University of Virginia Library

Don, like a weltering worm, lies blue below,
And Wincobank, before me, rising green,
Calls from the south the silvery Rother slow,
And smiles on moors beyond, and meads between.
Unrivall'd landscape! Oh, it is a scene
That to remembrance brings the hope-bless'd days,
But not their hope! And at my feet, serene
And cold lies he, and deaf to mortal praise,
Who from this mount, erewhile, rejoiced to gaze;
Who in this temple, plain and unadorn'd,
Duly as Sabbath came, throughout the year,
The word of Him in Jewry heard and scorn'd,
In Jewry scourged and slain, rejoiced to hear;
While Age shed oft th' involuntary tear,
And younger voices sweetly join'd to sing
The warbled anthem, plaintive, soft, and clear,
Till soar'd the soul on pure devotion's wing,
And God look'd down, and angels, listening.
Daughters of Memory! shall the good man sleep
Unnoted, though immortal, in the grave,
While forms of angel-mockery seem to weep,
O'er tyrant vile, or viler willing slave?
The lying line shall prosperous villains crave
To bid their flatter'd baseness live again?
Shall verse from sure oblivion try to save
Each worthless name? and no unvenal pen
Write, “Here lies Nature's child, the best of men;”
The sire of that mourn'd youth, whose soul of fire
Cherish'd in mine a spark that else had died,
The love of Milton's song, and Ossian's lyre,
And Burns, to glory's noblest sons allied?
Cold o'er thy bosom shall the earthworm glide,
Where communed oft that low-laid youth with me;
And shall I hang my harp on Rother's side,
For ever mute and stringless there to be,
Teacher and Friend! without one strain to thee?
Teacher and Friend, who bad'st me syllable
Words cull'd from learning's page with weary eye!
Thy patience taught me zealously and well,
But could not teach, like thee, to live and die;
To envy nought beneath the ample sky;
To mourn no evil deed, no hour misspent;
And, like a living violet, silently
Return in sweets to heaven what goodness lent,
Then bend beneath the chastening shower content.
But thou no more, with eye refresh'd, shalt see
The long-watch'd seedling from the soil aspire,
Or bind the rose, or train the gadding pea;
No more shalt thou for victor flowers inquire,
Or proudly hear th' expected guest admire
Thy gemm'd auricula, a growing flame,
Or polyanthus, edged with golden wire,
The poor man's flower, that lifts to humble fame,
Till e'en in print appears his envied name.
Who now shall tend thy plants, thy priceless flowers,
Emblems of thee, but not more pure than thou?
The morn shall miss thee, and the dewy hours
Of eve deplore, as I deplore thee now;
And Spring shall pass her hand athwart her brow,
When not a gem of thine shall deck her hair,
Then shake in haste the dewdrop from the bough,
And to the spot where thou art laid repair;
“Where is my Druid?” Death shall answer—“There!”
How hopeless, happy Spirit, is the groan,
When God calls Guilt from all his joys away!
But heavenly-sweet is Music's saddest tone,
When o'er the lyre of Love Death's fingers stray;
Less sweet the sound, when winds of midnight play
On that wild harp which well thy skill could frame.
And when thy dust was mingled with the clay,
To weep o'er thee, Affection—Friendship, came,
And there was one who could not sob thy name!
Thou, guest of angels, hast of praise no need;
But I have need of thine and virtue's aid:
And taught by thee each deathless lay to read,
Shall I forget my teacher lowly laid?
Though every strain of mine, alas! must fade,
Like idle vapour on the barren sea,
Shall I forget the Christian undismay'd,
The meekest child of truth and purity?
I sing of Death; and shall I not of thee?
But unlike thee are Passion's sin-bound slaves,
That tinge my song with beauty's blasted bloom,
While to my saddest theme I call the waves
Of farthest seas, and homeless storms, that boom
O'er worlds of woods, a universe of gloom!
Swamps, dens, and caves, beneath one boundless pall,
Where serpents lurk, their passing prey to doom,
Lone horror shudders at the grim wolf's call,
And dwells barbarian Man, most savage he of all.