Nugae Canorae Poems by Charles Lloyd ... Third Edition, with Additions |
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THE DEAD FRIEND. |
 | Nugae Canorae |  |
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
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!
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
254
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.
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
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!
Deem hardly of my doings, I will turn
255
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!
| Nugae Canorae | |