The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

Another weary day was past,—
Another night had come at last,
Its welcome calm diffusing;
Without a light, without a book,
I sat beside my chimney nook,
In painful silence musing.

The cricket chirped within the gloom,
The kitten gambolled round the room
In wild and wanton gladness;
While I, a thing of nobler birth,
A reasoning denizen of earth,
Gave up my soul to sadness.

My children were resigned to sleep,
My wife had turned aside to weep
In unavailing sorrow;
She mourned for one lost, lost for aye,—
Pined o'er the troubles of to-day,
And feared the coming morrow.

I turned the glance of memory back,
Along the rude and chequered track
Which manhood set before me;
Then forward as I cast my eye,
Seeing no gleam of comfort nigh,
Despairing dreams came o'er me:—

I thought of all my labours vain—
The watchful nights, the days of pain,
Which I had more than tasted;
Of all my false and foolish pride,
My humble talents misapplied,
And hours of leisure wasted:—

I thought how I had wandered far,
Allured by some malignant star,
In other lands a stranger!
How often I had gone unfed,
Without a home, without a bed,
And lain me down in danger.

Thus, after twenty years of life
Made up of wretchedness and strife,
Tired hope, and vain endeavour,
I smote my brow in bitter mood,
My mind a peopled solitude,
Remote from peace as ever.

“Hence!” I exclaimed, “ye dazzling dreams!
Nor tempt me with your idle themes,
Soft song, and tuneful story:
I'll break my harp, I'll burn my lays,
I'll sigh no more for empty praise,
And unsubstantial glory.

“Tis true, I've sat on Fancy's throne,
King of a region called my own,
In fairy worlds ideal;
But ah! the charms that Fancy wrought,
Were apt to make me set at nought
The tangible and real.

“I've loved, ‘not wisely, but too well,’
The mixed and soul-dissolving spell
Of poetry and passion:
I've suffered strangely for their sake,—
Henceforth I'll follow in the wake
Of feelings more in fashion.

“Farewell to Shakespeare's matchless name,
Farewell to Milton's hallowed fame,
And Goldsmith's milder measures;
Farewell to Byron's thrilling powers,
Farewell to Moore's resplendent flowers,
And Campbell's polished ‘Pleasures.’

“Farewell, sweet Poet of the Plough,
Who wandered with a thoughtful brow,
By Coila's hills and fountains;
Farewell to thee, too, Shepherd Bard,
Whose strain was wild, whose lot was hard,
On Ettrick's barren mountains.

“Farewell, young Keats, whose luscious lore
With beauty's sweet excess runs o'er,
And all that genius giveth;
Farewell to Shelley, with a sigh,
Whose strengthening fame can never die
While Truth or Freedom liveth.

“Farewell to all the needy throng,
Who waste their energies in song,
And bright illusions cherish:
Here I renounce the Muse divine,
Why should I worship at her shrine,
To please the world—and perish?”