Oliver Newman A New-England Tale (Unfinished): With Other Poetical Remains. By the late Robert Southey |
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| FRAGMENTARY THOUGHTS
OCCASIONED BY HIS SON'S DEATH.
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 | Oliver Newman |  |
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FRAGMENTARY THOUGHTS OCCASIONED BY HIS SON'S DEATH.
Thy life was a day, and sum it well, life is but a week of such days,—with how much storm, and cold, and darkness! Thine was a sweet spring holy-day,—a vernal Sabbath, all sunshine, hope, and promise.
and that nameIn sacred silence buried, which was still
At morn and eve the never-wearying theme
Of dear discourse.
playful thoughts
Turn'd now to gall and esel.
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Life's wholesome wormwood, fears no bitterness when
From th' hand of Death he drinks the Amreeta cup.
Beauties of Nature,—the passion of my youth,
Nursed up and ripen'd to a settled love,
Whereto my heart is wedded.
Feeling at Westminster, when summer evening sent a sadness to my heart, and I sate pining for green fields, and banks of flowers, and running streams,—or dreaming of Avon and her rocks and woods.
No more great attempts, only a few autumnal flowers, like second primroses, &c.
They who look for me in our Father's kingdomWill look for Him also; inseparably
Shall we be so remember'd.
The Grave the house of Hope:
It is the haven whither we are bound
On the rough sea of life, and thence she lands
In her own country, on the immortal shore.
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Pain and Infirmity—appointed guests,
My heart is ready.
My soul
Needed perhaps a longer discipline,
Or sorer penance, here.
A respite something like repose is gain'd
While I invoke them, and the troubled tide
Of feeling, for a while allay'd, obeys
A tranquillising influence, that might seem
By some benign intelligence dispensed,
Who lends an ear to man.
While I invoke them, and the troubled tide
Of feeling, for a while allay'd, obeys
A tranquillising influence, that might seem
By some benign intelligence dispensed,
Who lends an ear to man.
They are not, though,
Mere unrealities: rather, I ween,
The ancient Poets, in the graceful garb
Of fiction, have transmitted earliest truths,
Ill understood; adorning, as they deem'd,
With mythic tales things erringly received,
And mingling with primeval verities
Their own devices vain. For what to us
Scripture assures, by searching proof confirm'd,
And inward certainty of sober Faith,
Tradition unto them deliver'd down
Changed and corrupted in the course of time,
And haply also by delusive art
Of Evil Powers. —
Mere unrealities: rather, I ween,
The ancient Poets, in the graceful garb
Of fiction, have transmitted earliest truths,
Ill understood; adorning, as they deem'd,
With mythic tales things erringly received,
And mingling with primeval verities
Their own devices vain. For what to us
Scripture assures, by searching proof confirm'd,
And inward certainty of sober Faith,
Tradition unto them deliver'd down
Changed and corrupted in the course of time,
And haply also by delusive art
Of Evil Powers. —
| Oliver Newman | |