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II. PART II.
POEMS OF RIPER YEARS.
215
SONNET.
In gravest toils, at war with phantasy,Nine years, nine mortal years, have swiftly past,
Since my then youthful Muse unfolded last
Her curious treasures to the public eye.
Since then hath Fancy's rivulet been dry,
And on my brow her chaplet fading fast;
But now my ‘crescent boat’ erects her mast,
And braves once more the doubtful sea and sky.
Fair be her voyage, though she mounts no more
The gaudy streamers of her earlier days,
Nor, fraught with folly, scuds along the shore,
Her trade vain pleasure, and her fare vain praise;
But now, with steadier helm, and sail, and oar,
Her freight of calm and serious thought conveys.
216
EPITHALAMIUM.
Dec. 18, 1834.
INTRODUCTORY STANZAS.
1
I stand upon the verge of middle age,—My five-and-thirtieth year well nigh complete;
Half way already on Life's pilgrimage—
Here let me rest awhile my way-worn feet,
And cherish recollections, sad yet sweet,
Of the long distance I have travell'd o'er.—
The present and the past together meet
In my mind's eye;—the future lies before—
Vast, void, oh how unlike the dream-throng'd days of yore!
2
Vast, void, and dim and dark;—and yet thereinConfused and shadowy phantoms I descry
Of joy and grief, each struggling hard to win
Over the other final victory;
My future life the prize for which they vie
So keenly each with each; but to the past
When I revert my unforgetful eye,
Ah me! how that is throng'd from first to last,
With bright and beauteous shapes, though fading now full fast.
3
Childhood with all its joys—how long departed!Boyhood and youth fantastically bright,
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Through an ideal world of wild delight—
All these have fled, like visions of the night;
And lo! young wedlock's bright and cloudless morn,
Majestically rising, puts to flight
The last dim shades of lingering twilight born:—
Wedlock—whose sober bliss laughs Fancy's joys to scorn.
4
A few years pass, and lo! the scene is changed;Life's shifting pageant hath grown graver still;
The thoughts are dead which once so wildly ranged,
I climb no longer the fair Muse's hill,
Of fancies quaint no longer take my fill;
But graver duties all my care demand,
Whereto I strive to bend my wayward will,
And raise my pastoral voice and guiding hand
To urge Christ's fainting flock on to their native land.
5
And bright-eyed children gambol round my knees,And many a household care and joy is mine;
And in my path throng life's realities,
Which yet so brightly, to my thinking, shine,
That 'twere in me most idle to repine
For young imagination's baubles lost:
Safely at last, in peace and love divine,
My “crescent boat” is moor'd, no longer toss'd
By jarring winds, no more by adverse currents cross'd.
6
What more remains to rouse the power of song,And wake tired fancy from that charmed sleep
In which her eyelids have been closed so long?
What stronger magic o'er my chords shall sweep,
And once more bid them into music leap?
For the old spells have lost their power of moving;
My blood's young flow hath settled into deep
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My heart hath grown too calm for aught but sober loving.
7
What more remains?—Yes! one thing more, at least,Claims a last effort;—by yon friendly hearth
Young Love prepares to-day his bridal feast—
A feast where sadness doth contend with mirth;
So must it ever be with joys of earth:
But mirth and sadness both are lovely there;
For never in that house is there a dearth
Of Christian love,—love which 'tis mine to share,
Love rich in purer bliss than I have found elsewhere.
8
And therefore, though perchance my faded strainsShall more dishonour than adorn the theme,
Let me essay to break my spirit's chains,
And launch, once more, my bark upon the stream
Of pleasant vision and poetic dream;
Pourtraying, gentle friend, thy future life,
Tranquil and bright as I would have it seem
With household joys and happy feelings rife,
And thee, so dear a friend, the matron and the wife.
ODE.
I
The moon hath scarce gone down,And o'er our quiet town
The morning star is still his vigil keeping;
Night's silent reign hath ceased,
And slowly from the east
Day's wintry beams are o'er the twilight creeping;
Once more is life in house and field astir—
Sleeps yet our beauteous bride?—tread softly—wake not her.
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II
Awhile let her forget(Since love allows it yet)
The agitations of the coming hour;
The deep and solemn vows,
Which she, a virgin spouse,
Must speak, or ere in Hymen's chosen bower,
To his soft yoke resigning her wild will,
Of sweet connubial bliss she yet may take her fill.
III
Transition passing strange!A swift yet solemn change,
From maidenhood, serene and fancy-free,
To all the unquiet cares
Which envious Fate prepares
Even for those matrons who the happiest be.
Thy dream of virgin peace is well nigh gone;
Sleep while thou may'st, young bride, still sleep securely on.
IV
Sleep on; for thou to-dayMust take thy leave for aye
Of pleasures loved and hoarded since thy birth;
To thine own mother's door
Thou shalt return no more
In thine own right—a dweller by her hearth;
Of all its joys the undisputed Queen;
For these no more to thee can be what they have been.
V
The sympathies intenseOf childhood's innocence,
Thy maidenly affections, sweet and dear—
The love so deeply felt
For all who with thee dwelt
Beneath one roof, for many a pleasant year,—
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Merged in a deeper stream, half disappear to-day.
VI
Thy heart must now becomeThe calm and quiet home
Of stronger sympathies, and cares more high;
Nor ever must thou look,
Henceforth, on this world's book
With young imagination's glistening eye.
The page of vision must be closed for thee,
And all thy joys be those of dull reality.
VII
Where art thou in thy dreams?—Haply beside the streams,
Or wandering in the woods thy childhood loved;
In sunshine bright and clear
Most glorious doth appear
Each well-known haunt in which thy steps have roved;
And old familiar faces on thee smile,
And voices, loved long since, sound pleasantly the while.
VIII
E'en the beloved DeadHave left their earth-strewn bed,
To commune with thee in thy dreams to-night;
And each resplendent brow
Looks fondlier on thee now
Than ever in those days of past delight,
To which thy slumbering heart now wanders back,
A wild and wondrous way in memory's moon-lit track.
IX
Were it not well to beIn such sweet phantasy
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But soft!—what dreamy change,
Dim, and perplext, and strange,
Doth o'er the spirit of thy vision creep?
A sense obscure of transformation wrought
E'en in the deepest springs of feeling and of thought?
X
No more within thee playsThe life of early days,
With which, but now, thy vision was so bright;
O'er childhood's mental world
A curtain dark unfurl'd
Veils its departing glories from thy sight;
And thou art conscious of a woman's heart,
Within thy bosom form'd, complete in every part.
XI
And straight, throughout thy dream,New forms and faces gleam,
And other voices intermixt are heard;
At whose approaching sound
At once the depths profound
Of thought and will, of soul and sense are stirr'd:
And hopes and fears, and feelings vague and dim,
Through thy bewilder'd brain, in swift succession, swim.
XII
And other sounds draw near,And other shapes appear,
Commingled and confused:—arise, away,
'Tis time thou shouldst be gone;
Some power impels thee on
Whither thou know'st not—a mysterious way;
And lo! thou stand'st on consecrated ground,
Within a holy fane, with faces throng'd around.
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XIII
What voice salutes thine ear?Look up—thy parent dear
With wistful eye is o'er thy slumber bending;
The dreaded morn is come,
Which from the long loved home
Summons her child: already tears are blending
With smiles on either anxious sister's cheek;
Thy gentle brother droops with heart too full-to speak.
XIV
An hour, and all is o'er;Those cheeks are pale no more,
Those tears have ceased to flow: the word is spoken,
The holy rite complete,
And smiling faces greet
The husband and the wife with many a token
Of glad congratulation;—grief hath flown
For some few moments' space, which mirth asserts her own.
XV
Some moments—a brief hour,Ere for your nuptial bower
Ye two depart;—'tis gone, and we remain,
(I, and my tearful spouse)
In our deserted house,
Alone and pensive, between joy and pain,
Hope and dull fear, for what may us betide
From this day's deed, which yet Time's pregnant womb doth hide.
XVI
But thou—speed on thy way,And let thy heart be gay,
While hope and expectation yet are young;
By thy blest husband's side,
A bright and blooming bride,
Drink each fond word that trembles on his tongue;
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And learn—if still thou need'st—to love and yet be wise.
XVII
In sooth, it suits not thee,Love's sweet absurdity,—
Thou know'st not how to play the woman's part;
Too bright a creature thou,
With that thought-breathing brow,
That intellect intense and burning heart,
To play with Cupid as weak women play;—
Therefore I deem it well thy wooing ends to-day.
XVIII
For never didst thou wearA less majestic air,
Than when, descending from thy loftier mood,
Thou didst consent awhile
Love's fervour to beguile
As more beseem'd less stately womanhood.
Nor couldst to cheat those lingering hours refuse
In such fond, foolish sort as lovesick maidens use.
XIX
O grief! if love like thine,Which should be so divine,
So heavenly pure a feeling, so profound,
Had been profaned by aught
Of less exalted thought
Than may in woman's noblest heart be found.
The blind, the vulgar love be far from thee!
The love of impulse wild and feverish phantasy.
XX
Affection deep, but still,Calm forethought, temperate will,
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And dignity austere,
And self-respect severe—
In mates like these must love like thine rejoice,
From its pure presence putting far away
Whate'er our human heart's fond weakness doth betray.
XXI
Now, all such peril o'er—On Hymen's tranquil shore
Securely landed—with a frown dismiss
Cupid's fantastic train,—
Be all thyself again;
Yea, far more lovely, from the quiet bliss
Of satisfied affection newly born,
To tame thy virgin pride, and soften thy wild scorn.
XXII
Keep well thy wedded state,While in thy presence wait
All noble graces and all virtues high;
Calm prudence, wifely pride,
Love grave, and dignified
By mien sedate, and converse matronly.
Young bride, our neighbourhood demands of thee
Example bright of what a Christian wife should be.
XXIII
For thou wast nurtured well,Where pious hearts did dwell
In principle severe and faith sublime;
Love, purer than of earth,
Watch'd o'er thee from thy birth,
And taught and train'd thee e'en to maiden prime.
A high and saintly walk must needs be thine,
To realize the hopes which fondly round thee twine.
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XXIV
Thou wilt not put to shame,Nor let dull scoffers blame
Thy Christian nurture;—in the face of Heaven
Take freely on thee now
A Christian matron's vow;
Let thy pure heart, while yet 'tis young, be given
To the high task which straight before thee lies,
And from thy bridal bower look upward to the skies.
XXV
Forget not that in theeRedemption's mystery
Is dimly shadow'd forth and imaged now;
Type of that heavenly Bride
Who, at the Saviour's side,
Betroth'd to Him with many a solemn vow,
At the last day shall come in glory down,
To share his throne of love and amaranthine crown.
XXVI
But hush!—for all too longMy weak and tedious song
Hath been discoursed to thy unlistening ear:
Long since, perchance, 'twas time
To check this wayward rhyme,
And leave thee free to other cares more dear.
In sooth, it is not well to waste to-day,
The gravest of thy life, in rhyme and roundelay.
XXVII
The day is gone at last;—Darkness is gathering fast
O'er the tired earth; all human hearts repose;
Even Love on Beauty's breast
Hath sigh'd himself to rest;
Here fitly may my song's last cadence close;
A feeble song, yet faithful and sincere,
Nor all unmeet, I trust, for hearts like thine to hear.
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OUR FIRST SORROW.
Sept. 1834.
My Margaret, thou hast often marvell'd why
Thy husband, famed for feats of poesy
In boyhood and hot youth, hath so forgot
His tuneful craft, and now discourseth not
The music he was wont; and thou dost blame
His sluggish humour, which no hope of fame
Nor (what should move him more) remorseful shame
For talents unimproved, or buried deep
In the dim caves of intellectual sleep,
Can rouse to due exertion. I confess
That thy most sweet, upbraiding earnestness
Hath ofttimes moved me to a fond regret
For powers long valued, and remember'd yet
With melancholy pleasure; yet full well
Thou know'st how grave the duties which compel
My mind to other tasks; how vast a weight
Of solemn vows and cares importunate
Lies on the minister of Christ:—should I
Forget the deep responsibility
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Unwatch'd, my sheep unfed, that I might hold
Communion with a wild and wanton muse,
Whose weak earth-fetter'd pinions would refuse
To bear me to those heights of sacred song,
Where Christian poets, far above the throng
Of this world, tune their harps?—should I forego
The studies I most need, the hours I owe
To patient self-inspection—the still thought,
The frequent prayer, through which alone is taught
Knowledge of things divine, to weave once more
The idle rhymes I used to weave of yore.
And win the worthless meed of this world's praise,
As then I won it, by more worthless lays,
Repented of when finish'd? Oh, not so;
Better my stream of verse should cease to flow
For ever, than flow thus: if I could sing
With Saint and Psalmist, tuning every string
Of my rapt harp to the Eternal's praise,
Yet not disgrace my theme, I then might raise
My willing song triumphantly; and now,
If I may keep my ministerial vow,
By interweaving with a record brief
Of our still recent and still poignant grief,
Such lessons as beseem it—such as win
The soul from earthly dreams pollute with sin
To serious thought,—my toil will not be vain,
And we shall find some solace for our pain
In dwelling on its cause, recording now
Things which late wrung the heart, and wrapt the brow
In no unblest, though melancholy gloom;—
So sit we here beside our infant's tomb,—
And while thy pencil shadows forth the spot
So lately known, but ne'er to be forgot
“While memory holds her seat,” my kindred art
Shall summon from their hiding place, the heart,
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And note them down for many a future year
Of hallow'd meditation.
'Tis sixteen years, almost my half of life,
Since I, a boy, retiring from the throng
Of boyish playmates, breathed my first sad song—
“My Brother's Grave.” Since then full many a change
Hath come upon my spirit—the free range
Of youthful thought—Hope's bright and beauteous prime,
The dreams and fancies of Life's golden time,
Have been and ceased to be; yet might I say
Which period of the days, now gone for aye,
Was richest in Earth's comforts, my fond heart
Would, without scruple, name the latter part,—
Our nine sweet years of wedlock: Time hath fled
So swiftly and so smoothly o'er my head
Since first I call'd thee wife—our days flow'd by
With such unmix'd and deep tranquillity,
That long our spirits seem'd to lack the rod
Which chastens and subdues each child of God.
And shall we murmur now that Death at last
Hath, Heaven-commission'd, o'er our threshold past,
And in our cup of long unmingled bliss
Infused one drop of bitterness? Shall this
Shake our once cheerful faith—at once destroy
That which we cherish'd, in our days of joy,
As undefiled religion? Nay, sweet love,
Confessing that this blow was from above,
Long needed, long suspended, soften'd now
By mercies great and many, let us bow
Beneath the Chastener's hand, and while our grief
Still vents itself in tears, or seeks relief
In these and such like tasks, let us confess
That God himself, in very faithfulness,
Hath caused us to be troubled; that 'tis good
To have been thus afflicted, thus subdued,
And wean'd in part from this world's vanities,
To that good world where now our treasure lies.
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Awhile on the events which late befell
Ourselves and our dear children, ere Death's blow
Swept one from our sweet circle. Thou dost know
With how much close and cogent argument,
Convinced at last, our purpose we forewent
Of visiting my parents, that some length
Of sojourn near the sea might bring thee strength
Long lost, and now much needed; so one day,
One glorious day of August, on our way
Seaward we fared, and from the wharfs of Thames,
Mix'd with grave cits, and smiling city dames,
Took ship for fair Herne Bay. Our children three,
New to such bustling scenes, with childish glee
And wonderment perplext, look'd on and laugh'd,
As through the close ranged lines of bristling craft,
Moor'd by those wharfs, we thridded our slow way—
A dense and multitudinous array
Of vessels of all nations, mast on mast;
While ever and anon some steam-boat pass'd,
Bound homeward with its freight of busy folk,
Returning to their city's din and smoke,
After brief holiday in idlesse spent
At Deptford or Gravesend:—still on we went,
With swift, unconscious motion, floating by
Full many a spot in England's history
Well known and honour'd; arsenal and fort,
Fraught with war's stores, fair pier and crowded port,
Well known to merchants; cupola and dome
Of hospital superb, the princely home
Of veteran Seamen, while some batter'd hulk
Rear'd, ever and anon, its giant bulk
Above our puny top-mast, long laid by,
Far from war's din and battle's kindling cry,
Far from the roar of hostile cannonade,
From shock of clashing armaments, and made
A shrine for worship consecrate to him
Who sits on high between the cherubim;
Now echoing to the voice of praise and prayer
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Its dissonant thunder; grateful change, I ween,
To Christian hearts; but soon this busy scene
Gave place to one more peaceful: we had past
The realm of commerce: hull and sail and mast
Had faded in the distance, and we went
Along the coast of Surrey and fair Kent,
Fringed with rich woods and many a smooth ascent
Of green and sunny slopes, where village spires,
And stately mansions of stout English squires,
And villas of rich cits, by turns appear'd,
In swift succession, till at last we near'd
The mouth of the broad Thames.
Throughout the day
Our younger children between sleep and play
Had been alternating; our eldest boy,
(Himself not five) found matter to employ
His thought precocious, with observant eye
Noting whate'er he saw, and curiously
Investigating all things. We meanwhile
With books or conversation did beguile
Our not too tedious voyage: thou wast gay
With the blithe thoughts that in thy bosom lay,
Anticipating health, and strength, and joy,
Less for thyself than for our infant boy,
Whose premature and grief-o'erclouded birth,
Follow'd by sickness, long had caused a dearth
Of perfect gladness by our quiet hearth.
And yet, that day, how passing blithe was he,
How full of the sweet freaks of infancy,
As to and fro he paced along the deck
Hand-led, with restless step; or round thy neck
Flinging his passionate arms, with sportive glee
Mimick'd the hiss of the resentful sea,
Cloven by our keel; or gazed, with wistful eyes,
And heart of wonder, on some new found prize,
Soon chang'd for other novelty;—that look
Or his, I well remember, quickly took
The notice of one shipmate, who to me
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“That child will be no common one.” Alas!
How strangely that prediction came to pass!
Why dwell upon our landing? why recall
The toils and disappointments, one and all,
Of our whole search for lodgings? in few days
All was arranged, and we were free to gaze
From our front windows on the open sea,
Which sometimes slept beneath them peacefully,
Sometimes, with wrathful and obstreperous roar,
Swept the loose shingles from our sloping shore,
And hurl'd them back in scorn:—before us lay
A mighty pier, bisecting the broad bay
With its huge length, and stretching far away
To where the waves grew fiercer—work sublime
Of Telford's genius, which shall outlive Time,
In Britain's grateful memory enshrined;—
On either side our lodging, and behind,
In most admired disorder, up and down
Straggled the new-built and still spreading town,
A chaos wide of embryo street and square,
And stately terrace, built for the sea-air
To visit with its health-restoring breath,
And chase, if that might be, disease and death
From drooping invalids. Along the beach,
Eastward and westward, far as eye could reach,
Piles of unfinish'd buildings did extend,
Commingled strangely far the twofold end
Of rest and dissipation; here was seen
The bathing-house remote, with trim machine
Dipping its awning in the waves, and here,
Mocking the face of sickness, did appear
Ball-room and billiard-room, and gay parade,
Villa marine, aquatic esplanade,
And sea-commanding cottage.
Small concern
Had we with the gay world: we came to Herne
For health, not revelry; so, in our calm
And shelter'd dwelling, we inhaled the balm
Of the fresh sea-breeze, or along the shore
Stray'd with our children, to whose ear the roar
Of breakers was a new and stirring sound,
Enjoying their glad wonder, when they found
Shells or sea-weed, or pebbles strangely form'd,
Or chased the tiny crabs, which crawl'd and swarm'd
From underneath the shingles; while the sea
Daily, we fondly hoped, on them and thee
Shed life and bracing freshness. As for me,
My time, thou know'st, was short, so from the shore
Inland I turn'd my footsteps, to explore
(When first the heat permitted) those fair woods,
And pleasant dells, whose leafy solitudes
Stretch'd smilingly behind us. The first day,
I well remember, I had bent my way
With pencil in my hand, and serious book,
To seek some shady and sequester'd nook,
Where, unmolested, I might read at ease,
Or haply scribble some such lines as these,
As the whim took me. Such a nook I found
Hard by Herne Church, and stretch'd on the green ground,
O'erhung by clustering trees, spent some few hours
In study grave, beneath close sheltering bowers
Most meet for such employment; but what then
I noted most, and now recall again
Most fondly, was the loveliness which shone
In that old church, and church-yard still and lone.
A resting-place most fit it seem'd to be
For gentle dust, hung round by many a tree
Of deepest shade, and from intrusion free
Of foot or voice profane:—a holier gloom
Rests on it now—there stands our infant's tomb.
Had we with the gay world: we came to Herne
For health, not revelry; so, in our calm
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Of the fresh sea-breeze, or along the shore
Stray'd with our children, to whose ear the roar
Of breakers was a new and stirring sound,
Enjoying their glad wonder, when they found
Shells or sea-weed, or pebbles strangely form'd,
Or chased the tiny crabs, which crawl'd and swarm'd
From underneath the shingles; while the sea
Daily, we fondly hoped, on them and thee
Shed life and bracing freshness. As for me,
My time, thou know'st, was short, so from the shore
Inland I turn'd my footsteps, to explore
(When first the heat permitted) those fair woods,
And pleasant dells, whose leafy solitudes
Stretch'd smilingly behind us. The first day,
I well remember, I had bent my way
With pencil in my hand, and serious book,
To seek some shady and sequester'd nook,
Where, unmolested, I might read at ease,
Or haply scribble some such lines as these,
As the whim took me. Such a nook I found
Hard by Herne Church, and stretch'd on the green ground,
O'erhung by clustering trees, spent some few hours
In study grave, beneath close sheltering bowers
Most meet for such employment; but what then
I noted most, and now recall again
Most fondly, was the loveliness which shone
In that old church, and church-yard still and lone.
A resting-place most fit it seem'd to be
For gentle dust, hung round by many a tree
Of deepest shade, and from intrusion free
Of foot or voice profane:—a holier gloom
Rests on it now—there stands our infant's tomb.
So one brief week was spent; and now the day
Too soon arrived which summon'd me away
From thee and my sweet children. Off the coast
The steam-boat's smoke was rising, when the post
Brought thee a letter from thou know'st what friend,
Fraught with dark news, and eloquently penn'd
By grief's deep inspiration; as we walk'd
Toward the pier head, how earnestly we talk'd
Of her and of her sorrows, till the grief
Of our own parting seem'd to find relief
E'en from the deep and yearning sympathy
Which we both felt for her; and when the sea
Swept me away upon its swelling breast
From thee and my dear boy, (whose grief, exprest
By silent tears, which, with averted face,
He strove to smother in my close embrace,
Had touch'd me with a father's deepest love,)
The spirit of old days began to move
Within me, and almost before mine eye,
Fixt on the pier, saw nought but vacancy
Where late your forms had stood, the power of song
Was re-awaken'd, and sent forth ere long
Haply a worthless, yet a loving strain,
Which, I well know, for ever shall remain
To us and those whose sorrow found it vent,
A record dear, a deathless monument
Of deep and pure affection, which must be
'Twixt us and them to all eternity.
Nor was this all; for when once more I stood
Beneath my Father's roof, my tuneful mood,
Thus waken'd, cheer'd my spirit's solitude,
(For solitude, sweet love, invests each spot,
Tho' crowded with dear forms, where thou art not,)
And oft, as I retired from circle gay
Of smiling friends, I wove a cheerful lay,
Breathing affection tender, pure, and high,
To Her whose late-found friendship thou and I
Ne'er can repay, or value worthily.
Ah, me! how sweetly were two mornings spent,
When, rising with the lark, alone I went
Through vale and grove, o'er verdant slope and hill,
By the stream side, and freely took my fill
Of pleasant fancies, framing at my ease
Thoughts full of love and dear remembrances
Into epistolary rhyme; and when
Night with her shades enveloped us again,
And the last words of evening prayer were said,
And, one by one, each worn and weary head
Save mine had sunk to rest upon its bed,
How blithely did my solitary light
Fling its pale ray athwart the gloom of night,
While with glad heart I plied my busy pen,
And mused and wrote, and wrote and mused again.
Ah! little deem'd I, at that task of joy,
What deadly pangs had seized my infant boy,
What grievous woe awaited thee and me.
My task was finish'd, and triumphantly
Committed to the post;—but ere 'twas done,
I, though I knew it not, had lost a son!
Too soon arrived which summon'd me away
From thee and my sweet children. Off the coast
The steam-boat's smoke was rising, when the post
Brought thee a letter from thou know'st what friend,
Fraught with dark news, and eloquently penn'd
233
Toward the pier head, how earnestly we talk'd
Of her and of her sorrows, till the grief
Of our own parting seem'd to find relief
E'en from the deep and yearning sympathy
Which we both felt for her; and when the sea
Swept me away upon its swelling breast
From thee and my dear boy, (whose grief, exprest
By silent tears, which, with averted face,
He strove to smother in my close embrace,
Had touch'd me with a father's deepest love,)
The spirit of old days began to move
Within me, and almost before mine eye,
Fixt on the pier, saw nought but vacancy
Where late your forms had stood, the power of song
Was re-awaken'd, and sent forth ere long
Haply a worthless, yet a loving strain,
Which, I well know, for ever shall remain
To us and those whose sorrow found it vent,
A record dear, a deathless monument
Of deep and pure affection, which must be
'Twixt us and them to all eternity.
Nor was this all; for when once more I stood
Beneath my Father's roof, my tuneful mood,
Thus waken'd, cheer'd my spirit's solitude,
(For solitude, sweet love, invests each spot,
Tho' crowded with dear forms, where thou art not,)
And oft, as I retired from circle gay
Of smiling friends, I wove a cheerful lay,
Breathing affection tender, pure, and high,
To Her whose late-found friendship thou and I
Ne'er can repay, or value worthily.
Ah, me! how sweetly were two mornings spent,
When, rising with the lark, alone I went
Through vale and grove, o'er verdant slope and hill,
By the stream side, and freely took my fill
Of pleasant fancies, framing at my ease
Thoughts full of love and dear remembrances
Into epistolary rhyme; and when
234
And the last words of evening prayer were said,
And, one by one, each worn and weary head
Save mine had sunk to rest upon its bed,
How blithely did my solitary light
Fling its pale ray athwart the gloom of night,
While with glad heart I plied my busy pen,
And mused and wrote, and wrote and mused again.
Ah! little deem'd I, at that task of joy,
What deadly pangs had seized my infant boy,
What grievous woe awaited thee and me.
My task was finish'd, and triumphantly
Committed to the post;—but ere 'twas done,
I, though I knew it not, had lost a son!
That blow came sharp and sudden; when I sail'd,
The hue of gathering sickness scarce had paled
Our darling's cheek, and when upstairs I bent
My lingering steps, to kiss him ere I went,
Methought that there was something in his look,—
I knew not what,—that for a moment shook
My heart with vague forebodings, undefined,
And speedily dismiss'd;—my sanguine mind,
Prompt to anticipate the best, is slow
To harbour forethought of impending woe:
And when ere long a letter came from thee,
Which told me of thy past anxiety,
And danger now no more, my heart believed
That which it wish'd; and though at times I grieved
To think that sickness should invade the spot
Where thou still wert, and I, alas! was not,
I flung all fear aside, and thank'd our God
For thus withdrawing the uplifted rod.
Short was my triumph; the next post laid low
All my fair hopes, and plunged me deep in woe.
The hue of gathering sickness scarce had paled
Our darling's cheek, and when upstairs I bent
My lingering steps, to kiss him ere I went,
Methought that there was something in his look,—
I knew not what,—that for a moment shook
My heart with vague forebodings, undefined,
And speedily dismiss'd;—my sanguine mind,
Prompt to anticipate the best, is slow
To harbour forethought of impending woe:
And when ere long a letter came from thee,
Which told me of thy past anxiety,
And danger now no more, my heart believed
That which it wish'd; and though at times I grieved
To think that sickness should invade the spot
Where thou still wert, and I, alas! was not,
I flung all fear aside, and thank'd our God
For thus withdrawing the uplifted rod.
Short was my triumph; the next post laid low
All my fair hopes, and plunged me deep in woe.
How hadst thou fared thro' all that dreadful time,
While I, far off, inditing pleasant rhyme,
Dream'd of no ill, save what seem'd ill to me,—
To lack thy smiles and sweet society;
To think how many a thrilling look and word,
By me should be unseen, by me unheard,
From the sweet lips and pleasure-beaming eyes
Of our three darlings;—every morn to rise
Unsummon'd by their voices, or by thine,
All day, though circled by loved friends, to pine
For others dearer still, and then at night
To miss the pure and exquisite delight
Of their last kiss;—to dream of them, till day
Chased the last visions of the night away;
And the light, darting through my window pane,
Summon'd me forth to walk and dream again.
Grieved I at this? ah! slender grief I ween!
What had I felt had we together been?
Had each fierce pang, which pierced thee through and through,
Struck on my heart, and wrung my spirit too;
Each hope, each fear which shook that soul of thine
Thrill'd with the selfsame bitterness through mine;
Had I been doom'd to witness each dread pain
Which rack'd his guiltless heart and guileless brain,
To listen to his weak and wailing cry,
To watch his tearful and imploring eye,
Craving the boon thou couldst not but deny,
One little drop to slake that bitter thirst—
Had I seen this, I think my heart had burst.
Yea, when the hour of mortal pain was past,
And the exhausted spirit, ebbing fast,
Had ta'en the speculation from that eye
Once so lit up with infant brilliancy;
When the calm hush of that most dread repose
Spoke suffering past, and life about to close
Till, as he faintly drew his last weak breath,
Thou look'dst and look'dst, and scarcely knew'st 'twas death—
Had I seen this, which thou didst see alone,
I think e'en Reason would have left her throne:
And what thy gentle soul could scarce sustain,
Had crush'd my sterner heart, and overwhelm'd my brain.
While I, far off, inditing pleasant rhyme,
Dream'd of no ill, save what seem'd ill to me,—
To lack thy smiles and sweet society;
To think how many a thrilling look and word,
235
From the sweet lips and pleasure-beaming eyes
Of our three darlings;—every morn to rise
Unsummon'd by their voices, or by thine,
All day, though circled by loved friends, to pine
For others dearer still, and then at night
To miss the pure and exquisite delight
Of their last kiss;—to dream of them, till day
Chased the last visions of the night away;
And the light, darting through my window pane,
Summon'd me forth to walk and dream again.
Grieved I at this? ah! slender grief I ween!
What had I felt had we together been?
Had each fierce pang, which pierced thee through and through,
Struck on my heart, and wrung my spirit too;
Each hope, each fear which shook that soul of thine
Thrill'd with the selfsame bitterness through mine;
Had I been doom'd to witness each dread pain
Which rack'd his guiltless heart and guileless brain,
To listen to his weak and wailing cry,
To watch his tearful and imploring eye,
Craving the boon thou couldst not but deny,
One little drop to slake that bitter thirst—
Had I seen this, I think my heart had burst.
Yea, when the hour of mortal pain was past,
And the exhausted spirit, ebbing fast,
Had ta'en the speculation from that eye
Once so lit up with infant brilliancy;
When the calm hush of that most dread repose
Spoke suffering past, and life about to close
Till, as he faintly drew his last weak breath,
Thou look'dst and look'dst, and scarcely knew'st 'twas death—
Had I seen this, which thou didst see alone,
I think e'en Reason would have left her throne:
And what thy gentle soul could scarce sustain,
Had crush'd my sterner heart, and overwhelm'd my brain.
Why was I spared? with what unknown intent?
Reserved, perhaps, for sharper punishment;
And oh! more needed, more deserved than thine:
For, throughout this, a Providence divine
Seems to have turn'd grief's sharpest darts from me,
To fix them still more stingingly in thee.
Thine was the struggle, while thy husband slept;
'Twas thy heart bled, thy gentle eyes that wept,
While death and life contended—he meanwhile,
Divided from thy side by many a mile,
Knew nothing of thy pangs, nor could assuage
By speech or look thy sorrow's wildest rage,
Nor e'en partake it with thee:—thou wast fain
To bear alone that grievous load of pain,
Unsoothed, unaided, by a husband's love,
But seeking thy best solace from above,
Kissing the rod which smote thee:—but for me
The bitter shock was soften'd graciously,
Not only by the space which lay between
Me and the terrors of that fearful scene,
But by a train of circumstances, slight
Themselves, yet used by mercy infinite
To break and mitigate the first dead blow
Which else had well nigh crush'd me with a woe
Too grievous to be borne:—my sterner heart
Had been prepared and disciplined in part,
For that which was to come, by what was past:
The news of that first danger made the last
And mortal stroke, though unexpected, still
A less undream'd of, unimagined ill
Than it had been till then; the sudden call
To swift and public travel; most of all,
The last few days' employment, which had wrought
A world within me of Elysian thought—
The sense of comfort minister'd by me
So recently to others, and to be
Repaid, as I well knew, with usury,—
The very thought of thee in thy deep grief
Pining for me, and for that poor relief
Which I alone of earthly friends could bring,—
Even this contributed to dull the sting
Of my own sorrow; yet, when morning broke
O'er Canterbury's towers, and I awoke
From the light slumber which had come to close
My travel-wearied eyes in brief repose,
When, hastening onward, I discern'd the bay
With all its shore-built dwellings, through the grey
Of twilight, and remember'd that there lay
My infant's corpse; ah me, how dull a weight
Press'd on my heart, how blank and desolate
The world seem'd then to me! Why rack again
Thy soul and mine, by dwelling on the pain
Of our sad meeting? Why record the sighs
Which heaved our breasts, the tears which from our eyes
Gush'd, as we stood in silence side by side
In that sad room in which our darling died,
And view'd him in his coffin? why recall
The pang of parting with the little all
Still left us of his beauty, when the day
Of burial came, and on our mournful way
We wended to the church-yard, wherein I
Had mark'd before the spot where he should lie,
My last sad office of parental care,
The fairest spot where all was passing fair;
A pleasant nook at the extremest end,
O'er which two stately sycamores extend
Their interlacing branches, and the ground,
Still without graves for some small space around,
Seem'd by strange chance to have been kept apart
For our sweet babe, that each paternal heart
Might have, when grief's first bitterness was gone,
One pleasant spot for thought to rest upon.
There, in the stillness of that sacred shade,
With many a tear the cherish'd dust we laid,
And turn'd us homeward; but still many a day
Our lingering steps trode and retrode the way
Which led us to his grave; and there didst thou,
With tear-suffused eyes and pale sad brow,
Sit by my side, and with thy pencil trace
Each feature of the loved though mournful place;
While, with no unblest ministry, did I
In thoughtful mood my task poetic ply,
Drawing sweet solace from the busy brain,
To ease the pressure of the heart's dull pain,
Which would not be dispell'd:—when I reflect
How long that gift, laid by in deep neglect,
Had slumber'd in my soul, and what relief
Was brought by its revival to our grief,
I scarce can think but that the recent woe
Felt by our friends, which caused the stream to flow
Once more within my heart, by Heaven was sent
In kindness to us two, with the intent
That powers call'd forth to soothe their deep distress
Should prove a solace to our bitterness.
For this we rest their debtors, but much more—
(Ah me, how much!) for that most blessed store
Of comfort which ere long their letters brought,
Breathing deep sympathy and Christian thought,
A treasure inexhaustible of love,
Not of this earth, but kindled from above;
Making us feel, in our extremest need,
That none but Christians can be friends indeed.
Reserved, perhaps, for sharper punishment;
And oh! more needed, more deserved than thine:
236
Seems to have turn'd grief's sharpest darts from me,
To fix them still more stingingly in thee.
Thine was the struggle, while thy husband slept;
'Twas thy heart bled, thy gentle eyes that wept,
While death and life contended—he meanwhile,
Divided from thy side by many a mile,
Knew nothing of thy pangs, nor could assuage
By speech or look thy sorrow's wildest rage,
Nor e'en partake it with thee:—thou wast fain
To bear alone that grievous load of pain,
Unsoothed, unaided, by a husband's love,
But seeking thy best solace from above,
Kissing the rod which smote thee:—but for me
The bitter shock was soften'd graciously,
Not only by the space which lay between
Me and the terrors of that fearful scene,
But by a train of circumstances, slight
Themselves, yet used by mercy infinite
To break and mitigate the first dead blow
Which else had well nigh crush'd me with a woe
Too grievous to be borne:—my sterner heart
Had been prepared and disciplined in part,
For that which was to come, by what was past:
The news of that first danger made the last
And mortal stroke, though unexpected, still
A less undream'd of, unimagined ill
Than it had been till then; the sudden call
To swift and public travel; most of all,
The last few days' employment, which had wrought
A world within me of Elysian thought—
The sense of comfort minister'd by me
So recently to others, and to be
Repaid, as I well knew, with usury,—
The very thought of thee in thy deep grief
Pining for me, and for that poor relief
Which I alone of earthly friends could bring,—
Even this contributed to dull the sting
Of my own sorrow; yet, when morning broke
237
From the light slumber which had come to close
My travel-wearied eyes in brief repose,
When, hastening onward, I discern'd the bay
With all its shore-built dwellings, through the grey
Of twilight, and remember'd that there lay
My infant's corpse; ah me, how dull a weight
Press'd on my heart, how blank and desolate
The world seem'd then to me! Why rack again
Thy soul and mine, by dwelling on the pain
Of our sad meeting? Why record the sighs
Which heaved our breasts, the tears which from our eyes
Gush'd, as we stood in silence side by side
In that sad room in which our darling died,
And view'd him in his coffin? why recall
The pang of parting with the little all
Still left us of his beauty, when the day
Of burial came, and on our mournful way
We wended to the church-yard, wherein I
Had mark'd before the spot where he should lie,
My last sad office of parental care,
The fairest spot where all was passing fair;
A pleasant nook at the extremest end,
O'er which two stately sycamores extend
Their interlacing branches, and the ground,
Still without graves for some small space around,
Seem'd by strange chance to have been kept apart
For our sweet babe, that each paternal heart
Might have, when grief's first bitterness was gone,
One pleasant spot for thought to rest upon.
There, in the stillness of that sacred shade,
With many a tear the cherish'd dust we laid,
And turn'd us homeward; but still many a day
Our lingering steps trode and retrode the way
Which led us to his grave; and there didst thou,
With tear-suffused eyes and pale sad brow,
Sit by my side, and with thy pencil trace
Each feature of the loved though mournful place;
While, with no unblest ministry, did I
238
Drawing sweet solace from the busy brain,
To ease the pressure of the heart's dull pain,
Which would not be dispell'd:—when I reflect
How long that gift, laid by in deep neglect,
Had slumber'd in my soul, and what relief
Was brought by its revival to our grief,
I scarce can think but that the recent woe
Felt by our friends, which caused the stream to flow
Once more within my heart, by Heaven was sent
In kindness to us two, with the intent
That powers call'd forth to soothe their deep distress
Should prove a solace to our bitterness.
For this we rest their debtors, but much more—
(Ah me, how much!) for that most blessed store
Of comfort which ere long their letters brought,
Breathing deep sympathy and Christian thought,
A treasure inexhaustible of love,
Not of this earth, but kindled from above;
Making us feel, in our extremest need,
That none but Christians can be friends indeed.
And now three mournful weeks were past and gone
Since death's drear visit, and a simple stone
Meanwhile had on our darling's grave been placed,
On which a simple epitaph was traced,
Writ by my hand—a record sad and brief
Of his past sweetness, of our present grief,
And the fond hope which ne'er will pass away,
Of blest re-union to endure for aye,
When death shall be no more. At length the day
Of our departure came, and we must say
Farewell, with lingering steps and tearful eyes,
To the sweet spot where our lost treasure lies.
With what heart-rending agony to thee
Thou well remember'st, and with grief, by me,
Felt, as I think, more from deep sympathy
With thy exceeding sorrow, than for aught
Suggested to myself of painful thought
By that leave-taking. It will doubtless seem
A paradox to many; yet I deem
That we of the wild heart and wandering brain
Are less accessible to joy or pain
From such associations—find the scene
Of joy long past, or sorrow which hath been,
Less pregnant with ideal bliss or woe
Than others do, whose feelings are more slow,
Whose fancies less intense. When we survey
The wrecks and reliques of the olden day—
Old battle-field, or camp, or ruin grey
Of abbey or of fortress, we feel less
Of its past pride, than of the loveliness
Which Time hath shed around it; others cast
Their mind's eye far more fondly on the past,
And muse so fixedly on days gone by,
That they impart a dread reality,
A present life, to things that were of old,
Peopling with phantoms what they now behold
In ruin and decay. So do not we;
Our light wing'd thoughts so easily can flee
From that which is to that which ought to be,
Glance with such swiftness from the scene that's nigh
Into the airiest realms of phantasy,
That if such scene should raise a transient pain
Within the heart, the ever ready brain,
Almost ere felt, disperses it again,
Filling its place with fancies sweet and strange,
Rapid and rich, and ever on the range.
'Tis this, and more than this, the poet's eye
So keen to seek, so ready to descry
All visible beauty, and the poet's breast
So eager to enjoy, so glad to rest,
In contemplation calm and deep delight,
Known but to him, on every lovely sight
Of nature, or of art, extracting thence
Whate'er it yields to gladden outward sense
Unmix'd and undisturb'd—'tis this that takes
The pressure from our hearts; 'tis this that makes
The interest, deep and keen, which others feel
In the mere scene of former woe and weal,
Known by themselves or others, less acute
In us than them. E'en now with careless foot
I traverse haunts where thou and I together
Roam'd hand in hand in youth's unclouded weather,
As love's sweet fancies led us; view the stream
On whose green banks we used to sit and dream
Of bliss to come, and pleasantly beguile
The lingering days of courtship; cross the stile
Where first our faith was plighted, and for life
Thou gavest thyself to me, my bride, my wife,
The mother of my children; pass each spot
Hallow'd by feelings ne'er to be forgot;
Yet, all the while, see little and feel less
Of aught except its present loveliness.
This is not so with thee; thy gentle heart
Dwells, I well know, most fondly on each part
Of all that cherish'd scene, and interweaves
E'en with the slightest whisper of its leaves,
The gush of its sweet waters, thoughts most dear
And recollections nursed for many a year,
And to be nursed for ever. So, when we
Together stood beneath one spreading tree
Of those which shade the grave, a heavier weight
Press'd on thy heart, and made it desolate,
Than mine then felt; O, not because my heart
Had then, or at this hour hath ceased to smart;
Still less because my faith, more strong than thine,
Soar'd higher from the grave to things divine:
'Twas simply that my nature is less prone
Than thine to see, in simple sod and stone,
That which lies hid beneath them; is less moved
By outward tokens of things lost and loved;
Grieves and rejoices, in its joy and grief,
Without excitement, and without relief,
From visible memorials, and is slow
To give admission to ideal woe.
So, knowing that mine eyes no more should see
My child on earth, it matter'd not to me
That I was soon to quit the burial place
Of him whom I should ne'er again embrace;
Whose infant voice no more should glad mine ear;
Whose infant kiss no more delight me here.
I felt the gift resumed by Him who gave:
The soul was gone, why linger at the grave?
But thou! Alas, what pain was thine to leave
That, and each spot where thou hadst loved to grieve;
How oft thy restless step and tearful eye
Roved thro' the room where thou hadst seen him die.
How oft, how fondly, thy sad looks survey'd
The bed wherein his cherish'd corpse was laid,
The chair which held his coffin; e'en the pall
Brought from his funeral—how thou loved'st them all!
And when the hour was come, when part we must
From the loved spot which held our darling's dust,
With what keen anguish wast thou torn away!
How, as our bark dash'd swiftly through the spray,
Didst thou still gaze on the receding bay,
As though thou leftest in that churchyard fair
The soul of him whose body sleepeth there!
Since death's drear visit, and a simple stone
Meanwhile had on our darling's grave been placed,
On which a simple epitaph was traced,
Writ by my hand—a record sad and brief
Of his past sweetness, of our present grief,
And the fond hope which ne'er will pass away,
Of blest re-union to endure for aye,
When death shall be no more. At length the day
Of our departure came, and we must say
Farewell, with lingering steps and tearful eyes,
To the sweet spot where our lost treasure lies.
With what heart-rending agony to thee
Thou well remember'st, and with grief, by me,
Felt, as I think, more from deep sympathy
With thy exceeding sorrow, than for aught
Suggested to myself of painful thought
By that leave-taking. It will doubtless seem
239
That we of the wild heart and wandering brain
Are less accessible to joy or pain
From such associations—find the scene
Of joy long past, or sorrow which hath been,
Less pregnant with ideal bliss or woe
Than others do, whose feelings are more slow,
Whose fancies less intense. When we survey
The wrecks and reliques of the olden day—
Old battle-field, or camp, or ruin grey
Of abbey or of fortress, we feel less
Of its past pride, than of the loveliness
Which Time hath shed around it; others cast
Their mind's eye far more fondly on the past,
And muse so fixedly on days gone by,
That they impart a dread reality,
A present life, to things that were of old,
Peopling with phantoms what they now behold
In ruin and decay. So do not we;
Our light wing'd thoughts so easily can flee
From that which is to that which ought to be,
Glance with such swiftness from the scene that's nigh
Into the airiest realms of phantasy,
That if such scene should raise a transient pain
Within the heart, the ever ready brain,
Almost ere felt, disperses it again,
Filling its place with fancies sweet and strange,
Rapid and rich, and ever on the range.
'Tis this, and more than this, the poet's eye
So keen to seek, so ready to descry
All visible beauty, and the poet's breast
So eager to enjoy, so glad to rest,
In contemplation calm and deep delight,
Known but to him, on every lovely sight
Of nature, or of art, extracting thence
Whate'er it yields to gladden outward sense
Unmix'd and undisturb'd—'tis this that takes
The pressure from our hearts; 'tis this that makes
The interest, deep and keen, which others feel
240
Known by themselves or others, less acute
In us than them. E'en now with careless foot
I traverse haunts where thou and I together
Roam'd hand in hand in youth's unclouded weather,
As love's sweet fancies led us; view the stream
On whose green banks we used to sit and dream
Of bliss to come, and pleasantly beguile
The lingering days of courtship; cross the stile
Where first our faith was plighted, and for life
Thou gavest thyself to me, my bride, my wife,
The mother of my children; pass each spot
Hallow'd by feelings ne'er to be forgot;
Yet, all the while, see little and feel less
Of aught except its present loveliness.
This is not so with thee; thy gentle heart
Dwells, I well know, most fondly on each part
Of all that cherish'd scene, and interweaves
E'en with the slightest whisper of its leaves,
The gush of its sweet waters, thoughts most dear
And recollections nursed for many a year,
And to be nursed for ever. So, when we
Together stood beneath one spreading tree
Of those which shade the grave, a heavier weight
Press'd on thy heart, and made it desolate,
Than mine then felt; O, not because my heart
Had then, or at this hour hath ceased to smart;
Still less because my faith, more strong than thine,
Soar'd higher from the grave to things divine:
'Twas simply that my nature is less prone
Than thine to see, in simple sod and stone,
That which lies hid beneath them; is less moved
By outward tokens of things lost and loved;
Grieves and rejoices, in its joy and grief,
Without excitement, and without relief,
From visible memorials, and is slow
To give admission to ideal woe.
So, knowing that mine eyes no more should see
My child on earth, it matter'd not to me
241
Of him whom I should ne'er again embrace;
Whose infant voice no more should glad mine ear;
Whose infant kiss no more delight me here.
I felt the gift resumed by Him who gave:
The soul was gone, why linger at the grave?
But thou! Alas, what pain was thine to leave
That, and each spot where thou hadst loved to grieve;
How oft thy restless step and tearful eye
Roved thro' the room where thou hadst seen him die.
How oft, how fondly, thy sad looks survey'd
The bed wherein his cherish'd corpse was laid,
The chair which held his coffin; e'en the pall
Brought from his funeral—how thou loved'st them all!
And when the hour was come, when part we must
From the loved spot which held our darling's dust,
With what keen anguish wast thou torn away!
How, as our bark dash'd swiftly through the spray,
Didst thou still gaze on the receding bay,
As though thou leftest in that churchyard fair
The soul of him whose body sleepeth there!
Our journey was soon ended; o'er our town
The sun was going, in his glory, down,
Bright and rejoicing in a cloudless sky,
As we, in melancholy thought, drew nigh
Our once glad dwelling:—at the well known gate
The coach stopp'd short, and oh, how desolate
Seem'd our sweet home!—how had its glory pass'd,
Its aspect faded since we saw it last!
Yet was it nothing alter'd; every tree
Was still as beauteous as it used to be,
And Autumn's mellow lustihood was shed,
In rich luxuriance, on each garden bed,
Then deck'd with many a bright and gorgeous flower,
While hops prolific, twining round the bower,
Into our hearts a fresh memorial sent
Of our late found, but ever cherish'd Kent.
Within doors all was, with assiduous care,
Garnish'd and swept, as if to meet us there
E'en with unusual welcome; every room
Still redolent of paint: and thus the gloom
Which wrapt our hearts, grew darker and more dense
From jarring contrast; the oppressive sense
Of that unfitness which we felt to be
Near aught that breathed of this world's gaiety.
Even this was bitter; but much more, alas!
The sad memorials of the bliss that was,
But is not, and henceforth shall be no more.
The chair, the crib, the silent nursery floor,
Now press'd no longer by his tiny tread;
His nurse's empty chair, and unmade bed;
Yea, e'en the absence of his wailing cry,
At midnight heard, when thou, with scarce closed eye
And wakeful ear, wast ever prompt to start
At the least sound which told thy anxious heart,
Or seem'd to tell it, that thy child slept not;
This within doors;—without, each turf-clad spot
On which he sat, or with his little hand
Grasping the outstretch'd finger, strove to stand
Or walk, secure from sudden trip or fall;
The hawk his infant accents loved to call;
The two tall elms shading that grassy mound,
Where, with his nurse, or us, on the green ground
He laugh'd and play'd so often; each of these,
And many more, waked sad remembrances,
And still must wake them: on thy desolate heart
At first they struck so sharply, that the smart
I think had overwhelm'd thee, but that she,
Our dear, dear friend, in tenderest sympathy,
Sent by strong impulse of confiding love,
Came, like a blessed angel from above,
With healing on its wings, to soothe and share
The sorrow, which in solitude to bear
Had been too grievous. When I saw thee press'd,
Beloved, with such fondness to that breast,
Which is the home of every gentle thought,
And every pure affection; when she sought,
Still intermingling with thy tears her own,
To shew us that we sorrow'd not alone,
(I might almost have said scarce more than she,)
Methought I could have blest our misery
For bringing us such love; for thus revealing
The stream profound of pure and tender feeling
Which flows from her heart into thine and mine;
The richest boon which Providence Divine,
Lavish of good, hath on us two bestow'd;
The sweetest solace of that weary road
On which we travel between life and death,
Faint and perplext, and often out of breath;
But ne'er, I trust, to falter or despair,
While she walks with us, or before us there.
The sun was going, in his glory, down,
Bright and rejoicing in a cloudless sky,
As we, in melancholy thought, drew nigh
Our once glad dwelling:—at the well known gate
The coach stopp'd short, and oh, how desolate
Seem'd our sweet home!—how had its glory pass'd,
Its aspect faded since we saw it last!
Yet was it nothing alter'd; every tree
Was still as beauteous as it used to be,
And Autumn's mellow lustihood was shed,
In rich luxuriance, on each garden bed,
Then deck'd with many a bright and gorgeous flower,
While hops prolific, twining round the bower,
Into our hearts a fresh memorial sent
Of our late found, but ever cherish'd Kent.
Within doors all was, with assiduous care,
Garnish'd and swept, as if to meet us there
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Still redolent of paint: and thus the gloom
Which wrapt our hearts, grew darker and more dense
From jarring contrast; the oppressive sense
Of that unfitness which we felt to be
Near aught that breathed of this world's gaiety.
Even this was bitter; but much more, alas!
The sad memorials of the bliss that was,
But is not, and henceforth shall be no more.
The chair, the crib, the silent nursery floor,
Now press'd no longer by his tiny tread;
His nurse's empty chair, and unmade bed;
Yea, e'en the absence of his wailing cry,
At midnight heard, when thou, with scarce closed eye
And wakeful ear, wast ever prompt to start
At the least sound which told thy anxious heart,
Or seem'd to tell it, that thy child slept not;
This within doors;—without, each turf-clad spot
On which he sat, or with his little hand
Grasping the outstretch'd finger, strove to stand
Or walk, secure from sudden trip or fall;
The hawk his infant accents loved to call;
The two tall elms shading that grassy mound,
Where, with his nurse, or us, on the green ground
He laugh'd and play'd so often; each of these,
And many more, waked sad remembrances,
And still must wake them: on thy desolate heart
At first they struck so sharply, that the smart
I think had overwhelm'd thee, but that she,
Our dear, dear friend, in tenderest sympathy,
Sent by strong impulse of confiding love,
Came, like a blessed angel from above,
With healing on its wings, to soothe and share
The sorrow, which in solitude to bear
Had been too grievous. When I saw thee press'd,
Beloved, with such fondness to that breast,
Which is the home of every gentle thought,
And every pure affection; when she sought,
Still intermingling with thy tears her own,
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(I might almost have said scarce more than she,)
Methought I could have blest our misery
For bringing us such love; for thus revealing
The stream profound of pure and tender feeling
Which flows from her heart into thine and mine;
The richest boon which Providence Divine,
Lavish of good, hath on us two bestow'd;
The sweetest solace of that weary road
On which we travel between life and death,
Faint and perplext, and often out of breath;
But ne'er, I trust, to falter or despair,
While she walks with us, or before us there.
A fortnight now hath past; we have resumed
Our wonted occupations, and entomb'd
(Though it lives yet) in memory's deepest cell
The sacred grief which we can never tell
To this cold world; to me 'tis strange, that thou
Canst hide beneath so calm and smooth a brow
The pangs which still thou feel'st; canst talk and smile
So lightly, though I know that all the while
Thy heart is wrung by recollections deep
And ever present thoughts, too sad to sleep:
That heart knows its own bitterness, which none
May intermeddle with, save haply one,
Thy partner, not thy peer, in this deep woe,
On whose fond breast thy tears in secret flow,
To whom thy secret soul is all made known,
And loved and prized as dearly as his own.
How beareth he his burden? O, sweet wife,
Methinks, since yon dark day, the face of life
Is strangely alter'd; all that then seem'd bright
Hath been enveloped in untimely night;
The spring of Hope is o'er, its freshness dead;
I feel as if ten mortal years had fled
In one month's space, and wonder that my head
Is still ungrizzled. Death's dread foot hath cross'd
Our threshold, and the charm at length seems lost
Which kept him thence; our house is now no more
The virgin fortress that it was before;
So unassail'd by sorrow, that even we
Almost supposed that so 'twould ever be;
Almost forgot (all was so calm within)
That we were mortals, born in mortal sin,
And needed sorrow (till then never sent)
Both for reproof and for admonishment.
For years our stream of life had glided thus;
The griefs, which pierced our neighbours, touch'd not us;
While fortune's storms raged round us long and loud,
Sunshine, unchequer'd by a single cloud,
Lay on our home and hearth: we seem'd exempt
From Nature's common lot, and scarcely dreamt
Of the approach of ills, which yet we knew,
As Adam's children, we were subject to.
And now, not only are we thus bereft
Of one bright hope, but over all that's left
Hangs an oppressive cloud of doubt and fear,
A sense of that uncertainty which here
Cleaves to whatever we possess or love,
Reminding us that nowhere but above
Our treasure may be housed. Shall we neglect
This lesson, or with godless hearts reject
The counsel which God sends us? Oh! not so,
Lest we store up a heavier weight of woe,
Bring down more grievous chastisement, and lose
The benefit of this, should we refuse
To grieve when smitten, or desist from grief,
When comforted, as we are, with relief,
Such as few mourners share: 'tis my belief,
And, well I know, thine also, that God spoke
Most audibly to both in this sad stroke,
Admonishing of much that was amiss
In our past season of unclouded bliss;
Of much indulgence to dim dreams of sense,
Love of this world, and grievous indolence
Of heart, and mind, and will. Is it not well,
That the vain world which led us to rebel
Should thus be darken'd? what we used to prize
Too fondly should be taken from our eyes?
Only, we trust, to be for both reserved
In that bright world from which our thoughts have swerved
Too often, but henceforth must swerve no more.
Then let us on, more blithely than before,
Whither our lost ones beckon us away,—
On to the regions of eternal day.
The night is now far spent, the day at hand,
E'en now the outlines of a happier land,
Seen dimly through the twilight, greet our eyes,
And seraph voices shout, “Awake, arise,
The time for sleep is past.” Why pause we here?
Our path before us lies, distinct and clear,
And haply from impediments more free
Than other paths of this world's travellers be.
For 'tis our blessed privilege, sweet love,
That we, while labouring for our rest above,
Guide other footsteps thither; that our task
Of daily duty, the chief cares that ask
Our thought, pertain to man's undying soul,
To teach, to cheer, to comfort, to control,
Reprove and guide the pilgrim who aspires
With our convictions, and with our desires,
To the same prize on which our hearts are set:
And though those hearts are not deliver'd yet
From this world's dull anxieties, yet now
Each should lift up, methinks, a loftier brow,
And look with a more fix'd and hopeful eye
To that fair world in which, beyond the sky,
Each hath a treasure of uncounted worth—
A treasure which once held us down to earth;
But now, made far more glorious, hath been given
By love divine to fix our hearts in Heaven.
Our wonted occupations, and entomb'd
(Though it lives yet) in memory's deepest cell
The sacred grief which we can never tell
To this cold world; to me 'tis strange, that thou
Canst hide beneath so calm and smooth a brow
The pangs which still thou feel'st; canst talk and smile
So lightly, though I know that all the while
Thy heart is wrung by recollections deep
And ever present thoughts, too sad to sleep:
That heart knows its own bitterness, which none
May intermeddle with, save haply one,
Thy partner, not thy peer, in this deep woe,
On whose fond breast thy tears in secret flow,
To whom thy secret soul is all made known,
And loved and prized as dearly as his own.
How beareth he his burden? O, sweet wife,
Methinks, since yon dark day, the face of life
Is strangely alter'd; all that then seem'd bright
Hath been enveloped in untimely night;
The spring of Hope is o'er, its freshness dead;
I feel as if ten mortal years had fled
In one month's space, and wonder that my head
Is still ungrizzled. Death's dread foot hath cross'd
Our threshold, and the charm at length seems lost
Which kept him thence; our house is now no more
244
So unassail'd by sorrow, that even we
Almost supposed that so 'twould ever be;
Almost forgot (all was so calm within)
That we were mortals, born in mortal sin,
And needed sorrow (till then never sent)
Both for reproof and for admonishment.
For years our stream of life had glided thus;
The griefs, which pierced our neighbours, touch'd not us;
While fortune's storms raged round us long and loud,
Sunshine, unchequer'd by a single cloud,
Lay on our home and hearth: we seem'd exempt
From Nature's common lot, and scarcely dreamt
Of the approach of ills, which yet we knew,
As Adam's children, we were subject to.
And now, not only are we thus bereft
Of one bright hope, but over all that's left
Hangs an oppressive cloud of doubt and fear,
A sense of that uncertainty which here
Cleaves to whatever we possess or love,
Reminding us that nowhere but above
Our treasure may be housed. Shall we neglect
This lesson, or with godless hearts reject
The counsel which God sends us? Oh! not so,
Lest we store up a heavier weight of woe,
Bring down more grievous chastisement, and lose
The benefit of this, should we refuse
To grieve when smitten, or desist from grief,
When comforted, as we are, with relief,
Such as few mourners share: 'tis my belief,
And, well I know, thine also, that God spoke
Most audibly to both in this sad stroke,
Admonishing of much that was amiss
In our past season of unclouded bliss;
Of much indulgence to dim dreams of sense,
Love of this world, and grievous indolence
Of heart, and mind, and will. Is it not well,
That the vain world which led us to rebel
Should thus be darken'd? what we used to prize
245
Only, we trust, to be for both reserved
In that bright world from which our thoughts have swerved
Too often, but henceforth must swerve no more.
Then let us on, more blithely than before,
Whither our lost ones beckon us away,—
On to the regions of eternal day.
The night is now far spent, the day at hand,
E'en now the outlines of a happier land,
Seen dimly through the twilight, greet our eyes,
And seraph voices shout, “Awake, arise,
The time for sleep is past.” Why pause we here?
Our path before us lies, distinct and clear,
And haply from impediments more free
Than other paths of this world's travellers be.
For 'tis our blessed privilege, sweet love,
That we, while labouring for our rest above,
Guide other footsteps thither; that our task
Of daily duty, the chief cares that ask
Our thought, pertain to man's undying soul,
To teach, to cheer, to comfort, to control,
Reprove and guide the pilgrim who aspires
With our convictions, and with our desires,
To the same prize on which our hearts are set:
And though those hearts are not deliver'd yet
From this world's dull anxieties, yet now
Each should lift up, methinks, a loftier brow,
And look with a more fix'd and hopeful eye
To that fair world in which, beyond the sky,
Each hath a treasure of uncounted worth—
A treasure which once held us down to earth;
But now, made far more glorious, hath been given
By love divine to fix our hearts in Heaven.
This poem is published rather in compliance with the wishes of friends, to whose opinion the author cannot but defer, than accordantly with the dictates of his own judgment. It was written (as the reader will perceive) under peculiar circumstances, at a time when the author little thought of again appearing before the public in his poetical capacity; and, as he feels no alterations which he could now make in it would so modify its general character as to render it much fitter for publication, he has thought it best to print it almost verbatim as it was originally composed.
246
THE THREE SONS.
I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould.
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,
That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years.
I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair,
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air:
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me,
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency:
But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind,
The food for grave enquiring speech he every where doth find.
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk;
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk.
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimicks all.
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext
With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next,
He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray,
And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say.
Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me,
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be:
And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow,
I dare not think what I should feel were I to lose him now.
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould.
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,
That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years.
I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair,
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air:
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me,
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency:
But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind,
The food for grave enquiring speech he every where doth find.
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk;
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk.
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimicks all.
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext
With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next,
He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray,
And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say.
Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me,
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be:
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I dare not think what I should feel were I to lose him now.
I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,
How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee:
I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen,
Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been;
But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling,
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.
When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street,
Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet.
A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone,
Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love:
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,
God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,
How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee:
I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen,
Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been;
But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling,
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.
When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street,
Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet.
A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone,
Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love:
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,
God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.
I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell.
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel,
Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal.
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,
But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh.
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,
And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things.
I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,)
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease;
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever,
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever.
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be,—
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery,—
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,—
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.
For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell.
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.
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Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal.
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,
But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh.
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,
And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things.
I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,)
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease;
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever,
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever.
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be,—
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery,—
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,—
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.
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EPITAPH
IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HERNE, KENT.
Sweet Babe, from griefs and dangers
Rest here for ever free;
We leave thy dust with strangers,
But oh, we leave not Thee.
Rest here for ever free;
We leave thy dust with strangers,
But oh, we leave not Thee.
Thy mortal sweetness, smitten
To scourge our souls for sin,
Is on our memory written,
And treasured deep therein;
To scourge our souls for sin,
Is on our memory written,
And treasured deep therein;
While that which is immortal
Fond Hope doth still retain,
And saith “At heaven's bright portal
Ye all shall meet again.”
Fond Hope doth still retain,
And saith “At heaven's bright portal
Ye all shall meet again.”
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SONNETS.
SONNET I.
'Twas my fond wish to greet our wedding day,My Margaret, with a strain of jocund rhyme,
Such as I used to weave, in youth's sweet prime,
From a strange store of fancies wild and gay,
And quaint conceits, which intermingled lay
With graver thoughts, and musings half sublime
In my brain's cells: all these the frosts of time
Have nipt ere yet my hair is tinged with grey.
Chide me not, Love, nor cherish vain regret
For gifts departed:—we can spare them well;
What tho' young Fancy's dreamy moon hath set,
And Passion's once wild waves no longer swell,
Love's sober daylight smiles upon us yet,
And Peace is ours, how pure no tongue can tell.
SONNET II.
If I may break my spirit's icy spell,And free once more the frost-bound stream of song,
To thee, beloved Wife, will first belong
The praise and the reward; for thou canst tell
Whose gentle efforts made my bosom swell
Once more with love of verse extinct so long;
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And pleasant bribes, from the deep silent cell
Of mental idlesse: the next place to thee
In this poor praise holds that dear friend by right,
Who sheds upon our path so rich a light
Of cheering love and tenderest sympathy.
High above both, my song's sole Lord, is He,
Its Origin and End—the Infinite.
SONNET III.
Dear friend, they tell me 'tis the happy day,(To me most happy) which beheld thy birth,
And, ere my name was written in the Earth,
Smiled on a rich and bountiful array
Of blessings, then provided, to allay
My future griefs, enhance my future mirth,
And in my future home, and round my hearth,
Cause pleasant gleams of light and love to play:
Therefore, dear friend, this day henceforth shall be
The holiest in my calendar of life,
Save two alone; the two which gave to me
First a betroth'd, and then a wedded wife,
Whom only love I more than I love thee;—
My dove of peace 'midst this world's toil and strife.
SONNET IV.
If I could doubt that, in another sphere,Brighter than this, and ne'er to pass away,
The renovated soul shall live for aye,
Methinks such doubts would quickly disappear,
Friend, in thy presence, whom we all revere;
For when thy cheerful aspect I survey,
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Yet feel they lack their truest object here,—
How should my heart endure the freezing thought
That all this depth of love exists in vain;
Doom'd ne'er to lavish its rich sweets again
On him long lost, and oh, how fondly sought!
But here to dwell, in widowhood's dull pain
A few brief years, then vanish into nought?
SONNET V.
No, this can never be: we needs must meet,(If my poor faith may to the end endure)
Where love shall be more perfect and more pure,
And love's enjoyments more serenely sweet,
Than here they can be. There thine eyes shall greet
With joy, which tears shall never more obscure,
Him whom, preserved in Memory's portraiture,
Thy heart yet treasures in its still retreat;
While we, to whom thy love hath been so dear,
(My mate beloved and I) at length set free
From all the sorrows of this nether sphere,
Shall feel a scarce less rapturous ecstasy,
Contemplating the perfect bliss, which ye
Enjoy, beyond the reach of change or fear.
SONNET VI.
When, from my desk in yonder crowded fane,Thy vacant pew my wandering eyes survey,
Seeking unconsciously the far away,
My heart shrinks back upon itself with pain
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I wish and wish that thou wast here to pray
Beside me, and so speed upon their way
(As oft thou hast) my flagging prayers again:
But when, our solemn act of worship o'er,
In pastoral guise the pulpit I ascend,
No longer then thy absence I deplore:
Nay, can almost rejoice, beloved friend,
That I need play the mountebank no more,
Presuming my dim light to thee to lend.
SONNET VII.
Yet didst thou tell me once that some chance word,From these unconscious lips at random sent,
Reproof and warning to thy spirit lent,
And dormant will to new exertion stirr'd:
And doubtless of such triumphs I have heard,
Achieved by ministry most impotent,
Which God, on purpose of rich grace intent,
To this world's strength and wisdom hath preferr'd.
But oh! beloved friend, if 'tis delight
To turn some unknown sinner from his way,
What joy should mine be, that my feeble might
Hath help'd thy faltering footsteps not to stray;
So adding, haply, to the crown of light,
Reserved for thee in Heaven, another ray!
SONNET VIII.
Our minds were form'd, by nature, far apart,And with few common sympathies endued:
Thine ardent and most active, and imbued
With thirst intense for truth, which thou, with heart
254
Sophistical, hast patiently pursued;
While I, in dreaming and fantastic mood,
Too indolent for such high goal to start,
Have wasted, in crude fancies, half my days.
Yet must we two be friends; if not for aught
Innate in both (which doubtless we shall find),
Yet for the love which thy true spirit sways
Toward two dear objects of my holiest thought,
With both our future prospects close entwined.
SONNET IX. TO THE REV. DR. ARNOLD.
Not for thy genius, though I deem it high,Thy clear and deep and comprehensive mind,
Thy vigorous thought, with healthful sense combined,
Thy language rich in simplest dignity;
Oh not for these, much honour'd friend, do I
Such food for fervent admiration find
In all thine efforts to persuade mankind
Of truth first dawning on thy mental eye;
But for thy fearless and ingenuous heart,
Thy love intense of virtue, thy pure aim
Knowledge and faith and wisdom to impart,
No matter at what loss of wealth and fame—
These are the spells which make my warm tears start,
And my heart burn with sympathetic flame.
SONNET X. TO THE SAME.
Sound teachers are there of religion pure,And unimpeach'd morality; grave men,
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And preach and publish doctrine safe and sure;
And many such, I ween, can ill endure
The eagle glance of thy far-piercing ken,
But almost deem thee from some Stygian den
Of monstrous error sprung,—obscene,—obscure.
Well! they may rail till they have rail'd their fill;
Only let me, by such sweet poison fed,
Drink from thy clear and ever flowing rill
Refreshment and support for heart and head;
Oft disagreeing, but extracting still
More food from stones of thine than such men's bread.
SONNET XI.
Mary, thou canst not boast thy sister's browCapacious, nor her proud and piercing eye,
Nor that calm look of conscious dignity,
Which makes us poets in her presence bow;
Yet scarce to me less beautiful art thou,
With thy dove's eyes, so modest, mild, and shy,
And that retiring, meek simplicity
Which wins pure hearts, they scarce know why or how;
Nor is thy voice less full of pleasant sound,
Thy words of pleasant meaning to my ear,
Albeit thy mind than hers is less profound,
Thy wit less bright. Sweet girl, for many a year,
No countenance more lovely have I found;
No gentler heart, no youthful friend more dear.
SONNET XII. TO WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
In youth and early manhood thou and IThro' this world's path walk'd blithely side by side,
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Both courting one coy mistress—Poesy.
Those days are over, and our paths now lie
Apart, dissever'd by a space as wide
As the blank realms which heaven and earth divide,
And widening day by day continually,
Each hath forsaken the sweet Muses' shrine
For cares more serious; thou for wordy strife,
And senatorial toils,—how unlike mine!
Who lead the country pastor's humble life,
Sweetening its cares with joys denied to thine,
Fair children and a loved and loving wife.
SONNET XIII.
So sang I, all unwitting of the prize,Which thou meanwhile hadst won, and wearest now,
The fairest garland that enwreathes thy brow,
Crown'd though it be for youth's rich phantasies
And manhood's virtues, by the good and wise,
With well-earn'd laurel. I have witness'd how
Thy whole heart honours the blest nuptial vow;
How well become thee this world's tenderest ties;
And gladlier now doth my mind's eye repose
On thy bright home,—thy breathing times of rest
From public turmoil,—on the love which glows
In the fond father's and the husband's breast,
Than on thy well-waged strifes with factious foes,
Or letter'd triumphs, e'en by them confest.
SONNET XIV. TO THE SAME.
In youth's impetuous days thy heart was warm,Thy tongue uncheck'd, thy spirit bold and high,
257
That friend and foe look'd on thee with alarm.
But since maturer years dispell'd the charm,
And wean'd thee from thy first idolatry,
With what foul gibes doth faction's spiteful fry,
Venting its rage, around thee shriek and swarm!
Recreant or renegade the mildest name
With which they greet thee; but thy heart meanwhile
Is pure beyond the reach of venal blame,
Free, firm, unstain'd by selfishness or guile,
Too noble for even party to defile:
If thou art faithless, let me be the same.
SONNET XV.
Nor beautiful art thou, nor proudly gracedWith fashion's vain accomplishments: thy mind
By artificial culture unrefined,
Not boasting pungent wit, or polish'd taste.
Yet seldom fondest parent hath embraced
A lovelier child; for never heart more kind,
With sweet and gentle courtesy combined,
Was so by affectation undebased:
Therefore, sweet girl, oft wearied with the blaze
Of intellectual womanhood, to thee
I turn for brief repose, and love to gaze
On thy most innocent simplicity;
With joy beholding, in thy winning ways,
How lovely goodness in itself may be.
SONNET XVI.
Said I thou wast not beautiful? in sooth,If that I did, shame blister my false tongue
For calumny most foul upon thee flung:
For what is beauty? Eye, cheek, hair, lip, tooth,
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And faultless symmetry? Such bards have sung,
And painters over such enamour'd hung,
And such have coxcombs praised with flatteries smooth;
But more than such doth heartfelt love demand,
And more than such, beloved girl, is thine:
Thought, sympathy, affection soft and bland,
Sense, feeling, goodness in thy sweet eyes shine:
Is not this beauty which all understand?
Which sways all hearts with power and grace divine?
SONNET XVII.
There are, whose pearl of price is richly setIn mountings choice of intellectual gold,
And polish'd high by graces manifold;
Some such have I in life's brief journey met,
Whom, once beheld, I never can forget;
But thou wast fashion'd in a coarser mould;
And nature, by religion uncontroll'd
For many a year, will needs be nature yet.
But though I deem thy soul's full beauty marr'd,
Its stature dwarf'd, by much infirmity,
I honour thy strong faith, still struggling hard
With sin and Satan for the mastery;
Nor deem I that Heaven's gates can e'er be barr'd
To one who pants and toils for it like thee.
SONNET XVIII. TO THE ANONYMOUS EDITOR OF COLERIDGE'S LETTERS AND CONVERSATIONS.
A gibbering ape that leads an elephant;A dwarf deform'd, the presence heralding
259
Caliban, deigning sage advice to grant
To mighty Prosper in some hour of want;
Sweet Bully Bottom, while the fairies sing,
Braying applause to their rich carolling,—
But feebly typify thy flippant cant,
Stupid defamer, who, for many a year,
With Earth's profoundest teacher wast at school;
And, notwithstanding, dost at last appear
A brainless, heartless, faithless, hopeless fool.
Come, take thy cap and bells and throne thee here,
Conspicuous on the Dunce's loftiest stool.
SONNET XIX.
Not anger, not contempt should be thy meed;Not scornful indignation; but most deep
And sorrowing pity; soul that canst not sleep
For inborn turbulence, but still dost feed
Passion insane, with vengeful word and deed;
And so from strife to strife for ever leap,
While strangers marvel, foes deride, friends weep,
And good men pray for thee, and kind hearts bleed;
Meanwhile, by headstrong and impetuous will,
Thou on thy blind and desperate course art driven,
And dost the air with wrath and discord fill,
At enmity with all, though oft forgiven;
Thus growing, here on earth, more restless still,
And more unfit for future rest in Heaven.
SONNET XX.
We stood beside the sick, and, as we thought,The dying pillow of our youngest child,
Whose spirit, yet by this world undefiled,
Seem'd ready to take wing; when there was brought
260
Strange feelings; for it spake with kindness mild
Of one to like bereavement reconciled
By a brief lesson which my pen had taught.
And therewith came a little simple book,
Telling a gentle tale of children twain,
Whom God of late to rest eternal took
From this world's sin and sorrow, care and pain;
Thankfully on those pages did we look,
And trust they spake not to our hearts in vain.
SONNET XXI.
So, lady, whom we honour, though unknown,For thy frank spirit and thy pious love
Toward him who died on earth and reigns above,
Thou hast our thanks for this thy kindness, shown
Most opportunely: nor will thanks alone
Thy recompense, I trust, hereafter prove;
Who to our troubles, like a mission'd dove,
Didst bear the bough of peace from Heaven's high throne.
More blessed 'tis to give than to receive;
And more than thou receivedst hast thou given;
For none can comfort, whose hearts ne'er were riven
With kindred anguish. Lady, I believe
Our earthly griefs will make us friends in Heaven.
SONNET XXII.
Friend most beloved, most honour'd, fare thee well;All joy go with thee to that home of Love;
Whence thou, at Friendship's call, didst late remove,
With pain and grief, and anxious fear to dwell.
Our gratitude for this we may not tell;
Nay, never, till we meet in realms above,
261
With which to thee our thankful bosoms swell.
But well I know, that in these painful hours,
The comfort and support, which thou hast brought,
Hath, in the depth of both our spirits, wrought
That which shall live when penal flame devours
Earth and its works; a chain of burning thought
Binding thy soul eternally to ours.
SONNET XXIII.
For patient ministrations, sweet and kind;For self-denying love, on our distress
Pouring its soft and soothing tenderness;
For the calm wisdom of thy Christian mind,
With deep experience of earth's griefs combined;
For comfort which no language can express;
For this, and how much more! thy name we bless,
And keep it in our heart of hearts enshrined.
But chiefly for those glimpses, pure and bright,
Of faith intense, and piety serene,
Wherewith thou charm'st our spiritual sight,
To worlds which fleshly eye hath never seen;
For that thy love, in sorrow's murkiest night,
The pole-star of our Faith and Hope hath been.
SONNET XXIV. TO MY INFANT CHILD.
In peril and deep fear, before thy day,My child, when hope had perish'd, thou wast born;
Yet wast thou lovely from thy natal morn,
And vigorous health in all thy limbs did play,
As if thou wouldst our every fear allay,
And laugh our fond anxieties to scorn.
262
By fell disease; but that too pass'd away,
Mocking hope's second death; and now again,
(Kind Heaven be praised) thy pulse with health beats strong,
And thou, untouch'd by any grief or pain,
Fillest our home with gladness all day long,
Singing, with all thy little might and main,
Thy inarticulate and infant song.
SONNET XXV. TO BAPTIST NOEL.
Noel, our paths, in academic days,Lay far apart, though by one Mother bred,
And with her noblest sons together fed
On food which healthiest intellects doth raise:
But thou, even then, didst walk in Wisdom's ways
With steadfast purpose; while my heart and head,
To loftier aims and aspirations dead,
Cared but to win a worthless crown of bays,
Which then, with childish fickleness, I cast
Even to the winds; now middle age is here,
And haply all my better days are past
With small improvement; while thou, year by year,
Art hiving glory, which for aye shall last,
When He, whose cross thou bearest, shall appear.
SONNET XXVI. TO THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.
Well won and glorious trophies have been thine,Macaulay, since we two “together stray'd”
(As young bards sing) “in Granta's tranquil shade;”
Now far divided by the ocean brine;
And thou, already a bright star, doth shine
Among our statesmen; yet fame hath not made
263
Nor is thy sympathy less warmly mine.
Therefore I trust that, in no distant time,
(Thy Oriental toils and duties o'er,)
Thou shalt revisit this our native clime,
Strengthen'd in soul through that bereavement sore,
For which, of late, my gift of plaintive rhyme
Such welcome solace on thy grief did pour.
SONNET XXVII. TO A LADY OF RANK.
Many there be, in these our factious days,Whose hate would unrelentingly lay low
Crown, coronet, and mitre, at a blow;
Scarce sparing even the poet's wreath of bays,
For that thereto they may not hope to raise
Their own dull brows:—with me it is not so,
Who rather would chivalric fealty owe
To rank and virtue which o'ertop my praise.
Oh, lady! 'tis a pleasant thought to me
That there exists on earth a higher sphere
Than that in which I am content to be;
Adorn'd by worth like thine, which all revere;
Whereto I yield, with lowly heart sincere,
Homage profound and reverent courtesy.
SONNET XXVIII.
Within two days, (if registers tell truth)I and the nineteenth century were born;
Nor let me lightly such memorial scorn
Of ripen'd manhood and departed youth.
Twin wayfarers are we, although, in sooth,
My pilgrimage will soonest reach the bourn
Whence, saith the adage, travellers ne'er return;
Calm be our final rest, our passage smooth.
264
Though haply the less busy; all his life
My fellow traveller hath been vext with war,
Fierce change, and dire convulsion, broils and strife.
Be my course govern'd by a milder star,
With Christian hopes and calm affections rife.
SONNET XXIX. TO THE REV. DR. CHALMERS.
Well hast thou reason'd, Chalmers, on the deepAnd awful mystery of redeeming love;
With argument profound intent to prove
How the Omniscient Mind doth ever keep
Protective watch on Heaven's empyreal steep,
O'er suns and systems through all space that move;
While yet its sleepless eyes minutely rove
Through lowliest dwellings in which mortals sleep.
Methinks, great Teacher, of that Mind thine own
Yields a faint emblem, who hast power to soar
On wing seraphic toward the Eternal Throne,
And Heaven and Hell's mysterious depths explore;
Yet on the meanest cot where poor men groan
Deignest thy wisdom's healing light to pour.
SONNET XXX. TO THE SAME.
Alas! for those, whose bigot zeal would fainCompress and crush, with Procrustean force,
All energies, all spirits, fine and coarse,
All tempers, feelings, habits, heart and brain,
Nation, race, climate, white and negro stain
Into one changeless and unbending course
265
Devoting Church and sect to Satan's chain.
Chalmers, we do not worship at one shrine,
Albeit, I trust, both children of one Sire;
Nor would I wish my altar to be thine,
Delighting most thy greatness to admire,
When on our alien Church its sunbeams shine
With warm effulgence of congenial fire.
SONNET XXXI. TO THE SAME.
If aught of pastoral labour, not unblest,Since youth's maturer prime I may have wrought;
If, from the pressure of unquiet thought,
My weary heart and brain have long had rest;
If, from my own emancipated breast,
To world-worn minds comfort hath e'er been brought;
Thanks be to thee, from whom my spirit sought
And found repose, by youthful doubts opprest.
Nor thou amidst thy triumphs, and the praise
Which well, from all the Churches, thou hast won,
Disdain the puny tribute of these lays:
For thou, they say, art Wisdom's meekest son,
And ever walkest humbly in her ways,
Giving God thanks for all that thou hast done.
SONNET XXXII. ON REVISITING LUDLOW CASTLE, JULY, 1836.
Three days had we been wedded, when we stoodWithin thy well known walls (my bride and I),
Majestic Ludlow; from a cloudless sky
Fell the rich moon-beams, in a silver flood,
266
Then my heart wander'd to the years gone by,
But Hope and Love to Memory made reply
That those to come look'd doubly bright and good.
Since then the eleventh year hath well nigh past,
And, with our children, here we stand again;
Again a thankful glance doth memory cast
On years of gladness, not unmixt with pain.
Meanwhile our hearts are changed and changing fast,
But thou, fair ruin, dost unchanged remain.
SONNET XXXIII.
To patient study and unwearied thought,And wise and watchful nurture of his powers,
Must the true poet consecrate his hours:
Thus, and thus only, may the crown be bought
Which his great brethren, all their lives, have sought;
For not to careless wreathers of chance flowers
Openeth the Muse her amaranthine bowers,
But to the Few, who worthily have fought
The toilsome fight, and won their way to fame.
With such as these I may not cast my lot,
With such as these I must not seek a name;
Content to please awhile and be forgot;
Winning from daily toil (which irks me not)
Rare and brief leisure these poor songs to frame.
SONNET XXXIV.
My sister, we have lived long years apart;Our mutual visits short and far between,
Like those of angels; yet we have not been
Divided, as I trust, in mind or heart.
Pale now and changed, though in thy prime thou art,
And, in the chasten'd sweetness of thy mien,
267
And patient under pain's life-wasting smart.
May God be with thee, and thy sojourn bless
Near Cheltenham's healing springs, that they may be
E'en as Bethesda's wondrous pool to thee,
Giving thee back lost health and loveliness;
While yet He purifies thy heart no less
By blest affliction's subtlest alchymy.
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TO HENRY ALFORD,
AUTHOR OF “THE SCHOOL OF THE HEART,” AND OTHER POEMS.
With no unmoved or irresponsive heart,
Have I, O Alford, listened to thy lay;
Thy pure and fervent lay of holy thoughts
And heavenward aspirations, tempered down
To apprehension of earth's grosser sense
By intermixture sweet of human love
And hymeneal fondness. Under heaven
My thought shapes not a happier lot than thine;
Who, in life's sunny summer, hand in hand
With the dear object of thy earliest love,
Walk'st through this world, at liberty to cull
Whate'er of bright and beautiful it yields
To thy keen instinct of poetic sense;
Therewith to feed the pure religious flame
Which burns upon the altar of thy heart,
And through the inner temple of thy being
Pours a continual gleam of living light,
Irradiating with splendour, not of earth,
Each well-proportioned and harmonious part
Of all its rich and graceful architecture.
Yea, blessed is thy lot, for thou enjoy'st
God's three divinest gifts,—love of Himself,
And love domestic, and the inward eye
Of the true poet; while, from earliest youth,
Thy soul hath been so disciplined, by use,
To wait on duty's call,—so taught to wield
Its inborn powers aright,—each natural sense
So exercised and strengthened to discern
The beautiful and good, and, when discern'd,
To mould them to God's service, that to thee
All things belong;—this world, and life and death;
All immaterial and material forms
Of glory and of loveliness;—'tis thine
To extract from all things seen, all things believed,
All things imagined, their essential sweetness,
As none but Christian poets, train'd like thee,
In sweet experience of earth's richest love,
Know to extract it.
Have I, O Alford, listened to thy lay;
Thy pure and fervent lay of holy thoughts
And heavenward aspirations, tempered down
To apprehension of earth's grosser sense
By intermixture sweet of human love
And hymeneal fondness. Under heaven
My thought shapes not a happier lot than thine;
Who, in life's sunny summer, hand in hand
With the dear object of thy earliest love,
Walk'st through this world, at liberty to cull
Whate'er of bright and beautiful it yields
To thy keen instinct of poetic sense;
Therewith to feed the pure religious flame
Which burns upon the altar of thy heart,
And through the inner temple of thy being
Pours a continual gleam of living light,
Irradiating with splendour, not of earth,
Each well-proportioned and harmonious part
Of all its rich and graceful architecture.
Yea, blessed is thy lot, for thou enjoy'st
God's three divinest gifts,—love of Himself,
269
Of the true poet; while, from earliest youth,
Thy soul hath been so disciplined, by use,
To wait on duty's call,—so taught to wield
Its inborn powers aright,—each natural sense
So exercised and strengthened to discern
The beautiful and good, and, when discern'd,
To mould them to God's service, that to thee
All things belong;—this world, and life and death;
All immaterial and material forms
Of glory and of loveliness;—'tis thine
To extract from all things seen, all things believed,
All things imagined, their essential sweetness,
As none but Christian poets, train'd like thee,
In sweet experience of earth's richest love,
Know to extract it.
Such, ten years ago,
Might seem to be my lot; for I was then
A youthful poet, even as thou art now;
And, like thee, newly join'd in holy bands
Of fond and fervent wedlock; like thee, too,
Had I then newly utter'd, in God's house,
The vows of an ambassador for Christ;
And, with no insincere or base intent,
(Albeit but ill prepared for such high task,
And little recking of its weightier cares
And dread responsibilities), assumed
The pastoral name and office. What forbade
But that, like thee, I too should then devote
My mind's expanded energies, my prime
And lustihood of thought, to heavenly song,
Hymning, in strains of such poor minstrelsy
As my less gifted spirit might send forth,
The truths thou hymn'st; and from my daily walk
Of ministerial duty, gathering food
For meditation calm, and serious thought,
Materials of no vain or aimless verse.
So had I, haply, ere my noon of life,
Won some poor niche amid the humbler shrines
Of Christian poets; and not only so,
But, e'en by the indulgence of sweet thought
And fond imagination, train'd my soul
For tasks of Christian duty; kept it clear
From this world's worst intrusions; tamed it down
More nearly to subjection to the Spirit;
And, while I breathed an atmosphere of peace
And holy joy, still drawn more nigh to heaven;
Meantime constructing, e'en from what supplied
My present comfort and my future hope,
A temple to God's glory.
Might seem to be my lot; for I was then
A youthful poet, even as thou art now;
And, like thee, newly join'd in holy bands
Of fond and fervent wedlock; like thee, too,
Had I then newly utter'd, in God's house,
The vows of an ambassador for Christ;
And, with no insincere or base intent,
(Albeit but ill prepared for such high task,
And little recking of its weightier cares
And dread responsibilities), assumed
The pastoral name and office. What forbade
But that, like thee, I too should then devote
My mind's expanded energies, my prime
And lustihood of thought, to heavenly song,
Hymning, in strains of such poor minstrelsy
As my less gifted spirit might send forth,
The truths thou hymn'st; and from my daily walk
Of ministerial duty, gathering food
For meditation calm, and serious thought,
Materials of no vain or aimless verse.
So had I, haply, ere my noon of life,
Won some poor niche amid the humbler shrines
270
But, e'en by the indulgence of sweet thought
And fond imagination, train'd my soul
For tasks of Christian duty; kept it clear
From this world's worst intrusions; tamed it down
More nearly to subjection to the Spirit;
And, while I breathed an atmosphere of peace
And holy joy, still drawn more nigh to heaven;
Meantime constructing, e'en from what supplied
My present comfort and my future hope,
A temple to God's glory.
Hopes like these,
If e'er such hopes were mine, have vanish'd long.
I must not think to have my name enroll'd
Among the names of those who gave to God
Their strength and fervour of poetic thought.
The days are gone, wherein I might have framed
Lays which, outlasting my own span of life,
Should, when my bones were dust, have warm'd the hearts
Of Christ's true servants: ne'er, in after years,
Shall my sweet babes associate with the thought
Of their lost parent the fair name of one
Bruited in good men's mouths for rich bequests
Left to the pious and reflective heart,
In tuneful records of his own calm thoughts
And meditative intercourse with heaven.
Nor sage, nor scholar, nor world-weary man,
Who seeks a respite from heart-stifling cares
In Poesy's domain, nor saint devout,
Yearning for pious sympathy, and fain
To vent the feelings of his own full heart
In the rich breathings of religious song,
Shall have recourse to me, or count my lays
Among the pure refreshments of his soul.
My songs will not be sung on winter nights
By cottage hearths, nor elevate the soul
Of sunburnt peasant or pale artizan,
Forgetting their six days of care and toil
In the calm gladness of the Sabbath eve,
And leading up their children's thoughts to Heaven
By grave and pious converse, interspersed
With psalms and hymns and spiritual songs,
Making the heart's rich melody to God.
My spirit must not mingle after death
With the free spirit of my native land;
Nor any tones, from these poor chords sent forth,
Linger upon her breezes, and be heard
Faintly, and yet with no discordant sound,
In her full chorus of religious song.
So I shall rest unhonour'd in my grave,
And unremember'd. Be it so. For this
Slight cause have I to grieve, if I may win
A better immortality; nor yet
Need I lament that all my better years
Have thus been lost to verse; since graver cares,
And pastoral labours, not, I trust, unblest,
And study of stern truth, according ill
With fond imagination's fervent dreams,
And daily intercourse with real grief,
Not to be soothed or solaced by the skill
Of vain and airy phantasy, have fill'd
The hours which else I might have dream'd away
On Helicon's green marge, in converse blest
With those celestial mistresses of song.
Not for these years I grieve, albeit defiled
With imperfections numberless, with much
Unfaithfulness of heart, and cold neglect
Of duties great and many, as I grieve
For that, the spring and seed-time of my life,
Wasted, alas, in academic shades,
Through blind self-love and indolence supine,
And rash misuse of all those better gifts
Wherewith my spirit was, or seem'd, endued;
While, all regardless of its youthful needs
And seasonable culture,—owning not
The obligation of a higher law
Than my own will,—I travell'd uncontroll'd
Through all the fields of song, as fancy led,
Or passionate caprice; from idle hearts
Winning vain praise, and solacing my own
With what was wasting all its better strength,
And leaving it unstored and unprepared
For future tasks of duty.
If e'er such hopes were mine, have vanish'd long.
I must not think to have my name enroll'd
Among the names of those who gave to God
Their strength and fervour of poetic thought.
The days are gone, wherein I might have framed
Lays which, outlasting my own span of life,
Should, when my bones were dust, have warm'd the hearts
Of Christ's true servants: ne'er, in after years,
Shall my sweet babes associate with the thought
Of their lost parent the fair name of one
Bruited in good men's mouths for rich bequests
Left to the pious and reflective heart,
In tuneful records of his own calm thoughts
And meditative intercourse with heaven.
Nor sage, nor scholar, nor world-weary man,
Who seeks a respite from heart-stifling cares
In Poesy's domain, nor saint devout,
Yearning for pious sympathy, and fain
To vent the feelings of his own full heart
In the rich breathings of religious song,
Shall have recourse to me, or count my lays
Among the pure refreshments of his soul.
My songs will not be sung on winter nights
By cottage hearths, nor elevate the soul
Of sunburnt peasant or pale artizan,
Forgetting their six days of care and toil
In the calm gladness of the Sabbath eve,
271
By grave and pious converse, interspersed
With psalms and hymns and spiritual songs,
Making the heart's rich melody to God.
My spirit must not mingle after death
With the free spirit of my native land;
Nor any tones, from these poor chords sent forth,
Linger upon her breezes, and be heard
Faintly, and yet with no discordant sound,
In her full chorus of religious song.
So I shall rest unhonour'd in my grave,
And unremember'd. Be it so. For this
Slight cause have I to grieve, if I may win
A better immortality; nor yet
Need I lament that all my better years
Have thus been lost to verse; since graver cares,
And pastoral labours, not, I trust, unblest,
And study of stern truth, according ill
With fond imagination's fervent dreams,
And daily intercourse with real grief,
Not to be soothed or solaced by the skill
Of vain and airy phantasy, have fill'd
The hours which else I might have dream'd away
On Helicon's green marge, in converse blest
With those celestial mistresses of song.
Not for these years I grieve, albeit defiled
With imperfections numberless, with much
Unfaithfulness of heart, and cold neglect
Of duties great and many, as I grieve
For that, the spring and seed-time of my life,
Wasted, alas, in academic shades,
Through blind self-love and indolence supine,
And rash misuse of all those better gifts
Wherewith my spirit was, or seem'd, endued;
While, all regardless of its youthful needs
And seasonable culture,—owning not
The obligation of a higher law
Than my own will,—I travell'd uncontroll'd
Through all the fields of song, as fancy led,
272
Winning vain praise, and solacing my own
With what was wasting all its better strength,
And leaving it unstored and unprepared
For future tasks of duty.
For all this,
I am content to be what now I am;
And deem such retribution meet and right:
Nor blame I any, save myself alone,
For aught that hath been done, or left undone,
Now or in earlier days; yet I rejoice
To think that now a brighter day hath risen
On Granta's reverend towers than I beheld;
(For so thy lays assure me);—that the free
And noble spirit of her sons hath burst
The trammels of that false philosophy
Which fetter'd, in my day, her strongest hearts
And most capacious intellects to low
And sensual contemplations, shutting out
From youth's perverted and polluted gaze
All spiritual glories,—God and Heaven;
All that exalts and purifies the will,
And teaches us to feel and know even here
Our everlasting destiny.
I am content to be what now I am;
And deem such retribution meet and right:
Nor blame I any, save myself alone,
For aught that hath been done, or left undone,
Now or in earlier days; yet I rejoice
To think that now a brighter day hath risen
On Granta's reverend towers than I beheld;
(For so thy lays assure me);—that the free
And noble spirit of her sons hath burst
The trammels of that false philosophy
Which fetter'd, in my day, her strongest hearts
And most capacious intellects to low
And sensual contemplations, shutting out
From youth's perverted and polluted gaze
All spiritual glories,—God and Heaven;
All that exalts and purifies the will,
And teaches us to feel and know even here
Our everlasting destiny.
Not long
Might such pollution dwell in fane so pure;
And years, I trust, have swept away all trace
Of mischief then wide spread; beneath those shades
A purer generation feeds its thought,
And trains its mental energies for deeds
Of great and Christian daring, undefiled
By base alloy of superstitious zeal
And bigot fury, such as, on the banks
Of Isis, darkens the meridian beams
Of piety and truth, and grossly mars
Their beauty with obscene companionship.
So may our Mother flourish while the name
Of England holds its proud pre-eminence
Among the nations: in her ancient halls,
And venerable cloisters, be our youth
Invigorated by salubrious draughts
Of free and fervent thought; and let the mind
Of our great country, like a mighty sea,
Be fed and freshen'd by perpetual streams
Of pure and virtuous wisdom, from those springs
Gushing unceasingly.
Might such pollution dwell in fane so pure;
And years, I trust, have swept away all trace
Of mischief then wide spread; beneath those shades
A purer generation feeds its thought,
And trains its mental energies for deeds
Of great and Christian daring, undefiled
By base alloy of superstitious zeal
And bigot fury, such as, on the banks
Of Isis, darkens the meridian beams
Of piety and truth, and grossly mars
Their beauty with obscene companionship.
So may our Mother flourish while the name
Of England holds its proud pre-eminence
Among the nations: in her ancient halls,
273
Invigorated by salubrious draughts
Of free and fervent thought; and let the mind
Of our great country, like a mighty sea,
Be fed and freshen'd by perpetual streams
Of pure and virtuous wisdom, from those springs
Gushing unceasingly.
But thou, meanwhile,
In youth, in hope, in faith, in genius strong,
Fulfil thy noble doom; attune thy song
To themes of glorious daring; feed thy mind
On contemplations pure and peaceable
Of heavenly truth and beauty; ever cheer'd
And strengthen'd for thy high and holy task,
By constant increase of domestic love,
And fireside joys and comforts, and the sweets,
Many and pure, with ministerial toil
Inseparably link'd, and rendering back
Into the labourer's bosom rich reward.
So doubt not that thy name shall find a niche
Among the names of Earth's illustrious sons;
Nor that, when earth itself shall be burnt up
With all its works, and, in the fervent heat,
Its elements dissolve and fade away,
Thou shalt receive the recompense of one
Who put his talent out to usury,
And render'd to his lord, when he return'd,
A great and glorious interest of souls
Won to his love; helping to accomplish here
The number of the elect, and lead them back
With songs of triumph to their home in Heaven.
In youth, in hope, in faith, in genius strong,
Fulfil thy noble doom; attune thy song
To themes of glorious daring; feed thy mind
On contemplations pure and peaceable
Of heavenly truth and beauty; ever cheer'd
And strengthen'd for thy high and holy task,
By constant increase of domestic love,
And fireside joys and comforts, and the sweets,
Many and pure, with ministerial toil
Inseparably link'd, and rendering back
Into the labourer's bosom rich reward.
So doubt not that thy name shall find a niche
Among the names of Earth's illustrious sons;
Nor that, when earth itself shall be burnt up
With all its works, and, in the fervent heat,
Its elements dissolve and fade away,
Thou shalt receive the recompense of one
Who put his talent out to usury,
And render'd to his lord, when he return'd,
A great and glorious interest of souls
Won to his love; helping to accomplish here
The number of the elect, and lead them back
With songs of triumph to their home in Heaven.
274
COME WITH US.
Come with us, and we will go
Where the Clyde's broad waters flow;
Where the cloud-capp'd mountains rise
To the dim north-western skies;
Where, through many a creek and bay,
Doth the salt sea find its way
Into those recesses deep
Where the mountain-shadows sleep,
And the dreary dark pine woods
Frown o'er watery solitudes,
Framing in those wilds, I ween,
Many a strange and witching scene,
Far to find, but fair to see,
For such folks as you and me.
Where the Clyde's broad waters flow;
Where the cloud-capp'd mountains rise
To the dim north-western skies;
Where, through many a creek and bay,
Doth the salt sea find its way
Into those recesses deep
Where the mountain-shadows sleep,
And the dreary dark pine woods
Frown o'er watery solitudes,
Framing in those wilds, I ween,
Many a strange and witching scene,
Far to find, but fair to see,
For such folks as you and me.
Come with us, and we will go
Where the peaks of Arran glow,
In the sunset bright and clear,
Through the sweet months of the year.
There the light of evening lies
Longer than in southern skies;
There the northern meteors glare
Through the murky midnight air;
Till, when morn returns once more,
Rock and mountains, sea and shore,
Glen and valley, lake and stream,
Bask in the refreshing beam,
With more gorgeous light and shade
Than midsummer ever made
In these fertile plains of ours;
There old Goatfel proudly towers
O'er his brother mountains wild,
In sublime confusion piled
Crag on crag, and peak on peak,
Where the eye in vain may seek
One green spot whereon to rest;
There the eagle builds her nest
In Glen Rosa's ebon rocks,
Rent, as seems, by earthquake shocks
Into many a chasm and cleft,
In such huge disorder left
That you might suppose, in sooth,
The old gossip's guess was truth—
That the sweepings here were hurl'd
Of the new-created world.
Where the peaks of Arran glow,
In the sunset bright and clear,
Through the sweet months of the year.
There the light of evening lies
Longer than in southern skies;
There the northern meteors glare
Through the murky midnight air;
Till, when morn returns once more,
Rock and mountains, sea and shore,
275
Bask in the refreshing beam,
With more gorgeous light and shade
Than midsummer ever made
In these fertile plains of ours;
There old Goatfel proudly towers
O'er his brother mountains wild,
In sublime confusion piled
Crag on crag, and peak on peak,
Where the eye in vain may seek
One green spot whereon to rest;
There the eagle builds her nest
In Glen Rosa's ebon rocks,
Rent, as seems, by earthquake shocks
Into many a chasm and cleft,
In such huge disorder left
That you might suppose, in sooth,
The old gossip's guess was truth—
That the sweepings here were hurl'd
Of the new-created world.
Come with us, and we'll repair
To the “bonny shire of Ayr;”
To the flowery banks and braes,
Where the Doon's clear current strays
Underneath the holms which lie
Where old Monkwood flouts the sky
With its honest hideousness;
Ne'er did uglier house, I guess,
E'en in Scottish region stand
Mistress of a fairer land;
Ne'er did mansion more uncouth
Shelter age and gladsome youth,
In more loving union met
Than we shall behold there yet;
Though grim death hath busy been,
And though oceans roll between
Us and some with whom we roved
Once amidst those woods beloved.
To the “bonny shire of Ayr;”
To the flowery banks and braes,
Where the Doon's clear current strays
Underneath the holms which lie
Where old Monkwood flouts the sky
With its honest hideousness;
Ne'er did uglier house, I guess,
E'en in Scottish region stand
Mistress of a fairer land;
Ne'er did mansion more uncouth
Shelter age and gladsome youth,
In more loving union met
Than we shall behold there yet;
Though grim death hath busy been,
And though oceans roll between
276
Once amidst those woods beloved.
Come with us; those woods should be
Dear to you as dear to me;
Though you ne'er, in childhood's hours,
Roam'd amidst their banks and bowers;
Though far other scenes than these
Haunt your young remembrances;
Yet, believe me, you shall soon
Love yon bright and brawling Doon,
And those hills and natural woods,
With their summer solitudes,
And the hearts that in them dwell,
And yon graceless house, as well
E'en as if you ne'er had known
Other haunts than these alone;
E'en as if yon clustering trees,
With your earliest sympathies,
In their robes of smiling green,
Still had intermingled been;
E'en as if yon river clear,
Murmuring to your infant ear,
First had, for your spirit, found
Entrance to the world of sound.
Six and twenty years had flown,
Ere by me those scenes were known;
Yet have they to me become
Sacred as my childhood's home;
Dear as though I ne'er had stray'd
From their sweet and sylvan shade.
There, in Love's delicious morn,
Ere our eldest child was born,
Ere youth's latest dream was fled,
Ere young Phantasy was dead,
Ere the Husband or the Wife
Felt the real pains of Life,
Ere Death's touch had harm'd us yet,
Roam'd I with my Margaret:
There, our gentle friends and true,
Gladly would we roam with you.
Dear to you as dear to me;
Though you ne'er, in childhood's hours,
Roam'd amidst their banks and bowers;
Though far other scenes than these
Haunt your young remembrances;
Yet, believe me, you shall soon
Love yon bright and brawling Doon,
And those hills and natural woods,
With their summer solitudes,
And the hearts that in them dwell,
And yon graceless house, as well
E'en as if you ne'er had known
Other haunts than these alone;
E'en as if yon clustering trees,
With your earliest sympathies,
In their robes of smiling green,
Still had intermingled been;
E'en as if yon river clear,
Murmuring to your infant ear,
First had, for your spirit, found
Entrance to the world of sound.
Six and twenty years had flown,
Ere by me those scenes were known;
Yet have they to me become
Sacred as my childhood's home;
Dear as though I ne'er had stray'd
From their sweet and sylvan shade.
There, in Love's delicious morn,
Ere our eldest child was born,
Ere youth's latest dream was fled,
Ere young Phantasy was dead,
Ere the Husband or the Wife
Felt the real pains of Life,
277
Roam'd I with my Margaret:
There, our gentle friends and true,
Gladly would we roam with you.
Come with us; our time is short
In those cherish'd haunts to sport.
All things mortal wax and wane,
Nor may we, even now, complain
That from us and ours, alas!
Must these pleasant places pass;
That for other eyes than ours
We have twined our favourite bowers;
That our own beloved Doon
Must for other ears too soon
Sing his blithe and jocund song
Those o'erhanging banks along;
And that stranger steps must roam
Through our old ancestral home;
Unfamiliar forms be seen
Where our loved and lost have been;
Unfamiliar spirits dwell
In the rooms we loved so well,
Homely though perchance they be
In their old simplicity.
So it is;—we find on earth
No continuing home or hearth;
Still through chance and change we roam,
Seeking better lands to come.
In those cherish'd haunts to sport.
All things mortal wax and wane,
Nor may we, even now, complain
That from us and ours, alas!
Must these pleasant places pass;
That for other eyes than ours
We have twined our favourite bowers;
That our own beloved Doon
Must for other ears too soon
Sing his blithe and jocund song
Those o'erhanging banks along;
And that stranger steps must roam
Through our old ancestral home;
Unfamiliar forms be seen
Where our loved and lost have been;
Unfamiliar spirits dwell
In the rooms we loved so well,
Homely though perchance they be
In their old simplicity.
So it is;—we find on earth
No continuing home or hearth;
Still through chance and change we roam,
Seeking better lands to come.
Come with us, and we will go
Where the streams of Zion flow
Through the city of our God,
Which no foot profane hath trod.
Change and sorrow come not there;
All is fix'd, as all is fair.
Earthly glories fade and fleet,
Nothing long on Earth is sweet;
Though our woods may still be green,
And sweet Doon may gush between,
Clear and sparkling as of old,
Yet no more may we behold
On his banks the forms that gave
Half their glory—for the grave
Hath already closed o'er some;
Others in their Eastern home,
Wander, nightly, in their dreams,
Through the woods and near the streams,
Which, when life is worn away,
And their temples strewn with grey,
And their hearts' best fervour o'er,
Haply they shall see once more;
See—by alien lords possest,
When our griefs are gone to rest.
Where the streams of Zion flow
Through the city of our God,
Which no foot profane hath trod.
Change and sorrow come not there;
All is fix'd, as all is fair.
278
Nothing long on Earth is sweet;
Though our woods may still be green,
And sweet Doon may gush between,
Clear and sparkling as of old,
Yet no more may we behold
On his banks the forms that gave
Half their glory—for the grave
Hath already closed o'er some;
Others in their Eastern home,
Wander, nightly, in their dreams,
Through the woods and near the streams,
Which, when life is worn away,
And their temples strewn with grey,
And their hearts' best fervour o'er,
Haply they shall see once more;
See—by alien lords possest,
When our griefs are gone to rest.
Come with us;—let Memory still
Feed and cherish, as she will,
Forms of beauty gone and past,
Pleasures too intense to last.
Meet support therein may be
For the heart's infirmity;
But for us a brighter home
Spreads its glories;—let us come
Whither Faith, and Hope, and Love,
Urge our laggard steps above:
Let us such high call obey,
Help each other on the way;
Through the narrow entrance press
Of the realm of righteousness;
Where, in joy's eternal river,
This world's griefs are lost for ever.
Feed and cherish, as she will,
Forms of beauty gone and past,
Pleasures too intense to last.
Meet support therein may be
For the heart's infirmity;
But for us a brighter home
Spreads its glories;—let us come
Whither Faith, and Hope, and Love,
Urge our laggard steps above:
Let us such high call obey,
Help each other on the way;
Through the narrow entrance press
Of the realm of righteousness;
Where, in joy's eternal river,
This world's griefs are lost for ever.
279
MIDSUMMER MUSINGS.
With slow and toilsome course, this summer noon
Have I, in pensive and fantastic mood,
Forsaking, for a time the converse bland
And fair urbanities, which suit so well
Yon English hearth and household, wound my way
Up to this green hill's topmost eminence;
Whence, with a quick and comprehensive glance,
Which fills the soul with beauty, the glad eye
Takes in a vast and richly-varied plain
Of England's own fertility, adorn'd,
At intervals, with old ancestral halls,
Trim farms and village spires, which crown the hills,
Or just out-top the dark and leafy woods,
O'er which the blue smoke, like a level sea,
Delights to linger; to the thoughtful heart
Conveying no inapt or empty type
Of that which still hath been, and still shall be,
Despite the vaunts of democratic hate,
And turbulent assaults of godless men,
Our country's strength and glory;—household love
And social union, strengthen'd, not dissolv'd,
By meet gradation of well-order'd ranks,
Each melting into each, and, by the warmth
Of undefiled religion's genial sun,
Matured and cherish'd. On the extremest verge
Of the remote horizon, wavy lines
Of hills, which might almost assume the style
And dignity of mountains, mark the site
Of my paternal home, whereto, so oft
As summer's fervour or midwinter's frost
Restored our liberty, from school return'd,
Once more I mingled with the noisy group
Of brothers and of sisters, who, since then,
Have parted,—all upon their several paths
Of destiny or duty, through the world
To fare as Heaven may guide them. One, alas!
Slumbers already, many a fathom deep,
Beneath the stormy and tumultuous swell
Of the “still vext Bermoothes.” One, cut off
In childhood's ripest bloom, my earliest song
In fitting strains bewail'd. A third, the heat
Of India's burning suns is withering fast,
Albeit in youth's maturest lustihood.
A fourth, who went from home with gallant port,
Wearing a soldier's frankness on his brow,
And, in his young heart, proudly cherishing
A soldier's noblest zeal, had found a home,
When last he wrote, near Afric's southern cape;
And there, in tranquil and inglorious ease,
Forsaking the plumed host and tented field
For peaceful tillage and the hunter's sport,
Was fashioning his idle sword and spear
To ploughshare and to pruning-hook, content
To learn war's trade no more, but to forego
Its present honours and its future hopes
For liberty and rest. In that old house,
Once echoing to the loud obstreperous mirth
Of ten wild boys and girls, now, in their age,
My parents dwell alone, from time to time
Gladden'd and cheer'd by visits few and brief
Of children and of grandchildren, whose sports
Haply recall the days of other years,
When we all dwelt about them, and diffuse
A gleam of pleasant light athwart the gloom
(If gloom indeed it be) which settles now
On all that large remainder of the year
Mark'd by our absence. Visits such as these
Should constitute, methinks, a last firm bond
Of sympathy between their souls and Earth,
And cherish still, even in their heart of hearts,
The light of earthly joy, sweetening the eve
Of this their mortal day, and with the hope
(Now brightening hour by hour) of fairer worlds,
And a more rich inheritance to come,
Connecting the remembrance of past bliss,
And sense of present comfort,—feeding thus
The incense of perpetual gratitude
Breathed from their hearts to Heaven;—nor let my own
Forget how large a debt of thankfulness
Is due to Him, who to His other gifts,
Unnumber'd and unmeasured, adds this too,—
That from my pastoral dwelling, by the banks
Of Avon, I can still, from year to year,
With the beloved co-partner of my joys
And soother of my sorrows, and with those
Dear babes who fill our happy home with smiles,
Revisit my paternal roof, and cheer
Their hearts, who gave me being, with the sound
Of children's voices, and make glad their hearth
With the blest sight of our full happiness.
Such be our task to-morrow; here to-day
We tarry with most kind, though late-found friends,
Whose venerable mansion at the foot
Of this fair hill, in all the state grotesque
Of England's olden architecture, lifts
Its chequer'd front, with timbers huge inlaid,
And fair white plaister; and with gables tall
Surmounted, from whose antique windows quaint
The eye looks through a stately avenue
Of elms, which have outlived the chance and change
Of centuries, into a verdant plain
With woods and waving corn-fields interspersed;—
Meet dwelling for a family most rich
In all that constitutes the genuine worth
Of our provincial gentry. In that house
A pleasant group of friends is gather'd now
In mirthful converse and communion bland
Of thought and feeling;—one most dear to me,
And many to each other scarce less dear;
Brothers and sisters,—some in youth's full prime,
And some in childhood's tenderest innocence,
Link'd firmly, each to each, by mutual ties
Of firm affection, and beneath the eye
Of one who wears upon her stately brow
The stamp and impress of true ladyhood,
And in her heart the wisdom and the love
Of English mothers, train'd with holiest care
To exercise of virtues such as thrive
And blossom best by England's own firesides,
And in the breath of her free atmosphere.
And one there is whom nature hath endow'd
With voice and soul of melody, than whom
The thrush and blackbird sing no richer strains,
Nor with more natural fervour gushing forth
From the heart's hidden founts;—and yet hath art
Fulfill'd in her its perfect work, nor oft
On the fastidious ear of critic fall
Notes warbled with more nice and finish'd skill
Than those which flow, unforced and uncontroll'd
From her melodious utterance. Dames there be,
By nature and fine art alike endued
With varied powers of song, potent to lull
The charmed sense, or raise the enraptured soul
To loftiest ecstasy, who yet dispel
Their strong enchantments by ill-timed caprice
And wayward affectation; marring still
Our pleasure, and the triumphs of their art,
By most preposterous vanity, which yields,
With feign'd reluctance, an ill-graced assent
To what it longs to grant, until desire,
Too long deferr'd, loses its poignancy,
And chill'd enjoyment sickens. Unlike these,
The maid of whom I speak unlocks, with free
And liberal grace, her floodgates of sweet sound,
And pours, at will, on our insatiate sense
Rich streams of never-dying melody;
Neither dissembling, with ill-acted show
Of modest self-disparagement, the worth
And richness of her gifts, nor on our choice
Obtruding them unask'd, but, with the pure
And simple kindness of a natural heart,
Imparting to our needs her special share
Of nature's dispensation,—breathing thus
An atmosphere around her of sweet mirth
And universal kindliness;—nor yet
Disdains she from the heights of sacred song,
Or the rich warblings of Italian art,
Into the lowliest regions to descend
Of homely music,—to the simple taste
Of childhood now attuning her sweet voice
In laugh-provoking ballads, and again
With some pathetic lay from Scottish land,
Which breathes the fervour of her own full heart,
Filling our eyes with tears.
Have I, in pensive and fantastic mood,
Forsaking, for a time the converse bland
And fair urbanities, which suit so well
Yon English hearth and household, wound my way
Up to this green hill's topmost eminence;
Whence, with a quick and comprehensive glance,
Which fills the soul with beauty, the glad eye
Takes in a vast and richly-varied plain
Of England's own fertility, adorn'd,
At intervals, with old ancestral halls,
Trim farms and village spires, which crown the hills,
Or just out-top the dark and leafy woods,
O'er which the blue smoke, like a level sea,
Delights to linger; to the thoughtful heart
Conveying no inapt or empty type
Of that which still hath been, and still shall be,
Despite the vaunts of democratic hate,
And turbulent assaults of godless men,
Our country's strength and glory;—household love
And social union, strengthen'd, not dissolv'd,
By meet gradation of well-order'd ranks,
Each melting into each, and, by the warmth
Of undefiled religion's genial sun,
Matured and cherish'd. On the extremest verge
Of the remote horizon, wavy lines
Of hills, which might almost assume the style
And dignity of mountains, mark the site
280
As summer's fervour or midwinter's frost
Restored our liberty, from school return'd,
Once more I mingled with the noisy group
Of brothers and of sisters, who, since then,
Have parted,—all upon their several paths
Of destiny or duty, through the world
To fare as Heaven may guide them. One, alas!
Slumbers already, many a fathom deep,
Beneath the stormy and tumultuous swell
Of the “still vext Bermoothes.” One, cut off
In childhood's ripest bloom, my earliest song
In fitting strains bewail'd. A third, the heat
Of India's burning suns is withering fast,
Albeit in youth's maturest lustihood.
A fourth, who went from home with gallant port,
Wearing a soldier's frankness on his brow,
And, in his young heart, proudly cherishing
A soldier's noblest zeal, had found a home,
When last he wrote, near Afric's southern cape;
And there, in tranquil and inglorious ease,
Forsaking the plumed host and tented field
For peaceful tillage and the hunter's sport,
Was fashioning his idle sword and spear
To ploughshare and to pruning-hook, content
To learn war's trade no more, but to forego
Its present honours and its future hopes
For liberty and rest. In that old house,
Once echoing to the loud obstreperous mirth
Of ten wild boys and girls, now, in their age,
My parents dwell alone, from time to time
Gladden'd and cheer'd by visits few and brief
Of children and of grandchildren, whose sports
Haply recall the days of other years,
When we all dwelt about them, and diffuse
A gleam of pleasant light athwart the gloom
(If gloom indeed it be) which settles now
281
Mark'd by our absence. Visits such as these
Should constitute, methinks, a last firm bond
Of sympathy between their souls and Earth,
And cherish still, even in their heart of hearts,
The light of earthly joy, sweetening the eve
Of this their mortal day, and with the hope
(Now brightening hour by hour) of fairer worlds,
And a more rich inheritance to come,
Connecting the remembrance of past bliss,
And sense of present comfort,—feeding thus
The incense of perpetual gratitude
Breathed from their hearts to Heaven;—nor let my own
Forget how large a debt of thankfulness
Is due to Him, who to His other gifts,
Unnumber'd and unmeasured, adds this too,—
That from my pastoral dwelling, by the banks
Of Avon, I can still, from year to year,
With the beloved co-partner of my joys
And soother of my sorrows, and with those
Dear babes who fill our happy home with smiles,
Revisit my paternal roof, and cheer
Their hearts, who gave me being, with the sound
Of children's voices, and make glad their hearth
With the blest sight of our full happiness.
Such be our task to-morrow; here to-day
We tarry with most kind, though late-found friends,
Whose venerable mansion at the foot
Of this fair hill, in all the state grotesque
Of England's olden architecture, lifts
Its chequer'd front, with timbers huge inlaid,
And fair white plaister; and with gables tall
Surmounted, from whose antique windows quaint
The eye looks through a stately avenue
Of elms, which have outlived the chance and change
Of centuries, into a verdant plain
With woods and waving corn-fields interspersed;—
282
In all that constitutes the genuine worth
Of our provincial gentry. In that house
A pleasant group of friends is gather'd now
In mirthful converse and communion bland
Of thought and feeling;—one most dear to me,
And many to each other scarce less dear;
Brothers and sisters,—some in youth's full prime,
And some in childhood's tenderest innocence,
Link'd firmly, each to each, by mutual ties
Of firm affection, and beneath the eye
Of one who wears upon her stately brow
The stamp and impress of true ladyhood,
And in her heart the wisdom and the love
Of English mothers, train'd with holiest care
To exercise of virtues such as thrive
And blossom best by England's own firesides,
And in the breath of her free atmosphere.
And one there is whom nature hath endow'd
With voice and soul of melody, than whom
The thrush and blackbird sing no richer strains,
Nor with more natural fervour gushing forth
From the heart's hidden founts;—and yet hath art
Fulfill'd in her its perfect work, nor oft
On the fastidious ear of critic fall
Notes warbled with more nice and finish'd skill
Than those which flow, unforced and uncontroll'd
From her melodious utterance. Dames there be,
By nature and fine art alike endued
With varied powers of song, potent to lull
The charmed sense, or raise the enraptured soul
To loftiest ecstasy, who yet dispel
Their strong enchantments by ill-timed caprice
And wayward affectation; marring still
Our pleasure, and the triumphs of their art,
By most preposterous vanity, which yields,
With feign'd reluctance, an ill-graced assent
To what it longs to grant, until desire,
Too long deferr'd, loses its poignancy,
283
The maid of whom I speak unlocks, with free
And liberal grace, her floodgates of sweet sound,
And pours, at will, on our insatiate sense
Rich streams of never-dying melody;
Neither dissembling, with ill-acted show
Of modest self-disparagement, the worth
And richness of her gifts, nor on our choice
Obtruding them unask'd, but, with the pure
And simple kindness of a natural heart,
Imparting to our needs her special share
Of nature's dispensation,—breathing thus
An atmosphere around her of sweet mirth
And universal kindliness;—nor yet
Disdains she from the heights of sacred song,
Or the rich warblings of Italian art,
Into the lowliest regions to descend
Of homely music,—to the simple taste
Of childhood now attuning her sweet voice
In laugh-provoking ballads, and again
With some pathetic lay from Scottish land,
Which breathes the fervour of her own full heart,
Filling our eyes with tears.
All joy attend
That gentle songstress, whose remember'd strains
I trust shall haunt my sense in future years,
When the “rude shocks and buffets of the world,”
And long experience of life's daily ills,
Make Memory's stores more precious.
That gentle songstress, whose remember'd strains
I trust shall haunt my sense in future years,
When the “rude shocks and buffets of the world,”
And long experience of life's daily ills,
Make Memory's stores more precious.
But I hear
Below me, in the hill's green winding paths,
The voices of my children, in wild mirth
Through intertangled boughs in search of me,
Their way exploring to this yew-tree bower
In which I sit and muse, protected well
By its dark shade from the oppressive beams
Of the meridian sun, to my weak eyes
Fraught with sharp pain and inflammation dire,
And threatening ever these asthmatic lungs,
With agony of respiration choked,
And spasms catarrhal; for, to me, the prime
And lustihood of summer ever brings
Return of fell disease,—most fell in this,—
That I no more, for ever, may enjoy
The sweetness of the year;—that what, in youth
And earlier boyhood, I so fondly loved,
Yea, and still love with all a poet's heart,—
The gorgeousness of nature at her noon,—
Must ever be associate in my thought
With sickness and dire suffering; that no more
May I behold the full magnificence
Or of the rising or the setting sun,
Nor welcome to my brow the noonday breeze,
Nor see Eve's star arise, nor greet the moon,
When, from the breathless sky, she pours her light
On the rich foliage of midsummer woods,
With full and free enjoyment, unalloy'd
By pain or apprehension;—that the toils
And sports of summer, its sweet sounds and sights,
To me must be forbidden;—ne'er again
The hay-field's fragrant breath must tempt my sense,
Nor the returning and high-laden wain,
Cheer'd by the shouts of joyous haymakers
Proclaiming harvest home, invite me too
To share their rude festivities; and when
The cloudless skies and verdant fields of June
Tempt friends and neighbours to beguile a day
In the green woods, or by the river's marge,
With mirth and music, I perforce must flee
Such festive meetings, and, close pent at home
In solitude and shade, shut out the light
Of the bright skies, and chase the pleasant breeze
From my closed windows; or o'ercloud the mirth
And mar the full enjoyment of kind friends
With the discordant and unwelcome sound
Of gasps spasmodic, with red tearful eyes
And ceaseless sternutation.
Below me, in the hill's green winding paths,
The voices of my children, in wild mirth
Through intertangled boughs in search of me,
Their way exploring to this yew-tree bower
In which I sit and muse, protected well
By its dark shade from the oppressive beams
Of the meridian sun, to my weak eyes
Fraught with sharp pain and inflammation dire,
And threatening ever these asthmatic lungs,
284
And spasms catarrhal; for, to me, the prime
And lustihood of summer ever brings
Return of fell disease,—most fell in this,—
That I no more, for ever, may enjoy
The sweetness of the year;—that what, in youth
And earlier boyhood, I so fondly loved,
Yea, and still love with all a poet's heart,—
The gorgeousness of nature at her noon,—
Must ever be associate in my thought
With sickness and dire suffering; that no more
May I behold the full magnificence
Or of the rising or the setting sun,
Nor welcome to my brow the noonday breeze,
Nor see Eve's star arise, nor greet the moon,
When, from the breathless sky, she pours her light
On the rich foliage of midsummer woods,
With full and free enjoyment, unalloy'd
By pain or apprehension;—that the toils
And sports of summer, its sweet sounds and sights,
To me must be forbidden;—ne'er again
The hay-field's fragrant breath must tempt my sense,
Nor the returning and high-laden wain,
Cheer'd by the shouts of joyous haymakers
Proclaiming harvest home, invite me too
To share their rude festivities; and when
The cloudless skies and verdant fields of June
Tempt friends and neighbours to beguile a day
In the green woods, or by the river's marge,
With mirth and music, I perforce must flee
Such festive meetings, and, close pent at home
In solitude and shade, shut out the light
Of the bright skies, and chase the pleasant breeze
From my closed windows; or o'ercloud the mirth
And mar the full enjoyment of kind friends
With the discordant and unwelcome sound
Of gasps spasmodic, with red tearful eyes
And ceaseless sternutation.
Not for this
Let me repine; small chastisement, I ween,
For disobedience great and oft renew'd
To Heaven's eternal laws: for years mis-spent,
And duties unfulfill'd;—nor let me be
Unthankful for this sharp admonishment
Of nature's imperfection; of the doom
Most righteously awarded to our race,
Forbidding us to find, in this dark earth,
That which we look for in the world to come,—
Enjoyment unalloy'd; let me confess
That 'tis most well my sensual heart, which dotes
On earthly treasures with too fond a love,
Should have that love embitter'd and so raised
To objects more sublime; and let me still
Feel grateful for the strong and vigorous health
Which, from ripe Autumn to expiring Spring,
Nerves my firm limbs; nor less for that pure warmth
Of conjugal affection, which consoles
And mitigates my sickness, making glad
The chamber of my pain with sympathy.
There is no grief, even on this sinful earth,
Without its consolation; none which faith
And patient love may not convert to bliss,
Or make at least the path to it; and if
Such be indeed our sorrows,—for our joys,
Our sweet refreshments, richly interspersed
At intervals through all the narrow road
Which leads to life eternal—for all these
What thanks shall we repay? Even now, methinks,
From this secluded harbour I look down
On a fresh joy, provided by Heaven's love
To cheer me on my way;—a new-found store
Of pleasant thoughts and sweet remembrances,
Enriching my calm years of middle age,
And rendering compensation for whate'er
Of injury or loss the flight of time
May have inflicted on me. Thus life's path,
To the affectionate and thoughtful heart,
Can never prove a desart; by its side
Fresh springs gush brightly forth from time to time,
As old ones are dried up or left behind
In our swift pilgrimage; yet few, I deem,
Numbering my years, can reckon up like store
Of youth's surviving blessings; Death as yet
Hath mercifully dealt with us and ours;
And scarce a face which, fifteen years ago,
Smiled on me in my academic prime,
Hath lost as yet the lineaments and hue
Of mortal life. A fortnight scarce hath past
Since, in the great metropolis, we met,—
I and my youthful peers of Trinity,
Now nigh our noon of life; a motley band
Of poets and ripe scholars, once renown'd
For feats of numerous verse and sparkling prose;
Now each on graver toils and cares intent
In his particular sphere; some hard beset
By life's sharp ills,—of wife or child bereft;
Some deep immersed in senatorial wiles,
Quenching the quiet spirit of the Muse
In strife political; and some there were
By bright and blooming families begirt,
Yet still retaining, amid household cares
And toils professional, the cheerful laugh
And boon companionship of earlier days;—
Sober'd, not sadden'd, by life's chance and change,
Its joys and sorrows:—one (in youth's bright morn,
My poet-friend, though high, as Heaven o'er Earth,
Towering above me in all gifts and powers
Which constitute the poet) hath foregone
His natural birth-right, and those airy dreams
Of fellowship in song, which we two framed
Erewhile on Cam's green marge,—now to stern toil
And loftiest cares devote:—for this his choice,
Itself most wise, and in submission shaped
To Providential guidance, all respect
And rich reward be his; nor let me grieve
That Heaven hath cast our several lots apart,
And will'd that diverse interests, diverse cares,
Should grow and gather round us;—but let each
Take the more earnest heed, lest absence chill
His heart's best fervour; lest he live too much
In his peculiar world, with separate hopes
And separate fears encompass'd, till the free
And open passage of congenial thought,
Which yet joins heart to heart, shall be block'd up,
And each need closer intercourse with each
To clear it of obstruction.
285
For disobedience great and oft renew'd
To Heaven's eternal laws: for years mis-spent,
And duties unfulfill'd;—nor let me be
Unthankful for this sharp admonishment
Of nature's imperfection; of the doom
Most righteously awarded to our race,
Forbidding us to find, in this dark earth,
That which we look for in the world to come,—
Enjoyment unalloy'd; let me confess
That 'tis most well my sensual heart, which dotes
On earthly treasures with too fond a love,
Should have that love embitter'd and so raised
To objects more sublime; and let me still
Feel grateful for the strong and vigorous health
Which, from ripe Autumn to expiring Spring,
Nerves my firm limbs; nor less for that pure warmth
Of conjugal affection, which consoles
And mitigates my sickness, making glad
The chamber of my pain with sympathy.
There is no grief, even on this sinful earth,
Without its consolation; none which faith
And patient love may not convert to bliss,
Or make at least the path to it; and if
Such be indeed our sorrows,—for our joys,
Our sweet refreshments, richly interspersed
At intervals through all the narrow road
Which leads to life eternal—for all these
What thanks shall we repay? Even now, methinks,
From this secluded harbour I look down
On a fresh joy, provided by Heaven's love
To cheer me on my way;—a new-found store
Of pleasant thoughts and sweet remembrances,
Enriching my calm years of middle age,
And rendering compensation for whate'er
Of injury or loss the flight of time
May have inflicted on me. Thus life's path,
To the affectionate and thoughtful heart,
Can never prove a desart; by its side
286
As old ones are dried up or left behind
In our swift pilgrimage; yet few, I deem,
Numbering my years, can reckon up like store
Of youth's surviving blessings; Death as yet
Hath mercifully dealt with us and ours;
And scarce a face which, fifteen years ago,
Smiled on me in my academic prime,
Hath lost as yet the lineaments and hue
Of mortal life. A fortnight scarce hath past
Since, in the great metropolis, we met,—
I and my youthful peers of Trinity,
Now nigh our noon of life; a motley band
Of poets and ripe scholars, once renown'd
For feats of numerous verse and sparkling prose;
Now each on graver toils and cares intent
In his particular sphere; some hard beset
By life's sharp ills,—of wife or child bereft;
Some deep immersed in senatorial wiles,
Quenching the quiet spirit of the Muse
In strife political; and some there were
By bright and blooming families begirt,
Yet still retaining, amid household cares
And toils professional, the cheerful laugh
And boon companionship of earlier days;—
Sober'd, not sadden'd, by life's chance and change,
Its joys and sorrows:—one (in youth's bright morn,
My poet-friend, though high, as Heaven o'er Earth,
Towering above me in all gifts and powers
Which constitute the poet) hath foregone
His natural birth-right, and those airy dreams
Of fellowship in song, which we two framed
Erewhile on Cam's green marge,—now to stern toil
And loftiest cares devote:—for this his choice,
Itself most wise, and in submission shaped
To Providential guidance, all respect
And rich reward be his; nor let me grieve
That Heaven hath cast our several lots apart,
And will'd that diverse interests, diverse cares,
287
Take the more earnest heed, lest absence chill
His heart's best fervour; lest he live too much
In his peculiar world, with separate hopes
And separate fears encompass'd, till the free
And open passage of congenial thought,
Which yet joins heart to heart, shall be block'd up,
And each need closer intercourse with each
To clear it of obstruction.
But be this
Even as it may;—from all that hath been lost,
And all that yet remains, our hearts may learn
Some profitable lessons. Upon earth
Decay and renovation, in close track,
Follow each other; friendships wax and wane;
Old joys give place to new ones; and while thus
Provision is still made for life's support
And bountiful refreshment,—while the heart
Is cheer'd and strengthen'd for its daily task
Of duty, by accessions many and rich
Of ever freshening solace,—still we learn
That all is here unstable; that, till death,
We must not hope to lay our weary heads
On the soft lap of permanent repose;
Nor find secure and never-failing rest
For our foot's sole. Such comfort as Heaven gives
Let us enjoy with thankfulness; but still—
Remembering that our home is not on earth,
Nor earthy the affections and the joys
Which must make glad that home,—with steadfast aim
Pursue our heavenward path, from time to time
Refresh'd, in this world's wilderness, by springs
Of worldly joyance, but still looking on,
Beyond created things, to that full bliss
Which the regenerate and triumphant soul,
After its weary conflicts, by God's power,
Through faith, unto salvation safely kept,
Shall, in His presence, endlessly enjoy.
Even as it may;—from all that hath been lost,
And all that yet remains, our hearts may learn
Some profitable lessons. Upon earth
Decay and renovation, in close track,
Follow each other; friendships wax and wane;
Old joys give place to new ones; and while thus
Provision is still made for life's support
And bountiful refreshment,—while the heart
Is cheer'd and strengthen'd for its daily task
Of duty, by accessions many and rich
Of ever freshening solace,—still we learn
That all is here unstable; that, till death,
We must not hope to lay our weary heads
On the soft lap of permanent repose;
Nor find secure and never-failing rest
For our foot's sole. Such comfort as Heaven gives
Let us enjoy with thankfulness; but still—
Remembering that our home is not on earth,
Nor earthy the affections and the joys
Which must make glad that home,—with steadfast aim
Pursue our heavenward path, from time to time
Refresh'd, in this world's wilderness, by springs
Of worldly joyance, but still looking on,
Beyond created things, to that full bliss
Which the regenerate and triumphant soul,
After its weary conflicts, by God's power,
Through faith, unto salvation safely kept,
Shall, in His presence, endlessly enjoy.
288
LOVE'S MAY DAY.
'Tis the sweet sixteenth of May—How shall we keep holiday?
What the rites to Cupid due?
What to Hymen fond and true?
Dearest, where shall we find leisure
For that feast of holiest pleasure
Which this honour'd day demands,
Now dull care hath fill'd our hands
With such duties, sad and sober,
As from April to October,
Thence to April round again,
Make us toil with might and main,
Leaving scarce a moment free
For the freaks of phantasy;
For the dreams which disappear
Full three quarters of the year,
In our bosoms buried deep
Till the spring breeze breaks their sleep,—
When once more, like bees, they swarm
In the sunshine bright and warm;
For the dear and dreamy talk
Of a calm connubial walk,
When we two once more may wander,
Free to prate and free to ponder
On those days of youthful bliss,
When our lips first learnt to kiss;
289
Thou a young and dreaming maid,
I a fond and fervent swain,
Weak of heart and wild of brain,
Of love's folly took our fill,
“Wandering at our own sweet will?”
Now the days are alter'd quite,
Thou must work and I must write;
Thou hast children three to teach,
I have sermons three to preach,
Thou hast clothes to make and mend,
I've a straying flock to tend;
And the world hath grown so real,
That to roam in realms ideal
As we roved in days of yore—
We must think of it no more.
Fancy's reign is past and done,
That of sober truth begun.
Thou must work and I must write;
Thou hast children three to teach,
I have sermons three to preach,
Thou hast clothes to make and mend,
I've a straying flock to tend;
And the world hath grown so real,
That to roam in realms ideal
As we roved in days of yore—
We must think of it no more.
Fancy's reign is past and done,
That of sober truth begun.
How then, this sweet morn of May,
Shall we two keep holiday?
We will keep it as we may.
Though no frolic feast we make,
Yet our hearts shall be awake;
And our silent thoughts shall flee
To the realms of Memory.
We'll direct their stream to flow
Backward to nine years ago:
To the burning words that bound
This sweet chain our souls around;
To the first tumultuous kiss,
Harbinger of years of bliss;
To the mingled tear and smile,
Throb and thrill at Upton stile;
While full many a heart-flash'd glance,
Brightening either countenance,
Tells that, though nine years are over,
Each of us is still a lover;
Each, as every year hath flown,
Happier still and fonder grown.
Shall we two keep holiday?
We will keep it as we may.
Though no frolic feast we make,
Yet our hearts shall be awake;
And our silent thoughts shall flee
To the realms of Memory.
We'll direct their stream to flow
Backward to nine years ago:
To the burning words that bound
This sweet chain our souls around;
To the first tumultuous kiss,
Harbinger of years of bliss;
To the mingled tear and smile,
Throb and thrill at Upton stile;
While full many a heart-flash'd glance,
Brightening either countenance,
Tells that, though nine years are over,
Each of us is still a lover;
Each, as every year hath flown,
Happier still and fonder grown.
290
Thoughts like these 'tis meet we call
To our silent festival;
Thoughts like these—but is there nought,
In the whole wide realm of Thought,
Meeter yet our hearts to cheer
On this day, of all the year
Fitliest due to musings high,
And divine philosophy?
Still our life is in its prime;
Still doth hope make friends with time;
Still unseam'd is either brow;
Yet I trust we are not now
Such in heart and mind and will,—
So unwean'd from folly still,
As when first love's fetters tied
The young bridegroom to the bride.
Forward let us bend our eyes
To our home beyond the skies;
For thereon, without amaze,
Faith hath made us free to gaze;
And though youth hath past away,
And my locks may soon turn grey,
And thy full and flashing eye
Lose its present brilliancy;
Yet such tokens we may greet
Of old Time's advancing feet,
With a holy joy that he
Ushers in Eternity;
And that all which fleets and fades
As he stealthily invades
That bright face and form of thine,
And these sturdy limbs of mine,
Doth a growing change prepare,
Laying thus our spirits bare;
Lightening slowly, day by day,
This their present load of clay,
That, on unencumber'd wing,
Heavenward they may learn to spring:
While, as we more fit become
For our everlasting home,
In our children we may see
All that we were wont to be—
Whatsoever gifts and powers
In our youth's best days were ours,—
As on a perennial stem,
Blossoming again in them.
To our silent festival;
Thoughts like these—but is there nought,
In the whole wide realm of Thought,
Meeter yet our hearts to cheer
On this day, of all the year
Fitliest due to musings high,
And divine philosophy?
Still our life is in its prime;
Still doth hope make friends with time;
Still unseam'd is either brow;
Yet I trust we are not now
Such in heart and mind and will,—
So unwean'd from folly still,
As when first love's fetters tied
The young bridegroom to the bride.
Forward let us bend our eyes
To our home beyond the skies;
For thereon, without amaze,
Faith hath made us free to gaze;
And though youth hath past away,
And my locks may soon turn grey,
And thy full and flashing eye
Lose its present brilliancy;
Yet such tokens we may greet
Of old Time's advancing feet,
With a holy joy that he
Ushers in Eternity;
And that all which fleets and fades
As he stealthily invades
That bright face and form of thine,
And these sturdy limbs of mine,
Doth a growing change prepare,
Laying thus our spirits bare;
Lightening slowly, day by day,
This their present load of clay,
That, on unencumber'd wing,
Heavenward they may learn to spring:
While, as we more fit become
291
In our children we may see
All that we were wont to be—
Whatsoever gifts and powers
In our youth's best days were ours,—
As on a perennial stem,
Blossoming again in them.
Thus, though far from moonlit woods,
Streams, and bowers, and solitudes;
Far from wild romantic rambles—
Far from lonely brakes and brambles—
Compass'd round by this world's din,
But with love and peace within—
Thus, this sweet sixteenth of May,
Will we two keep holiday.
Streams, and bowers, and solitudes;
Far from wild romantic rambles—
Far from lonely brakes and brambles—
Compass'd round by this world's din,
But with love and peace within—
Thus, this sweet sixteenth of May,
Will we two keep holiday.
292
LOVE IN ABSENCE.
January, 1832.
Dost thou remember, dearest, how the bird,—
The shrill, sweet warbler of another clime,
Which, with its mate, I gave thee on the morn
Of our last wedding-day—dost thou remember
How, while one cage held him and his sweet bride
In joint imprisonment, the happy bird
Forgot his natural melody, and, wrapt
(For so it seem'd) in tranquil contemplation
Of his connubial blessedness, sate dumb
“From morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve,”
Save when at intervals, with amorous chirp,
His little heart breathed forth its overflowings
Of quiet joy and deep contented love.
But when our harsh and marriage-slighting edict
Decreed their separation, and the pair,
Reluctantly divorced, were fain to nurse
Their unquench'd loves in solitary cages,
And forced disunion both of bed and board,
Then what a sudden gush of pent-up song
Burst from the widower's throat! as tho' the passion
Kindled by nature in his fiery heart,
And finding, until then, congenial vent
In interchange of amorous sympathies
With his own chosen mate,—was now constrain'd
To seek some new, unwonted utterance—
Best found in song. Herein methinks, the bird
Is an apt emblem of his wayward donor,
Who, for six blissful years, link'd to thy side
In loving and most blest companionship,
Hath, all that time, lock'd up his vaunted store
Of thought poetic, breathing scarce a note
Of glad or mournful, light or serious song,
Not ode sublime, nor melting elegy,
Nor lofty-sounding epic. Why was this?
Why, but because the wild and passionate feelings,
The dim, mysterious instincts of his nature,
The struggling impulse of the Muse within him,
Which, in the days of his unmated youth,
Found vent in song and minstrelsy, have flow'd
Since thou wert his, in a far better channel.
Spending their once tumultuous energy
In exercises sweet of chasten'd love
And mild endearments. Around thee have cluster'd
The tender thoughts, the rich imaginations,
The impulses and instincts, strange and strong,
The dreams and visions and wild phantasies,
Which else perhaps had wander'd unrestrain'd
Through many a devious track of poesy;
But, tamed by the strong magic of thy charms,
Have all foregone their rovings, and so mingled
Their manifold, and oft contending, currents
In one deep, tranquil, mighty stream of love.
Thus is it that, for very blessedness,
My Muse hath long been silent—long forgotten
The venturous flights of her less happy days;
But now that, summon'd by imperious duty,
And, for a time, foregoing love's sweet solace
For truest Friendship's sake, I dwell apart
From thee and my sweet children—now once more
The old imaginations wake within me;
Once more the wild and long forgotten music
Of teeming thoughts and fancies floats and thrills
Through my admiring brain; once more I seem
To walk in that bright land of fairy vision
Which is the poet's birthright,—his asylum
From all the harsh and sorrowful realities
Which vex him in this dull and daylight world.
Now, like our luckless bird, I seem endow'd
With sudden and unwonted power of song;
Which, if it may attain such tuneful pitch
As erst it reach'd—such as may not disgrace
The promise of my earlier utterance,—
To whom but thee, my own and only love,
Should its first notes be consecrate?
The shrill, sweet warbler of another clime,
Which, with its mate, I gave thee on the morn
Of our last wedding-day—dost thou remember
How, while one cage held him and his sweet bride
In joint imprisonment, the happy bird
Forgot his natural melody, and, wrapt
(For so it seem'd) in tranquil contemplation
Of his connubial blessedness, sate dumb
“From morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve,”
Save when at intervals, with amorous chirp,
His little heart breathed forth its overflowings
Of quiet joy and deep contented love.
But when our harsh and marriage-slighting edict
Decreed their separation, and the pair,
Reluctantly divorced, were fain to nurse
Their unquench'd loves in solitary cages,
And forced disunion both of bed and board,
Then what a sudden gush of pent-up song
Burst from the widower's throat! as tho' the passion
Kindled by nature in his fiery heart,
And finding, until then, congenial vent
In interchange of amorous sympathies
With his own chosen mate,—was now constrain'd
293
Best found in song. Herein methinks, the bird
Is an apt emblem of his wayward donor,
Who, for six blissful years, link'd to thy side
In loving and most blest companionship,
Hath, all that time, lock'd up his vaunted store
Of thought poetic, breathing scarce a note
Of glad or mournful, light or serious song,
Not ode sublime, nor melting elegy,
Nor lofty-sounding epic. Why was this?
Why, but because the wild and passionate feelings,
The dim, mysterious instincts of his nature,
The struggling impulse of the Muse within him,
Which, in the days of his unmated youth,
Found vent in song and minstrelsy, have flow'd
Since thou wert his, in a far better channel.
Spending their once tumultuous energy
In exercises sweet of chasten'd love
And mild endearments. Around thee have cluster'd
The tender thoughts, the rich imaginations,
The impulses and instincts, strange and strong,
The dreams and visions and wild phantasies,
Which else perhaps had wander'd unrestrain'd
Through many a devious track of poesy;
But, tamed by the strong magic of thy charms,
Have all foregone their rovings, and so mingled
Their manifold, and oft contending, currents
In one deep, tranquil, mighty stream of love.
Thus is it that, for very blessedness,
My Muse hath long been silent—long forgotten
The venturous flights of her less happy days;
But now that, summon'd by imperious duty,
And, for a time, foregoing love's sweet solace
For truest Friendship's sake, I dwell apart
From thee and my sweet children—now once more
The old imaginations wake within me;
Once more the wild and long forgotten music
Of teeming thoughts and fancies floats and thrills
Through my admiring brain; once more I seem
294
Which is the poet's birthright,—his asylum
From all the harsh and sorrowful realities
Which vex him in this dull and daylight world.
Now, like our luckless bird, I seem endow'd
With sudden and unwonted power of song;
Which, if it may attain such tuneful pitch
As erst it reach'd—such as may not disgrace
The promise of my earlier utterance,—
To whom but thee, my own and only love,
Should its first notes be consecrate?
My heart
Turns fondly to thine image. O! where art thou?
How spending thy brief widowhood? what work
Of patient duty or meek love pursuing?
Haply thou watchest, with maternal fondness,
The slumbers of our children, or in calm
And serious converse with those gentle friends,
Whose presence half consoles thee for my absence,
Pliest thy busy needle, toiling hard
At some great masterpiece of seamstress skill,—
Trouser or tiny shirt, or infant frock,
Or cap constructed to set off the smiles
Of dimpled babyhood;—meanwhile to lighten
The evening's toil, one reads, with placid tone,
Some volume of grave truth or pleasant fiction,
Whereto with serious and attentive ear
Well pleased thou listenest, though at times thy thoughts,
Spite of thyself, wander away to him
Who, on his part, in solitude remote,
Is wedding his fond thoughts of thee and home
To these weak, worthless numbers. Peace be with thee,
My gentle love, whate'er thy occupation,
Where'er thy thoughts are fix'd; such peace as thou,
By all the arts of wedded tenderness
Hast breathed into this wild and wayward spirit.
For thou hast been to me a guiding star,
My tutelary genius, my good angel,
The ministering spirit, by whose hand
The Giver of all good hath lavish'd on me
His choicest bounties. Thou canst never know
How much I owe thee for whate'er of good
Is mingled with this gross and selfish nature;
For what I am, or may be—and no less
For that which I am not; for, without thee,
And that sweet exercise of pure affections—
Those moods of sober thought and tender musing,—
That calm fulfilment of unquiet hopes
And fiery longings after happiness,
Which thou alone hast yielded or couldst yield me—
I had remain'd the wild, impetuous slave
Of uncontroll'd self will, made weak and wretched
By foul perversion of the choicest gifts
Shower'd on me by all-bounteous Providence.
And if, reclaim'd from wanderings manifold,
And made partaker of a better hope
And purer aspirations, I now walk,
Though with unsteady and irresolute step,
In the straight path which leads to life eternal,
To thee, in part, I owe it. Be all praise
To Him whose grace, by means inscrutable,
Hath won us from this world of sense and sin
To prospects bright of immortality!
Therefore, O gentlest, our connubial love,
Hallow'd by strong consent of mutual faith
And kindred aspirations, hath assumed
A nobler character; for we two walk
Through this life's strange and ever varying road,
Not as chance wayfarers, ere long to part
At Death's grim hostel—but as deathless souls
Inseparably join'd, and doom'd to share
Each other's company through endless changes
Of still progressive being:—and shall we,
Thus strongly bound by chains indissoluble,
Heirs of one blessed hope, leagued in pursuit
Of one immortal prize—shall we not share
Each other's joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
In tenderest sympathy? shall we not bear
Each other's burdens, cheer each other's toils,
And, in most loving emulation, strive
Which shall do most to help the other's welfare
In this world and the next? My Margaret,
Methinks when I look back on our past years
Of wedded life, much seems to be amiss
On my part—somewhat haply e'en on thine;
For this, whatever may have been my share
In our joint list of treasons conjugal,
For rash impatience, tempers unsubdued,
And much neglect of duties manifold,
Would I now crave forgiveness, and henceforth
Resolve, by powerful help of grace divine,
To act, more perfectly, the Christian husband.
Henceforth let us two live, in full discharge
Of all those gentle duties which we owe
Each to the other, as souls knit together
In bonds divine, and emblematical
Of that most holy and mysterious union
Wherein the Church is join'd to its great Head;—
Beloved and loving, cherishing and cherish'd.
And let no cold distrust, on either part,
Mar or obstruct the full and perfect freedom
Wherewith in turn we render, each to each,
Our debts of mutual service, faithful counsel,
Gentle admonishment, well-timed reproof,
And solace mild, and cheering exhortation.
Nor let us lack congenial partnership
Of thought and study, intermingling oft,
As time permits, with books of sacred lore
And serious meditation, hastier snatches
Of fiction wild and wizard phantasy.
So may our hearts be strengthen'd and refresh'd
For due discharge of this world's sterner duties;
For self-denying acts of meek good will
Toward all men;—chiefly those whom Heaven's high counsel
Hath placed within our own peculiar charge,
Linking their lot to ours in one close bond
Of Christian fellowship and pastoral care.
But, holier far than all, more closely blended
With all our heart's most pure and sacred feelings,—
That task, so wholly ours, to form the minds
Of our sweet children;—so to train them up,
That, after this world's brief and bustling journey,
We all may meet where sorrow is no more,
But God shall wipe the tears from all our eyes.
O here it is, in the exact fulfilment
Of this most solemn duty, that thy worth
Appears most brightly; here I recognize,
With love and admiration most profound,
The rich array of choicest qualities
Which grace thy wedded character, and fit thee
As fully for the mother as the wife.
Affection deep and fervent, yet controll'd
By principle severe;—decisive firmness,
And patience most long-suffering;—prudence mild,
And skill to guide and govern their young hearts
By gentle yet resistless impulses
To meek obedience and submission calm.
O, if 'tis written in high Heaven's decrees
That both of us must not behold them come
To life's maturity—mayst thou survive
To guide their progress thither; for so best
Shall our fond hopes and prayers be realized
By final union in the world to come.
Turns fondly to thine image. O! where art thou?
How spending thy brief widowhood? what work
Of patient duty or meek love pursuing?
Haply thou watchest, with maternal fondness,
The slumbers of our children, or in calm
And serious converse with those gentle friends,
Whose presence half consoles thee for my absence,
Pliest thy busy needle, toiling hard
At some great masterpiece of seamstress skill,—
Trouser or tiny shirt, or infant frock,
Or cap constructed to set off the smiles
Of dimpled babyhood;—meanwhile to lighten
The evening's toil, one reads, with placid tone,
Some volume of grave truth or pleasant fiction,
Whereto with serious and attentive ear
Well pleased thou listenest, though at times thy thoughts,
Spite of thyself, wander away to him
Who, on his part, in solitude remote,
Is wedding his fond thoughts of thee and home
To these weak, worthless numbers. Peace be with thee,
My gentle love, whate'er thy occupation,
Where'er thy thoughts are fix'd; such peace as thou,
By all the arts of wedded tenderness
Hast breathed into this wild and wayward spirit.
For thou hast been to me a guiding star,
My tutelary genius, my good angel,
The ministering spirit, by whose hand
295
His choicest bounties. Thou canst never know
How much I owe thee for whate'er of good
Is mingled with this gross and selfish nature;
For what I am, or may be—and no less
For that which I am not; for, without thee,
And that sweet exercise of pure affections—
Those moods of sober thought and tender musing,—
That calm fulfilment of unquiet hopes
And fiery longings after happiness,
Which thou alone hast yielded or couldst yield me—
I had remain'd the wild, impetuous slave
Of uncontroll'd self will, made weak and wretched
By foul perversion of the choicest gifts
Shower'd on me by all-bounteous Providence.
And if, reclaim'd from wanderings manifold,
And made partaker of a better hope
And purer aspirations, I now walk,
Though with unsteady and irresolute step,
In the straight path which leads to life eternal,
To thee, in part, I owe it. Be all praise
To Him whose grace, by means inscrutable,
Hath won us from this world of sense and sin
To prospects bright of immortality!
Therefore, O gentlest, our connubial love,
Hallow'd by strong consent of mutual faith
And kindred aspirations, hath assumed
A nobler character; for we two walk
Through this life's strange and ever varying road,
Not as chance wayfarers, ere long to part
At Death's grim hostel—but as deathless souls
Inseparably join'd, and doom'd to share
Each other's company through endless changes
Of still progressive being:—and shall we,
Thus strongly bound by chains indissoluble,
Heirs of one blessed hope, leagued in pursuit
Of one immortal prize—shall we not share
Each other's joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
In tenderest sympathy? shall we not bear
296
And, in most loving emulation, strive
Which shall do most to help the other's welfare
In this world and the next? My Margaret,
Methinks when I look back on our past years
Of wedded life, much seems to be amiss
On my part—somewhat haply e'en on thine;
For this, whatever may have been my share
In our joint list of treasons conjugal,
For rash impatience, tempers unsubdued,
And much neglect of duties manifold,
Would I now crave forgiveness, and henceforth
Resolve, by powerful help of grace divine,
To act, more perfectly, the Christian husband.
Henceforth let us two live, in full discharge
Of all those gentle duties which we owe
Each to the other, as souls knit together
In bonds divine, and emblematical
Of that most holy and mysterious union
Wherein the Church is join'd to its great Head;—
Beloved and loving, cherishing and cherish'd.
And let no cold distrust, on either part,
Mar or obstruct the full and perfect freedom
Wherewith in turn we render, each to each,
Our debts of mutual service, faithful counsel,
Gentle admonishment, well-timed reproof,
And solace mild, and cheering exhortation.
Nor let us lack congenial partnership
Of thought and study, intermingling oft,
As time permits, with books of sacred lore
And serious meditation, hastier snatches
Of fiction wild and wizard phantasy.
So may our hearts be strengthen'd and refresh'd
For due discharge of this world's sterner duties;
For self-denying acts of meek good will
Toward all men;—chiefly those whom Heaven's high counsel
Hath placed within our own peculiar charge,
Linking their lot to ours in one close bond
Of Christian fellowship and pastoral care.
297
With all our heart's most pure and sacred feelings,—
That task, so wholly ours, to form the minds
Of our sweet children;—so to train them up,
That, after this world's brief and bustling journey,
We all may meet where sorrow is no more,
But God shall wipe the tears from all our eyes.
O here it is, in the exact fulfilment
Of this most solemn duty, that thy worth
Appears most brightly; here I recognize,
With love and admiration most profound,
The rich array of choicest qualities
Which grace thy wedded character, and fit thee
As fully for the mother as the wife.
Affection deep and fervent, yet controll'd
By principle severe;—decisive firmness,
And patience most long-suffering;—prudence mild,
And skill to guide and govern their young hearts
By gentle yet resistless impulses
To meek obedience and submission calm.
O, if 'tis written in high Heaven's decrees
That both of us must not behold them come
To life's maturity—mayst thou survive
To guide their progress thither; for so best
Shall our fond hopes and prayers be realized
By final union in the world to come.
But finish'd is my exile;—I return
Homeward with eager heart, most glad once more
To seize my pastoral staff, and so exchange
The wild and wandering visions of the Muse
For ministerial duties, and sweet store
Of home enjoyments. May this idle song
Find favour in thy sight, as I dare hope
It will not fail to find. Receive it, dearest,
Indulgently, as doubtless much it needs,
Framed as it is with long unpractised skill,
And energies decay'd; keep it in memory
Of thy fond husband's love, and when 'tis read,
Cease to regret that once, at Friendship's call,
He left thee and thy children, for awhile
To sojourn in the distant Cornish moors;
Where, to relieve the strong and passionate yearnings
Of his poor widow'd heart, he first devised,
And partly framed, this true and tender strain,
Begun and ended for no eyes but thine.
Homeward with eager heart, most glad once more
To seize my pastoral staff, and so exchange
The wild and wandering visions of the Muse
For ministerial duties, and sweet store
Of home enjoyments. May this idle song
Find favour in thy sight, as I dare hope
It will not fail to find. Receive it, dearest,
Indulgently, as doubtless much it needs,
Framed as it is with long unpractised skill,
And energies decay'd; keep it in memory
Of thy fond husband's love, and when 'tis read,
298
He left thee and thy children, for awhile
To sojourn in the distant Cornish moors;
Where, to relieve the strong and passionate yearnings
Of his poor widow'd heart, he first devised,
And partly framed, this true and tender strain,
Begun and ended for no eyes but thine.
299
AN APOLOGY FOR TACITURNITY.
I love thee, lady—oh how well—
Nor thou canst guess, nor I can tell;
But 'tis with such a reverent love
As saints feel here for saints above;
A love less fond than household ties
And sweet domestic sympathies;
Less passionate, but purer far
Than purest dreams of lovers are;—
Such love as felt the Florentine
For her, his soul's immortal queen,
Who led him, in angelic guise,
Through the bright realms of Paradise.
For thou, though mortal still I ween,
Even such a guide to me hast been;
A cheering light, a mission'd star
To guide my footsteps from afar,
Through mist and fog, through shower and shine,
Right heavenward to thy home and mine.
Whence comes it then, (if thou canst guess,)
That when my heart would fain express
The thoughts thy presence makes to flow,—
The feelings that within me glow;
When I would open my full soul
Without reserve, without control,
Lay bare to thee each secret part
Of this poor, wayward, sinful heart,—
And speak with thee, in converse high,
Of thoughts that roam beyond the sky,—
Of all my hopes,—of all my fears,—
Of griefs that “lie too deep for tears,”—
Of doubts that o'er my spirit steal,—
Of all I would, but cannot feel,—
Of many a dark, rebellious hour,
In thought and will, to Heaven's high power—
Of bitter strife waged hard within,—
Of triumphs dark achieved by sin—
When thus I would pour forth to thee
My inmost soul's anxiety,—
Or when, in less religious mood,
I'd talk with thee, if talk I could,
On subjects grave of pleasant thought,—
In all too happy to be taught
By thy pure wisdom, which doth reach
The farthest realm of thought and speech,
And make all lovely—tell me why
This spell-bound tongue so dumb doth lie?
Why is it that thy speaking eye,
Which smiles upon me with intent
To give serene encouragement,—
And thy sweet words, which fain would break
My spirit's charm, and gently wake
My slumbering speech to converse high,
By sense of mutual sympathy—
Why do these serve to tighten more
The chain which was so tight before?
Why doth each sweet attempt of thine
To give me freedom, only twine
A heavier, stronger spell around me
Than that with which my nature bound me?
Why, when my heart is yearning still
Of fervent talk to take its fill,
Doth want of power so fetter will,
That half in fear, and half in joy,
I falter like a frighten'd boy,
And stammer forth, in hurried tone,
A few faint, scatter'd words alone;—
Unmeaning words of vain assent,
Or more unmeaning sentiment—
Betokening thought confused and dim,—
Ideas indistinct, that swim
In shapeless masses, undefined
And dreamlike, through my labouring mind;
And feelings which, though proud to feel,
I neither dare nor can reveal?
Nor thou canst guess, nor I can tell;
But 'tis with such a reverent love
As saints feel here for saints above;
A love less fond than household ties
And sweet domestic sympathies;
Less passionate, but purer far
Than purest dreams of lovers are;—
Such love as felt the Florentine
For her, his soul's immortal queen,
Who led him, in angelic guise,
Through the bright realms of Paradise.
For thou, though mortal still I ween,
Even such a guide to me hast been;
A cheering light, a mission'd star
To guide my footsteps from afar,
Through mist and fog, through shower and shine,
Right heavenward to thy home and mine.
Whence comes it then, (if thou canst guess,)
That when my heart would fain express
The thoughts thy presence makes to flow,—
The feelings that within me glow;
When I would open my full soul
Without reserve, without control,
Lay bare to thee each secret part
Of this poor, wayward, sinful heart,—
300
Of thoughts that roam beyond the sky,—
Of all my hopes,—of all my fears,—
Of griefs that “lie too deep for tears,”—
Of doubts that o'er my spirit steal,—
Of all I would, but cannot feel,—
Of many a dark, rebellious hour,
In thought and will, to Heaven's high power—
Of bitter strife waged hard within,—
Of triumphs dark achieved by sin—
When thus I would pour forth to thee
My inmost soul's anxiety,—
Or when, in less religious mood,
I'd talk with thee, if talk I could,
On subjects grave of pleasant thought,—
In all too happy to be taught
By thy pure wisdom, which doth reach
The farthest realm of thought and speech,
And make all lovely—tell me why
This spell-bound tongue so dumb doth lie?
Why is it that thy speaking eye,
Which smiles upon me with intent
To give serene encouragement,—
And thy sweet words, which fain would break
My spirit's charm, and gently wake
My slumbering speech to converse high,
By sense of mutual sympathy—
Why do these serve to tighten more
The chain which was so tight before?
Why doth each sweet attempt of thine
To give me freedom, only twine
A heavier, stronger spell around me
Than that with which my nature bound me?
Why, when my heart is yearning still
Of fervent talk to take its fill,
Doth want of power so fetter will,
That half in fear, and half in joy,
I falter like a frighten'd boy,
And stammer forth, in hurried tone,
301
Unmeaning words of vain assent,
Or more unmeaning sentiment—
Betokening thought confused and dim,—
Ideas indistinct, that swim
In shapeless masses, undefined
And dreamlike, through my labouring mind;
And feelings which, though proud to feel,
I neither dare nor can reveal?
It is not fear—it is not love,
Which so my charmed soul doth move,
That I must oft appear to thee
Senseless or passionless to be.
O lady! 'tis a dread respect
Of thy majestic intellect;
A sense of awe which makes me bow
Before thy voice, before thy brow,
In reverence for that depth of mind
So richly stored, so disciplined
To the full use of all its powers,
By patient thought and studious hours;
And, more than this, a consciousness,
Too deep for language to express,
Of that most perfect holiness
Which God himself in thee hath wrought
Through years of calm religious thought,—
Through study deep and constant prayer,—
Through trials dark—through grief and care,
Through contemplation pure and high—
Through many a well won victory,
With toil and pain, achieved o'er sin—
Enfranchising the depths within
From all dominion but his own,
And slowly building up a throne
In thy pure soul, whereon he may
Himself reign paramount for aye.
'Tis true, elsewhere I may have found
Minds as exact, nor less profound;
And haply some, in many years,
Almost in holiness thy peers;
But never, never found I one
In whom thy wit and wisdom shone
So chasten'd as they are in thee
By fervent Christianity;
Thy reason calm—thy faith intense—
Thy clear and bright intelligence;
And all this with a woman's heart,
Framed perfectly in every part,
And rich in sympathies of earth—
The love that gladdens home and hearth—
The prudence mild—the sense discreet—
The household smile so bright and sweet—
The sweeter tears, so prompt to flow,
Not for thine own but others' woe;
The grace which clothes in fairest dress
All this thine other loveliness;
In voice and look, in mind and heart,
Lady, how beautiful thou art!
Which so my charmed soul doth move,
That I must oft appear to thee
Senseless or passionless to be.
O lady! 'tis a dread respect
Of thy majestic intellect;
A sense of awe which makes me bow
Before thy voice, before thy brow,
In reverence for that depth of mind
So richly stored, so disciplined
To the full use of all its powers,
By patient thought and studious hours;
And, more than this, a consciousness,
Too deep for language to express,
Of that most perfect holiness
Which God himself in thee hath wrought
Through years of calm religious thought,—
Through study deep and constant prayer,—
Through trials dark—through grief and care,
Through contemplation pure and high—
Through many a well won victory,
With toil and pain, achieved o'er sin—
Enfranchising the depths within
From all dominion but his own,
And slowly building up a throne
In thy pure soul, whereon he may
Himself reign paramount for aye.
302
Minds as exact, nor less profound;
And haply some, in many years,
Almost in holiness thy peers;
But never, never found I one
In whom thy wit and wisdom shone
So chasten'd as they are in thee
By fervent Christianity;
Thy reason calm—thy faith intense—
Thy clear and bright intelligence;
And all this with a woman's heart,
Framed perfectly in every part,
And rich in sympathies of earth—
The love that gladdens home and hearth—
The prudence mild—the sense discreet—
The household smile so bright and sweet—
The sweeter tears, so prompt to flow,
Not for thine own but others' woe;
The grace which clothes in fairest dress
All this thine other loveliness;
In voice and look, in mind and heart,
Lady, how beautiful thou art!
And I,—should not this soul of mine
Feel, as it doth, rebuked by thine?
This soul, which howsoe'er endued
With capabilities of good—
With powers of thought, and feeling high,
And some bright gleams of phantasy,—
Did, in the morn of life's brief day,
Cast all its better gifts away;
Waste half its brightest years on earth
In cares and pleasures little worth;
Leaving itself untutor'd still,—
Unpurified from moral ill—
Unfurnish'd with the needful store
Of earthly or of heavenly lore;—
Its headstrong passions unsubdued—
Its carnal spirit unrenew'd;
Each talent unimproved, or given
To things on earth, not things in heaven?
Myself the slave, the creature still
Of self-indulgence and blind will?
O lady, look not at my heart;
For, all benignant as thou art,
Thou couldst not choose but love me less,
Couldst thou behold, or know, or guess
Its yet too great unworthiness.
Feel, as it doth, rebuked by thine?
This soul, which howsoe'er endued
With capabilities of good—
With powers of thought, and feeling high,
And some bright gleams of phantasy,—
Did, in the morn of life's brief day,
Cast all its better gifts away;
Waste half its brightest years on earth
In cares and pleasures little worth;
Leaving itself untutor'd still,—
Unpurified from moral ill—
Unfurnish'd with the needful store
Of earthly or of heavenly lore;—
303
Its carnal spirit unrenew'd;
Each talent unimproved, or given
To things on earth, not things in heaven?
Myself the slave, the creature still
Of self-indulgence and blind will?
O lady, look not at my heart;
For, all benignant as thou art,
Thou couldst not choose but love me less,
Couldst thou behold, or know, or guess
Its yet too great unworthiness.
And wilt thou love me less? Ah me!
That I should thus conceive of thee!
That such a thought should e'er have birth
As that of losing, here on earth,
Thy friendship—the best boon, but one,
I yet retain beneath the sun!
No, lady, I can ne'er believe
But that howe'er thy soul may grieve
Over my many faults, thou still
Wilt yield me, of thine own sweet will,
Affection unreserved, but kind,
And with remembrances entwined
Dear, though most sad, of recent ties,
Close knit by mutual sympathies,
And sorrows, in which thou and I
Wept and consoled alternately.
That I should thus conceive of thee!
That such a thought should e'er have birth
As that of losing, here on earth,
Thy friendship—the best boon, but one,
I yet retain beneath the sun!
No, lady, I can ne'er believe
But that howe'er thy soul may grieve
Over my many faults, thou still
Wilt yield me, of thine own sweet will,
Affection unreserved, but kind,
And with remembrances entwined
Dear, though most sad, of recent ties,
Close knit by mutual sympathies,
And sorrows, in which thou and I
Wept and consoled alternately.
Forgive me, then, that I so oft
Hear thy dear voice, so sweet and soft,
Provoking me by gentlest force
To intellectual discourse;
Yet sit, as seems, regardless by,
In helpless taciturnity.
Think of me, as of one whose seat
Should be for ever at thy feet;
As one who fain would learn of thee,
In most sincere humility—
Yea, like a meek and docile child—
Religion pure and undefiled;—
As one whom God to thee hath given,
A friend to be prepared for Heaven.
Hear thy dear voice, so sweet and soft,
Provoking me by gentlest force
To intellectual discourse;
Yet sit, as seems, regardless by,
In helpless taciturnity.
304
Should be for ever at thy feet;
As one who fain would learn of thee,
In most sincere humility—
Yea, like a meek and docile child—
Religion pure and undefiled;—
As one whom God to thee hath given,
A friend to be prepared for Heaven.
305
TO MARGARET IN HEAVEN.
I.
I loved thee not, I knew thee not, I never heard thy name,Till they told me that thy spirit pure had left its mortal frame;
Thy voice, thy smile, thy pleasant ways can never be to me
The treasures, which they are to some, of mournful memory:
When I gaze into the throng'd abyss of youth's departed years,
Amidst the forms, that meet me there, no trace of thee appears;
And if I strive to picture thee to Fancy's inward eye,
I see indeed a shadowy dream of beauty flitting by;
A thoughtful brow, a look lit up by faith and love divine,—
But not the true, the mortal brow, the look that once was thine.
II.
And shalt thou then depart from earth, and take thy shining placeAmong the brightest daughters of our lost and ransom'd race,
Without one passing thought from me, one feeling of regret
Unfelt for other Christian saints whose eyes and mine ne'er met?
Shall I hear of all thy patient pangs, thy meekly yielded breath,
Yet think of thee—as merely one who died a Christian death?—
Undistinguish'd in my mental eye, from all the sainted dead
Whose souls the spirit cleansed from sin, for whom the Saviour bled?
And, if we meet hereafter, in the mansions of the blest
Shall I then, by no assured mark, discern thee from the rest?
306
III.
Not so; we two are strangers,—we were never friends on earth;We never slept beneath one roof, nor sate beside one hearth.
And yet, methinks, we are not strange,—so many chains there be
Which seem to weave a viewless band between my soul and thee.
Sweet sister of my early friend, the kind, the single-hearted,
Than whose remembrance none more bright still gilds the days departed;
Beloved, with more than sister's love, by some whose love to me
Is now almost my brightest gem in this world's treasury—
Shall I not love thee, sainted one, to whom such love was given?
Shall I not mourn thy loss on earth, yet hail thy flight to Heaven?
IV.
Thy grave is wet with bitter tears from eyes whose friendly smileHath power to cheer my sinking heart, my heaviest cares beguile;
The cordial tones and kindly looks, which gladden me and mine,
Oft smiled and sounded pleasantly in unison with thine:
And should it be God's holy will that we their graves should see,
Our tears will flow as fast for them as theirs have flow'd for thee.
Thou must not be estranged from us—we too must share thy love;
We claim thee for our spirit friend, our sister saint above.
Where'er thy present home may be, whate'er thy present bliss,
We call thee, from thine own bright world, to smile on us in this.
307
V.
If blessed souls may wander from the region of their rest,—If thou watchest still the infant's sleep who lately drain'd thy breast,—
If still around the nuptial bed thy phantom footsteps glide,—
If still thou walk'st invisible by thy saintly parent's side,—
We bid thee—wilt thou hear us—from the haunts thou hold'st so dear,
To join awhile our fireside group, and view our friendly cheer.
Hover near us, in thy holiness,—smile sweet on home and hearth,
Let thy unseen presence soothe our woes and sanctify our mirth;
So may we with thy spirit hold communion calm and high,
Till we follow thee, by Jesu's grace, to thy home beyond the sky.
308
STANZAS
WRITTEN IN A SICK ROOM BEFORE DAWN,
January 8, 1835.
I
At length they slumber sweetly,—The mother and her child;
And all their pains completely
Are now to rest beguiled.
Thank God, who to our prayers
Hath sent this blest reply,
To soothe awhile my anxious cares,
And calm my wakeful eye.
II
Our maid, with watching weary,To late repose is gone;
And, in this chamber dreary,
I sit and muse alone.
O joy! that, for a space,
My heart to muse is free
From my sweet boy's imploring face,
And moans of agony.
309
III
And joy! that his dear mother,Beside him close reclined,
Doth in oblivion smother
The sorrows of her mind;
And that her body's pangs,
Which she so meekly bore,
Relax awhile their piercing fangs,
And vex her frame no more.
IV
Who would not share my anguish,To see that suffering pair
Condemn'd to pine and languish
In pain and sickness there?
Two gentle souls, like those,
So pure from guilt within,
Doom'd haply to these bitter woes
For my unpardon'd sin?
V
For oh! in this dark season,What tales doth conscience tell!
How doth awaken'd reason
Reveal the bosom's hell!
What shapes before me start,
Too frightful to express,
Of sins long cherish'd in my heart,
And old unfaithfulness!
VI
Full many a wild transgression,In reckless boyhood wrought,
Comes forth to make confession
In this sad hour of thought;
And headstrong courses run,
Through paths of vice and wrong;
310
And talents buried long.
VII
They stand reveal'd before me,—A black and hideous crowd;
And wail dire warnings o'er me,
And threatenings deep and loud.
The sensual days of youth,
And manhood's sloth are there;
And service slack perform'd to truth,
And much neglect of prayer.
VIII
Ah! little think my neighboursHow weak a thing is he,
Who thus among them labours
With pastoral ministry:
They know not, when they hear
My speech so blunt and bold,
How oft my heart, with doubt and fear,
Is comfortless and cold.
IX
And is it then to chastenThese grievous faults in me,
That pain and sickness fasten
Their fangs, my child, on thee?
Is it for sins of mine,
My own beloved wife,
That all these fiery pangs of thine
Embitter thy dear life?
X
Oh, then, with deep repentanceLet me avert the blow,
311
Which dooms my house to woe.
Let tears of contrite love
My soul's pollution wash,
And more devout obedience prove
How I have felt the lash.
XI
It may be God will hear me,With loving mercy mild,
And send sweet hope to cheer me
For thee and for our child.
I felt his hand just now—
Methought its heat was gone,
And on his late so feverish brow
A blessed moisture shone.
XII
He utter'd not, at waking,Those piteous cries of pain;
His head's perpetual aching
Hath sunk to rest again.
And thou art slumbering still—
I hear thee breathing deep;
God save thee from all threaten'd ill
By this refreshing sleep!
XIII
Two sufferers meek and lowlyHave ye together been;
Thy heart, with patience holy
And humble faith, serene:
His pains so sweetly borne
Could ne'er have been, I guess,
Had God not soothed his heart forlorn
With his own tenderness.
312
XIV
The dawn at length is breakingIn yon clear, frosty skies;
Our servants now are shaking
The slumber from their eyes.
O may the coming day
Bring health and peace to you,
And summon me stern duty's way
More straightly to pursue.
313
DIRGE,
SUGGESTED IN SLEEP.
I
Away! away! away!This earth's no longer gay;
For our child lies dead
In his grass-grown bed—
Shall we lie there too? O yea!
II
Away! away! away!All things look old and grey;
There's nought below
But death and woe—
Shall we love this world? O nay!
III
Away! away! away!Heaven's fields are bright and gay;
And our child dwells there
In the brightest air—
Shall we follow him thither? O yea!
314
IV
Away! away! away!Though rugged and steep's the way,
Our child looks down
In his sunbright crown—
Shall he look in vain? O nay!
V
Away! away! away!In the grave where Jesus lay—
Where our child lies now,—
Shall I and thou
Sleep sound, sweet love? O yea!
VI
Away! away! away!To the realms of eternal day;
Our path we must win
Against sorrow and sin—
Shall we falter or faint? O nay!
315
FAREWELL TO HERNE BAY.
WRITTEN AT THE MOMENT OF DEPARTURE.
I
Away! away! away!Through the dancing waves and spray
Like light we glide
With wind and tide—
Farewell to fair Herne Bay!
II
Away! away! away!We'll greet thee as we may;
Though we found thee glad,
And we leave thee sad,
Thou'rt dear to us, Herne Bay.
III
Away! away! away!O! little we thought, that day
When we near'd thy shore,
That we now, but four
Out of five, should leave Herne Bay.
316
IV
Away! away! away!When the grass grows green and gay
On our infant's grave,
O'er the swift sea wave,
We'll seek thee again, Herne Bay.
V
Away! away! away!A treasure we leave for aye,
Which shall mark a track
For our fond hearts back
To thee and to thine, Herne Bay.
VI
Away! away! away!Let's weep no more, but pray
That each aching breast
Of us four may rest
As the fifth rests in Herne Bay.
317
STANZAS.
I
Was this too needed? must even thou,So firm in faith, so meek of heart,
So chasten'd by long suffering, bow
Once more beneath a bitterer smart
Than earth's worst sorrows can impart
To any unregenerate soul?
Must thou, enfranchised as thou art,
So nearly, from sin's dark control,
Still bleed beneath the stripes which make us sinners whole?
II
I thought (ah vain and selfish thought!)That all thy chastisements were o'er;
For that thy heart had now been taught
Christ's hardest lesson, and no more
Should ache as it hath ached of yore:
And 'twas a dear delight to me
To hope that, as Life's daylight wore,
Thy sky grew clear, and I should see
Thy sun, without a cloud, go down rejoicingly.
III
I hoped for years serene and calm,Still calmer as their close drew nigh;
318
Of Heaven's profoundest peace, while I,
Sharing that deep tranquillity,
Should dwell near thy beloved side,
And learn thy wisdom pure and high,
And how thy earlier faith was tried,
And how thy soul had been, through suffering, sanctified.
IV
I knew that in thy bosom dweltA silent grief, a hidden fear,
A sting which could be only felt
By spirits to their God most dear!
Which yet thou felt'st, from year to year,
Unsoften'd, nay embitter'd still;
And many a secret sigh and tear
Heaved thy sad heart, thine eyes did fill,
And anxious thoughts thou hadst presaging direst ill.
V
My prayers (ah! why so cold and few?)Were that this weight might be removed;
And that thy living eyes might view
All they desired in all they loved;
But when imagination roved
Through dreams of sorrow, which might be,
My dull, blind heart was never moved,
Even by the thought that thou shouldst see
Of this thy bitterest fear the dread reality.
VI
And now thou bleed'st beneath the blow—The blow I deem'd too sharp to fall—
Ah! how shall I assuage thy woe?
What flow'rets scatter o'er the pall
Of earthly Hope's sad funeral?
Alas! I cannot rend the sky,
319
To burst the gloom which clouds the eye
E'en of thy faith, and wraps Heaven's self in mystery.
VII
I cannot—nor, alas! canst thou;Although no dearer child hath He
Who grieves thy saintly spirit now
With this most dread severity;
Nor suffers thee as yet to see
Deliverance from heart-crushing woes;
Yet mayst thou to His bosom flee,
To Him thy secret soul disclose,
And in his long-tried love thy perfect trust repose.
VIII
Thou dost—ah! well I know thou dost—I know thy heart was all in heaven,
To earth and earth's delusions lost,
To God and Christ completely given,
Ere yet by this last stroke 'twas riven:
Long hast thou dwelt with us on earth,
A spirit purged from earthly leaven,
Still sharing all our grief and mirth,
Half angel though thou art, God's child by second birth.
IX
Thy pangs, which now pierce soul and sense,No child of this world e'er hath known;
And shall these earn no recompense
From Him whom they proclaim thine own—
The heir of Heaven's eternal throne?
Oh think not he can aught decree
Not breathing tenderest love alone,
And final bliss, to thine and thee—
Aught that could mar in heaven thy full felicity.
320
X
In heaven?—and must I think of Earth?Ah! dearest friend—thy fading brow—
Thy failing strength—this new-sent dearth
Of hope, which makes thy firm heart bow!
Have I no cause to tremble now?
And yet—shame on my selfish fears—
Shame that such fears I should avow—
Why grieve to think thy mortal years
Were number'd, thy work done in this our world of tears?
XI
I will not;—yet I must—I must;For what, alas! were I and mine,
When we had given thee back to dust;
When all that tenderness of thine,
Thy wisdom pure, thy faith divine,
Had vanish'd from our earthly store?
When thy deep heart's exhaustless mine
Should yield us its rich gems no more,
And all our loving talk, our pleasant days be o'er?
XII
I may not think on griefs like these;—Yet, yet, beloved friend, remain;
If earthly love hath power to ease
The pressure of thy grievous pain,
And cheer thy chasten'd heart again;
Still let us minister to thee,
Nor haply minister in vain,
Whate'er of tenderest aid may be,
Whate'er of comfort yet, in all love's treasury.
XIII
Stay with us till our hearts are strong;Till we can gaze, with steadier eye,
321
Thy spirit shall be throned on high:
Stay till we too are fit to die,—
Christ's messenger to us and ours;
Teach us to share thy victory
O'er lust and sin's rebellious powers,
And lead our steps, with thine, to Heaven's unfading bowers.
322
TO MARION.
I
Thanks, Marion, for thy sojourn briefIn this our English home;
Source, as it is, of present grief,
But joy for years to come;
Of grief, that we must part to-day,
Of joy, that thou, when far away
Beyond the ocean foam,
Wilt leave, on mine and Margaret's heart,
An image fair of what thou art.
II
To her, or ere thy face we knew,A cherish'd dream wast thou;
The tints her fancy o'er it threw
Have scarcely faded now:
But fancy's touch hath slender skill
The heart's desiring void to fill,
Or airy shapes endow
Of the unseen we pant to see,
With life and warm reality.
III
Hadst thou been coarse of form and mien,Or base of mind and heart,
323
To know thee as thou art.
Then she and I might both have grieved
That our own visions, half believed,
For ever must depart
Before one disenchanting glance
Of thy long look'd for countenance.
IV
But we have seen thee;—seen the mindThat lights thy full, dark eye;
Enjoy'd thy feelings warm and kind,
Thy spirit clear and high;
Have follow'd thee through thought's wide range,
With many a cordial interchange
Of mutual sympathy;
And seen thee tread the paths of life,
The friend, the mother, and the wife.
V
Henceforth there dwells in either heartA form of flesh and blood,
Not shaped by fancy's treacherous art,
But known and understood:
No frail creation of the thought,
From frail materials feebly wrought,
In some fantastic mood;
But one whose real traits express
Distinct and breathing loveliness.
VI
Thanks for thy visit; thanks for allWhich thou wilt leave behind;
The light that on our hearts will fall
From thy reflected mind;
324
The frequent thought on things above,
The speech sincere, but kind,
The humour gay, the sportive mirth,
The laugh that gladdens home and hearth.
VII
Thanks for all these:—we know not howTheir worth is prized elsewhere;
But here our grateful hearts avow
That thou art good and fair.
And here thy memory still shall dwell,
A pleasant thought, a soothing spell
To blunt the stings of care;
Thy substitute, when thou art gone,
For friendly thought to rest upon.
VIII
And thou—when thou once more shalt seeThy home in hot Bengal,
Shall no remembrance cleave to thee
Of us, of ours, of all
The friends whom here we love so well,
The quiet haunts in which we dwell,
The interests, great and small,
The tranquil pleasures, cares and ways
Which fill the English pastor's days?
IX
Take with thee, Marion, thoughts like theseTo cheer thy Indian home,
And give thy burthen'd spirit ease
When grief and care shall come.
Go, tell our friends, who linger there,
Our fields are pleasant as they were
Ere they began to roam;
325
They'll find our hearts unalter'd still.
X
Nor worthless, nor by them unfeltSuch words from us will be;
Nor slow, perchance, their hearts to melt
When they shall speak with thee
Still fresh from calm familiar talk,
From fireside laugh and evening walk
With my sweet wife and me;
Thy voice a breeze from happier climes,
Breathing old thoughts, old joys, old times.
XI
There's one who soothed us here erewhileIn days of care and pain,
With the sweet sunshine of her smile—
Our own beloved Jane.
Her gentle heart 'twill surely stir,
To think that here thou'st roam'd like her,
And lain where she hath lain;
Hast track'd the paths her footsteps press'd,
And shared, like her, our household rest.
XII
High intercourse methinks should beBetween her soul and thine,
And store of mutual sympathy
In thoughts and cares divine.
With open heart and serious speech
May ye take council, each with each,
From Truth's exhaustless mine
Extracting treasures richer far
Than those of eastern monarchs are.
326
XIII
We know not if in after yearsWe e'er may meet again;
Nor whether, then, in smiles or tears,
In pleasure or in pain:
But this we know, that whatsoe'er
The burthen each may have to bear,
'Twill not be borne in vain,
If so our sever'd souls may be
Prepared for immortality.
XIV
Farewell! mayst thou, in yon dark land,Thy hard course shape aright,
And shed o'er that fraternal band
Thy spirit's inner light;
Stern duty's arduous course pursue,
Thy human will, thyself subdue
By faith's all-conquering might;
And meet us, when life's toil is done,
The good fight fought, the victory won.
327
TO SYLVIA.
I
Maiden, on thy vaunted beautyNever yet mine eye hath fed;
But, between young love and duty,
Thou, I know, art sore bested.
Love indeed hath been to thee
No vain trick of phantasy.
II
Haply childhood's visions told theeHe was mild, and bland, and fair;
Would, with soft embrace, enfold thee
From the touch of pain and care;
Strew thy path with brightest flowers,
Twine above thee myrtle bowers.
III
Such, in Eden's blissful valleys,Love perchance might still have been,
Had not hell's triumphant malice
Marr'd his sweetness, dimm'd his sheen;
Such doth Fancy paint him still
To the longing heart and will.
328
IV
Tell us, maiden, hast thou found himThus delicious, thus divine?
Doth such witchery breathe around him?
Is his spirit so benign?
Doth he shed, o'er heart and brain,
More of pleasure or of pain?
V
Dreams there be of brain-sick passion,Sentimental groan and sigh,
Heart-aches aped for very fashion,—
Of such whimsies ask not I:
Let them trouble fops and fools,
Reign supreme o'er boarding-schools.
VI
But with fiercer pain and anguishLove like thine must oft contend;
Oft the breaking heart must languish
Till, with life, its sorrows end.
Well our Shakspere spake, in sooth,
“True love's course did ne'er run smooth.”
VII
Mammon spreads his glittering treasuresTo entrap parental eyes;
Laughs to scorn our purest pleasures,
Revels in our tears and sighs.
How should true love flourish here,
In this earth's chill atmosphere?
VIII
Hard thy task;—yet meet it, maiden,With a true and steadfast will,
329
Faint beneath the burden still.
Through thy worst temptations prove
Firm in duty, firm in love.
IX
Better 'twere to wither slowlyOn the lonely virgin stalk,
Than, fast bound in ties unholy,
Through a desert world to walk,
Dragging still, with toil and pain,
Sordid Mammon's golden chain.
X
Better far that maids should sprinkleFlowers upon thy virgin grave,
When the star-beams faintly twinkle,
And the moon is on the wave,
Than thy brow with wreaths adorn
For a loveless bridal morn.
XI
Better go a saint unspotted,To thy glorious home above,
Than, by this world's gauds besotted,
Lose for ever life and love;
Throned in empty state and show,
Empress of a world of woe.
XII
Yet, perchance, at length victoriousO'er this danger and distress,
We shall hail thy triumph glorious
With loud songs of happiness;
Lead thee home in bridal pomp,
With the sound of harp and trump;
330
XIII
Come, with shouting, forth to meet thee,Wife and husband, sire and son;
As our new-found sister greet thee,
Boldly woo'd and nobly won.
Meet rejoicings then shall be
In our festive family.
XIV
Keep thy love, a guarded treasureIn thine inmost heart laid by;
All its pain and all its pleasure
Shall thy spirit purify;
If thou rein wild fancy still
With a firm and temperate will.
XV
Murmur not;—bethink thee rather,When these pangs thy patience try,
That thou hast another Father
In thy home above the sky.
When thine eyes with tears grow dim,
Turn them patiently to Him.
XVI
Welcome His consoling Spirit,Then, whate'er thy mortal doom,
Doubt not that thou shalt inherit
Endless bliss beyond the tomb:
Where, redeem'd from earthly thrall,
Heavenly love is all in all.
331
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
I
They say that, since I wander'd lastAmidst my childhood's haunts and bowers,
A spirit to the skies hath past
From these romantic vales of ours,
For whom all gentle hearts make moan,
Each feeling all the loss its own.
II
And I, they say, must not withholdA funeral chaplet from her bier;
For that her love was shared of old
By many to my memory dear;
And that, in youth, there fell on me
Some flashes of her brilliancy.
III
They bid me think on days long past,When first that gentle face I knew,
Whose lineaments are fading fast
In dark decay's sepulchral hue;
They tell me of her graceful form,
Where banquets now the hungry worm.
332
IV
And they remind me of her voice,And of her magic minstrel skill,
Whose music made e'en grief rejoice—
But those rich notes are vocal still;
Blending their sweetness with the hymn
Of Heaven's melodious seraphim.
V
They tell me that her heart was kindAnd pure as hearts of angels be;
They tell me thought enrich'd her mind,—
And I believed them; though to me
What matters now its richest worth,
Since she's in Heaven, and I on earth?
VI
They tell me that, in later years,Her hopes were all with Christ in Heaven?
That she had wash'd her heart in tears,
And felt sweet peace for sins forgiven.
I doubt them not; would God that I
Could thus to Time's poor trifles die!
VII
So she is in her earthy bed,—Her place in this world's void for aye;
She rests among the saintly dead,
Asleep until the judgment day;
And they, who loved her, vainly long
For her sweet looks, and words, and song.
VIII
They look and long: beside their hearthThey listen for her voice in vain;
333
They may not hear its tones again:
With craving heart, and aching eye,
They seek her still unconsciously.
IX
And there are reliques, fair though few,Which of her sweetness she hath left;
The forms her fairy pencil drew,
The garden of her care bereft;
The children, who as dear had grown,
To her, as they had been her own.
X
And poor men weep upon her graveFor many a blessing now no more;
The words she spake, the gifts she gave,
The balm her kindness loved to pour
Into their bleeding hearts, when care
And want, and grief were rankling there.
XI
And who shall fill her place on earth?And who her mother's tears shall dry?
And who relieve her sister's dearth
Of love, and bliss, and sympathy?
What voice shall summon from the dead
The grace and goodness which have fled?
XII
It may not be; though oft in dreamsPerchance her image wanders back,
Fair as of old, and trailing gleams
Of glory down her earthward track;
So visiting the midnight sleep
Of eyes that only wake to weep.
334
XIII
That wake to weep? to weep for her?The freed from Earth—the housed in Heaven?
Triumphant o'er the sepulchre,—
Her sorrows past, her sins forgiven?
To weep for her? it must not be;
Our tears would blot her victory.
XIV
Nay, hymn her flight with rapturous songs;For she, in Death's embrace, hath done
With human griefs, and fears, and wrongs;
Her fight is fought, her triumph won.
The amaranth crown is round her brow,
She dwells beside her Saviour now.
XV
Weep not, or weep as those should weepWhose hope is stronger than their sorrow;
To-night our loved and lost ones sleep,
But Christ will bring them back to-morrow.
We shall not long lament them here,
Our home is in a brighter sphere.
335
FAMILIAR EPISTLES.
NO. I. TO A FEMALE FRIEND.
Lady, whose sojourn in our simple town
Hath been an angel's visit, showering down,
From the far regions of its own bright skies,
Streams of pure love, and kindliest sympathies;
O lady, whom most fain would I address
With all St. John's pastoral tenderness,
Beseeching thee that we might love each other,
For the truth's sake, like sister and like brother.
(Or if a holier name than these there be
In Christian Friendship's phraseology,
Would, lady, such might serve for thee and me,)
If our past year of intercourse (most sweet
To me and mine) allow it—I entreat
Bear with me while I weave thee a rough song,
(For verse and I have lost each other long)
Of friendliest thoughts and feelings, such, in sooth,
As, scarce experienced in my prime of youth,
I little deem'd would e'er have glow'd again
In this worn heart and care-encumber'd brain.
Thanks to thee, friend revered, for thus revealing
These unsuspected springs of blissful feeling!
These deep, rich veins of comfort pure and high,
This growth of fresh and fervent sympathy;
These treasures of affection, long unknown,
Till the sweet sunbeams of thy friendship shone
Into my spirit's depths, and brought to light
A world of pleasures new and exquisite.
O! untold thanks to thee, that thou hast shown
What, but for thee, I haply ne'er had known
In its most bright and captivating dress—
The perfect beauty of true holiness,
With every sweet accomplishment combined
Of female grace, and more than female mind.
Thanks for the knowledge thou so well hast taught,
That 'tis not only youth's impassion'd thought,
And glowing fancy, which makes this world bright,
Gilding each object with unreal light,
And making us discern, in all we view,
Worth so transcendent if it were but true;
Till the fond heart, too frequently deceived,
Suspects all goodness, which it once believed,
E'en like the apples on the Dead Sea shore,
Goodly without, but ashes at the core.
From such drear thoughts by thee for ever freed,
And taught a nobler and more cheerful creed,—
Taught to perceive, with Reason's sober eye,
A loveliness unknown to phantasy,
To know, by ripe experience, that our earth
Possesses treasures of sublimer worth
Than young imagination e'er conceived,
Or faith, unpractised in the world, believed;
How gladly may I welcome middle age!
How cheerily pursue my pilgrimage,
Secure that nought can wholly darken life,
While thou'rt my friend, and—thou know'st who, my wife.
Hath been an angel's visit, showering down,
From the far regions of its own bright skies,
Streams of pure love, and kindliest sympathies;
O lady, whom most fain would I address
With all St. John's pastoral tenderness,
Beseeching thee that we might love each other,
For the truth's sake, like sister and like brother.
(Or if a holier name than these there be
In Christian Friendship's phraseology,
Would, lady, such might serve for thee and me,)
If our past year of intercourse (most sweet
To me and mine) allow it—I entreat
Bear with me while I weave thee a rough song,
(For verse and I have lost each other long)
Of friendliest thoughts and feelings, such, in sooth,
As, scarce experienced in my prime of youth,
I little deem'd would e'er have glow'd again
In this worn heart and care-encumber'd brain.
Thanks to thee, friend revered, for thus revealing
These unsuspected springs of blissful feeling!
These deep, rich veins of comfort pure and high,
This growth of fresh and fervent sympathy;
336
Till the sweet sunbeams of thy friendship shone
Into my spirit's depths, and brought to light
A world of pleasures new and exquisite.
O! untold thanks to thee, that thou hast shown
What, but for thee, I haply ne'er had known
In its most bright and captivating dress—
The perfect beauty of true holiness,
With every sweet accomplishment combined
Of female grace, and more than female mind.
Thanks for the knowledge thou so well hast taught,
That 'tis not only youth's impassion'd thought,
And glowing fancy, which makes this world bright,
Gilding each object with unreal light,
And making us discern, in all we view,
Worth so transcendent if it were but true;
Till the fond heart, too frequently deceived,
Suspects all goodness, which it once believed,
E'en like the apples on the Dead Sea shore,
Goodly without, but ashes at the core.
From such drear thoughts by thee for ever freed,
And taught a nobler and more cheerful creed,—
Taught to perceive, with Reason's sober eye,
A loveliness unknown to phantasy,
To know, by ripe experience, that our earth
Possesses treasures of sublimer worth
Than young imagination e'er conceived,
Or faith, unpractised in the world, believed;
How gladly may I welcome middle age!
How cheerily pursue my pilgrimage,
Secure that nought can wholly darken life,
While thou'rt my friend, and—thou know'st who, my wife.
Call not this flattery, deeply valued friend;—
I fear thou wilt; yet could invention lend
Words still more fervent, all too cold would be
To speak the gratitude I owe to thee
For the last year's rich blessings. But no more,
Lest I should pain thee, while thy heart, still sore
From recent grief, shrinks sadlier than before
From praise. I know that death hath been a guest
By the fireside of some whom thou lov'dst best
Of many who love thee; that anxious fears,
Too soon succeeded by swift gushing tears
And funeral laments, have been the lot
Of thy sweet household; yet I mock thee not
With wailings for the dead; for she rests well—
Asleep in Jesus, safe from the rough swell
Of this world's troubled and tempestuous sea,
In the calm haven where we all would be.
Nor will I grieve for thee, in whose tried soul
Faith hath her perfect work, and doth control
The tides of passion nobly. Life for thee
Hath lost some part of its anxiety:
Thy heart hath been sore chasten'd, and no more
Shall ache, as it hath ached in days of yore,
At the drear touch of sorrow; thy worst woe
Hath been endured long since, and nought below
Henceforth shall move thee from thy perfect trust,
Till thine own body shall return to dust,
Thy soul to its Creator. Death hath given
By this last blow one treasure more to Heaven,
Snapp'd one more bond which held thee down to earth,
And all condolence would be little worth
To one whose conversation is, like thine,
Ever more nearly among things divine.
But there's another dear to me and thee,
Thine own bright L---, oh! how fareth she
In this sad wreck of love, beneath this stroke
Of Heaven's own lightning, which at once hath broke
Friendship's strong bonds, worn through so many years,
And strengthen'd in the wearing: are her tears
Yet dry, or does their flowing bring relief
To that absorbing and most passionate grief,
Which only hearts like hers, of finest mould,
Feel as she feels it? Ere that grief grows old,
May He who sent it, and doth never send
A causeless sorrow, shape it to that end
For which I know thy constant prayers ascend
To His eternal presence; may that mind
So proudly gifted, and e'en now inclined
To all things lovely, noble, pure and good,
Be, by this heart-stroke, to His will subdued,
And fix'd on things above.
I fear thou wilt; yet could invention lend
Words still more fervent, all too cold would be
To speak the gratitude I owe to thee
For the last year's rich blessings. But no more,
Lest I should pain thee, while thy heart, still sore
From recent grief, shrinks sadlier than before
337
By the fireside of some whom thou lov'dst best
Of many who love thee; that anxious fears,
Too soon succeeded by swift gushing tears
And funeral laments, have been the lot
Of thy sweet household; yet I mock thee not
With wailings for the dead; for she rests well—
Asleep in Jesus, safe from the rough swell
Of this world's troubled and tempestuous sea,
In the calm haven where we all would be.
Nor will I grieve for thee, in whose tried soul
Faith hath her perfect work, and doth control
The tides of passion nobly. Life for thee
Hath lost some part of its anxiety:
Thy heart hath been sore chasten'd, and no more
Shall ache, as it hath ached in days of yore,
At the drear touch of sorrow; thy worst woe
Hath been endured long since, and nought below
Henceforth shall move thee from thy perfect trust,
Till thine own body shall return to dust,
Thy soul to its Creator. Death hath given
By this last blow one treasure more to Heaven,
Snapp'd one more bond which held thee down to earth,
And all condolence would be little worth
To one whose conversation is, like thine,
Ever more nearly among things divine.
But there's another dear to me and thee,
Thine own bright L---, oh! how fareth she
In this sad wreck of love, beneath this stroke
Of Heaven's own lightning, which at once hath broke
Friendship's strong bonds, worn through so many years,
And strengthen'd in the wearing: are her tears
Yet dry, or does their flowing bring relief
To that absorbing and most passionate grief,
Which only hearts like hers, of finest mould,
Feel as she feels it? Ere that grief grows old,
May He who sent it, and doth never send
A causeless sorrow, shape it to that end
For which I know thy constant prayers ascend
338
So proudly gifted, and e'en now inclined
To all things lovely, noble, pure and good,
Be, by this heart-stroke, to His will subdued,
And fix'd on things above.
Now let me greet
The second daughter of thy love, my sweet
And pensive-hearted M---. Hath she grown
In grace and spiritual beauty, shown
In her most gentle and heart-winning ways?
In that retiring meekness, which to praise
Were to insult it? in that quiet love
To things on earth, but more to things above?
In those mild eyes, serene as summer even,
Which speak of frequent communings with Heaven?
In the sweet zeal with which she doth explore
The fountains, deep and vast, of sacred lore,
To drink of Truth's pure stream? Tell her, from me,
The record of her last year's industry
Now lies upon my table; whereon I
Pore ever and anon with critic eye,
Which yet finds nought to blame, but much to praise. [OMITTED]
Yet haply make the path which must be trod
By my own footsteps heavenward, more secure,
By dint of guiding youthful souls and pure
Up to their home and mine.
The second daughter of thy love, my sweet
And pensive-hearted M---. Hath she grown
In grace and spiritual beauty, shown
In her most gentle and heart-winning ways?
In that retiring meekness, which to praise
Were to insult it? in that quiet love
To things on earth, but more to things above?
In those mild eyes, serene as summer even,
Which speak of frequent communings with Heaven?
In the sweet zeal with which she doth explore
The fountains, deep and vast, of sacred lore,
To drink of Truth's pure stream? Tell her, from me,
The record of her last year's industry
Now lies upon my table; whereon I
Pore ever and anon with critic eye,
Which yet finds nought to blame, but much to praise. [OMITTED]
Yet haply make the path which must be trod
By my own footsteps heavenward, more secure,
By dint of guiding youthful souls and pure
Up to their home and mine.
Shall I forget
Mirthful E---, or disclaim my debt
Of kind remembrances to her? Not so—
Most gladly let me pay her that I owe;
Thanks for her childhood's friendship, a sweet boon
Made up of pure affections, which too soon
Our cold world will sophisticate, unless
Thy most discreet maternal tenderness,
Aided and blest by guidance from above,
Preserve the spring untainted;—may such prove
The crown of thy endeavours, and may she
Enjoy, while yet she can, the fancy-free
And happy days of childhood—happier still
To have the wanderings of her human will
Check'd by a Christian mother.
Mirthful E---, or disclaim my debt
Of kind remembrances to her? Not so—
Most gladly let me pay her that I owe;
Thanks for her childhood's friendship, a sweet boon
Made up of pure affections, which too soon
Our cold world will sophisticate, unless
Thy most discreet maternal tenderness,
Aided and blest by guidance from above,
Preserve the spring untainted;—may such prove
339
Enjoy, while yet she can, the fancy-free
And happy days of childhood—happier still
To have the wanderings of her human will
Check'd by a Christian mother.
But how fares
The grave-eyed E---? Academic cares
Prove not, I trust, too heavy for his frail
And spirit-wasted strength. Is he still pale
From studious nights and days of contest high,
Struggling for hard and doubtful victory.
With his well-match'd compeers! Success attend
His struggles, and mayst thou, high-hearted friend,
Be well repaid for all thy pious care
Of his past years, reaping a harvest fair
Of hopes fulfill'd in him.
The grave-eyed E---? Academic cares
Prove not, I trust, too heavy for his frail
And spirit-wasted strength. Is he still pale
From studious nights and days of contest high,
Struggling for hard and doubtful victory.
With his well-match'd compeers! Success attend
His struggles, and mayst thou, high-hearted friend,
Be well repaid for all thy pious care
Of his past years, reaping a harvest fair
Of hopes fulfill'd in him.
Now wouldst thou learn
Somewhat of me and mine? The bay of Herne,
Hard by the towers of Canterbury old,
Doth, with its huge and shingly arms, enfold
Her whom reluctantly I spare from mine;
There she disporteth in the amorous brine,—
A mixture (pleasant as such mixtures be)
Of seaweed and Thames mud, miscall'd “the Sea,”
Wherein brave Maggie and her children three,
Her mother and two sisters, brave as she,
Plunge like so many mermaids merrily.
Heaven send the strength she needs (thou too wilt share,
Dear friend, in this my oft repeated prayer),
And give her to her household cares again,
Such as we both would have her, from all pain
And weakness quite deliver'd.
Somewhat of me and mine? The bay of Herne,
Hard by the towers of Canterbury old,
Doth, with its huge and shingly arms, enfold
Her whom reluctantly I spare from mine;
There she disporteth in the amorous brine,—
A mixture (pleasant as such mixtures be)
Of seaweed and Thames mud, miscall'd “the Sea,”
Wherein brave Maggie and her children three,
Her mother and two sisters, brave as she,
Plunge like so many mermaids merrily.
Heaven send the strength she needs (thou too wilt share,
Dear friend, in this my oft repeated prayer),
And give her to her household cares again,
Such as we both would have her, from all pain
And weakness quite deliver'd.
For myself
I wander here, a melancholy elf,
'Mid the sweet scenes in which my childhood roved,
Smiled on by many faces, long beloved,
Though now sore alter'd by the touch of years;
Yet lovelier far each well known spot appears
E'en than it did in youth; I know not why,
Unless perhance, that childhood's artless eye,
Familiarized too soon to scenes like these,
Saw not what now my riper manhood sees,
Nor my heart felt what now it deeply feels
In Nature's loveliest forms.
I wander here, a melancholy elf,
'Mid the sweet scenes in which my childhood roved,
Smiled on by many faces, long beloved,
Though now sore alter'd by the touch of years;
Yet lovelier far each well known spot appears
E'en than it did in youth; I know not why,
340
Familiarized too soon to scenes like these,
Saw not what now my riper manhood sees,
Nor my heart felt what now it deeply feels
In Nature's loveliest forms.
But sadness steals
O'er my poor heart, to find itself alone
Where least 'twould be so; where each rock and stone,
Green hill and gurgling stream, and stately tree,
Seem to demand, “Thy loved one, where is she?
Where the sweet pledges of her love to thee?”
Alas that 'tis so! that these weeks of rest
'Midst scenes and places which should cheer me best,
Should find me a lone widower. Yet so
High Heaven hath will'd; and hence the thoughts that flow
From heart to heart, the feelings that are sent
To gladden wedlock, must find other vent,
Best found, by me, in verse; therefore do I
Weave my thin woof of flimsy phantasy
(Poor substitute for sober household bliss,
And store of wedded joys) in strains like this,
Bidding thought wander to each distant scene
Of pleasure yet to be, or which hath been.
Therefore my present poverty I cheer
By reckoning up the treasures rich and dear
Which I possess elsewhere, and (best of all)
Think of thy friendship, lady, and recall
Thy virtues and thy kindnesses;—but now
'Tis time to rest this weary heart and brow
On my lone couch: all guardian angels dwell
With thee and thine for ever—so farewell.
O'er my poor heart, to find itself alone
Where least 'twould be so; where each rock and stone,
Green hill and gurgling stream, and stately tree,
Seem to demand, “Thy loved one, where is she?
Where the sweet pledges of her love to thee?”
Alas that 'tis so! that these weeks of rest
'Midst scenes and places which should cheer me best,
Should find me a lone widower. Yet so
High Heaven hath will'd; and hence the thoughts that flow
From heart to heart, the feelings that are sent
To gladden wedlock, must find other vent,
Best found, by me, in verse; therefore do I
Weave my thin woof of flimsy phantasy
(Poor substitute for sober household bliss,
And store of wedded joys) in strains like this,
Bidding thought wander to each distant scene
Of pleasure yet to be, or which hath been.
Therefore my present poverty I cheer
By reckoning up the treasures rich and dear
Which I possess elsewhere, and (best of all)
Think of thy friendship, lady, and recall
Thy virtues and thy kindnesses;—but now
'Tis time to rest this weary heart and brow
On my lone couch: all guardian angels dwell
With thee and thine for ever—so farewell.
NO. II. TO THE REV. DERWENT COLERIDGE.
For many a year, old friend, since thou and I
Dream'd our young dreams of twin-born poesy,
And wandering, arm in arm, Cam's banks along,
Held our wild talk, and framed our wayward song,
My stream of verse, as thou full well dost know,
If not dried up, at least hath ceased to flow:
Scarce, I believe, for other cause than this,
That my whole life hath been so full of bliss,
So rich in wedded and domestic love,
That the full heart hath had no will to rove
From the calm daylight of life's real sphere
Into the world of dreams. Year follow'd year,
In one scarce varied, yet unwearying round
Of undisturb'd enjoyment; still I found
The present more unclouded than the past,
And almost deem'd joy's increase thus would last,
Endless and still progressive. Why should I
Quit this fair world, and all its imagery,
For the unreal and unblest domain
Of shadowy fancy? why invoke again
My passionate Muse? why crowd this world-worn brain
With unaccustom'd visions, far less bright
Than the loved objects of my waking sight;
Exchanging sober certainty of peace
For wild unrest? 'Twas well my song should cease,
My harp lie mute; but now that Death hath come
Across my threshold, and despoil'd my home
Of its long virgin bliss, I rove once more
Through the dim fields of thought, well known of yore,
But long forsaken; summon from my brain
The ghosts of dreams which there had buried lain
Through my past years of happiness; extend
My plumeless wings, and struggle to ascend
(With efforts weak indeed, and little worth)
From the dim sphere of this perturbed earth
To Fancy's wizard realm. Thou'lt hardly guess
How swiftly, since yon day of bitterness,
My stream of what was once poetic thought
Hath flow'd and murmur'd; how this pen hath wrought
At the old toil, for years well nigh forgot,
While verse, almost without a blur or blot,
Starts from its touch unbidden. So I range
From bank to bank, culling a garland strange
Of many-colour'd flowers,—explore the mine,
Boundless and deep, of Hebrew lore divine,—
And fashion some sweet tale, by Moses writ,
Into such simple rhyme as may befit
The studies of my nursery; or again
Revert, in thought, to our still recent pain,
And ere its memory fade (if fade it may),
Or all its bitterness hath past away,
Note down minutely every pang we felt
While Death, (grim inmate,) in our household dwelt;
Our griefs and consolations, one and all,
Before and since our darling's funeral:
Thus treasuring up such thoughts, for after years,
As then may fill our eyes with pleasant tears.
In these, and tasks like these, do I beguile
My leisure hours, and wander many a mile
With book and pencil; Gerard at my side,
Meanwhile his gallant donkey doth bestride,
With questions grave and deep, from time to time,
Scattering my thoughts, and spoiling many a rhyme;
Which, were his chat less clever or less quaint,
Might well provoke ten poets or a saint.
Thus by degrees have I laid up a store
Of verse—some eighteen hundred lines or more,
In two brief months, yet not encroached at all
On pastoral labours or didactical;
By strict economy of brains and time
Alternating my sermons with my rhyme,
And not retrenching half an hour per week
Of lecture to my flock, a page of Greek
Or Latin to my pupils. So I spend
My time (I trust not idly), and now send
A sample (not, perchance, first-rate), to thee
Of my new manufacture, which will be
A voice as from the sepulchre, to tell
Of days long past, but still remember'd well,
And ne'er to be forgotten; days of youth,
And hope, and gladness, and unsullied truth,
And rich imagination, which no more
Shall visit us in this world, or restore
What Time hath taken from us. Yet, my friend,
I trust Time borrows less than he doth lend
To souls like thine and mine; nor would I now,
While recent grief still half o'erclouds my brow—
While that, of which my home hath been bereft,
Still throws a shade of gloom o'er all that's left—
Give, if I could, my four and thirty years,
With all their cares and sorrows, hopes and fears,
For reckless twenty-one:—I'd not exchange
For all the ideal beauty, bright and strange,
Which fancy painted in the days gone by,
My Margaret's thin pale cheek and sunken eye;
(For grief, alas! on her hath done its work,
And in the depths of that deep heart doth lurk
A still consuming trouble;) I'd not give
The bliss which in my children's smiles doth live—
Their prattle, or their sports, for all the joy,
(Nay, ten times all) which, when I was a boy,
Or wayward stripling, danced before my sight
In waking dreams fantastically bright;
Though I believe, e'en then, my fondest thought
But rarely long'd for, or imagined aught
Of bliss more perfect than hath been my share;
Which, if 'tis mingled now with grief and care,
Why should I marvel, or repine that I
Must bear the burdens of mortality,—
The ills that flesh is heir to? I believe
That God, in mercy, causes me to grieve;
And, should the current of my future years
Be ruffled with deep sighs, and swoln with tears,
Let me reflect how cloudless and serene
The spring and summer of my life have been:
Yea, and thank God for sending griefs like these,
Lest I, like Moab, settle on my lees;
And, having preach'd to others, prove one day
Myself a miserable castaway.
Dream'd our young dreams of twin-born poesy,
341
Held our wild talk, and framed our wayward song,
My stream of verse, as thou full well dost know,
If not dried up, at least hath ceased to flow:
Scarce, I believe, for other cause than this,
That my whole life hath been so full of bliss,
So rich in wedded and domestic love,
That the full heart hath had no will to rove
From the calm daylight of life's real sphere
Into the world of dreams. Year follow'd year,
In one scarce varied, yet unwearying round
Of undisturb'd enjoyment; still I found
The present more unclouded than the past,
And almost deem'd joy's increase thus would last,
Endless and still progressive. Why should I
Quit this fair world, and all its imagery,
For the unreal and unblest domain
Of shadowy fancy? why invoke again
My passionate Muse? why crowd this world-worn brain
With unaccustom'd visions, far less bright
Than the loved objects of my waking sight;
Exchanging sober certainty of peace
For wild unrest? 'Twas well my song should cease,
My harp lie mute; but now that Death hath come
Across my threshold, and despoil'd my home
Of its long virgin bliss, I rove once more
Through the dim fields of thought, well known of yore,
But long forsaken; summon from my brain
The ghosts of dreams which there had buried lain
Through my past years of happiness; extend
My plumeless wings, and struggle to ascend
(With efforts weak indeed, and little worth)
From the dim sphere of this perturbed earth
To Fancy's wizard realm. Thou'lt hardly guess
How swiftly, since yon day of bitterness,
My stream of what was once poetic thought
Hath flow'd and murmur'd; how this pen hath wrought
At the old toil, for years well nigh forgot,
While verse, almost without a blur or blot,
342
From bank to bank, culling a garland strange
Of many-colour'd flowers,—explore the mine,
Boundless and deep, of Hebrew lore divine,—
And fashion some sweet tale, by Moses writ,
Into such simple rhyme as may befit
The studies of my nursery; or again
Revert, in thought, to our still recent pain,
And ere its memory fade (if fade it may),
Or all its bitterness hath past away,
Note down minutely every pang we felt
While Death, (grim inmate,) in our household dwelt;
Our griefs and consolations, one and all,
Before and since our darling's funeral:
Thus treasuring up such thoughts, for after years,
As then may fill our eyes with pleasant tears.
In these, and tasks like these, do I beguile
My leisure hours, and wander many a mile
With book and pencil; Gerard at my side,
Meanwhile his gallant donkey doth bestride,
With questions grave and deep, from time to time,
Scattering my thoughts, and spoiling many a rhyme;
Which, were his chat less clever or less quaint,
Might well provoke ten poets or a saint.
Thus by degrees have I laid up a store
Of verse—some eighteen hundred lines or more,
In two brief months, yet not encroached at all
On pastoral labours or didactical;
By strict economy of brains and time
Alternating my sermons with my rhyme,
And not retrenching half an hour per week
Of lecture to my flock, a page of Greek
Or Latin to my pupils. So I spend
My time (I trust not idly), and now send
A sample (not, perchance, first-rate), to thee
Of my new manufacture, which will be
A voice as from the sepulchre, to tell
Of days long past, but still remember'd well,
And ne'er to be forgotten; days of youth,
343
And rich imagination, which no more
Shall visit us in this world, or restore
What Time hath taken from us. Yet, my friend,
I trust Time borrows less than he doth lend
To souls like thine and mine; nor would I now,
While recent grief still half o'erclouds my brow—
While that, of which my home hath been bereft,
Still throws a shade of gloom o'er all that's left—
Give, if I could, my four and thirty years,
With all their cares and sorrows, hopes and fears,
For reckless twenty-one:—I'd not exchange
For all the ideal beauty, bright and strange,
Which fancy painted in the days gone by,
My Margaret's thin pale cheek and sunken eye;
(For grief, alas! on her hath done its work,
And in the depths of that deep heart doth lurk
A still consuming trouble;) I'd not give
The bliss which in my children's smiles doth live—
Their prattle, or their sports, for all the joy,
(Nay, ten times all) which, when I was a boy,
Or wayward stripling, danced before my sight
In waking dreams fantastically bright;
Though I believe, e'en then, my fondest thought
But rarely long'd for, or imagined aught
Of bliss more perfect than hath been my share;
Which, if 'tis mingled now with grief and care,
Why should I marvel, or repine that I
Must bear the burdens of mortality,—
The ills that flesh is heir to? I believe
That God, in mercy, causes me to grieve;
And, should the current of my future years
Be ruffled with deep sighs, and swoln with tears,
Let me reflect how cloudless and serene
The spring and summer of my life have been:
Yea, and thank God for sending griefs like these,
Lest I, like Moab, settle on my lees;
And, having preach'd to others, prove one day
Myself a miserable castaway.
344
But shall I waste the waters whose wild rush
From my heart's rock hath now been made to gush
By the sharp stroke of Heaven's afflictive rod?
Not so: henceforth let me devote to God
Whatever, with that current, may be roll'd;
Whether some few pure grains of genuine gold,
Such as enrich'd Pactolus' stream of yore,
Or haply baser and less brilliant ore;
Even such as stains your Cornish streams like blood,
Dimming their brightness with metallic mud,
And spoiling of its glories many a scene
Which, but for them, right beautiful had been;
So that we strangers, with offended eye,
Loathe the foul brooks, and wish their channel dry.
Such, haply, mine may be; for 'twill be fed
From depths whose better ore hath perished,
Work'd up long since by youthful passion's rage,
And manhood's cares, till now, in middle age,
A fragment only of what was remains,
Scanty and base, and scarcely worth the pains
By which it must be wrought; yet, such as 'tis,
Henceforth let it be His and only His,
Who form'd and who can use it, if He will,
Designs by us undreamt of to fulfil,
Poor though it be. Nor boots it to regret
The loss of my past years to verse, if yet
My heart has springs of feeling which may be
Wrought into strains of loftier poesy
Than I have yet attempted; though, I own,
I feel as if my spirit had outgrown
Its aptitude for song; as if too late,
It sought its wither'd powers to renovate,
Shooting forth blossoms on late summer's bough,
Which should have bloom'd in spring, and yielded now
To autumn's mellow fruitage. Good, my friend,
Thy sympathy and counsel quickly lend;
And if thou canst (as well thou couldst of old)
Assist my struggling spirit to unfold
Its latent powers; if thou canst guide aright
Its aimless yet and undecided flight,
Give me such aid. I challenge thee once more
To a renewal of our feats of yore.
Let me provoke thee to contention high
Of emulative prowess; let us try
Whether the paths of life, which now we tread,
Yield not wherewith our spirits may be fed
For enterprise poetic, and supply
Themes not unmeet for loftiest poesy.
Methinks our range for fruitful thought is wide—
The church, the cot, the dying saint's bedside,
The house of mourning, the glad nuptial morn,
The christening, and the death of the first-born;
Yea, even the pastoral glance, which peeps within
The foul abodes of infamy and sin;
The hopes and fears of ministerial fight
With souls deep plunged in spiritual night;
The triumph rarely, but how richly, won,
When guilt and desperation's headstrong son,
Whose soul for man or demon ne'er hath quail'd,
By strength of cogent argument assail'd,
Begins to stoop his helm, retreats and reels
Before the Spirit's sword, which now he feels
With terror and with pain, unfelt before,
Cutting its way into his heart's rough core,
And cleaving, with its keen ethereal point,
Spirit and soul, the marrow and the joint,
Till he is fain the unequal fight to yield,
And leave the gospel master of the field.
Yea, childlike and submissive, bows his head
To Heaven's high will, and follows as he's led,
Till his friends find him where disciples meet,
Devoutly sitting at his Saviour's feet—
Him whom no force could tame, no fetters bind,
Meek and well clothed, and in his perfect mind.
Triumphs like these to win and to rehearse
Is ours alone. Are such less fit for verse
Than battle-fields and bloodshed, wounds and scars,
And tears and groans, the pride of mortal wars?
Or would we look on Nature's face awhile
With eyes which would indulge a sober smile?
The world hath aspects, in our pastoral sphere,
Meet for such mirth: 'tis ours to see and hear
The parish feud—the vestry's grave debate;
And, in our daily walks, to contemplate
In poor and rich, in rustic and refined,
The freaks and whims of man's mysterious mind
In all its varying humours. But 'tis time
To check the rovings of this wayward rhyme;
And I have much to ask of thine and thee,
And somewhat too to tell, which may not be
Comprised in such brief space as now remains
In this full sheet. Howbeit, if these poor strains
Find favour in thy sight, (as I suppose
They partly will,) write soon in verse or prose,
As likes thee best, give me such sympathy
And counsel as thou canst; but let them be
Accompanied by news, delay'd too long,
Of all thy household; how, amidst the throng
Of boarding-house anxieties and cares,
The gentle spirit of our Mary fares;
How thrives my bright-eyed namesake, thy fair son;
What feats of letter'd prowess he hath done;
Nor cheat me of the promise, long since given,
To tell of Him, whose spirit, now in Heaven,
Sees, face to face, the God whom long he sought
By patient study and profoundest thought,
What I so thirst to hear.
From my heart's rock hath now been made to gush
By the sharp stroke of Heaven's afflictive rod?
Not so: henceforth let me devote to God
Whatever, with that current, may be roll'd;
Whether some few pure grains of genuine gold,
Such as enrich'd Pactolus' stream of yore,
Or haply baser and less brilliant ore;
Even such as stains your Cornish streams like blood,
Dimming their brightness with metallic mud,
And spoiling of its glories many a scene
Which, but for them, right beautiful had been;
So that we strangers, with offended eye,
Loathe the foul brooks, and wish their channel dry.
Such, haply, mine may be; for 'twill be fed
From depths whose better ore hath perished,
Work'd up long since by youthful passion's rage,
And manhood's cares, till now, in middle age,
A fragment only of what was remains,
Scanty and base, and scarcely worth the pains
By which it must be wrought; yet, such as 'tis,
Henceforth let it be His and only His,
Who form'd and who can use it, if He will,
Designs by us undreamt of to fulfil,
Poor though it be. Nor boots it to regret
The loss of my past years to verse, if yet
My heart has springs of feeling which may be
Wrought into strains of loftier poesy
Than I have yet attempted; though, I own,
I feel as if my spirit had outgrown
Its aptitude for song; as if too late,
It sought its wither'd powers to renovate,
Shooting forth blossoms on late summer's bough,
Which should have bloom'd in spring, and yielded now
To autumn's mellow fruitage. Good, my friend,
Thy sympathy and counsel quickly lend;
And if thou canst (as well thou couldst of old)
Assist my struggling spirit to unfold
Its latent powers; if thou canst guide aright
345
Give me such aid. I challenge thee once more
To a renewal of our feats of yore.
Let me provoke thee to contention high
Of emulative prowess; let us try
Whether the paths of life, which now we tread,
Yield not wherewith our spirits may be fed
For enterprise poetic, and supply
Themes not unmeet for loftiest poesy.
Methinks our range for fruitful thought is wide—
The church, the cot, the dying saint's bedside,
The house of mourning, the glad nuptial morn,
The christening, and the death of the first-born;
Yea, even the pastoral glance, which peeps within
The foul abodes of infamy and sin;
The hopes and fears of ministerial fight
With souls deep plunged in spiritual night;
The triumph rarely, but how richly, won,
When guilt and desperation's headstrong son,
Whose soul for man or demon ne'er hath quail'd,
By strength of cogent argument assail'd,
Begins to stoop his helm, retreats and reels
Before the Spirit's sword, which now he feels
With terror and with pain, unfelt before,
Cutting its way into his heart's rough core,
And cleaving, with its keen ethereal point,
Spirit and soul, the marrow and the joint,
Till he is fain the unequal fight to yield,
And leave the gospel master of the field.
Yea, childlike and submissive, bows his head
To Heaven's high will, and follows as he's led,
Till his friends find him where disciples meet,
Devoutly sitting at his Saviour's feet—
Him whom no force could tame, no fetters bind,
Meek and well clothed, and in his perfect mind.
Triumphs like these to win and to rehearse
Is ours alone. Are such less fit for verse
Than battle-fields and bloodshed, wounds and scars,
And tears and groans, the pride of mortal wars?
346
With eyes which would indulge a sober smile?
The world hath aspects, in our pastoral sphere,
Meet for such mirth: 'tis ours to see and hear
The parish feud—the vestry's grave debate;
And, in our daily walks, to contemplate
In poor and rich, in rustic and refined,
The freaks and whims of man's mysterious mind
In all its varying humours. But 'tis time
To check the rovings of this wayward rhyme;
And I have much to ask of thine and thee,
And somewhat too to tell, which may not be
Comprised in such brief space as now remains
In this full sheet. Howbeit, if these poor strains
Find favour in thy sight, (as I suppose
They partly will,) write soon in verse or prose,
As likes thee best, give me such sympathy
And counsel as thou canst; but let them be
Accompanied by news, delay'd too long,
Of all thy household; how, amidst the throng
Of boarding-house anxieties and cares,
The gentle spirit of our Mary fares;
How thrives my bright-eyed namesake, thy fair son;
What feats of letter'd prowess he hath done;
Nor cheat me of the promise, long since given,
To tell of Him, whose spirit, now in Heaven,
Sees, face to face, the God whom long he sought
By patient study and profoundest thought,
What I so thirst to hear.
Meanwhile our days
Yield matter plentiful for thanks and praise
To the great Giver of all Good; though now
Sorrow and care have drawn o'er either brow
A deeper shade than veil'd it heretofore,
Ere death had found an entrance through our door.
Our course of life thou knew'st of old, but O!
Thou know'st not, and 'tis time that thou shouldst know
(Thou and thy Mary) what a spring of bliss,
Almost too pure for such a world as this,
Hath gush'd out unawares within this year,
Our joys to brighten, and our griefs to cheer,
With sympathy and love intense and deep:—
A treasure beyond price, and which to keep
All to ourselves, unshared by thee and thine,
Seems monstrous. If high faith and love divine,
Glowing in hearts by nature's self design'd
For all things lovely, noble, pure and kind,
And graced by all that may command respect
Of female wisdom and fine intellect—
If this afford thee one attraction more
Than those in which we were so rich before,
Let not the summer months again have fled,
And left our parsonage unvisited.
Come, Derwent, and come, Mary; come and see
How bloom our roses on their parent tree:
Come, take sweet counsel with our friends, who here
Supply your place, and scarcely seem less dear.
Come, and let Derwikin, the bright and wise,
Gladden our Gerard's and George William's eyes;
That he and they, when we shall be no more,
May to each other bear the love we bore;
Transmitting to their sons, in after days,
The memory of our friendship and our lays.
Yield matter plentiful for thanks and praise
To the great Giver of all Good; though now
Sorrow and care have drawn o'er either brow
A deeper shade than veil'd it heretofore,
Ere death had found an entrance through our door.
Our course of life thou knew'st of old, but O!
Thou know'st not, and 'tis time that thou shouldst know
(Thou and thy Mary) what a spring of bliss,
Almost too pure for such a world as this,
347
Our joys to brighten, and our griefs to cheer,
With sympathy and love intense and deep:—
A treasure beyond price, and which to keep
All to ourselves, unshared by thee and thine,
Seems monstrous. If high faith and love divine,
Glowing in hearts by nature's self design'd
For all things lovely, noble, pure and kind,
And graced by all that may command respect
Of female wisdom and fine intellect—
If this afford thee one attraction more
Than those in which we were so rich before,
Let not the summer months again have fled,
And left our parsonage unvisited.
Come, Derwent, and come, Mary; come and see
How bloom our roses on their parent tree:
Come, take sweet counsel with our friends, who here
Supply your place, and scarcely seem less dear.
Come, and let Derwikin, the bright and wise,
Gladden our Gerard's and George William's eyes;
That he and they, when we shall be no more,
May to each other bear the love we bore;
Transmitting to their sons, in after days,
The memory of our friendship and our lays.
LINES
I
Live, if ye may, and strike your roots in earth,Poor flowerets of my fancy's second spring;
Whose unexpected and spontaneous birth
From grief's tear-water'd soil, did lately fling
A soothing fragrance o'er my home and hearth,
Sadden'd awhile by Death's first visiting.
Live, if ye may, and take abiding root,
Forerunners, haply, of autumnal fruit.
348
II
Feeble, in truth, and fading ye appear;For my mind's garden, once o'erstock'd with flowers,
Hath been devote, for many a busy year,
To sterner culture, till its laurel bowers,
Too long neglected, have grown thin and sere,
And the scant labour of these leisure hours
May not the fulness of that bloom restore,
Which, suffer'd once to fade, revives no more.
III
I know not of what depth the soil may beBy which your growth is nurtured; but I know
That, henceforth, never shall it yield for me
Such gaudy wildflowers and rank weeds as grow
In the parterres of wanton phantasy,
But all its poor fertility bestow
On holier produce—lays of faith and love,
And His great praise who died, and reigns above.
IV
High theme, and worthy to attune the stringsOf seraph harps to symphonies divine;
Whereat the angels, folding their bright wings
In trance-like silence, should wrapt ears incline
To strains which told them of profounder things
Than thought of theirs can fathom;—and shall mine
Venture beyond them? daring flight, I ween,
For grovelling fancy, such as mine hath been.
V
Twelve years, life's summer, have for ever fled,Bringing strange changes, since the Muse I woo'd,
Even then by fits, as whim or wildness led,
In many a wayward and capricious mood:
349
And nature, as I trust, in part subdued;
Almost would I forget, the strains I sung
In those rash days, when hope and I were young.
VI
'Tis true, men praised them; they were fit to pleaseThe popular ear; well stored with fancies strange,
And quaint conceits, and yet could pass, with ease,
From gay to grave, and skilfully exchange
Mirth and wild wit for tenderest melodies;
So wide and well young phantasy could range;
Yet had her flight been tamer, I had now
Had less to grieve my heart and cloud my brow.
VII
My soul had then from self-reproach been freeFor lawless revellings of uncheck'd thought;
For wanton sallies of untimely glee;
For errors, half perceived, yet boldly taught;
For dogmas crude, and false philosophy;
For vain applause by reckless satire bought;
For many an idle thought and idler dream,
Which seem'd not to me then so vile as now they seem.
VIII
And may I now redeem, in middle age,The wasted powers and mis-spent days of youth,
And, in my wane of fancy, dare to wage
High warfare in behalf of deepest truth?
Is it too late to consecrate my page
To themes of holy love and heavenly ruth?
Too late to use aright the powers which Heaven,
For deeds of high emprize and steadfast aim, hath given?
350
IX
I know not;—in the silent flight of TimeMuch hath been lost which I can ne'er regain:
The freshness and the fervour of life's prime;
The buoyant heart, the ever teeming brain;
The power to shape things lovely or sublime,
And people with bright dreams this world's domain.
All these, as life steals on, have pass'd away,
Like morn's last stars that fade before the light of day.
X
For me no more may young imaginationThe treasures of her shadowy world disclose,
With many a wild and wondrous revelation
Stealing my spirit from this vale of woes
Into those realms of dreamy contemplation
Wherein the world-worn heart may find repose
From grave reality and vexing care,
Breathing awhile sweet draughts of unpolluted air.
XI
This world, this solid world, hath closed around meIts prison bars and bolts; I could not break,
Even if I would, the fetters which have bound me,
Nor from my neck its yoke of bondage shake;
And yet 'tis well that earthly care hath found me,
'Tis well my spirit hath been forced to awake
From its day-dreams; that I can be no more
The idler that I was in days of yore.
XII
So now my summer wreath is cull'd and twined,Sweet be its breath to gentle hearts and wise;
But April and warm May have left behind
Some stray memorials of their changeful skies,
351
Some which stern critics will perchance despise;
Some which harsh censors will perchance condemn:—
So let it be—they were not meant for them.
XIII
But to the lowly, and the pure of heart,These, my young fancy's offspring, I commend;
Not without hope that they may bear their part
In virtue's aid, and truth's high cause defend,
Though framed with careless aim and slender art,
In boyhood some, and all ere youth did end.
Nor, haply, vain the contrast they display
Between the noon and morning of my day.
XIV
So fare thee well, my book; and ye farewellOnce more, serene and pleasant paths of song;
Welcome grave cares, on which my heart must dwell,
And pastoral toils, not intermitted long.
Hereafter if again I tune my shell
To court the ear of the world's busy throng,
More “certain” be its sound, and every theme
Such as my graver tasks most fitly may beseem.
353
THE DREAM OF LIFE.
BOOK I. CHILDHOOD.
INSCRIBED TO MY PARENTS.
“Heaven lies about us in our infancy.”
Wordsworth.
Wordsworth.
355
Once more among my earliest haunts!—once more
A solitary man, from home delights
Familiar, and the sounds of childish mirth,
And sweet endearments of connubial love,
Secluded for awhile;—beneath the roof
Which shelter'd me in childhood, and which still
Shelters my parents' age, for some few days,
A welcome guest, I sojourn. Years long past,—
The pleasant spring, and seed-time of my life,—
Revisit my mind's eye, with all their train
Of youthful thoughts and feelings, by these scenes
Mysteriously revived. Nor meets me here
One outward token from that newer world
Of cares and duties, fears and hopes and aims,
Sorrows and joys, in which I live and move,
A husband and a parent. Far away,
On the green banks of her beloved Doon,
My wife imbues our children's opening minds
With love of Caledonia's hills and glens;
Meanwhile inhaling, near her native coast,
From the bold mountains, and the breezy sea,
New health and vigour,—by her childhood's friends,
As I by mine, surrounded. So complete
Is thus my separation from all cares
Domestic and parental, that almost,
Methinks, by strong imagination led,
I might forget the two-and-twenty years
Of life, long since mature, which time hath stolen,
Since I, as boyhood melted into youth,
Bade sad farewell to Eton's long loved shades,
And these fair scenes together;—might forget
What all those years have made me,—what rich gifts
Their course hath brought,—what cares those gifts produce,—
And be once more the dreaming, brain-sick boy
That then I was. And what if I give scope
To memory's pensive rovings?—What if now,
In this calm interim between the calls
Of active duty and of worldly care,
I bid my heart keep holiday,—forget
The Present and the Future in the Past,—
Live o'er again my long departed years
In tranquil meditation,—and perchance,
Comparing what I was with what I am,
Amidst that multitudinous array
Of thoughts and feelings which have come and gone,
Discern, in twilight gaze, the embryo state
Of what is now my being?—Haply thus
My time may not be lost;—Not for myself,
Nor for some gentle spirits, who may find,
Nor scorn to learn, a lesson from my lay,
Such as all records of Man's life might teach.
A solitary man, from home delights
Familiar, and the sounds of childish mirth,
And sweet endearments of connubial love,
Secluded for awhile;—beneath the roof
Which shelter'd me in childhood, and which still
Shelters my parents' age, for some few days,
A welcome guest, I sojourn. Years long past,—
The pleasant spring, and seed-time of my life,—
Revisit my mind's eye, with all their train
Of youthful thoughts and feelings, by these scenes
Mysteriously revived. Nor meets me here
One outward token from that newer world
Of cares and duties, fears and hopes and aims,
Sorrows and joys, in which I live and move,
A husband and a parent. Far away,
On the green banks of her beloved Doon,
My wife imbues our children's opening minds
With love of Caledonia's hills and glens;
Meanwhile inhaling, near her native coast,
From the bold mountains, and the breezy sea,
356
As I by mine, surrounded. So complete
Is thus my separation from all cares
Domestic and parental, that almost,
Methinks, by strong imagination led,
I might forget the two-and-twenty years
Of life, long since mature, which time hath stolen,
Since I, as boyhood melted into youth,
Bade sad farewell to Eton's long loved shades,
And these fair scenes together;—might forget
What all those years have made me,—what rich gifts
Their course hath brought,—what cares those gifts produce,—
And be once more the dreaming, brain-sick boy
That then I was. And what if I give scope
To memory's pensive rovings?—What if now,
In this calm interim between the calls
Of active duty and of worldly care,
I bid my heart keep holiday,—forget
The Present and the Future in the Past,—
Live o'er again my long departed years
In tranquil meditation,—and perchance,
Comparing what I was with what I am,
Amidst that multitudinous array
Of thoughts and feelings which have come and gone,
Discern, in twilight gaze, the embryo state
Of what is now my being?—Haply thus
My time may not be lost;—Not for myself,
Nor for some gentle spirits, who may find,
Nor scorn to learn, a lesson from my lay,
Such as all records of Man's life might teach.
Dim and mysterious to the dreamer's eye,
Retracing the first gleams of consciousness,
Is Infancy and Childhood's fairy-land.
Scarce through the glory, as of other worlds,
Enveloping its outline, is discern'd,
At intervals distinctly, here and there,
A streak of clear reality,—some fact,
Or feeling, or sensation,—some event
To Childhood's eyes momentous, and thenceforth
Indelibly inscribed on Memory's page,
Only with life to be expunged. Even here,
Surrounded, as I am, by objects fraught
With old associations, and none else—
Wandering, at will, through old familiar rooms,
And gazing on old hills, and fields, and lanes,
And human forms, the first I ever knew,
And faces which I loved ere I could speak—
Even here, my first remembrances of life
Seem dim and distant. Scarce at intervals,
Events and epochs, few and far between,
Stand forth in clear relief;—a colour'd frock,—
A picture-book replete with marvels strange
To young imagination;—a quaint tale
Told by my grandam;—my first cloth pelisse,
With rows of glittering buttons all ablaze,
The envy of my infantine compeers;
And mix'd with these, at times, a tender gleam
Of somewhat (whether fantasy or love
I know not,)—a strange instinct lighting up
My heart beneath the glance of woman's eyes;—
A sense of beauty and mysterious power,
By beauty wielded, stirring to its depths
The soul of man, while he is yet a child.
So fares the world within;—around me crowd
Familiar objects;—our old nursery stands
Unalter'd, save that now it bears no trace
Of infantine or childish tenantry;—
Cradle, or crib, or tiny chair, or store
Of scatter'd toys, or window fenced with bars,
Or fire-place, guarded close from rash approach,
By lofty fender. Time's relentless march
Hath made strange havoc with the furniture
Once consecrate to childhood's mimic sports.
The chairs which, yoked and harness'd, served as steeds
To whirl us, on imaginary cars,
In pomp and pride of glorious coachmanship,
At length have disappear'd through slow decay;
Their wood-work fractured, and their horsehair seats
Worn bare by long attrition. Many a year,—
Yea, far into my manhood's lusty prime,
They stood where they were wont, and seem'd to bear
A charmed life. In sooth, I could have named
Each individual courser,—told the marks
Which once distinguish'd, to our childish thought,
The chestnut from the grey, the bay from brown;—
Which to each several brother was assign'd,
His own especial property;—which work'd
As wheeler,—which as leader. All are gone,—
The steeds, and they who drove them. Many a change,
Within doors and without, hath changed the face
Of the old dwelling, e'en within the span
Of my remembrance. Casements, which sufficed
The vicars of a less luxurious age,
First from the old stone frontage disappear'd,
Supplanted by broad panes.—A few years pass'd,
Riches increased, and lo! a pile arose
Of bright red brick, with slate cerulean roof'd,
Encroaching on the garden, and but ill
Consorting with the grey, time-mellow'd stone,
To which 'twas wedded. On the study's site,
Somewhat extended, straightway there appear'd
A gay and gilded drawing-room, o'er which,
Piled, story above story, tier on tier,
New bed-rooms tower'd, in ample space and height
Mocking the old and humble vicarage.
With pride we mark'd the building, as it grew,
(I and my brothers) deeming that at last
Our mansion should eclipse the squire's itself,
And we be counted greater than the squire.
Yet when the work was finish'd, and we dwelt
Like nobles, as we deem'd,—methinks, we found
Small compensation in our ceiled state,
For old associations swept away
With our abolish'd play-room—for the fall
Of shrubbery laurels, underneath whose thick
And sun-proof foliage we were wont to frame
Our mimic houses, with inventive skill
Arranging and imagining;—nor lack'd
To those umbrageous mansions aught that taste
Or ingenuity of modish art
Might fashion, or caprice of luxury
Deem needful for convenience. Banquet-halls
Were there, with banquets spread, from time to time,
Of sugar'd cakes and gingerbread, served up
On fragments of crack'd china; Drawing-rooms
Well furnish'd, and adorn'd with stately couch,
And ottoman and sofa, soft repose
Inviting and prolonging; closets cramm'd
With household stores; kitchen and scullery range,
With culinary implements complete;
And overhead, among the thickleaved boughs,
Our verdant dormitories. Oh! how well
Wrought then imagination, by strange art,
Enduing her creations with what seem'd
Most absolute reality. Our sports
To us were scarcely sports, but still appear'd
Our gravest occupations.—In our world,
(That fairy world created by ourselves),
We lived and had our being. All day long,
(Our tasks once ended) how we toil'd and toil'd
At that fantastic architecture!—how,
Absorb'd, and reckless of all outward things,
We shaped and moulded our whole dream of life
To match our habitation! Our desires
Roam'd not beyond that garden's narrow bounds.
There was our universe.—Reluctantly
We left its pastimes for a daily walk
Through the green fields and pleasant shelter'd lanes
Of this delicious region; for, in us,
The sense of beauty, with majestic forms
And glorious hues investing hill and wood,
As yet was undevelop'd, and it seem'd
Dire interruption of important toil
And business which allow'd of no delay,
To force us from our fair ideal realm
E'en to the pleasures of reality.
Retracing the first gleams of consciousness,
Is Infancy and Childhood's fairy-land.
Scarce through the glory, as of other worlds,
Enveloping its outline, is discern'd,
At intervals distinctly, here and there,
A streak of clear reality,—some fact,
Or feeling, or sensation,—some event
To Childhood's eyes momentous, and thenceforth
357
Only with life to be expunged. Even here,
Surrounded, as I am, by objects fraught
With old associations, and none else—
Wandering, at will, through old familiar rooms,
And gazing on old hills, and fields, and lanes,
And human forms, the first I ever knew,
And faces which I loved ere I could speak—
Even here, my first remembrances of life
Seem dim and distant. Scarce at intervals,
Events and epochs, few and far between,
Stand forth in clear relief;—a colour'd frock,—
A picture-book replete with marvels strange
To young imagination;—a quaint tale
Told by my grandam;—my first cloth pelisse,
With rows of glittering buttons all ablaze,
The envy of my infantine compeers;
And mix'd with these, at times, a tender gleam
Of somewhat (whether fantasy or love
I know not,)—a strange instinct lighting up
My heart beneath the glance of woman's eyes;—
A sense of beauty and mysterious power,
By beauty wielded, stirring to its depths
The soul of man, while he is yet a child.
So fares the world within;—around me crowd
Familiar objects;—our old nursery stands
Unalter'd, save that now it bears no trace
Of infantine or childish tenantry;—
Cradle, or crib, or tiny chair, or store
Of scatter'd toys, or window fenced with bars,
Or fire-place, guarded close from rash approach,
By lofty fender. Time's relentless march
Hath made strange havoc with the furniture
Once consecrate to childhood's mimic sports.
The chairs which, yoked and harness'd, served as steeds
To whirl us, on imaginary cars,
In pomp and pride of glorious coachmanship,
At length have disappear'd through slow decay;
Their wood-work fractured, and their horsehair seats
358
Yea, far into my manhood's lusty prime,
They stood where they were wont, and seem'd to bear
A charmed life. In sooth, I could have named
Each individual courser,—told the marks
Which once distinguish'd, to our childish thought,
The chestnut from the grey, the bay from brown;—
Which to each several brother was assign'd,
His own especial property;—which work'd
As wheeler,—which as leader. All are gone,—
The steeds, and they who drove them. Many a change,
Within doors and without, hath changed the face
Of the old dwelling, e'en within the span
Of my remembrance. Casements, which sufficed
The vicars of a less luxurious age,
First from the old stone frontage disappear'd,
Supplanted by broad panes.—A few years pass'd,
Riches increased, and lo! a pile arose
Of bright red brick, with slate cerulean roof'd,
Encroaching on the garden, and but ill
Consorting with the grey, time-mellow'd stone,
To which 'twas wedded. On the study's site,
Somewhat extended, straightway there appear'd
A gay and gilded drawing-room, o'er which,
Piled, story above story, tier on tier,
New bed-rooms tower'd, in ample space and height
Mocking the old and humble vicarage.
With pride we mark'd the building, as it grew,
(I and my brothers) deeming that at last
Our mansion should eclipse the squire's itself,
And we be counted greater than the squire.
Yet when the work was finish'd, and we dwelt
Like nobles, as we deem'd,—methinks, we found
Small compensation in our ceiled state,
For old associations swept away
With our abolish'd play-room—for the fall
Of shrubbery laurels, underneath whose thick
And sun-proof foliage we were wont to frame
Our mimic houses, with inventive skill
359
To those umbrageous mansions aught that taste
Or ingenuity of modish art
Might fashion, or caprice of luxury
Deem needful for convenience. Banquet-halls
Were there, with banquets spread, from time to time,
Of sugar'd cakes and gingerbread, served up
On fragments of crack'd china; Drawing-rooms
Well furnish'd, and adorn'd with stately couch,
And ottoman and sofa, soft repose
Inviting and prolonging; closets cramm'd
With household stores; kitchen and scullery range,
With culinary implements complete;
And overhead, among the thickleaved boughs,
Our verdant dormitories. Oh! how well
Wrought then imagination, by strange art,
Enduing her creations with what seem'd
Most absolute reality. Our sports
To us were scarcely sports, but still appear'd
Our gravest occupations.—In our world,
(That fairy world created by ourselves),
We lived and had our being. All day long,
(Our tasks once ended) how we toil'd and toil'd
At that fantastic architecture!—how,
Absorb'd, and reckless of all outward things,
We shaped and moulded our whole dream of life
To match our habitation! Our desires
Roam'd not beyond that garden's narrow bounds.
There was our universe.—Reluctantly
We left its pastimes for a daily walk
Through the green fields and pleasant shelter'd lanes
Of this delicious region; for, in us,
The sense of beauty, with majestic forms
And glorious hues investing hill and wood,
As yet was undevelop'd, and it seem'd
Dire interruption of important toil
And business which allow'd of no delay,
To force us from our fair ideal realm
E'en to the pleasures of reality.
360
And yet, from time to time, strange pleasures came;
Some by succession of the seasons brought,
Or revolution of the calendar;
Some at uncertain epochs, racier still
Because unlook'd-for. First, the spring produced
Its primrose tufts and constellated stalks
Of cowslip, which, with eager chase, we sought,
And strung together into fragrant balls;
Or (proud of such unwonted usefulness)
Heap'd for the flowery vintage. Summer shone
(Summer seem'd then all sunshine, and as yet
Asthma was not) on fields of new-mown grass,
And us among the haymakers. Ah me!
The raptures of that season!—with what pride
(Our tiny rakes and pitchforks in our hands)
We follow'd, with the rest, the mower's track,
And spread the levell'd crop beneath the sun!
At noon, with what keen appetite we shared
The rustic luncheon,—feasted to the full,
Beside some hedge, on piles of bread and cheese,
And from its wooden flagon quaff'd the beer,
Listening meanwhile to tale and homely jest,
Pass'd round by jovial peasants. Then, at eve,
When the day's toil was ended, home we rode
In the returning waggon,—joy of joys!
The world hath now none such. With autumn came
The village wake, and (if remembrance serves)
The fair, with stalls of tempting gingerbread,
And glittering toys, and shows majestical;
While, (for 'twas then the stirring time of war)
Recruiting sergeants gaily to and fro
Paraded, to the sound of drum and fife,
Their colours and cockades. To us they seem'd
Almost like gods of war, and oft our hearts
Beat high, to think how blest a fate it were
To fight old England's enemies, and die
Victorious on some well-won battle-field.
Some by succession of the seasons brought,
Or revolution of the calendar;
Some at uncertain epochs, racier still
Because unlook'd-for. First, the spring produced
Its primrose tufts and constellated stalks
Of cowslip, which, with eager chase, we sought,
And strung together into fragrant balls;
Or (proud of such unwonted usefulness)
Heap'd for the flowery vintage. Summer shone
(Summer seem'd then all sunshine, and as yet
Asthma was not) on fields of new-mown grass,
And us among the haymakers. Ah me!
The raptures of that season!—with what pride
(Our tiny rakes and pitchforks in our hands)
We follow'd, with the rest, the mower's track,
And spread the levell'd crop beneath the sun!
At noon, with what keen appetite we shared
The rustic luncheon,—feasted to the full,
Beside some hedge, on piles of bread and cheese,
And from its wooden flagon quaff'd the beer,
Listening meanwhile to tale and homely jest,
Pass'd round by jovial peasants. Then, at eve,
When the day's toil was ended, home we rode
In the returning waggon,—joy of joys!
The world hath now none such. With autumn came
The village wake, and (if remembrance serves)
The fair, with stalls of tempting gingerbread,
And glittering toys, and shows majestical;
While, (for 'twas then the stirring time of war)
Recruiting sergeants gaily to and fro
Paraded, to the sound of drum and fife,
Their colours and cockades. To us they seem'd
Almost like gods of war, and oft our hearts
Beat high, to think how blest a fate it were
To fight old England's enemies, and die
Victorious on some well-won battle-field.
'Twas then that on the Nation's startled ear
Burst the glad news of naval victory,
Sadden'd by Nelson's death. Those news awoke,
Methinks, in me, my first ideal sense
Of warlike triumph, of heroic deeds,
And glory by a nation lost or won.
Then first I felt that 'twas a noble lot
To be a Briton;—then, with earnest heart,
Rejoiced at England's joy, and wept her griefs,
A patriot five years old. Some nameless fears
Had stirr'd my soul already, when I heard
(What then was widely bruited in men's mouths)
Of near invasion, of impending strife,
And danger and defeat. The might of France
Was, to my heart, a dark, mysterious thought,
More hateful from the vagueness of alarm
With which 'twas blended, and my midnight dreams
Would oft reverberate Napoleon's name,
Dreadful as Dæmogorgon's. Oft, in sleep,
I heard the thrilling cry, “The French are come,”
And straightway through the street, in long array,
With shout of hostile triumph, with deep roll
Of drum, and peal of trump, and clang of arms,
Battalion on battalion, host on host,
Defiled the invading myriads;—Britain's fight,
Men said, was fought and lost, and she was now
In bondage to her foes. Ere long the scene
Grew darker; in my father's house appear'd
Strange faces,—heralds by the victors sent
To cite my parents to the judgment seat,
And haply to the scaffold. In that fear,
Grim and perplex'd, the bonds of sleep were burst,
And I, in agony of tears, awoke!
Such terrors, waking or asleep, were mine,
Till news of victory came:—oh, then at once
My breast was lighten'd. Ne'er shall I forget
The fervour, the wild frenzy of delight,
Which, when the news first reach'd our little town,
Thrill'd through its English heart. That week had seen
A daughter born into my Father's house;
And, I remember, in my Mother's room
We stood, and from the silent window gazed
On bonfires blazing in the street, and crowds
Of villagers and peasants round the flame
Promiscuously group'd.—The ruddy light
Flash'd fitfully on faces bright with joy,
And forms in active motion. To the sky
Rockets, from time to time, in fiery track
Soar'd, blazed, and, bursting, scatter'd, high in air,
Bright showers of stars; while ever and anon,
From the near steeple, our six bells rang out
Their loud and lusty changes,—now in notes
Harmoniously attuned to concord sweet
With the deep stream of joy in every heart,—
Now mimicing, with simultaneous clang,
The cannons' deafening roar. At intervals,
From every quarter, musket-shots were heard,
Follow'd by shout, and cheer, and loud huzzah!
From congregated throats. The nation's voice,
Even among us, arose from Earth to Heaven
In chorus of exultant jubilee,
Yet with religious fervour not unmix'd,
Nor thankless to the God of victories
For triumph thus bestow'd.—Men's warlike pride,
By recollection of their hero's death,
Was soften'd and subdued. It was a night
Greatly to be remember'd. With our dreams,
When we, with hearts untired, reluctantly
Had gone to rest, the tumult of the street
Still mingled, and awoke a phantom world
Of imagery in the mysterious depths
Of Childhood's spirit, shedding wondrous gleams
Of glory on the visions of the night.
Since then have five-and-thirty years flown by,
And boyhood, youth, and early manhood pass'd,
With all their changes; yet even now a peal
Of merry village bells recalls to mind
The raptures of that night, and conjures up
The ghosts of thoughts and feelings, in my heart
Long buried;—thus with joys of rustic life—
A birth, a wedding, or a festival,
Associating the glories of the Past.
Burst the glad news of naval victory,
361
Methinks, in me, my first ideal sense
Of warlike triumph, of heroic deeds,
And glory by a nation lost or won.
Then first I felt that 'twas a noble lot
To be a Briton;—then, with earnest heart,
Rejoiced at England's joy, and wept her griefs,
A patriot five years old. Some nameless fears
Had stirr'd my soul already, when I heard
(What then was widely bruited in men's mouths)
Of near invasion, of impending strife,
And danger and defeat. The might of France
Was, to my heart, a dark, mysterious thought,
More hateful from the vagueness of alarm
With which 'twas blended, and my midnight dreams
Would oft reverberate Napoleon's name,
Dreadful as Dæmogorgon's. Oft, in sleep,
I heard the thrilling cry, “The French are come,”
And straightway through the street, in long array,
With shout of hostile triumph, with deep roll
Of drum, and peal of trump, and clang of arms,
Battalion on battalion, host on host,
Defiled the invading myriads;—Britain's fight,
Men said, was fought and lost, and she was now
In bondage to her foes. Ere long the scene
Grew darker; in my father's house appear'd
Strange faces,—heralds by the victors sent
To cite my parents to the judgment seat,
And haply to the scaffold. In that fear,
Grim and perplex'd, the bonds of sleep were burst,
And I, in agony of tears, awoke!
Such terrors, waking or asleep, were mine,
Till news of victory came:—oh, then at once
My breast was lighten'd. Ne'er shall I forget
The fervour, the wild frenzy of delight,
Which, when the news first reach'd our little town,
Thrill'd through its English heart. That week had seen
A daughter born into my Father's house;
And, I remember, in my Mother's room
362
On bonfires blazing in the street, and crowds
Of villagers and peasants round the flame
Promiscuously group'd.—The ruddy light
Flash'd fitfully on faces bright with joy,
And forms in active motion. To the sky
Rockets, from time to time, in fiery track
Soar'd, blazed, and, bursting, scatter'd, high in air,
Bright showers of stars; while ever and anon,
From the near steeple, our six bells rang out
Their loud and lusty changes,—now in notes
Harmoniously attuned to concord sweet
With the deep stream of joy in every heart,—
Now mimicing, with simultaneous clang,
The cannons' deafening roar. At intervals,
From every quarter, musket-shots were heard,
Follow'd by shout, and cheer, and loud huzzah!
From congregated throats. The nation's voice,
Even among us, arose from Earth to Heaven
In chorus of exultant jubilee,
Yet with religious fervour not unmix'd,
Nor thankless to the God of victories
For triumph thus bestow'd.—Men's warlike pride,
By recollection of their hero's death,
Was soften'd and subdued. It was a night
Greatly to be remember'd. With our dreams,
When we, with hearts untired, reluctantly
Had gone to rest, the tumult of the street
Still mingled, and awoke a phantom world
Of imagery in the mysterious depths
Of Childhood's spirit, shedding wondrous gleams
Of glory on the visions of the night.
Since then have five-and-thirty years flown by,
And boyhood, youth, and early manhood pass'd,
With all their changes; yet even now a peal
Of merry village bells recalls to mind
The raptures of that night, and conjures up
The ghosts of thoughts and feelings, in my heart
Long buried;—thus with joys of rustic life—
363
Associating the glories of the Past.
I was not born ambitious;—never long'd
For honour to be won by warlike deeds,
Nor wish'd myself a hero;—else, methinks,
The atmosphere of war, in childhood breathed,
Had fed such fancies bravely, and perchance
Made me unlike, in all things, what I am.
For scarce a village in old England, then,
But dared heroic enterprize. The threat
Of near invasion had awoke all hearts
To simultaneous valour. Peasants beat
Their pruninghooks and ploughshares into swords;
And pale-faced artisans forsook the loom
And shuttle, to encumber their spare limbs
With the grim garb of war. The smith exchanged
His hammer for a halberd. Tailors, fired
With martial ardour, from the shop-board leap'd,
And let their needles rust, to grasp the spear
With fingers which of late the thimble wore.
Short-winded, pursy men forgot their fat
And scantiness of breath, in tight-drawn belt
Bracing their bulk abdominal, to serve
As lusty volunteers in some new corps
Raised for the nonce. We too, albeit the least
Among Britannia's thousands, furnish'd forth
Our sixty musqueteers—a gallant band
In uniform complete;—to me they seem'd
A host invincible, prepared to hurl
Napoleon from his throne. Sublime they shone
In scarlet regimentals faced with green;
Their military caps by towering plumes
Surmounted, while their burnish'd firelocks flash'd,
Like lightning, in the sun, with bayonets fix'd,
Bristling in bright array. The squire himself,
Forsaking for awhile his mimic war
With birds and beasts, and buckling on his arms,
Was proud to be their captain. Next in rank,
Nor less in arms illustrious—passing then
Life's vigorous prime, and by his portly shape
And peaceful air, less fitted, as it seem'd,
For martial prowess than luxurious ease,
Our neighbour, the attorney, took the field.
Him, not unfit at social boards to shine,—
A man of easy humour and frank mirth,—
Sluggish withal, and simple as a child
In this world's ways, had fortune's wild caprice
First doom'd to be a lawyer, and next thrust
Into the full accoutrements of war
And regimental lace. Alike unfit
Was he for scarlet, and for chancery suit;
Alike unskill'd in pleadings and in war;
In deeds of arms and deeds of law alike
Ill-graced and awkward; for his nature, pure
And harmless as the dove's, could never learn
The serpent's wisdom;—gentle as the lamb,
He lack'd the lion's valour.—He was form'd
For upright acts of honest friendliness,
For charity and bland good neighbourhood,
Not for the tumult of the battle-field,
Or trickery of the law-court. Mild, sedate,
His usual air;—few were the words he spoke,
And slow his utterance; but when friend met friend
Around his hospitable board, and wine,
After the fashion of those ruder days,
In circling brimmers flow'd,—oh, who was then
His match for fun and frolic? Then his eye
(Dull and professionally grave before)
Twinkled and gleam'd with humour;—then (all care
For formal rules of etiquette cast off)
His mirth ran riot in wild, boylike freaks
Of unrestrain'd extravagance. But now,
Silent and grave, beside his corps he march'd;
And if,—when cups were sparkling on the board
Of absent friends, while he, on full parade,
Did active service,—nature would at times
Grow weary of manœuvres manifold,
Marchings and counter-marchings, mimic-fights,
Retreats and charges, ambuscades, assaults,
Volleys of awkward musketry, and balls
Shot wide of targets,—he, with noble pride
Of self-control, repress'd all outward signs
And tokens of impatience,—proud to be
In Albion's cause a martyr. Him of late
I mark'd, an aged man, well-nigh fourscore,
Still, in the parish church, his wonted seat
Maintaining, and himself but little changed
In all these years from that which he appear'd
When first I knew him;—undiminish'd still
His lusty bulk,—unwrinkled still his brow,—
Unspectacled his nose;—yet Death's grim shades
Must soon be closing round him, and the friends,—
The boon companions of his earlier days,—
His comrades in the field and at the feast,—
Have, one by one, departed from his side,
And dropp'd into the grave. His housekeeper
(For never hath he worn connubial yoke),
Large as himself, and rosy, and rotund,
The despot of his house, hath gone the way
Appointed for all flesh;—his well-fed steed
Hath vacated the true prebendal stall
In which he lived to eat, asthmatic long
And martyr to repletion;—his lank pair
Of greyhounds (sole lank things in all that house)
Sleep, with their old companion, side by side,—
Their last course run and ended. Be their lord's
Decease, when it shall come, as calm as theirs,
But not, like theirs, uncheer'd by Christian hope
Of immortality and endless bliss.
For honour to be won by warlike deeds,
Nor wish'd myself a hero;—else, methinks,
The atmosphere of war, in childhood breathed,
Had fed such fancies bravely, and perchance
Made me unlike, in all things, what I am.
For scarce a village in old England, then,
But dared heroic enterprize. The threat
Of near invasion had awoke all hearts
To simultaneous valour. Peasants beat
Their pruninghooks and ploughshares into swords;
And pale-faced artisans forsook the loom
And shuttle, to encumber their spare limbs
With the grim garb of war. The smith exchanged
His hammer for a halberd. Tailors, fired
With martial ardour, from the shop-board leap'd,
And let their needles rust, to grasp the spear
With fingers which of late the thimble wore.
Short-winded, pursy men forgot their fat
And scantiness of breath, in tight-drawn belt
Bracing their bulk abdominal, to serve
As lusty volunteers in some new corps
Raised for the nonce. We too, albeit the least
Among Britannia's thousands, furnish'd forth
Our sixty musqueteers—a gallant band
In uniform complete;—to me they seem'd
A host invincible, prepared to hurl
Napoleon from his throne. Sublime they shone
In scarlet regimentals faced with green;
Their military caps by towering plumes
Surmounted, while their burnish'd firelocks flash'd,
Like lightning, in the sun, with bayonets fix'd,
Bristling in bright array. The squire himself,
Forsaking for awhile his mimic war
With birds and beasts, and buckling on his arms,
Was proud to be their captain. Next in rank,
Nor less in arms illustrious—passing then
364
And peaceful air, less fitted, as it seem'd,
For martial prowess than luxurious ease,
Our neighbour, the attorney, took the field.
Him, not unfit at social boards to shine,—
A man of easy humour and frank mirth,—
Sluggish withal, and simple as a child
In this world's ways, had fortune's wild caprice
First doom'd to be a lawyer, and next thrust
Into the full accoutrements of war
And regimental lace. Alike unfit
Was he for scarlet, and for chancery suit;
Alike unskill'd in pleadings and in war;
In deeds of arms and deeds of law alike
Ill-graced and awkward; for his nature, pure
And harmless as the dove's, could never learn
The serpent's wisdom;—gentle as the lamb,
He lack'd the lion's valour.—He was form'd
For upright acts of honest friendliness,
For charity and bland good neighbourhood,
Not for the tumult of the battle-field,
Or trickery of the law-court. Mild, sedate,
His usual air;—few were the words he spoke,
And slow his utterance; but when friend met friend
Around his hospitable board, and wine,
After the fashion of those ruder days,
In circling brimmers flow'd,—oh, who was then
His match for fun and frolic? Then his eye
(Dull and professionally grave before)
Twinkled and gleam'd with humour;—then (all care
For formal rules of etiquette cast off)
His mirth ran riot in wild, boylike freaks
Of unrestrain'd extravagance. But now,
Silent and grave, beside his corps he march'd;
And if,—when cups were sparkling on the board
Of absent friends, while he, on full parade,
Did active service,—nature would at times
Grow weary of manœuvres manifold,
Marchings and counter-marchings, mimic-fights,
365
Volleys of awkward musketry, and balls
Shot wide of targets,—he, with noble pride
Of self-control, repress'd all outward signs
And tokens of impatience,—proud to be
In Albion's cause a martyr. Him of late
I mark'd, an aged man, well-nigh fourscore,
Still, in the parish church, his wonted seat
Maintaining, and himself but little changed
In all these years from that which he appear'd
When first I knew him;—undiminish'd still
His lusty bulk,—unwrinkled still his brow,—
Unspectacled his nose;—yet Death's grim shades
Must soon be closing round him, and the friends,—
The boon companions of his earlier days,—
His comrades in the field and at the feast,—
Have, one by one, departed from his side,
And dropp'd into the grave. His housekeeper
(For never hath he worn connubial yoke),
Large as himself, and rosy, and rotund,
The despot of his house, hath gone the way
Appointed for all flesh;—his well-fed steed
Hath vacated the true prebendal stall
In which he lived to eat, asthmatic long
And martyr to repletion;—his lank pair
Of greyhounds (sole lank things in all that house)
Sleep, with their old companion, side by side,—
Their last course run and ended. Be their lord's
Decease, when it shall come, as calm as theirs,
But not, like theirs, uncheer'd by Christian hope
Of immortality and endless bliss.
With him there march'd, as ensign of the corps,
A tall, spare man, his kinsman, some ten years
His senior, whose high forehead, silver'd o'er,
At fifty-five, with eighty winters' snow,
Assumed, beneath his feather'd, fierce cock'd hat,
A veteran aspect;—yet a peaceful man
Was he, and had, in Gloucester's busy vales,
Been bred a manufacturer. The mill,
Embosom'd yonder between wooded banks,
Was built, and many years possess'd by him;
Till, with an ample store of this world's wealth,
He and his wife, with none to be their heirs,
(For theirs had ever been a childless home)
Retired to spend their calm decline of life
In affluent ease and leisure. Twenty years
Were they our next-door neighbours. As a child,
I well remember, when the parsonage
On rare occasions oped its festal doors
To guests invited, how, amidst the throng,
His was the gravest face, the stateliest step,
The hoariest head; with what a solemn grace
He at quadrille or whist would take his seat,
Confronted with some bulky dowager,
Or spinster of threescore. The dark brown coat,
White waistcoat, breeches of demurest drab,
And hose of spotless cotton, (for as yet
Silk was, with us, a luxury only known
To clergymen and squires,) the polish'd shoes
Of rustic make, and thicker than need was,
Still dwell in my remembrance. On his arm
Hung his good-humour'd partner, all bedight
In finery, such as fifty years before
Had shone in metropolitan saloons.
Herself ungraced by the accomplishments
Of modish education, and, in truth,
What some call vulgar, but, beyond her peers,
From all vulgarity of soul exempt;—
Kind-hearted, full of charity, unchill'd
By niggard thrift,—for all the neighbouring poor
Prompt ever both to spend and to be spent;
Alike unfit to hear and to repeat
The scandal of the tea-table. They lived
(She and her mate) a blameless, peaceful life,
Through fifty years of wedlock, till at last
Disease, in cancerous shape, assail'd the wife,
Marring her features, and extending wide
Its fibres through her flesh.—For some few years
She pined and wasted, with assiduous care
Still tended by her husband, whose whole life
Was so entwined with hers, that, when she died,
The old man's heart seem'd broken.—From that hour
He never cross'd the threshold of his door,
Save when he went to church,—but sat and sat
Beside his lonely hearth from morn to night;
Now poring o'er his Bible,—now absorb'd
In dreamy thought,—his eyes suffused with tears,—
His heart with her whom he had lost,—in Heaven.
Nor sought he other company; though oft,
When friends or neighbours came to visit him,
He would converse in no uncheerful tone,
Nor close his heart to sympathy with those
Who sympathized with him. Some habits, form'd
In happier days,—some customs, shared with her,
He still retain'd;—still every Sunday eve
(The service done) he with his kinsman dined,
Whose jovial humour, soften'd now by years,
Was, in his presence, temper'd to a grave
And reverential sadness:—each with each
Held soothing fellowship, till life's frail thread
At last, in one, gave way. His race is run;
His story told;—he rests with her he loved.
A tall, spare man, his kinsman, some ten years
His senior, whose high forehead, silver'd o'er,
At fifty-five, with eighty winters' snow,
Assumed, beneath his feather'd, fierce cock'd hat,
A veteran aspect;—yet a peaceful man
Was he, and had, in Gloucester's busy vales,
Been bred a manufacturer. The mill,
366
Was built, and many years possess'd by him;
Till, with an ample store of this world's wealth,
He and his wife, with none to be their heirs,
(For theirs had ever been a childless home)
Retired to spend their calm decline of life
In affluent ease and leisure. Twenty years
Were they our next-door neighbours. As a child,
I well remember, when the parsonage
On rare occasions oped its festal doors
To guests invited, how, amidst the throng,
His was the gravest face, the stateliest step,
The hoariest head; with what a solemn grace
He at quadrille or whist would take his seat,
Confronted with some bulky dowager,
Or spinster of threescore. The dark brown coat,
White waistcoat, breeches of demurest drab,
And hose of spotless cotton, (for as yet
Silk was, with us, a luxury only known
To clergymen and squires,) the polish'd shoes
Of rustic make, and thicker than need was,
Still dwell in my remembrance. On his arm
Hung his good-humour'd partner, all bedight
In finery, such as fifty years before
Had shone in metropolitan saloons.
Herself ungraced by the accomplishments
Of modish education, and, in truth,
What some call vulgar, but, beyond her peers,
From all vulgarity of soul exempt;—
Kind-hearted, full of charity, unchill'd
By niggard thrift,—for all the neighbouring poor
Prompt ever both to spend and to be spent;
Alike unfit to hear and to repeat
The scandal of the tea-table. They lived
(She and her mate) a blameless, peaceful life,
Through fifty years of wedlock, till at last
Disease, in cancerous shape, assail'd the wife,
Marring her features, and extending wide
Its fibres through her flesh.—For some few years
367
Still tended by her husband, whose whole life
Was so entwined with hers, that, when she died,
The old man's heart seem'd broken.—From that hour
He never cross'd the threshold of his door,
Save when he went to church,—but sat and sat
Beside his lonely hearth from morn to night;
Now poring o'er his Bible,—now absorb'd
In dreamy thought,—his eyes suffused with tears,—
His heart with her whom he had lost,—in Heaven.
Nor sought he other company; though oft,
When friends or neighbours came to visit him,
He would converse in no uncheerful tone,
Nor close his heart to sympathy with those
Who sympathized with him. Some habits, form'd
In happier days,—some customs, shared with her,
He still retain'd;—still every Sunday eve
(The service done) he with his kinsman dined,
Whose jovial humour, soften'd now by years,
Was, in his presence, temper'd to a grave
And reverential sadness:—each with each
Held soothing fellowship, till life's frail thread
At last, in one, gave way. His race is run;
His story told;—he rests with her he loved.
A melancholy joy, in truth, it is,
When half a life has fled, to see once more
Places long loved;—to mark how Nature's face
Remains unchanged,—how little Art has wrought
Of transformation in insensate things,
While human forms familiar—men who lived,
Thought, felt, rejoiced, and sorrow'd, hoped and fear'd,
Hated and loved, in time's relentless flight,
Have been, by generations, swept away,
Like shadows, from the earth. But sadder still,
Methinks, the alteration wrought by age
In those who yet remain. These thirty years
A house hath scarce been built, a tree cut down,
A new shop open'd,—scarce a public-house
Been deck'd with a new sign, or changed as yet
Ought but its owner's name, in all this street.
The castle ditch alone, (last remnant left
Of feudal recollections,) hath indeed
Long since, by hands barbarian, been plough'd up
And planted with potatoes; its rich shade
Of beeches levell'd, and the fair alcove
Which crown'd its spacious bowling-green, pull'd down.
Nought else seems alter'd, save the face of man;
But that, how strangely! Yesterday I pass'd
An infant school-room, echoing to the hum
Of children's voices on their tasks intent;
And, through the open window, could discern
The features of their mistress. 'Twas a face,
Almost the first which Memory, looking back
Through forty years, remembers to have loved;—
The face of one long since our nursery-maid,
The beauty of the village. Around her
Our young imaginations fondly clung,
And, in her features, seem'd to recognize
The bright ideals of our fairy tales
Mysteriously embodied. In our eyes,
She was the princess Eglantine, adored
Of Valentine and Orson;—we the twins
Contending for her hand. The Sabra she
Who loved St. George of England, and by him
Was lost amidst the forest; then straightway
Protected by a lion. She alone
Seem'd gentle Graciosa's living type,
Through depths unknown of trouble and distress,
Still constant to her Percinet.—Nor lack'd
Our spite a fitting representative
Of old malicious Grognon,—that foul hag
Who persecuted beauty, youth, and love,
For very ugliness. Her, to the life,
We found depicted in a spinster sour,
The despot of our nursery;—one whose tried
And unimpeach'd devotion to her charge
Compensated, in fond parental eyes,
For all her inborn crabbedness; who ruled
With undisputed, arbitrary sway
The rising generation, and the risen;
Queen'd it supreme o'er mistress and o'er maid;
And thus, by rigour of tyrannic rule,
Combined in close-knit league against herself,
Us and our pretty play-mate. In revenge
Of wrongs, supposed or real, her we named
Witch, ogre, wicked fairy, goblin, imp,
Giantess, evil genius, Afrit, goule,
And whatsoever abhorr'd and hateful thing
Imagination of the East or West
Hath ever bodied forth. And yet, in truth,
Much cause had we to love her, could the love
Of children be obtain'd by honest zeal
Apart from gentleness;—and if sometimes
She yielded to infirmity,—if years,
Approaching to threescore, had fail'd to quench,
In her, the wish to be a wife, and thus
Made her too oft the dupe of needy men,
Seeking not her but hers, and furnish'd food
For laughter even to us,—be that forgot
In the remembrance of her faithful life
And melancholy death. For,—after years
In strict discharge of anxious duty spent,
Worn out at last by the incessant fret
And fever of a spirit ill at ease,
And, haply, vex'd by our perversity
Almost beyond endurance,—she resolved
To quit our parents' service, and retire,
On the small savings by long labour earn'd,
To end her days in peace;—then changed her mind,
Through love for us and ours;—again resolved,—
And yet again repented;—till at last,
Wearied by what, in her, appear'd caprice,
Our parents lost all patience, and resolved
She should indeed depart. Thenceforth no more
She lifted up her head, nor could regain
Her full command of reason:—from her home
She wander'd and return'd not:—in the end,
After long, anxious search, her corpse was found
Beneath the Severn waters.
When half a life has fled, to see once more
Places long loved;—to mark how Nature's face
Remains unchanged,—how little Art has wrought
Of transformation in insensate things,
While human forms familiar—men who lived,
Thought, felt, rejoiced, and sorrow'd, hoped and fear'd,
Hated and loved, in time's relentless flight,
Have been, by generations, swept away,
Like shadows, from the earth. But sadder still,
Methinks, the alteration wrought by age
In those who yet remain. These thirty years
A house hath scarce been built, a tree cut down,
A new shop open'd,—scarce a public-house
Been deck'd with a new sign, or changed as yet
368
The castle ditch alone, (last remnant left
Of feudal recollections,) hath indeed
Long since, by hands barbarian, been plough'd up
And planted with potatoes; its rich shade
Of beeches levell'd, and the fair alcove
Which crown'd its spacious bowling-green, pull'd down.
Nought else seems alter'd, save the face of man;
But that, how strangely! Yesterday I pass'd
An infant school-room, echoing to the hum
Of children's voices on their tasks intent;
And, through the open window, could discern
The features of their mistress. 'Twas a face,
Almost the first which Memory, looking back
Through forty years, remembers to have loved;—
The face of one long since our nursery-maid,
The beauty of the village. Around her
Our young imaginations fondly clung,
And, in her features, seem'd to recognize
The bright ideals of our fairy tales
Mysteriously embodied. In our eyes,
She was the princess Eglantine, adored
Of Valentine and Orson;—we the twins
Contending for her hand. The Sabra she
Who loved St. George of England, and by him
Was lost amidst the forest; then straightway
Protected by a lion. She alone
Seem'd gentle Graciosa's living type,
Through depths unknown of trouble and distress,
Still constant to her Percinet.—Nor lack'd
Our spite a fitting representative
Of old malicious Grognon,—that foul hag
Who persecuted beauty, youth, and love,
For very ugliness. Her, to the life,
We found depicted in a spinster sour,
The despot of our nursery;—one whose tried
And unimpeach'd devotion to her charge
Compensated, in fond parental eyes,
For all her inborn crabbedness; who ruled
369
The rising generation, and the risen;
Queen'd it supreme o'er mistress and o'er maid;
And thus, by rigour of tyrannic rule,
Combined in close-knit league against herself,
Us and our pretty play-mate. In revenge
Of wrongs, supposed or real, her we named
Witch, ogre, wicked fairy, goblin, imp,
Giantess, evil genius, Afrit, goule,
And whatsoever abhorr'd and hateful thing
Imagination of the East or West
Hath ever bodied forth. And yet, in truth,
Much cause had we to love her, could the love
Of children be obtain'd by honest zeal
Apart from gentleness;—and if sometimes
She yielded to infirmity,—if years,
Approaching to threescore, had fail'd to quench,
In her, the wish to be a wife, and thus
Made her too oft the dupe of needy men,
Seeking not her but hers, and furnish'd food
For laughter even to us,—be that forgot
In the remembrance of her faithful life
And melancholy death. For,—after years
In strict discharge of anxious duty spent,
Worn out at last by the incessant fret
And fever of a spirit ill at ease,
And, haply, vex'd by our perversity
Almost beyond endurance,—she resolved
To quit our parents' service, and retire,
On the small savings by long labour earn'd,
To end her days in peace;—then changed her mind,
Through love for us and ours;—again resolved,—
And yet again repented;—till at last,
Wearied by what, in her, appear'd caprice,
Our parents lost all patience, and resolved
She should indeed depart. Thenceforth no more
She lifted up her head, nor could regain
Her full command of reason:—from her home
She wander'd and return'd not:—in the end,
370
Beneath the Severn waters.
But the maid,—
The dark-eyed heroine of fairy-land,—
How hath her fortune sped? Alas! her tale
Is one of kindred sorrow. Long ago
(So long that I can scarce remember when)
She married; and had he, to whom she gave
Her hand and heart, been worthy of the gift,
Might now have held her head above the crowd
With decent self-respect:—alas! he proved
A drunkard and a brute. Soon ruin came,
And gaunt-eyed famine stared them in the face:
Her children proved rebellious, and she lived
A broken-hearted woman, struggling still,
In unsubdued nobility of soul,
With care, and want, and sorrow; till at length
Compassion and respect for her meek worth,
From those whom she had served in early youth,
Made her the mistress of that infant school
Where yesterday I found her;—but alas!
How should a wounded spirit, such as hers,
Bear up against her task?—what energy,
In her, remains to vary and sustain
Perpetual sallies of exciting sport,
And stimulative effort?—how should she,
Whose heart is bleeding for her husband's sin,
Her offspring lost, her home left desolate—
How should she feel the interest, here required,
In children not her own? With listless air
She sits, in dull, mechanical routine,
Dragging along her weary load of tasks;
Dispensing vain rewards and punishments;
Dispirited and jaded by the sound
Of voices which she heeds not; till the clock,
With wish'd-for stroke, announces her release,
Emancipating from ungrateful toil
The teacher and the taught.—Thus Life's romance
Begins and ends:—its moral,—that our world
Is, was, and, till redemption's closing day,
Must evermore remain a vale of tears.
The dark-eyed heroine of fairy-land,—
How hath her fortune sped? Alas! her tale
Is one of kindred sorrow. Long ago
(So long that I can scarce remember when)
She married; and had he, to whom she gave
Her hand and heart, been worthy of the gift,
Might now have held her head above the crowd
With decent self-respect:—alas! he proved
A drunkard and a brute. Soon ruin came,
And gaunt-eyed famine stared them in the face:
Her children proved rebellious, and she lived
A broken-hearted woman, struggling still,
In unsubdued nobility of soul,
With care, and want, and sorrow; till at length
Compassion and respect for her meek worth,
From those whom she had served in early youth,
Made her the mistress of that infant school
Where yesterday I found her;—but alas!
How should a wounded spirit, such as hers,
Bear up against her task?—what energy,
In her, remains to vary and sustain
Perpetual sallies of exciting sport,
And stimulative effort?—how should she,
Whose heart is bleeding for her husband's sin,
Her offspring lost, her home left desolate—
How should she feel the interest, here required,
In children not her own? With listless air
She sits, in dull, mechanical routine,
Dragging along her weary load of tasks;
Dispensing vain rewards and punishments;
Dispirited and jaded by the sound
Of voices which she heeds not; till the clock,
With wish'd-for stroke, announces her release,
Emancipating from ungrateful toil
The teacher and the taught.—Thus Life's romance
Begins and ends:—its moral,—that our world
371
Must evermore remain a vale of tears.
Yet there are spots of sunshine even on Earth;—
Green islands in the desert, which the sands
Entomb not, nor the tempests overwhelm:—
Spots which, long cherish'd in our heart of hearts,
Then, after many years revisited,
We find still fresh and fragrant. Yonder lane,
Which,—from the church-yard gate commencing, skirts
The school enclosure and the castle ditch,—
Leads, in the space of some two hundred yards,
Beside a lonely cottage, from the path
Divided by a wicket. It was once,
(Far within my remembrance,) the abode
Of a kind aged couple, who, when years
Had made the man unfit to earn his bread
At that mechanic craft which he had learnt
And practised, as a builder, all his life,
From business and its cares at length withdrew,
Surrendering to a son-in-law their trade
And daily occupation. In their home,
The latter, with his wife, their only child,—
(Themselves, in middle age, a childless pair,)
Came to reside; and though her husband seem'd
To some a vain and consequential man,
The frank and noble nature of his wife
Made more than full amends for what appear'd
Deficiencies in him. There seem'd to rest
A blessing on that house;—Content was there,
And filial duty, with connubial love
Holding, in one warm bosom, constant sway,
And spreading through the home in which it dwelt
Perpetual sunshine. Between them and us
(The cottage and the vicarage) grew up
A friendship, such as we had sought in vain
Beneath less humble roofs. Nature had set
On that old man and woman, at their birth,
The seal of true gentility, which they
Transmitted to their daughter. Oft in her,
When other sources fail'd, was found advice
And consolation, sympathy and help,
Amidst those worldly troubles which must fall
On rich and poor alike. Full oft was she
The confidante of sorrows, to no ear
But hers entrusted; and, for us, whose age
Reck'd of no nice distinction between ranks,
But clung to kindness, wheresoever found,
With instinct true and keen,—in all the world
There was no heart like hers. Day after day,
In pairs or singly,—sometimes all at once,—
We stole from home, to prattle and to play
In that old cottage and the timber-yard
Adjacent. I shall never, while I live,
Forget the old man's cheerful countenance,
Lit up with gleams of humour, as he sat
And welcomed us in his accustomed seat
Within the chimney corner;—his broad jests,—
His cordial fun,—his brown, close, curly wig,
His straight blue coat with monstrous buttons starr'd,—
His nether garments, plush or velveteen,—
The sky-blue worsted stockings on his shanks,—
The buckles in his shoes. His busy wife,
Unbroken by the weight of fourscore years,
Meanwhile, with ceaseless footsteps, roam'd about,
And plied her household tasks, with ready tact
Assisted by her daughter, and by us
Impeded sorely;—yet they never lost
Patience or kindness, but still bore our freaks
And follies with a spirit imperturb'd;
Nor wearied of such pert impertinence
As would have wearied Job. On baking-days,
Which we by instinct knew, their batch contain'd
(Nor ever fail'd) one smoking cake for us,—
One smoking, butter'd cake!—Their cider-press
Ream'd with rich draughts for us;—their garden teem'd
With gooseberries and currants, which to us
Yielded unstintingly their luscious juice.
We were the lords of all that fair domain,—
Too oft, perhaps, the tyrants. Time roll'd on;
We left the place and country,—nor return'd,
Till thirteen years had pass'd. The old man then
Had, in the ripeness of full ninety years,
Been gather'd to his fathers; and his wife
Slept with him side by side. The cottage still
Shelters the younger pair, who, in their turn,
Themselves have sunk into the vale of years;
And to our children are, what once, to us,
Their parents used to be. Nay, so robust
Their age appears, that haply they may see
Another generation. To their house
Our steps still daily turn, when we renew
Our visits to the neighbourhood, and still
They welcome us as they were ever wont,
And spoil our children with as right good will
As once they spoil'd the parents. All remains
Beneath that roof unchanged;—upon the shelves
The clean, white rows of plates, and in the midst,
One of green wedgwood, still uncrack'd; above
The chimney-piece, its old abundant store
Of tin and pewter, amidst which appears
(Chief ornament) a glittering brazen cross,
Which, fifty years ago, the husband bore,
Surmounting the blue staff, on festal days,
Borne by the members of the Friendly Club.
The wife (except that threescore years and ten
Have silver'd o'er her hair) continues still
The same in form and feature. Age hath tamed
The loftier spirit of her partner down;
Who, when I visited their cottage last,
Was reading, with a fix'd abstracted look,
The Olney hymns. To me it seems as though
That couple and the world must live and die
Together; and whene'er their humble roof
Shall shelter other tenants, 'twill be time
For me to close, for ever, Memory's book,
And cease to think on scenes and days gone by.
Green islands in the desert, which the sands
Entomb not, nor the tempests overwhelm:—
Spots which, long cherish'd in our heart of hearts,
Then, after many years revisited,
We find still fresh and fragrant. Yonder lane,
Which,—from the church-yard gate commencing, skirts
The school enclosure and the castle ditch,—
Leads, in the space of some two hundred yards,
Beside a lonely cottage, from the path
Divided by a wicket. It was once,
(Far within my remembrance,) the abode
Of a kind aged couple, who, when years
Had made the man unfit to earn his bread
At that mechanic craft which he had learnt
And practised, as a builder, all his life,
From business and its cares at length withdrew,
Surrendering to a son-in-law their trade
And daily occupation. In their home,
The latter, with his wife, their only child,—
(Themselves, in middle age, a childless pair,)
Came to reside; and though her husband seem'd
To some a vain and consequential man,
The frank and noble nature of his wife
Made more than full amends for what appear'd
Deficiencies in him. There seem'd to rest
A blessing on that house;—Content was there,
And filial duty, with connubial love
Holding, in one warm bosom, constant sway,
And spreading through the home in which it dwelt
Perpetual sunshine. Between them and us
(The cottage and the vicarage) grew up
A friendship, such as we had sought in vain
Beneath less humble roofs. Nature had set
On that old man and woman, at their birth,
The seal of true gentility, which they
Transmitted to their daughter. Oft in her,
372
And consolation, sympathy and help,
Amidst those worldly troubles which must fall
On rich and poor alike. Full oft was she
The confidante of sorrows, to no ear
But hers entrusted; and, for us, whose age
Reck'd of no nice distinction between ranks,
But clung to kindness, wheresoever found,
With instinct true and keen,—in all the world
There was no heart like hers. Day after day,
In pairs or singly,—sometimes all at once,—
We stole from home, to prattle and to play
In that old cottage and the timber-yard
Adjacent. I shall never, while I live,
Forget the old man's cheerful countenance,
Lit up with gleams of humour, as he sat
And welcomed us in his accustomed seat
Within the chimney corner;—his broad jests,—
His cordial fun,—his brown, close, curly wig,
His straight blue coat with monstrous buttons starr'd,—
His nether garments, plush or velveteen,—
The sky-blue worsted stockings on his shanks,—
The buckles in his shoes. His busy wife,
Unbroken by the weight of fourscore years,
Meanwhile, with ceaseless footsteps, roam'd about,
And plied her household tasks, with ready tact
Assisted by her daughter, and by us
Impeded sorely;—yet they never lost
Patience or kindness, but still bore our freaks
And follies with a spirit imperturb'd;
Nor wearied of such pert impertinence
As would have wearied Job. On baking-days,
Which we by instinct knew, their batch contain'd
(Nor ever fail'd) one smoking cake for us,—
One smoking, butter'd cake!—Their cider-press
Ream'd with rich draughts for us;—their garden teem'd
With gooseberries and currants, which to us
Yielded unstintingly their luscious juice.
We were the lords of all that fair domain,—
373
We left the place and country,—nor return'd,
Till thirteen years had pass'd. The old man then
Had, in the ripeness of full ninety years,
Been gather'd to his fathers; and his wife
Slept with him side by side. The cottage still
Shelters the younger pair, who, in their turn,
Themselves have sunk into the vale of years;
And to our children are, what once, to us,
Their parents used to be. Nay, so robust
Their age appears, that haply they may see
Another generation. To their house
Our steps still daily turn, when we renew
Our visits to the neighbourhood, and still
They welcome us as they were ever wont,
And spoil our children with as right good will
As once they spoil'd the parents. All remains
Beneath that roof unchanged;—upon the shelves
The clean, white rows of plates, and in the midst,
One of green wedgwood, still uncrack'd; above
The chimney-piece, its old abundant store
Of tin and pewter, amidst which appears
(Chief ornament) a glittering brazen cross,
Which, fifty years ago, the husband bore,
Surmounting the blue staff, on festal days,
Borne by the members of the Friendly Club.
The wife (except that threescore years and ten
Have silver'd o'er her hair) continues still
The same in form and feature. Age hath tamed
The loftier spirit of her partner down;
Who, when I visited their cottage last,
Was reading, with a fix'd abstracted look,
The Olney hymns. To me it seems as though
That couple and the world must live and die
Together; and whene'er their humble roof
Shall shelter other tenants, 'twill be time
For me to close, for ever, Memory's book,
And cease to think on scenes and days gone by.
With feelings different far, yet not unmix'd
With melancholy interest, I behold
Yon square-built house, by jealous walls and gates
(Enclosing, in its front, a spacious court,)
Shut out and barricaded from the street.
A proud, aristocratic Hall it seems,
Not courting, but, discouraging approach,
Save from a favour'd few. For many a year
That house hath been to me a place forbid,—
Impervious, inaccessible. And yet
Few are there with remembrances more rich
Of young enjoyment in my thought combined;
Enjoyment brief, but pure. 'Twas long the home
Of one with deepest sorrow conversant;
A wife and mother, o'er whose later years,
Blameless, yet broken-hearted, be a veil
Of reverential silence drawn by me.
Her elder sons and daughters had grown up
Almost to youthful prime, while I was yet
A boy unbreech'd,—the youngest, some few years
My senior;—we could scarce be playfellows,
And yet were oft companions. 'Twas to them
A dignified delight to guide our sports,
And teach us new ones;—to protect and aid
Our tender age;—and well did they discharge
Such duty, self-imposed. On Sunday noons,
As we return'd from church, we never fail'd
To greet each other in the street,—and then,
To us, it was the proudest joy on earth
To be invited, (as full oft we were,)
To end the day with them:—at will we roam'd
Around their spacious garden, and at will
Wander'd, with them, about the fields at eve,
Until the sun had set:—then, to beguile
The twilight hours, the book of Common Prayer,
Adorn'd with wondrous prints, was summon'd in;
And sometimes hymns were sung, which still, methought,
Sounded most sweetly from that Lady's lips.
So pass'd our Sunday blameless; nor alone
Our Sunday,—for on week-days too we met
Not rarely, nor with stinted intercourse;
Until between our parents discord fell,
From pastoral duty faithfully perform'd,
And marr'd our old companionship.—Not ours
The fault,—and yet to us the fruits it bore
Appear'd most bitter. I remember well,
The evening when (all prospect being past
Of reconciliation) our young friends
Came, at their father's bidding, to our house,
To bid their last farewell. A sad one 'twas;
And, from that time, a strange unnatural state
Of separation between house and house
For years and years continued. We became
The village Capulets and Montagus;
Yet all save one—(the master of one house)
Most anxious for re-union;—nor, perhaps,
Could his sole pleasure (e'en had he so will'd)
Have ended all communion between those
Whom inclination join'd. From time to time
We met and talk'd together;—it befell,
Day after day, by strangest accident,
That they and we both walk'd at the same hour,
Both hit on the same walks. As years pass'd on,
And youth began to dawn, those walks assumed
A more romantic air. Love-rhymes were writ,
And assignations made, and duly kept,
With more deliberate purpose:—then commenced
The nightly serenade,—the moonlight stroll;
And, but for some disparity of years,
Perchance the hostile houses had not lack'd
A Romeo or a Juliet.—
374
Yon square-built house, by jealous walls and gates
(Enclosing, in its front, a spacious court,)
Shut out and barricaded from the street.
A proud, aristocratic Hall it seems,
Not courting, but, discouraging approach,
Save from a favour'd few. For many a year
That house hath been to me a place forbid,—
Impervious, inaccessible. And yet
Few are there with remembrances more rich
Of young enjoyment in my thought combined;
Enjoyment brief, but pure. 'Twas long the home
Of one with deepest sorrow conversant;
A wife and mother, o'er whose later years,
Blameless, yet broken-hearted, be a veil
Of reverential silence drawn by me.
Her elder sons and daughters had grown up
Almost to youthful prime, while I was yet
A boy unbreech'd,—the youngest, some few years
My senior;—we could scarce be playfellows,
And yet were oft companions. 'Twas to them
A dignified delight to guide our sports,
And teach us new ones;—to protect and aid
Our tender age;—and well did they discharge
Such duty, self-imposed. On Sunday noons,
As we return'd from church, we never fail'd
To greet each other in the street,—and then,
To us, it was the proudest joy on earth
To be invited, (as full oft we were,)
To end the day with them:—at will we roam'd
Around their spacious garden, and at will
Wander'd, with them, about the fields at eve,
Until the sun had set:—then, to beguile
The twilight hours, the book of Common Prayer,
Adorn'd with wondrous prints, was summon'd in;
And sometimes hymns were sung, which still, methought,
Sounded most sweetly from that Lady's lips.
So pass'd our Sunday blameless; nor alone
Our Sunday,—for on week-days too we met
375
Until between our parents discord fell,
From pastoral duty faithfully perform'd,
And marr'd our old companionship.—Not ours
The fault,—and yet to us the fruits it bore
Appear'd most bitter. I remember well,
The evening when (all prospect being past
Of reconciliation) our young friends
Came, at their father's bidding, to our house,
To bid their last farewell. A sad one 'twas;
And, from that time, a strange unnatural state
Of separation between house and house
For years and years continued. We became
The village Capulets and Montagus;
Yet all save one—(the master of one house)
Most anxious for re-union;—nor, perhaps,
Could his sole pleasure (e'en had he so will'd)
Have ended all communion between those
Whom inclination join'd. From time to time
We met and talk'd together;—it befell,
Day after day, by strangest accident,
That they and we both walk'd at the same hour,
Both hit on the same walks. As years pass'd on,
And youth began to dawn, those walks assumed
A more romantic air. Love-rhymes were writ,
And assignations made, and duly kept,
With more deliberate purpose:—then commenced
The nightly serenade,—the moonlight stroll;
And, but for some disparity of years,
Perchance the hostile houses had not lack'd
A Romeo or a Juliet.—
Those wild days
Have long been over, and the grave hath closed
Above both wife and husband; yet even now
Dark sorrow seems to brood upon that house,
Enwrapping it in gloom—through which appear
Gleams, not, I trust, delusive, of that light
Which shineth more and more to perfect day.
Have long been over, and the grave hath closed
Above both wife and husband; yet even now
Dark sorrow seems to brood upon that house,
Enwrapping it in gloom—through which appear
Gleams, not, I trust, delusive, of that light
Which shineth more and more to perfect day.
But all too long this retrospective mood
I cherish,—with a fond garrulity
Babbling, at life's full noon, of morning dreams.
'Tis time I should awake:—and yet each spot
Around me teems with recollections, such
As I would fain indulge. There's nought so mean
And insignificant in all this place,
But is endued with power to strike some chord
Of old associations. Yonder barn,
Secluded from the street a little space,
And in no wise distinguish'd outwardly
From others of its class, was once to me
A scene of strange enchantment; for a troop
Of strolling players built up beneath its roof
Their rude and rustic theatre. Till then
The drama was, to us, an unknown world,
Save that when last our family had gone
To visit the metropolis, (a rare
And wonderful occurrence) we all went
To Sadler's Wells and Astley's. Ne'er again
Was such intense illusion to beguile
Our senses and our souls as seized us then.
We were at once translated from this world
Of sober daylight to a fairy realm,
Mysteriously existing in the midst
Of human habitations, yet from all
Distinct and self-compact, by human laws
Ungovern'd, and to rules conventional
Of human custom unamenable.
The theatre itself appear'd to us
A palace of enchantment,—its gay tiers
Of gilded boxes semicircular—
Its mirror'd columns—its glass chandeliers,—
The central lustre, by some means unknown,
But necromantic, as appear'd to us,
Drawn up into the ceiling, and again
Descending to its place—the row of lights,
With sudden blaze emerging from the floor,—
The dark green curtain, veiling from our sight
An unknown world, mysterious,—the first note
Prelusive of the tuning orchestra,
Soon bursting, with sublime and swelling crash,
Into full concord of harmonious sound,—
The rising of the curtain, all at once
Disclosing to our sight transcendent scenes
Of brilliancy and bliss, surpassing all
Our young imagination e'er had dream'd
Of fairy-land—our fairy tales themselves
(For so it chanced) no longer by the mind
Imperfectly received, but to the eye
Reveal'd distinctly—Beauty and the Beast,
Tom Thumb, and Cinderella, by strange art
Converted from mere phantoms of the thought
To visible realities—all this
Was, to our minds, a new creation, fraught
With glory from some brighter world derived.
The very orange-women seem'd to us
Scarce of this earth,—scarce earthly. Such had been
Our earliest joys theatrical: but now
The full illusion was, in part, to cease;
And nature, stripp'd of pomp and circumstance,
To supersede enchantment. Small and low,—
Hung round with tapestry of worn-out scenes,
And, by a thin partition, into pit
And gallery scarce divided—its whole band
One solitary fiddle—sometimes two,—
Its stage cribb'd, cabin'd, and confined—with few
And paltry decorations,—dresses, scenes,
All suited each to each,—that theatre
E'en at first sight, gave warning, by its looks,
That histrionic art within those walls,
Apart from all appliances and means,
Must, by its strength or weakness, stand or fall.
Yet there did mimic talent, with all aid
Of outward show dispensing, in our hearts
Awaken childhood's earnest sympathies.
There we rejoiced with them that did rejoice,
And wept with them that wept;—there learnt to feel
The dignity of Virtue in distress,
And with her triumphs sympathize;—there grieved
For Woman's bitter wrong, and burnt with zeal
Heroic to avenge it. Were such thoughts
And feelings sinful all? In sober truth,
When I review those hours, I deem them not
Mispent or useless;—and if riper years,
Instructing me more fully in the lore
Of good and evil, have reveal'd a world
Of mischief in the stage,—if I forbear
To breathe its dangerous atmosphere, or soil
My priestly garments with the taint it bears,—
Such sacrifice I grudge not, but exult
With thankfulness that I have better joys
To gladden me on Earth:—but then no doubt
Or dim misgiving e'er had cross'd my mind;
No dark suspicion of inherent guilt
Estranged me from its magic:—all the ill
(If ill there was) by me was unperceived;
The good, I think, remain'd with me;—some thoughts
And feelings were develop'd, which perchance,
In after years, have sway'd my inner man
With no unwholesome influence;—some power
Was given me to perform my task on Earth.
376
Babbling, at life's full noon, of morning dreams.
'Tis time I should awake:—and yet each spot
Around me teems with recollections, such
As I would fain indulge. There's nought so mean
And insignificant in all this place,
But is endued with power to strike some chord
Of old associations. Yonder barn,
Secluded from the street a little space,
And in no wise distinguish'd outwardly
From others of its class, was once to me
A scene of strange enchantment; for a troop
Of strolling players built up beneath its roof
Their rude and rustic theatre. Till then
The drama was, to us, an unknown world,
Save that when last our family had gone
To visit the metropolis, (a rare
And wonderful occurrence) we all went
To Sadler's Wells and Astley's. Ne'er again
Was such intense illusion to beguile
Our senses and our souls as seized us then.
We were at once translated from this world
Of sober daylight to a fairy realm,
Mysteriously existing in the midst
Of human habitations, yet from all
Distinct and self-compact, by human laws
Ungovern'd, and to rules conventional
Of human custom unamenable.
The theatre itself appear'd to us
A palace of enchantment,—its gay tiers
Of gilded boxes semicircular—
Its mirror'd columns—its glass chandeliers,—
The central lustre, by some means unknown,
But necromantic, as appear'd to us,
Drawn up into the ceiling, and again
Descending to its place—the row of lights,
With sudden blaze emerging from the floor,—
The dark green curtain, veiling from our sight
An unknown world, mysterious,—the first note
377
Soon bursting, with sublime and swelling crash,
Into full concord of harmonious sound,—
The rising of the curtain, all at once
Disclosing to our sight transcendent scenes
Of brilliancy and bliss, surpassing all
Our young imagination e'er had dream'd
Of fairy-land—our fairy tales themselves
(For so it chanced) no longer by the mind
Imperfectly received, but to the eye
Reveal'd distinctly—Beauty and the Beast,
Tom Thumb, and Cinderella, by strange art
Converted from mere phantoms of the thought
To visible realities—all this
Was, to our minds, a new creation, fraught
With glory from some brighter world derived.
The very orange-women seem'd to us
Scarce of this earth,—scarce earthly. Such had been
Our earliest joys theatrical: but now
The full illusion was, in part, to cease;
And nature, stripp'd of pomp and circumstance,
To supersede enchantment. Small and low,—
Hung round with tapestry of worn-out scenes,
And, by a thin partition, into pit
And gallery scarce divided—its whole band
One solitary fiddle—sometimes two,—
Its stage cribb'd, cabin'd, and confined—with few
And paltry decorations,—dresses, scenes,
All suited each to each,—that theatre
E'en at first sight, gave warning, by its looks,
That histrionic art within those walls,
Apart from all appliances and means,
Must, by its strength or weakness, stand or fall.
Yet there did mimic talent, with all aid
Of outward show dispensing, in our hearts
Awaken childhood's earnest sympathies.
There we rejoiced with them that did rejoice,
And wept with them that wept;—there learnt to feel
The dignity of Virtue in distress,
378
For Woman's bitter wrong, and burnt with zeal
Heroic to avenge it. Were such thoughts
And feelings sinful all? In sober truth,
When I review those hours, I deem them not
Mispent or useless;—and if riper years,
Instructing me more fully in the lore
Of good and evil, have reveal'd a world
Of mischief in the stage,—if I forbear
To breathe its dangerous atmosphere, or soil
My priestly garments with the taint it bears,—
Such sacrifice I grudge not, but exult
With thankfulness that I have better joys
To gladden me on Earth:—but then no doubt
Or dim misgiving e'er had cross'd my mind;
No dark suspicion of inherent guilt
Estranged me from its magic:—all the ill
(If ill there was) by me was unperceived;
The good, I think, remain'd with me;—some thoughts
And feelings were develop'd, which perchance,
In after years, have sway'd my inner man
With no unwholesome influence;—some power
Was given me to perform my task on Earth.
Fair valley, verdant pastures, gentle stream
Winding along thy bold and wooded banks,
With most melodious murmur;—noble hills,
Mountains almost, o'ershadowing, with your dark
And craggy grandeur, scenes than which our isle
Can scarcely boast more beauteous;—tranquil town;—
Grey, venerable Church, with steeple white
Up tapering to the dim and distant sky;—
Church in whose gothic aisles I first beheld
And join'd, as childhood could, the solemn forms
Of Christian worship;—thou, too, noble Hall—
Crowning yon wooded hill in gorgeous state
Of architectural magnificence;—
Hall long deserted, and, for many a day,
Connected in our fancies with dark tales
Of Romish priestcraft,—visited sometimes,
And view'd, by me and mine, through all thy suites
Of empty rooms and mouldering furniture,
With somewhat of a superstitious awe;—
And, last and dearest, my paternal roof,
Not yet—not soon, I trust, to pass away,
With this frail life's continuance, from the pair
Whom still it shelters;—each and all, farewell!
There is no spot in all that span of earth
By me best known, to which with livelier grief
I speak that parting word, than this wherein
Ye congregate and crowd upon my sight.
And yet, for me, is Britain studded o'er
With spots to memory dear,—and some almost
As beautiful as this. E'en now I go
To join, in haunts which I have loved for years,
Those whom I love still better:—nothing loth,
And yet with swelling heart, I take my leave
Of this sweet region, in my inmost heart
Cherish'd through life, revisited with joy
Still fresh, still pure as ever!—not for long,
Not, as I trust, for many tedious months
I now depart:—Home of my earliest years!
My heart's first home!—once more—farewell! farewell!
Winding along thy bold and wooded banks,
With most melodious murmur;—noble hills,
Mountains almost, o'ershadowing, with your dark
And craggy grandeur, scenes than which our isle
Can scarcely boast more beauteous;—tranquil town;—
Grey, venerable Church, with steeple white
Up tapering to the dim and distant sky;—
Church in whose gothic aisles I first beheld
And join'd, as childhood could, the solemn forms
Of Christian worship;—thou, too, noble Hall—
Crowning yon wooded hill in gorgeous state
Of architectural magnificence;—
379
Connected in our fancies with dark tales
Of Romish priestcraft,—visited sometimes,
And view'd, by me and mine, through all thy suites
Of empty rooms and mouldering furniture,
With somewhat of a superstitious awe;—
And, last and dearest, my paternal roof,
Not yet—not soon, I trust, to pass away,
With this frail life's continuance, from the pair
Whom still it shelters;—each and all, farewell!
There is no spot in all that span of earth
By me best known, to which with livelier grief
I speak that parting word, than this wherein
Ye congregate and crowd upon my sight.
And yet, for me, is Britain studded o'er
With spots to memory dear,—and some almost
As beautiful as this. E'en now I go
To join, in haunts which I have loved for years,
Those whom I love still better:—nothing loth,
And yet with swelling heart, I take my leave
Of this sweet region, in my inmost heart
Cherish'd through life, revisited with joy
Still fresh, still pure as ever!—not for long,
Not, as I trust, for many tedious months
I now depart:—Home of my earliest years!
My heart's first home!—once more—farewell! farewell!
381
BOOK II. BOYHOOD.
INSCRIBED TO MY CHILDREN.
“Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy.”
Wordsworth
Upon the growing boy.”
Wordsworth
383
My sons—and ye especially, my first
And second born, whose years already pass
That term which to the schoolboy's dignity
Advances, for the most part, your compeers—
To you this second lay, design'd to tell
A schoolboy's tale, I dedicate.—Ere long,
Or singly, or together, you must launch
Your untried skiffs from this calm harbour, home,
On school's tempestuous sea;—not all unfit,—
Not unprepared by previous discipline,
I trust, albeit home-nurtured, to essay
Such voyage;—for not delicately rear'd
In mind or body, not in nursery cage
Too long immured, nor pamper'd have ye been
With drawing-room delights, nor train'd to trip
In lady-like gymnastics, nor imbued
With lore alone which ladies love to teach;
But, from your tender years, to sports robust
Inured, and manly studies.—Ye could climb,
Ere seven years old, with toil of hands and knees,
The loftiest peak of Arran's mountain ridge,
Where eagles train their nestlings;—ye can breast
The ocean-waves, and buffet them away
With lusty strokes;—on horseback or afoot,
Ye shrink from no fatigue;—thro' Doon's clear pools,
Reckless how deep, the livelong summer day,
With rod in hand ye plunge, nor quit your sport
E'en though the inclement skies should pelt and pour
A deluge on your heads;—and when the frost
With panoply of thickest ice hath mail'd
Our Avon's bosom, ye on trenchant skates
Athwart the glassy surface, swift as light,
Curve within curve describe,—not inexpert
E'en at the “outside edge:”—Nor have your minds
Been all untutor'd, nor with ancient lore
And modern unimbued:—but chiefly ye
Have, by the wisdom of a mother's heart,
And that most holy tenderness of love,
Which none but mothers feel, been taught to know
And reverence Truth and Virtue:—ye have spent
Your infancy and childhood, and the dawn
Of thoughtful life, by impulses to good,
And many a pure, religious influence
Surrounded and impell'd:—no morn hath risen,
No night closed round the world, but ye have knelt
(And oft, I trust, with no unthoughtful prayer,)
Spreading the open volume of your hearts
Before God's throne, in words first taught by her
To whom you owe your earthly, and whate'er
Of heavenly life, is yours:—Her solemn tones
Discoursing, ere you slept, at your bedsides,
Of righteousness, of judgment, and of sin,
Of Providence and duty, oft and oft
Have mingled with your dreams, excluding thence
All foul and hateful images:—your tasks,
Your pleasures, your employments, have by her
Been ruled and guided, sweeten'd and applied
With most prevailing wisdom, to those ends
Which she hath most at heart:—your home hath been
A happy one—the centre and the source
Of healthful joys, which ye have minister'd
Each to the other, or together shared;
And thus have learnt, through mutual self-restraint,
And mutual joy, imparted and received,
To love each other dearly.—I am sure
That—whatsoever may in after years
Befall you,—both will always love your home,—
Your childhood's home,—and that the thought of it
Will be a purifying thought to both,
When we are in our grave. Nor will you lose
E'en yet, I trust, its shelter:—School, to you,
Will bring no exile from the haunts you love,
From cheering and familiar looks and words,
Or from parental aid:—amidst the cares,
The conflicts, and the interests, new and strange,
The doubts and the distresses, which, ere long,
Must chequer your school life, you will retain
One harbour and sure hold;—unlike your sire,
Who, in old times, when railways yet were not,
And coaches travell'd scarce six miles an hour,
At eight years old was sent away to school
A hundred miles from home.
And second born, whose years already pass
That term which to the schoolboy's dignity
Advances, for the most part, your compeers—
To you this second lay, design'd to tell
A schoolboy's tale, I dedicate.—Ere long,
Or singly, or together, you must launch
Your untried skiffs from this calm harbour, home,
On school's tempestuous sea;—not all unfit,—
Not unprepared by previous discipline,
I trust, albeit home-nurtured, to essay
Such voyage;—for not delicately rear'd
In mind or body, not in nursery cage
Too long immured, nor pamper'd have ye been
With drawing-room delights, nor train'd to trip
In lady-like gymnastics, nor imbued
With lore alone which ladies love to teach;
But, from your tender years, to sports robust
Inured, and manly studies.—Ye could climb,
Ere seven years old, with toil of hands and knees,
The loftiest peak of Arran's mountain ridge,
Where eagles train their nestlings;—ye can breast
384
With lusty strokes;—on horseback or afoot,
Ye shrink from no fatigue;—thro' Doon's clear pools,
Reckless how deep, the livelong summer day,
With rod in hand ye plunge, nor quit your sport
E'en though the inclement skies should pelt and pour
A deluge on your heads;—and when the frost
With panoply of thickest ice hath mail'd
Our Avon's bosom, ye on trenchant skates
Athwart the glassy surface, swift as light,
Curve within curve describe,—not inexpert
E'en at the “outside edge:”—Nor have your minds
Been all untutor'd, nor with ancient lore
And modern unimbued:—but chiefly ye
Have, by the wisdom of a mother's heart,
And that most holy tenderness of love,
Which none but mothers feel, been taught to know
And reverence Truth and Virtue:—ye have spent
Your infancy and childhood, and the dawn
Of thoughtful life, by impulses to good,
And many a pure, religious influence
Surrounded and impell'd:—no morn hath risen,
No night closed round the world, but ye have knelt
(And oft, I trust, with no unthoughtful prayer,)
Spreading the open volume of your hearts
Before God's throne, in words first taught by her
To whom you owe your earthly, and whate'er
Of heavenly life, is yours:—Her solemn tones
Discoursing, ere you slept, at your bedsides,
Of righteousness, of judgment, and of sin,
Of Providence and duty, oft and oft
Have mingled with your dreams, excluding thence
All foul and hateful images:—your tasks,
Your pleasures, your employments, have by her
Been ruled and guided, sweeten'd and applied
With most prevailing wisdom, to those ends
Which she hath most at heart:—your home hath been
A happy one—the centre and the source
Of healthful joys, which ye have minister'd
385
And thus have learnt, through mutual self-restraint,
And mutual joy, imparted and received,
To love each other dearly.—I am sure
That—whatsoever may in after years
Befall you,—both will always love your home,—
Your childhood's home,—and that the thought of it
Will be a purifying thought to both,
When we are in our grave. Nor will you lose
E'en yet, I trust, its shelter:—School, to you,
Will bring no exile from the haunts you love,
From cheering and familiar looks and words,
Or from parental aid:—amidst the cares,
The conflicts, and the interests, new and strange,
The doubts and the distresses, which, ere long,
Must chequer your school life, you will retain
One harbour and sure hold;—unlike your sire,
Who, in old times, when railways yet were not,
And coaches travell'd scarce six miles an hour,
At eight years old was sent away to school
A hundred miles from home.
In after-life,
With all its ebbs and flows of joy and grief,
Its tears and smiles, its welcomes and farewells,
There is no separation like that first
Between the child and parent.—I can still
Remember how, when it had been resolved
That I should go to school, it seem'd to me
As though some fearful evil, undefined,
Mysterious, vague, hung over me;—my heart
Presaged, it knew not what,—disruption dire
Of old home ties and sympathies,—dread loss
Of comforts and of kindness, ne'er till then
Esteem'd or valued, and, in place of these,
Harsh treatment, stern restraint, relentless law,
Inexorable justice.—Fearful tales
Of academic discipline severe,
Stripes and starvation, and imprisonment,
Rose up from memory's cells in grim array,
To scare imagination.—Well for me,
It chanced that on our road we were to halt
(My father and myself) for some few days
At an ancestral mansion, there to meet
A cousin, who (my senior by five years,)
Was, at the school to which we both were bound,
To act as my protector.—The last boon
Vouchsafed me was to fix the fatal day
On which we should leave home; and I, who oft
Had been most happy in that ancient Hall,
Of two proposed, decided on the first,
There to prolong my stay; but when I saw
My mother's grieved and disappointed look,
Though she spoke not, I felt my choice was wrong,
And the next moment, would have barter'd worlds
For leave to change it,—yet, through pride or shame,
Still held my peace perversely:—so we went
As it had been resolved, and in few days,
(Our passing visit ended) reach'd the town
Where dwelt my future pedagogue. E'en now
I well remember, how, with lingering wheels,
Our chaise approach'd the house:—it was a low
White plaister'd vicarage, in front of which,
A row of close-trimm'd limes, which interlaced
Their topmost branches, form'd a sort of fence
Between it and the churchyard:—not far off
Stood the old church itself, against whose broad
And battlemented tower, some striplings tall
(Grown men they seem'd to me) were playing then,
Irreverently, I thought, a game at fives.
The master, a hale man of sixty years,
In curl'd and powder'd and full bottom'd wig,
(The symbol, then, of pedagogues) advanced
Beneath the limes to welcome us, and soon,
Within a comfortable parlour housed,
We with his wife, himself, and his two sons,
Assistants and joint partners in the school,
Were holding fearless converse:—the dread spell
Was broken;—school seem'd not so dread a place
As I had still conceived it;—half the weight
That lay upon my heart was taken off;
And not until the parting moment came,—
Not till my parent, seated in the chaise,
Which was to bear him homeward, turn'd him round
To take his farewell look, did I, at last,
Feel all my desolation.—There I stood,
Surrounded by strange faces, each and all
Impertinently curious—every tongue
Let loose in countless questionings;—my name,
Age, parentage, condition, birth-place, home,
Proficiency in Latin—with swift haste,
Ask'd, answer'd, and reported;—I meanwhile
Awkward and shy, and grievously perplex'd
By such unceasing cannonade of talk,
Stood helpless;—here and there a face express'd
Compassion, as I thought, and sympathy:
Nor was I, with my kinsman at my side,
Bereft of all protection;—yet it seem'd
That when, with sudden clang, the bell rang out
Which summon'd us to supper, I was freed,
As by a friendly voice, from the assaults
Of reckless persecution.—But, that meal!—
That first school supper!—how unlike it seem'd
The comfortable board with tea-cups graced,
The glory of my home!—those tables rough,
Unconscious of a table-cloth, with ink
Profusely flooded, and by pocket-knives,
In characters of every size and shape,
With names of generations past inscribed;—
Those masses, huge and square, of flaccid cheese,
And bread unbutter'd, which each ravenous boy,
Plateless and forkless, seized with eager grasp
And carved, like hungry ploughman, with a knife
Drawn from his pouch;—those tall white earthen quarts
Of drink, by men call'd beer, but swipes by boys;—
Such fare, so served, demanded hungrier maw
Than mine yet was, to relish it.—Full soon
The meal was ended, and—without a word
Of grace, or vesper service offer'd up,—
We were dismiss'd to bed;—so prayerless then
Were all our English schools;—but ere I slept,
The thought of home and habits home-instill'd
Came fresh upon my heart:—with bended knee
And clear articulation, undismay'd,
I said my wonted prayer.—Our master's wife,
Who stood beside me, I remember well,
Seem'd touch'd by such unwonted fear of Heaven;
And, bidding me good night, devoutly pray'd
That I might long remain what then I was.
Vain hope!—a martyr's spirit would have quail'd
(Had such been mine) beneath the unpitying storm
Of ridicule and insult, rude reproach,
And scorn contemptuous, which, from that wild rout
Of boisterous urchins burst upon the head
Of such as, like myself, retain'd as yet
Some remnant of home-feelings—some faint trace
Of care for holy things.—It was their pride,—
Their never-failing sport, to drag to light
The secret thoughts of each most gentle heart,
And then, with rude, sarcastic ribaldry,
To set them up for laughing-stocks.—The soul,
Thus outraged, sunk into itself aghast,
And brooded o'er its treasure silently,
Not without deep resentment.—Some there were,
Who, with deceitful show of sympathy,
Would worm their way into the confidence
Of unsuspecting victims,—win complete
And unreserved disclosure of whate'er
Lay nearest to their hearts,—the names they loved,
Their fond remembrances of home-delights,—
The hopes they cherish'd—all that was the food,
The pure refreshment of their inner life;—
Then straight betray the secrets, darkly won,
And, with demoniac insult, rend and crush
The feelings and affections thus evoked
From the soul's inmost depths.—It had been strange
Had spirits, thus abused, retain'd unchill'd
Their innate tenderness.—Ere long, a new
And less confiding nature crusted o'er
The surface of the old:—their hearts were sear'd
And harden'd to the blows they had to bear;
And what they lost in tenderness, perchance
They gain'd in firm endurance,—thus prepared
To grapple with the world, and breathe, unhurt,
Its chilling atmosphere.—Such lot was mine;
Such must be yours, my children.—Be it so;
I seek not to avert what I lament,
But know to be the inevitable doom
Of Man in this rude Earth;—perchance 'tis well
That this, your first collision with the world,
Should also be your bitterest.
With all its ebbs and flows of joy and grief,
Its tears and smiles, its welcomes and farewells,
There is no separation like that first
Between the child and parent.—I can still
Remember how, when it had been resolved
That I should go to school, it seem'd to me
As though some fearful evil, undefined,
Mysterious, vague, hung over me;—my heart
Presaged, it knew not what,—disruption dire
Of old home ties and sympathies,—dread loss
Of comforts and of kindness, ne'er till then
Esteem'd or valued, and, in place of these,
Harsh treatment, stern restraint, relentless law,
Inexorable justice.—Fearful tales
Of academic discipline severe,
Stripes and starvation, and imprisonment,
Rose up from memory's cells in grim array,
386
It chanced that on our road we were to halt
(My father and myself) for some few days
At an ancestral mansion, there to meet
A cousin, who (my senior by five years,)
Was, at the school to which we both were bound,
To act as my protector.—The last boon
Vouchsafed me was to fix the fatal day
On which we should leave home; and I, who oft
Had been most happy in that ancient Hall,
Of two proposed, decided on the first,
There to prolong my stay; but when I saw
My mother's grieved and disappointed look,
Though she spoke not, I felt my choice was wrong,
And the next moment, would have barter'd worlds
For leave to change it,—yet, through pride or shame,
Still held my peace perversely:—so we went
As it had been resolved, and in few days,
(Our passing visit ended) reach'd the town
Where dwelt my future pedagogue. E'en now
I well remember, how, with lingering wheels,
Our chaise approach'd the house:—it was a low
White plaister'd vicarage, in front of which,
A row of close-trimm'd limes, which interlaced
Their topmost branches, form'd a sort of fence
Between it and the churchyard:—not far off
Stood the old church itself, against whose broad
And battlemented tower, some striplings tall
(Grown men they seem'd to me) were playing then,
Irreverently, I thought, a game at fives.
The master, a hale man of sixty years,
In curl'd and powder'd and full bottom'd wig,
(The symbol, then, of pedagogues) advanced
Beneath the limes to welcome us, and soon,
Within a comfortable parlour housed,
We with his wife, himself, and his two sons,
Assistants and joint partners in the school,
Were holding fearless converse:—the dread spell
387
As I had still conceived it;—half the weight
That lay upon my heart was taken off;
And not until the parting moment came,—
Not till my parent, seated in the chaise,
Which was to bear him homeward, turn'd him round
To take his farewell look, did I, at last,
Feel all my desolation.—There I stood,
Surrounded by strange faces, each and all
Impertinently curious—every tongue
Let loose in countless questionings;—my name,
Age, parentage, condition, birth-place, home,
Proficiency in Latin—with swift haste,
Ask'd, answer'd, and reported;—I meanwhile
Awkward and shy, and grievously perplex'd
By such unceasing cannonade of talk,
Stood helpless;—here and there a face express'd
Compassion, as I thought, and sympathy:
Nor was I, with my kinsman at my side,
Bereft of all protection;—yet it seem'd
That when, with sudden clang, the bell rang out
Which summon'd us to supper, I was freed,
As by a friendly voice, from the assaults
Of reckless persecution.—But, that meal!—
That first school supper!—how unlike it seem'd
The comfortable board with tea-cups graced,
The glory of my home!—those tables rough,
Unconscious of a table-cloth, with ink
Profusely flooded, and by pocket-knives,
In characters of every size and shape,
With names of generations past inscribed;—
Those masses, huge and square, of flaccid cheese,
And bread unbutter'd, which each ravenous boy,
Plateless and forkless, seized with eager grasp
And carved, like hungry ploughman, with a knife
Drawn from his pouch;—those tall white earthen quarts
Of drink, by men call'd beer, but swipes by boys;—
Such fare, so served, demanded hungrier maw
Than mine yet was, to relish it.—Full soon
The meal was ended, and—without a word
388
We were dismiss'd to bed;—so prayerless then
Were all our English schools;—but ere I slept,
The thought of home and habits home-instill'd
Came fresh upon my heart:—with bended knee
And clear articulation, undismay'd,
I said my wonted prayer.—Our master's wife,
Who stood beside me, I remember well,
Seem'd touch'd by such unwonted fear of Heaven;
And, bidding me good night, devoutly pray'd
That I might long remain what then I was.
Vain hope!—a martyr's spirit would have quail'd
(Had such been mine) beneath the unpitying storm
Of ridicule and insult, rude reproach,
And scorn contemptuous, which, from that wild rout
Of boisterous urchins burst upon the head
Of such as, like myself, retain'd as yet
Some remnant of home-feelings—some faint trace
Of care for holy things.—It was their pride,—
Their never-failing sport, to drag to light
The secret thoughts of each most gentle heart,
And then, with rude, sarcastic ribaldry,
To set them up for laughing-stocks.—The soul,
Thus outraged, sunk into itself aghast,
And brooded o'er its treasure silently,
Not without deep resentment.—Some there were,
Who, with deceitful show of sympathy,
Would worm their way into the confidence
Of unsuspecting victims,—win complete
And unreserved disclosure of whate'er
Lay nearest to their hearts,—the names they loved,
Their fond remembrances of home-delights,—
The hopes they cherish'd—all that was the food,
The pure refreshment of their inner life;—
Then straight betray the secrets, darkly won,
And, with demoniac insult, rend and crush
The feelings and affections thus evoked
From the soul's inmost depths.—It had been strange
Had spirits, thus abused, retain'd unchill'd
389
And less confiding nature crusted o'er
The surface of the old:—their hearts were sear'd
And harden'd to the blows they had to bear;
And what they lost in tenderness, perchance
They gain'd in firm endurance,—thus prepared
To grapple with the world, and breathe, unhurt,
Its chilling atmosphere.—Such lot was mine;
Such must be yours, my children.—Be it so;
I seek not to avert what I lament,
But know to be the inevitable doom
Of Man in this rude Earth;—perchance 'tis well
That this, your first collision with the world,
Should also be your bitterest.
Yet think not
That, when that shock is o'er, the schoolboy life
Is otherwise than happy. Time heals o'er
The wounds which the young heart so keenly feels:
Our nature soon conforms itself to that
Of each new world in which it is to dwell,
And takes its form and impress:—such at least
Was my experience;—casting off my shy
Home-nurtured meekness, I began, ere long,
To rough it with my fellows, and soon won
From persecution clear immunity.
Nor, when I now look back on those old days,
Can I discern much real grief mix'd up
With their abundant gladness.—In that school,
Terror and pain and punishment were known
So little, that, ere many days had past,
I learnt to deem the tales, which I had heard
Of magisterial tyranny, profane
And old wives' fables: birchen rods appear'd
Mere figments of the brain; and weeks elapsed
Ere execution on one luckless wight
Duly perform'd, proved that, beyond all doubt,
Such tales were fundamentally correct,
And true at bottom.—Thus our school-hours pass'd,
Not often sadly; and, when school was o'er,
We had abundant change of joyous sports;—
Fives, cricket, foot-ball, in its season each;
And (what to horticultural adepts
Yielded a graver joy) to each his plot
Of garden ground assign'd, producing crops
Of choicest salad herbs,—green lettuces,
Mustard and cress, and radishes, oblong
Or turnip-shaped, which graced our evening meal,
And added to its relish.—Once a year
Each gather'd of green gooseberries, wherewithal,
From his own garden, to compound a pie,
Which, baked at the adjacent pastry-cook's,
Supplied a crowning feast.—On summer eves,
Conducted by our masters, and with them
Sharing the rapturous pleasure, we were wont
In Kennet's silver stream to plunge amain.
Ah me! to think how sorely, at the first,
My heart misgave me!—what a weight of fear
I hid beneath a bold and cheerful brow,
When on the river's grassy marge I stood,
And heard the mill-dam waters, through their gates
Let loose, with thundering torrent rage and roar!
Brief terror! soon succeeded by delight
Extatic. Nor were more romantic joys
Denied us;—to a neighbouring forest, ranged
By herds of the red deer, sometimes we went
On holidays, and underneath an oak
(The forest monarch) spread upon the grass
Our sylvan banquet:—there, from branch to branch
We chased the squirrels, and sometimes, athirst
For manlier sport, assail'd the herd itself,
Like Robin Hood's bold outlaws in the glades
Of Sherwood;—but such holidays were rare:
Our every-day diversions were confined
Almost within the churchyard's narrow bounds.
Amidst the graves we sported, rarely touch'd
By aught of solemn feeling, to the place
Accordant—save that never, after dark,
We loved to pass near one mysterious part
Of the old church—a kind of catacomb
Or mausoleum on the northern side,
Encompassing a single marble tomb,—
A tomb without a name, inscriptionless.
Of him who slept beneath it fearful things
Were rumour'd and believed—a dark, strange tale
Of infant murder—of acquittal gain'd
Through legal subtlety—of large estates,
Held by the owner of a neighbouring Hall,
For service by an ancestor perform'd,
In dread forensic strife for life or death,
To that mysterious tenant of the grave.
'Twas seldom that the door of that dread vault
Was open'd;—when it was, with shuddering awe
Sometimes we ventured in, and there beheld,
Suspended on the wall, the mouldering lines
Of a pale portrait, and what seem'd to us
The etching of some dark mysterious deed
Cut rudely upon brass.
That, when that shock is o'er, the schoolboy life
Is otherwise than happy. Time heals o'er
The wounds which the young heart so keenly feels:
Our nature soon conforms itself to that
Of each new world in which it is to dwell,
And takes its form and impress:—such at least
Was my experience;—casting off my shy
Home-nurtured meekness, I began, ere long,
To rough it with my fellows, and soon won
From persecution clear immunity.
Nor, when I now look back on those old days,
Can I discern much real grief mix'd up
With their abundant gladness.—In that school,
Terror and pain and punishment were known
So little, that, ere many days had past,
I learnt to deem the tales, which I had heard
Of magisterial tyranny, profane
And old wives' fables: birchen rods appear'd
Mere figments of the brain; and weeks elapsed
Ere execution on one luckless wight
Duly perform'd, proved that, beyond all doubt,
Such tales were fundamentally correct,
And true at bottom.—Thus our school-hours pass'd,
Not often sadly; and, when school was o'er,
390
Fives, cricket, foot-ball, in its season each;
And (what to horticultural adepts
Yielded a graver joy) to each his plot
Of garden ground assign'd, producing crops
Of choicest salad herbs,—green lettuces,
Mustard and cress, and radishes, oblong
Or turnip-shaped, which graced our evening meal,
And added to its relish.—Once a year
Each gather'd of green gooseberries, wherewithal,
From his own garden, to compound a pie,
Which, baked at the adjacent pastry-cook's,
Supplied a crowning feast.—On summer eves,
Conducted by our masters, and with them
Sharing the rapturous pleasure, we were wont
In Kennet's silver stream to plunge amain.
Ah me! to think how sorely, at the first,
My heart misgave me!—what a weight of fear
I hid beneath a bold and cheerful brow,
When on the river's grassy marge I stood,
And heard the mill-dam waters, through their gates
Let loose, with thundering torrent rage and roar!
Brief terror! soon succeeded by delight
Extatic. Nor were more romantic joys
Denied us;—to a neighbouring forest, ranged
By herds of the red deer, sometimes we went
On holidays, and underneath an oak
(The forest monarch) spread upon the grass
Our sylvan banquet:—there, from branch to branch
We chased the squirrels, and sometimes, athirst
For manlier sport, assail'd the herd itself,
Like Robin Hood's bold outlaws in the glades
Of Sherwood;—but such holidays were rare:
Our every-day diversions were confined
Almost within the churchyard's narrow bounds.
Amidst the graves we sported, rarely touch'd
By aught of solemn feeling, to the place
Accordant—save that never, after dark,
We loved to pass near one mysterious part
391
Or mausoleum on the northern side,
Encompassing a single marble tomb,—
A tomb without a name, inscriptionless.
Of him who slept beneath it fearful things
Were rumour'd and believed—a dark, strange tale
Of infant murder—of acquittal gain'd
Through legal subtlety—of large estates,
Held by the owner of a neighbouring Hall,
For service by an ancestor perform'd,
In dread forensic strife for life or death,
To that mysterious tenant of the grave.
'Twas seldom that the door of that dread vault
Was open'd;—when it was, with shuddering awe
Sometimes we ventured in, and there beheld,
Suspended on the wall, the mouldering lines
Of a pale portrait, and what seem'd to us
The etching of some dark mysterious deed
Cut rudely upon brass.
But 'twas not long
Before that churchyard in our eyes assumed
An interest more impressive:—in her home,
After long years of patient slow decline,
Our master's daughter died. Her once I saw
White as a sheeted ghost, with thin blue lips
Emaciate—Death's dread seal upon her brow,—
Yet not, methought, unlovely:—with a friend,—
A female friend, the solace and support
Of her long weary sickness, she conversed
In whisper'd accents,—for her voice was gone;
And when I look'd upon her face, even I
Could tell her end was near:—full soon it came:—
We heard that she was dead, and, in few days,
Were summon'd to attend her to the grave.
That long procession of dejected boys
Following the corpse of one almost as young
As some among themselves, and to the dust
Beholding her, with solemn rites, consign'd,—
That was my first near intercourse with death.
But few months pass'd ere to the daughter's tomb
The mother too was borne, and, with his sons,
Unbroken still, although by grief sore tried,
The father lived a widower.
Before that churchyard in our eyes assumed
An interest more impressive:—in her home,
After long years of patient slow decline,
Our master's daughter died. Her once I saw
White as a sheeted ghost, with thin blue lips
Emaciate—Death's dread seal upon her brow,—
Yet not, methought, unlovely:—with a friend,—
A female friend, the solace and support
Of her long weary sickness, she conversed
In whisper'd accents,—for her voice was gone;
And when I look'd upon her face, even I
Could tell her end was near:—full soon it came:—
We heard that she was dead, and, in few days,
Were summon'd to attend her to the grave.
That long procession of dejected boys
Following the corpse of one almost as young
As some among themselves, and to the dust
Beholding her, with solemn rites, consign'd,—
That was my first near intercourse with death.
392
The mother too was borne, and, with his sons,
Unbroken still, although by grief sore tried,
The father lived a widower.
Shades like these,
Gloomy but transient, swept across the heart
Even of that childish, gay community;
But soon their trace wore off, and joy return'd,
Brighter from brief suspension:—yet, though grief
To us was a rare visitant,—though scarce
Could we, in conscience, whisper to ourselves
That we could well be happier than we were—
With what intense expectant eagerness
We look'd for our deliverance; and when June
Brought back the roses, or December bound
The earth in frosty chains, with what parade
Of science arithmetical we framed
Our calendars of weeks, and days, and hours;
Computing the minutest point of time
Which must elapse before the holidays.
Then, when the wish'd-for morning had arrived,
How we awoke ere sunrise!—if 'twas dark,
How eagerly we watch'd for the first streak
Of candle-light beneath our bed-room doors
Significantly stealing !—in what haste
We huddled on our clothes!—with ears how keen
We listen'd for the roll of distant wheels!
And when, before the gate, the long array
Of chaises, from the neighbouring town dispatch'd
To bear us to our homes, assembled stood,
Who could restrain his transport?—Then what din
Of horns arose!—what ceaseless cannonade
Of pea-shooters and pop-guns!—with what zeal
Of emulative mischief shots were aim'd
At windows which we pass'd!—how proud was he
Who crack'd the largest number!—but even these,
Though joys indeed, were joys of small account
Compared to that intensity of bliss
Which I at least enjoy'd, when I approach'd
Once more my wish'd for home.—Some three miles off,
Familiar haunts and walks which I had loved,
And spots connected, in my heart of hearts,
With pleasant recollections, by degrees
Stole on me in succession;—nor, I think,
Shall I, as long as I exist, forget
How, at one well-known angle in the road,
My Father, who on horseback had come forth
To welcome me, appear'd;—next, some small space
Behind, in mirthful and expectant group,
Brothers and sisters, in full progress all,
To meet and ride home with me in the chaise.
That night I slept once more in my old bed,—
My own old darling bed;—its site unchanged,
The pattern of its curtains still the same;
And if unmix'd contentment e'er was mine,
'Twas in the sober certainty I felt
Of its complete identity.
Gloomy but transient, swept across the heart
Even of that childish, gay community;
But soon their trace wore off, and joy return'd,
Brighter from brief suspension:—yet, though grief
To us was a rare visitant,—though scarce
Could we, in conscience, whisper to ourselves
That we could well be happier than we were—
With what intense expectant eagerness
We look'd for our deliverance; and when June
Brought back the roses, or December bound
The earth in frosty chains, with what parade
Of science arithmetical we framed
Our calendars of weeks, and days, and hours;
Computing the minutest point of time
Which must elapse before the holidays.
Then, when the wish'd-for morning had arrived,
How we awoke ere sunrise!—if 'twas dark,
How eagerly we watch'd for the first streak
Of candle-light beneath our bed-room doors
Significantly stealing !—in what haste
We huddled on our clothes!—with ears how keen
We listen'd for the roll of distant wheels!
And when, before the gate, the long array
Of chaises, from the neighbouring town dispatch'd
To bear us to our homes, assembled stood,
Who could restrain his transport?—Then what din
Of horns arose!—what ceaseless cannonade
Of pea-shooters and pop-guns!—with what zeal
Of emulative mischief shots were aim'd
At windows which we pass'd!—how proud was he
Who crack'd the largest number!—but even these,
Though joys indeed, were joys of small account
Compared to that intensity of bliss
Which I at least enjoy'd, when I approach'd
393
Familiar haunts and walks which I had loved,
And spots connected, in my heart of hearts,
With pleasant recollections, by degrees
Stole on me in succession;—nor, I think,
Shall I, as long as I exist, forget
How, at one well-known angle in the road,
My Father, who on horseback had come forth
To welcome me, appear'd;—next, some small space
Behind, in mirthful and expectant group,
Brothers and sisters, in full progress all,
To meet and ride home with me in the chaise.
That night I slept once more in my old bed,—
My own old darling bed;—its site unchanged,
The pattern of its curtains still the same;
And if unmix'd contentment e'er was mine,
'Twas in the sober certainty I felt
Of its complete identity.
But Time,
Jealous of day-dreams at life's sober noon,
Forbids me to enlarge upon the joys
And sorrows of those early schoolboy years.
Scarce noticed I pass o'er the Christmas sports
Of multifarious cousins, round one hearth,
From the four quarters of the compass met,
Filling one spacious ancestorial Hall
With the loud uproar of their merriment;
The children's dance—the game at blind man's buff,—
The courtships and flirtations, three parts jest,
And one part earnest, between boy and girl
Already knit in bonds of cousinhood;—
Then,—with a breath dissolving love's light chains,—
Black Monday, and his heart-breaking farewells;—
The swift transition from the land of dreams
Ethereal, bright, Elysian, to the dull
And working-day realities of school;—
The qualms of sad home-sickness, soon dispell'd
By studies and diversions in swift round
Alternating, yet still, from time to time,
Admitting to the mind's abstracted gaze
Bright glimpses of remember'd looks and forms;—
These, and ten thousand griefs and joys like these,—
Successes, disappointments, hopes fulfill'd,
And expectations blighted, friendships form'd
And enmities incurr'd—the good and ill
Strangely commix'd and blended, which make up
The schoolboy's portion—must I leave unsung:
Yet not without a word of grateful praise
And frank acknowledgment of good received,
Would I cast off the thought of that old school
And all its recollections.—I believe
That, not for rudiments of classic lore
Alone, or other knowledge ably taught,
Do I remain its debtor, but for much
Of what is now least blameable, and bad
In all my moral Being.—We were school'd
Not by mere pedants—academic dolts,
With heart and soul all syntax, but by men
With hearts and souls of men, who loved to make
Their pupils their companions,—ate and drank
At the same board, and in their presence spoke
Of what concern'd themselves.—Of open heart
They were, and if the boldness of their speech
And humour sometimes overstepp'd the bounds
Of clerical decorum—if they seem'd
Less strict in their conformity to rules
Conventional—less careful of the shows
Which the world's voice exacts of clergymen,
Than friends desired, or foes could fail to wish—
There was in them a manliness of soul—
A blunt contempt for the world's hollow forms,
And seemings hypocritical, which taught
Us also how to think and act like men.
The spirit of the masters was, in part,
Diffused among the scholars;—we became
Attach'd to them, and to their dwelling-place;
Nor less to one another;—and at last,
When the time came which summon'd me away
For ever, I went forth like one who leaves
His native land and kindred:—sad farewells
Given and received, and benedictions breathed
From no unfervent hearts—pressure of hands,
Sad looks and tears that could not be restrain'd,
Attended my departure as I pass'd
Forth from the door which never more should ope
To me as to an inmate. Once again,
When near twelve years had pass'd, I saw that house,
And spent a day and night beneath its roof,
And slept where I had slept, and traced once more
Each of my boyhood's haunts.—I scarcely think
That now, when others dwell there—now, when life
With me hath reach'd its zenith, and must soon
Begin to sink into the vale of years,—
I e'er again could find it in my heart
There to repeat my visit.
Jealous of day-dreams at life's sober noon,
Forbids me to enlarge upon the joys
And sorrows of those early schoolboy years.
Scarce noticed I pass o'er the Christmas sports
Of multifarious cousins, round one hearth,
From the four quarters of the compass met,
Filling one spacious ancestorial Hall
With the loud uproar of their merriment;
The children's dance—the game at blind man's buff,—
The courtships and flirtations, three parts jest,
And one part earnest, between boy and girl
Already knit in bonds of cousinhood;—
Then,—with a breath dissolving love's light chains,—
Black Monday, and his heart-breaking farewells;—
The swift transition from the land of dreams
Ethereal, bright, Elysian, to the dull
And working-day realities of school;—
The qualms of sad home-sickness, soon dispell'd
By studies and diversions in swift round
Alternating, yet still, from time to time,
394
Bright glimpses of remember'd looks and forms;—
These, and ten thousand griefs and joys like these,—
Successes, disappointments, hopes fulfill'd,
And expectations blighted, friendships form'd
And enmities incurr'd—the good and ill
Strangely commix'd and blended, which make up
The schoolboy's portion—must I leave unsung:
Yet not without a word of grateful praise
And frank acknowledgment of good received,
Would I cast off the thought of that old school
And all its recollections.—I believe
That, not for rudiments of classic lore
Alone, or other knowledge ably taught,
Do I remain its debtor, but for much
Of what is now least blameable, and bad
In all my moral Being.—We were school'd
Not by mere pedants—academic dolts,
With heart and soul all syntax, but by men
With hearts and souls of men, who loved to make
Their pupils their companions,—ate and drank
At the same board, and in their presence spoke
Of what concern'd themselves.—Of open heart
They were, and if the boldness of their speech
And humour sometimes overstepp'd the bounds
Of clerical decorum—if they seem'd
Less strict in their conformity to rules
Conventional—less careful of the shows
Which the world's voice exacts of clergymen,
Than friends desired, or foes could fail to wish—
There was in them a manliness of soul—
A blunt contempt for the world's hollow forms,
And seemings hypocritical, which taught
Us also how to think and act like men.
The spirit of the masters was, in part,
Diffused among the scholars;—we became
Attach'd to them, and to their dwelling-place;
Nor less to one another;—and at last,
When the time came which summon'd me away
395
His native land and kindred:—sad farewells
Given and received, and benedictions breathed
From no unfervent hearts—pressure of hands,
Sad looks and tears that could not be restrain'd,
Attended my departure as I pass'd
Forth from the door which never more should ope
To me as to an inmate. Once again,
When near twelve years had pass'd, I saw that house,
And spent a day and night beneath its roof,
And slept where I had slept, and traced once more
Each of my boyhood's haunts.—I scarcely think
That now, when others dwell there—now, when life
With me hath reach'd its zenith, and must soon
Begin to sink into the vale of years,—
I e'er again could find it in my heart
There to repeat my visit.
But I turn
To scenes more famous, nor to me less dear,—
Nay dearer, and with feelings more profound
And holy in remembrance close entwined;—
Birth-place, to me, of poesy and love,
Amidst whose classic shades, in after years,
Tarrying, I found and woo'd, and proudly won
Her who, for sixteen years, hath been the stay
And solace of my pilgrimage on earth;
The mother of my children, the unchanged,
Unwearied partner of my joys and griefs.
Fair art thou, with thy crown of ancient towers,
Thy cloister'd dim arcades, thy spacious courts,
Thy verdant fields and venerable trees,
Reflected in the mirror broad and clear
Of thy præterfluent. Thames.—With what a calm
Proud confidence thou seem'st to nestle close
Beneath yon castle's overshadowing wing!
As conscious of the loyalty thou lov'st
To cherish in thy sons.—With reverent heart
I greet thee—not unmindful of the good
For which I am thy debtor; nor, if aught
Of evil was mix'd up with it, upbraid
Thee and thy noble nurture for a fault
In part or all my own.—Etona, hail!
And mayst thou flourish ever!—Far removed
From thy fair shades, which yet, from year to year,
I visit, and with love for ever fresh,
And keen enjoyment, wander thro' and thro',—
I summon from my heart's sepulchral depths
Thy buried image.—Rise, as when I first
Beheld thee, half expectant, half in fear
Of that new world mysterious, unexplored,
Within thy walls awaiting me.—Far off
I saw thee—the grey pinnacles and spires
Of thy majestic chapel o'er the pile
Of dull, brick, massive ivy-mantled towers,
Rising in Gothic pride—thy verdant meads
Sprinkled with youthful cricketers, and bright
With vernal sunshine.—Beautiful thou wast,
And with thy loveliest smiles didst welcome me,
A stranger, to thy bosom;—yet not then
(Albeit a stranger) simple or unversed
In all the ways of schoolboys, but with front
Bold and defiant, and with spirit prompt
To meet, and, if need were, repel the assaults
Of tyrannous oppression:—to such pitch
Of rude blunt valour had experience, gain'd
Through previous buffets, strung me, though in sooth,
By nature not a brawler, nor inclined
To pugilistic exploit:—but amidst
Thy peaceful dwellings slender need I found
Of such heroic daring:—there, enthroned
On meet gradations of ascending ranks,
Reign'd Order;—there, by firmest law secured,
Right triumph'd over Might;—not strength alone,
Nor skill to give, nor stubbornness to bear
Black eye and bloody nose and bruise uncouth,
Won station and respect,—nor kept them, won.
A more mysterious, more majestic power
Diffused through, and controlling, every rank
Of that small commonwealth, was recognised,
Felt, and obey'd.—No robber horde were we,
Anarchical, self-will'd, by force alone
From mutual wrong and violence restrain'd;
But a well-govern'd people, proud to own
Legitimate control, and to maintain
Our glorious constitution unimpair'd.
And what if aristocracy, upheld
By right prescriptive, ruled with feudal sway
Her unenfranchised vassals,—still her yoke
Was milder and less grievous to be borne
Than arbitrary bondage, forced elsewhere
By strength of fist, on the reluctant necks
Of trembling urchins, all too weak to win
The freedom which they sigh'd for.—Hard it seem'd,
No doubt, on summer evenings, when the Thames
Was all alive with skiffs, to toil and pant
With infinite expenditure of breath,
And reeking limbs and weariness of heart,
Fetching and flinging home the volant ball
Of some unflagging cricketer:—hard 'twas
To rise before the lark, on menial tasks
Intent, discharging with one pair of hands
The offices of valet, footman, cook,
Housemaid, and shoeblack;—passing hard to spread,
Hungry oneself and breakfastless, the board
Of some luxurious despot,—he meanwhile
Snoring supine;—and oft would flesh rebel
When summon'd by the cry of ‘Lower Boy,’
To do the bidding of an autocrat.
Yet all such hardships, springing as they did
Not from a tyrant's arbitrary will,
But from the fix'd authority of law
And immemorial custom, were endured
With patience, nay with cheerfulness, as ills
Essential to the state in which we lived,
And not therefrom to be exterminate
Without disruption dire of social bonds
And urgent danger to the common weal:
Transient withal, and soon to be exchanged,
In due succession, for the sweets of power.
Nor lack'd that state of vassalage its rights
And privileges, by the weaker crowd
Not to be lightly valued;—some defence
Against oppression,—patronage and aid
In trouble or distress,—assistance lent
In toils scholastic:—ne'er did thraldom wear
A yoke less galling:—strong attachment oft
Grew up between the master and the serf;
And each, from the relation held to each,
Derived some moral discipline—was taught
Lessons which else he might have never learnt,
Of kindness and forbearance, self-restraint,
Submission and obedience.—Would that I,
With my rash humour and impetuous blood,
Had learnt those lessons better than I did!
To scenes more famous, nor to me less dear,—
Nay dearer, and with feelings more profound
And holy in remembrance close entwined;—
Birth-place, to me, of poesy and love,
Amidst whose classic shades, in after years,
Tarrying, I found and woo'd, and proudly won
Her who, for sixteen years, hath been the stay
And solace of my pilgrimage on earth;
The mother of my children, the unchanged,
Unwearied partner of my joys and griefs.
Fair art thou, with thy crown of ancient towers,
Thy cloister'd dim arcades, thy spacious courts,
Thy verdant fields and venerable trees,
Reflected in the mirror broad and clear
Of thy præterfluent. Thames.—With what a calm
Proud confidence thou seem'st to nestle close
Beneath yon castle's overshadowing wing!
As conscious of the loyalty thou lov'st
To cherish in thy sons.—With reverent heart
I greet thee—not unmindful of the good
For which I am thy debtor; nor, if aught
396
Thee and thy noble nurture for a fault
In part or all my own.—Etona, hail!
And mayst thou flourish ever!—Far removed
From thy fair shades, which yet, from year to year,
I visit, and with love for ever fresh,
And keen enjoyment, wander thro' and thro',—
I summon from my heart's sepulchral depths
Thy buried image.—Rise, as when I first
Beheld thee, half expectant, half in fear
Of that new world mysterious, unexplored,
Within thy walls awaiting me.—Far off
I saw thee—the grey pinnacles and spires
Of thy majestic chapel o'er the pile
Of dull, brick, massive ivy-mantled towers,
Rising in Gothic pride—thy verdant meads
Sprinkled with youthful cricketers, and bright
With vernal sunshine.—Beautiful thou wast,
And with thy loveliest smiles didst welcome me,
A stranger, to thy bosom;—yet not then
(Albeit a stranger) simple or unversed
In all the ways of schoolboys, but with front
Bold and defiant, and with spirit prompt
To meet, and, if need were, repel the assaults
Of tyrannous oppression:—to such pitch
Of rude blunt valour had experience, gain'd
Through previous buffets, strung me, though in sooth,
By nature not a brawler, nor inclined
To pugilistic exploit:—but amidst
Thy peaceful dwellings slender need I found
Of such heroic daring:—there, enthroned
On meet gradations of ascending ranks,
Reign'd Order;—there, by firmest law secured,
Right triumph'd over Might;—not strength alone,
Nor skill to give, nor stubbornness to bear
Black eye and bloody nose and bruise uncouth,
Won station and respect,—nor kept them, won.
A more mysterious, more majestic power
Diffused through, and controlling, every rank
397
Felt, and obey'd.—No robber horde were we,
Anarchical, self-will'd, by force alone
From mutual wrong and violence restrain'd;
But a well-govern'd people, proud to own
Legitimate control, and to maintain
Our glorious constitution unimpair'd.
And what if aristocracy, upheld
By right prescriptive, ruled with feudal sway
Her unenfranchised vassals,—still her yoke
Was milder and less grievous to be borne
Than arbitrary bondage, forced elsewhere
By strength of fist, on the reluctant necks
Of trembling urchins, all too weak to win
The freedom which they sigh'd for.—Hard it seem'd,
No doubt, on summer evenings, when the Thames
Was all alive with skiffs, to toil and pant
With infinite expenditure of breath,
And reeking limbs and weariness of heart,
Fetching and flinging home the volant ball
Of some unflagging cricketer:—hard 'twas
To rise before the lark, on menial tasks
Intent, discharging with one pair of hands
The offices of valet, footman, cook,
Housemaid, and shoeblack;—passing hard to spread,
Hungry oneself and breakfastless, the board
Of some luxurious despot,—he meanwhile
Snoring supine;—and oft would flesh rebel
When summon'd by the cry of ‘Lower Boy,’
To do the bidding of an autocrat.
Yet all such hardships, springing as they did
Not from a tyrant's arbitrary will,
But from the fix'd authority of law
And immemorial custom, were endured
With patience, nay with cheerfulness, as ills
Essential to the state in which we lived,
And not therefrom to be exterminate
Without disruption dire of social bonds
And urgent danger to the common weal:
398
In due succession, for the sweets of power.
Nor lack'd that state of vassalage its rights
And privileges, by the weaker crowd
Not to be lightly valued;—some defence
Against oppression,—patronage and aid
In trouble or distress,—assistance lent
In toils scholastic:—ne'er did thraldom wear
A yoke less galling:—strong attachment oft
Grew up between the master and the serf;
And each, from the relation held to each,
Derived some moral discipline—was taught
Lessons which else he might have never learnt,
Of kindness and forbearance, self-restraint,
Submission and obedience.—Would that I,
With my rash humour and impetuous blood,
Had learnt those lessons better than I did!
Swift flew, on pleasure's wings, those early months,
The months of my noviciate:—slavery seem'd,
(If slave I was) on that enchanted ground,
Freer than freedom elsewhere:—I had broke
A hundred galling fetters of restraint,
For one (and that a light one) on my will
Newly imposed:—a mighty change had past
Across the spirit of my dream of life.
It seem'd as though a new and ampler world
Of Being to my vision was disclosed,
Or that my soul had burst the embryo bonds
Which held it, like the caterpillar, cramp'd,
Till then, in grovelling form, to soar aloft
On wings of new-born joyance. Now no more
Within a playground's narrow bounds confined,
Not without peril to be overpass'd,—
Fetter'd no more to the despised routine
Of sports and occupations which befit
The pre-existent state of private school,—
My spirit might expatiate, uncontroll'd,
Through boundless realms of pleasure:—Space was free—
Time only had its limits;—field and grove,
Water and land,—almost the air itself
Lay open—the whole world before us smiled,
Our portion and inheritance! Nor lack'd
The energies and faculties within
Proportionate development:—our sports,
Plans, enterprises, aspirations, aims,
Were all of manhood, manly:—tops and taws
Were things forgotten;—even the cricket-ground
And fives-court held but secondary rank
Among our recreations:—on the breast
Of Thames, it was our pride in trim-built skiffs
To shoot amain—now singly, now in crews,
With lusty tug of oar, in eager race
Contending;—now along the river's marge
Exploring unknown regions;—and when June
Brought round the birth-day of the good old king,
(Our own especial patron,)—with what pride
And pomp aquatic, in procession long,
Our galleys clave the water!—what wild rout
Of horsemen on the banks!—what jovial glee
Of banqueters!—and when a rocket's blaze,
Scattering its fiery spangles on the sky,
Gave notice that the ten-oar was in sight,
How was each coign of vantage—bank and bridge,
Boatyard and terraced garden, wharf and quay,
Window and roof, with congregated crowds
Of gazers peopled!—what sublime display
Of pyrotechnic wonders seem'd to mock
The all too tardy twilight!—But even this,
For some adventurous spirits, was too dull
And spiritless a joy!—Such burnt to win
The sportsman's noble fame, albeit alloy'd
By ill report of poacher:—with the dawn,
O'erleaping the restraint of bolts and bars,
They ranged, with dog and gun, the near preserves,
Or from forbidden waters bore the lines
Rich with nocturnal spoil:—the river swans,
Breasting, with snow-white swell of downy plumes,
The silvery stream, themselves were not exempt
From rude assault, but stricken through and through
By murderous volleys, yielded up their lives
To daring marksmen; then beneath the shade
Of favouring night brought home, and for the spit
With pomp of culinary skill prepared,
Were roasted and served up—their savoury steam
Provoking the keen appetities of those
Who, like myself, eschewing sportsman craft,
Shared not the sportsman's banquet:—on the turf
Meanwhile athletic cricketers, for strife
With the pick'd champions of some neighbouring club
Preparing, plied the bat and drove the ball
In lusty sport.—Oh! who can e'er forget,
When the day fix'd for final conflict came,
How breathlessly we rush'd, from school let loose,
To view the mighty game!—how, from afar,
Between the umbrageous trees of Poet's walk,
The slim white figures of the combatants
Glanced on our eager sight!—with what suspense,—
What alternations swift of hope and fear,.
We watch'd the progress of the game!—and when
On Eton's side the fatal wicket fell,
Or aught occurr'd presaging her defeat,—
How keen a pang of anguish and dismay
Thrill'd through our trembling ranks!—then, if at last
The fortune of the day declared for us,—
With what a maddening shout of victory
We rent the welkin!—Waterloo itself,
(For Waterloo was fought in those wild days)
Scarce seem'd a mightier triumph than some match
Won against Epsom.
The months of my noviciate:—slavery seem'd,
(If slave I was) on that enchanted ground,
Freer than freedom elsewhere:—I had broke
A hundred galling fetters of restraint,
For one (and that a light one) on my will
Newly imposed:—a mighty change had past
Across the spirit of my dream of life.
It seem'd as though a new and ampler world
Of Being to my vision was disclosed,
Or that my soul had burst the embryo bonds
Which held it, like the caterpillar, cramp'd,
Till then, in grovelling form, to soar aloft
On wings of new-born joyance. Now no more
Within a playground's narrow bounds confined,
Not without peril to be overpass'd,—
Fetter'd no more to the despised routine
Of sports and occupations which befit
The pre-existent state of private school,—
My spirit might expatiate, uncontroll'd,
Through boundless realms of pleasure:—Space was free—
Time only had its limits;—field and grove,
399
Lay open—the whole world before us smiled,
Our portion and inheritance! Nor lack'd
The energies and faculties within
Proportionate development:—our sports,
Plans, enterprises, aspirations, aims,
Were all of manhood, manly:—tops and taws
Were things forgotten;—even the cricket-ground
And fives-court held but secondary rank
Among our recreations:—on the breast
Of Thames, it was our pride in trim-built skiffs
To shoot amain—now singly, now in crews,
With lusty tug of oar, in eager race
Contending;—now along the river's marge
Exploring unknown regions;—and when June
Brought round the birth-day of the good old king,
(Our own especial patron,)—with what pride
And pomp aquatic, in procession long,
Our galleys clave the water!—what wild rout
Of horsemen on the banks!—what jovial glee
Of banqueters!—and when a rocket's blaze,
Scattering its fiery spangles on the sky,
Gave notice that the ten-oar was in sight,
How was each coign of vantage—bank and bridge,
Boatyard and terraced garden, wharf and quay,
Window and roof, with congregated crowds
Of gazers peopled!—what sublime display
Of pyrotechnic wonders seem'd to mock
The all too tardy twilight!—But even this,
For some adventurous spirits, was too dull
And spiritless a joy!—Such burnt to win
The sportsman's noble fame, albeit alloy'd
By ill report of poacher:—with the dawn,
O'erleaping the restraint of bolts and bars,
They ranged, with dog and gun, the near preserves,
Or from forbidden waters bore the lines
Rich with nocturnal spoil:—the river swans,
Breasting, with snow-white swell of downy plumes,
The silvery stream, themselves were not exempt
400
By murderous volleys, yielded up their lives
To daring marksmen; then beneath the shade
Of favouring night brought home, and for the spit
With pomp of culinary skill prepared,
Were roasted and served up—their savoury steam
Provoking the keen appetities of those
Who, like myself, eschewing sportsman craft,
Shared not the sportsman's banquet:—on the turf
Meanwhile athletic cricketers, for strife
With the pick'd champions of some neighbouring club
Preparing, plied the bat and drove the ball
In lusty sport.—Oh! who can e'er forget,
When the day fix'd for final conflict came,
How breathlessly we rush'd, from school let loose,
To view the mighty game!—how, from afar,
Between the umbrageous trees of Poet's walk,
The slim white figures of the combatants
Glanced on our eager sight!—with what suspense,—
What alternations swift of hope and fear,.
We watch'd the progress of the game!—and when
On Eton's side the fatal wicket fell,
Or aught occurr'd presaging her defeat,—
How keen a pang of anguish and dismay
Thrill'd through our trembling ranks!—then, if at last
The fortune of the day declared for us,—
With what a maddening shout of victory
We rent the welkin!—Waterloo itself,
(For Waterloo was fought in those wild days)
Scarce seem'd a mightier triumph than some match
Won against Epsom.
But to loftier strains
Tune we our harp!—Descend, O Muse, and sing
The glories of Long Chamber, ere its name,
By march of innovation, from the earth
Be, with itself, erased.—Ere I became
Its denizen, dire tales had reach'd my ear
Of horrors by its dreadful walls conceal'd;
Of slavery more oppressive than aught known
Or e'en imagined by inventive thought,
Among the happy dwellers in the town;
Of penal torments by no living tongue
Divulged, nor e'er, beyond those prison walls,
Known or conceived;—myself the destined thrall
Of one the most despotic of a race
Of most imperious despots.—Time sped on;
The day arrived on which I was to don
The gownsman's sable garb,—and after due
Examination held, and solemn course
Of ceremonial forms, on bended knee
Observed with silent awe, night saw me housed
Beneath that dreaded roof.—It was an hour
Not soon to be forgotten.—Amidst sounds
Discordant, multifarious,—song and shout,—
Imperious summons and responsive cry
Reciprocal of master and of slave,—
And long shrill whistle through the darkness heard—
(Darkness scarce pierced by the thin glimmering light
Of candle, here and there its feeble ray
Emitting through the interminable gloom
Of that long spectral vault,)—with heart perplex'd,
I sought my destined resting-place:—but where
Might resting-place be found?—forlorn I gazed
On all that endless row of bedsteads rude,
Each bearing what appear'd a mattress coarse,
Cover'd by coarser rug, alternating
With rude mis-shapen semblance of bureaus,
Square, upright, with cerulean paint bedaub'd,—
(Cerulean once, now with ten thousand hues
Distain'd)—sole furniture in that grim den,
Save tapestry of cobwebs, which had seen
The days of the sixth Henry,—here in threads
Of gossamer dependent from the roof,
There curtaining, with folds of filmy mist,
The smash'd and flapping casements:—chair was none;
No, not a three-legg'd stool, nor oaken bench,
Nor aught which ingenuity of need
Might mould into a seat;—no separate nook,
Withdrawn and shelter'd from the public gaze,
Where the poor novice might brief refuge find
From tumult and bewilderment;—all seem'd
A maze of restless motion:—but ere long
From out that weltering chaos was evolv'd
A world distinct and orderly;—the din
And hubbub had subsided;—lights appear'd
Forth starting in succession;—beds arranged
By nice precision of experienced hands,
Were ready, at the apartment's upper end,
For rest luxurious of aristocrats,
Who, in their studies pent, or far apart
In separate chambers, with each other held
Exclusive converse, or with book and pen
Beguiled the lingering hours:—the middle ranks,
In pairs or cluster'd groups, paced to and fro,
Or lounged on unmade beds:—the vulgar herd
(Their menial service done) in haste arranged
Their own hard pallets, pillowless, and soon
Sank into dreamless sleep,—some six or eight
Alone excepted, from the rest in turn
For servitorial functions, week by week,
Selected, on the lordly board to spread
The nightly meal, and do the high behests
Of sixth-form revellers;—to each his task
Duly prescribed, as academic rank
Defined his office;—some, the upper mess,
(So named) above the rest pre-eminent,
Brought from the neighbouring buttery meat and bread,
With foaming cans of beer;—to some 'twas given
To tend the nightly fire, and in their gowns
(Ne'er meant for such base service) to bring home
A ponderous load of coals, upon their backs
Artistically piled;—some, clerkly-wise,
Noted, on tablets fair, with pen and ink
The mandates of their lords,—by one, who watch'd
Outside our prison bars, to be convey'd
Into the farthest town, and thence evoke
Luxurious freightage of nocturnal cheer.
It were a work o'ertasking my poor strength
To tell of half the feats within those walls
Nightly perform'd;—to paint the winter fire,
By signal of the clock at half-past nine,
Fenced round with bedsteads, for the middle ranks
Forming a snug enclosure, within which,
Story, and song, and jest, and laugh went round,
Till bed-time came;—to tell how, many an hour,
While our proud seniors half the livelong night
Conversed, until the embers died away,
We lay awake and listen'd to their talk,
Now serious, now jocose,—with classic lore,
Or speculation philosophical,
Sometimes enrich'd,—sometimes with baser stuff
Degraded and defiled;—and how, on nights
Of revelry, when coolest brains grew hot
With wine and wassail, we, in trembling dread,
Beneath our bedclothes cower'd, till (every light
Quench'd suddenly) in mad, tyrannic sport,
Bedstead and bed, hurl'd suddenly aloft,
Dislodged their luckless tenant, in dire plight,
Heels upward on the floor.—But these were rare
And soon forgotten hardships:—other sports
More genial, nor exclusively enjoy'd
By the patrician few, from time to time
Cheer'd our imprisonment:—in motley form
Of merry masquerade, our mirth full oft
Broke loose and ran mad riot:—High and low,
With Saturnalian licence, burst their bonds
Conventional, and gamboll'd out the night
In frolic unrestrain'd:—sometimes arose,
(As by strange magic of Aladdin's lamp,)
A theatre, complete in all its parts,
With marvellous diversity of scene
And gorgeous decorations, and bright blaze
Of cunningly disposed and countless lights,
Embellishing the histrionic craft
Of our Collegian Roscii:—nor, in sooth,
Lack'd we or comic humour, or, at times,
Some touch of natural pathos:—and, if these
E'er flagg'd, rich compensation still we found
In our grotesque apparel:—'twas a sight
Worthy of more fastidious eyes than ours—
That motley pageant of fantastic garbs
Assembled in our green-room;—boyhood's limbs
Robed in the grave habiliments of age;—
The corpulent round paunch of monk or friar,—
The rustic with red mass of hair unkempt,
Smock frock, and scarlet hose, and nether vest
Of buckskin, begg'd or borrow'd, for the nonce,
E'en from the haunch of veritable clown—
And, (stranger, more fantastic than all else)
The garb, shape, face, and voice of womanhood,
Aped by some beardless boy—his burly waist
Mocking the close imprisonment of stays;
His bust by cunning artifice swoln out
To feminine proportions, and his brow
O'ershadow'd by profusion, rich and rare,
Of borrow'd ringlets, while with mincing gait
Affected, and his voice's tenor pipe
Reduced to a shrill treble, he assumed
The gestures of a maiden—by applause
Obstreperous of the congregated crowd
Not scantily rewarded.—All alike,
Actors and audience, willing both to please
And to be pleased, received and gave, by turns,
Reciprocal enjoyment;—well I wot
None such was ever felt in Drury Lane!
Tune we our harp!—Descend, O Muse, and sing
The glories of Long Chamber, ere its name,
By march of innovation, from the earth
Be, with itself, erased.—Ere I became
Its denizen, dire tales had reach'd my ear
Of horrors by its dreadful walls conceal'd;
Of slavery more oppressive than aught known
401
Among the happy dwellers in the town;
Of penal torments by no living tongue
Divulged, nor e'er, beyond those prison walls,
Known or conceived;—myself the destined thrall
Of one the most despotic of a race
Of most imperious despots.—Time sped on;
The day arrived on which I was to don
The gownsman's sable garb,—and after due
Examination held, and solemn course
Of ceremonial forms, on bended knee
Observed with silent awe, night saw me housed
Beneath that dreaded roof.—It was an hour
Not soon to be forgotten.—Amidst sounds
Discordant, multifarious,—song and shout,—
Imperious summons and responsive cry
Reciprocal of master and of slave,—
And long shrill whistle through the darkness heard—
(Darkness scarce pierced by the thin glimmering light
Of candle, here and there its feeble ray
Emitting through the interminable gloom
Of that long spectral vault,)—with heart perplex'd,
I sought my destined resting-place:—but where
Might resting-place be found?—forlorn I gazed
On all that endless row of bedsteads rude,
Each bearing what appear'd a mattress coarse,
Cover'd by coarser rug, alternating
With rude mis-shapen semblance of bureaus,
Square, upright, with cerulean paint bedaub'd,—
(Cerulean once, now with ten thousand hues
Distain'd)—sole furniture in that grim den,
Save tapestry of cobwebs, which had seen
The days of the sixth Henry,—here in threads
Of gossamer dependent from the roof,
There curtaining, with folds of filmy mist,
The smash'd and flapping casements:—chair was none;
No, not a three-legg'd stool, nor oaken bench,
Nor aught which ingenuity of need
Might mould into a seat;—no separate nook,
402
Where the poor novice might brief refuge find
From tumult and bewilderment;—all seem'd
A maze of restless motion:—but ere long
From out that weltering chaos was evolv'd
A world distinct and orderly;—the din
And hubbub had subsided;—lights appear'd
Forth starting in succession;—beds arranged
By nice precision of experienced hands,
Were ready, at the apartment's upper end,
For rest luxurious of aristocrats,
Who, in their studies pent, or far apart
In separate chambers, with each other held
Exclusive converse, or with book and pen
Beguiled the lingering hours:—the middle ranks,
In pairs or cluster'd groups, paced to and fro,
Or lounged on unmade beds:—the vulgar herd
(Their menial service done) in haste arranged
Their own hard pallets, pillowless, and soon
Sank into dreamless sleep,—some six or eight
Alone excepted, from the rest in turn
For servitorial functions, week by week,
Selected, on the lordly board to spread
The nightly meal, and do the high behests
Of sixth-form revellers;—to each his task
Duly prescribed, as academic rank
Defined his office;—some, the upper mess,
(So named) above the rest pre-eminent,
Brought from the neighbouring buttery meat and bread,
With foaming cans of beer;—to some 'twas given
To tend the nightly fire, and in their gowns
(Ne'er meant for such base service) to bring home
A ponderous load of coals, upon their backs
Artistically piled;—some, clerkly-wise,
Noted, on tablets fair, with pen and ink
The mandates of their lords,—by one, who watch'd
Outside our prison bars, to be convey'd
Into the farthest town, and thence evoke
Luxurious freightage of nocturnal cheer.
403
To tell of half the feats within those walls
Nightly perform'd;—to paint the winter fire,
By signal of the clock at half-past nine,
Fenced round with bedsteads, for the middle ranks
Forming a snug enclosure, within which,
Story, and song, and jest, and laugh went round,
Till bed-time came;—to tell how, many an hour,
While our proud seniors half the livelong night
Conversed, until the embers died away,
We lay awake and listen'd to their talk,
Now serious, now jocose,—with classic lore,
Or speculation philosophical,
Sometimes enrich'd,—sometimes with baser stuff
Degraded and defiled;—and how, on nights
Of revelry, when coolest brains grew hot
With wine and wassail, we, in trembling dread,
Beneath our bedclothes cower'd, till (every light
Quench'd suddenly) in mad, tyrannic sport,
Bedstead and bed, hurl'd suddenly aloft,
Dislodged their luckless tenant, in dire plight,
Heels upward on the floor.—But these were rare
And soon forgotten hardships:—other sports
More genial, nor exclusively enjoy'd
By the patrician few, from time to time
Cheer'd our imprisonment:—in motley form
Of merry masquerade, our mirth full oft
Broke loose and ran mad riot:—High and low,
With Saturnalian licence, burst their bonds
Conventional, and gamboll'd out the night
In frolic unrestrain'd:—sometimes arose,
(As by strange magic of Aladdin's lamp,)
A theatre, complete in all its parts,
With marvellous diversity of scene
And gorgeous decorations, and bright blaze
Of cunningly disposed and countless lights,
Embellishing the histrionic craft
Of our Collegian Roscii:—nor, in sooth,
Lack'd we or comic humour, or, at times,
404
E'er flagg'd, rich compensation still we found
In our grotesque apparel:—'twas a sight
Worthy of more fastidious eyes than ours—
That motley pageant of fantastic garbs
Assembled in our green-room;—boyhood's limbs
Robed in the grave habiliments of age;—
The corpulent round paunch of monk or friar,—
The rustic with red mass of hair unkempt,
Smock frock, and scarlet hose, and nether vest
Of buckskin, begg'd or borrow'd, for the nonce,
E'en from the haunch of veritable clown—
And, (stranger, more fantastic than all else)
The garb, shape, face, and voice of womanhood,
Aped by some beardless boy—his burly waist
Mocking the close imprisonment of stays;
His bust by cunning artifice swoln out
To feminine proportions, and his brow
O'ershadow'd by profusion, rich and rare,
Of borrow'd ringlets, while with mincing gait
Affected, and his voice's tenor pipe
Reduced to a shrill treble, he assumed
The gestures of a maiden—by applause
Obstreperous of the congregated crowd
Not scantily rewarded.—All alike,
Actors and audience, willing both to please
And to be pleased, received and gave, by turns,
Reciprocal enjoyment;—well I wot
None such was ever felt in Drury Lane!
And was this Eton?—in no better lore
Than this doth she instruct the ripening mind,
And train the expanding heart?—Nay, deem not so,
But, in the lengthening retrospect of years,
The sports and conflicts of the schoolboy world,—
Its microcosmic cares, and joys, and griefs,—
The daily intercourse of boy with boy,—
Appear the true realities;—all else,
Which, when 'twas present, seem'd important, now
Looks dim and dwindled:—even the daily task,—
The weekly verses,—the whole grave routine
Of studies, with their prizes and rewards,—
Seem insignificant, minutest spots
In memory's landscape, which the limner's touch
Passes unnoticed.—Yet, among my peers,
(Albeit no sleepless student,) I enjoy'd
A scholar's reputation, nor disdain'd
The accomplishment of verse;—and now, methinks,
Amidst those preludings of boyish thought
And those young classic studies, I discern
The germs of much, which, growing with my growth,
And strengthen'd with my strength, hath since become
A portion of my Being.—If my song
Hath ever found its way to gentle hearts,—
'Twas by the nurture and development
Of dormant powers, then first and only found,
That its wild notes were fashion'd to express
A natural tenderness.—To me, no tale
Of martial prowess, or renown'd exploit,
By poet or historian told of yore,
Was e'er attractive;—little, in my heart,
Responded to the burst of trumpet blast,
Or host with host conflicting;—but I loved
('Twas the first poetry I ever felt)
That ode of Horace, which relates the doom
Of Hypermnestra, daring bonds and death,
For her young bridegroom's sake,—and Ovid's tale
Of grief domestic, that heart-breaking night
Appointed for his exile:—I admired,
With most intense and earnest sympathy,
Alcestis' self-devotion, and rejoiced
With an exceeding joy, when Hercules
Restored her from the grave to life and bliss
And his embraces for whose sake she died.
Among such images of household love
My fancy fondly revell'd, and my heart
Responded to my fancy.—I ne'er form'd
An abstract scheme of bliss, which was not based
On the calm comfort of a home and hearth
Surrounded by bright faces rich with love
Connubial and parental.—Bounteous Heaven,
Exceeding whatsoever hope pourtray'd,
Or young imagination fondly dream'd,
Hath given me more than all my boyish heart
E'er sigh'd for.—Fancy's picture-world is now
To me less glorious than reality.
Than this doth she instruct the ripening mind,
And train the expanding heart?—Nay, deem not so,
But, in the lengthening retrospect of years,
The sports and conflicts of the schoolboy world,—
Its microcosmic cares, and joys, and griefs,—
The daily intercourse of boy with boy,—
Appear the true realities;—all else,
Which, when 'twas present, seem'd important, now
Looks dim and dwindled:—even the daily task,—
405
Of studies, with their prizes and rewards,—
Seem insignificant, minutest spots
In memory's landscape, which the limner's touch
Passes unnoticed.—Yet, among my peers,
(Albeit no sleepless student,) I enjoy'd
A scholar's reputation, nor disdain'd
The accomplishment of verse;—and now, methinks,
Amidst those preludings of boyish thought
And those young classic studies, I discern
The germs of much, which, growing with my growth,
And strengthen'd with my strength, hath since become
A portion of my Being.—If my song
Hath ever found its way to gentle hearts,—
'Twas by the nurture and development
Of dormant powers, then first and only found,
That its wild notes were fashion'd to express
A natural tenderness.—To me, no tale
Of martial prowess, or renown'd exploit,
By poet or historian told of yore,
Was e'er attractive;—little, in my heart,
Responded to the burst of trumpet blast,
Or host with host conflicting;—but I loved
('Twas the first poetry I ever felt)
That ode of Horace, which relates the doom
Of Hypermnestra, daring bonds and death,
For her young bridegroom's sake,—and Ovid's tale
Of grief domestic, that heart-breaking night
Appointed for his exile:—I admired,
With most intense and earnest sympathy,
Alcestis' self-devotion, and rejoiced
With an exceeding joy, when Hercules
Restored her from the grave to life and bliss
And his embraces for whose sake she died.
Among such images of household love
My fancy fondly revell'd, and my heart
Responded to my fancy.—I ne'er form'd
An abstract scheme of bliss, which was not based
On the calm comfort of a home and hearth
406
Connubial and parental.—Bounteous Heaven,
Exceeding whatsoever hope pourtray'd,
Or young imagination fondly dream'd,
Hath given me more than all my boyish heart
E'er sigh'd for.—Fancy's picture-world is now
To me less glorious than reality.
But my brain teems with spectral forms of thought
Evoked from sleep sepulchral—long withdrawn
From the mind's eye, but unforgotten still
And fresh as heretofore.—I must perforce
Disperse the wildering vision.—Fair retreat,—
Thou cradle of my boyish phantasy,—
Farewell!—with deep and undiminish'd love
I cherish thy remembrance, and rejoice
That o'er thy courts a brighter day hath risen
Than my young eyes beheld;—for thou hast felt
The impulse of the spirit now awake
In the deep bosom of thy mother Church,
And, strong in thy re-animated faith,
Art, as I trust, become a schoolmistress
To bring young hearts to Christ.—Beneath thy towers
Religion, long obscured, once more uplifts
Her venerable head,—not now disguised
And sore degraded by low-mutter'd charm
Of Latin prayers, which, with indecent haste,
Impatient urchins gabbled, unreproved
By teachers as impatient—but infused
Into the fountains and fresh springs of thought,
And mingling her pure essence with its stream,
Which widens as it flows. Nor let me grieve
(Though haply there be cause of real grief)
For old associations, soon to pass
Into the number of the things that were,—
When even Long Chamber from the world's wide face
Shall have been swept for ever.—Be its sins
(Not few, nor venial) with its joys forgot;
And may a better generation find
At least no meaner shelter where it stood!
Evoked from sleep sepulchral—long withdrawn
From the mind's eye, but unforgotten still
And fresh as heretofore.—I must perforce
Disperse the wildering vision.—Fair retreat,—
Thou cradle of my boyish phantasy,—
Farewell!—with deep and undiminish'd love
I cherish thy remembrance, and rejoice
That o'er thy courts a brighter day hath risen
Than my young eyes beheld;—for thou hast felt
The impulse of the spirit now awake
In the deep bosom of thy mother Church,
And, strong in thy re-animated faith,
Art, as I trust, become a schoolmistress
To bring young hearts to Christ.—Beneath thy towers
Religion, long obscured, once more uplifts
Her venerable head,—not now disguised
And sore degraded by low-mutter'd charm
Of Latin prayers, which, with indecent haste,
Impatient urchins gabbled, unreproved
By teachers as impatient—but infused
Into the fountains and fresh springs of thought,
And mingling her pure essence with its stream,
Which widens as it flows. Nor let me grieve
(Though haply there be cause of real grief)
For old associations, soon to pass
Into the number of the things that were,—
When even Long Chamber from the world's wide face
Shall have been swept for ever.—Be its sins
(Not few, nor venial) with its joys forgot;
And may a better generation find
At least no meaner shelter where it stood!
407
I have a friend—almost the only one
Who, from our schoolboy days to life's full noon,
Hath kept his heart unchanged and true to me,
Though many a year hath past since last we met,
And more may pass before we meet again;—
One friend—almost one only—faithful found.
To him, in distant vales a sojourner,
Far in the pleasant south, I now commend
(What to my children hath already been
With dedication more express consign'd)
This song—brief record of those early days
In which we were companions.—Different cares
And sympathies have gather'd around each;
And yet, I think, if e'er we meet again,
We shall not feel estranged;—meanwhile to him
And those who love him, though to me unknown,
Be this my pledge of boyish vows unbroke,
And friendship by the world as yet unchill'd.
Who, from our schoolboy days to life's full noon,
Hath kept his heart unchanged and true to me,
Though many a year hath past since last we met,
And more may pass before we meet again;—
One friend—almost one only—faithful found.
To him, in distant vales a sojourner,
Far in the pleasant south, I now commend
(What to my children hath already been
With dedication more express consign'd)
This song—brief record of those early days
In which we were companions.—Different cares
And sympathies have gather'd around each;
And yet, I think, if e'er we meet again,
We shall not feel estranged;—meanwhile to him
And those who love him, though to me unknown,
Be this my pledge of boyish vows unbroke,
And friendship by the world as yet unchill'd.
409
BOOK III. YOUTH.
INSCRIBED TO DERWENT COLERIDGE.
“The youth who daily farther from the East
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended.”
Wordsworth.
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended.”
Wordsworth.
411
With Friendship's sacred name my song broke off;—
With Friendship's sacred name shall it resume
Its onward course,—not now on boyish sports,
And boyish cares intent, but borne along
(If from its subject it may yet receive
A kindred impulse) by the swelling flood
Of youthful passion through the veins diffused,
And vigorous thought new-born, and hope unquench'd
By sad experience, lighting up the eye
With gleams which seem prophetic—and are not.
Friend, whom in Granta's academic halls
First met, soon loved—thenceforward to my side
Fast bound by poesy's free-masonry
And mutual veneration for a name
To me most sacred, and by thee beloved
With all a son's affection—Friend, who now
These more than twenty years, with thy profound
And fervent spirit, hast supported mine,—
Transferring whatsoe'er can be transferr'd
From thy rich depths of intellectual wealth
Into this lighter and more sterile soil,
Which yields but scant return;—to thee this strain,
A monument to long departed youth,
I consecrate:—To whom indeed on Earth
If not to thee, my earliest Poet-friend,
Should song of mine be offer'd?—Who but thou,
With earnest converse and assiduous zeal
Of sympathy,—neglectful of the gift
On thee more richly lavish'd,—fann'd in me
The spark of youthful phantasy?—to whom,
If not to thee, is due on my behalf
A debt of deepest gratitude for all
That, in time past, my soul hath ever felt
Of hope and joy poetic?—Small indeed
The fruit of all thy culture:—those long years
Of absence, during which we lived and wrought
In distant vineyards, seem'd to wither up
Whate'er brief promise of more healthful song
Thy care had caused to germinate;—and now,—
When Providence once more hath brought us near
Each to the other,—'tis too late to call
Lost seasons back:—but I have deeper debts
To thee than such as these, and there are bonds
More sacred, knitting fast thy heart to mine,
Than even the electric chain of phantasy:—
Warm sympathies cementing each with each
In joys and sorrows of the world that is;—
Remembrances, now sweet, of conflicts once
Most bitter, but at length with triumph crown'd,
And still imparting to our noon of life
Its best of earthly joys;—the mutual love
Of those respectively beloved by both
Beyond all else that breathes;—and (more than all)
Our hope in worlds to come—our task in this;
For we are, both, ambassadors for Christ,
And thou high honour'd in His English Church
Among her theologians;—in thyself,
No meanly skill'd expounder of her creed,—
Nor worthy of less honour, for that thou
Interpretest the mystic mind of One,
The mightiest thinker of these latter days.
For such, thy late achievements—how much more
Than for whate'er of high philosophy
Or art poetic, in our youthful days,
I from thy lips derived—am I become
Thy glad and grateful debtor.—Thou alone,
With stedfast gaze intent, hast well discern'd,
Through all the mists of error which bedim
Her heavenly features, the true spouse of Christ:—
Not that stern phantom, which, on Isis banks,
Enthusiasts have beheld, and in devout
And abject error worshipp'd—a severe
And loveless idol, from men's sympathies
And craving hearts estranged,—in garb of power
And terrible authority array'd,—
O'erbearing Reason's clear uplifted voice
With frown dogmatic, and converting Faith
Itself into a blind credulity
Most slavish and idolatrous;—not such
The vision thou hast seen, nor (falser yet)
That hard-eyed spectre, by the will of man
Engender'd,—altogether of the earth
And earthy,—which the laws of human realms
Create, and can at pleasure uncreate.
Not this,—not such as this, the Church of Christ,
Seen and with master hand pourtray'd by thee,—
But one, who on her fair and ample brow
Bears the bright impress of Divinity;—
No step-dame, but a mother of brave sons
With all a mother's heart,—the nurse and guide
Of Faith and Reason,—of celestial Truth
The guardian and the witness.—In thy page,
Well reason'd, pregnant with profoundest thought,
I, an unworthy student, seem to hold
Communion with thy spirit afar off;
And sitting at thy feet, as I was wont
In earlier days, with willing mind imbibe
Instruction which makes smooth the way to death.
With Friendship's sacred name shall it resume
Its onward course,—not now on boyish sports,
And boyish cares intent, but borne along
(If from its subject it may yet receive
A kindred impulse) by the swelling flood
Of youthful passion through the veins diffused,
And vigorous thought new-born, and hope unquench'd
By sad experience, lighting up the eye
With gleams which seem prophetic—and are not.
Friend, whom in Granta's academic halls
First met, soon loved—thenceforward to my side
Fast bound by poesy's free-masonry
And mutual veneration for a name
To me most sacred, and by thee beloved
With all a son's affection—Friend, who now
These more than twenty years, with thy profound
And fervent spirit, hast supported mine,—
Transferring whatsoe'er can be transferr'd
From thy rich depths of intellectual wealth
Into this lighter and more sterile soil,
412
A monument to long departed youth,
I consecrate:—To whom indeed on Earth
If not to thee, my earliest Poet-friend,
Should song of mine be offer'd?—Who but thou,
With earnest converse and assiduous zeal
Of sympathy,—neglectful of the gift
On thee more richly lavish'd,—fann'd in me
The spark of youthful phantasy?—to whom,
If not to thee, is due on my behalf
A debt of deepest gratitude for all
That, in time past, my soul hath ever felt
Of hope and joy poetic?—Small indeed
The fruit of all thy culture:—those long years
Of absence, during which we lived and wrought
In distant vineyards, seem'd to wither up
Whate'er brief promise of more healthful song
Thy care had caused to germinate;—and now,—
When Providence once more hath brought us near
Each to the other,—'tis too late to call
Lost seasons back:—but I have deeper debts
To thee than such as these, and there are bonds
More sacred, knitting fast thy heart to mine,
Than even the electric chain of phantasy:—
Warm sympathies cementing each with each
In joys and sorrows of the world that is;—
Remembrances, now sweet, of conflicts once
Most bitter, but at length with triumph crown'd,
And still imparting to our noon of life
Its best of earthly joys;—the mutual love
Of those respectively beloved by both
Beyond all else that breathes;—and (more than all)
Our hope in worlds to come—our task in this;
For we are, both, ambassadors for Christ,
And thou high honour'd in His English Church
Among her theologians;—in thyself,
No meanly skill'd expounder of her creed,—
Nor worthy of less honour, for that thou
Interpretest the mystic mind of One,
413
For such, thy late achievements—how much more
Than for whate'er of high philosophy
Or art poetic, in our youthful days,
I from thy lips derived—am I become
Thy glad and grateful debtor.—Thou alone,
With stedfast gaze intent, hast well discern'd,
Through all the mists of error which bedim
Her heavenly features, the true spouse of Christ:—
Not that stern phantom, which, on Isis banks,
Enthusiasts have beheld, and in devout
And abject error worshipp'd—a severe
And loveless idol, from men's sympathies
And craving hearts estranged,—in garb of power
And terrible authority array'd,—
O'erbearing Reason's clear uplifted voice
With frown dogmatic, and converting Faith
Itself into a blind credulity
Most slavish and idolatrous;—not such
The vision thou hast seen, nor (falser yet)
That hard-eyed spectre, by the will of man
Engender'd,—altogether of the earth
And earthy,—which the laws of human realms
Create, and can at pleasure uncreate.
Not this,—not such as this, the Church of Christ,
Seen and with master hand pourtray'd by thee,—
But one, who on her fair and ample brow
Bears the bright impress of Divinity;—
No step-dame, but a mother of brave sons
With all a mother's heart,—the nurse and guide
Of Faith and Reason,—of celestial Truth
The guardian and the witness.—In thy page,
Well reason'd, pregnant with profoundest thought,
I, an unworthy student, seem to hold
Communion with thy spirit afar off;
And sitting at thy feet, as I was wont
In earlier days, with willing mind imbibe
Instruction which makes smooth the way to death.
We are alone:—none other now on Earth
Shares our full bond of friendship.—One there was,
Beloved by both, and who repaid our love
As only natures of the purest mould
Repay the love of others.—Full two years
Have past since we consign'd him to the grave
In life's unripen'd prime,—and still it seems
As if we could not think of him as dead;—
The immortality which dwelt in him
So swallow'd up the mortal.—Yet 'tis true,
“The good die first;” and his celestial part
Was purged so nearly of all earth's alloy,
That 'twere, in us, most selfish to have wish'd
That he would tarry in our homes of clay.
Yet few there were, perchance, but thou and I,
And one,—his own by more especial ties,—
One fondlier cherish'd in his heart of hearts,—
Few but we three, who knew the wondrous depths
Of that mysterious spirit.—To the world
He veil'd, beneath a smooth and smiling brow,
Its fathomless abyss,—with flippant jest,
And poignant sarcasm, and sly equivoque,
And many a coruscation, bright though brief,
Of wit, and humour more akin than wit
To genius—drawing off intrusive eyes
From that intensity of human love
And that most deep and tender sympathy
Close guarded in the chambers of his heart.
His generation knew him not;—he seem'd
To worldly men a trifler,—and when years,
Correcting the rash fervour of his youth,
Taught him to honour much which once he scorn'd,
And guard what he had panted to o'erthrow—
Men deem'd such seeming fickleness the fruit
Of falsehood or caprice, and factious tongues
Were busy to defame him:—he, meanwhile,
Through honour and dishonour, through report
Evil and good,—by rash, misjudging men
Accounted a deceiver, though most true
And strong in his integrity,—maintain'd
His course unalter'd, and in vain assail'd
By obloquy and slander.—Death hath nipp'd
His promise in the bud, or he had rank'd
Among our noblest statesmen, and perchance
Proved to the Church, in this distracted realm,
Her ablest champion in her utmost need.
As such let Her bewail him!—but to us
He leaves a deeper sorrow;—Can that hour
E'er pass away from memory, when we two
With that highminded lady, hand in hand
Knelt by his coffin, till her deeper grief
At last found vent in tears, and we conversed
Of him, and what he was, and what he is,
In words of solemn calmness?—or that morn,
When, one by one, into the room of death,
Hung with funereal black, the mourners stole,—
A sad and silent crowd, by various ties,
Public and private, join'd to him in life,—
All grieving for him dead.—The statesman there
Forgot the war of factions, nor refused
To his untimely loss some natural tears;—
The pale-eyed scholar side by side was seen
With men of wordy strife, who for a day
Suspended their forensic rivalries
To weep upon his grave;—the merchant left
His counting-house,—and friends who had not met
For many a year before, met there to mourn
A nobler friend than all.—She too, his own—
His almost more than wife, (if more there be
In this cold world), regardless of the laws
Of tyrant custom, came with tearless eye
And brow erect, though pale almost as his,
To give him to the grave:—through busy streets
Slowly and sadly moved the funeral train,
Until within the cemetery gates
At length it halted, and the solemn words
Of our sublimest ritual rendered back
Dust to its dust—the spirit to the hands
Of Him who gave it:—painful to the ear
Was that dull, grinding, subterraneous sound
Of some unseen machinery, which, with slow
Scarce visible descent, received the Dead
Into the opening bosom of the earth;
And deep the desolation which oppress'd
Our spirits—the dejection which we felt,
When we (the three who loved and mourn'd him most)
Together bent our steps into the vault
To bid our last farewell.—Between long rows
Of dead, each coffin'd in its separate niche,
Tier above tier—a subterranean vault
Of sepulchres—we walk'd, until we came
To his dark narrow home;—the charnel gusts
Smote close and chill,—our tread, with hollow sound,
Fell echoing, till (the wholesome upper air
And cheerful light of day once more regain'd)
With aching hearts we parted, to renew
Our troubled Dream of Life.
414
Beloved by both, and who repaid our love
As only natures of the purest mould
Repay the love of others.—Full two years
Have past since we consign'd him to the grave
In life's unripen'd prime,—and still it seems
As if we could not think of him as dead;—
The immortality which dwelt in him
So swallow'd up the mortal.—Yet 'tis true,
“The good die first;” and his celestial part
Was purged so nearly of all earth's alloy,
That 'twere, in us, most selfish to have wish'd
That he would tarry in our homes of clay.
Yet few there were, perchance, but thou and I,
And one,—his own by more especial ties,—
One fondlier cherish'd in his heart of hearts,—
Few but we three, who knew the wondrous depths
Of that mysterious spirit.—To the world
He veil'd, beneath a smooth and smiling brow,
Its fathomless abyss,—with flippant jest,
And poignant sarcasm, and sly equivoque,
And many a coruscation, bright though brief,
Of wit, and humour more akin than wit
To genius—drawing off intrusive eyes
From that intensity of human love
And that most deep and tender sympathy
Close guarded in the chambers of his heart.
His generation knew him not;—he seem'd
To worldly men a trifler,—and when years,
Correcting the rash fervour of his youth,
Taught him to honour much which once he scorn'd,
And guard what he had panted to o'erthrow—
Men deem'd such seeming fickleness the fruit
Of falsehood or caprice, and factious tongues
Were busy to defame him:—he, meanwhile,
Through honour and dishonour, through report
Evil and good,—by rash, misjudging men
415
And strong in his integrity,—maintain'd
His course unalter'd, and in vain assail'd
By obloquy and slander.—Death hath nipp'd
His promise in the bud, or he had rank'd
Among our noblest statesmen, and perchance
Proved to the Church, in this distracted realm,
Her ablest champion in her utmost need.
As such let Her bewail him!—but to us
He leaves a deeper sorrow;—Can that hour
E'er pass away from memory, when we two
With that highminded lady, hand in hand
Knelt by his coffin, till her deeper grief
At last found vent in tears, and we conversed
Of him, and what he was, and what he is,
In words of solemn calmness?—or that morn,
When, one by one, into the room of death,
Hung with funereal black, the mourners stole,—
A sad and silent crowd, by various ties,
Public and private, join'd to him in life,—
All grieving for him dead.—The statesman there
Forgot the war of factions, nor refused
To his untimely loss some natural tears;—
The pale-eyed scholar side by side was seen
With men of wordy strife, who for a day
Suspended their forensic rivalries
To weep upon his grave;—the merchant left
His counting-house,—and friends who had not met
For many a year before, met there to mourn
A nobler friend than all.—She too, his own—
His almost more than wife, (if more there be
In this cold world), regardless of the laws
Of tyrant custom, came with tearless eye
And brow erect, though pale almost as his,
To give him to the grave:—through busy streets
Slowly and sadly moved the funeral train,
Until within the cemetery gates
At length it halted, and the solemn words
Of our sublimest ritual rendered back
416
Of Him who gave it:—painful to the ear
Was that dull, grinding, subterraneous sound
Of some unseen machinery, which, with slow
Scarce visible descent, received the Dead
Into the opening bosom of the earth;
And deep the desolation which oppress'd
Our spirits—the dejection which we felt,
When we (the three who loved and mourn'd him most)
Together bent our steps into the vault
To bid our last farewell.—Between long rows
Of dead, each coffin'd in its separate niche,
Tier above tier—a subterranean vault
Of sepulchres—we walk'd, until we came
To his dark narrow home;—the charnel gusts
Smote close and chill,—our tread, with hollow sound,
Fell echoing, till (the wholesome upper air
And cheerful light of day once more regain'd)
With aching hearts we parted, to renew
Our troubled Dream of Life.
A dream indeed,—
A feverish waking dream—more shadowy still
The longer that it lasts!—Whate'er in youth
Seem'd real, ere our middle age arrives,
Even like a phantom vanishes away,
Or crumbles in our grasp.—Our life itself—
Which once appear'd as if 'twould never end—
Is found to be a shadow, soon to flit
Away, and be forgotten;—even the schemes—
The air-built castles of our early days—
That vigorous hope with which we look'd abroad
Into the opening world—that confidence
In the bright-seeming future, by no fear
Of change or chance diminish'd—were in truth
More tangible possessions in themselves
Than the realities of later life.
And such were thine and mine when first we met
(A freshman thou, and I a junior soph,)
In the Old Court at King's. Unlike, till then,
Had been our several nurtures, each to each;
Thou, from thy birth, a hardy mountaineer,
A poet's child, thyself a Poet born,
And cradled among minds of giant mould,
Hadst, almost with thy mother's milk, imbibed
Philosophy, which with thy growth had grown,
And with thy strength been strengthen'd:—in the north—
A wanderer among lakes and mighty hills—
Scarce conscious e'en of such restraint as curbs
The southern schoolboy—thou hadst kept unstain'd
Thy spirit's freshness and simplicity;
And, in thy native strength of intellect,
O'erleaping the strait bounds of puny thought
Which circumscribed the realm in which we moved,
(Weak jinglers of hexameters,) could'st breathe
In worlds beyond our ken;—I, train'd and taught
In academic craft, and, for my feats
Poetic, with Etonian laurel crown'd—
A schoolboy bard, with schoolboy lore imbued,
And thinking like a schoolboy—what was I,
That I should match with thee?—yet match'd we were,
If not in genius, yet in sympathy;
Each reverencing what the other reverenced—each
Still loving whatsoe'er the other loved;
Our hopes, our aspirations, our desires,
Our plans and projects for the years to come,
Akin, if not identical:—the world
As yet was all before us—the young blood
Ran riot in our veins,—we felt our life
Strong, buoyant, full of hope—and we were free
To “frame” whate'er “high purposes” we would
Of intellectual enterprise, “at war
With fleshly shame;”—so sang thy muse to mine,
Who tuned her chords responsive.—What more blest
Could either of us wish, than to pursue
Together the green paths of poesy,
And cultivate the fair domains of thought
Which nature had assign'd us? Of renown
And rank among our country's sons of song
Methinks we dream'd but little:—fame was not
Our idol, nor the prize for which we strove.
Our phantasy should be its own reward;
Or if we needed other, that should be
The love of woman:—we would pitch our tent
In some sequester'd valley, and there dwell—
We and two gentle beings, who would link
Their lot with ours, and in our arms repose,
And, with serene and fervent sympathy
Sharing and sweetening all our toils and cares,
Diffuse perpetual sunshine through our souls,
Which, by that warmth impregnated, should teem
With most abundant growth of noble thoughts
And lofty speculations, and rich store
Of sweet and bitter fancies.—Dreams like these
At times beguiled us, but our daily talk
Was of more serious matter;—of the laws
Which govern the mysterious heart of man;—
Of dogmas transcendental, to my ear
A theme, till then unknown, though long to thee
Familiar, and with earnest zeal explored;—
Of all the wild and wondrous world of song,
And those who hold its empire—chiefly Him
The myriad-minded;—nor were they forgot,
The mighty masters of our later day,
And Him their Coryphæus, then not yet
Enthroned, as now, on England's inmost heart,
But by a few (the true poetic Church,
As they esteem'd themselves) with earnest zeal
And somewhat of a fond idolatry
Revered, nay, almost worshipp'd.—With such themes
Were mingled yet profounder;—Truth divine
Reveal'd to erring man—Redemptive love,
In all its breadth, and length, and depth, and height,
By thee with theologic gaze intent
Contemplated;—and if from the routine
Of academic study we diverged
Too oft, and were forgetful of the claims
Of curves and squares, and parallelograms,
Cones, angles, sines and cosines, ordinates,
Abscissæ, and the like—methinks, our time,
Though sore mispent, was yet not wholly lost
In converse such as this.
A feverish waking dream—more shadowy still
The longer that it lasts!—Whate'er in youth
Seem'd real, ere our middle age arrives,
Even like a phantom vanishes away,
Or crumbles in our grasp.—Our life itself—
Which once appear'd as if 'twould never end—
Is found to be a shadow, soon to flit
Away, and be forgotten;—even the schemes—
The air-built castles of our early days—
That vigorous hope with which we look'd abroad
Into the opening world—that confidence
In the bright-seeming future, by no fear
Of change or chance diminish'd—were in truth
More tangible possessions in themselves
Than the realities of later life.
And such were thine and mine when first we met
(A freshman thou, and I a junior soph,)
In the Old Court at King's. Unlike, till then,
417
Thou, from thy birth, a hardy mountaineer,
A poet's child, thyself a Poet born,
And cradled among minds of giant mould,
Hadst, almost with thy mother's milk, imbibed
Philosophy, which with thy growth had grown,
And with thy strength been strengthen'd:—in the north—
A wanderer among lakes and mighty hills—
Scarce conscious e'en of such restraint as curbs
The southern schoolboy—thou hadst kept unstain'd
Thy spirit's freshness and simplicity;
And, in thy native strength of intellect,
O'erleaping the strait bounds of puny thought
Which circumscribed the realm in which we moved,
(Weak jinglers of hexameters,) could'st breathe
In worlds beyond our ken;—I, train'd and taught
In academic craft, and, for my feats
Poetic, with Etonian laurel crown'd—
A schoolboy bard, with schoolboy lore imbued,
And thinking like a schoolboy—what was I,
That I should match with thee?—yet match'd we were,
If not in genius, yet in sympathy;
Each reverencing what the other reverenced—each
Still loving whatsoe'er the other loved;
Our hopes, our aspirations, our desires,
Our plans and projects for the years to come,
Akin, if not identical:—the world
As yet was all before us—the young blood
Ran riot in our veins,—we felt our life
Strong, buoyant, full of hope—and we were free
To “frame” whate'er “high purposes” we would
Of intellectual enterprise, “at war
With fleshly shame;”—so sang thy muse to mine,
Who tuned her chords responsive.—What more blest
Could either of us wish, than to pursue
Together the green paths of poesy,
And cultivate the fair domains of thought
418
And rank among our country's sons of song
Methinks we dream'd but little:—fame was not
Our idol, nor the prize for which we strove.
Our phantasy should be its own reward;
Or if we needed other, that should be
The love of woman:—we would pitch our tent
In some sequester'd valley, and there dwell—
We and two gentle beings, who would link
Their lot with ours, and in our arms repose,
And, with serene and fervent sympathy
Sharing and sweetening all our toils and cares,
Diffuse perpetual sunshine through our souls,
Which, by that warmth impregnated, should teem
With most abundant growth of noble thoughts
And lofty speculations, and rich store
Of sweet and bitter fancies.—Dreams like these
At times beguiled us, but our daily talk
Was of more serious matter;—of the laws
Which govern the mysterious heart of man;—
Of dogmas transcendental, to my ear
A theme, till then unknown, though long to thee
Familiar, and with earnest zeal explored;—
Of all the wild and wondrous world of song,
And those who hold its empire—chiefly Him
The myriad-minded;—nor were they forgot,
The mighty masters of our later day,
And Him their Coryphæus, then not yet
Enthroned, as now, on England's inmost heart,
But by a few (the true poetic Church,
As they esteem'd themselves) with earnest zeal
And somewhat of a fond idolatry
Revered, nay, almost worshipp'd.—With such themes
Were mingled yet profounder;—Truth divine
Reveal'd to erring man—Redemptive love,
In all its breadth, and length, and depth, and height,
By thee with theologic gaze intent
Contemplated;—and if from the routine
Of academic study we diverged
419
Of curves and squares, and parallelograms,
Cones, angles, sines and cosines, ordinates,
Abscissæ, and the like—methinks, our time,
Though sore mispent, was yet not wholly lost
In converse such as this.
Not wholly lost—
And yet my loss was grievous;—not perchance
So much for the amount of actual lore
Neglected, or of science unattain'd,
As for the loss of discipline incurr'd,
Moral and intellectual,—self-control,
And self-denial,—patience in pursuit
Of knowledge,—perseverance to surmount
Impediments—and firmness to withstand
Temptation, unacquired.—If I am now
Too much an idler—prone to leave undone
My daily task of ministerial toil,
And loiter in my study o'er some page
Of theologic trifling—or forsake
Even that for lighter reading such as charm'd
My young imagination—to those strolls
In part I owe it, which, from day to day,
We two were wont to take, in hours by right
To academic study set apart.
Pleasant they were, and pleasant was the talk
By which they were beguiled;—to me oft rich
In knowledge newly gain'd.—We walk'd and walk'd
As chance directed—by the river side
To Granchester—along the lanes which lead
To Cherry Hinton—out by Trumpington—
And Madingley, sole village from the plague
Of ugliness, in that drear land, exempt:
The Gogmagogs were conscious of our talk;
And I may say that seldom I came home
No wiser than I went.—But in the days
Of early spring, when even those treeless fields
Look'd pleasant in the sunshine, and the lanes
With constellations of bright primrose tufts
Were here and there bestudded,—when the scent
Of the cinque-spotted cowslip was exhaled
From the low meadow grass,—and in the woods
The nightingale (more fitly heard by night)
Sang lustily all day—with what a bound
Of vernal exultation forth we sprang
Into the clear, fresh air!—how recklessly,
Spurning the narrow bounds of space and time,
We rambled in the ways of our own hearts
And sight of our own eyes!—with what dispatch
Of keen and craving hunger we assail'd
Our mid-day luncheon in the village in,
Served haply by the fair domestic hands
Of her, the maid of Quy—that saint whose shrine
By many a Cantabrigian pilgrimage,
(By none more zealous or more pure than ours)
Was, in those days, frequented!—then at eve,
As, homeward bound, through the suburban streets
We wended in grotesque and careless guise—
The very tassels of our trencher caps
With cowslips interlaced,—how cheap we held
The laughter of the mob!—how little fear'd
The frown of Dean or Proctor!—then our meal
Together shared,—the savoury steak sent hot
From the cook's shop—the amber-flowing ale
Of Trinity,—the spare dessert,—the wine
With olives relish'd—and our day's discourse
Prolong'd till midnight!—College life alone
Can boast such joys as these.
And yet my loss was grievous;—not perchance
So much for the amount of actual lore
Neglected, or of science unattain'd,
As for the loss of discipline incurr'd,
Moral and intellectual,—self-control,
And self-denial,—patience in pursuit
Of knowledge,—perseverance to surmount
Impediments—and firmness to withstand
Temptation, unacquired.—If I am now
Too much an idler—prone to leave undone
My daily task of ministerial toil,
And loiter in my study o'er some page
Of theologic trifling—or forsake
Even that for lighter reading such as charm'd
My young imagination—to those strolls
In part I owe it, which, from day to day,
We two were wont to take, in hours by right
To academic study set apart.
Pleasant they were, and pleasant was the talk
By which they were beguiled;—to me oft rich
In knowledge newly gain'd.—We walk'd and walk'd
As chance directed—by the river side
To Granchester—along the lanes which lead
To Cherry Hinton—out by Trumpington—
And Madingley, sole village from the plague
Of ugliness, in that drear land, exempt:
The Gogmagogs were conscious of our talk;
And I may say that seldom I came home
No wiser than I went.—But in the days
Of early spring, when even those treeless fields
Look'd pleasant in the sunshine, and the lanes
With constellations of bright primrose tufts
420
Of the cinque-spotted cowslip was exhaled
From the low meadow grass,—and in the woods
The nightingale (more fitly heard by night)
Sang lustily all day—with what a bound
Of vernal exultation forth we sprang
Into the clear, fresh air!—how recklessly,
Spurning the narrow bounds of space and time,
We rambled in the ways of our own hearts
And sight of our own eyes!—with what dispatch
Of keen and craving hunger we assail'd
Our mid-day luncheon in the village in,
Served haply by the fair domestic hands
Of her, the maid of Quy—that saint whose shrine
By many a Cantabrigian pilgrimage,
(By none more zealous or more pure than ours)
Was, in those days, frequented!—then at eve,
As, homeward bound, through the suburban streets
We wended in grotesque and careless guise—
The very tassels of our trencher caps
With cowslips interlaced,—how cheap we held
The laughter of the mob!—how little fear'd
The frown of Dean or Proctor!—then our meal
Together shared,—the savoury steak sent hot
From the cook's shop—the amber-flowing ale
Of Trinity,—the spare dessert,—the wine
With olives relish'd—and our day's discourse
Prolong'd till midnight!—College life alone
Can boast such joys as these.
Nor let me pass
Unsung, those nights and suppers of the gods—
Feasts of the hungry soul, when, at the close
Of some well argued, eloquent debate
Held in the “Union,” which with lengthen'd roar
Of cheers had shaken Petty Cury's roofs,
Startling the jaded shopman from his sleep,—
The leaders of the war on either side,
(Their strife suspended) to my neighbouring rooms
Adjourn'd, to sup on oysters.—Aid me now,
O Muse, to tell who first, who last engaged
In those keen conflicts of contending wit
And appetite as keen;—who (since renown'd
In senatorial or forensic war)
From their first proof and exercise of arms
Offensive and defensive, came to wield
Less cumbrous weapons in colloquial sport,
At those repasts, with us. First, He whose praise
This song already, though in feeble notes,
Unworthily, hath sung—he, then a youth
Fresh from Etonian discipline, well skill'd
In all her classic craft, and therewithal
Known, ere his sun in Granta's sky arose,
For many a boyish feat, unlike a boy's,
Of sparkling prose and verse,—he graced our board
With that rich vein of fine and subtle wit—
That tone of reckless levity—that keen
And polish'd sarcasm—arm'd with which he waged
A war of dexterous sword-play, wherein few
Encounter'd, none o'ercame him:—by his side
Sat One of ampler brow and ruder frame,—
A presence with gigantic power instinct,
Though outwardly, in truth, but little graced
With aught of manly beauty—short, obese,
Rough-featured, coarse complexion'd, with lank hair,
And small grey eyes,—in face (so many said)
Not much unlike myself,—his voice abrupt,
Unmusical;—yet, when he spake, the ear
Was charm'd into attention, and the eye
Forgot the visible and outward frame
Of the rich mind within; with such swift flow
Of full, spontaneous utterance the tongue
Interpreted the deep impassion'd thought,
And pour'd upon our sense exhaustless store
Of multifarious learning;—for his mind
Had been, from earliest childhood up to youth,
Insatiable of knowledge, and his brain,—
Not like a pedant's, cumber'd and confused
With ill-digested, heterogeneous hoards
Of intellectual matter, but endued
With power to shape and mould its gather'd wealth
As need suggested,—turn'd, with ready tact,
Its huge artillery on whatever point
It pleased him to assail,—and (sooth to say)
He was not over-scrupulous;—to him
There was no pain like silence—no constraint
So dull as unanimity:—he breathed
An atmosphere of argument, nor shrank
From making, where he could not find, excuse
For controversial fight:—yet when the fit
Was off him, and he gave his mind free scope
To follow Nature's bidding—who so full
Of genial thought and feeling?—who so keen
To separate truth from error—to detect
The fallacy in specious terms involved,
Or in the realms of Fiction to discern
The beautiful and just?—He was, in truth,
(So transcendental sages would affirm)
The king of Understanding—unapproach'd,
Unrivall'd in his own particular range
Of thought;—and if that range was not the first—
If there were regions into which his gaze
Pierced not—an intuition more profound
Than he affected—such deficiency
Found ample compensation in the strength
And full perfection of his actual powers,
And the quick tact which wielded them.—Meanwhile
His heart was pure and simple as a child's,
Unbreathed on by the world,—in friendship warm,
Confiding, generous, constant; and though now
He ranks among the great-ones of the earth,
And hath achieved such glory, as will last
To future generations—he, I think,
Would sup on oysters with as right good will
In this poor home of mine, as e'er he did
On Petty Cury's classical first floor
Some twenty years ago.
Unsung, those nights and suppers of the gods—
Feasts of the hungry soul, when, at the close
Of some well argued, eloquent debate
Held in the “Union,” which with lengthen'd roar
Of cheers had shaken Petty Cury's roofs,
Startling the jaded shopman from his sleep,—
421
(Their strife suspended) to my neighbouring rooms
Adjourn'd, to sup on oysters.—Aid me now,
O Muse, to tell who first, who last engaged
In those keen conflicts of contending wit
And appetite as keen;—who (since renown'd
In senatorial or forensic war)
From their first proof and exercise of arms
Offensive and defensive, came to wield
Less cumbrous weapons in colloquial sport,
At those repasts, with us. First, He whose praise
This song already, though in feeble notes,
Unworthily, hath sung—he, then a youth
Fresh from Etonian discipline, well skill'd
In all her classic craft, and therewithal
Known, ere his sun in Granta's sky arose,
For many a boyish feat, unlike a boy's,
Of sparkling prose and verse,—he graced our board
With that rich vein of fine and subtle wit—
That tone of reckless levity—that keen
And polish'd sarcasm—arm'd with which he waged
A war of dexterous sword-play, wherein few
Encounter'd, none o'ercame him:—by his side
Sat One of ampler brow and ruder frame,—
A presence with gigantic power instinct,
Though outwardly, in truth, but little graced
With aught of manly beauty—short, obese,
Rough-featured, coarse complexion'd, with lank hair,
And small grey eyes,—in face (so many said)
Not much unlike myself,—his voice abrupt,
Unmusical;—yet, when he spake, the ear
Was charm'd into attention, and the eye
Forgot the visible and outward frame
Of the rich mind within; with such swift flow
Of full, spontaneous utterance the tongue
Interpreted the deep impassion'd thought,
422
Of multifarious learning;—for his mind
Had been, from earliest childhood up to youth,
Insatiable of knowledge, and his brain,—
Not like a pedant's, cumber'd and confused
With ill-digested, heterogeneous hoards
Of intellectual matter, but endued
With power to shape and mould its gather'd wealth
As need suggested,—turn'd, with ready tact,
Its huge artillery on whatever point
It pleased him to assail,—and (sooth to say)
He was not over-scrupulous;—to him
There was no pain like silence—no constraint
So dull as unanimity:—he breathed
An atmosphere of argument, nor shrank
From making, where he could not find, excuse
For controversial fight:—yet when the fit
Was off him, and he gave his mind free scope
To follow Nature's bidding—who so full
Of genial thought and feeling?—who so keen
To separate truth from error—to detect
The fallacy in specious terms involved,
Or in the realms of Fiction to discern
The beautiful and just?—He was, in truth,
(So transcendental sages would affirm)
The king of Understanding—unapproach'd,
Unrivall'd in his own particular range
Of thought;—and if that range was not the first—
If there were regions into which his gaze
Pierced not—an intuition more profound
Than he affected—such deficiency
Found ample compensation in the strength
And full perfection of his actual powers,
And the quick tact which wielded them.—Meanwhile
His heart was pure and simple as a child's,
Unbreathed on by the world,—in friendship warm,
Confiding, generous, constant; and though now
He ranks among the great-ones of the earth,
And hath achieved such glory, as will last
423
Would sup on oysters with as right good will
In this poor home of mine, as e'er he did
On Petty Cury's classical first floor
Some twenty years ago.
With him in bonds
Of mutual friendship link'd—in classic lore
His equal, though of less voracious maw,
And slower to digest what he devour'd
Of intellectual food—appear'd a youth
Of comeliest presence, though of brow, perchance,
Less lofty and projecting than the brain
Beneath it would have taught phrenologists
To look for in its owner:—grave he was,
And prone to silence; and whene'er he spake,
'Twas with a slow, sententious utterance,
As if each word that dropp'd was first well weigh'd,
And licensed to go forth;—his manner shy
And somewhat puritanical;—yet none
Possess'd a mind with richer humour fraught,
Or saw, with so acute and quick a glance,
The ludicrous in all things:—not in vain
He woo'd the Muse—with no ungraceful steps
Walk'd through the land of Fancy in its length
And in its breadth; but with more earnest love
He sought profounder lore:—his mind severe,
Patient, exact, with most tenacious grasp
Held fast, and grappled with, and overcame
Whate'er of difficult impediment
Beset his path to knowledge;—nor was truth,
Thus hardly won, less resolutely kept.
The rash vagaries of erratic thought
And venturous speculation, which seduced
More sanguine minds, ne'er raised a doubt in his,
Nor shook the deep foundations of his faith
Even for a moment.—Now, a learned man,
In professorial chair he holds his state
Didactic, and with classic lore imbues
Another generation.
Of mutual friendship link'd—in classic lore
His equal, though of less voracious maw,
And slower to digest what he devour'd
Of intellectual food—appear'd a youth
Of comeliest presence, though of brow, perchance,
Less lofty and projecting than the brain
Beneath it would have taught phrenologists
To look for in its owner:—grave he was,
And prone to silence; and whene'er he spake,
'Twas with a slow, sententious utterance,
As if each word that dropp'd was first well weigh'd,
And licensed to go forth;—his manner shy
And somewhat puritanical;—yet none
Possess'd a mind with richer humour fraught,
Or saw, with so acute and quick a glance,
The ludicrous in all things:—not in vain
He woo'd the Muse—with no ungraceful steps
Walk'd through the land of Fancy in its length
And in its breadth; but with more earnest love
He sought profounder lore:—his mind severe,
Patient, exact, with most tenacious grasp
Held fast, and grappled with, and overcame
Whate'er of difficult impediment
Beset his path to knowledge;—nor was truth,
Thus hardly won, less resolutely kept.
The rash vagaries of erratic thought
And venturous speculation, which seduced
More sanguine minds, ne'er raised a doubt in his,
Nor shook the deep foundations of his faith
Even for a moment.—Now, a learned man,
424
Didactic, and with classic lore imbues
Another generation.
Turn we next
To one but rarely, on those nights, our guest;—
To him—thy kinsman, once my schoolfellow,
And more than most of my compeers at school,
Or thy collateral kindred, to us both
By close-knit bonds united;—in those days
A comely youth, though prematurely grey,
And long ere manhood's noon upon his brow
To wear the stainless silver of old age.
Graceful he was in person and in mind,
Enrich'd with classical accomplishments,
And stores of various study—apt to learn,
And with intense susceptibility
Of soul and sense endued. Some deem'd him proud,
And in himself too confident.—In truth,
'Twas not his nature to dissemble powers
With which he had been gifted, nor the lore
To which he had attain'd; and envious men,
Who hated him for both, were prompt to blame
That which they could not imitate:—yet few
Were cast by nature in a finer mould,
Or arm'd with apprehensions more æcute,
And exquisite of beauty and of truth,
Moral and intellectual. To create
Was not his province; but his mind received,
And treasured, and retain'd, with ready tact,
The lessons by profounder minds instill'd,
Which, with expressive utterance, to the taste
And apprehensions of the world at large
He skilfully adapted.—Hence his task
Was rightly chosen, when, in after years,
He to the teaching of that Master Mind
Subjected his whole soul—content to share
The glory which must rest, in time to come,
On those outpourings of immortal thought
By his sole pen preserved, or by his toil
Collected and arranged. His was, in truth,
A proud and happy lot, to have imbibed
Those lessons, while he lived, and after death
To link his own remembrance with the name
Of Earth's profoundest Teacher:—happier still
In that his toils were sweeten'd and sustain'd
By such rich treasure of connubial wealth
As few have e'er possess'd. Not mine the task
To seize and fix the ethereal lineaments
Of that majestic spirit, which illumed
With rays intense of intellectual light,
Corporeal beauty far surpassing aught
That to the painter's, or the poet's eye,
Imagination ever yet reveal'd
Of loveliness ideal—while the heart,
Unchill'd and unsophisticate, still throbb'd
With woman's deepest love—still sympathized
With whatsoe'er of human joy or grief
Demands or merits sympathy—still shared,
With unaffected, frank simplicity,
The interests and the cares, the healthful sports,
The mingled smiles and tears, which mark the course
Of ordinary life—suggesting thus,
To the discerning and observant mind,
How far inventive phantasy falls short
Of Nature's actual handiwork!—not now—
Not in such strains as these, be her high praise
Attempted;—nor let step of mine invade,
With reckless tread, the still, sepulchral gloom
Which shrouds her recent sorrow.—For the Dead—
For Him, the gentle and the pure of heart,
The generous, the affectionate—from Earth
At life's full noon removed—for him, be tears
Of true and reverential sorrow shed!—
For Her—what more can sympathy desire
Than those divinest gifts already hers?—
Patience and faith to bear the will of Heaven,
And power, while yet on earth, to breathe in worlds
Of pure celestial thought, and cheering hope
Of future bliss, and memory of the Past,
To soothe the o'erburden'd Present.
To one but rarely, on those nights, our guest;—
To him—thy kinsman, once my schoolfellow,
And more than most of my compeers at school,
Or thy collateral kindred, to us both
By close-knit bonds united;—in those days
A comely youth, though prematurely grey,
And long ere manhood's noon upon his brow
To wear the stainless silver of old age.
Graceful he was in person and in mind,
Enrich'd with classical accomplishments,
And stores of various study—apt to learn,
And with intense susceptibility
Of soul and sense endued. Some deem'd him proud,
And in himself too confident.—In truth,
'Twas not his nature to dissemble powers
With which he had been gifted, nor the lore
To which he had attain'd; and envious men,
Who hated him for both, were prompt to blame
That which they could not imitate:—yet few
Were cast by nature in a finer mould,
Or arm'd with apprehensions more æcute,
And exquisite of beauty and of truth,
Moral and intellectual. To create
Was not his province; but his mind received,
And treasured, and retain'd, with ready tact,
The lessons by profounder minds instill'd,
Which, with expressive utterance, to the taste
And apprehensions of the world at large
He skilfully adapted.—Hence his task
Was rightly chosen, when, in after years,
He to the teaching of that Master Mind
Subjected his whole soul—content to share
425
On those outpourings of immortal thought
By his sole pen preserved, or by his toil
Collected and arranged. His was, in truth,
A proud and happy lot, to have imbibed
Those lessons, while he lived, and after death
To link his own remembrance with the name
Of Earth's profoundest Teacher:—happier still
In that his toils were sweeten'd and sustain'd
By such rich treasure of connubial wealth
As few have e'er possess'd. Not mine the task
To seize and fix the ethereal lineaments
Of that majestic spirit, which illumed
With rays intense of intellectual light,
Corporeal beauty far surpassing aught
That to the painter's, or the poet's eye,
Imagination ever yet reveal'd
Of loveliness ideal—while the heart,
Unchill'd and unsophisticate, still throbb'd
With woman's deepest love—still sympathized
With whatsoe'er of human joy or grief
Demands or merits sympathy—still shared,
With unaffected, frank simplicity,
The interests and the cares, the healthful sports,
The mingled smiles and tears, which mark the course
Of ordinary life—suggesting thus,
To the discerning and observant mind,
How far inventive phantasy falls short
Of Nature's actual handiwork!—not now—
Not in such strains as these, be her high praise
Attempted;—nor let step of mine invade,
With reckless tread, the still, sepulchral gloom
Which shrouds her recent sorrow.—For the Dead—
For Him, the gentle and the pure of heart,
The generous, the affectionate—from Earth
At life's full noon removed—for him, be tears
426
For Her—what more can sympathy desire
Than those divinest gifts already hers?—
Patience and faith to bear the will of Heaven,
And power, while yet on earth, to breathe in worlds
Of pure celestial thought, and cheering hope
Of future bliss, and memory of the Past,
To soothe the o'erburden'd Present.
Next appear'd,
In that superb array of noble minds,
A pale, spare man, of high and massive brow,
Already furrow'd with deep lines of thought
And speculative effort—grave, sedate,
And (if the looks may indicate the age)
Our senior some few years:—no keener wit,
No intellect more subtle, none more bold
Was found in all our host; none deeplier fraught
With stores of various learning;—but, in him,
Imagination, fancy, feeling, taste,
And reverential faith and fervent zeal
Were overlaid by huge incumbent weight
Of understanding—so, of late, defined—
The faculty which judgeth after sense.
With poesy and poets still he waged
Relentless war—deeming all such, in sooth,
Mere cumberers of the ground, or haply worse—
Despisers of plain truth—mad mountebanks,
Who led the minds of simple folk astray
By their fantastic juggleries, and drown'd
The voice of reason with their jingling rhymes.
Such craft to him was hateful;—Truth alone,
Truth tangible and palpable;—such truth
As might be weigh'd and measured,—truth deduced
By logical conclusion, close, severe,
From premises incontrovertible—
This was the mistress of his fond desire—
His first, his only love;—of aught more fair
Or wonderful he dream'd not;—nought to him
Existed, in the whole wide world of thought,
Save what could be defined, mapp'd out, survey'd,
Adjusted to his liking;—to his eye,
Whatever was ideal, seem'd untrue:
The hopes which he profess'd of earthly good
Were limited to that which he could see,
Hear, taste, or feel—ease—pleasure—all the joys
Which wait on wealth—the exercise and use
Of intellect:—in all things he appear'd
A strict utilitarian;—yet the Man
Was nobler than his creed, and though he mock'd
At things, which, to us poets, seem'd almost
The breath of human life—romantic love—
Chivalrous honour—patriotic zeal—
And loyal self-devotion—there were times
When even these very themes would kindle up
The better soul within, and he became,
Unconsciously, the enthusiast he despised.
Courteous he was and gentle, even to those
Whose intellectual rank beneath his own
Lay lowest,—and remembrance, looking back
Through twenty years, still rests upon his name,
As on a pleasant thought.
In that superb array of noble minds,
A pale, spare man, of high and massive brow,
Already furrow'd with deep lines of thought
And speculative effort—grave, sedate,
And (if the looks may indicate the age)
Our senior some few years:—no keener wit,
No intellect more subtle, none more bold
Was found in all our host; none deeplier fraught
With stores of various learning;—but, in him,
Imagination, fancy, feeling, taste,
And reverential faith and fervent zeal
Were overlaid by huge incumbent weight
Of understanding—so, of late, defined—
The faculty which judgeth after sense.
With poesy and poets still he waged
Relentless war—deeming all such, in sooth,
Mere cumberers of the ground, or haply worse—
Despisers of plain truth—mad mountebanks,
Who led the minds of simple folk astray
By their fantastic juggleries, and drown'd
The voice of reason with their jingling rhymes.
Such craft to him was hateful;—Truth alone,
Truth tangible and palpable;—such truth
As might be weigh'd and measured,—truth deduced
By logical conclusion, close, severe,
From premises incontrovertible—
This was the mistress of his fond desire—
427
Or wonderful he dream'd not;—nought to him
Existed, in the whole wide world of thought,
Save what could be defined, mapp'd out, survey'd,
Adjusted to his liking;—to his eye,
Whatever was ideal, seem'd untrue:
The hopes which he profess'd of earthly good
Were limited to that which he could see,
Hear, taste, or feel—ease—pleasure—all the joys
Which wait on wealth—the exercise and use
Of intellect:—in all things he appear'd
A strict utilitarian;—yet the Man
Was nobler than his creed, and though he mock'd
At things, which, to us poets, seem'd almost
The breath of human life—romantic love—
Chivalrous honour—patriotic zeal—
And loyal self-devotion—there were times
When even these very themes would kindle up
The better soul within, and he became,
Unconsciously, the enthusiast he despised.
Courteous he was and gentle, even to those
Whose intellectual rank beneath his own
Lay lowest,—and remembrance, looking back
Through twenty years, still rests upon his name,
As on a pleasant thought.
Unlike him far
In character—in intellect no less,
The pair that follows; for a pair in heart
So closely join'd, so comely each in form,
My song must not divorce;—the first, a youth,
Tall, graceful, well-proportion'd, noble-mien'd,
Tho' something in his air might have been thought
Almost effeminate,—the look of one
Who, delicately nurtured, ne'er had felt
The shocks and buffets which the world inflicts
Even on our boyish years;—and such, indeed,
Had been his earlier lot, for he was born
Heir of a wealthy house, and, from his birth
To dawning manhood, in luxurious ease
And careless affluence rear'd;—his mind untrain'd
By any rigorous discipline—unstored
With much of school-boy learning—ill prepared
(So men might think) to face the frowning world
And grapple with adversity;—and yet,
When fortune changed—as in a moment's time
She did, and hurl'd him from his pinnacle
Of prosperous expectation down almost
To a despised estate—no strongest mind
E'er bore such fall more bravely:—even like one
Who estimates this world at its true worth,
And, loving not its treasures while they last,
Laments them not departed—he address'd
His spirit to its destiny with firm
And tranquil equanimity—content
To do and suffer all the will of Heaven
In his appointed sphere.—And, to speak truth,
Tho' wealth and this world's smiles had pass'd away,
Still, in the costliest treasure Earth can yield,
He was most rich;—for one confiding heart
Still clave to him with woman's deepest love,
And pour'd into his wounds (if wounds he had)
The balm of its affection. She was one—
(That gentle maid)—a foreigner by birth,
Of humbler fortunes, who had loved him long,
But never told her love; for while the world
Look'd bright around him, and the proudest dames
Grew prouder in his smile, she durst not lift
Her heart so high as to indulge a hope
That he would think of her; but when his lot
Was darken'd, and the frivolous, false crowd
Deserted him—O then what rapturous hope
Thrill'd through her bosom, that his loss might prove
Her gain,—and she, who never could have shared
His prouder, might console his humbler lot,
And shed upon his path the tender light
Of her devoted love! Ere I threw off
The purple gown of Trinity, to don
The graduate's sable garb, their wedding day
Arrived, and I remember how they came,
A happy bride and bridegroom, to rebuke
In our own courts, or haply to stir up
To emulation of their better lot
Our Academic celibate.
In character—in intellect no less,
The pair that follows; for a pair in heart
So closely join'd, so comely each in form,
My song must not divorce;—the first, a youth,
Tall, graceful, well-proportion'd, noble-mien'd,
Tho' something in his air might have been thought
Almost effeminate,—the look of one
Who, delicately nurtured, ne'er had felt
The shocks and buffets which the world inflicts
Even on our boyish years;—and such, indeed,
Had been his earlier lot, for he was born
Heir of a wealthy house, and, from his birth
To dawning manhood, in luxurious ease
428
By any rigorous discipline—unstored
With much of school-boy learning—ill prepared
(So men might think) to face the frowning world
And grapple with adversity;—and yet,
When fortune changed—as in a moment's time
She did, and hurl'd him from his pinnacle
Of prosperous expectation down almost
To a despised estate—no strongest mind
E'er bore such fall more bravely:—even like one
Who estimates this world at its true worth,
And, loving not its treasures while they last,
Laments them not departed—he address'd
His spirit to its destiny with firm
And tranquil equanimity—content
To do and suffer all the will of Heaven
In his appointed sphere.—And, to speak truth,
Tho' wealth and this world's smiles had pass'd away,
Still, in the costliest treasure Earth can yield,
He was most rich;—for one confiding heart
Still clave to him with woman's deepest love,
And pour'd into his wounds (if wounds he had)
The balm of its affection. She was one—
(That gentle maid)—a foreigner by birth,
Of humbler fortunes, who had loved him long,
But never told her love; for while the world
Look'd bright around him, and the proudest dames
Grew prouder in his smile, she durst not lift
Her heart so high as to indulge a hope
That he would think of her; but when his lot
Was darken'd, and the frivolous, false crowd
Deserted him—O then what rapturous hope
Thrill'd through her bosom, that his loss might prove
Her gain,—and she, who never could have shared
His prouder, might console his humbler lot,
And shed upon his path the tender light
Of her devoted love! Ere I threw off
The purple gown of Trinity, to don
The graduate's sable garb, their wedding day
429
A happy bride and bridegroom, to rebuke
In our own courts, or haply to stir up
To emulation of their better lot
Our Academic celibate.
But He—
The friend so like a brother—in what nook
Lies he conceal'd?—he should not be ashamed,
Methinks, to shew his face; for few have seen
A fairer one on earth;—the Nireus he
Of all our host, though rarely in this field
A combatant,—no man of wordy strife,
Or wrangling disputation, but best pleased
With mild discourse and thought contemplative,
And the luxurious witcheries of art:—
Himself a poet born, and, from a child,
With all a poet's sensibilities,
Even to excess endued:—for him, a boy,
The boisterous sports of boyhood were too rough,—
The sympathy of schoolfellows too coarse,
Save of some few like-minded with himself,
With whom he roam'd apart—to all the rest
A by-word and a laughing-stock;—now climb'd
Some favourite hill—now ranged the vernal woods
In search of wild-flowers.—With advancing youth
Such weakness had worn off, and though he still
Retain'd a woman's beauty, manly thought
Was his, and manly feeling.—Still the paths
Of quiet contemplation—the wild haunts
Of phantasy—and the mysterious realms
Of painting and of music were his choice,—
The world in which his spirit loved to dwell;
And, I believe, no truer eye than his,
No finer ear for concord of sweet sounds,
No spirit more susceptible of pain
Or pleasure from the spells of either art,
Or their diviner sister Poesy,
Was found, that day, among us. Years have since
Develop'd, and expanded, and matured
His intellectual strength:—through many a field
Of art, of science, of philosophy,
With firm and fearless step, he walks at will;
A bold, adventurous thinker, but withal
In heart and hope a Christian.
The friend so like a brother—in what nook
Lies he conceal'd?—he should not be ashamed,
Methinks, to shew his face; for few have seen
A fairer one on earth;—the Nireus he
Of all our host, though rarely in this field
A combatant,—no man of wordy strife,
Or wrangling disputation, but best pleased
With mild discourse and thought contemplative,
And the luxurious witcheries of art:—
Himself a poet born, and, from a child,
With all a poet's sensibilities,
Even to excess endued:—for him, a boy,
The boisterous sports of boyhood were too rough,—
The sympathy of schoolfellows too coarse,
Save of some few like-minded with himself,
With whom he roam'd apart—to all the rest
A by-word and a laughing-stock;—now climb'd
Some favourite hill—now ranged the vernal woods
In search of wild-flowers.—With advancing youth
Such weakness had worn off, and though he still
Retain'd a woman's beauty, manly thought
Was his, and manly feeling.—Still the paths
Of quiet contemplation—the wild haunts
Of phantasy—and the mysterious realms
Of painting and of music were his choice,—
The world in which his spirit loved to dwell;
And, I believe, no truer eye than his,
No finer ear for concord of sweet sounds,
No spirit more susceptible of pain
Or pleasure from the spells of either art,
Or their diviner sister Poesy,
430
Develop'd, and expanded, and matured
His intellectual strength:—through many a field
Of art, of science, of philosophy,
With firm and fearless step, he walks at will;
A bold, adventurous thinker, but withal
In heart and hope a Christian.
Last appears
In this long muster-roll, One o'er whose mind
Majestic, deep, imaginative, pure
From aught of worldly taint, which might debase
Or mar its noble energies, the Muse
Laments as lost;—by what mysterious bane
Of physical or mental malady
Disorder'd, none can tell; but so o'erthrown,
That genius, learning, wisdom, the rich gift
Of song, on none, in these our later days,
More bountifully lavish'd, have, in him,
Become a shapeless wreck.—May brighter days
Arise on that dark waste, and heavenly light,
Piercing its spectral gloom, create anew
The wondrous world beneath it!
In this long muster-roll, One o'er whose mind
Majestic, deep, imaginative, pure
From aught of worldly taint, which might debase
Or mar its noble energies, the Muse
Laments as lost;—by what mysterious bane
Of physical or mental malady
Disorder'd, none can tell; but so o'erthrown,
That genius, learning, wisdom, the rich gift
Of song, on none, in these our later days,
More bountifully lavish'd, have, in him,
Become a shapeless wreck.—May brighter days
Arise on that dark waste, and heavenly light,
Piercing its spectral gloom, create anew
The wondrous world beneath it!
But 'tis time
To change this lengthen'd scene, and bid farewell
To all its passing phantoms, though the mind
Still grasps them with a fond tenacity.
Not all in vain,—not all in vain,—I trust,
O Granta, though thy wild and wayward son,
And little heedful of the lore which thou
Best lov'st to teach thy children—not in vain
Spent I the spring and seed-time of my youth
Beneath thy reverend towers;—no slender gain
I count it to have known whom I have known,
And with the noblest spirits of my day
Beheld the dawn of manhood;—not ill timed
My sojourn in thy courts—for 'twas my lot
To know a generation nobler far
Than that which went before it—more athirst
For knowledge—more intent on loftiest schemes
And purposes of good—and if more prone
To daring speculation,—apt to tread
More venturous paths—yet purer from the stain
Of gross and sensual vice—which among those,
Our predecessors in the steep ascent
Of academic honour, still had been,
Too oft, allied with genius. 'Twas the note
And token of a scholar, in their day,
To be a jocund reveller,—to spend
The night in mad carousals,—then, perchance,
(The wineflush still upon the burning brow,)
To reel into the lecture-room;—not such
Our folly—though our follies were not few,
Nor all innocuous—for the springs of thought
Had then been newly stirr'd—and Truth, who since
Hath claim'd and won her old supremacy,
Was still at war with error, not, as now,
Unveil'd and understood.
To change this lengthen'd scene, and bid farewell
To all its passing phantoms, though the mind
Still grasps them with a fond tenacity.
Not all in vain,—not all in vain,—I trust,
O Granta, though thy wild and wayward son,
And little heedful of the lore which thou
Best lov'st to teach thy children—not in vain
Spent I the spring and seed-time of my youth
Beneath thy reverend towers;—no slender gain
I count it to have known whom I have known,
And with the noblest spirits of my day
Beheld the dawn of manhood;—not ill timed
431
To know a generation nobler far
Than that which went before it—more athirst
For knowledge—more intent on loftiest schemes
And purposes of good—and if more prone
To daring speculation,—apt to tread
More venturous paths—yet purer from the stain
Of gross and sensual vice—which among those,
Our predecessors in the steep ascent
Of academic honour, still had been,
Too oft, allied with genius. 'Twas the note
And token of a scholar, in their day,
To be a jocund reveller,—to spend
The night in mad carousals,—then, perchance,
(The wineflush still upon the burning brow,)
To reel into the lecture-room;—not such
Our folly—though our follies were not few,
Nor all innocuous—for the springs of thought
Had then been newly stirr'd—and Truth, who since
Hath claim'd and won her old supremacy,
Was still at war with error, not, as now,
Unveil'd and understood.
The scene is changed;
The towers and courts of Granta disappear
With all that they contain—and lo, instead,
Green trees, and spacious lawns, and shrubbery-walks
Umbrageous, amidst which is dimly seen
A shelter'd dwelling, with thick-clustering vine
And intermingled ivy overgrown.
In front, not two miles off, majestic spires
Shoot up their tapering outline;—on the left
A castle frowns, with massive towers antique
Cresting a gentle eminence;—hard by
The Severn, scarce yet navigable, rolls
Its waters—and blue undulating hills
Sweep round the dim horizon.—'Tis a scene
On which a poet's eye may rest well pleased;
Nor lacks it such inspection.—From yon house
Even now two youthful brethren of the lyre
Look forth, and in their intervals of rest
From toil (if toil it be to court the Muse,)
Refresh their sense of beauty on that rich
And boldly varied landscape.—We have met
That pair before;—what do they in this land?—
In truth they do but little—though withdrawn
Awhile from academic conflicts dire
To this, the calm sequester'd home of one,
With high intent and purpose to devote
The livelong summer to sublime pursuit
Of science mathematical.—And now
In separate, though adjacent, rooms immured,
Each on his own peculiar task intent,
They commune with Mathesis.—Is it so?
Then hath she brought her geometric craft
To marvellous perfection—hath contrived
To measure worlds that spread beyond all space;—
Hath spann'd Imagination's boundless realm,
And ascertain'd the laws, impell'd by which
Creative thought explores its wondrous way
Even to the Heaven of Heavens.—In those two rooms
Two worlds are now contain'd—two phantom worlds,
Diverse in kind and excellence, but each
A world of beauty,—each a pleasant home
For him whose fancy framed it, (like the web
Spun by the silk-worm,) to protect and house
His spirit from the pressure of the world.
High is the theme of one;—in burning strains
He sings ideal Beauty, to his soul
Reveal'd in trance-like vision;—her he seeks,
In passionate wild flight, through all the realms
Of earth, and air, and sea—and, having found,
Leads her through fairy palaces—prepares
A home, and spreads a couch for her, amidst
The pathless clouds, beneath the green sea waves,
In woody vales, and deep secluded glens—
Infusing still into her heart of hearts
The strong enchantment of his dreamy love.
The other, less ambitious, and endued
With genius less creative, less intense,
Hath, from the beaming regions of the East
Stolen a wild-hearted Fay, with whom, at will,
He wanders through the world from night to morn,
And in her mischievous and magic feats
Finds infinite amusement;—yet his song,
Now gay, and now sarcastic—now in bursts
Of broad rough humour recklessly let loose—
Prefers to linger in the quiet haunts
Of peace and love domestic—knows no world,
In all Imagination's universe,
So blessed as a bright and blazing hearth
Surrounded by glad faces:—joyously
Those two, careering on the wings of song,
Pursue their several paths, from time to time
Relaxing their swift flight, to interchange
Encouragement and counsel, each with each.
Nor lack they recreation, such as soothes
The brain o'erwrought with toil, or by the throng
Of fancies multitudinous inflamed
To over-much excitement—gentle looks
And voices, and the pleasant intercourse
Of brothers and of sisters, shelter'd still
Beneath that roof parental, and the joy
Sedate, although expectant, calm, yet deep,
Of plighted lovers, at the altar soon
To seal their mutual vows:—what lack they more?
—That, without which, even Poesy and youth
Are cold and lifeless—the first dream of love:
Nor shall that long be wanting;—while we gaze,
The scene is changed;—they wander side by side,
Each with a beauteous girl—one ample brow'd
And eagle-eyed—the other light of heart
And simple-minded;—let them dream their dream,
Their short-lived dream of passion, while it lasts:
For theirs, in very deed, is but dream-love:
Not of the heart and will, but of the brain;
—Fantastic, fleeting, which shall pass away
Ere long, and leave the spirit all unchanged,
The fountains of affection undisturb'd,
And fresh as ever:—let them dream their dream,
Till dawn dispel the illusion:—Nobler love
Awaits them, when the fancies and wild freaks
Of youth shall have been tamed by the approach
Of sober manhood, and connubial bliss—
Calm, deep, contented, with life's daily toil
And duty intermix'd—shall put to flight
Those phantoms of unripe and restless thought;
For each, amidst the tumult and turmoil
Of worldly and unworldly cares and aims,
Erecting a sure refuge, housed wherein
The heart may take its rest, and gather strength
To bear its daily burden, and fulfil,
As best it may, the daily task imposed
By love divine on Man, that he, on Earth,
May win the crown which he shall wear in Heaven.
The towers and courts of Granta disappear
With all that they contain—and lo, instead,
Green trees, and spacious lawns, and shrubbery-walks
Umbrageous, amidst which is dimly seen
A shelter'd dwelling, with thick-clustering vine
And intermingled ivy overgrown.
In front, not two miles off, majestic spires
Shoot up their tapering outline;—on the left
A castle frowns, with massive towers antique
Cresting a gentle eminence;—hard by
The Severn, scarce yet navigable, rolls
Its waters—and blue undulating hills
Sweep round the dim horizon.—'Tis a scene
On which a poet's eye may rest well pleased;
Nor lacks it such inspection.—From yon house
Even now two youthful brethren of the lyre
432
From toil (if toil it be to court the Muse,)
Refresh their sense of beauty on that rich
And boldly varied landscape.—We have met
That pair before;—what do they in this land?—
In truth they do but little—though withdrawn
Awhile from academic conflicts dire
To this, the calm sequester'd home of one,
With high intent and purpose to devote
The livelong summer to sublime pursuit
Of science mathematical.—And now
In separate, though adjacent, rooms immured,
Each on his own peculiar task intent,
They commune with Mathesis.—Is it so?
Then hath she brought her geometric craft
To marvellous perfection—hath contrived
To measure worlds that spread beyond all space;—
Hath spann'd Imagination's boundless realm,
And ascertain'd the laws, impell'd by which
Creative thought explores its wondrous way
Even to the Heaven of Heavens.—In those two rooms
Two worlds are now contain'd—two phantom worlds,
Diverse in kind and excellence, but each
A world of beauty,—each a pleasant home
For him whose fancy framed it, (like the web
Spun by the silk-worm,) to protect and house
His spirit from the pressure of the world.
High is the theme of one;—in burning strains
He sings ideal Beauty, to his soul
Reveal'd in trance-like vision;—her he seeks,
In passionate wild flight, through all the realms
Of earth, and air, and sea—and, having found,
Leads her through fairy palaces—prepares
A home, and spreads a couch for her, amidst
The pathless clouds, beneath the green sea waves,
In woody vales, and deep secluded glens—
Infusing still into her heart of hearts
The strong enchantment of his dreamy love.
The other, less ambitious, and endued
433
Hath, from the beaming regions of the East
Stolen a wild-hearted Fay, with whom, at will,
He wanders through the world from night to morn,
And in her mischievous and magic feats
Finds infinite amusement;—yet his song,
Now gay, and now sarcastic—now in bursts
Of broad rough humour recklessly let loose—
Prefers to linger in the quiet haunts
Of peace and love domestic—knows no world,
In all Imagination's universe,
So blessed as a bright and blazing hearth
Surrounded by glad faces:—joyously
Those two, careering on the wings of song,
Pursue their several paths, from time to time
Relaxing their swift flight, to interchange
Encouragement and counsel, each with each.
Nor lack they recreation, such as soothes
The brain o'erwrought with toil, or by the throng
Of fancies multitudinous inflamed
To over-much excitement—gentle looks
And voices, and the pleasant intercourse
Of brothers and of sisters, shelter'd still
Beneath that roof parental, and the joy
Sedate, although expectant, calm, yet deep,
Of plighted lovers, at the altar soon
To seal their mutual vows:—what lack they more?
—That, without which, even Poesy and youth
Are cold and lifeless—the first dream of love:
Nor shall that long be wanting;—while we gaze,
The scene is changed;—they wander side by side,
Each with a beauteous girl—one ample brow'd
And eagle-eyed—the other light of heart
And simple-minded;—let them dream their dream,
Their short-lived dream of passion, while it lasts:
For theirs, in very deed, is but dream-love:
Not of the heart and will, but of the brain;
—Fantastic, fleeting, which shall pass away
Ere long, and leave the spirit all unchanged,
434
And fresh as ever:—let them dream their dream,
Till dawn dispel the illusion:—Nobler love
Awaits them, when the fancies and wild freaks
Of youth shall have been tamed by the approach
Of sober manhood, and connubial bliss—
Calm, deep, contented, with life's daily toil
And duty intermix'd—shall put to flight
Those phantoms of unripe and restless thought;
For each, amidst the tumult and turmoil
Of worldly and unworldly cares and aims,
Erecting a sure refuge, housed wherein
The heart may take its rest, and gather strength
To bear its daily burden, and fulfil,
As best it may, the daily task imposed
By love divine on Man, that he, on Earth,
May win the crown which he shall wear in Heaven.
435
BOOK IV. MANHOOD.
INSCRIBED TO MY WIFE.
“At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.”
Wordsworth.
And fade into the light of common day.”
Wordsworth.
437
It is a shameless thing, when poets chaunt
The praises of their wives!—so some aver,
Whose judgment I dispute not—rather own
My full assent, albeit in this respect
Myself an old offender.—Hymen's bonds,
And that most deep contentment of chaste love
Within their magic links enclosed and bound,
Are holier things than that a man should sport
With them, as with the gay fantastic gawds
Of wanton gallantry, or to the gaze
Of public curiosity, with rude
And reckless hand, unveil them.—The whole world
Hath scarce a coarser spectacle to show,
Than your fond, foolish, amorous wedded pair
Betraying to all eyes, by act and look,
The giddy transports of their honeymoon!
From such may we for ever dwell apart,
Bride of my youth, and now, in middle age,
Ten thousand-fold beyond a bride beloved,—
My own true-hearted wife!—no sympathy,
And slender toleration can we yield
To such transgressors of love's holy laws,
To such profaners of pure Hymen's bliss.
Yet, not the less, must I inscribe to thee
This portion of my song, design'd to tell
Of manhood's sober cares and temperate joys,
Its sorrows, and their solaces;—for thou
Art still the centre around which revolve
My earthly hopes and fears—to which converge
My yearnings and affections:—there is nought
Within the compass of my daily life,
But takes, in part, its character and form
From thy pervading influence;—nor now
Is this a bridegroom's fondness;—sixteen years
Have spent their noiseless flight since, each to each,
We pledged our nuptial faith.—Our eldest boy
Hath almost reach'd his teens, which were, in thee,
Still incomplete, when thou becam'st a wife;
And, in the full meridian of Life's day,
A staid and sober pair, we now look back
To the gay freaks and follies of our youth,
And forward to the late decline of years,
As worlds which have been and which are to be—
Diverse alike in form from that which is:—
The first remote and dwindling, day by day,
In the still lengthening retrospect—the last
Just looming through the mists of unknown Time,
And daily seen less distant, less unlike
The swiftly changing Present. Years have laid
A gentle hand on thee;—not I alone,
But all who knew thee in the days long past,
Still recognize, unchanged in face or form,
The bride of gay nineteen:—scarce, here and there,
Amidst the clusters of thy raven curls,
Close-peering eyes may trace a silver streak
Threading their ebon gloss;—thy full dark eye
Is yet undimm'd and lustrous, and thy form
Sylphlike, as when the brisk and tingling-blood
Of eighteen summers coursed along thy veins,
And thou, amidst our graver English girls,
In pride and strength of Scottish art elate,
Wast foremost in the dance.—In ruder sort,
Yet not ungently, Time hath dealt with me—
Working perchance but little outward change,
For I, since earliest youth, have look'd so old,
I scarce look older now;—but, as my years
Cross their meridian, I discern and feel
The wane of life within:—the reckless strength
And confidence of health, which knew no change,
Are gone for ever:—Death appears no more
A dim and distant phantom—nor this world,
With all its charms for ear, and eye, and heart,
The permanent abode which once it seem'd.
My old acquaintance, Asthma, pays me still
His annual visit—but not now alone;—
With him his daughter, pale Dyspepsia, comes,
And shows me, in her train, approaching fast,
Gout and his grimmer brother, her twin sons
More hideous than their parent!—It may be
That thou, ere long, wilt have to nurse and tend
With all the patience of thy Woman's love,
A fractious invalid;—and thou wilt do
That office nobly, though with small return
Of gratitude, perchance, from thy self-will'd
And all too froward charge.—But we will not
Anticipate, in thought, impending ills:
Rather, while health suffices, let me seize
And fix, if that may be, the form and hue
Of this existing Present, which, ere long,
Must swell the increasing Past, and be, with it,
From memory's page erased, unless the Muse
Shall, in ambrosial song, embalm it now,
And cause it to become, to me and mine,
An heritage for ever.
The praises of their wives!—so some aver,
Whose judgment I dispute not—rather own
My full assent, albeit in this respect
Myself an old offender.—Hymen's bonds,
And that most deep contentment of chaste love
Within their magic links enclosed and bound,
Are holier things than that a man should sport
With them, as with the gay fantastic gawds
Of wanton gallantry, or to the gaze
Of public curiosity, with rude
And reckless hand, unveil them.—The whole world
Hath scarce a coarser spectacle to show,
Than your fond, foolish, amorous wedded pair
Betraying to all eyes, by act and look,
The giddy transports of their honeymoon!
From such may we for ever dwell apart,
Bride of my youth, and now, in middle age,
Ten thousand-fold beyond a bride beloved,—
My own true-hearted wife!—no sympathy,
And slender toleration can we yield
To such transgressors of love's holy laws,
438
Yet, not the less, must I inscribe to thee
This portion of my song, design'd to tell
Of manhood's sober cares and temperate joys,
Its sorrows, and their solaces;—for thou
Art still the centre around which revolve
My earthly hopes and fears—to which converge
My yearnings and affections:—there is nought
Within the compass of my daily life,
But takes, in part, its character and form
From thy pervading influence;—nor now
Is this a bridegroom's fondness;—sixteen years
Have spent their noiseless flight since, each to each,
We pledged our nuptial faith.—Our eldest boy
Hath almost reach'd his teens, which were, in thee,
Still incomplete, when thou becam'st a wife;
And, in the full meridian of Life's day,
A staid and sober pair, we now look back
To the gay freaks and follies of our youth,
And forward to the late decline of years,
As worlds which have been and which are to be—
Diverse alike in form from that which is:—
The first remote and dwindling, day by day,
In the still lengthening retrospect—the last
Just looming through the mists of unknown Time,
And daily seen less distant, less unlike
The swiftly changing Present. Years have laid
A gentle hand on thee;—not I alone,
But all who knew thee in the days long past,
Still recognize, unchanged in face or form,
The bride of gay nineteen:—scarce, here and there,
Amidst the clusters of thy raven curls,
Close-peering eyes may trace a silver streak
Threading their ebon gloss;—thy full dark eye
Is yet undimm'd and lustrous, and thy form
Sylphlike, as when the brisk and tingling-blood
Of eighteen summers coursed along thy veins,
And thou, amidst our graver English girls,
In pride and strength of Scottish art elate,
439
Yet not ungently, Time hath dealt with me—
Working perchance but little outward change,
For I, since earliest youth, have look'd so old,
I scarce look older now;—but, as my years
Cross their meridian, I discern and feel
The wane of life within:—the reckless strength
And confidence of health, which knew no change,
Are gone for ever:—Death appears no more
A dim and distant phantom—nor this world,
With all its charms for ear, and eye, and heart,
The permanent abode which once it seem'd.
My old acquaintance, Asthma, pays me still
His annual visit—but not now alone;—
With him his daughter, pale Dyspepsia, comes,
And shows me, in her train, approaching fast,
Gout and his grimmer brother, her twin sons
More hideous than their parent!—It may be
That thou, ere long, wilt have to nurse and tend
With all the patience of thy Woman's love,
A fractious invalid;—and thou wilt do
That office nobly, though with small return
Of gratitude, perchance, from thy self-will'd
And all too froward charge.—But we will not
Anticipate, in thought, impending ills:
Rather, while health suffices, let me seize
And fix, if that may be, the form and hue
Of this existing Present, which, ere long,
Must swell the increasing Past, and be, with it,
From memory's page erased, unless the Muse
Shall, in ambrosial song, embalm it now,
And cause it to become, to me and mine,
An heritage for ever.
I described,
Of late, how poets, in their lusty youth,
Sport with the world of Phantasy;—such sport
In me was past its height, and had begun
To sadden into toil and daily care,
And all the unblest anxieties of life,
When thou and I first met:—young love's first dream
(A dream indeed, unreal, shadowy, brief,)
Was done and ended—and my heart, so far,
Not much the worse for wear:—a heavier blow
Had done it deeper mischief;—Friendship's bonds,
Holy and pure as e'er bound heart to heart,
Had, in the rash and headstrong war of thought—
The conflict of opinions, old and new,—
Been snapp'd, as seem'd, for ever.—I had lost
A mistress, and a friend—and in the void
Of objectless affection, sought in vain
For sympathy and solace—yet even then
Was not forsaken wholly:—I had kept,
Though not unscathed, the faith and hope in which
I had been nurtured, and although not yet,
By ordination and its solemn vows,
Expressly set apart to be a priest
And steward of the mysteries of Christ,
Was storing knowledge, and, with studious thought,
Preparing to devote my after life
To that high office;—Youth, and youth's wild dreams,
Gorgeous and gloomy, sorrowful and gay,
Were fading in the clear and sober light
Of ripening manhood, and the world become
A working place for me.—Then 'twas that thou
Didst rise, a prosperous star, upon my path,
Discern'd at once among the sparkling throng
Of more ignoble fires—discern'd and loved,
And by the Muse's aid (who never yet
Did bard more blessed service) woo'd and won.
Not smooth, nor altogether unbeset
By trouble or perplexity, to us
Was true love's course;—we shared the common lot
Of such as deem that life is more than meat,
The body more than raiment, and the mind,
With its inborn capacities of bliss,
Than all the wealth of this world.—Yet, in truth,
Our conflict with adversity was short,
Though stubborn while it lasted—and, that done,
Sweet were the days of courtship,—fair the haunts
Through which we wander'd, a wild-hearted pair,
Framing our pleasant plans of future life,
Its duties and employments. O'er our heads,
The forest oaks of Windsor interlaced
Their dark umbrageous branches, as we roam'd
Through many a brake and dell and bosky bourn,
Arm link'd in arm,—or, on our gallant steeds,
With fleet and fearless gallop, plunged amain
Into the forest's heart.—Along the marge
Of that majestic river, dear to me
From boyhood, as to thee romantic Doon—
Through Datchet's fabled mead—beyond that grey
And ivy-mantled tower, sole relic left
Of what was Upton Church—across the lane
Misnamed of cut-throats,—o'er that well-known stile
Where first our faith was pledged, (supplanted since
By a trim upstart lodge)—thence through the fields
Of Eton, with remembrances intense
Of early joy and sorrow in my heart
Indissolubly link'd,—we roam'd and roam'd;
While thou, with patient ear, to many a tale
Of boyhood, by those well-known scenes recall'd,
Didst listen, and in turn, with earnest speech,
Discourse of all that thou hadst known and loved
In thy own mountain land. So pass'd the months—
The pleasant months of courtship, till, at length,
The Day of days arrived, for many a year
With fond anticipation imaged forth
To Hope's keen earnest gaze—Life's crowning day,
The blest fulfilment of the purest dreams
On which young Fancy feeds.—Without a cloud,
Calm, clear, serene, the summer's loveliest child,
(A summer such as England seldom knows,)
It rose, and shone, and set!—Before the lark
I left the lonely couch of my unrest,
And to the river's bank, as I was wont,
But in far other than my wonted mood,
Directed my wild steps:—the clear cold stream
Received me in its bosom, cooling thus
The fever of my own;—with practised arms
I clave the waters, and from shore to shore
Cross'd and recross'd,—now striving with the stream,
Which mock'd and overbore my puny strength,—
Now floating down its current,—now supine
On the smooth surface of some tranquil pool,
With face upturn'd to the blue, cloudless sky,
Lay gazing on its beauty, and inhaled
The freshness and the fragrance of the morn
From air, and earth, and water,—to myself
Repeating oft “It is my wedding day!—
No dream, but a reality!” And now
The hour was come;—before the altar-rails
We two stood side by side;—the solemn vows
Were utter'd,—and I wonder'd, while we knelt,
That I should feel so calm!—The wedding peal
Rang briskly out,—around the well-spread board
The wedding guests assembled,—all due rites
Were decently perform'd,—and, ere 'twas noon,
(Friends, kinsfolk, feasters, bridemaids, thy old home
And all who dwelt within it left behind)
We were alone, and with our faces set
Toward Cambria's mountain region.—Till 'twas eve,
Conversing in such sort as lovers use,
We journey'd;—then above the horizon rose
The towers of Oxford—spire and pinnacle,
And stately dome, and cupola, relieved
In outline clear against the cloudless sky
With sunset tints suffused.
Of late, how poets, in their lusty youth,
Sport with the world of Phantasy;—such sport
In me was past its height, and had begun
To sadden into toil and daily care,
And all the unblest anxieties of life,
440
(A dream indeed, unreal, shadowy, brief,)
Was done and ended—and my heart, so far,
Not much the worse for wear:—a heavier blow
Had done it deeper mischief;—Friendship's bonds,
Holy and pure as e'er bound heart to heart,
Had, in the rash and headstrong war of thought—
The conflict of opinions, old and new,—
Been snapp'd, as seem'd, for ever.—I had lost
A mistress, and a friend—and in the void
Of objectless affection, sought in vain
For sympathy and solace—yet even then
Was not forsaken wholly:—I had kept,
Though not unscathed, the faith and hope in which
I had been nurtured, and although not yet,
By ordination and its solemn vows,
Expressly set apart to be a priest
And steward of the mysteries of Christ,
Was storing knowledge, and, with studious thought,
Preparing to devote my after life
To that high office;—Youth, and youth's wild dreams,
Gorgeous and gloomy, sorrowful and gay,
Were fading in the clear and sober light
Of ripening manhood, and the world become
A working place for me.—Then 'twas that thou
Didst rise, a prosperous star, upon my path,
Discern'd at once among the sparkling throng
Of more ignoble fires—discern'd and loved,
And by the Muse's aid (who never yet
Did bard more blessed service) woo'd and won.
Not smooth, nor altogether unbeset
By trouble or perplexity, to us
Was true love's course;—we shared the common lot
Of such as deem that life is more than meat,
The body more than raiment, and the mind,
With its inborn capacities of bliss,
Than all the wealth of this world.—Yet, in truth,
Our conflict with adversity was short,
Though stubborn while it lasted—and, that done,
441
Through which we wander'd, a wild-hearted pair,
Framing our pleasant plans of future life,
Its duties and employments. O'er our heads,
The forest oaks of Windsor interlaced
Their dark umbrageous branches, as we roam'd
Through many a brake and dell and bosky bourn,
Arm link'd in arm,—or, on our gallant steeds,
With fleet and fearless gallop, plunged amain
Into the forest's heart.—Along the marge
Of that majestic river, dear to me
From boyhood, as to thee romantic Doon—
Through Datchet's fabled mead—beyond that grey
And ivy-mantled tower, sole relic left
Of what was Upton Church—across the lane
Misnamed of cut-throats,—o'er that well-known stile
Where first our faith was pledged, (supplanted since
By a trim upstart lodge)—thence through the fields
Of Eton, with remembrances intense
Of early joy and sorrow in my heart
Indissolubly link'd,—we roam'd and roam'd;
While thou, with patient ear, to many a tale
Of boyhood, by those well-known scenes recall'd,
Didst listen, and in turn, with earnest speech,
Discourse of all that thou hadst known and loved
In thy own mountain land. So pass'd the months—
The pleasant months of courtship, till, at length,
The Day of days arrived, for many a year
With fond anticipation imaged forth
To Hope's keen earnest gaze—Life's crowning day,
The blest fulfilment of the purest dreams
On which young Fancy feeds.—Without a cloud,
Calm, clear, serene, the summer's loveliest child,
(A summer such as England seldom knows,)
It rose, and shone, and set!—Before the lark
I left the lonely couch of my unrest,
And to the river's bank, as I was wont,
But in far other than my wonted mood,
Directed my wild steps:—the clear cold stream
442
The fever of my own;—with practised arms
I clave the waters, and from shore to shore
Cross'd and recross'd,—now striving with the stream,
Which mock'd and overbore my puny strength,—
Now floating down its current,—now supine
On the smooth surface of some tranquil pool,
With face upturn'd to the blue, cloudless sky,
Lay gazing on its beauty, and inhaled
The freshness and the fragrance of the morn
From air, and earth, and water,—to myself
Repeating oft “It is my wedding day!—
No dream, but a reality!” And now
The hour was come;—before the altar-rails
We two stood side by side;—the solemn vows
Were utter'd,—and I wonder'd, while we knelt,
That I should feel so calm!—The wedding peal
Rang briskly out,—around the well-spread board
The wedding guests assembled,—all due rites
Were decently perform'd,—and, ere 'twas noon,
(Friends, kinsfolk, feasters, bridemaids, thy old home
And all who dwelt within it left behind)
We were alone, and with our faces set
Toward Cambria's mountain region.—Till 'twas eve,
Conversing in such sort as lovers use,
We journey'd;—then above the horizon rose
The towers of Oxford—spire and pinnacle,
And stately dome, and cupola, relieved
In outline clear against the cloudless sky
With sunset tints suffused.
—Our hasty meal
Dispatch'd—till twilight faded into night,
We roam'd amidst those silent palaces:—
Through broad and spacious courts, deserted then,
Nor echoing to the students' sober tread,
Nor (as sometimes) by bacchanalian roar
Of revellers profaned—through long arcades,
And many a pillar'd aisle, and cloister dim,
We stroll'd, and mark'd the moonbeams, as they stole
Through gorgeous panes of stain'd and storied glass,
Gild the rich fretted roofs and marble floors
Of those time-hallow'd temples.—On our hearts
The spirit of the place descended, calm
And solemn, and the day which rose in smiles
Accordant to our sunbright morn of hope
And hymeneal gladness, closed at last
(Meet emblem of a Christian life's decline)
In contemplations tranquil and serene,
Of life, of death, and of eternity.
Dispatch'd—till twilight faded into night,
We roam'd amidst those silent palaces:—
Through broad and spacious courts, deserted then,
Nor echoing to the students' sober tread,
Nor (as sometimes) by bacchanalian roar
Of revellers profaned—through long arcades,
And many a pillar'd aisle, and cloister dim,
We stroll'd, and mark'd the moonbeams, as they stole
443
Gild the rich fretted roofs and marble floors
Of those time-hallow'd temples.—On our hearts
The spirit of the place descended, calm
And solemn, and the day which rose in smiles
Accordant to our sunbright morn of hope
And hymeneal gladness, closed at last
(Meet emblem of a Christian life's decline)
In contemplations tranquil and serene,
Of life, of death, and of eternity.
And we were wedded !—and life's young romance
Henceforth to fade away and be dissolved
In the clear daylight of reality!
Yet, for the space of some three years, or more,
The vision seem'd to tarry:—household cares
So long we knew not, nor the pleasant sound
Of children's voices, nor had yet commenced
Those pastoral duties, amidst which hath past,
Since then, the prime of life:—my daily task
Employ'd, but not oppress'd me, nor engross'd
So large a space of time but more remain'd
For pleasant studies and amusements, such
As we might share together:—Life was still
Almost a constant holiday to us;
And when the waning summer set us free
Even from that gentle yoke which gall'd us not,
With what exultant eagerness we broke
Our bondage, and, uncheck'd by nursery ties,
Shaped our swift flight, as fancy might direct,
Or old affection urge—now skimm'd the lakes
And climb'd the mountains of thy native land;
Now, on green Devon's slopes, forgot the ways
Of artificial life, and grew adepts
At old Arcadian usages; and now
In deep Salopian vales, amidst the homes
And habitations of my kindred, shared
Familiar joys, feeding our gaze meanwhile
On nature's richest beauty!—Dreamlike still,—
A trance Elysian,—was our Dream of Life.
Henceforth to fade away and be dissolved
In the clear daylight of reality!
Yet, for the space of some three years, or more,
The vision seem'd to tarry:—household cares
So long we knew not, nor the pleasant sound
Of children's voices, nor had yet commenced
Those pastoral duties, amidst which hath past,
Since then, the prime of life:—my daily task
Employ'd, but not oppress'd me, nor engross'd
So large a space of time but more remain'd
For pleasant studies and amusements, such
As we might share together:—Life was still
Almost a constant holiday to us;
And when the waning summer set us free
Even from that gentle yoke which gall'd us not,
With what exultant eagerness we broke
Our bondage, and, uncheck'd by nursery ties,
Shaped our swift flight, as fancy might direct,
Or old affection urge—now skimm'd the lakes
And climb'd the mountains of thy native land;
Now, on green Devon's slopes, forgot the ways
Of artificial life, and grew adepts
At old Arcadian usages; and now
In deep Salopian vales, amidst the homes
And habitations of my kindred, shared
Familiar joys, feeding our gaze meanwhile
On nature's richest beauty!—Dreamlike still,—
A trance Elysian,—was our Dream of Life.
444
It is not good that years should pass away
Unburden'd by the weight of care and toil
Which is Man's lot and portion here on Earth.
Those years—I mourn them not—nor wish them back,
Though pleasant in the retrospect—unlike
(O how unlike!) the round of varied tasks,
And duties which employ my noon of life!—
The daily load of ministerial care,—
The parent's anxious toil of head and heart,—
The ceaseless stir and tumult of the world!—
It is by these that men must live—in these
Our Father's spirit breathes. No easier lot
I covet,—only ask for heartier zeal,
And strength according to my need, and faith
Working by love, to do and to endure
Whatever Heaven may will, till the day close,
And the night come wherein no man can work.
Unburden'd by the weight of care and toil
Which is Man's lot and portion here on Earth.
Those years—I mourn them not—nor wish them back,
Though pleasant in the retrospect—unlike
(O how unlike!) the round of varied tasks,
And duties which employ my noon of life!—
The daily load of ministerial care,—
The parent's anxious toil of head and heart,—
The ceaseless stir and tumult of the world!—
It is by these that men must live—in these
Our Father's spirit breathes. No easier lot
I covet,—only ask for heartier zeal,
And strength according to my need, and faith
Working by love, to do and to endure
Whatever Heaven may will, till the day close,
And the night come wherein no man can work.
There is a little town,
within short space
Of England's central point, of various brick
Irregularly built, nor much adorn'd
By architectural craft—save that, indeed,
As you approach it from the south, a pile
Of questionable Gothic lifts its head
With somewhat of a grave collegiate air,
Not unbefitting what, in truth, it is,—
A seat of academic discipline
And classic education:—at its base
Stretches a broad expanse of verdant turf
With stately trees bestudded—the resort
Of schoolboys from their studious toil released,
And bent on sport athletic:—but for this,
The place might pass unnoticed—to speak truth,
As insignificant a market-town
As may be seen in England. Far around
Extends a pastoral glade, to numerous herds
Yielding abundant herbage, but ungraced
By much of rural beauty—featureless,
And to the poet's and the painter's eye
Alike insipid ;—a wide, weary tract
Of hedgerow upon hedgerow.—Rock nor hill,—
Nor graceful undulation here is seen;
The very stream which waters the fat meads
(Shaksperian Avon) hath not yet attain'd
The breadth and beauty of his later course,
But winds between his flat and reedy banks,
A thin, meandering, melancholy thread
Of slow, dull, slimy water:—the sole charms
Of which, with truth, the unvaried landscape boasts,
Are verdure and fertility:—the grass
Grows freshly, and the hedgerow trees present
Masses of summer foliage, with rich tints
Diversified in Autumn:—there is nought
To seek or shun, to hate or fondly love,
For miles and miles around! Amidst such scenes,
The lines are fallen to me ;—amidst such scenes
I own a goodly heritage—content,
In the fulfilment of allotted tasks,
Here, if Heaven will, to live, and here to die.
Of England's central point, of various brick
Irregularly built, nor much adorn'd
By architectural craft—save that, indeed,
As you approach it from the south, a pile
Of questionable Gothic lifts its head
With somewhat of a grave collegiate air,
Not unbefitting what, in truth, it is,—
A seat of academic discipline
And classic education:—at its base
Stretches a broad expanse of verdant turf
With stately trees bestudded—the resort
Of schoolboys from their studious toil released,
And bent on sport athletic:—but for this,
The place might pass unnoticed—to speak truth,
As insignificant a market-town
As may be seen in England. Far around
Extends a pastoral glade, to numerous herds
Yielding abundant herbage, but ungraced
By much of rural beauty—featureless,
445
Alike insipid ;—a wide, weary tract
Of hedgerow upon hedgerow.—Rock nor hill,—
Nor graceful undulation here is seen;
The very stream which waters the fat meads
(Shaksperian Avon) hath not yet attain'd
The breadth and beauty of his later course,
But winds between his flat and reedy banks,
A thin, meandering, melancholy thread
Of slow, dull, slimy water:—the sole charms
Of which, with truth, the unvaried landscape boasts,
Are verdure and fertility:—the grass
Grows freshly, and the hedgerow trees present
Masses of summer foliage, with rich tints
Diversified in Autumn:—there is nought
To seek or shun, to hate or fondly love,
For miles and miles around! Amidst such scenes,
The lines are fallen to me ;—amidst such scenes
I own a goodly heritage—content,
In the fulfilment of allotted tasks,
Here, if Heaven will, to live, and here to die.
Strange to the youthful minister of Christ,
Yet not unmixt with pleasure, is the awe
And anxious curiosity with which
He first approaches his appointed sphere
Of pastoral duty—first inspects the fold
Of which he is the shepherd, and looks round
On faces which henceforth he is to know
In joy and grief, in sickness and in health,
Through many a chance and change of mortal life,
In many a close relation; he meanwhile—
(Though haply versed in theologic lore)—
Unpractised, inexperienced in the ways
Of Man's mysterious heart,—unused to guide,
To comfort, to reprove, exhort, convince,
Or do the thousand offices of love
And Christian wisdom at his hands required,
And pressing on his heart. With what keen sense
Of high responsibilities, incurr'd
By weakness (then, if ever, deeply felt,)
He first ascends the pulpit !—first surveys
The motley congregation closely pack'd,
And all intent, with curious eye and ear,
To see, hear, criticise—some few to learn
And welcome, with devout and docile hearts,
Him, their commission'd teacher! In their homes,
And by their hospitable hearths, for him
With festal fires ablaze,—at social board,
Or cheerful tea-table, whence fairest hands
Dispense the nectarous fluid, to his taste
With nicest art adapted—each new face
Arrests his anxious eye; each voice conveys
To his awaken'd and attentive ear
Some token, faint perchance, of fear or hope,
Of comfort or discouragement.—To whom,
Among these cordial guests, in years to come,
Shall he resort for counsel? Which shall aid,
With sympathy and solace pure and true,
His ministerial toil—and which oppose,
Impede, embarrass,—sometimes haply mar
His all too feeble efforts to promote
The welfare of his flock?—Which shall be found
His friend, and which his enemy?—With whom,
At intervals of rest from pastoral care,
Shall he take pleasant counsel, and converse
On subjects which unbend, but not unnerve
The else o'er-labour'd mind?—Such thoughts, perchance,
Flit swiftly thro' his brain:—Meanwhile he knows
Himself the mark of scrutinizing eyes,
And curious observation:—apt remarks
Are ventured—subtle questions ask'd, to probe
And fathom his opinions:—“Is he Whig
In Politics, or Tory?—Orthodox
In creed, or Evangelical?—What sect
Within the Church,—what party in the State,
Minutely in the parish imaged forth,
Shall find him its ally?—Will he adhere
To old establish'd customs, and uphold
The right prescriptive of a parish priest
To hunt, and shoot, and fish, and be the first
In all convivial revels?—strong at whist,
And matchless at back-gammon?—or, imbued
With puritanic scruples, will he shun
The world and all its pleasures—in their stead
Frequenting the resort of serious folk,
Committee-rooms and platforms—where the stage
And its profane excitements are eclipsed
(As some aver) by oratoric feats
Of reverend men, who spurn alike the rules
Of grammar and the Church, and, in glib phrase,
Clip the Queen's English,—worthily repaid
For such achievements by the breath and bruit
Of popular applause?—Or will he prove
A stern ascetic, in Tractarian lore
Profoundly versed, entangling simple souls
In bonds from which the Gospel sets them free—
Enjoining strict observance of the round
Of festivals and fasts and daily prayers,
And inconvenient alms-deeds,—apt himself
To fast and watch and mortify the flesh
With superstitious rigour,—teaching much
By precept and example, against which
We must perforce contend?”—With such profound
And profitable queries, others mix
Less abstract speculations—“Is he one
Accessible as yet to Beauty's charms?—
A prize to be contested by the skill
Of mothers and their daughters?—the church glebe
Is rich and ample, and the Parsonage
(Judiciously enlarged) might well be made
A comfortable mansion.”—Cease, fair dames,
Such musings, which the invulnerable man
With grim, sly smiles suspects.—In distant bowers,
The lady of his love already twines
Her nuptial wreath, and, ere six months have flown,
The bells from yon grey tower, with deafening peal,
Shall blithely welcome to their destined home
The Rector and his Bride.
Yet not unmixt with pleasure, is the awe
And anxious curiosity with which
He first approaches his appointed sphere
Of pastoral duty—first inspects the fold
Of which he is the shepherd, and looks round
On faces which henceforth he is to know
In joy and grief, in sickness and in health,
Through many a chance and change of mortal life,
In many a close relation; he meanwhile—
(Though haply versed in theologic lore)—
Unpractised, inexperienced in the ways
Of Man's mysterious heart,—unused to guide,
To comfort, to reprove, exhort, convince,
Or do the thousand offices of love
And Christian wisdom at his hands required,
And pressing on his heart. With what keen sense
Of high responsibilities, incurr'd
446
He first ascends the pulpit !—first surveys
The motley congregation closely pack'd,
And all intent, with curious eye and ear,
To see, hear, criticise—some few to learn
And welcome, with devout and docile hearts,
Him, their commission'd teacher! In their homes,
And by their hospitable hearths, for him
With festal fires ablaze,—at social board,
Or cheerful tea-table, whence fairest hands
Dispense the nectarous fluid, to his taste
With nicest art adapted—each new face
Arrests his anxious eye; each voice conveys
To his awaken'd and attentive ear
Some token, faint perchance, of fear or hope,
Of comfort or discouragement.—To whom,
Among these cordial guests, in years to come,
Shall he resort for counsel? Which shall aid,
With sympathy and solace pure and true,
His ministerial toil—and which oppose,
Impede, embarrass,—sometimes haply mar
His all too feeble efforts to promote
The welfare of his flock?—Which shall be found
His friend, and which his enemy?—With whom,
At intervals of rest from pastoral care,
Shall he take pleasant counsel, and converse
On subjects which unbend, but not unnerve
The else o'er-labour'd mind?—Such thoughts, perchance,
Flit swiftly thro' his brain:—Meanwhile he knows
Himself the mark of scrutinizing eyes,
And curious observation:—apt remarks
Are ventured—subtle questions ask'd, to probe
And fathom his opinions:—“Is he Whig
In Politics, or Tory?—Orthodox
In creed, or Evangelical?—What sect
Within the Church,—what party in the State,
Minutely in the parish imaged forth,
Shall find him its ally?—Will he adhere
To old establish'd customs, and uphold
447
To hunt, and shoot, and fish, and be the first
In all convivial revels?—strong at whist,
And matchless at back-gammon?—or, imbued
With puritanic scruples, will he shun
The world and all its pleasures—in their stead
Frequenting the resort of serious folk,
Committee-rooms and platforms—where the stage
And its profane excitements are eclipsed
(As some aver) by oratoric feats
Of reverend men, who spurn alike the rules
Of grammar and the Church, and, in glib phrase,
Clip the Queen's English,—worthily repaid
For such achievements by the breath and bruit
Of popular applause?—Or will he prove
A stern ascetic, in Tractarian lore
Profoundly versed, entangling simple souls
In bonds from which the Gospel sets them free—
Enjoining strict observance of the round
Of festivals and fasts and daily prayers,
And inconvenient alms-deeds,—apt himself
To fast and watch and mortify the flesh
With superstitious rigour,—teaching much
By precept and example, against which
We must perforce contend?”—With such profound
And profitable queries, others mix
Less abstract speculations—“Is he one
Accessible as yet to Beauty's charms?—
A prize to be contested by the skill
Of mothers and their daughters?—the church glebe
Is rich and ample, and the Parsonage
(Judiciously enlarged) might well be made
A comfortable mansion.”—Cease, fair dames,
Such musings, which the invulnerable man
With grim, sly smiles suspects.—In distant bowers,
The lady of his love already twines
Her nuptial wreath, and, ere six months have flown,
The bells from yon grey tower, with deafening peal,
Shall blithely welcome to their destined home
448
It ill beseems
The poet—him especially whose crown
Of laurel must surmount the sober garb
For reverend clerks appointed—to select,
Amidst the present scenes of actual life,
The subjects of his song. This week-day world—
Its cares—its toils—its sharp anxieties—
The friends and foes of living flesh and blood,
With whom we sympathise and strive by turns—
These to Reality's dull realm belong,
And scarcely from that realm can be transferr'd
To Phantasy's domain, without neglect
Or partial violation of the laws
Of social life.—Such fault be far from me!
Not in the Present, but the dreamy Past,
And not among the Living, but the Dead—
The unforgotten tenants of the grave—
The men o'er whose infirmities and faults
Remembrance draws a veil of shadowy haze,
Which glorifies their virtues—among such
Would I once more, in retrospective thought,
Live over my young days of pastoral care,
And interweave with this historic song
Some faint reflection of departed worth
And excellence still honour'd, which perchance,
Not by surviving eyes unrecognized,
May to surviving hearts recall a train
Of pleasant recollections, nor incur
Reproach or censure—rather, let me hope,
Awaken kind and not unthankful thoughts
Tow'rd him who, if he could, would thus embalm,
In unguent mix'd of grave and sportive verse,
Their loved and lost on Earth.
The poet—him especially whose crown
Of laurel must surmount the sober garb
For reverend clerks appointed—to select,
Amidst the present scenes of actual life,
The subjects of his song. This week-day world—
Its cares—its toils—its sharp anxieties—
The friends and foes of living flesh and blood,
With whom we sympathise and strive by turns—
These to Reality's dull realm belong,
And scarcely from that realm can be transferr'd
To Phantasy's domain, without neglect
Or partial violation of the laws
Of social life.—Such fault be far from me!
Not in the Present, but the dreamy Past,
And not among the Living, but the Dead—
The unforgotten tenants of the grave—
The men o'er whose infirmities and faults
Remembrance draws a veil of shadowy haze,
Which glorifies their virtues—among such
Would I once more, in retrospective thought,
Live over my young days of pastoral care,
And interweave with this historic song
Some faint reflection of departed worth
And excellence still honour'd, which perchance,
Not by surviving eyes unrecognized,
May to surviving hearts recall a train
Of pleasant recollections, nor incur
Reproach or censure—rather, let me hope,
Awaken kind and not unthankful thoughts
Tow'rd him who, if he could, would thus embalm,
In unguent mix'd of grave and sportive verse,
Their loved and lost on Earth.
At the town's end
There is a neat and unpretending house,
Which you approach through a low wooden gate
Beneath an arch of laurel;—a small porch
Of trellis-work, with odorous jessamine
And most luxuriant clematis entwined,
Shelters the expectant visitor, whose knock
Is yet unanswer'd;—a bay window, fill'd
With flowering shrubs, on the left hand, admits
The late effulgence of the western Sun
To what, when first I knew it, long had been
The favourite room of one in many a heart
Still honour'd and remember'd—then my kind
And hospitable host. An aged man,
Already on the verge of full fourscore,
Was he, and, in his youth and middle age,
Had on the seas, beneath old England's flag,
Fought and commanded; but for many a year
(The toils and perils of the deep foregone)
Had led a quiet and secluded life
In that snug dwelling, by the general voice
Of friends and neighbours quaintly named, from him,
“The Admiralty.” Seldom hath a heart
So frank and simple dwelt within a frame
So burly and gigantic; lustier voice
Than his, on shipboard, never yet outroar'd
The thunder, or was heard above the din
Of battle:—he was, all in all, compact,
Heart, voice, soul, sinews, bulk;—colossal—vast,
As of the race of Anak,—yet, withal
As gentle as a lamb:—no kindlier smile
Than his e'er beam'd on childhood—(and, in truth,
He had his share of grandchildren;)—no brow
Was e'er unbent on Woman with more bland
And guileless show of love; and if his laugh
Was somewhat over-boisterous, and his jest
Couch'd in sea-phrase, and, like a seaman's speech,
Blunt and unpolish'd,—if fastidious ears
Might shrink from his sea-ditties, thunder'd forth
As though a broadside roar'd—the daintiest dame
Forgot such venial trespass in the sense
Of that inborn benignity which glow'd
And glisten'd in his look, and was diffused
Through his whole soul and spirit. Him all ranks
And classes loved and honour'd;—to his house
Gentle and simple, country squire and clown,
Scholar and tradesman, pedagogue and peer,
Each sure of his appropriate welcome, came.
The nobles of the land were not ashamed
To leave awhile their lordly palace halls,
And spend an hour beneath that humble roof
In pleased, familiar talk with the old man,
Who on his part received them with blunt phrase
Of unaffected courtesy;—the poor
Flock'd to him as their friend:—in grief and joy
He sympathized with all.—Two serving-maids,
Some twenty years his juniors,—one obese
And rubicund,—the other spare and lean,—
With a red-nosed, ill-manner'd serving-man,
Who rather ruled than served his easy lord,—
These form'd his household:—an asthmatic steed
Was, like his master, pension'd on half-pay,
Or rarely into active service call'd
From the near paddock. Such, for some few years
From the first date of my incumbency,
Continued his establishment, by laws
Most primitive and patriarchal ruled,
And unprofaned by aught of modish taste
Or over-costly luxury, though rich
In whatsoever to the incorrupt
And unsophisticated heart affords
Repose and satisfaction.—At the end
Of that brief time, with little outward change,
Or more decided symptom of decay,
After some days of sickness, meekly borne,
With calm expression of a Christian's hope
The old man fell asleep. Light lie the turf
On that stout heart, as simple and sincere,
As gentle and as brave as ever throbb'd
Beneath a sailor's bosom!—be his sleep
The sleep of Paradise, till the last trump
To resurrection and their final doom
Summon the awaken'd dead!
There is a neat and unpretending house,
449
Beneath an arch of laurel;—a small porch
Of trellis-work, with odorous jessamine
And most luxuriant clematis entwined,
Shelters the expectant visitor, whose knock
Is yet unanswer'd;—a bay window, fill'd
With flowering shrubs, on the left hand, admits
The late effulgence of the western Sun
To what, when first I knew it, long had been
The favourite room of one in many a heart
Still honour'd and remember'd—then my kind
And hospitable host. An aged man,
Already on the verge of full fourscore,
Was he, and, in his youth and middle age,
Had on the seas, beneath old England's flag,
Fought and commanded; but for many a year
(The toils and perils of the deep foregone)
Had led a quiet and secluded life
In that snug dwelling, by the general voice
Of friends and neighbours quaintly named, from him,
“The Admiralty.” Seldom hath a heart
So frank and simple dwelt within a frame
So burly and gigantic; lustier voice
Than his, on shipboard, never yet outroar'd
The thunder, or was heard above the din
Of battle:—he was, all in all, compact,
Heart, voice, soul, sinews, bulk;—colossal—vast,
As of the race of Anak,—yet, withal
As gentle as a lamb:—no kindlier smile
Than his e'er beam'd on childhood—(and, in truth,
He had his share of grandchildren;)—no brow
Was e'er unbent on Woman with more bland
And guileless show of love; and if his laugh
Was somewhat over-boisterous, and his jest
Couch'd in sea-phrase, and, like a seaman's speech,
Blunt and unpolish'd,—if fastidious ears
Might shrink from his sea-ditties, thunder'd forth
450
Forgot such venial trespass in the sense
Of that inborn benignity which glow'd
And glisten'd in his look, and was diffused
Through his whole soul and spirit. Him all ranks
And classes loved and honour'd;—to his house
Gentle and simple, country squire and clown,
Scholar and tradesman, pedagogue and peer,
Each sure of his appropriate welcome, came.
The nobles of the land were not ashamed
To leave awhile their lordly palace halls,
And spend an hour beneath that humble roof
In pleased, familiar talk with the old man,
Who on his part received them with blunt phrase
Of unaffected courtesy;—the poor
Flock'd to him as their friend:—in grief and joy
He sympathized with all.—Two serving-maids,
Some twenty years his juniors,—one obese
And rubicund,—the other spare and lean,—
With a red-nosed, ill-manner'd serving-man,
Who rather ruled than served his easy lord,—
These form'd his household:—an asthmatic steed
Was, like his master, pension'd on half-pay,
Or rarely into active service call'd
From the near paddock. Such, for some few years
From the first date of my incumbency,
Continued his establishment, by laws
Most primitive and patriarchal ruled,
And unprofaned by aught of modish taste
Or over-costly luxury, though rich
In whatsoever to the incorrupt
And unsophisticated heart affords
Repose and satisfaction.—At the end
Of that brief time, with little outward change,
Or more decided symptom of decay,
After some days of sickness, meekly borne,
With calm expression of a Christian's hope
The old man fell asleep. Light lie the turf
On that stout heart, as simple and sincere,
451
Beneath a sailor's bosom!—be his sleep
The sleep of Paradise, till the last trump
To resurrection and their final doom
Summon the awaken'd dead!
Nor let me pass
Unnoticed or unhonour'd in this lay
One who; by me but little known, hath yet
Left on my memory the abiding trace
Of his urbane and cordial courtesy,
By scholarship and classic taste refined;
—A courtly, polish'd man, of bland address,
And clerical attire with rigorous taste
Adjusted and adorn'd—his reverend head
Well powder'd and pomatum'd—even the crown,
Which five and fifty winters had made bald,
With scrupulous exactness frosted o'er;—
His central bulk, spruce, dapper, and rotund,
In silk and broadcloth of correctest cut
And sablest hue array'd;—his nether parts
In hose unwrinkled of the finest woof,
And breeches, silver-buckled at the knee,
Display'd their plump proportions:—voice and look,
Gesture and phrase, to the discerning mind,
Proclaim'd the pedagogue—one of a race
Now passing from the earth;—no man of thought,
Deep, earnest, serious, seething in the brain
Incessantly;—no framer of vague plans
And purposes, imperfect, ever new,
From the rich depths of an exhaustless mind,
By the strong working of a Christian heart
Evolved;—no rash enthusiast, labouring still
To purify, exalt, and bless mankind,
And using education as the means
By Heaven, beyond all other means, ordain'd
To accomplish that high task.—Such men our age,
In this beyond preceding ages blest,
Hath seen, and loved, and mourn'd;—but unlike these
The generation which preceded ours,—
The teachers of our sires and of ourselves.
Less lofty was their aim;—more moderate praise
Contented their ambition.—The dead tongues—
Their prosody and syntax—the nice rules
Of composition—the mysterious craft
Of metres—these to them were all in all—
The end of education, not the means.
Nor be it held dispraise to speak of one
Not last, nor least distinguish'd in his day,
As walking in the ways of his compeers
With steps which equall'd theirs, but not outstripp'd.
It was enough, for him of whom I speak,
To guard, with rigid and punctilious zeal,
That which he found establish'd;—to maintain,
Unchang'd and unimpair'd, the old, tried course
Of classic education, handed down
From those who went before him. This he did
With firm, unbending purpose, and became
The perfect model of a schoolmaster,
Such as our sires respected—such as we,
In the vain pride of our conceited age,
Are prone to undervalue—blind alike
To what exalts the Present—what the Past.
Far juster was the estimate which he
Form'd of himself:—proud was he of his craft,
Nor would abate one tittle of its claims
To honour and respect:—his air and tone
Were those of one who felt himself high raised
Above unlearned, unscholastic men;
And, in or out of school, with equal pomp,
Right stately did he bear himself:—all rules
Of etiquette—all nice formalities,
He practised and exacted—was, in truth,
In discipline a very martinet;
And when, in annual chair of state enthroned—
Surrounded by aristocratic groups,
The county's high nobility,—he sat
Dispensing prizes—the world could not shew
A prouder, happier man! Yet deem him not
Haughty or arrogant,—in manners stiff,
Cold and repulsive:—kindly was his heart,
Gentle he was and affable to all;
And, when the labour of the day was done,
Loved with his neighbours at the social board
To spend a joyous hour, well pleased to reign
Supreme o'er mirth and music, whist and wit,—
Assuming and receiving at all hands
Precedency of place, and recognized
As absolute Dictator.
Unnoticed or unhonour'd in this lay
One who; by me but little known, hath yet
Left on my memory the abiding trace
Of his urbane and cordial courtesy,
By scholarship and classic taste refined;
—A courtly, polish'd man, of bland address,
And clerical attire with rigorous taste
Adjusted and adorn'd—his reverend head
Well powder'd and pomatum'd—even the crown,
Which five and fifty winters had made bald,
With scrupulous exactness frosted o'er;—
His central bulk, spruce, dapper, and rotund,
In silk and broadcloth of correctest cut
And sablest hue array'd;—his nether parts
In hose unwrinkled of the finest woof,
And breeches, silver-buckled at the knee,
Display'd their plump proportions:—voice and look,
Gesture and phrase, to the discerning mind,
Proclaim'd the pedagogue—one of a race
Now passing from the earth;—no man of thought,
Deep, earnest, serious, seething in the brain
Incessantly;—no framer of vague plans
And purposes, imperfect, ever new,
From the rich depths of an exhaustless mind,
By the strong working of a Christian heart
Evolved;—no rash enthusiast, labouring still
To purify, exalt, and bless mankind,
And using education as the means
By Heaven, beyond all other means, ordain'd
To accomplish that high task.—Such men our age,
In this beyond preceding ages blest,
452
The generation which preceded ours,—
The teachers of our sires and of ourselves.
Less lofty was their aim;—more moderate praise
Contented their ambition.—The dead tongues—
Their prosody and syntax—the nice rules
Of composition—the mysterious craft
Of metres—these to them were all in all—
The end of education, not the means.
Nor be it held dispraise to speak of one
Not last, nor least distinguish'd in his day,
As walking in the ways of his compeers
With steps which equall'd theirs, but not outstripp'd.
It was enough, for him of whom I speak,
To guard, with rigid and punctilious zeal,
That which he found establish'd;—to maintain,
Unchang'd and unimpair'd, the old, tried course
Of classic education, handed down
From those who went before him. This he did
With firm, unbending purpose, and became
The perfect model of a schoolmaster,
Such as our sires respected—such as we,
In the vain pride of our conceited age,
Are prone to undervalue—blind alike
To what exalts the Present—what the Past.
Far juster was the estimate which he
Form'd of himself:—proud was he of his craft,
Nor would abate one tittle of its claims
To honour and respect:—his air and tone
Were those of one who felt himself high raised
Above unlearned, unscholastic men;
And, in or out of school, with equal pomp,
Right stately did he bear himself:—all rules
Of etiquette—all nice formalities,
He practised and exacted—was, in truth,
In discipline a very martinet;
And when, in annual chair of state enthroned—
Surrounded by aristocratic groups,
The county's high nobility,—he sat
453
A prouder, happier man! Yet deem him not
Haughty or arrogant,—in manners stiff,
Cold and repulsive:—kindly was his heart,
Gentle he was and affable to all;
And, when the labour of the day was done,
Loved with his neighbours at the social board
To spend a joyous hour, well pleased to reign
Supreme o'er mirth and music, whist and wit,—
Assuming and receiving at all hands
Precedency of place, and recognized
As absolute Dictator.
Yet such rank
Was not, without resistance and dispute,
At once assign'd him:—Our Republic found
A Brutus for this Cæsar.—One there was
Whom Nature's hand had moulded to resist
Unconstitutional autocracy,
And hold it at defiance—a true son
Of Albion—all her dauntless Saxon blood
Careering in his veins—a brave, blunt man,
Laborious, energetic, shrewd of wit,
And resolute of action:—no adept
Was he at rules conventional—no slave
To forms of etiquette—no worshipper
Of rank or sounding titles:—small respect
He own'd or felt for academic grade,
Or dignity ecclesiastical,
Save as the visible and outward garb
Of solid worth within:—his piercing eye,
Disdaining shows and seemings, ever sought
That which was real:—he esteem'd the man,
And not the cloak—the kernel, not the husk.
Whate'er himself possess'd of place, or wealth,
Or credit with the world, had been acquired
By the innate and energetic strength
And vigour of his mind,—by industry
And persevering toil of head and heart—
By due discharge of honourable trust
In the far Indies, whence he had return'd,
After few years in public duties spent,
A rich and prosperous man. Such energy,
Moral and intellectual, as could work
What he had wrought,—could bear what he had borne,
And gain what he had gain'd—and such alone,
He honour'd and esteem'd in other men.
All else—diplomas—dignities—degrees—
Hereditary rank—ancestral pride—
Whate'er weak minds revere—he held dirt cheap,
And view'd, with somewhat of a jealous eye,
Monopolies of homage from of old,
In this aristocratic land, assign'd
To place, and station, and official rank,
Or well or ill maintain'd, with small regard
To aught which truly dignifies them all,
And gives them actual value:—hence he grew,
Almost by Nature's strong necessity,
Antagonistic to the Powers that were—
A stout and sturdy oppositionist,
Obstructing, by all lawful ways and means,
What seem'd encroachments of despotic sway;
Asserting and maintaining the plain rights
Of social independence against all
Which look'd like usurpation. Hence arose
Occasional sedition—tart debate
Colloquial—insurrection, to restrain,
Within legitimate and wholesome bounds,
Monarchical prerogative.—Meanwhile
The Monarch was not slow to take the field,
With such offensive and defensive arms
As courteous scholars use—grave irony—
Sarcastic repartee—serenest smile
Of dignified compassion. Thus they two
(If old, traditionary tales speak truth
Of times beyond the memory of the Bard)
For many a year contended, yet broke not
The bonds of social neighbourhood, nor lost
Their sense of mutual good-will. O'er both
The grave long since hath closed:—the petty feuds
And jealousies of earth divide them not
In that good land where both; we trust, have found
Acceptance and repose.
Was not, without resistance and dispute,
At once assign'd him:—Our Republic found
A Brutus for this Cæsar.—One there was
Whom Nature's hand had moulded to resist
Unconstitutional autocracy,
And hold it at defiance—a true son
Of Albion—all her dauntless Saxon blood
Careering in his veins—a brave, blunt man,
Laborious, energetic, shrewd of wit,
And resolute of action:—no adept
Was he at rules conventional—no slave
To forms of etiquette—no worshipper
Of rank or sounding titles:—small respect
He own'd or felt for academic grade,
Or dignity ecclesiastical,
Save as the visible and outward garb
Of solid worth within:—his piercing eye,
Disdaining shows and seemings, ever sought
That which was real:—he esteem'd the man,
And not the cloak—the kernel, not the husk.
Whate'er himself possess'd of place, or wealth,
Or credit with the world, had been acquired
By the innate and energetic strength
And vigour of his mind,—by industry
And persevering toil of head and heart—
By due discharge of honourable trust
454
After few years in public duties spent,
A rich and prosperous man. Such energy,
Moral and intellectual, as could work
What he had wrought,—could bear what he had borne,
And gain what he had gain'd—and such alone,
He honour'd and esteem'd in other men.
All else—diplomas—dignities—degrees—
Hereditary rank—ancestral pride—
Whate'er weak minds revere—he held dirt cheap,
And view'd, with somewhat of a jealous eye,
Monopolies of homage from of old,
In this aristocratic land, assign'd
To place, and station, and official rank,
Or well or ill maintain'd, with small regard
To aught which truly dignifies them all,
And gives them actual value:—hence he grew,
Almost by Nature's strong necessity,
Antagonistic to the Powers that were—
A stout and sturdy oppositionist,
Obstructing, by all lawful ways and means,
What seem'd encroachments of despotic sway;
Asserting and maintaining the plain rights
Of social independence against all
Which look'd like usurpation. Hence arose
Occasional sedition—tart debate
Colloquial—insurrection, to restrain,
Within legitimate and wholesome bounds,
Monarchical prerogative.—Meanwhile
The Monarch was not slow to take the field,
With such offensive and defensive arms
As courteous scholars use—grave irony—
Sarcastic repartee—serenest smile
Of dignified compassion. Thus they two
(If old, traditionary tales speak truth
Of times beyond the memory of the Bard)
For many a year contended, yet broke not
The bonds of social neighbourhood, nor lost
Their sense of mutual good-will. O'er both
455
And jealousies of earth divide them not
In that good land where both; we trust, have found
Acceptance and repose.
But all too long,
Methinks, we dwell among remembrances
Of days and things gone by:—'tis meet we turn,
Beloved, to the Present.—Our abode—
The tabernacle of our earthly joys
And sorrows, hopes and fears—this home of ours—
Is it not pleasant?—Is there one eleswhere
For which we would exchange it?—Fourteen years,
Well nigh elapsed, have rear'd the puny trees
We planted at our coming, to a screen
And somewhat of a shade;—our small domain,
Compact within itself, nor overlook'd,
(Albeit well nigh on every side begirt
By new and upstart dwellings,) forms a nook
In which the meek and unambitious heart
May live and die contented:—within doors
We have enough of comfort—and, without,
Of verdure, and bright sunshine, and fresh air,
To make our dwelling cheerful:—yon green field,
Between us and intrusion interposed,
Forms for our children a broad ample realm
Of undisturb'd enjoyment:—that tall pair
Of venerable elms, beneath whose shade
Lie buried those old favourites canine
Whose race, had we been childless, might perchance
E'en now have shared our hearth—those elms, methinks,
May serve us for apt emblems of ourselves—
A hale, green pair, not yet much past their prime,
And from their grassy mound, in reverend state,
On a new generation looking down
Of young and hopeful plants.—By Fancy's aid
We might suppose them representatives
Of the successive tenants of this house—
The pastors of the parish and their wives,
Whose spirits, from the burden of the flesh
And all its toil released, have migrated,
Like Baucis and Philemon's in old time,
Into those leafy tenements, and there,
Fast by the mansion of their earthly life,
Await the body's waking.—But such sport
Of wilful Fancy haply ill accords
With the sad aspect of yon burial-ground
Contiguous to our garden—the long home
Of vanish'd generations, and in which
Both thou and I, ere many years have pass'd,
Must look to lay our bones. We lack not here
Mementos of mortality:—no knell
Proclaims the passing of a neighbour's soul,
But we are first to hear it;—not a corpse
Is carried to its resting-place, but I
Do the last sacred offices;—no week,—
Scarce a day passes, but some bed of death,
Or long consuming sickness, summons me
To minister beside it:—nor art thou
With sorrow less familiar, or less apt
To do thy part as comforter, and yield
Such help as woman only can dispense
To sickness and affliction. Strange 'twould be,
If all that we behold of chance and change,
Of sorrow and mortality, should leave
No trace upon our spirits, nor impress
On our remembrance ineffaceably
The lesson of the Church, that “in the midst
Of life we are in death.”—Yet more perhaps
Than most of those with whom our lot is cast,
We lack such admonition:—life to us
Is fill'd, by bounteous Providence, so full
Of purest comfort! Since this house became
Our habitation, it hath seen more bliss
Than many a life of threescore years and ten
Brings to another dwelling—less of grief
Than one brief month hath brought to not a few.
There's scarce a room, beneath our roof, unmark'd
By some distinction of remember'd joy;—
Of friends, whose visits, though too much like those
Of angels—passing short and far between—
Almost like those of angels gladden'd us;—
Of pleasant and endearing intercourse
With neighbours whom we love;—of home-content,
Enliven'd by those studies and pursuits
Which purify and strengthen, while they soothe
The weary mind. Here, in this study, cramm'd
With strangest piles of heterogeneous lore,
O'er Shakspere's magic pages we have laugh'd
And wept by turns, while fairest fingers plied
The busy needle, and the reader's art
Repaid their cheerful toil:—on yonder chair,
Honour'd beyond its drawing-room compeers,
Sate once the mighty Poet of the Lakes,
And in his deep, sonorous voice conversed
On themes of loftiest import:—in this house
Six children have been born to us—of whom
Five until now, by Heaven's rich grace, remain,
And one hath fallen asleep.—My boyish dreams
Of happiness (though passing bright they were)
Fell short of the reality which still
Beneath this roof abides—reality
Too bright to be enduring.—May we wait
In thoughtful preparation, and endure
With patience, whatsoever change shall come!
Methinks, we dwell among remembrances
Of days and things gone by:—'tis meet we turn,
Beloved, to the Present.—Our abode—
The tabernacle of our earthly joys
And sorrows, hopes and fears—this home of ours—
Is it not pleasant?—Is there one eleswhere
For which we would exchange it?—Fourteen years,
Well nigh elapsed, have rear'd the puny trees
We planted at our coming, to a screen
And somewhat of a shade;—our small domain,
Compact within itself, nor overlook'd,
(Albeit well nigh on every side begirt
By new and upstart dwellings,) forms a nook
In which the meek and unambitious heart
May live and die contented:—within doors
We have enough of comfort—and, without,
Of verdure, and bright sunshine, and fresh air,
To make our dwelling cheerful:—yon green field,
Between us and intrusion interposed,
Forms for our children a broad ample realm
Of undisturb'd enjoyment:—that tall pair
Of venerable elms, beneath whose shade
Lie buried those old favourites canine
Whose race, had we been childless, might perchance
E'en now have shared our hearth—those elms, methinks,
May serve us for apt emblems of ourselves—
A hale, green pair, not yet much past their prime,
And from their grassy mound, in reverend state,
On a new generation looking down
Of young and hopeful plants.—By Fancy's aid
We might suppose them representatives
Of the successive tenants of this house—
The pastors of the parish and their wives,
Whose spirits, from the burden of the flesh
456
Like Baucis and Philemon's in old time,
Into those leafy tenements, and there,
Fast by the mansion of their earthly life,
Await the body's waking.—But such sport
Of wilful Fancy haply ill accords
With the sad aspect of yon burial-ground
Contiguous to our garden—the long home
Of vanish'd generations, and in which
Both thou and I, ere many years have pass'd,
Must look to lay our bones. We lack not here
Mementos of mortality:—no knell
Proclaims the passing of a neighbour's soul,
But we are first to hear it;—not a corpse
Is carried to its resting-place, but I
Do the last sacred offices;—no week,—
Scarce a day passes, but some bed of death,
Or long consuming sickness, summons me
To minister beside it:—nor art thou
With sorrow less familiar, or less apt
To do thy part as comforter, and yield
Such help as woman only can dispense
To sickness and affliction. Strange 'twould be,
If all that we behold of chance and change,
Of sorrow and mortality, should leave
No trace upon our spirits, nor impress
On our remembrance ineffaceably
The lesson of the Church, that “in the midst
Of life we are in death.”—Yet more perhaps
Than most of those with whom our lot is cast,
We lack such admonition:—life to us
Is fill'd, by bounteous Providence, so full
Of purest comfort! Since this house became
Our habitation, it hath seen more bliss
Than many a life of threescore years and ten
Brings to another dwelling—less of grief
Than one brief month hath brought to not a few.
There's scarce a room, beneath our roof, unmark'd
By some distinction of remember'd joy;—
457
Of angels—passing short and far between—
Almost like those of angels gladden'd us;—
Of pleasant and endearing intercourse
With neighbours whom we love;—of home-content,
Enliven'd by those studies and pursuits
Which purify and strengthen, while they soothe
The weary mind. Here, in this study, cramm'd
With strangest piles of heterogeneous lore,
O'er Shakspere's magic pages we have laugh'd
And wept by turns, while fairest fingers plied
The busy needle, and the reader's art
Repaid their cheerful toil:—on yonder chair,
Honour'd beyond its drawing-room compeers,
Sate once the mighty Poet of the Lakes,
And in his deep, sonorous voice conversed
On themes of loftiest import:—in this house
Six children have been born to us—of whom
Five until now, by Heaven's rich grace, remain,
And one hath fallen asleep.—My boyish dreams
Of happiness (though passing bright they were)
Fell short of the reality which still
Beneath this roof abides—reality
Too bright to be enduring.—May we wait
In thoughtful preparation, and endure
With patience, whatsoever change shall come!
High theme it were—(too high for verse like mine)—
To tell the toils, the pleasures, and the cares
Of ministerial duty;—to set forth
The life of an ambassador for Christ
Such as it is—alas! how much unlike
That which it ought to be! Else there were food
For musing not unfruitful, not unblest,
In that long retrospect of years elapsed
Amidst parochial cares and toils and plans,
Which teems, as I survey it, with strange forms
Of human joy and sorrow. In the town
There's scarce a house but to my mind recalls
Some sad or pleasing image of past days—
Some consolation offer'd—some sick bed
Sooth'd or alarm'd—some confidence enjoy'd—
Some doubt dispell'd—alas! some vain assault
On some stronghold of Satan—some defeat
Encounter'd—some discomfiture sustain'd
Through lack of faith or courage.—Of such things
Let me not lightly speak, but speak in words
Recorded ere remembrance yet had lost
Its first impression.—Two such homely lays
I framed in other years;—the first a tale
(If tale it may be call'd) of grievous pain,
Through faith and patience wondrously endured,
And by endurance vanquish'd;—a wild strain
The other, in Spenserian rhyme jocose
Recounting rustic feats of boisterous glee
And festal recreation, with a cause
Connected, righteous once, though since, alas!
By erring and fanatic zeal profaned,
And fitly, to sectarian patronage
Abandon'd by the Church.—Elsewhere than here
Be those twin songs recorded, and preserve
(If that perchance may be) to after days
Some memory of the English pastor's cares
And pastimes in this nineteenth century!
To tell the toils, the pleasures, and the cares
Of ministerial duty;—to set forth
The life of an ambassador for Christ
Such as it is—alas! how much unlike
That which it ought to be! Else there were food
For musing not unfruitful, not unblest,
In that long retrospect of years elapsed
Amidst parochial cares and toils and plans,
Which teems, as I survey it, with strange forms
Of human joy and sorrow. In the town
There's scarce a house but to my mind recalls
Some sad or pleasing image of past days—
458
Sooth'd or alarm'd—some confidence enjoy'd—
Some doubt dispell'd—alas! some vain assault
On some stronghold of Satan—some defeat
Encounter'd—some discomfiture sustain'd
Through lack of faith or courage.—Of such things
Let me not lightly speak, but speak in words
Recorded ere remembrance yet had lost
Its first impression.—Two such homely lays
I framed in other years;—the first a tale
(If tale it may be call'd) of grievous pain,
Through faith and patience wondrously endured,
And by endurance vanquish'd;—a wild strain
The other, in Spenserian rhyme jocose
Recounting rustic feats of boisterous glee
And festal recreation, with a cause
Connected, righteous once, though since, alas!
By erring and fanatic zeal profaned,
And fitly, to sectarian patronage
Abandon'd by the Church.—Elsewhere than here
Be those twin songs recorded, and preserve
(If that perchance may be) to after days
Some memory of the English pastor's cares
And pastimes in this nineteenth century!
So end my Dream of Life!—for life is now
Less dream-like than it has been;—save, indeed,
That with a swifter and yet swifter course
The years begin and end—their hopes and fears
Blossom and fade—their sorrows and their joys
Are born and buried. While I strive to grasp
What seems the Present, it becomes the Past.
All things appear more fugitive, and yet
Less lovely than they did. The gorgeous hues
In which imagination clothed the world
While life was young, have faded:—what remains
Is, in its proper lineaments, discern'd,
And felt to be precarious—a brief dream,
Without a dream's magnificence:—and yet
To this the heart still cleaves, as in its youth
It clave to Fancy's daintiest imagery;
Still as one joy dissolves and fades away,
Reposing on a new one. Death and Change
Are found to teach but slowly that sad truth,
That no continuing city have we here—
No rest for our foot-sole.—And yet their school,
Severe and stern, allows few holidays
From grief and disappointment!—while I weave
This meditative lay, how rich a source
Of present solace, and of hope that gave
Bright promise for the future, with a stroke
Hath been cut off for ever!—HE is dead!—
He, whom all England honour'd as her first
Of Christian teachers;—He, by whom her youth
Were train'd and lesson'd with most earnest zeal,
And depth unknown of wisdom from above,
In Christ's all-perfect rule, and taught to take
His yoke upon them, and to bear His cross,
As Men who, with divine and human lore
Rightly imbued—in intellect and heart
Well disciplined—with heavenly arms equipp'd—
And knowing both the prize for which they strove,
And how it must be won—should, in this world,
Fight the good fight of faith.—Alas! for us!
His townsmen and near neighbours!—us, whose hopes
Parental with his life were close entwined!
Who deem'd our children's the most blessed lot
By Providence to children e'er assign'd,
In that, by him, their young intelligence,
Develop'd and inform'd, should first expand
Its fresh and tender blossoms,—that in him,
Their teacher and their guide, they should behold
A model of what Christians ought to be!
Alas! for us!—but not for us alone!—
Britain—all Europe—Christendom itself
Mourns his untimely loss:—the Church bewails,
In him, the best and bravest of her sons;
Him, if sometimes an erring, never found
A weak or craven champion in her cause:
For ne'er were truth and goodness loved and sought
With more devoted fervour than by him;
Nor oft have noblest intellectual gifts
Been sanctified by loftier piety
Than in his bosom dwelt. His inward eye,
Clear, rapid, comprehensive, at a glance
Discern'd—if not the perfect form of Truth—
At least her shadowy lineaments—which straight
With stedfast gaze he follow'd, in his course
Flashing swift gleams of unexpected light
On whatsoever subject of high thought
Cross'd or approach'd his path. For human ills—
The want and woe—the ignorance and sin—
The bondage of corruption beneath which
The creature, in its anguish and unrest,
Still groans and travails—for whatever wrong
The feeble suffer and the strong inflict—
His was the sorrow of a Christian saint—
His were the projects of a Christian sage.—
For Britain's helpless millions above all,
Writhing in dumb, blind pain—untaught, unfed—
With earnest heart, and brain, and tongue, and pen,
He toil'd to achieve deliverance;—to his end,
Through honour and dishonour, through report
Evil and good, still constant.—Yet, in him,
Philanthropy (too oft in feebler minds
Destructive of less liberal sympathies)
Marr'd not one home affection, but enhanced
And purified them all:—no happier hearth
Than his e'er flung its winter evening blaze
On groups of joyous faces;—there was not
In all the world a parent, husband, friend,
More excellent than he! Nor was the face
Of Nature—her mysterious loveliness—
To him indifferent;—flowers, and trees, and fruits,—
Beast, insect, feather'd fowl, and creeping thing—
Whatever God hath made—the mountain ridge
Embosoming the lake, near which he spent
His intervals of rest from lifelong toil—
The primrose on the bank—the hawthorn hedge,
With woodbines and wild roses intertwined—
He loved them all! Majestic was his soul,
And gentle in its majesty—alive
To whatsoe'er in this material world
Reveals the presence of Divinity,
And therefore full of love! Alas for us!
Who knew him—who beheld and felt the power
Of goodness which abode in him—and yet
Scarce loved it till 'twas lost!—Alas for thee!
Poor town, in which he sojourn'd for a time,
And which his sojourn dignified!—Alas!
For what thou art and hast been!—Ichabod!
Thy glory hath departed!
Less dream-like than it has been;—save, indeed,
That with a swifter and yet swifter course
The years begin and end—their hopes and fears
Blossom and fade—their sorrows and their joys
Are born and buried. While I strive to grasp
What seems the Present, it becomes the Past.
All things appear more fugitive, and yet
Less lovely than they did. The gorgeous hues
In which imagination clothed the world
While life was young, have faded:—what remains
Is, in its proper lineaments, discern'd,
And felt to be precarious—a brief dream,
459
To this the heart still cleaves, as in its youth
It clave to Fancy's daintiest imagery;
Still as one joy dissolves and fades away,
Reposing on a new one. Death and Change
Are found to teach but slowly that sad truth,
That no continuing city have we here—
No rest for our foot-sole.—And yet their school,
Severe and stern, allows few holidays
From grief and disappointment!—while I weave
This meditative lay, how rich a source
Of present solace, and of hope that gave
Bright promise for the future, with a stroke
Hath been cut off for ever!—HE is dead!—
He, whom all England honour'd as her first
Of Christian teachers;—He, by whom her youth
Were train'd and lesson'd with most earnest zeal,
And depth unknown of wisdom from above,
In Christ's all-perfect rule, and taught to take
His yoke upon them, and to bear His cross,
As Men who, with divine and human lore
Rightly imbued—in intellect and heart
Well disciplined—with heavenly arms equipp'd—
And knowing both the prize for which they strove,
And how it must be won—should, in this world,
Fight the good fight of faith.—Alas! for us!
His townsmen and near neighbours!—us, whose hopes
Parental with his life were close entwined!
Who deem'd our children's the most blessed lot
By Providence to children e'er assign'd,
In that, by him, their young intelligence,
Develop'd and inform'd, should first expand
Its fresh and tender blossoms,—that in him,
Their teacher and their guide, they should behold
A model of what Christians ought to be!
Alas! for us!—but not for us alone!—
Britain—all Europe—Christendom itself
460
In him, the best and bravest of her sons;
Him, if sometimes an erring, never found
A weak or craven champion in her cause:
For ne'er were truth and goodness loved and sought
With more devoted fervour than by him;
Nor oft have noblest intellectual gifts
Been sanctified by loftier piety
Than in his bosom dwelt. His inward eye,
Clear, rapid, comprehensive, at a glance
Discern'd—if not the perfect form of Truth—
At least her shadowy lineaments—which straight
With stedfast gaze he follow'd, in his course
Flashing swift gleams of unexpected light
On whatsoever subject of high thought
Cross'd or approach'd his path. For human ills—
The want and woe—the ignorance and sin—
The bondage of corruption beneath which
The creature, in its anguish and unrest,
Still groans and travails—for whatever wrong
The feeble suffer and the strong inflict—
His was the sorrow of a Christian saint—
His were the projects of a Christian sage.—
For Britain's helpless millions above all,
Writhing in dumb, blind pain—untaught, unfed—
With earnest heart, and brain, and tongue, and pen,
He toil'd to achieve deliverance;—to his end,
Through honour and dishonour, through report
Evil and good, still constant.—Yet, in him,
Philanthropy (too oft in feebler minds
Destructive of less liberal sympathies)
Marr'd not one home affection, but enhanced
And purified them all:—no happier hearth
Than his e'er flung its winter evening blaze
On groups of joyous faces;—there was not
In all the world a parent, husband, friend,
More excellent than he! Nor was the face
Of Nature—her mysterious loveliness—
To him indifferent;—flowers, and trees, and fruits,—
461
Whatever God hath made—the mountain ridge
Embosoming the lake, near which he spent
His intervals of rest from lifelong toil—
The primrose on the bank—the hawthorn hedge,
With woodbines and wild roses intertwined—
He loved them all! Majestic was his soul,
And gentle in its majesty—alive
To whatsoe'er in this material world
Reveals the presence of Divinity,
And therefore full of love! Alas for us!
Who knew him—who beheld and felt the power
Of goodness which abode in him—and yet
Scarce loved it till 'twas lost!—Alas for thee!
Poor town, in which he sojourn'd for a time,
And which his sojourn dignified!—Alas!
For what thou art and hast been!—Ichabod!
Thy glory hath departed!
—Fare thee well!—
Henceforth, though I shall know thee as my home,
I will not view thee with a Poet's eye,
Nor wed thy name to verse.—And yet indeed
I love thee much, unlovely as thou art,
And in thy featureless repose of look,
Reflecting well that uneventful course
Of the mid life of man, to which my days
Have now attain'd;—and though thou must become
Less pleasant, less endear'd to me, as years
Roll onward—though this house, now musical
With voices which I love, as I grow old
Must lose them, one by one, till we are left—
(If death by swifter stroke divide us not)
—I and my partner—inmates of a home
Childless at last—not therefore will I now
Grudge thee such love as thou hast well deserv'd—
Such as thou still deserv'st. When I am gone,
May better and more gifted pastors dwell
Where I have dwelt so pleasantly!—Yon Church,
Not even by Rickman's genius, in late years,
Reclaim'd from that unblushing ugliness
And degradation of deformity
By parsimonious thrift inflicted once—
May a new generation, more devout
Than we and than our fathers—pull it down,
As what defies amendment, and erect
A temple, worthier of the name it bears,
On what is now its site!—But till it fall,
Still may the worship of our English Church,
As now, within its walls, in solemn pomp
Liturgical, with full accordant strains
Of the deep organ and symphonious chaunt
Of choristers, ascend from it to Heaven,
Wafting the aspirations pure and deep
Of Christian hearts!—may never sound of hymn,
Such as these latter days have spawn'd in shoals—
Doggrel, prosaic, puritanical,
Quintessence of flat balderdash—pollute
Its sacred walls, suggesting to the mind
Of worshippers, who wish to be devout,
Involuntary thoughts which curl the lip
Perforce into a smile!—may all who there
Kneel at one altar, be hereafter One
In heart and spirit!—the whole Church on Earth
Anticipating, as the dawn draws nigh,
The eternal concord of the Church in Heaven!
Henceforth, though I shall know thee as my home,
I will not view thee with a Poet's eye,
Nor wed thy name to verse.—And yet indeed
I love thee much, unlovely as thou art,
And in thy featureless repose of look,
Reflecting well that uneventful course
Of the mid life of man, to which my days
Have now attain'd;—and though thou must become
Less pleasant, less endear'd to me, as years
Roll onward—though this house, now musical
With voices which I love, as I grow old
Must lose them, one by one, till we are left—
(If death by swifter stroke divide us not)
—I and my partner—inmates of a home
Childless at last—not therefore will I now
Grudge thee such love as thou hast well deserv'd—
Such as thou still deserv'st. When I am gone,
May better and more gifted pastors dwell
Where I have dwelt so pleasantly!—Yon Church,
Not even by Rickman's genius, in late years,
462
And degradation of deformity
By parsimonious thrift inflicted once—
May a new generation, more devout
Than we and than our fathers—pull it down,
As what defies amendment, and erect
A temple, worthier of the name it bears,
On what is now its site!—But till it fall,
Still may the worship of our English Church,
As now, within its walls, in solemn pomp
Liturgical, with full accordant strains
Of the deep organ and symphonious chaunt
Of choristers, ascend from it to Heaven,
Wafting the aspirations pure and deep
Of Christian hearts!—may never sound of hymn,
Such as these latter days have spawn'd in shoals—
Doggrel, prosaic, puritanical,
Quintessence of flat balderdash—pollute
Its sacred walls, suggesting to the mind
Of worshippers, who wish to be devout,
Involuntary thoughts which curl the lip
Perforce into a smile!—may all who there
Kneel at one altar, be hereafter One
In heart and spirit!—the whole Church on Earth
Anticipating, as the dawn draws nigh,
The eternal concord of the Church in Heaven!
| Poems | |