Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

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 therein
Confused 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,

217

When, led by love and hope, I roam'd light-hearted
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

218

And waveless peace;—still'd is my brain's wild roving;
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 strains
Shall 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-day
Must 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 intense
Of 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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These thou can'st never lose; and yet must they,
Merged in a deeper stream, half disappear to-day.

VI

Thy heart must now become
The 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 Dead
Have 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 be
In such sweet phantasy

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Held by the fetters of eternal sleep?—
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 plays
The 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;

223

Pay with thy looks each look of his fond eyes,
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 wear
A 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,

224

Approving judgment, and deliberate choice;—
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.

225

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 thee
Redemption'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 long
My 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.

226

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

227

Attach'd to my high office?—leave my fold
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,

228

Remembrances most sad, but oh, most dear,
And note them down for many a future year
Of hallow'd meditation.

The first one hundred and eight lines of the poem were written in the situation here described.

Dearest wife,
'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.

229

So bury we our dead. Now let us dwell
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

230

Where once the broadside peal'd on the vext air
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

231

Exclaim'd with air of thoughtful gravity,
“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

232

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.

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

233

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

234

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!

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.

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,

235

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.

Why was I spared? with what unknown intent?
Reserved, perhaps, for sharper punishment;
And oh! more needed, more deserved than thine:

236

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

237

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

238

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.

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

239

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

240

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

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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!

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

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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,

243

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.

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

244

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

245

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.

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:

247

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.

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 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.

248

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.

249

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.

Thy mortal sweetness, smitten
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.”

250

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;

251

Who first evoked me with enticement strong,
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,

252

And mark thy sweet affections' ceaseless play,
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.

[_]

(CONTINUED.)

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

253

And disappointment dull; and oft in vain
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.

[_]

(CONTINUED.)

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

Faithful, and pure, and incorrupt by art
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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Who wield a cautious and deliberate pen,
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 brow
Capacious, 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 I
Thro' this world's path walk'd blithely side by side,

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Unlike, and yet by kindred aims allied,
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.

[_]

(CONTINUED.)

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,

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With such blind zeal for miscall'd liberty,
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 graced
With 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.

[_]

(CONTINUED.)

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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Forehead and form, in bloom of radiant youth
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 set
In 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

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Of potent wizard, or the Elfin King;
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

A letter for my hands, which in me wrought
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.

[_]

(CONTINUED.)

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,

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Can word or act the whole affection prove
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.

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Seven months roll'd by, and thou wast fiercely torn
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

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Thy young simplicity of heart to fade,
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.

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My path hath been the pleasanter so far,
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 deep
And 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.

Sermons on Modern Astronomy, &c.

Christian and Civic Economy, &c.

SONNET XXX. TO THE SAME.

Alas! for those, whose bigot zeal would fain
Compress 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

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Of discipline and form; without remorse
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 stood
Within thy well known walls (my bride and I),
Majestic Ludlow; from a cloudless sky
Fell the rich moon-beams, in a silver flood,

266

On tower and terrace, river, hill, and wood;
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,

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I read the workings of a soul serene
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.

268

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,

269

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.

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

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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.

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,

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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,

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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.

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.

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,

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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.

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.

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.

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,

275

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.

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

276

Us and some with whom we roved
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,

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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.

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.

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.

278

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.

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.

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

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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

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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;—

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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,

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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.

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.

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,

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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.

Not for this

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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

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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,

287

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.

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.

Cleobury Mortimer Vicarage, in Shropshire.—Ed.

Mere Hall, the seat of E. Bearcroft, Esq., in Worcestershire.—Ed.

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;

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When, in Windsor's forest shade,
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.

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.

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

291

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.

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.

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

293

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

294

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?

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

295

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

296

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.

297

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.

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,

298

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.

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,—

300

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,

301

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?

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.

302

'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!

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;—

303

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.

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.

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.

304

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.

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 place
Among 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 smile
Hath 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 deeds not done, which should be done,
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 neighbours
How 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 chasten
These 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 repentance
Let me avert the blow,

311

And disannul the sentence
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 lowly
Have 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 breaking
In 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

In which thy soul should breathe the balm
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 dwelt
A 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

Nor streams of light celestial call
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

To where, amidst the saintliest throng,
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 brief
In 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

Small comfort it perchance had been
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 mind
That 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 heart
A 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 all
Which thou wilt leave behind;
The light that on our hearts will fall
From thy reflected mind;

324

The frank good will, the generous love,
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 how
Their 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 see
Thy 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 these
To 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

Tell them that, come when come they will,
They'll find our hearts unalter'd still.

X

Nor worthless, nor by them unfelt
Such 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 erewhile
In 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 be
Between 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 years
We 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 beauty
Never 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 thee
He 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.

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IV

Tell us, maiden, hast thou found him
Thus 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 anguish
Love 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 treasures
To 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,

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Though thy heart, with care o'erladen,
Faint beneath the burden still.
Through thy worst temptations prove
Firm in duty, firm in love.

IX

Better 'twere to wither slowly
On 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 sprinkle
Flowers 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 victorious
O'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;

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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 treasure
In 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 last
Amidst 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 withhold
A 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.

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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 kind
And 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 hearth
They listen for her voice in vain;

333

By day or night, in grief or mirth,
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 grave
For 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 dreams
Perchance 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.

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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 weep
Whose 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;

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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.

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

337

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

338

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.

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.

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

339

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.

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.

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.

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,

340

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.

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.

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,

341

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,

342

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,

343

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.

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

345

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?

346

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.

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,

347

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.

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.

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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 be
By 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 strings
Of 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:

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And now that youth is o'er, and passion dead,
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 please
The 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 free
For 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?

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IX

I know not;—in the silent flight of Time
Much 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 imagination
The 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 me
Its 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,

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Various of scent and hue, of form and kind:
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 farewell
Once 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.