The Poetical Works of Anna Seward :: :: University of Virginia Library

For one short week I leave, with anxious heart,
Source of my filial cares, the Full of Days,
Lur'd by the promise of Harmonic Art
To breathe her Handel's soul-exalting lays.

Pensive I trace the Derwent's amber wave,
Foaming through umbrag'd banks, or view it lave
The soft, romantic vallies, high o'er-peer'd
By hills and rocks, in savage grandeur rear'd.
Not two short miles from thee, can I refrain
Thy haunts, my native Eyam, long unseen?—
Thou and thy lov'd inhabitants, again
Shall meet my transient gaze.—Thy rocky screen,
Thy airy cliffs I mount; and seek thy shade,
Thy roofs, that brow the steep, romantic glade;
But, while on me the eyes of Friendship glow,
Swell my pain'd sighs, my tears spontaneous flow.

In scenes paternal, not beheld through years,
Nor view'd, till now, but by a Father's side,
Well might the tender, tributary tears,
From keen regrets of duteous fondness glide!
Its pastor, to this human-flock no more
Shall the long flight of future days restore!

Distant he droops,—and that once gladdening eye
Now languid gleams, e'en when his friends are nigh.

Through this known walk, where weedy gravel lies,
Rough, and unsightly;—by the long, coarse grass
Of the once smooth, and vivid green, with sighs
To the deserted Rectory I pass;—
Stray through the darken'd chambers' naked bound,
Where childhood's earliest, liveliest bliss I found;
How chang'd, since erst, the lightsome walls beneath,
The social joys did their warm comforts breathe!

Ere yet I go, who may return no more,
That sacred pile, 'mid yonder shadowy trees,
Let me revisit!—Ancient, massy door,
Thou gratest hoarse!—my vital spirits freeze,
Passing the vacant pulpit, to the space
Where humble rails the decent altar grace,
And where my infant sister's ashes sleep,
Whose loss I left the childish sport to weep.

Now the low beams, with paper garlands hung,
In memory of some village youth, or maid,

Draw the soft tear, from thrill'd remembrance sprung,
How oft my childhood mark'd that tribute paid.
The gloves, suspended by the garland's side,
White as its snowy flowers, with ribbons tied;—
Dear Village, long these wreaths funereal spread,
Simple memorials of thy early dead!

But O! thou blank, and silent pulpit!—thou,
That with a Father's precepts, just, and bland,
Did'st win my ear, as reason's strength'ning glow
Show'd their full value, now thou seem'st to stand
Before my sad, suffus'd, and trembling gaze,
The dreariest relic of departed days.
Of eloquence paternal, nervous, clear,
Dim Apparition thou—and bitter is my tear!

This poem was written August 1788, on a journey through Derbyshire, to a music-meeting at Sheffield. The author's father was then Rector of Eyam, an extensive village, that runs along a mountainous terrace, in one of the highest parts of the Peak. She was born there, and there past the first seven years of her life, and often, in future periods of her youth and riper years, visited the place with her father, on several weeks residence. The middle part of the village is built on the edge of a deep dell, which has very picturesque and beautiful features.

From the peculiar nature of the clay on the mountains from which it descends, the river Derwent has a yellow tint, that well becomes the dark foliage on its banks, and the foam produced by a rocky channel.

The ancient custom of hanging a garland of white roses, made of writing paper, and a pair of white gloves, over the pew of the unmarried villagers, who die in the flower of their age, is observed to this day in the village of Eyam, and in most other villages and little towns in the Peak,