Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

And thunder-peals roar'd long and loud,
And lightnings, with their lurid glare,
Lit up the crags abrupt and bare
Which pierced the sable veil of cloud.

And then did he discuss again
A point, in verse discuss'd before—
Whether the nightingale doth pour
A stormy or a tender strain.

Themes both, which might have wakened then
The poet soul,—yet nought he said
Which much beyond the thought betrayed
Of unimaginative men.

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Yet did his nervous words express
Wisdom combined with vigorous sense,
Nor lack'd that natural eloquence
Which is the voice of earnestness.

Utter'd by lips of common men,
Not common had they seem'd to be,—
Only they gave no sign that he
Was lord of an immortal pen.

And when that wish'd-for hour had flown,
Almost my fancy might lament
That now her glittering veil was rent,
And all it had enshrouded, known.

Beneath my roof again we met,—
My years had then attained their prime;
And he, though somewhat touch'd by time,
Was hale and energetic yet.

And he had left his mountain home
To gladden and refresh his age,
(So said he) by a pilgrimage
To those eternal hills of Rome.

His daughter, who her maiden name
Not yet had merged in that of wife,
The staff of his declining life,
The partner of his travel came.

With fervent, earnest words he spoke
Of public morals, of the laws
Which give the English labourer cause
To fret beneath the social yoke;

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Of principles, both good and pure,
Made false by legislative haste,
For female virtue, sore debased,
Attempting an empiric cure.

And then, as with the sudden growth
Of indignation, from his lip
Some hasty words were heard to slip,
Which sounded very like an oath.

Thence to his own peculiar sphere
He turn'd—the wide domain of song,
Pronouncing judgment clear and strong
By laws fastidiously severe.

No weak indulgence would he shew
To fancies marr'd by careless haste,—
Rank shoots of genius run to waste,
Whose healthier growths are sure and slow;

But urged that with elaborate toil
All shapings of poetic thought
Must be to ripe perfection brought,
Or wither in the richest soil.

In critic phrase I pleaded then
For noble thoughts and words sublime,
From verse of his in later time
Expunged with a remorseless pen;—

Marring, methought—as poets use,
Whose evening star of fancy wanes
While judgment domineers,—the strains
Which glorified his youthful muse.

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Thereto, in grave deliberate tone,
But bland withal, he made reply,
And spake of art severe and high,
And duties which he deem'd his own:

Of gifts not rashly to be marr'd,
Of work not lightly to be done,
Of power o'er human hearts, to none
Vouchsafed but the laborious bard.

Of what was to his country due,
Of what he had received from Heaven,
The task inspired, the talents given,
The meed which he must needs pursue.

He spake like one who feels the weight
Of genius to his lot assign'd,—
The burden of a mighty mind,—
The debt incurred by being great;

And while his voice sonorous roll'd,
We felt as though a prophet spake,
In words which drowsiest hearts might wake
And render feeblest spirits bold.

Once more we met—when years had fled,—
Beside the banks of Windermere;
He then was nigh his eightieth year,
But vigorous still of voice and tread.

Sorrow her perfect work had done
Less on his body than his mind;
On earth he now was left behind
When those who made it bright were gone.

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And (last and most lamented) she—
His dearest hope—his age's stay,—
His daughter too had past away
Ere death had set her father free;

For months had he despondent lain,
Stun'd by that overwhelming stroke,
Then lately from his trance awoke
To master and subdue his pain.

Yet with a courteous, cordial air
The aged poet met me still,
And welcomed me, with free good will,
To his sweet mountain dwelling there.

His life was then the life of one
Who after battle's long turmoil,
(The victory won, secured the spoil,)
Reposes when his work is done.

No longer vext by hopes or fears,
Or sense of duty unfulfill'd,
While fame, well won, began to gild
The sunset of his later years,

Serenely the old man survey'd,
As from a troubled ocean's shore,
The tempests which for him were o'er,
The tumult which the breakers made.

In calm and philosophic mood
He spake of past and present days,
And now with censure, now with praise,
The living and the dead review'd:

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But chiefly he his thoughts address'd
To themes of high religious strain;
Like one who from the care and pain
Of earthly life would be at rest.

Ere two years more o'er that grey head
Had flown, both care and pain were past,
And by his daughter's side at last
The poet slumber'd with the dead.