 | Poems |  |
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ON THE DEATH OF GILBERT WAKEFIELD.
MEDITATED IN A GARDEN, NEAR A CHURCH-YARD, AT THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.
Oh! rural walk! Thy stillness now how sweet,Thy stillness and thy gloom, as erst thy song,
Thy morning-smile, and flower!—from sickness now
I come, to count the sum of human life,
A sum how small! to muse its many ills,
Its frailties, follies, numerous; and I come,
To muse on death;—for Wakefield is no more.
And is he then no more? The man so full
Of schemes, of learn'd resolves, so prompt and quick
To execute, with temperance who had form'd
So close alliance, that, methought, he seem'd
Destin'd to live, the cool grey chronicler
Of years now passing, and of years to pass
Some thirty years to come;—the gen'rous friend,—
Is he no more? Farewell, then, world, awhile;—
And thou shalt be my cloister, rural shade.
No mountain scene is near, to lift the gaze
To gaudy prospects; no resplendent curl
Of falling cataract; no resounding noise
Of ocean, to inspire majestic thought,
Or language deep and strong; no poplar shade,
No myrtle grove, no softly-flowing stream,
With willow crown'd, to sooth a lover's breast.
Time is, such things shall please—sweet rural walk,
Thee now I seek: nor less, tho' church-yard near
Gives the memento, that life's cultur'd walk
Conducts but to the grave; and that I hear
The clock give notice, Time is on the wing,
And the full-tolling bell, that seems to say
“There fled from one the whole of passing time.”
Of schemes, of learn'd resolves, so prompt and quick
To execute, with temperance who had form'd
So close alliance, that, methought, he seem'd
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Of years now passing, and of years to pass
Some thirty years to come;—the gen'rous friend,—
Is he no more? Farewell, then, world, awhile;—
And thou shalt be my cloister, rural shade.
No mountain scene is near, to lift the gaze
To gaudy prospects; no resplendent curl
Of falling cataract; no resounding noise
Of ocean, to inspire majestic thought,
Or language deep and strong; no poplar shade,
No myrtle grove, no softly-flowing stream,
With willow crown'd, to sooth a lover's breast.
Time is, such things shall please—sweet rural walk,
Thee now I seek: nor less, tho' church-yard near
Gives the memento, that life's cultur'd walk
Conducts but to the grave; and that I hear
The clock give notice, Time is on the wing,
And the full-tolling bell, that seems to say
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Now closes Autumn—and, oh season calm!
Thou shalt instruct me,—thou to man canst act,
And well canst act, the moralizer's part;—
Thou art a page in nature's volume fair,
And wise thy lesson, and thy language plain,
And well-enforc'd, and strong;—thou art all truth.
Impressive monitor, I bend to thee
Submissive; to thy lesson grave and sage
Will be all eye, all ear;—for tho' I see
No blossom peeping on the smiling year;
Nor flow'r to greet me; nor the melting voice
Of nightingale, nor shining fruit t' allure
My taste; yet, closing Autumn, shall thy leaf
Yellow, and wrinkled, preach close to my heart.
Methinks, it says, ah! what art thou, O man?
A falling withering leaf—and such thy friend.
He had his Spring—his Summer—scarcely he saw
His Autumn—for as yet he had not pass'd
His glowing time of life; unless, perchance,
Our life is Autumn all; for in the midst
Of life we are in death, and while man seems
Smiling in years, falls like yon falling leaf.
Thou shalt instruct me,—thou to man canst act,
And well canst act, the moralizer's part;—
Thou art a page in nature's volume fair,
And wise thy lesson, and thy language plain,
And well-enforc'd, and strong;—thou art all truth.
Impressive monitor, I bend to thee
Submissive; to thy lesson grave and sage
Will be all eye, all ear;—for tho' I see
No blossom peeping on the smiling year;
Nor flow'r to greet me; nor the melting voice
Of nightingale, nor shining fruit t' allure
My taste; yet, closing Autumn, shall thy leaf
Yellow, and wrinkled, preach close to my heart.
Methinks, it says, ah! what art thou, O man?
A falling withering leaf—and such thy friend.
He had his Spring—his Summer—scarcely he saw
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His glowing time of life; unless, perchance,
Our life is Autumn all; for in the midst
Of life we are in death, and while man seems
Smiling in years, falls like yon falling leaf.
Oh! well do I remember, years ago,
That I did wander, tho' long train'd to thought,
Still too, too thoughtless, near thy stream, oh Cam!
There first I saw the friend that now I mourn.
For near thy stream, he, too, was wont to crop
The flowers of learning—I remember well—
Beneath his garb, the trappings of the schools,
I saw a form erect and slender, like
T' one early form'd to manliness of thought
And rigid duties: o'er his visage pale
Fair Science beam'd; and quick around his eye
A critic archness play'd, that would have seem'd
On sternness bent and querulousness, but that
A gentleness was there, that still appear'd
To check some frowardness, which while it oft
Obtruded its dislikes, yet did not seem
From the pure fountain of his heart to rise.
His gait was steady, firm; for much he seem'd
As he but walk'd, to gather in his mind
Thoughts, that had stray'd, or to digest with care
The feastings of his soul in bookish hours.
I knew him not; at least, I did not know
The friend;—I only knew of worth and wit,
The zeal of industry, the love of fame,
Of virtue, science, and they call'd them, Wakefield.
That I did wander, tho' long train'd to thought,
Still too, too thoughtless, near thy stream, oh Cam!
There first I saw the friend that now I mourn.
For near thy stream, he, too, was wont to crop
The flowers of learning—I remember well—
Beneath his garb, the trappings of the schools,
I saw a form erect and slender, like
T' one early form'd to manliness of thought
And rigid duties: o'er his visage pale
Fair Science beam'd; and quick around his eye
A critic archness play'd, that would have seem'd
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A gentleness was there, that still appear'd
To check some frowardness, which while it oft
Obtruded its dislikes, yet did not seem
From the pure fountain of his heart to rise.
His gait was steady, firm; for much he seem'd
As he but walk'd, to gather in his mind
Thoughts, that had stray'd, or to digest with care
The feastings of his soul in bookish hours.
I knew him not; at least, I did not know
The friend;—I only knew of worth and wit,
The zeal of industry, the love of fame,
Of virtue, science, and they call'd them, Wakefield.
This was his Spring of life, when hopes were gay,
And wishes blooming, not of honours high,
Or in the world, or in the churches mart,
But to secure the crown of well-earn'd praise,
Of genius, and of learning:—and he did
Obtain the well earn'd wreathe, which well was worn
Thro' life, and with advancing years still grew.
And wishes blooming, not of honours high,
Or in the world, or in the churches mart,
But to secure the crown of well-earn'd praise,
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Obtain the well earn'd wreathe, which well was worn
Thro' life, and with advancing years still grew.
But, in the Summer of his life I knew him,
And call'd him friend: for in our hearts did dwell
Some kindred likings and some kindred scorns:
The tyrant's state, the pontiff's pomp and pride,
The hireling's meanness; the debasing tricks
Of avarice; the sycophantic airs
Of danglers after wealth: ah! subjects fit
Of generous scorn: together we did hail
The star of Freedom, rising on a world
Of slavery-goaded men: we liv'd to see
France rise to something of the new-born man,
Snapping her fetters off, enlarg'd and free.
Oh! had he liv'd to hail this day of Peace,
It should have wak'd some ardent, generous thoughts,
Some rapturous feelings, some exulting notes,
And he had triumph'd in his prison-house.
His prison-house! He had no prison-house:
Worth, freedom, wisdom, still can walk at large,
Tho' bolts, and bars, and walls of adamant,
May intervene: the sun's æthereal beam,
The lightest breeze, the voice of wife, of child,
And friend, and, chiefest, conscience, light within,
Cheer the brave man retir'd; while mind upsoars
Thro' worlds on worlds, beyond the reach of fear.
And call'd him friend: for in our hearts did dwell
Some kindred likings and some kindred scorns:
The tyrant's state, the pontiff's pomp and pride,
The hireling's meanness; the debasing tricks
Of avarice; the sycophantic airs
Of danglers after wealth: ah! subjects fit
Of generous scorn: together we did hail
The star of Freedom, rising on a world
Of slavery-goaded men: we liv'd to see
France rise to something of the new-born man,
Snapping her fetters off, enlarg'd and free.
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It should have wak'd some ardent, generous thoughts,
Some rapturous feelings, some exulting notes,
And he had triumph'd in his prison-house.
His prison-house! He had no prison-house:
Worth, freedom, wisdom, still can walk at large,
Tho' bolts, and bars, and walls of adamant,
May intervene: the sun's æthereal beam,
The lightest breeze, the voice of wife, of child,
And friend, and, chiefest, conscience, light within,
Cheer the brave man retir'd; while mind upsoars
Thro' worlds on worlds, beyond the reach of fear.
But I have wander'd: let me then recount
The sum of life, and prosit by th' amount:
A little learning, and a little weakness;
A little pleasure, and enough of pain:
A little freedom, with its tale of slavery;
Passions and reasons struggle; where, tho' oft
Reason claims empire, passion governs still;
Believing much, yet doubting not a little;
Till sickness comes, and with it gloom of thought;—
When man, quite wearied with a world, perhaps,
Not moving to his mind, a foolish world,
Seeks inward stillness, and lies quiet down.
The sum of life, and prosit by th' amount:
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A little pleasure, and enough of pain:
A little freedom, with its tale of slavery;
Passions and reasons struggle; where, tho' oft
Reason claims empire, passion governs still;
Believing much, yet doubting not a little;
Till sickness comes, and with it gloom of thought;—
When man, quite wearied with a world, perhaps,
Not moving to his mind, a foolish world,
Seeks inward stillness, and lies quiet down.
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