Nugae Canorae :: :: University of Virginia Library

The following Poems, with a great number of others, had been set aside by the Author, as unworthy of publication; but as he was inclined to think rather more favourably of these than of the others, they had been transcribed in order to be submitted to a friend, on whose judgment the Author relies much more implicitly than on his own, before he finally decided as to what Poems should, and what should not, be introduced into his Volume. However, this friend was on a journey at the critical moment; and the Author preferred rejecting these Poems, to printing them from his own opinion. Before the last proof sheet of this little Volume was completed, another friend, on whom the Author thought he could equally rely, visited him; and on the following Poems being submitted to him, gave it as his opinion, that these might be retained without impropriety.

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There would not have been any necessity for this little explanatory remark, had not the other Poems in this Volume, with the exception of those on the Death of Priscilla Farmer, been arranged in the order in which they were written as to time: most of these, on the other hand, as the reader will perceive by comparing dates, are coeval with his earliest productions.

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METAPHYSICAL SONNET I.

Written 1794.

My soul's an atom in the world of mind,
Hurl'd from its centre by some adverse storm;
The attraction's gone, its movements that confin'd
The impulse fled, that urged it to perform
Its destined office. Wandering through the void,
Each due attrition, each excitement dead,
Its moral aim and action seem destroyed,
And its existence, like its functions, fled.
Love was the parent orb from whence it drew
Its moral being, hope its active force;
But Love's dear sun shall never shine anew;
Nor Hope again direct my wandering course!
My life is nothing to mankind!—To me
'Tis worse than nothing! 'Tis all agony!

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SONNET II. TO A PRIMROSE.

1795.

Come, simple floweret of the paly leaf!
With yellow eye, and stalk of downy green,
Though mild thy lustre, though thy days are brief,
Oh, come and decorate my cottage scene!
For thee, I'll rear a bank where softest moss,
And tenderest grass shall carelessly combine;
No haughty flower shall shine in gaudy gloss,
But azure violets mix their buds with thine.
Far, far away, each keener wind shall fly,
Each threatening tempest of the early year!
Thy fostering gale shall be the lover's sigh!
The dew that gems thy bud the lover's tear!
And ere thou diest, pale flower, thou'lt gain the praise
To have soothed the bard, and to have inspir'd his lays.

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SONNET III. TO THE RIVER EMONT.

1795.

Sweet, simple stream, the shallow waves that glide
In peaceful murmurs o'er thy rocky bed;
Sweet, simple stream, the gleams of eventide
That on thy banks their mellowing lustre shed;
Befit the temper of my restless mind!—
For, while I hear thy waves, and see the gleam,
Of latest eve, afar from human kind,
To linger here unknown, I fondly dream.
I snatch my flute, and breathe a softened lay;
Then melting, view it as an only friend;
And oft I wonder much, that while so gay,
And all unthinking, others onward wend,
I here should sadly linger, and rejoice
To hear a lone stream, or the flute's soft voice!—

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SONNET IV. TO LOCH-LOMOND.

Aug. 1795.

Lomond, thy rich and variegated scene,
Fantastic now, now dignified, severe;
Thy tufted underwood, of darker green,
Thine arrowy pines that mock the rolling year;
Thy soft diversity of sweeping bays,
Fringed with each shrub, and edged with tenderest turf,
Where, as the attenuated north-gale plays,
The wild flowers mingle with the harmless surf:
Thy long protracted lake, expansive now,—
Boldly diversified with wood-crowned Isles,—
Imprisoned now by rocks, on whose stern brow,
Clad with cold heath, the summer scarcely smiles,
I welcome fearfully;—and hail in thee
The wildest shapings of sublimity.

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SONNET V. TO THE SABBATH.

1796.

Ah! quiet day, I oft recall the time,
When I did chase my childish sluggishness,
The “rear of darkness lingering still,” to dress
In due sort for thy coming; the first chime
Of blithesome bells, that ushered in thy morn,
Carolled to me of rest, and simplest mirth:
'Twas then all happiness on the wide earth
To gaze!—I little dreamt that man was born
For aught but wholesome toil, and holiest praise,
Thanking that God who made him to rejoice!
But, I am changed now! nor could I raise
My sunken spirit at thy well known voice;
But that thou seemest soothingly to say,
“Look up poor mourner, to a better day.”

252

SONNET VI.

[Now glares the proud sun on the thirsty street]

Written July, 1796.

Now glares the proud sun on the thirsty street,
Where the shrunk, swarthy mendicant implores
Some scanty pittance from the o'erflowing stores
Of those that flutter by. How little meet
Is it for fellow mortals thus to greet!
This with an humble gesture that adores;
That with a flinty threat or sneer, that pours
A poison to the soul!—Poor wretch, how sweet
To bind some balsam on thy heart's keen wound!
To make thee smile, and raise thee to the rank
That man should hold, wherever man is found!—
But, Oh, this may not be!—Thou canst but thank
Him who would succour thee!—Be this my meed!—
And thy rich thanks shall soothe a heart in need!

253

THE DEAD FRIEND.

Burton, August, 1797.

When I am quiet, and my centred soul
Rests from its mortal working, it has seem'd
As though the dead friend liv'd again, so sweet
To me has been her memory. Evermore
Would I be so o'ertaken: for my tears
Were tears of pleasantness, and all my sighs
O'erflowings of affection! Hallow'd spirit,
Fain would I cherish the belief that thou
Guidest my onward feet, cleansest my heart
From every fleshly thought. Or when I muse
In sacred solitude, or when abroad
I ponder on my desultory way;
Or when in active life I force myself
To wear the semblance which my heart not owns,
I love to think that thou dost mingle still
The holy leav'nings of inbreathed love
With all my frail and unregenerate thoughts.
The dear remembrance of thy kindled eye

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When it met mine; thy grasp of tenderness;
Thy mute expression of anxiety
When I was sore perplex'd; thy awful tones,
Full, holy, and melodious, that inclin'd
My difficult ear, and drew my wayward heart
“To the better cause:” all these live o'er again,
And fill the lonely hour with such strange shades
Of past existence, that I seem to greet
My former self, and be again that child
Whom thou didst love so well, who knew so well
The value of that love!

O thou wast all
To me!—the vacancy which thou hast left
No mortal may fill up; it is a part
To thee and Heaven devoted! I would there
Treasure each manlier truth, whose rudiment
I learn'd from thee, best parent! Every form
Of beauty, every loftier thought, and all
The unshap'd energies which I may win
To bright perfection's aim; these visitants
Alone, that sanctuary of my inmost soul
Shall pierce, where thou dost dwell.

And when mankind
Deem hardly of my doings, I will turn

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To thee, best friend! And if the time should come
When all forsake me, if at that lone hour,
That dreary pause of mental solitude,
On thy invisible solace I may lean,
'Twill fill my bosom till it overflows;
For thou wast pure, and sternly virtuous,
Yet tender and affectionate. Thy will
Was holy and unbending; yet that will
Was mild in act; pursuing rigidly,
With singleness of soul, the work that Heaven
Had giv'n thee to perform; yet bearing ever
Thy lofty calling with so meek a mien,
That all with mute involuntary awe
Felt ere they call'd thee good! Farewell, and raise
My backward heart to somewhat of the state
Hallowing thy mortal pilgrimage, that so
In happier worlds than this we meet again!