest smile
Of dignified compassion. Thus they two
(If old, traditionary tales speak truth
Of times beyond the memory of the Bard)
For many a year contended, yet broke not
The bonds of social neighbourhood, nor lost
Their sense of mutual good-will. O'er both
The grave long since hath closed:—the petty feuds
And jealousies of earth divide them not
In that good land where both; we trust, have found
Acceptance and repose.

But all too long,
Methinks, we dwell among remembrances
Of days and things gone by:—'tis meet we turn,
Beloved, to the Present.—Our abode—
The tabernacle of our earthly joys
And sorrows, hopes and fears—this home of ours—
Is it not pleasant?—Is there one eleswhere
For which we would exchange it?—Fourteen years,
Well nigh elapsed, have rear'd the puny trees
We planted at our coming, to a screen
And somewhat of a shade;—our small domain,
Compact within itself, nor overlook'd,
(Albeit well nigh on every side begirt
By new and upstart dwellings,) forms a nook
In which the meek and unambitious heart
May live and die contented:—within doors
We have enough of comfort—and, without,
Of verdure, and bright sunshine, and fresh air,
To make our dwelling cheerful:—yon green field,
Between us and intrusion interposed,
Forms for our children a broad ample realm
Of undisturb'd enjoyment:—that tall pair
Of venerable elms, beneath whose shade
Lie buried those old favourites canine
Whose race, had we been childless, might perchance
E'en now have shared our hearth—those elms, methinks,
May serve us for apt emblems of ourselves—
A hale, green pair, not yet much past their prime,
And from their grassy mound, in reverend state,
On a new generation looking down
Of young and hopeful plants.—By Fancy's aid
We might suppose them representatives
Of the successive tenants of this house—
The pastors of the parish and their wives,
Whose spirits, from the burden of the flesh
And all its toil released, have migrated,
Like Baucis and Philemon's in old time,
Into those leafy tenements, and there,
Fast by the mansion of their earthly life,
Await the body's waking.—But such sport
Of wilful Fancy haply ill accords
With the sad aspect of yon burial-ground
Contiguous to our garden—the long home
Of vanish'd generations, and in which
Both thou and I, ere many years have pass'd,
Must look to lay our bones. We lack not here
Mementos of mortality:—no knell
Proclaims the passing of a neighbour's soul,
But we are first to hear it;—not a corpse
Is carried to its resting-place, but I
Do the last sacred offices;—no week,—
Scarce a day passes, but some bed of death,
Or long consuming sickness, summons me
To minister beside it:—nor art thou
With sorrow less familiar, or less apt
To do thy part as comforter, and yield
Such help as woman only can dispense
To sickness and affliction. Strange 'twould be,
If all that we behold of chance and change,
Of sorrow and mortality, should leave
No trace upon our spirits, nor impress
On our remembrance ineffaceably
The lesson of the Church, that “in the midst
Of life we are in death.”—Yet more perhaps
Than most of those with whom our lot is cast,
We lack such admonition:—life to us
Is fill'd, by bounteous Providence, so full
Of purest comfort! Since this house became
Our habitation, it hath seen more bliss
Than many a life of threescore years and ten
Brings to another dwelling—less of grief
Than one brief month hath brought to not a few.
There's scarce a room, beneath our roof, unmark'd
By some distinction of remember'd joy;—
Of friends, whose visits, though too much like those
Of angels—passing short and far between—
Almost like those of angels gladden'd us;—
Of pleasant and endearing intercourse
With neighbours whom we love;—of home-content,
Enliven'd by those studies and pursuits
Which purify and strengthen, while they soothe
The weary mind. Here, in this study, cramm'd
With strangest piles of heterogeneous lore,
O'er Shakspere's magic pages we have laugh'd
And wept by turns, while fairest fingers plied
The busy needle, and the reader's art
Repaid their cheerful toil:—on yonder chair,
Honour'd beyond its drawing-room compeers,
Sate once the mighty Poet of the Lakes,
And in his deep, sonorous voice conversed
On themes of loftiest import:—in this house
Six children have been born to us—of whom
Five until now, by Heaven's rich grace, remain,
And one hath fallen asleep.—My boyish dreams
Of happiness (though passing bright they were)
Fell short of the reality which still
Beneath this roof abides—reality
Too bright to be enduring.—May we wait
In thoughtful preparation, and endure
With patience, whatsoever change shall come!

High theme it were—(too high for verse like mine)—
To tell the toils, the pleasures, and the cares
Of ministerial duty;—to set forth
The life of an ambassador for Christ
Such as it is—alas! how much unlike
That which it ought to be! Else there were food
For musing not unfruitful, not unblest,
In that long retrospect of years elapsed
Amidst parochial cares and toils and plans,
Which teems, as I survey it, with strange forms
Of human joy and sorrow. In the town
There's scarce a house but to my mind recalls
Some sad or pleasing image of past days—
Some consolation offer'd—some sick bed
Sooth'd or alarm'd—some confidence enjoy'd—
Some doubt dispell'd—alas! some vain assault
On some stronghold of Satan—some defeat
Encounter'd—some discomfiture sustain'd
Through lack of faith or courage.—Of such things
Let me not lightly speak, but speak in words
Recorded ere remembrance yet had lost
Its first impression.—Two such homely lays
I framed in other years;—the first a tale
(If tale it may be call'd) of grievous pain,
Through faith and patience wondrously endured,
And by endurance vanquish'd;—a wild strain
The other, in Spenserian rhyme jocose
Recounting rustic feats of boisterous glee
And festal recreation, with a cause
Connected, righteous once, though since, alas!
By erring and fanatic zeal profaned,
And fitly, to sectarian patronage
Abandon'd by the Church.—Elsewhere than here
Be those twin songs recorded, and preserve
(If that perchance may be) to after days
Some memory of the English pastor's cares
And pastimes in this nineteenth century!

So end my Dream of Life!—for life is now
Less dream-like than it has been;—save, indeed,
That with a swifter and yet swifter course
The years begin and end—their hopes and fears
Blossom and fade—their sorrows and their joys
Are born and buried. While I strive to grasp
What seems the Present, it becomes the Past.
All things appear more fugitive, and yet
Less lovely than they did. The gorgeous hues
In which imagination clothed the world
While life was young, have faded:—what remains
Is, in its proper lineaments, discern'd,
And felt to be precarious—a brief dream,
Without a dream's magnificence:—and yet
To this the heart still cleaves, as in its youth
It clave to Fancy's daintiest imagery;
Still as one joy dissolves and fades away,
Reposing on a new one. Death and Change
Are found to teach but slowly that sad truth,
That no continuing city have we here—
No rest for our foot-sole.—And yet their school,
Severe and stern, allows few holidays
From grief and disappointment!—while I weave
This meditative lay, how rich a source
Of present solace, and of hope that gave
Bright promise for the future, with a stroke
Hath been cut off for ever!—HE is dead!—
He, whom all England honour'd as her first
Of Christian teachers;—He, by whom her youth
Were train'd and lesson'd with most earnest zeal,
And depth unknown of wisdom from above,
In Christ's all-perfect rule, and taught to take
His yoke upon them, and to bear His cross,
As Men who, with divine and human lore
Rightly imbued—in intellect and heart
Well disciplined—with heavenly arms equipp'd—
And knowing both the prize for which they strove,
And how it must be won—should, in this world,
Fight the good fight of faith.—Alas! for us!
His townsmen and near neighbours!—us, whose hopes
Parental with his life were close entwined!
Who deem'd our children's the most blessed lot
By Providence to children e'er assign'd,
In that, by him, their young intelligence,
Develop'd and inform'd, should first expand
Its fresh and tender blossoms,—that in him,
Their teacher and their guide, they should behold
A model of what Christians ought to be!
Alas! for us!—but not for us alone!—
Britain—all Europe—Christendom itself
Mourns his untimely loss:—the Church bewails,
In him, the best and bravest of her sons;
Him, if sometimes an erring, never found
A weak or craven champion in her cause:
For ne'er were truth and goodness loved and sought
With more devoted fervour than by him;
Nor oft have noblest intellectual gifts
Been sanctified by loftier piety
Than in his bosom dwelt. His inward eye,
Clear, rapid, comprehensive, at a glance
Discern'd—if not the perfect form of Truth—
At least her shadowy lineaments—which straight
With stedfast gaze he follow'd, in his course
Flashing swift gleams of unexpected light
On whatsoever subject of high thought
Cross'd or approach'd his path. For human ills—
The want and woe—the ignorance and sin—
The bondage of corruption beneath which
The creature, in its anguish and unrest,
Still groans and travails—for whatever wrong
The feeble suffer and the strong inflict—
His was the sorrow of a Christian saint—
His were the projects of a Christian sage.—
For Britain's helpless millions above all,
Writhing in dumb, blind pain—untaught, unfed—
With earnest heart, and brain, and tongue, and pen,
He toil'd to achieve deliverance;—to his end,
Through honour and dishonour, through report
Evil and good, still constant.—Yet, in him,
Philanthropy (too oft in feebler minds
Destructive of less liberal sympathies)
Marr'd not one home affection, but enhanced
And purified them all:—no happier hearth
Than his e'er flung its winter evening blaze
On groups of joyous faces;—there was not
In all the world a parent, husband, friend,
More excellent than he! Nor was the face
Of Nature—her mysterious loveliness—
To him indifferent;—flowers, and trees, and fruits,—
Beast, insect, feather'd fowl, and creeping thing—
Whatever God hath made—the mountain ridge
Embosoming the lake, near which he spent
His intervals of rest from lifelong toil—
The primrose on the bank—the hawthorn hedge,
With woodbines and wild roses intertwined—
He loved them all! Majestic was his soul,
And gentle in its majesty—alive
To whatsoe'er in this material world
Reveals the presence of Divinity,
And therefore full of love! Alas for us!
Who knew him—who beheld and felt the power
Of goodness which abode in him—and yet
Scarce loved it till 'twas lost!—Alas for thee!
Poor town, in which he sojourn'd for a time,
And which his sojourn dignified!—Alas!
For what thou art and hast been!—Ichabod!
Thy glory hath departed!