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OUR FIRST SORROW.
Sept. 1834.
My Margaret, thou hast often marvell'd why
Thy husband, famed for feats of poesy
In boyhood and hot youth, hath so forgot
His tuneful craft, and now discourseth not
The music he was wont; and thou dost blame
His sluggish humour, which no hope of fame
Nor (what should move him more) remorseful shame
For talents unimproved, or buried deep
In the dim caves of intellectual sleep,
Can rouse to due exertion. I confess
That thy most sweet, upbraiding earnestness
Hath ofttimes moved me to a fond regret
For powers long valued, and remember'd yet
With melancholy pleasure; yet full well
Thou know'st how grave the duties which compel
My mind to other tasks; how vast a weight
Of solemn vows and cares importunate
Lies on the minister of Christ:—should I
Forget the deep responsibility
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Unwatch'd, my sheep unfed, that I might hold
Communion with a wild and wanton muse,
Whose weak earth-fetter'd pinions would refuse
To bear me to those heights of sacred song,
Where Christian poets, far above the throng
Of this world, tune their harps?—should I forego
The studies I most need, the hours I owe
To patient self-inspection—the still thought,
The frequent prayer, through which alone is taught
Knowledge of things divine, to weave once more
The idle rhymes I used to weave of yore.
And win the worthless meed of this world's praise,
As then I won it, by more worthless lays,
Repented of when finish'd? Oh, not so;
Better my stream of verse should cease to flow
For ever, than flow thus: if I could sing
With Saint and Psalmist, tuning every string
Of my rapt harp to the Eternal's praise,
Yet not disgrace my theme, I then might raise
My willing song triumphantly; and now,
If I may keep my ministerial vow,
By interweaving with a record brief
Of our still recent and still poignant grief,
Such lessons as beseem it—such as win
The soul from earthly dreams pollute with sin
To serious thought,—my toil will not be vain,
And we shall find some solace for our pain
In dwelling on its cause, recording now
Things which late wrung the heart, and wrapt the brow
In no unblest, though melancholy gloom;—
So sit we here beside our infant's tomb,—
And while thy pencil shadows forth the spot
So lately known, but ne'er to be forgot
“While memory holds her seat,” my kindred art
Shall summon from their hiding place, the heart,
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And note them down for many a future year
Of hallow'd meditation.
'Tis sixteen years, almost my half of life,
Since I, a boy, retiring from the throng
Of boyish playmates, breathed my first sad song—
“My Brother's Grave.” Since then full many a change
Hath come upon my spirit—the free range
Of youthful thought—Hope's bright and beauteous prime,
The dreams and fancies of Life's golden time,
Have been and ceased to be; yet might I say
Which period of the days, now gone for aye,
Was richest in Earth's comforts, my fond heart
Would, without scruple, name the latter part,—
Our nine sweet years of wedlock: Time hath fled
So swiftly and so smoothly o'er my head
Since first I call'd thee wife—our days flow'd by
With such unmix'd and deep tranquillity,
That long our spirits seem'd to lack the rod
Which chastens and subdues each child of God.
And shall we murmur now that Death at last
Hath, Heaven-commission'd, o'er our threshold past,
And in our cup of long unmingled bliss
Infused one drop of bitterness? Shall this
Shake our once cheerful faith—at once destroy
That which we cherish'd, in our days of joy,
As undefiled religion? Nay, sweet love,
Confessing that this blow was from above,
Long needed, long suspended, soften'd now
By mercies great and many, let us bow
Beneath the Chastener's hand, and while our grief
Still vents itself in tears, or seeks relief
In these and such like tasks, let us confess
That God himself, in very faithfulness,
Hath caused us to be troubled; that 'tis good
To have been thus afflicted, thus subdued,
And wean'd in part from this world's vanities,
To that good world where now our treasure lies.
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Awhile on the events which late befell
Ourselves and our dear children, ere Death's blow
Swept one from our sweet circle. Thou dost know
With how much close and cogent argument,
Convinced at last, our purpose we forewent
Of visiting my parents, that some length
Of sojourn near the sea might bring thee strength
Long lost, and now much needed; so one day,
One glorious day of August, on our way
Seaward we fared, and from the wharfs of Thames,
Mix'd with grave cits, and smiling city dames,
Took ship for fair Herne Bay. Our children three,
New to such bustling scenes, with childish glee
And wonderment perplext, look'd on and laugh'd,
As through the close ranged lines of bristling craft,
Moor'd by those wharfs, we thridded our slow way—
A dense and multitudinous array
Of vessels of all nations, mast on mast;
While ever and anon some steam-boat pass'd,
Bound homeward with its freight of busy folk,
Returning to their city's din and smoke,
After brief holiday in idlesse spent
At Deptford or Gravesend:—still on we went,
With swift, unconscious motion, floating by
Full many a spot in England's history
Well known and honour'd; arsenal and fort,
Fraught with war's stores, fair pier and crowded port,
Well known to merchants; cupola and dome
Of hospital superb, the princely home
Of veteran Seamen, while some batter'd hulk
Rear'd, ever and anon, its giant bulk
Above our puny top-mast, long laid by,
Far from war's din and battle's kindling cry,
Far from the roar of hostile cannonade,
From shock of clashing armaments, and made
A shrine for worship consecrate to him
Who sits on high between the cherubim;
Now echoing to the voice of praise and prayer
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Its dissonant thunder; grateful change, I ween,
To Christian hearts; but soon this busy scene
Gave place to one more peaceful: we had past
The realm of commerce: hull and sail and mast
Had faded in the distance, and we went
Along the coast of Surrey and fair Kent,
Fringed with rich woods and many a smooth ascent
Of green and sunny slopes, where village spires,
And stately mansions of stout English squires,
And villas of rich cits, by turns appear'd,
In swift succession, till at last we near'd
The mouth of the broad Thames.
Throughout the day
Our younger children between sleep and play
Had been alternating; our eldest boy,
(Himself not five) found matter to employ
His thought precocious, with observant eye
Noting whate'er he saw, and curiously
Investigating all things. We meanwhile
With books or conversation did beguile
Our not too tedious voyage: thou wast gay
With the blithe thoughts that in thy bosom lay,
Anticipating health, and strength, and joy,
Less for thyself than for our infant boy,
Whose premature and grief-o'erclouded birth,
Follow'd by sickness, long had caused a dearth
Of perfect gladness by our quiet hearth.
And yet, that day, how passing blithe was he,
How full of the sweet freaks of infancy,
As to and fro he paced along the deck
Hand-led, with restless step; or round thy neck
Flinging his passionate arms, with sportive glee
Mimick'd the hiss of the resentful sea,
Cloven by our keel; or gazed, with wistful eyes,
And heart of wonder, on some new found prize,
Soon chang'd for other novelty;—that look
Or his, I well remember, quickly took
The notice of one shipmate, who to me
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“That child will be no common one.” Alas!
How strangely that prediction came to pass!
Why dwell upon our landing? why recall
The toils and disappointments, one and all,
Of our whole search for lodgings? in few days
All was arranged, and we were free to gaze
From our front windows on the open sea,
Which sometimes slept beneath them peacefully,
Sometimes, with wrathful and obstreperous roar,
Swept the loose shingles from our sloping shore,
And hurl'd them back in scorn:—before us lay
A mighty pier, bisecting the broad bay
With its huge length, and stretching far away
To where the waves grew fiercer—work sublime
Of Telford's genius, which shall outlive Time,
In Britain's grateful memory enshrined;—
On either side our lodging, and behind,
In most admired disorder, up and down
Straggled the new-built and still spreading town,
A chaos wide of embryo street and square,
And stately terrace, built for the sea-air
To visit with its health-restoring breath,
And chase, if that might be, disease and death
From drooping invalids. Along the beach,
Eastward and westward, far as eye could reach,
Piles of unfinish'd buildings did extend,
Commingled strangely far the twofold end
Of rest and dissipation; here was seen
The bathing-house remote, with trim machine
Dipping its awning in the waves, and here,
Mocking the face of sickness, did appear
Ball-room and billiard-room, and gay parade,
Villa marine, aquatic esplanade,
And sea-commanding cottage.
Small concern
Had we with the gay world: we came to Herne
For health, not revelry; so, in our calm
And shelter'd dwelling, we inhaled the balm
Of the fresh sea-breeze, or along the shore
Stray'd with our children, to whose ear the roar
Of breakers was a new and stirring sound,
Enjoying their glad wonder, when they found
Shells or sea-weed, or pebbles strangely form'd,
Or chased the tiny crabs, which crawl'd and swarm'd
From underneath the shingles; while the sea
Daily, we fondly hoped, on them and thee
Shed life and bracing freshness. As for me,
My time, thou know'st, was short, so from the shore
Inland I turn'd my footsteps, to explore
(When first the heat permitted) those fair woods,
And pleasant dells, whose leafy solitudes
Stretch'd smilingly behind us. The first day,
I well remember, I had bent my way
With pencil in my hand, and serious book,
To seek some shady and sequester'd nook,
Where, unmolested, I might read at ease,
Or haply scribble some such lines as these,
As the whim took me. Such a nook I found
Hard by Herne Church, and stretch'd on the green ground,
O'erhung by clustering trees, spent some few hours
In study grave, beneath close sheltering bowers
Most meet for such employment; but what then
I noted most, and now recall again
Most fondly, was the loveliness which shone
In that old church, and church-yard still and lone.
A resting-place most fit it seem'd to be
For gentle dust, hung round by many a tree
Of deepest shade, and from intrusion free
Of foot or voice profane:—a holier gloom
Rests on it now—there stands our infant's tomb.
Had we with the gay world: we came to Herne
For health, not revelry; so, in our calm
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Of the fresh sea-breeze, or along the shore
Stray'd with our children, to whose ear the roar
Of breakers was a new and stirring sound,
Enjoying their glad wonder, when they found
Shells or sea-weed, or pebbles strangely form'd,
Or chased the tiny crabs, which crawl'd and swarm'd
From underneath the shingles; while the sea
Daily, we fondly hoped, on them and thee
Shed life and bracing freshness. As for me,
My time, thou know'st, was short, so from the shore
Inland I turn'd my footsteps, to explore
(When first the heat permitted) those fair woods,
And pleasant dells, whose leafy solitudes
Stretch'd smilingly behind us. The first day,
I well remember, I had bent my way
With pencil in my hand, and serious book,
To seek some shady and sequester'd nook,
Where, unmolested, I might read at ease,
Or haply scribble some such lines as these,
As the whim took me. Such a nook I found
Hard by Herne Church, and stretch'd on the green ground,
O'erhung by clustering trees, spent some few hours
In study grave, beneath close sheltering bowers
Most meet for such employment; but what then
I noted most, and now recall again
Most fondly, was the loveliness which shone
In that old church, and church-yard still and lone.
A resting-place most fit it seem'd to be
For gentle dust, hung round by many a tree
Of deepest shade, and from intrusion free
Of foot or voice profane:—a holier gloom
Rests on it now—there stands our infant's tomb.
So one brief week was spent; and now the day
Too soon arrived which summon'd me away
From thee and my sweet children. Off the coast
The steam-boat's smoke was rising, when the post
Brought thee a letter from thou know'st what friend,
Fraught with dark news, and eloquently penn'd
By grief's deep inspiration; as we walk'd
Toward the pier head, how earnestly we talk'd
Of her and of her sorrows, till the grief
Of our own parting seem'd to find relief
E'en from the deep and yearning sympathy
Which we both felt for her; and when the sea
Swept me away upon its swelling breast
From thee and my dear boy, (whose grief, exprest
By silent tears, which, with averted face,
He strove to smother in my close embrace,
Had touch'd me with a father's deepest love,)
The spirit of old days began to move
Within me, and almost before mine eye,
Fixt on the pier, saw nought but vacancy
Where late your forms had stood, the power of song
Was re-awaken'd, and sent forth ere long
Haply a worthless, yet a loving strain,
Which, I well know, for ever shall remain
To us and those whose sorrow found it vent,
A record dear, a deathless monument
Of deep and pure affection, which must be
'Twixt us and them to all eternity.
Nor was this all; for when once more I stood
Beneath my Father's roof, my tuneful mood,
Thus waken'd, cheer'd my spirit's solitude,
(For solitude, sweet love, invests each spot,
Tho' crowded with dear forms, where thou art not,)
And oft, as I retired from circle gay
Of smiling friends, I wove a cheerful lay,
Breathing affection tender, pure, and high,
To Her whose late-found friendship thou and I
Ne'er can repay, or value worthily.
Ah, me! how sweetly were two mornings spent,
When, rising with the lark, alone I went
Through vale and grove, o'er verdant slope and hill,
By the stream side, and freely took my fill
Of pleasant fancies, framing at my ease
Thoughts full of love and dear remembrances
Into epistolary rhyme; and when
Night with her shades enveloped us again,
And the last words of evening prayer were said,
And, one by one, each worn and weary head
Save mine had sunk to rest upon its bed,
How blithely did my solitary light
Fling its pale ray athwart the gloom of night,
While with glad heart I plied my busy pen,
And mused and wrote, and wrote and mused again.
Ah! little deem'd I, at that task of joy,
What deadly pangs had seized my infant boy,
What grievous woe awaited thee and me.
My task was finish'd, and triumphantly
Committed to the post;—but ere 'twas done,
I, though I knew it not, had lost a son!
Too soon arrived which summon'd me away
From thee and my sweet children. Off the coast
The steam-boat's smoke was rising, when the post
Brought thee a letter from thou know'st what friend,
Fraught with dark news, and eloquently penn'd
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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
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And the last words of evening prayer were said,
And, one by one, each worn and weary head
Save mine had sunk to rest upon its bed,
How blithely did my solitary light
Fling its pale ray athwart the gloom of night,
While with glad heart I plied my busy pen,
And mused and wrote, and wrote and mused again.
Ah! little deem'd I, at that task of joy,
What deadly pangs had seized my infant boy,
What grievous woe awaited thee and me.
My task was finish'd, and triumphantly
Committed to the post;—but ere 'twas done,
I, though I knew it not, had lost a son!
That blow came sharp and sudden; when I sail'd,
The hue of gathering sickness scarce had paled
Our darling's cheek, and when upstairs I bent
My lingering steps, to kiss him ere I went,
Methought that there was something in his look,—
I knew not what,—that for a moment shook
My heart with vague forebodings, undefined,
And speedily dismiss'd;—my sanguine mind,
Prompt to anticipate the best, is slow
To harbour forethought of impending woe:
And when ere long a letter came from thee,
Which told me of thy past anxiety,
And danger now no more, my heart believed
That which it wish'd; and though at times I grieved
To think that sickness should invade the spot
Where thou still wert, and I, alas! was not,
I flung all fear aside, and thank'd our God
For thus withdrawing the uplifted rod.
Short was my triumph; the next post laid low
All my fair hopes, and plunged me deep in woe.
The hue of gathering sickness scarce had paled
Our darling's cheek, and when upstairs I bent
My lingering steps, to kiss him ere I went,
Methought that there was something in his look,—
I knew not what,—that for a moment shook
My heart with vague forebodings, undefined,
And speedily dismiss'd;—my sanguine mind,
Prompt to anticipate the best, is slow
To harbour forethought of impending woe:
And when ere long a letter came from thee,
Which told me of thy past anxiety,
And danger now no more, my heart believed
That which it wish'd; and though at times I grieved
To think that sickness should invade the spot
Where thou still wert, and I, alas! was not,
I flung all fear aside, and thank'd our God
For thus withdrawing the uplifted rod.
Short was my triumph; the next post laid low
All my fair hopes, and plunged me deep in woe.
How hadst thou fared thro' all that dreadful time,
While I, far off, inditing pleasant rhyme,
Dream'd of no ill, save what seem'd ill to me,—
To lack thy smiles and sweet society;
To think how many a thrilling look and word,
By me should be unseen, by me unheard,
From the sweet lips and pleasure-beaming eyes
Of our three darlings;—every morn to rise
Unsummon'd by their voices, or by thine,
All day, though circled by loved friends, to pine
For others dearer still, and then at night
To miss the pure and exquisite delight
Of their last kiss;—to dream of them, till day
Chased the last visions of the night away;
And the light, darting through my window pane,
Summon'd me forth to walk and dream again.
Grieved I at this? ah! slender grief I ween!
What had I felt had we together been?
Had each fierce pang, which pierced thee through and through,
Struck on my heart, and wrung my spirit too;
Each hope, each fear which shook that soul of thine
Thrill'd with the selfsame bitterness through mine;
Had I been doom'd to witness each dread pain
Which rack'd his guiltless heart and guileless brain,
To listen to his weak and wailing cry,
To watch his tearful and imploring eye,
Craving the boon thou couldst not but deny,
One little drop to slake that bitter thirst—
Had I seen this, I think my heart had burst.
Yea, when the hour of mortal pain was past,
And the exhausted spirit, ebbing fast,
Had ta'en the speculation from that eye
Once so lit up with infant brilliancy;
When the calm hush of that most dread repose
Spoke suffering past, and life about to close
Till, as he faintly drew his last weak breath,
Thou look'dst and look'dst, and scarcely knew'st 'twas death—
Had I seen this, which thou didst see alone,
I think e'en Reason would have left her throne:
And what thy gentle soul could scarce sustain,
Had crush'd my sterner heart, and overwhelm'd my brain.
While I, far off, inditing pleasant rhyme,
Dream'd of no ill, save what seem'd ill to me,—
To lack thy smiles and sweet society;
To think how many a thrilling look and word,
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From the sweet lips and pleasure-beaming eyes
Of our three darlings;—every morn to rise
Unsummon'd by their voices, or by thine,
All day, though circled by loved friends, to pine
For others dearer still, and then at night
To miss the pure and exquisite delight
Of their last kiss;—to dream of them, till day
Chased the last visions of the night away;
And the light, darting through my window pane,
Summon'd me forth to walk and dream again.
Grieved I at this? ah! slender grief I ween!
What had I felt had we together been?
Had each fierce pang, which pierced thee through and through,
Struck on my heart, and wrung my spirit too;
Each hope, each fear which shook that soul of thine
Thrill'd with the selfsame bitterness through mine;
Had I been doom'd to witness each dread pain
Which rack'd his guiltless heart and guileless brain,
To listen to his weak and wailing cry,
To watch his tearful and imploring eye,
Craving the boon thou couldst not but deny,
One little drop to slake that bitter thirst—
Had I seen this, I think my heart had burst.
Yea, when the hour of mortal pain was past,
And the exhausted spirit, ebbing fast,
Had ta'en the speculation from that eye
Once so lit up with infant brilliancy;
When the calm hush of that most dread repose
Spoke suffering past, and life about to close
Till, as he faintly drew his last weak breath,
Thou look'dst and look'dst, and scarcely knew'st 'twas death—
Had I seen this, which thou didst see alone,
I think e'en Reason would have left her throne:
And what thy gentle soul could scarce sustain,
Had crush'd my sterner heart, and overwhelm'd my brain.
Why was I spared? with what unknown intent?
Reserved, perhaps, for sharper punishment;
And oh! more needed, more deserved than thine:
For, throughout this, a Providence divine
Seems to have turn'd grief's sharpest darts from me,
To fix them still more stingingly in thee.
Thine was the struggle, while thy husband slept;
'Twas thy heart bled, thy gentle eyes that wept,
While death and life contended—he meanwhile,
Divided from thy side by many a mile,
Knew nothing of thy pangs, nor could assuage
By speech or look thy sorrow's wildest rage,
Nor e'en partake it with thee:—thou wast fain
To bear alone that grievous load of pain,
Unsoothed, unaided, by a husband's love,
But seeking thy best solace from above,
Kissing the rod which smote thee:—but for me
The bitter shock was soften'd graciously,
Not only by the space which lay between
Me and the terrors of that fearful scene,
But by a train of circumstances, slight
Themselves, yet used by mercy infinite
To break and mitigate the first dead blow
Which else had well nigh crush'd me with a woe
Too grievous to be borne:—my sterner heart
Had been prepared and disciplined in part,
For that which was to come, by what was past:
The news of that first danger made the last
And mortal stroke, though unexpected, still
A less undream'd of, unimagined ill
Than it had been till then; the sudden call
To swift and public travel; most of all,
The last few days' employment, which had wrought
A world within me of Elysian thought—
The sense of comfort minister'd by me
So recently to others, and to be
Repaid, as I well knew, with usury,—
The very thought of thee in thy deep grief
Pining for me, and for that poor relief
Which I alone of earthly friends could bring,—
Even this contributed to dull the sting
Of my own sorrow; yet, when morning broke
O'er Canterbury's towers, and I awoke
From the light slumber which had come to close
My travel-wearied eyes in brief repose,
When, hastening onward, I discern'd the bay
With all its shore-built dwellings, through the grey
Of twilight, and remember'd that there lay
My infant's corpse; ah me, how dull a weight
Press'd on my heart, how blank and desolate
The world seem'd then to me! Why rack again
Thy soul and mine, by dwelling on the pain
Of our sad meeting? Why record the sighs
Which heaved our breasts, the tears which from our eyes
Gush'd, as we stood in silence side by side
In that sad room in which our darling died,
And view'd him in his coffin? why recall
The pang of parting with the little all
Still left us of his beauty, when the day
Of burial came, and on our mournful way
We wended to the church-yard, wherein I
Had mark'd before the spot where he should lie,
My last sad office of parental care,
The fairest spot where all was passing fair;
A pleasant nook at the extremest end,
O'er which two stately sycamores extend
Their interlacing branches, and the ground,
Still without graves for some small space around,
Seem'd by strange chance to have been kept apart
For our sweet babe, that each paternal heart
Might have, when grief's first bitterness was gone,
One pleasant spot for thought to rest upon.
There, in the stillness of that sacred shade,
With many a tear the cherish'd dust we laid,
And turn'd us homeward; but still many a day
Our lingering steps trode and retrode the way
Which led us to his grave; and there didst thou,
With tear-suffused eyes and pale sad brow,
Sit by my side, and with thy pencil trace
Each feature of the loved though mournful place;
While, with no unblest ministry, did I
In thoughtful mood my task poetic ply,
Drawing sweet solace from the busy brain,
To ease the pressure of the heart's dull pain,
Which would not be dispell'd:—when I reflect
How long that gift, laid by in deep neglect,
Had slumber'd in my soul, and what relief
Was brought by its revival to our grief,
I scarce can think but that the recent woe
Felt by our friends, which caused the stream to flow
Once more within my heart, by Heaven was sent
In kindness to us two, with the intent
That powers call'd forth to soothe their deep distress
Should prove a solace to our bitterness.
For this we rest their debtors, but much more—
(Ah me, how much!) for that most blessed store
Of comfort which ere long their letters brought,
Breathing deep sympathy and Christian thought,
A treasure inexhaustible of love,
Not of this earth, but kindled from above;
Making us feel, in our extremest need,
That none but Christians can be friends indeed.
Reserved, perhaps, for sharper punishment;
And oh! more needed, more deserved than thine:
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Seems to have turn'd grief's sharpest darts from me,
To fix them still more stingingly in thee.
Thine was the struggle, while thy husband slept;
'Twas thy heart bled, thy gentle eyes that wept,
While death and life contended—he meanwhile,
Divided from thy side by many a mile,
Knew nothing of thy pangs, nor could assuage
By speech or look thy sorrow's wildest rage,
Nor e'en partake it with thee:—thou wast fain
To bear alone that grievous load of pain,
Unsoothed, unaided, by a husband's love,
But seeking thy best solace from above,
Kissing the rod which smote thee:—but for me
The bitter shock was soften'd graciously,
Not only by the space which lay between
Me and the terrors of that fearful scene,
But by a train of circumstances, slight
Themselves, yet used by mercy infinite
To break and mitigate the first dead blow
Which else had well nigh crush'd me with a woe
Too grievous to be borne:—my sterner heart
Had been prepared and disciplined in part,
For that which was to come, by what was past:
The news of that first danger made the last
And mortal stroke, though unexpected, still
A less undream'd of, unimagined ill
Than it had been till then; the sudden call
To swift and public travel; most of all,
The last few days' employment, which had wrought
A world within me of Elysian thought—
The sense of comfort minister'd by me
So recently to others, and to be
Repaid, as I well knew, with usury,—
The very thought of thee in thy deep grief
Pining for me, and for that poor relief
Which I alone of earthly friends could bring,—
Even this contributed to dull the sting
Of my own sorrow; yet, when morning broke
237
From the light slumber which had come to close
My travel-wearied eyes in brief repose,
When, hastening onward, I discern'd the bay
With all its shore-built dwellings, through the grey
Of twilight, and remember'd that there lay
My infant's corpse; ah me, how dull a weight
Press'd on my heart, how blank and desolate
The world seem'd then to me! Why rack again
Thy soul and mine, by dwelling on the pain
Of our sad meeting? Why record the sighs
Which heaved our breasts, the tears which from our eyes
Gush'd, as we stood in silence side by side
In that sad room in which our darling died,
And view'd him in his coffin? why recall
The pang of parting with the little all
Still left us of his beauty, when the day
Of burial came, and on our mournful way
We wended to the church-yard, wherein I
Had mark'd before the spot where he should lie,
My last sad office of parental care,
The fairest spot where all was passing fair;
A pleasant nook at the extremest end,
O'er which two stately sycamores extend
Their interlacing branches, and the ground,
Still without graves for some small space around,
Seem'd by strange chance to have been kept apart
For our sweet babe, that each paternal heart
Might have, when grief's first bitterness was gone,
One pleasant spot for thought to rest upon.
There, in the stillness of that sacred shade,
With many a tear the cherish'd dust we laid,
And turn'd us homeward; but still many a day
Our lingering steps trode and retrode the way
Which led us to his grave; and there didst thou,
With tear-suffused eyes and pale sad brow,
Sit by my side, and with thy pencil trace
Each feature of the loved though mournful place;
While, with no unblest ministry, did I
238
Drawing sweet solace from the busy brain,
To ease the pressure of the heart's dull pain,
Which would not be dispell'd:—when I reflect
How long that gift, laid by in deep neglect,
Had slumber'd in my soul, and what relief
Was brought by its revival to our grief,
I scarce can think but that the recent woe
Felt by our friends, which caused the stream to flow
Once more within my heart, by Heaven was sent
In kindness to us two, with the intent
That powers call'd forth to soothe their deep distress
Should prove a solace to our bitterness.
For this we rest their debtors, but much more—
(Ah me, how much!) for that most blessed store
Of comfort which ere long their letters brought,
Breathing deep sympathy and Christian thought,
A treasure inexhaustible of love,
Not of this earth, but kindled from above;
Making us feel, in our extremest need,
That none but Christians can be friends indeed.
And now three mournful weeks were past and gone
Since death's drear visit, and a simple stone
Meanwhile had on our darling's grave been placed,
On which a simple epitaph was traced,
Writ by my hand—a record sad and brief
Of his past sweetness, of our present grief,
And the fond hope which ne'er will pass away,
Of blest re-union to endure for aye,
When death shall be no more. At length the day
Of our departure came, and we must say
Farewell, with lingering steps and tearful eyes,
To the sweet spot where our lost treasure lies.
With what heart-rending agony to thee
Thou well remember'st, and with grief, by me,
Felt, as I think, more from deep sympathy
With thy exceeding sorrow, than for aught
Suggested to myself of painful thought
By that leave-taking. It will doubtless seem
A paradox to many; yet I deem
That we of the wild heart and wandering brain
Are less accessible to joy or pain
From such associations—find the scene
Of joy long past, or sorrow which hath been,
Less pregnant with ideal bliss or woe
Than others do, whose feelings are more slow,
Whose fancies less intense. When we survey
The wrecks and reliques of the olden day—
Old battle-field, or camp, or ruin grey
Of abbey or of fortress, we feel less
Of its past pride, than of the loveliness
Which Time hath shed around it; others cast
Their mind's eye far more fondly on the past,
And muse so fixedly on days gone by,
That they impart a dread reality,
A present life, to things that were of old,
Peopling with phantoms what they now behold
In ruin and decay. So do not we;
Our light wing'd thoughts so easily can flee
From that which is to that which ought to be,
Glance with such swiftness from the scene that's nigh
Into the airiest realms of phantasy,
That if such scene should raise a transient pain
Within the heart, the ever ready brain,
Almost ere felt, disperses it again,
Filling its place with fancies sweet and strange,
Rapid and rich, and ever on the range.
'Tis this, and more than this, the poet's eye
So keen to seek, so ready to descry
All visible beauty, and the poet's breast
So eager to enjoy, so glad to rest,
In contemplation calm and deep delight,
Known but to him, on every lovely sight
Of nature, or of art, extracting thence
Whate'er it yields to gladden outward sense
Unmix'd and undisturb'd—'tis this that takes
The pressure from our hearts; 'tis this that makes
The interest, deep and keen, which others feel
In the mere scene of former woe and weal,
Known by themselves or others, less acute
In us than them. E'en now with careless foot
I traverse haunts where thou and I together
Roam'd hand in hand in youth's unclouded weather,
As love's sweet fancies led us; view the stream
On whose green banks we used to sit and dream
Of bliss to come, and pleasantly beguile
The lingering days of courtship; cross the stile
Where first our faith was plighted, and for life
Thou gavest thyself to me, my bride, my wife,
The mother of my children; pass each spot
Hallow'd by feelings ne'er to be forgot;
Yet, all the while, see little and feel less
Of aught except its present loveliness.
This is not so with thee; thy gentle heart
Dwells, I well know, most fondly on each part
Of all that cherish'd scene, and interweaves
E'en with the slightest whisper of its leaves,
The gush of its sweet waters, thoughts most dear
And recollections nursed for many a year,
And to be nursed for ever. So, when we
Together stood beneath one spreading tree
Of those which shade the grave, a heavier weight
Press'd on thy heart, and made it desolate,
Than mine then felt; O, not because my heart
Had then, or at this hour hath ceased to smart;
Still less because my faith, more strong than thine,
Soar'd higher from the grave to things divine:
'Twas simply that my nature is less prone
Than thine to see, in simple sod and stone,
That which lies hid beneath them; is less moved
By outward tokens of things lost and loved;
Grieves and rejoices, in its joy and grief,
Without excitement, and without relief,
From visible memorials, and is slow
To give admission to ideal woe.
So, knowing that mine eyes no more should see
My child on earth, it matter'd not to me
That I was soon to quit the burial place
Of him whom I should ne'er again embrace;
Whose infant voice no more should glad mine ear;
Whose infant kiss no more delight me here.
I felt the gift resumed by Him who gave:
The soul was gone, why linger at the grave?
But thou! Alas, what pain was thine to leave
That, and each spot where thou hadst loved to grieve;
How oft thy restless step and tearful eye
Roved thro' the room where thou hadst seen him die.
How oft, how fondly, thy sad looks survey'd
The bed wherein his cherish'd corpse was laid,
The chair which held his coffin; e'en the pall
Brought from his funeral—how thou loved'st them all!
And when the hour was come, when part we must
From the loved spot which held our darling's dust,
With what keen anguish wast thou torn away!
How, as our bark dash'd swiftly through the spray,
Didst thou still gaze on the receding bay,
As though thou leftest in that churchyard fair
The soul of him whose body sleepeth there!
Since death's drear visit, and a simple stone
Meanwhile had on our darling's grave been placed,
On which a simple epitaph was traced,
Writ by my hand—a record sad and brief
Of his past sweetness, of our present grief,
And the fond hope which ne'er will pass away,
Of blest re-union to endure for aye,
When death shall be no more. At length the day
Of our departure came, and we must say
Farewell, with lingering steps and tearful eyes,
To the sweet spot where our lost treasure lies.
With what heart-rending agony to thee
Thou well remember'st, and with grief, by me,
Felt, as I think, more from deep sympathy
With thy exceeding sorrow, than for aught
Suggested to myself of painful thought
By that leave-taking. It will doubtless seem
239
That we of the wild heart and wandering brain
Are less accessible to joy or pain
From such associations—find the scene
Of joy long past, or sorrow which hath been,
Less pregnant with ideal bliss or woe
Than others do, whose feelings are more slow,
Whose fancies less intense. When we survey
The wrecks and reliques of the olden day—
Old battle-field, or camp, or ruin grey
Of abbey or of fortress, we feel less
Of its past pride, than of the loveliness
Which Time hath shed around it; others cast
Their mind's eye far more fondly on the past,
And muse so fixedly on days gone by,
That they impart a dread reality,
A present life, to things that were of old,
Peopling with phantoms what they now behold
In ruin and decay. So do not we;
Our light wing'd thoughts so easily can flee
From that which is to that which ought to be,
Glance with such swiftness from the scene that's nigh
Into the airiest realms of phantasy,
That if such scene should raise a transient pain
Within the heart, the ever ready brain,
Almost ere felt, disperses it again,
Filling its place with fancies sweet and strange,
Rapid and rich, and ever on the range.
'Tis this, and more than this, the poet's eye
So keen to seek, so ready to descry
All visible beauty, and the poet's breast
So eager to enjoy, so glad to rest,
In contemplation calm and deep delight,
Known but to him, on every lovely sight
Of nature, or of art, extracting thence
Whate'er it yields to gladden outward sense
Unmix'd and undisturb'd—'tis this that takes
The pressure from our hearts; 'tis this that makes
The interest, deep and keen, which others feel
240
Known by themselves or others, less acute
In us than them. E'en now with careless foot
I traverse haunts where thou and I together
Roam'd hand in hand in youth's unclouded weather,
As love's sweet fancies led us; view the stream
On whose green banks we used to sit and dream
Of bliss to come, and pleasantly beguile
The lingering days of courtship; cross the stile
Where first our faith was plighted, and for life
Thou gavest thyself to me, my bride, my wife,
The mother of my children; pass each spot
Hallow'd by feelings ne'er to be forgot;
Yet, all the while, see little and feel less
Of aught except its present loveliness.
This is not so with thee; thy gentle heart
Dwells, I well know, most fondly on each part
Of all that cherish'd scene, and interweaves
E'en with the slightest whisper of its leaves,
The gush of its sweet waters, thoughts most dear
And recollections nursed for many a year,
And to be nursed for ever. So, when we
Together stood beneath one spreading tree
Of those which shade the grave, a heavier weight
Press'd on thy heart, and made it desolate,
Than mine then felt; O, not because my heart
Had then, or at this hour hath ceased to smart;
Still less because my faith, more strong than thine,
Soar'd higher from the grave to things divine:
'Twas simply that my nature is less prone
Than thine to see, in simple sod and stone,
That which lies hid beneath them; is less moved
By outward tokens of things lost and loved;
Grieves and rejoices, in its joy and grief,
Without excitement, and without relief,
From visible memorials, and is slow
To give admission to ideal woe.
So, knowing that mine eyes no more should see
My child on earth, it matter'd not to me
241
Of him whom I should ne'er again embrace;
Whose infant voice no more should glad mine ear;
Whose infant kiss no more delight me here.
I felt the gift resumed by Him who gave:
The soul was gone, why linger at the grave?
But thou! Alas, what pain was thine to leave
That, and each spot where thou hadst loved to grieve;
How oft thy restless step and tearful eye
Roved thro' the room where thou hadst seen him die.
How oft, how fondly, thy sad looks survey'd
The bed wherein his cherish'd corpse was laid,
The chair which held his coffin; e'en the pall
Brought from his funeral—how thou loved'st them all!
And when the hour was come, when part we must
From the loved spot which held our darling's dust,
With what keen anguish wast thou torn away!
How, as our bark dash'd swiftly through the spray,
Didst thou still gaze on the receding bay,
As though thou leftest in that churchyard fair
The soul of him whose body sleepeth there!
Our journey was soon ended; o'er our town
The sun was going, in his glory, down,
Bright and rejoicing in a cloudless sky,
As we, in melancholy thought, drew nigh
Our once glad dwelling:—at the well known gate
The coach stopp'd short, and oh, how desolate
Seem'd our sweet home!—how had its glory pass'd,
Its aspect faded since we saw it last!
Yet was it nothing alter'd; every tree
Was still as beauteous as it used to be,
And Autumn's mellow lustihood was shed,
In rich luxuriance, on each garden bed,
Then deck'd with many a bright and gorgeous flower,
While hops prolific, twining round the bower,
Into our hearts a fresh memorial sent
Of our late found, but ever cherish'd Kent.
Within doors all was, with assiduous care,
Garnish'd and swept, as if to meet us there
E'en with unusual welcome; every room
Still redolent of paint: and thus the gloom
Which wrapt our hearts, grew darker and more dense
From jarring contrast; the oppressive sense
Of that unfitness which we felt to be
Near aught that breathed of this world's gaiety.
Even this was bitter; but much more, alas!
The sad memorials of the bliss that was,
But is not, and henceforth shall be no more.
The chair, the crib, the silent nursery floor,
Now press'd no longer by his tiny tread;
His nurse's empty chair, and unmade bed;
Yea, e'en the absence of his wailing cry,
At midnight heard, when thou, with scarce closed eye
And wakeful ear, wast ever prompt to start
At the least sound which told thy anxious heart,
Or seem'd to tell it, that thy child slept not;
This within doors;—without, each turf-clad spot
On which he sat, or with his little hand
Grasping the outstretch'd finger, strove to stand
Or walk, secure from sudden trip or fall;
The hawk his infant accents loved to call;
The two tall elms shading that grassy mound,
Where, with his nurse, or us, on the green ground
He laugh'd and play'd so often; each of these,
And many more, waked sad remembrances,
And still must wake them: on thy desolate heart
At first they struck so sharply, that the smart
I think had overwhelm'd thee, but that she,
Our dear, dear friend, in tenderest sympathy,
Sent by strong impulse of confiding love,
Came, like a blessed angel from above,
With healing on its wings, to soothe and share
The sorrow, which in solitude to bear
Had been too grievous. When I saw thee press'd,
Beloved, with such fondness to that breast,
Which is the home of every gentle thought,
And every pure affection; when she sought,
Still intermingling with thy tears her own,
To shew us that we sorrow'd not alone,
(I might almost have said scarce more than she,)
Methought I could have blest our misery
For bringing us such love; for thus revealing
The stream profound of pure and tender feeling
Which flows from her heart into thine and mine;
The richest boon which Providence Divine,
Lavish of good, hath on us two bestow'd;
The sweetest solace of that weary road
On which we travel between life and death,
Faint and perplext, and often out of breath;
But ne'er, I trust, to falter or despair,
While she walks with us, or before us there.
The sun was going, in his glory, down,
Bright and rejoicing in a cloudless sky,
As we, in melancholy thought, drew nigh
Our once glad dwelling:—at the well known gate
The coach stopp'd short, and oh, how desolate
Seem'd our sweet home!—how had its glory pass'd,
Its aspect faded since we saw it last!
Yet was it nothing alter'd; every tree
Was still as beauteous as it used to be,
And Autumn's mellow lustihood was shed,
In rich luxuriance, on each garden bed,
Then deck'd with many a bright and gorgeous flower,
While hops prolific, twining round the bower,
Into our hearts a fresh memorial sent
Of our late found, but ever cherish'd Kent.
Within doors all was, with assiduous care,
Garnish'd and swept, as if to meet us there
242
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
(I might almost have said scarce more than she,)
Methought I could have blest our misery
For bringing us such love; for thus revealing
The stream profound of pure and tender feeling
Which flows from her heart into thine and mine;
The richest boon which Providence Divine,
Lavish of good, hath on us two bestow'd;
The sweetest solace of that weary road
On which we travel between life and death,
Faint and perplext, and often out of breath;
But ne'er, I trust, to falter or despair,
While she walks with us, or before us there.
A fortnight now hath past; we have resumed
Our wonted occupations, and entomb'd
(Though it lives yet) in memory's deepest cell
The sacred grief which we can never tell
To this cold world; to me 'tis strange, that thou
Canst hide beneath so calm and smooth a brow
The pangs which still thou feel'st; canst talk and smile
So lightly, though I know that all the while
Thy heart is wrung by recollections deep
And ever present thoughts, too sad to sleep:
That heart knows its own bitterness, which none
May intermeddle with, save haply one,
Thy partner, not thy peer, in this deep woe,
On whose fond breast thy tears in secret flow,
To whom thy secret soul is all made known,
And loved and prized as dearly as his own.
How beareth he his burden? O, sweet wife,
Methinks, since yon dark day, the face of life
Is strangely alter'd; all that then seem'd bright
Hath been enveloped in untimely night;
The spring of Hope is o'er, its freshness dead;
I feel as if ten mortal years had fled
In one month's space, and wonder that my head
Is still ungrizzled. Death's dread foot hath cross'd
Our threshold, and the charm at length seems lost
Which kept him thence; our house is now no more
The virgin fortress that it was before;
So unassail'd by sorrow, that even we
Almost supposed that so 'twould ever be;
Almost forgot (all was so calm within)
That we were mortals, born in mortal sin,
And needed sorrow (till then never sent)
Both for reproof and for admonishment.
For years our stream of life had glided thus;
The griefs, which pierced our neighbours, touch'd not us;
While fortune's storms raged round us long and loud,
Sunshine, unchequer'd by a single cloud,
Lay on our home and hearth: we seem'd exempt
From Nature's common lot, and scarcely dreamt
Of the approach of ills, which yet we knew,
As Adam's children, we were subject to.
And now, not only are we thus bereft
Of one bright hope, but over all that's left
Hangs an oppressive cloud of doubt and fear,
A sense of that uncertainty which here
Cleaves to whatever we possess or love,
Reminding us that nowhere but above
Our treasure may be housed. Shall we neglect
This lesson, or with godless hearts reject
The counsel which God sends us? Oh! not so,
Lest we store up a heavier weight of woe,
Bring down more grievous chastisement, and lose
The benefit of this, should we refuse
To grieve when smitten, or desist from grief,
When comforted, as we are, with relief,
Such as few mourners share: 'tis my belief,
And, well I know, thine also, that God spoke
Most audibly to both in this sad stroke,
Admonishing of much that was amiss
In our past season of unclouded bliss;
Of much indulgence to dim dreams of sense,
Love of this world, and grievous indolence
Of heart, and mind, and will. Is it not well,
That the vain world which led us to rebel
Should thus be darken'd? what we used to prize
Too fondly should be taken from our eyes?
Only, we trust, to be for both reserved
In that bright world from which our thoughts have swerved
Too often, but henceforth must swerve no more.
Then let us on, more blithely than before,
Whither our lost ones beckon us away,—
On to the regions of eternal day.
The night is now far spent, the day at hand,
E'en now the outlines of a happier land,
Seen dimly through the twilight, greet our eyes,
And seraph voices shout, “Awake, arise,
The time for sleep is past.” Why pause we here?
Our path before us lies, distinct and clear,
And haply from impediments more free
Than other paths of this world's travellers be.
For 'tis our blessed privilege, sweet love,
That we, while labouring for our rest above,
Guide other footsteps thither; that our task
Of daily duty, the chief cares that ask
Our thought, pertain to man's undying soul,
To teach, to cheer, to comfort, to control,
Reprove and guide the pilgrim who aspires
With our convictions, and with our desires,
To the same prize on which our hearts are set:
And though those hearts are not deliver'd yet
From this world's dull anxieties, yet now
Each should lift up, methinks, a loftier brow,
And look with a more fix'd and hopeful eye
To that fair world in which, beyond the sky,
Each hath a treasure of uncounted worth—
A treasure which once held us down to earth;
But now, made far more glorious, hath been given
By love divine to fix our hearts in Heaven.
Our wonted occupations, and entomb'd
(Though it lives yet) in memory's deepest cell
The sacred grief which we can never tell
To this cold world; to me 'tis strange, that thou
Canst hide beneath so calm and smooth a brow
The pangs which still thou feel'st; canst talk and smile
So lightly, though I know that all the while
Thy heart is wrung by recollections deep
And ever present thoughts, too sad to sleep:
That heart knows its own bitterness, which none
May intermeddle with, save haply one,
Thy partner, not thy peer, in this deep woe,
On whose fond breast thy tears in secret flow,
To whom thy secret soul is all made known,
And loved and prized as dearly as his own.
How beareth he his burden? O, sweet wife,
Methinks, since yon dark day, the face of life
Is strangely alter'd; all that then seem'd bright
Hath been enveloped in untimely night;
The spring of Hope is o'er, its freshness dead;
I feel as if ten mortal years had fled
In one month's space, and wonder that my head
Is still ungrizzled. Death's dread foot hath cross'd
Our threshold, and the charm at length seems lost
Which kept him thence; our house is now no more
244
So unassail'd by sorrow, that even we
Almost supposed that so 'twould ever be;
Almost forgot (all was so calm within)
That we were mortals, born in mortal sin,
And needed sorrow (till then never sent)
Both for reproof and for admonishment.
For years our stream of life had glided thus;
The griefs, which pierced our neighbours, touch'd not us;
While fortune's storms raged round us long and loud,
Sunshine, unchequer'd by a single cloud,
Lay on our home and hearth: we seem'd exempt
From Nature's common lot, and scarcely dreamt
Of the approach of ills, which yet we knew,
As Adam's children, we were subject to.
And now, not only are we thus bereft
Of one bright hope, but over all that's left
Hangs an oppressive cloud of doubt and fear,
A sense of that uncertainty which here
Cleaves to whatever we possess or love,
Reminding us that nowhere but above
Our treasure may be housed. Shall we neglect
This lesson, or with godless hearts reject
The counsel which God sends us? Oh! not so,
Lest we store up a heavier weight of woe,
Bring down more grievous chastisement, and lose
The benefit of this, should we refuse
To grieve when smitten, or desist from grief,
When comforted, as we are, with relief,
Such as few mourners share: 'tis my belief,
And, well I know, thine also, that God spoke
Most audibly to both in this sad stroke,
Admonishing of much that was amiss
In our past season of unclouded bliss;
Of much indulgence to dim dreams of sense,
Love of this world, and grievous indolence
Of heart, and mind, and will. Is it not well,
That the vain world which led us to rebel
Should thus be darken'd? what we used to prize
245
Only, we trust, to be for both reserved
In that bright world from which our thoughts have swerved
Too often, but henceforth must swerve no more.
Then let us on, more blithely than before,
Whither our lost ones beckon us away,—
On to the regions of eternal day.
The night is now far spent, the day at hand,
E'en now the outlines of a happier land,
Seen dimly through the twilight, greet our eyes,
And seraph voices shout, “Awake, arise,
The time for sleep is past.” Why pause we here?
Our path before us lies, distinct and clear,
And haply from impediments more free
Than other paths of this world's travellers be.
For 'tis our blessed privilege, sweet love,
That we, while labouring for our rest above,
Guide other footsteps thither; that our task
Of daily duty, the chief cares that ask
Our thought, pertain to man's undying soul,
To teach, to cheer, to comfort, to control,
Reprove and guide the pilgrim who aspires
With our convictions, and with our desires,
To the same prize on which our hearts are set:
And though those hearts are not deliver'd yet
From this world's dull anxieties, yet now
Each should lift up, methinks, a loftier brow,
And look with a more fix'd and hopeful eye
To that fair world in which, beyond the sky,
Each hath a treasure of uncounted worth—
A treasure which once held us down to earth;
But now, made far more glorious, hath been given
By love divine to fix our hearts in Heaven.
This poem is published rather in compliance with the wishes of friends, to whose opinion the author cannot but defer, than accordantly with the dictates of his own judgment. It was written (as the reader will perceive) under peculiar circumstances, at a time when the author little thought of again appearing before the public in his poetical capacity; and, as he feels no alterations which he could now make in it would so modify its general character as to render it much fitter for publication, he has thought it best to print it almost verbatim as it was originally composed.
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