The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
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ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT SOUTHEY, LATE POET LAUREATE. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
292
ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT SOUTHEY, LATE POET LAUREATE.
From the bright coronal of living minds,
The grace and glory of these later days,
A gem is shaken to the dust; a star
Which rose in thought's wide hemisphere, and grew
Resplendent with the calm, sweet light of Song
Hath faded into darkness, while our eyes
Gaze with sad yearning after it—in vain!
The fitful winds, which sweep with varying voice
O'er the broad breast of Keswick's wrinkled lake,
Sing dirges o'er the mountain-girdled grave
Where Southey sleeps. A fitting tomb for him
Whose heart did feed itself amid a scene
So strangely beautiful; for many a sound,
And silence—which is sound made awful—will
Breathe about his resting place, from glens,
From green hill tops, from old time-twisted trees,
From wave-worn caverns in the rifted rock,
From waters, sleepless as the listening stars
On which they gaze, from breezes touched and tuned
To storms or zephyrs; for in them he heard
What unto him was Poesy, and she
Peopled his solitude with things of joy!
Sad to remember that that laurelled brow,
Which held such wild imaginings, such powers
To clothe in lofty language lofty truths,
And sentiments which humanised and stirred,
Wears the cold hues of death. That cunning hand,
Which traced upon the page the living line,
Is paralysed; and that once piercing eye,
Lit with the reflex of an ardent soul,
Is veiled and quenched. That spark of deathless fire,
Which filled its shrine with glory, hath returned
To the pure fountain of immortal light
From whence it sprang, leaving its “darkened dust”
To mingle with its elements for ever!
The grace and glory of these later days,
A gem is shaken to the dust; a star
Which rose in thought's wide hemisphere, and grew
Resplendent with the calm, sweet light of Song
Hath faded into darkness, while our eyes
Gaze with sad yearning after it—in vain!
The fitful winds, which sweep with varying voice
O'er the broad breast of Keswick's wrinkled lake,
Sing dirges o'er the mountain-girdled grave
Where Southey sleeps. A fitting tomb for him
Whose heart did feed itself amid a scene
So strangely beautiful; for many a sound,
And silence—which is sound made awful—will
Breathe about his resting place, from glens,
From green hill tops, from old time-twisted trees,
From wave-worn caverns in the rifted rock,
From waters, sleepless as the listening stars
On which they gaze, from breezes touched and tuned
To storms or zephyrs; for in them he heard
What unto him was Poesy, and she
Peopled his solitude with things of joy!
Sad to remember that that laurelled brow,
Which held such wild imaginings, such powers
293
And sentiments which humanised and stirred,
Wears the cold hues of death. That cunning hand,
Which traced upon the page the living line,
Is paralysed; and that once piercing eye,
Lit with the reflex of an ardent soul,
Is veiled and quenched. That spark of deathless fire,
Which filled its shrine with glory, hath returned
To the pure fountain of immortal light
From whence it sprang, leaving its “darkened dust”
To mingle with its elements for ever!
Men lightly say—“This is the common lot;”
But when the gifted and the good depart,
We stand aghast, as if some well-touched string,
Breathing divinest music in our ears,
Was snapped asunder, even while our hearts
Were throbbing to its tones. But have we not,
Within a few brief moons, been called to weep
O'er the sad loss of many an eloquent mind
Of strength and beauty? For a voice hath said,
That he who fixed his soul in marble lives
In fame alone; that Wilkie's magic hand,
Which threw upon the canvas genuine life,
Hath lost its power in the remorseless grave;
That honest Allan, of the hardy north,
Hath hung his harp upon the cypress bough,
And joined a nobler choir; and Southey, last,
But far from least of these, hath rent away
The gyves of earth, and soared to happier spheres.
But when the gifted and the good depart,
We stand aghast, as if some well-touched string,
Breathing divinest music in our ears,
Was snapped asunder, even while our hearts
Were throbbing to its tones. But have we not,
Within a few brief moons, been called to weep
O'er the sad loss of many an eloquent mind
Of strength and beauty? For a voice hath said,
That he who fixed his soul in marble lives
In fame alone; that Wilkie's magic hand,
Which threw upon the canvas genuine life,
Hath lost its power in the remorseless grave;
That honest Allan, of the hardy north,
Hath hung his harp upon the cypress bough,
And joined a nobler choir; and Southey, last,
But far from least of these, hath rent away
The gyves of earth, and soared to happier spheres.
Yet let us not despair,—for Southey lives,—
Lives in the labours of a quiet life,
Well spent and richly fruitful. Few may claim
The laurel crown which he hath laid aside,
And wear the wreath so nobly and so long.
The lustrous diamond in profoundest gloom
Retains the light it gathered from the sun
From age to age; so hath the world received
And treasured up the lustre of the mind
Of him we mourn, which shall not melt away.
Let us imbibe his spirit, like old wine
Long caverned in the earth, and mellowed down
To strength and purity; but let us not,
Because some lees remain within the cup,
Reject as worthless the inspiring draught.
Lives in the labours of a quiet life,
Well spent and richly fruitful. Few may claim
The laurel crown which he hath laid aside,
And wear the wreath so nobly and so long.
294
Retains the light it gathered from the sun
From age to age; so hath the world received
And treasured up the lustre of the mind
Of him we mourn, which shall not melt away.
Let us imbibe his spirit, like old wine
Long caverned in the earth, and mellowed down
To strength and purity; but let us not,
Because some lees remain within the cup,
Reject as worthless the inspiring draught.
Those first brief bursts of his unsullied muse—
Those earlier flights of her rejoicing wing,
Light as the lark and buoyant as his lay,
Are ours to think upon and love. How well
He sang the sorrows of his race, and cried
Aloud against its wrongs! How sweetly breathed
His harp-strings, when the charms of Nature wooed
Their eloquent voices out! For these alone,—
For these few flashes of a feeling soul,
His laurel leaves shall keep for ever green!
Those earlier flights of her rejoicing wing,
Light as the lark and buoyant as his lay,
Are ours to think upon and love. How well
He sang the sorrows of his race, and cried
Aloud against its wrongs! How sweetly breathed
His harp-strings, when the charms of Nature wooed
Their eloquent voices out! For these alone,—
For these few flashes of a feeling soul,
His laurel leaves shall keep for ever green!
Wordsworth!
Thou priest and patriarch of Nature!—thou,
Who wast a brother of the buried bard
In mind and fame! awake thine ancient lyre
To one last mournful melody, and mine
Shall shrink to silence at thy loftier song!
Thou priest and patriarch of Nature!—thou,
Who wast a brother of the buried bard
In mind and fame! awake thine ancient lyre
To one last mournful melody, and mine
Shall shrink to silence at thy loftier song!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |