Poems by Bernard Barton :: :: University of Virginia Library

Nay! do not half reproachfully exclaim,
“How foolish!”—Poets are not often wise.
If it be foolishness to love a name
Endear'd by one of nature's strongest ties,
And much that memory's sweetest power supplies,
I own myself no sage; for, unto me,
Thy own is one which will not bear disguise
Of dash — or stars * * * such as we often see;
No, let it stand at length, from all concealment free.

Besides, this is not call'd a dedication;
A thing, I own, of ominous extent,
And bringing with it fearful expectation
Of all that fulsome flattery can invent;
Nor is it here inscrib'd with THY consent:
So thou art unimpeach'd. On me alone
Rest all the blame of this poor monument,
(Which I will never shrink from, nor disown,)
Built by a Brother's love, to hours for ever flown.

Years have elaps'd, Maria, since we met;
More may revolve before we meet again;
The past, so far from teaching to forget,
Has added but fresh links unto that chain
Which brings no bondage and inflicts no pain;
And if the future be but like the past,
Bring what it may of other loss, or gain,
Of skies with sunshine bright, or overcast,
I have no chilling fear that life can love outlast.

With us should not; for to either's view,
In memory's busy musings, there should be
Objects and scenes that wear the self-same hue,
Awakening thoughts which have one master-key
To explain their charm. Is it not thus with thee,
When aught resembling things of former years
Attracts thy gaze? be it landscape, house, or tree,
Or ivy-mantled church-tower, which uprears
Its venerable walls, and to the sight appears—

Like a familiar object? But, no more:
In truth I dare not trust myself to dwell
On all that recollection could restore;
Or thou might'st tire, ere I one half could tell:
And that would cruelly dissolve the spell;
Then let it go! I fain would now compare,
But not as rivals do, how ill or well
Such leisure moments as we both could spare
Have been employ'd by each, and what the fruits they bear.

Mine have been spent in seeking to portray
Feelings and thoughts, which o'er my spirit shed
The doubtful splendour of an April day,
Alike by showers and sweetest sunshine fed:—
Pensive communion holding with the dead;
Or bodying forth, in simple poesy,
Beautiful scenes, and thoughts which such have bred:—
These, the best fruits of leisure's blighted tree,
Though little they can boast, I now present to thee.

Thou hast, meanwhile, (by thy experience taught
That which thou only could'st have gather'd thence,
Of winning modes to guide the expanding thought,
And knowledge with amusement to dispense,)
With noun and adjective, with verb and tense,
With History's page, or Travellers' vast supplies,
Been busily employ'd; and brought from hence
A hoard which parents and their children prize
Alike with gratitude. Thy choice has been most wise.

It is no unsubstantial good to dwell
In childhood's heart, on childhood's guileless tongue;
To be the chosen, favourite oracle,
Consulted by the innocent and young:
To be remember'd as the light that flung
Its first fresh lustre on the unwrinkled brow;
And there are hearts may cleave, as mine has clung,
To hours which I enjoy'd, yet knew not how,
To whom thou shalt be, then, what Day to me is now!

A being lov'd and honour'd for the sake
Of past enjoyment; ay! and still possessing,
When thoughts of happy infancy awake,
A charm beyond the power of words expressing.
Yes, I am not asham'd of thus confessing
The debt my early childhood seems to owe;
And if I had the power to invoke a blessing
On them who first excited rapture's glow,
'Twould fall on Barbauld, Berquin, Bunyan, Day, Defoe.

Their works were dear to me, before I knew,
Or cared to know, if they were own'd by Fame;
And after all that life has led me through,
Of pain and pleasure, they are still the same.
Whene'er I meet them, they appear to claim
Familiar greeting not to be denied:
Nor should it; for so complex is the frame
On which the mind's whole store is edified,
'Twere hard for me to tell what they have not supplied.

But to return to thee, although it may
Be only to take leave. It must be so.
I scarcely dared, at no far distant day,
To think that ever verse of mine might show
The ardent love I bear thee; and although
Surprise, at first, forgiveness may impede,
I trust that feelings cherish'd long ago
By both will glow afresh when thou shalt read
Affection's fond farewell! and for my pardon plead.

12th Mo. 31st, 1819.

Thomas Day, the Author of “Sandford and Merton.”

xii

[There is a fame which owes its spell]

There is a fame which owes its spell
To popular applause alone;
Which seems on lip and tongue to dwell,
And finds—in others' breath—its own;
For such the eager worldling sighs;
And this the fickle world supplies.

There is a nobler fame—which draws
Its purer essence from the heart;
Which only seeks that calm applause
The virtuous and the wise impart:
Such fame beyond the grave shall live;
But this the world can never give.

VERSES,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN IN A BURIAL-GROUND BELONGING TO THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS.

What though no sculptur'd monuments around,
With epitaphs engraven, meet me here;
Yet conscious feeling owns, with awe profound,
The habitation of the dead is near:
With reverend feeling, not with childish fear,
I tread the ground which they, when living, trod:
Pondering this truth, to Christians justly dear,
Whose influence lends an interest to the sod
That covers their remains:—The dead still live to God!

Is it not written in the hallow'd page
Of Revelation, God remains to be
The Lord of all, in every clime and age,
Who fear'd and serv'd him living? Did not He,
Who for our sins expir'd upon the tree,
Style him of Abram, Isaac, Jacob,—Lord!
Because they liv'd to Him? Then why should we
(As if we could no fitter meed afford,)
Raise them memorials here?—Their dust shall be restor'd.

Could we conceive Death was indeed the close
Of our existence, Nature might demand
That, where the reliques of our friends repose,
Some record to their memory should stand,
To keep them unforgotten in the land:—
Then, then indeed, urn, tomb, or marble bust,
By sculptor's art elaborately plann'd,
Would seem a debt due to their mouldering dust,
Though time would soon efface the perishable trust.

But, hoping, and believing; yea, through Faith,
Knowing, because His word has told us so,
That Christ, our Captain, triumph'd over Death,
And is the first fruits of the dead below;—
That he has trod for man this path of woe,
Dying,—to rise again!—we would not grace
Death's transitory spell with trophied show;
As if that “shadowy vale” supplied no trace
To prove the grave is not our final dwelling-place.

The poet's page, indeed, would fain supply
A specious reason for the sculptor's art;
Telling of “holy texts that teach to die:”
But much I doubt they seldom reach the heart
Of church-yard rovers. How should truths impart
Instruction, when engraven upon stone,
If unconfess'd before? The Christian's chart
Records the answer unto Di-ves known,
Who, for his brethren's sake, pleaded in suppliant tone.

“If Moses and the Prophets speak unheard,
Neither would they believe if spoke the dead.”
Then how should those, by whom unmov'd the word
Of greater far than such, has oft been read,
By random texts, thus “strewn around,” be led
Aright to live, or die? And how much less
Can false and foolish tributes, idly spread,
In mockery of truth and tenderness,
Awaken solemn thoughts, or holy themes impress?

And, therefore, would I never wish to see
Tombstone, or epitaph obtruded here.
All has been done, requir'd by decency,
When the unprison'd spirit sought its sphere:
The lifeless body, stretch'd upon the bier
With due solemnity, was laid in earth;
And Friendship's parting sigh, Affection's tear,
Claim'd by pure love, and deeply cherish'd worth,
Might rise or fall uncheck'd, as sorrow gave them birth.

There wanted not the pall, or nodding plume,
The white-rob'd priest, the stated form of prayer;
There needed not the livery'd garb of gloom,
That grief, or carelessness, alike might wear;
'Twas felt that such things “had no business there.”
Instead of these, a silent pause, to tell
What language could not; or, unconn'd by care
Of rhetoric's rules, from faltering lips there fell
Some truths to mourners dear, in memory long to dwell.

Then came the painful close—delay'd as long
As well might be for silent sorrow's sake;
Hallow'd by love, which never seems so strong,
As when its dearest ties are doom'd to break.
One farewell glance there yet remain'd to take:
Scarce could the tearful eye fulfil its trust,
When, leaning o'er the grave, with thoughts awake
To joys departed, the heart felt it must
Assent unto the truth which tells us—we are dust!

The scene is past!—and what of added good
The dead to honour, or to soothe the living,
Could then have mingled with the spirit's mood,
From all the empty show of man's contriving?
What worthier of memory's cherish'd hiving
With miser care? In hours of such distress
Deep, deep into itself the heart is diving;
Ay! into depths which reason must confess,
At least mine owns them so, awful and fathomless!

Oh! 'tis not in the bitterness of grief
Bereavement brings with it, the anguish'd mind
Can find in funeral mummeries relief.
What matters, to the mourner left behind,
The outward “pomp of circumstance,” assign'd
To such a sacrifice? What monument
Is wanted, where affection has enshrin'd
The memory of the dead? Grief must have spent
Itself, before one thought to such poor themes is lent.

And, when it hath so spent itself, does it
Need other pile than what itself can build?
O no!—it has an epitaph unwrit,
Yet graven deeper far than the most skill'd
Of artists' tool can reach:—the full heart thrill'd,
While that inscription was recording there;
And, till his earthly course shall be fulfill'd,
That tablet, indestructible, must bear
The mourner's woe, in lines Death can alone outwear.

Then, be our burial-grounds, as should become
A simple, but a not unfeeling race:
Let them appear, to outward semblance, dumb,
As best befits the quiet dwelling-place
Appointed for the prisoners of Grace,
Who wait the promise by the Gospel given,—
When the last trump shall sound,—the trembling base
Of tombs, of temples, pyramids be riven,
And all the dead arise before the hosts of Heaven!

Oh! in that awful hour, of what avail
Unto the “spiritual body,” will be found
The costliest canopy, or proudest tale
Recorded on it?—what avail the bound
Of holy, or unconsecrated ground?
As freely will the unencumber'd sod
Be cleft asunder at that trumpet's sound,
As Royalty's magnificent abode:
As pure its inmate rise, and stand before his God.

Then Thou, lamented and beloved Friend!
Not friend alone, but more than such to me;
Whose blameless life, and peaceful, hopeful end,
Endear, alike, thy cherish'd memory;
Thine will a joyful resurrection be!
Thy works, before-hand, unto judgment gone,
The second death shall have no power o'er thee:
On thee, redeem'd by his beloved Son,
Thy Father then shall smile, and greet thee with “Well done!”

Could I but hope a lot so blest as thine
Awaited me, no happier would I crave:
That hope should then forbid me to repine
That Heaven so soon resum'd the gift it gave;
That hope should teach me every ill to brave;—
Should whisper, 'mid the tempest's loudest tone,
Thy spirit walk'd with me life's stormiest wave:
And lead me, when Time's fleeting span was flown,
Calmly to share thy couch, which needs no graven stone.

9th Mo. 14th, 1819.

THE VALLEY OF FERN.

PART I.

There is a lone valley, few charms can it number,
Compar'd with the lovely glens north of the Tweed;
No mountains enclose it where morning mists slumber,
And it never has echoed the shepherd's soft reed.
No streamlet of crystal, its rocky banks laving,
Flows through it, delighting the ear and the eye;
On its sides no proud forests, their foliage waving,
Meet the gales of the Autumn or Summer wind's sigh;
Yet by me it is priz'd, and full dearly I love it,
And oft my steps thither I pensively turn;
It has silence within, Heaven's proud arch above it,
And my fancy has nam'd it the Valley of Fern.

O deep the repose which its calm recess giveth!
And no music can equal its silence to me;
When broken, 'tis only to prove something liveth,
By the note of the sky-lark, or hum of the bee.
On its sides the green fern to the breeze gently bending,
With a few stunted trees, meet the wandering eye;
Or the furze and the broom their bright blossoms extending,
With the braken's soft verdure delightfully vie;—
These are all it can boast; yet, when Fancy is dreaming,
Her visions, which Poets can only discern,
Come crowding around, in unearthly light beaming,
And invest with bright beauty the Valley of Fern.

Sweet Valley! in seasons of grief and dejection,
I have sought in thy bosom a shelter from care;
And have found in my musings a bond of connexion
With thy landscape so peaceful, and all that was there:
In the verdure that sooth'd, in the flowers that brighten'd,
In the blackbird's soft note, in the hum of the bee,
I found something that lull'd, and insensibly lighten'd,
And felt grateful and tranquil while gazing on thee.
Yes! moments there are, when mute nature is willing
To teach, would proud man but be humble and learn;
When her sights and her sounds on the heart-strings are thrilling:
And this I have felt in the Valley of Fern.

For the bright chain of being, though widely extended,
Unites all its parts in one beautiful whole;
In which Grandeur and Grace are enchantingly blended,
Of which GOD is the Centre, the Light, and the Soul!
And holy the hope is, and sweet the sensation,
Which this feeling of union in solitude brings;
It gives silence a voice—and to calm contemplation,
Unseals the pure fountain whence happiness springs.
Then Nature, most loved in her loneliest recesses,
Unveils her fair features, and softens her stern;
And spreads, like that Being who bounteously blesses,
For her votary a feast in the Valley of Fern.

And at times in its confines companionless straying,
Pure thoughts born in stillness have pass'd through my mind;
And the spirit within, their blest impulse obeying,
Has soar'd from this world on the wings of the wind:—
The pure sky above, and the still scene around me,
To the eye which survey'd them, no clear image brought;
But my soul seem'd entranced in the vision which bound me,
As by magical spell, to the beings of thought!

And to Him, their dread Author! the Fountain of Feeling!
I have bow'd, while my heart seem'd within me to burn;
And my spirit contrited, for mercy appealing,
Has call'd on his name in the Valley of Fern.

Farewell, lovely Valley!—when Earth's silent bosom
Shall hold him who loves thee, thy beauties may live:—
And thy turf's em'rald tint, and thy broom's yellow blossom,
Unto loiterers like him soothing pleasure may give.
As brightly may morning, thy graces investing
With light, and with life, wake thy inmates from sleep;
And as softly the moon, in still loveliness resting,
To gaze on its charms, thy lone landscape may steep.
Then, should friend of the bard, who hath paid with his praises
The pleasure thou'st yielded, e'er seek thy sojourn,
Should one tear for his sake fill the eye while it gazes,
It may fall unreprov'd in the Valley of Fern.

1817.

PART II.

Thou art chang'd, lovely spot! and no more thou displayest,
To the eye of thy votary, that negligent grace,
Which, in moments the saddest, the tenderest, the gayest,
Allur'd him so oft thy recesses to trace.
The hand of the spoiler has fallen upon thee,
And marr'd the wild beauties that deck'd thee before;
And the charms, which a poet's warm praises had won thee,
Exist but in memory, and bless thee no more.
Thy green, palmy fern, which the softest and mildest
Of Summer's light breezes could ruffle,—is fled;
And the bright-blossom'd ling, which spread o'er thee her wildest
And wantonest hues,—is uprooted and dead.

Yet now, even now, that thou neither belongest,
Or seem'st to belong, unto Nature or Art;
The love I still bear thee is deepest and strongest,
And thy fate but endears thee the more to my heart.
Thou art passing away, like some beautiful vision,
From things which now are, unto those that have been!
And wilt rise to my sight, like a landscape elysian,
With thy blossoms more bright, and thy verdure more green.
Thou wilt dwell in remembrance, among those recesses
Which fancy still haunts; though they were, and are not;
Whose loveliness lives, and whose beauty still blesses,
Which, though ceasing to be, can be never forgot.

We know all we see in this beauteous creation,
However enchanting its beauty may seem,
Is doom'd to dissolve, like some bright exhalation,
That dazzles, and fades in the morning's first beam.
The gloom of dark forests, the grandeur of mountains,
The verdure of meads, and the beauty of flowers;
The seclusion of valleys, the freshness of fountains,
The sequester'd delights of the loveliest bowers:
Nay, more than all these, that the might of old ocean,
Which seems as it was on the day of its birth,
Must meet the last hour of convulsive commotion,
Which, sooner or later, will uncreate earth.

Yet, acknowledging this, it may be that the feelings
Which these have awaken'd, the glimpses they've given,
Combin'd with those inward and holy revealings
That illumine the soul with the brightness of heaven,
May still be immortal, and destin'd to lead us,
Hereafter, to that which shall not pass away;
To the loftier destiny God hath decreed us,
The glorious dawn of an unending day.
And thus, like the steps of the ladder ascended
By angels, (which rose on the patriarch's eye,)
With the perishing beauties of earth may be blended
Sensations too pure, and too holy to die.

Nor would Infinite Wisdom have plann'd and perfected,
With such grandeur and majesty, beauty and grace,
The world we inhabit, and thus have connected
The heart's better feelings with nature's fair face,
If the touching emotions, thus deeply excited,
Towards Him who made all things, left nothing behind,
Which, enduring beyond all that sense has delighted,
Becomes intellectual, immortal, as mind!
But they do; and the heart that most fondly has cherish'd
Such feelings, nor suffer'd their ardour to chill,
Will find, when the forms which inspir'd them have perish'd,
Their spirit and essence remain with it still.

Thus thinking, I would not recall the brief measure
Of praise, lovely valley! devoted to thee;
Well has it been won by the moments of pleasure
Afforded to some, justly valued by me.
May their thoughts and mine often silently ponder
Over every lov'd spot that our feet may have trod;
And teach us, while through nature's beauties we wander,
All space is itself but the temple of God!
That so, when our spirits shall pass through the portal
Of Death, we may find, in a state more sublime,
Immortality owns what could never be mortal!
And Eternity hallows some visions of Time!

1819.

STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF LIEUT. P---, OF THE R. A.

There is a sacred tribute claim'd
By Nature's parting hour for all;
By Fame applauded, or unnam'd,
There are who live to mourn their fall.

Whate'er their rank, or sex, or age,
There are to whom they once were dear;
And when they quit this busy stage,
They claim their tributary tear.

Death has his victims too, appealing
To hearts whom kindred does not bind;
Save that pure tie of finer feeling,
Which links congenial mind to mind.

When each proud promise Nature gave
Of form, of face, of mind, of all,
Has perish'd in the untimely grave,
Who but must mourn such victim's fall?

Lamented Youth! to memory's eye
Thy form now rises on the view;
E'en as it was in hours gone by,
In fairest tints of health's bright hue.

That pallid cheek is kindling still
With youthful hope's delightful red;
That eye's bright glance, now cold and chill,
Still seems its sparkling beams to shed.

Vain, Memory! vain thy partial spell:
Thou canst not to the eye repair
The painful void; but thou mayest dwell
Within our hearts, and lighten there.

In his who feels a Father's woe,
Soothe Sorrow's deepest, keenest thrill;
And make him, like old Ormond , know
That e'en the dead are lovely still.

And oh! in hers, whose patient zeal,
In the long lingering hours of pain,
Oft made the sinking sufferer feel
The force of Nature's severing chain;

In hers, O Memory! gently shed
Around the past that chasten'd charm,
Which gives to joys for ever fled,
Bliss yet more touching, pure, and calm.

As, when the silent Queen of Night,
By silvery clouds surrounded, beams,
She does not vanish from our sight,
But to the eye still lovelier seems;

So round the dead, does memory fling
A Halo, which endears them more;
And cherish'd feelings fondly cling
To what seems lovelier than before.

The Earl of Ormond, when condoled with on the death of his son, Lord Ossory, nobly replied, that he would not exchange his dead son for any living one in Christendom. It was a fine burst of feeling, equally honourable to parent and child.

TO The Memory OF SAMUEL WHITBREAD, ESQ.

While the tempest-tost mariner can but discern,
His guide and his guardian, the pole-star on high;
Regardless of winds and of waves, he may turn
To that bright-rolling orb with a hope-beaming eye.

And thus, amid Europe's convulsive commotion,
We too had our planet, and brilliant its blaze;
It shone o'er its own native isle of the ocean,
In the proud, peerless splendour of primitive days.

Oh, bright was the course of that star in our sky!
Undimm'd by the clouds through which calmly it pass'd;
And proud was the orbit it roll'd in on high,
And holy the radiance which round it is cast.

The oppress'd and the injur'd rejoic'd in its rays;
The minions of power mark'd its progress with dread;
The patriot pursued it with prayer and with praise;
And lovely and lov'd was the lustre it shed.

And though it hath suddenly sunk from our sight,
And those who long watch'd it must mourn for its fall;
Yet remembrance shall cling to its dawn with delight,
And its noontide effulgence shall often recall.

O grant that the dark cloud which veil'd its decline,
In the bright beams of mercy may vanish away;
And the star we have lov'd, through Eternity shine
In glory immortal, which dreads no decay!

VERSES,

OCCASIONED BY AN AFFECTING INSTANCE OF SUDDEN DEATH.

Thou didst not sink by slow decay,
Like some who live the longest;
But every tie was wrench'd away,
Just when those ties were strongest.

A lot like thine may justly make
The sanguine doubt to-morrow;
And, in the hearts of others, wake
Alternate Fear and Sorrow.

Well may we fear; for who can think
On thee, so lately living,
Loving and lov'd, and yet not shrink
With somewhat of misgiving?

Well may we mourn; for cold indeed,
As thou, since death has found thee,
Must be the heart that does not bleed
For thee and those around thee.

A Daughter, Mother, Sister, Wife!
At noon, Life smil'd before thee:
The night brought nature's mortal strife,
The day—Death's conquest o'er thee.

How much was done in hours so few!
Hopes wither'd, hearts divided:
Joys, griefs, loves, fears, and feelings too,
Stern death at once decided.

With Thee 'tis over! There are some,
Who, in mute consternation,
Fearfully shrink from hours to come
Of heartfelt desolation.

While the dark tempest's terrors last,
We guess at evils round us;
The clouds disperse, we stand aghast;
Its ravages confound us.

The thunder's roar, the lightning's gleam,
Might seem a vision only;
But when we know we do not dream,
The stillness! oh, how lonely!

One hope in such an hour is left,
And may this hour reveal it;
He, who hath thus of bliss bereft
The heart, has power to heal it.

Our dearest hopes He would not crush,
And pass unheeding by them;
Nor bid our eyes with sorrows gush,
Unless his Love could dry them.

A bruised reed He will not break:
But hearts that bow before Him,
Shall own his Mercy while they ache,
And gratefully adore Him!

STANZAS, TO M. P.

Mary! I wake not now for thee
My simple lyre's rude melody,
As once I touch'd its strings,
With joyful hand; for then I thought
That many years, with rapture fraught,
Might yet be thine, which should have brought
Fresh pleasure on their wings.

But He, who gave thee vital breath,
Sovereign supreme of life and death!
Hath visited thy frame
With sickness, which forebodes thy end;
And heavenward now thy prospects tend,
And soon thy spirit must ascend
To God! from whence it came.

Well, He is good! and surely thou
Mayst well in resignation bow,
And gratefully confess,
That this, his awful, wise decree,
Though hard to us, is kind to thee;
Since Death's dark portals will but be
The gate of happiness.

Then start not at its transient gloom;
Let Faith and Hope beyond the tomb
Their eagle glances fling:
Angels unseen are hovering nigh,
And seraph hosts exulting cry,
“O Grave! where is thy victory?
“O Death! where is thy sting?”

For soon before Jehovah's throne,
Thy soul redeeming love shall own,
And join the sacred choir,
Who to the Lamb their anthems raise,
And tune their harps to deathless lays
Of humble, grateful, holy praise;
While list'ning saints admire.

And oh! may I, who feebly wake
My lyre's last murmurs for thy sake,
With joy that lyre resign;
Then call a loftier harp my own,
Whose chords are strung to God alone,
And wake its most exalted tone,
In unison with thine!

The amiable Girl to whom the preceding Verses were addressed is now no more;—but the memory of some delightful hours spent in her society makes me desirous of preserving this last tribute to her worth.

AUTUMN,

WRITTEN IN THE GROUNDS OF MARTIN COLE, ESQ.

When is the aspect which Nature wears
The loveliest and dearest? Say is it in Spring?
When its blossoms the apple-tree beauteously bears,
And birds on each spray are beginning to sing?
Or is it in Summer's fervid pride?
When the foliage is shady on every side,
And tempts us at noon in the green-wood to bide,
And list to the wild bird's warbling?

Lovely is Nature in seasons like these;
But lovelier when Autumn's tints are spread
On the landscape round; and the wind-swept trees
Their leafy honours reluctantly shed:
When the bright sun sheds a watery beam
On the changing leaves and the glistening stream;
Like smiles on a sorrowing cheek, that gleam
When its woes and cares for a moment are fled.

And such is the prospect which now is greeting
My glance, as I tread this favourite walk;
As the frolicsome sunbeams are over it fleeting,
And each flowret nods on its rustling stalk:
And the bosom of Deben is darkening and lightening,
When clouds the crests of its waves are whitening,
Or bursts of sunshine its billows are brightening,
While the winds keep up their stormy talk.

Of the brightness and beauty of Summer and Spring
There is little left, but the roses that blow
By this friendly wall. To its covert they cling,
And eagerly smile in each sunbeam's glow;
But when the warm beam is a moment withdrawn,
And the loud whistling breeze sweeps over the lawn,
Their beauteous blossoms, so fair and forlorn,
Seem to shrink from the wind which ruffles them so.

Poor wind-tost tremblers! some months gone by,
You were fann'd by breezes gentler than these;
When you stretch'd out your leaves to a summer sky,
And open'd your buds to the hum of bees:
But soon will the winter be past, and you,
When his winds are gone to the north, shall renew
Your graceful apparel of glossy hue,
And wave your blossoms in Summer's breeze.

It is this which gives Autumn its magic charm
Of pensive delight to the thoughtful mind;
Its shadowy splendours excite no alarm,
Though we know that Winter lingers behind;
We rejoice that Spring will again restore
Every grace that enchanted the eye before;
And we feel that when Nature's first bloom is o'er,
Her dearest and loveliest aspect we find.

The autumnal blasts, which whirl while we listen;
The wan, sear leaf, like a floating toy;
The bright round drops of dew, which glisten
On the grass at morn; and the sunshine coy,
Which comes and goes like a smile when woo'd:
The auburn meads, and the foamy flood,
Each sight and sound, in a musing mood,
Give birth to sensations superior to joy.

VERSES, WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF Tighe's Psyche.

“Fond dreamer! meditate thine idle song,
But let thine idle song remain unknown:”
O guard its beauties from the vulgar throng,
Unveil its charms to friendship's eye alone.
To thee shall friendship's partial praise atone
For all the incense of the world beside;
Unthinking mirth may slight thy pensive tone,
Folly may scorn, or ignorance deride:
The lay so idly sung, let prudence teach to hide.

Sweet Minstrel! couldst thou think a song like thine,
With grace replete, with harmony inspir'd,
Thy timid modesty could e'er confine
Within those limits which thy fears desir'd?
Ah no! by all approv'd, by all admir'd,
Its charms shall captivate each listening ear;
Thy “Psyche,” by the hand of taste attir'd,
To virtue, grace, and delicacy dear,
Shall consecrate thy name for many a future year.

Oh! had indulgent Heaven but spar'd thy Lyre,
Which first it strung and tun'd to melody,
How many a heart had felt increasing fire,
Dwelling enraptur'd on its minstrelsy:
How many an ear had drank its harmony,
And listen'd to its strains with sweet delight;
But He, whose righteous will is sovereignty,
Hath bid thy sun of glory set in night,
And, though we mourn thy loss, we own his sentence right.

Yet, plaintive Songstress! on thy gentle lay
Fancy with pensive tenderness shall dwell;
Memory shall snatch from Time thy transient day,
And soft regret each feeling breast shall swell.
But, why regret? Let faith, exulting, tell
That she, whose tuneful voice had sung before,
In allegoric strain, love's witching spell,
Now sings His love whom wondering worlds adore,
And still shall chant His praise when time shall be no more.

STANZAS, Selected from the PAINS OF MEMORY.

A Fragment.

Memory! mysterious principle, whose power
Can ope alike the source of joy or wo;
Can gild with gladsome ray the passing hour,
Or bid the starting tear of anguish flow:
Fain would my mournful song aspire to show
What keen regret, what deep remorse is thine;
How in the wreath which decks thine awful brow,
The cypress with the willow should entwine.
Alas! my plaintive lyre, a gloomy theme is mine!

Far different visions happier bards have seen,
Far different lays have happier poets sung;
And on those soul-enchanting sounds, I ween,
Full many a captivated ear hath hung.
Nor would I spurn the lyre to rapture strung,
Or deem the song of Memory's joys untrue;
For oft, ere anguish had my bosom wrung,
Did former hours recur to fancy's view,
In gaudier colours drest, with graces ever new.

Yes, Memory! in thy richly-varied page,
Some pleasing passages may charm the eye;
The guileless records of our earlier age
May bring some dreams of retrospective joy;
But is that pleasure then without alloy?
Or does not contrast turn that bliss to wo?
But few, I fear, can think of hours gone by,
Nor witness in their hearts compunction's throe,
For moments unimprov'd, and time misspent below.

Grant that nor vice nor folly wounds the heart,
Yet various feelings may regret inspire;
The agonizing tear may often start,
To see departed friendship's flame expire.
The mother mourns her child, the son his sire,
Once lov'd on earth, now number'd with the dead:
The weeping maiden's trembling steps retire
From the green sod where rests her lover's head.
Who hath not mourn'd in vain for joys that long have fled?

To meditate, with retrospective glance,
On vanish'd transports of gay hours of pleasure,
Our present happiness may well enhance,
As former gains increase our present treasure.
Benignant time's insensible erasure
May mitigate the heart-felt pangs of sorrow;
And, from the cheering view of well-spent leisure,
Some gleams of hope the mind may justly borrow,
To usher in the dawn of heaven's eternal morrow.

For, can the wiles of art, the grasp of power,
Or all the fiends which blast the mind's repose,
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour,
Or quench the light it gives at life's dark close?
No: when the lamp of life but faintly glows,
E'en when the trembling spirit wings her flight,
Conscience shall blunt departing nature's throes,
And smiling hope shall pour, with lustre bright,
Around her heaven-ward path a stream of living light.

Such were the sounds, which, on my youthful ear,
In strains of harmony and rapture fell;
When Rogers bade his song, melodious, clear,
In sweetest accents Memory's pleasures tell;
Did not my glowing bosom feel the spell
Of his celestial theme? My raptur'd thought
Would oft, by him inspir'd, with fondness dwell
On hours for ever fled, with pleasure fraught,
By Memory's magic power, from infant pastime brought.

Oh! sweetest Minstrel! since to thee belong
The gift of verse, the poet's art divine;
Why should thy silence thus the Muses wrong?
Why lies unstrung a harp so sweet as thine?
“Oh! wake once more!” pour forth the flowing line,
Assert the honours thou hast justly won:
“Oh! wake once more!” invoke the favouring Nine,
And, ere thy yet remaining sand be run,
Resplendently shine forth like the meridian sun.

But, though thy pleasures, Memory, justly claim
The votive tribute of the minstrel's song;
Yet keen regret, despair, and blushing shame,
Horror and madness too, to thee belong.
Of torturing fiends, a fell, relentless throng
Attend thy course, and goad the anguish'd mind,
Recall the hour when vice betray'd to wrong,
Anticipate the doom to guilt assign'd,
And to each glimpse of hope the wandering senses blind.

And shall thy pleasures then alone inspire
The poet's song? Shall fancy, sportive, gay,
To notes of joy ecstatic tune the lyre,
Unmindful that those pleasures soon decay?
Forgetful that the brightest, happiest day
Must often, by misfortune overcast,
Call forth the tear for moments pass'd away,
For hopes dispers'd by disappointment's blast,
And pleasing spells dissolv'd, which fancy said should last.

And do not themes like these deserve the lay?
Yes; though ungrateful, gloomy, and forlorn,
Scorn'd by the young, unnotic'd by the gay,
Who sport enraptur'd in the glowing morn
Of life; yet hearts there are who may not scorn
The song which bids the tear of pity start;
Hearts which have deeply felt the rankling thorn,
Which Memory can through every fibre dart;
To such my lay shall flow, warm from a kindred heart.

Are there who mourn for friendship known no more?
For cold neglect, unmerited disdain?
Are there who weep adversity's dark hour,
Reluctant vassals in misfortune's train?
Are there for evil past who sigh in vain,
Harass'd with grief, worn out with toiling care?
Whoe'er ye are, whose bosoms throb with pain,
Deem not your own distress beyond compare,
But learn from heavier griefs your lighter load to bear.

Hapless the lover in his nymph's disdain,
Hapless the mariner by tempests driven,
Hapless the cripple bent with age and pain,
Hapless the blind amid the light of heaven;
More hapless still the wretch who long has striven,
And o'er his fierce desires no battle won:
But, oh! how hapless he, whose heart is riven
With conscious guilt! on whom the glorious sun
Shines with unwelcome ray, and tells of mischief done!

STANZAS ON THE Death of Sir Samuel Romilly.

Overwhelming indeed is the anguish we feel,
And tearless the sorrow we nurse for thy lot;
It is not a pang that to-morrow may heal,
Nor is it a grief which can soon be forgot.

There are woes which descend like the bolt of Jove's thunder!
That suddenly, crushingly, fall on the heart;
Enwrapping our feelings in terror and wonder,
And bidding the hopes we most cherish'd depart!

Even such is thy death! It is felt as a blow
By thousands who honour'd and reverenc'd thy Name;
In whose hearts it awaken'd that eloquent glow
Of pure patriot love, which no titles can claim.

When the cup of thy bitterness rose to its height,
Though we mourn'd for thy sake, yet we did not despair;
We still cherish'd hopes: they are now quench'd in night:
And bitter the grief thou hast left us to bear.

Yet think not, how gloomy soever may seem
The clouds which envelop'd thy sun's setting ray,
These can totally hide every heart-cheering beam
It had shed on our souls through its glorious day.

No! deep as the darkness may be that enshrouds
Our spirits, and transiently shadow'd thy own;
Thy memory hereafter shall scatter the clouds,
And thy long-cherish'd worth be remember'd alone.

Oh! well may that memory be sacred and dear;
Well may we that worth in our bosoms enshrine;
For whom hast thou left we can call thy compeer?
Whose talents and virtues shall make up for thine?

Star after star, which attracted our gaze,
We have hail'd with delight, and then bade them adieu!
And Sun after Sun, while we bask'd in its blaze,
Has sunk from our sight, and deserted us too!

The mighty have fallen, and left us to mourn!
The Champions of Freedom are laid in the dust;
And the arms which her standard had fearlessly borne,
Stern Death has compell'd to relinquish their trust.

Oh! never was Liberty's banner unfurl'd,
But thy glance caught its glory, thy heart own'd its worth;
'Twas thy wish it should float o'er the civiliz'd world,
And heav'n's winds waft its fame to the ends of the earth!

And ne'er had that greatest of causes, a friend
More conspicuously good, more consistently great;
Who more earnestly labour'd its weal to defend,
In defiance of despots, and tyranny's hate.

Whether Africa's offspring thy succour might need,
Or thy own injur'd countrymen ask for thy aid;
Or he, to whom conscience dictated a creed
Dissenting from that which his country display'd;

Or whether our code, writ in letters of blood,
Call'd thy eloquence forth; thou must rank amongst those
Who for Man's hopes and happiness nobly have stood,
And patiently strove to alleviate his woes.

And oh! if we turn from thy glorious career
In the senate, and fix for a moment our gaze
On thy track in an humbler and happier sphere;
How bright and how blissful the scene it displays.

As a Friend, and a Father, can aught e'er atone
For the loss of thy friendship?—still more of thy love?
As a Husband!—'tis past! and thy spirit has flown
To the Father of Spirits, who reigneth above.

Unto Him, who remembers that man is but dust,
Thine immortal allotment we humbly resign;—
The verdicts of men may be harsh and unjust,
But mercy is mingled with judgment divine.

VERSES TO AN INFANT.

Blessings rest on thee, happy one!
All that parental love
Could ask, or wish, since life begun,
Be given thee from above.

Fruitless the wish, and vain the prayer,
For perfect bliss would be;
Thou canst not shun what all must share,
Nor 'scape from sorrow free.

What all must meet, thou canst not miss;
Yet mayst thou, sweet one! know
Capacity to relish bliss,
And strength to combat woe.

May that pure innocence, which now
Is infancy's best spell,
Encircle long thy cloudless brow,
And in thy bosom dwell.

It is the talisman, whose touch
Is like Ithuriel's spear;
And it shall teach thee, us'd as such,
Both what to love and fear.

In all the countless codes and creeds
Which man for man has plann'd,
Is much, that he who oftenest reads
Can never understand.

May these be as a volume seal'd;—
A fountain clos'd to thee;
And in thy heart shall be reveal'd
Life's true philosophy.

Thus should it be; for thou art one
Round whom the enlight'ning ray
Of nature's outward, glorious sun,
Will freely sport and play.

And the uncharter'd breeze, that sweeps
Thy native valley fair,
Will dry the tear thy young eye weeps,
And wave thy flowing hair.

Then be a child of nature's school,
Her silent teachings trace;
And she shall fit thee for the rule
Of holy, heavenly grace.

For they are still the truly wise,
Who earliest learn to look
On earth's best charms, on sun, and skies,
As wisdom's open book.

There may thy dawning reason read
Instruction, line by line;
And guileless thought, and virtuous deed,
In life's first bloom be thine.

Thus taught, nor art, nor base deceit
Shall mar thy opening youth;
Thy heart with healthful hopes shall beat,
Thy tongue be tun'd to truth.

And when, through childhood's paths of flowers,
Thy infant steps have trod,
Thy soul shall be, in after hours,
Prepar'd to learn of God!

His Spirit, plac'd within thy heart,
Shall fill it, from above,
With grace to act a Christian's part,
And keep it pure by love.

And thou shalt find, in every stage
Of ripening soul and sense,
That virtue's guard, in youth, in age,
Is holy innocence!

Farewell! I dare not hope that prayer
Of mine can prove of worth;
Yet this may not disperse in air,
Since thou hast given it birth.

Oh, for thy sake! and theirs no less,
Who on thy being build!
May the warm hopes these lines express,
In mercy be fulfill'd.

TO The Memory OF H--- M---.

Farewell! but O think not thy memory shall perish!
It shall shine through our hearts as thy virtues have done;
And affection and friendship its lustre shall cherish,
As bright and as clear as the calm setting sun.

We mourn not for thee; though too early thou'st left us,
Thou hadst nothing to do, but to die and be blest;
For Death, which has thus of thy presence bereft us,
Was to thee but the herald of quiet and rest.

Well, peace to thy slumbers! that peace the world gives not;
And visions of bliss through the night of the tomb;
Till thou wak'st in that heaven where pale sorrow lives not,
But pleasures immortal around thee shall bloom.

I remember when prospects as bright and unclouded,
As thy own peaceful heart, seem'd thy heritage here;
And I sigh'd, for thy sake, when adversity shrouded
A landscape so lovely, so calm, and so clear.

But 'tis over! and now, unto Faith's piercing vision,
The clouds are dispersing, which darken'd before;
Through Death's gloomy portal shine prospects elysian,
A vista which sorrow shall shadow no more.

Farewell! then, once more: angels watch o'er thy slumbers!
Till eternity's dawn on thy waking shall shine;
And oh! may the Poet, when Death stills his numbers,
Sink to sleep as inviting, as tranquil as thine!

STANZAS ON THE Death of a Child.

Though parental affection lament thee,
And anguish, which loves to recall
Thy image, may oft represent thee
As the fairest and loveliest of all:
Although I must feel for such sorrow,
There is so much of bliss in thy lot,
That pain from thee pleasure may borrow,
And joy could not wish thee forgot.

When childhood, by sin yet untainted,
Gives up life, which it scarcely hath gain'd;
And, ere with affliction acquainted,
Hath its end and its object attain'd;
There is so much of sweet consolation,
To soften the sorrow we feel;
While we mourn the severe dispensation,
We bow to the hand which can heal.

Death comes not to such in his terrors,
His pains are half pangless to them;
Crimes have not succeeded to errors,
Nor conscience been rous'd to condemn.
The prospect before and behind them
Awakes not one heart-stinging sigh;
The season of suffering assign'd them
May be bitter, but soon is gone by.

There is much to relieve and restore us
To peace, when the Child which we lov'd
Hath ascended to glory before us,
Not unblest, though in mercy unprov'd!
Fond fancy gives birth to the feeling
That part of ourselves is at rest;
Hope, humble, but holy and healing,
Sheds its balm in the yet bleeding breast.

Who knows but the beings who bound us,
With tenderest ties to this world,
Though unseen, may be hovering around us,
With their cherub-like pinions unfurl'd?
Although not to our senses permitted
To be visible, still they are near;
And the feelings they prompt are most fitted
To dry up the sorrowing tear.

They tell us that change of existence
Has not sever'd, but strengthen'd each tie;
And, that though we may think them at distance,
Yet are they in spirit still nigh.
There yet is an unbroken union,
Though mortality's curtain may fall;
And souls may keep up their communion,
Through the God of the spirits of all!

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLY.

Forests, and lakes, the majesty of mountains,
The dazzling glaciers, and the musical sound
Of waves and winds, or softer gush of fountains:
In sights and sounds like these thy soul has found
Sublime delight; but can the visible bound
Of this small globe be the sole nurse and mother
Of knowledge and of feeling? Look around!
Mark how one being differs from another;
Yet the world's book is spread before each human brother.

Was this world, then, the parent and the nurse
Of him whose mental eye outliv'd the sight
Of all its beauties?—Him who sang the curse
Of that forbidden fruit, which did invite
Our first progenitors, whom that foul sprite,
In serpent-form, seduc'd from innocence,
By specious promises, that wrong and right,
Evil and good, when they had gather'd thence,
Should be distinctly seen, as by diviner sense?

They pluck'd, and paid the awful penalty
Of disobedience; yet man will not learn
To be content with knowledge that is free
To all. There are, whose soaring spirits spurn
At humble lore, and, still insatiate, turn
From living fountains to forbidden springs;
Whence having proudly quaff'd, their bosoms burn
With visions of unutterable things,
Which restless fancy's spell in shadowy glory brings.

Delicious the delirious bliss, while new;
Unreal phantoms of wise, good, and fair,
Hover around, in every vivid hue
Of glowing beauty; these dissolve in air,
And leave the barren spirit bleak and bare
As alpine summits: it remains to try
The hopeless task (of which themselves despair)
Of bringing back those feelings, now gone by,
By making their own dreams the code of all society.

“All fear, none aid them, and few comprehend;”
And then comes disappointment, and the blight
Of hopes, that might have bless'd mankind, but end
In stoic apathy, or starless night:
And thus hath many a spirit, pure and bright,
Lost that effulgent and ethereal ray,
Which, had religion nourish'd it, still might
Have shone on, peerless, to that perfect day,
When death's veil shall be rent, and darkness dash'd away.

Ere it shall prove too late, thy steps retrace:
The heights thy muse has scal'd, can never be
Her loveliest, or her safest dwelling-place.
In the deep valley of humility,
The river of immortal life flows free
For thee—for all. Oh! taste its limpid wave,
As it rolls murmuring by, and thou shalt see
Nothing in death the Christian dares not brave,
Whom faith in God has given a world beyond the grave!

[No one can more admire the genius of this highly-gifted man than I do; but, in exact proportion to my admiration, is the regret I feel, for what I consider as the perversion of powers so rare, the misapplication of talents so splendid.]

HYMN, COMPOSED FOR THE CHILDREN OF A SUNDAY SCHOOL.

O thou! to whom the grateful song
Of prayer and praise is due,
Hear, we entreat, our childish throng,
And grant thy blessing too.

On those who have so kindly strove
Thy precepts to instil;
Who strive to teach us how to love,
And do thy holy will;

On such, O Lord! thy mercies shed,
Who, in this world of woe,
Like fountains, with fresh waters fed,
Bear blessings as they flow.

And may we, planted by such streams,
Like flowers, which love to lave
Their bending branches in the beams
Which warm their parent wave:

May we, thus blest, yet humbly bow
To Thee, the source of Love!
And drawing nurture from below,
Breathe brightness from above.

Then shall we, while on earth we live,
To thine a comfort be;
And wither, but through death to live
An endless life with Thee!

VERSES To the Memory of SARAH CANDLER.

O doubt not thy memory liveth
In the hearts of survivors on earth!
And soothing the pleasure it giveth
To mourners who muse on thy worth.

But, though we can never forget thee,
And though we believe thou art blest,
We cannot but deeply regret thee,
And long shall thy loss be confest.

For thine was a mind richly gifted
With talents not frequent in youth;
Yet by vanity never uplifted
Above usefulness, meekness, and truth.

We had hopes it was pleasure to nourish,
(Then how shall our sorrow be mute?)
That those bright buds of genius would flourish,
And burst into blossoms and fruit.

But our hopes and our prospects are shaded,
For the plant which inspir'd them hath shed
Its foliage, all green and unfaded,
Ere the beauty of spring-time hath fled.

Like foam on the crest of the billow,
Which sparkles, and sinks from the sight;
Like leaf of the wind-shaken willow,
Though transiently, beauteously bright;—

Like dew-drops, exhal'd as they glisten;
Like perfume, which dies soon as shed;
Like melody, hush'd while we listen;—
Is memory's dream of the dead.

But if such be the objects resembling
The glimpses we saw of thy soul;
How much more enduring the emblem
Its hopes and its prospects unrol!

That bird, which by bards is recorded,
As deathless, and all but divine,
Is now the fit emblem afforded
Of spirits immortal as thine.

Redeem'd by the God who first made thee,
Unto whom be the glory alone;
With the Tree of Life only to shade thee,
From the brightness encircling his throne;

Henceforth thou art rank'd with the daughters
To whom the “new song” hath been given;
Whose voice, like the voice of vast waters,
Everlastingly echoes in heaven!

SILENT WORSHIP.

Though glorious, O God! must thy temple have been,
On the day of its first dedication,
When the Cherubim's wings widely waving were seen
On high, o'er the ark's holy station;

When even the chosen of Levi, though skill'd
To minister, standing before Thee,
Retir'd from the cloud which the temple then fill'd,
And thy glory made Israel adore Thee:

Though awfully grand was thy majesty then;
Yet the worship thy gospel discloses,
Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men,
Far surpasses the ritual of Moses.

And by whom was that ritual for ever repeal'd?
But by Him, unto whom it was given
To enter the Oracle, where is reveal'd,
Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven.

Who, having once enter'd, hath shown us the way,
O Lord! how to worship before thee;
Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day,
But in spirit and truth to adore thee!

This, this is the worship the Saviour made known,
When she of Samaria found him
By the patriarch's well, sitting weary, alone,
With the stillness of noon-tide around him.

How sublime, yet how simple the homage he taught
To her, who inquir'd by that fountain,
If Jehovah at Solyma's shrine would be sought?
Or ador'd on Samaria's mountain?

Woman! believe me, the hour is near,
When He, if ye rightly would hail him,
Will neither be worship'd exclusively here,
Nor yet at the altar of Salem.

For God is a Spirit! and they, who aright
Would perform the pure worship he loveth,
In the heart's holy temple will seek, with delight,
That spirit the Father approveth.

And many that prophecy's truth can declare,
Whose bosoms have livingly known it;
Whom God hath instructed to worship him there,
And convinc'd that his mercy will own it.

The temple that Solomon built to his name,
Now lives but in history's story;
Extinguish'd long since is its altar's bright flame,
And vanish'd each glimpse of its glory.

But the Christian, made wise by a wisdom divine,
Though all human fabrics may falter,
Still finds in his heart a far holier shrine,
Where the fire burns unquench'd on the altar!

VERSES To the Memory of MARY FLETCHER.

Enthusiast, fanatic, and fool,
Many who read thy life will style thee;
And others, more sedate and cool,
Will pity, who dare not revile thee.

For me, I feel, on laying down
The volume, neither power nor will
To ape the critic's frigid frown:
To flatter thee were idler still.

While living, praise of man to thee
Was nothing: o'er thy mouldering earth,
Its empty echo now would be
But mockery of thy Christian worth!

Nor would I, venerable shade!
Now touch such high and solemn theme,
Or this poor tribute have essay'd,
If thus the unthinking world would deem.

But there are those, with whom the test
Of truth is not the Gospel creed;
To whom thy life will be a jest,
Thy path—a parable indeed!

And these, perchance to show their wit,
Will heap thy name with obloquy;
And o'er thy hallow'd pages sit,
“Drest up in brief authority.”

To thee it matters not; but those
Who honour and revere thy name,
May be allow'd to interpose,
And vindicate thy well-earn'd fame.

Not for thy sake alone, but theirs
Who tread the path which thou hast trod;
The church, which prompted once thy prayers,
Thy faith, thy Saviour, and thy God!

These, with united voice, demand
The payment of that sacred debt;
Due, in a favour'd Christian land,
When stars of righteousness have set.

Set, but to rise with holier light;
Eclips'd on earth to shine in heaven;
How should the chill grave's transient night
Dim what Death's Conqueror had given?

And such wert thou: a prophetess
Worthy the church's earlier day;
In piety and faithfulness,
Proving, to love is to obey.

Sceptics may think thy life on earth
Was madness—an enthusiast's dream;
And folly, in its empty mirth,
Thy end devoid of honour deem.

But Faith, which owns thee unforgot,
For thy immortal spirit paints,
With children of the Lord thy lot,
Thy heritage among the Saints!

TO LYDIA.

Midnight has stol'n upon me! sound is none,
Save when light, tinkling cinders, one by one,
Fall from my fire; or its low, fluttering blaze,
A faint and fitful noise at times betrays;
Or distant baying of the watch-dog, caught
At intervals. It is the hour of thought;
Canst thou then marvel, now that thought is free,
Memory should wake, and Fancy fly to thee?—
That she should paint thee, wrapp'd in peaceful sleep?
While round thy happy pillow spirits keep
Their post unseen: those watchers of the night,
Who, o'er the innocent, with fond delight
Stand sentinels, and, by their guardian power,
Preserve from evil Virtue's slumbering hour.
Calm, healthful, and refreshing be thy rest!
And be thy dreams as blissful, as e'er blest,
In Fancy's sweetest, purest, loveliest mood,
The hours of stillness and of solitude!

MEDITATIONS IN GREAT BEALINGS CHURCH-YARD.

It is not only while we look upon
A lovely landscape, that its beauties please:
In distant days, when we afar are gone
From such, in fancy's idle reveries,
Or moods of mind which memory loves to seize,
It comes in living beauty; fresh as when
We first beheld it: valley, hill, or trees
O'ershadowing unseen brooks; or outstretch'd fen,
With cattle sprinkled o'er, exist, and charm again.

Such pictures silently and sweetly glide
Before my “mind's eye;” and I welcome them
The more, because their presence has supplied
A joy, as pure and stainless, as the gem
That morning finds on blossom, leaf, or stem
Of the fair garden's Queen, the lovely Rose;
Ere breeze, or sunbeam, from her diadem,
Have stol'n one brilliant, and around she throws
Her perfumes o'er the spot which with her beauty glows.

Bear witness, many a lov'd and lovely scene,
Which I no more may visit; are ye not

Thus still my own? Thy groves of shady green,
Sweet Gosfield ! or thou, wild, romantic spot!
Where, by grey craggy cliff, and lonely grot,
The shallow Dove rolls o'er his rocky bed:
You still remain as fresh, and unforgot,
As if but yesterday mine eyes had fed
Upon your charms; and yet months, years, since then have sped—

Their silent course. And thus it ought to be,
Should I sojourn far hence in distant years,
Thou lovely dwelling of the dead! with thee:
For there is much about thee that endears
Thy peaceful landscape; much the heart reveres,
Much that it loves, and all it could desire
In meditation's haunt, when hopes and fears
Have been too busy, and we would retire,
Even from ourselves awhile, yet of ourselves inquire.

Then art thou such a spot as man might choose
For still communion: all around is sweet,
And calm, and soothing; when the light breeze woos
The lofty limes that shadow thy retreat,
Whose interlacing branches, as they meet,
O'ertop, and almost hide the edifice
They beautify; no sound, except the bleat
Of innocent lambs, or notes which speak the bliss
Of happy birds unseen. What could a hermit miss?

Enough there is of life, to bind him to
The living; and still more here is to guide
His thoughts and feelings, by a nat'ral clue,
To those who thought and felt like him, then died;
And now in quiet slumber, side by side,
Still challenge kindred, by a holy link,
That not e'en Death can totally divide:
Do we not feel this, when, upon the brink
Of a yet unfill'd grave, we pause, compell'd to think?

We do, for whomsoe'er that grave is ope;
Or young, or middle-ag'd, or if the flight
Of time, have had with such unusual scope:
Whether its inmate claim the pensive rite
Of friend, or kinship; or if such were quite
A stranger, living; Nature will be heard;
Reason, and Revelation, both unite
Their voice with hers, proclaiming how absurd
Earth's vain distinctions are, though eagerly preferr'd.

Yes, thou, stern Death! art, after all, the best
And truest teacher, an unflattering one,
And yet we shun thee like some baneful pest.
In youth, we fancy life is but begun:
Then active middle-age comes hurrying on,
And leaves us less of leisure; and, alas!
Even in age, when slowly, surely run
The few last sands which linger in the glass,
We mourn how few remain, how rapidly they pass.

But 'tis not thee we fear, if thou wert all;
Thou might'st be brav'd, although in thee is much
To wither up the nerves, the heart appal:
Not the mere icy chillness of thy touch,
Nor nature's hopeless struggle with thy clutch
In tossing agony: in thyself, alone,
Thou hast worse pangs; at least I deem them such,
Than any mere corporeal sense can own,
Which, without future fears, might make the bravest groan.

For, wert thou all, in thee there is enough
To touch us to the quick; to part with all
We love, might try a heart of sternest stuff,
And in itself would need what man could call
Of strength and courage; but to feel the thrall
Of rending ties twine closer round the heart;
To see, while on our own eyes shadows fall
Darker, and darker, tears of anguish start,
In lov'd-ones looking on us; saying, “Must we part!”

This is indeed enough. I never stood
But once beside a dying bed; and there
My spirit was not in the fittest mood,
Perhaps, to be instructed, save to bear!
And this is somewhat to be taught us, where
We fancied it impossible: I say
But once it yet has been my lot to share
Such scene; and that, though now a distant day,
Convinc'd me what it was to pass from life away.

Yet there was comfort in that death-bed scene:
Piety, resignation, hope, faith, peace—
All that might render such an hour serene,
Attended round, and in the slow decrease
Of life's last ling'ring powers, for calm release
Prepar'd the suff'rer; and, when life was flown,
Though not abruptly could our sorrows cease,
We felt that sorrow for ourselves alone;
Not for the quiet dead, around whom there was thrown—

Calmness, as 'twere a canopy: the spirit
Seem'd like the prophet in his parting hour,
(When he threw back, to him who was to inherit
His gift, the mantle, as his richest dower,)
To have left behind it somewhat of the power
By which the o'ershadowing clouds of death were riven;
So that, round those who gaz'd, they could not lower
With rayless darkness; but a light was given
Which made e'en tears grow bright: “'twas light from heaven!”

Of thee no more: in truth I scarce can tell
What now recall'd thee to my thoughts; unless
This spot, where those who have bade earth farewell
Sleep peacefully, such memories should impress.
But, see! the sun has set; and now, to bless
With quietness and beauty, softer far
Than that of day, with pensive tenderness,
As best befits the scene, the evening star
Lights up its trembling lamp, to greet pale Cynthia's car.

Onward the queen of night advances: slow
Through fleecy clouds with majesty she wheels:
Yon tower's indented outline, tombstones low,
And mossy grey, her silver light reveals:
Now quivering through the lime-trees' foliage steals;
And now each humble, narrow, nameless bed,
Whose grassy hillock not in vain appeals
To eyes that pass by epitaphs unread,
Rise to the view. How still the dwelling of the dead!

It is a scene that well may call me back,
If any could, to solemn, tender themes;
Let me then once more turn me to the track
My thoughts were journeying: it is one that teems
With truths of high import, not baseless dreams.
I said that death was not, abstractedly,
Were it but all, so dreadful as it seems;
Howe'er acute may be the agony,
'Tis brief, soon must be past, and yet we fear to die.

So much we fear it, in our natural state,
That all of want, of wretchedness, and woe
Combin'd, that can upon existence wait,
Will not induce us calmly to forego
The life we loathe, yet cling to. Wherefore so?
Why, because the deep instinctive awe
Of something else, which reason cannot show,
Or shows but faintly, makes our spirits draw
Back from an unknown world.—'Tis nature's primal law.

Wisely this fear is rooted in the heart,
Even in that which knows no nobler rule;
If not, when hopeless anguish said, depart!
When passion stung the proud, contempt the fool;
What should deter the one till frenzy cool,
And make the other one brief moment wise?
What but that feeling, learnt in nature's school?
Which prompts us, spite of sophistry and lies,
To pause, before we dare a depth no sight descries.

But is this all? Is this the state of man?—
Of him but little less than angels made;
The master-work of God's creative plan,
After his image fashion'd, and array'd
With powers to think—will—act; by whom is sway'd
The visible sceptre of this lower sphere?
Is he thus doom'd by life, by death dismay'd,
To discontent and hopeless misery here?
Oh! think not thus of man: the Gospel more revere.

“The sting of death is sin!” From sin redeem'd,
By him who died upon the cross, to save
Mankind, (O be his death not unesteem'd!)
A way is open'd unto all who crave
His guidance, not to live of sin the slave,
Nor die in dark despair: be it thine to cling
To Him who won this victory o'er the grave,
And drew from death his direst, keenest sting;
So shalt thou, in his time, his glorious praises sing.

“Thanks be to God, who giveth evermore
The victory, through Jesus Christ our Lord!”
Such is the joyful anthem; but before
Its full, triumphal echoes can be pour'd
Through heaven's high courts, and God can be ador'd
By thee, in that beatitude, thou must
Be born again; and thus, by grace restor'd
Unto his favour, even from the dust
Thou shalt be rais'd again, to join the good and just.

For this corruptible must first put on
An essence incorrupt; this mortal be,
Ere such pure blessedness by man is won,
Clothed upon with immortality.
Then, from corruption's deep defilements free,
Mortal in immortality array'd;
Death shall be swallow'd up in victory;
And thou, thy thirst by living streams allay'd,
Shalt enter in the gates where pain nor grief invade.

But I am vent'ring on a theme more high
Than Muse of mine should dare to touch upon;
Its dazzling glories dim her aching eye;
Imagination which afar had gone,
Owns, as she often heretofore has done,
Even her loftiest flights are far too low
For such a theme; by truth acknowledg'd one,
Which, were it handled as it ought, would grow
Too bright, too splendid far, for mortal ken to know.

And yet it is inspiring, and must tend
To elevate the mind, and purify
From low desires, to have its thoughts ascend
At times on eagle-wings, and heavenward fly;
Soaring above the vast and starry sky,
Through worlds and systems crowding boundless space,
To Him who fram'd the whole; whose watchful eye,
And power supreme, in beauty, order, grace,
Upholds them all, and gives to each its destin'd place.

Nor do such flights as these, indulg'd with awe,
And due remembrance of our nothingness,
Improperly exalt: those who withdraw
Thus from themselves, into the mighty press
Of thoughts unutterable, from the excess
Of their o'erwhelming majesty, must feel
(Can finite in infinitude do less?)
The irresistible, though mute appeal,
Which these unto the heart intelligibly reveal.

Dost thou inquire what train of thought could lead
My mind, from such a spot, to these unsought
And unconnected musings? Some who read,
May think them such; and yet they have been brought
To me in seeming order. What is thought?
Imagination's vast and shoreless sea,
Which shifting light and darkness play athwart
In rapid change; inscrutable, and free,
A mirror, where we find forms of all things that be.

And as, when first creative Power employ'd
Its energies; when darkness rul'd the deep,
A mighty Spirit, moving o'er the void,
And waste of waters, rous'd from chaos' sleep
The mass of matter; so may those who keep
Observant watch within, discover there
Fathomless depths, o'er which at times may creep,
By many known not, light which would prepare
That inert, shapeless mass, and power divine declare.

But thou, my unknown reader, think'st perhaps,
I touch again on subjects, all unfit
For me to cope with. Bear with me: the lapse
Of time, and much that time has brought with it,
If it have taught me little else, has lit
A lamp within; and though too oft it may
But render darkness visible, there flit,
In calmer hours, before its trembling ray,
Forms which are not of earth, nor can with time decay.

We live but idly, if we learn not this,
That in our bosoms we must find, at last,
Or poignant wretchedness, or purest bliss.
It boots but little, if our lot be cast
In wealth, or poverty; or how are pass'd
The few short years we have to spend below:
Even while they seem to linger, they fly fast,
And, when the last has fled, we feel, and know,
That where the dead are gone, ourselves must likewise go!

All this we knew before! then why discuss
Subjects so trite? Why this, I own, is true;
And yet, to beings fallible like us,
Such truths, though trite, are worth recalling too.
But I must once more look upon this view,
Before I leave it: night has cloth'd it now
With added beauties: lovelily the hue
Of silvery moonlight rests upon the brow
Of those soft-swelling uplands; through each rustling bough—

Of these tall limes, it gently finds its way;
Shifting, with every breeze, its flitting gleam;
And, while I watch its ever-varying ray,
I catch, at intervals, from yonder stream,
Music so soft, that fancy half could deem
From viewless harps such liquid murmurs fell;
The scene, in truth, is like some lovely dream,
Thrown o'er the spirit by enchanter's spell:—
One more look ere I part! 'Tis given, and now, farewell!

Gosfield Park, near Halstead, in Essex.

Dove-dale, in Derbyshire.

VERSES TO A FRIEND,

WITH A COPY OF THE PRECEDING.

I promis'd thee, that, soon or late,
Your burial-ground should be,
Wouldst thou with gentle patience wait,
A theme of verse to me.

So long, alas! did I delay
The tribute thus decreed it,
That thou, half angrily, didst say,
When wrote, thou wouldst not read it.

But I defy the idle threat,
In peevish mood held out,
For reasons two-fold, which, as yet,
I see no cause to doubt.

The first is curiosity!
Your sex's master-spell.
Nay! look not so reproachfully,
I feel its force as well.

Nor am I much asham'd to own
This fault, if fault it be;
Much worse, I guess, might soon be shown,
Or 'twere not shar'd with thee.

But let that pass: one reason yet
Remains for thee to hear,
Why I should hold thy playful threat
As one I need not fear.

It is because the spot, thus made
The scene of thoughts of mine,
Is one that often is portray'd
By Fancy unto thine.

When absent from it, does it not
Arise to Memory's view,
Like an endear'd and hallow'd spot,
Where thought and feeling grew—

From strength to strength? Oh, thus it should!
For, howsoe'er we roam,
Hearts happy, guileless, pure, and good,
Must turn to childhood's home.

Then be the song which owes its birth
To thee, by thee approv'd;
If not for its intrinsic worth,
Yet for its theme belov'd.

And should it seem to thee to wear
Of graver thoughts the hue,
With such I know that thou wilt bear,
If feeling own them true.

The brightest, gayest thoughts of mirth,
If thought to mirth be given,
Can only lend a charm to earth;
But graver—lead to heaven!

WINTER.

Thou hast thy beauties: sterner ones, I own,
Than those of thy precursors; yet to thee
Belong the charms of solemn majesty
And naked grandeur. Awful is the tone
Of thy tempestuous nights, when clouds are blown
By hurrying winds across the troubled sky;
Pensive, when softer breezes faintly sigh
Through leafless boughs, with ivy overgrown.
Thou hast thy decorations too; although
Thou art austere: thy studded mantle, gay
With icy brilliants, which as proudly glow
As erst Golconda's; and thy pure array
Of regal ermine, when the drifted snow
Envelopes nature; till her features seem
Like pale, but lovely ones, seen when we dream.

STANZAS TO A FRIEND.

Thou dost not need that verse of mine
Should speak my thanks, or paint thy worth;
And yet a friendship firm as thine
May bear what gratitude gives birth.

Thou art not like those flowers that ask
The aid of art, as frail as fair;
Which in conservatories bask,
But wither in the open air:

These stem no storm, and brook no blast;
Though bright their blossoming may be;
Their perfume pleases, and is past;
And can such things be types of thee?

They cannot! But I've seen, ere now,
On some wild ruin, moss'd and grey,
A flower as fair, as sweet as thou,
Blessing with bloom its latest day.

And while its loveliness has lent
Fresh beauty to that mouldering wall,
It seem'd as if its sweets were sent
To make up for the loss of all.

The winds might howl, the ruin rock;
It flourish'd fearlessly, and fair;
It shrunk not from the impending shock;
It spoke defiance to despair.

And thus, in seasons dark and drear,
When I have felt, how oft, alas!
With many a mute, foreboding fear,
The ruin of what once I was;

Thy friendship, like that faithful flower,
Surviving much, defying all,
Has caus'd on sorrow's saddest hour
Some streaks of happier hue to fall.

Heaven bless thee for it! and believe
That he who bids the gentle dew
Refresh the wall-flower every eve,
And morning sunbeams warm it too:

O doubt not He will doubly bless
What purest friendship hath inspir'd;
And, for its worth, and faithfulness,
Return what it hath not requir'd.

And long may I, by fate bereft
Of much, most justly dear to me;
Still fondly learn its frowns have left
For soothing thoughts, a theme in thee!

SONNET

TO THE DEBEN.

Thou windest not through scenery which enchants
The gazer's eye with much of grand or fair;
Yet on thy margin many a wandering pair
Have found that peaceful pleasure nature grants
To those who seek her in her humbler haunts,
And love and prize them, because she is there:
May I then, now the setting sunbeam slants
Upon thy bosom, in those pleasures share?
Thanks unto Nature, she hath left me yet
Some of those better feelings which were born
In childhood: may their influence never set;
But may it be as gradually withdrawn,
As yon sun's beams from thee; chiding regret
By the bright promise of a cloudless morn.

TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH;

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS POEM, ENTITLED “PETER BELL.”

Beautiful Poet! as thou art,
In spite of all that critics tell,
I thank thee, even from my heart,
For this, thy tale of “Peter Bell.”
It is a story worthy one
Who thinks, feels, loves, as thou hast done.

It is a story worthy too
Of a more simple, primal age,
When feelings, natural, tender, true,
Hallow'd the poet's humblest page,
Ere trick'ry had usurp'd the place
Of unsophisticated grace.

I quarrel not with those who deem
Essential to poetic mood
High-sounding phrase, and lofty theme,
And “ready arts to freeze the blood;”
Intent to dazzle or appal;
But nature still is best of all.

To be by taste's and fashion's laws
The favourite of this fickle day;
To win the drawing-room's applause,
To strike, to startle, to display,
And give effect, would seem the aim
Of most who bear the poet's name.

For this, one idol of the hour,
Brilliant and sparkling as the beams
Of the glad sun, culls every flower,
And scatters round dews, gems, and streams,
Until the wearied, aching sight,
Is “blasted with excess of light.”

Another leads his readers on
With scenery, narrative, and tales
Of legends wild, and battles won—
Of craggy rocks, and verdant vales;
Till, always on amazement's brink,
We find we have no time to think.

And last, not least, a master mind,
Around whose proud and haughty brow,
Had he but chosen, might have twin'd
The Muses' brightest, greenest bough,
Who, would he his own victor be,
Might seize on immortality.

He too, forsooth, with morbid vein,
Must fling a glorious fame away;
Instruction and delight disdain,
And make us own, yet loathe his sway:
From Helicon he might have quaff'd,
Yet turn'd to Acheron's deadly draught.

O shame and glory of our age!
With talents such as scarcely met
In bard before: thy magic page
Who can peruse without regret?
Or think, with cold, unpitying mien,
Of what thou art, and might'st have been?

No more of such: from these I turn,
From sparkling wit, and amorous lays:
From glooms that chill, and “words that burn,”
And gorgeous pomp of feudal days;
I turn from such, as things that move
Wonder and awe, but wake not love.

To thee, and to thy page despis'd
By worldly hearts, I turn with joy,
To ponder o'er the lays I priz'd,
When once a careless, happy boy;
And all that fascinated then,
More understood, delights again.

Nor is it, Wordsworth, trivial test
Of thy well-earn'd poetic fame,
That the untutor'd youthful breast
Should cherish with delight thy name:
If feeling be the test of truth,
That touchstone is best prov'd in youth.

Thine is no complicated art,
Which after-life alone can give
The power to appreciate: in the heart
Its purest, holiest canons live;
And nature's tact is most intense
In the soul's early innocence.

'Tis then the sun, the sky, the air,
The sparkling stream, the leafy wood,
The verdant fields, the mountains bare,
Are felt, though little understood:
We care not, seek not then to prove
Effect, or cause: we feel, and love.

And in that day of love and feeling,
Poetry is a heavenly art;
Its genuine principles revealing
In their own glory to the heart,
Nature's resistless, artless tone
Awakes an echo of its own.

These truths, for such they are, by thee,
Illustrious Poet! well are seen;
And to thy wise simplicity
Most sacred have they ever been;
Therefore shalt thou before the Nine
Officiate, in their inmost shrine!

Then journey on thy way: though lowly,
And simple, and despis'd it be;
Yet shall it yield thee visions holy,
And such as worldings never see:
Majestic, simple, meek, sublime,
And worthy of an earlier time.

Continue still to cultivate,
In thy sequester'd solitude,
Those high conceptions which await
The musings of the wise and good;
Conceptions lofty, pure, and bright,
Which fill thy soul with heavenly light.

Thou need'st not stoop to win applause
By petty artifice of style;
Or studied wit that coldly draws
From fops or fools a vapid smile:
And still less need'st thou stoop to borrow
Affected gloom, or mimic sorrow.

But take thee to thy groves and fields,
Thy rocky vales, and mountains bare,
And give us all that nature yields
Of manners, feelings, habits, there:
Please and instruct the present age,
And live in history's latest page.

VERSES,

SUGGESTED BY THE PERUSAL OF AN EPITAPH IN BURY CHURCH-YARD.

When Siloam's tower in fragments strew'd the ground,
And by its fall spread awe and terror round;
Think ye that they on whom the ruin fell
Were worse than those who liv'd their fate to tell?
I say unto ye, nay! That righteous God,
Who rules the nations with his awful nod,
Without whose knowledge not a sparrow dies,
Looks not on such events with human eyes;
The bolt he hurls, by boundless mercy sped,
Oft strikes the saint's, but spares the sinner's head;
And while frail mortals scan effect and cause,
His love pursues its own unerring laws;
Gives the glad saint his final recompense,
The sinner spares, perchance for penitence.
What though the storm might rise, the clouds might lower,
And muttering thunders mark the vesper hour;

What though the little suppliant might be taught
A form of faith, with numerous errors fraught;
Yet He, whose eye is on the heart alone,
The guileless homage of this child might own:
And, 'mid the terrors of a stormy even,
Call, with approving smile, her soul to heaven!

While simple Mary, innocently bold,
With virtuous diligence her vespers told;
Who knows how many, votaries of a creed
Which teaches purer faith in word and deed,
With hands uplifted, but with hearts unmov'd,
Proffer'd their supplications unapprov'd?
Nay, they might even, when the storm was o'er,
Shortsightedly this damsel's fate deplore;
And blindly deprecate her dreadful doom,
Thus early crown'd with glorious martyrdom.
Not so, sweet girl, would I, a nameless bard,
Thy happy, holy destiny regard;
To me thou seem'st like one, who, early fit
For heaven, and heaven alone, wert call'd to it;
By piety and purity prepar'd,
And by thy sacred destiny declar'd
In God's all-seeing and unerring eyes,
A spotless Lamb, most meet for sacrifice;
And, like Elijah's lot in olden time,
I own thy end was sudden, but sublime;

The car of glory, and the steeds of fire,
Bore from Elisha's view his sainted sire:
And unto thee, by hallow'd fire from heaven,
The boon of immortality was given!

The Epitaph which suggested the preceding is as follows:
Here lies interred the Body of Mary Singleton, a young Maiden of this Parish, aged nine years, born of Roman Catholic Parents, and virtuously brought up; who, being in the act of prayer, repeating her Vespers, was instantaneously killed by a flash of Lightning, August 16th, 1785.

TO THE GALLIC EAGLE.

Fame's favourite minion!
The theme of her story;
How quail'd is thy pinion,
How sullied its glory:

Where blood flow'd like water,
Exulting it bore thee!
Destruction and slaughter
Behind and before thee.

Where glory was blushing,
Thy flight was the fleetest;
Where death's sleep was hushing,
Thy slumber was sweetest.

When broad-swords were clashing,
Thy cry was the loudest;
When deep they were gashing,
Thy plume was the proudest.

But, triumph is over;
No longer victorious,
No more shalt thou hover,
Destructively glorious!

Far from the battle's shock,
Fate hath fast bound thee;
Chain'd to the rugged rock,
Waves warring round thee.

Instead of the trumpet's sound,
Sea-birds are shrieking;
Hoarse on thy rampart's bound,
Billows are breaking.

The standards which led thee
Are trampled and torn now;
The flatteries which fed thee
Are turn'd into scorn now.

For ensigns unfurling,
Like sunbeams in brightness;
Are crested waves curling,
Like snow-wreaths in whiteness.

No sycophants mock thee
With dreams of dominion;
But rude tempests rock thee,
And ruffle thy pinion.

Thy last flight is taken,
Hope leaves thee for ever:
And victory shall waken
Thy proud spirit never!

STANZAS

ADDRESSED TO SOME FRIENDS GOING TO THE SEA-SIDE.

Since Summer invites you to visit once more
The haunts she most loves on the ocean's cool shore,
Where billows are foaming, and breezes are free,
Accept at our parting one farewell from me.

My fancy can picture the pleasures in view;
Because before now I have shar'd them with you:
But unable this season to taste them again,
I must feast on such pleasures as flow from my pen.

Let fancy then give me what fate has denied,
And grant me at seasons to roam by your side;
Nor will I repine while remembrance can be
Still blest with the moments I've spent by the sea.

The ramble at morning, when morning first wakes,
And the sun through the haze like a beacon-fire breaks;
Illuming to sea-ward the billows' white foam,
And tempting the loiterer ere breakfast to roam.

The stroll after breakfast, when all are got out:
The saunter, the lounge, and the looking about:
The search after shells, and the eye glancing bright,
If cornelian, or amber, should come in its sight.

Nor must I forget the last ramble at eve,
When the splendours of daylight are taking their leave;
When the sun's setting beams, with a tremulous motion,
Are reflected far off on the bosom of ocean.

This, this is the time, when I think I have found
The deepest delight from the scenery round:
There's a freshness in morning's enjoyments, but this
Brings with it a feeling of tenderer bliss.

I remember an evening, though years are gone by,
Since that evening was spent: to my heart and my eye
It is present, by memory's magical power,
And reflects back its light on this far distant hour.

'Twas an evening the loveliest that Summer had seen,
The sky was unclouded, the ocean serene:
The sun's setting beams so resplendently bright,
On the billows were dancing like streamers of light.

So soothing the sounds were, which faintly I heard,
They were sweeter than notes of the night-loving bird;
And so peaceful the prospect before me, it seem'd
Like a scene of delight of which fancy had dream'd.

There's a soothing enjoyment the pen cannot paint;
There are feelings which own that all language is faint;
And such on that eve to my heart were made known,
As I mus'd by the murmuring billows alone.

But enough.—May your sea-side excursion fulfil
Every hope you have form'd, be those hopes what they will;
And may I, although absent, in fancy create
Those joys which on you in reality wait.

STANZAS

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

[_]

(Obiit 1st Mo. 9th, 1820.)

We knew that the moment was drawing nigh,
To fulfil every fearful token;
When the silver cord must loosen its tie,
And the golden bowl be broken;
When the fountain's vase, and the cistern's wheel,
Should alike to our trembling hearts appeal.

And now shall thy dust return to the earth,
Thy spirit to God who gave it;
Yet affection shall tenderly cherish thy worth,
And memory deeply engrave it,—
Not upon tables of brass or stone,
But in those fond bosoms where best 'twas known.

Thou shalt live in mine, though thy life be fled,
For friendship thy name shall cherish;
And be one of the few, and the dearly-lov'd dead,
Whom my heart will not suffer to perish:
Who in loveliest dreams are before me brought,
And in sweetest hours of waking thought.

But oh! there is one, with tearful eye,
Whose fondest desires fail her;
Who indeed is afraid of that which is high,
And fears by the way assail her;
Whose anguish confesses that tears are vain,
Since dark are the clouds that return after rain!

May He, who alone can scatter each cloud,
Whose love all fear dispelleth;
Who, though for a season his face he shroud,
In light and in glory dwelleth,
Break in on that mourner's soul, from above,
And bid her look upwards with holy love.

STANZAS

ON THE CONVERSION OF THE JEWS.

On this labour of love may a blessing attend;
May the Shepherd of Israel his Salem befriend,
And hasten that period, by prophets foretold,
When the stragglers of Judah shall rest in his fold.

For surely the time is approaching, when He
Will set, in his love, the law's prisoners free;
And send them to feed in the ways of his grace,
And find them a pasture in every high place.

Behold, they shall come from afar at his word,
Which alike in the north and the west shall be heard;
His uplifted standard shall Sinim's land see,
And a light to the gentiles his people shall be.

Awaken, O Zion! and put on thy strength,
And array thee in beautiful garments at length;
Shake thyself from the dust, with the might of the strong,
And cast off the bands which have bound thee so long.

The sons of the strangers thy walls shall rebuild;
Thy gates shall be open, thy courts shall be fill'd:
God once smote thee in anger, but now thou shalt see
That He, in his favour, hath mercy on thee.

The Lord, in his glory, upon thee shall rise;
The gentiles shall come to thy light with surprise;
And their kings shall rejoice thy bright rising to greet,
When God shall make glorious the place of his feet.

Then shall ye, poor wanderers! no longer roam wide,
For a greater than Moses your footsteps shall guide;
Not unto the mount, where the trumpet once sounded,
With blackness, and darkness, and tempest surrounded;

But unto Mount Sion, the city of God,
The courts of whose temples by angels are trod;
To the church of the first-born, recorded above,
And the spirits of just men, perfected by love.

And to Him, whose new priesthood shall ever endure,
More pow'rful than Aaron's, more holy, more pure;
Who needeth not daily oblations to make,
Having offer'd up freely himself for your sake.

If the judgments of God on your fathers went forth,
Who were deaf unto him that spake only on earth;
O refuse not the boon which would surely be given,
Nor turn ye from Him who now speaketh from heaven!

THE IVY.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

Dost thou not love, in the season of spring,
To twine thee a flowery wreath,
And to see the beautiful birch-tree fling
Its shade on the grass beneath?
Its glossy leaf, and its silvery stem;
Oh dost thou not love to look on them?

And dost thou not love, when leaves are greenest,
And summer has just begun,
When in the silence of moonlight thou leanest,
Where glist'ning waters run,
To see, by that gentle and peaceful beam,
The willow bend down to the sparkling stream?

And oh! in a lovely autumnal day,
When leaves are changing before thee,
Do not nature's charms, as they slowly decay,
Shed their own mild influence o'er thee?
And hast thou not felt, as thou stood'st to gaze,
The touching lesson such scene displays?

It should be thus, at an age like thine;
And it has been thus with me;
When the freshness of feeling and heart were mine,
As they never more can be:
Yet think not I ask thee to pity my lot,
Perhaps I see beauty where thou dost not.

Hast thou seen in winter's stormiest day
The trunk of a blighted oak,
Not dead, but sinking in slow decay,
Beneath time's resistless stroke,
Round which a luxuriant Ivy had grown,
And wreath'd it with verdure no longer its own?

Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then,
As I, at thy years, might do,
Pass'd carelessly by, nor turned again
That scathed wreck to view:
But now I can draw from that mould'ring tree,
Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me.

O smile not! nor think it a worthless thing,
If it be with instruction fraught;
That which will closest and longest cling,
Is alone worth a serious thought!
Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed
Grace on the dying, and leaves not the dead?

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Now, in thy youth, beseech of Him
Who giveth, upbraiding not,
That his light in thy heart become not dim,
And his love be unforgot;
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee!

101

VERSES To the Memory of P. Burgess,

A CHILD OF SUPERIOR ENDOWMENTS AND EXTRAORDINARY PIETY.

It is not length of years which lends
The brightest loveliness to those
Whose memory with our being blends,
Whose worth within our bosom glows.

The age we honour standeth not
In locks of snow, or length of days;
But in a life which knows no spot,
A heart which heavenly wisdom sways.

For wisdom, which is taught by truth,
Unlike mere worldly knowledge, finds
Its full maturity in youth,
Its image e'en in infant minds.

Thus was this child made early wise,
Wise as those sages, who, from far,
Beheld, in Bethlehem's cloudless skies,
The Christian church's gathering star.

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What more could wisdom do for them,
Than guide them in the path they trod?
And the same star of Bethlehem
Hath led his spirit home to God!

Well may his memory be dear,
Whose loss is still its sole alloy,
Whose happy lot dries every tear
With holy hopes and humble joy.

“The brightest star of morning's host,”
Is that which shines in twilight skies;
“Scarce risen, in brighter beams 'tis lost,”
And vanishes from mortal eyes.

Its loss inspires a brief regret;
Its loveliness is ne'er forgot;
We know full well 'tis shining yet,
Although we may behold it not.

And thus the spirit which is gone,
Is but absorb'd in glory's blaze;
In beaming brightness burning on,
Though lost unto our finite gaze.

There are, who watch'd it to the last;
There are, who can forget it never;
May these, when death's dark shade is past,
Partake with joy its light for ever!

103

STANZAS TO HELEN M--- M---.

Believe not that absence can banish
The memory of moments gone by;
Could I deem they so lightly would vanish,
I should think on the past with a sigh.
But thy image was never intended
The source of one sorrow to be;
For pleasure and hope are both blended
In each thought which arises of thee.

'Tis not love,—as that passion is painted,
Its revival I never shall prove:
For, long ere we two were acquainted,
I had ceas'd e'en to think about love.
The attachment I feel is another,
'Tis passion from penitence free;
And had I to choose as a brother,
I would look for a sister in thee.

104

Thou need'st not, dear Helen, to doubt me,
When I fondly and frankly confess,
That thought in this bosom about thee
Is busier than words can express.
And when such ideas are springing,
They touch such a tone and a key;
If my hand on my harp I am flinging,
Its strings must be vocal to thee.

When the sun, in his rising from ocean,
Foretels a bright day by his dawn;
With eager and joyful emotion
We exult in the beauties of morn.
Such thine: be thy noontide the same too,
And may age, from infirmity free,
Calm, peaceful, as earth can lay claim to,
In life's close, be still lovely in thee.

O grant that the picture thus painted,
The world may not wantonly mar!
Keep thy soul in its whiteness untainted,
And may innocence still be its star.
Then, whatever the station assign'd thee,
Though distant that station may be,
The remembrance of friends left behind thee
Shall dwell with delight upon thee.

105

For affection bids distance defiance,
Its ardour no absence can change;
And the links of its holy alliance
Can reach through creation's vast range.
Those links have so lovingly bound us,
That, when thou art far over sea,
Thy image shall hover around us,
And tenderly whisper of thee.

106

FANCY AND IMAGINATION.

There is a pleasure, now and then, in giving
Full scope to Fancy and Imagination;
And, for a time, to seem as we were living
In fearless, incorporeal exultation,
Amid sweet scenes of the mind's own creation.
Why should we not? We surely need not deem
That man forgets the duties of his station,
Because he cherishes the lovely gleam
Thrown on life's thorny path by fancy's brilliant beam.

No gift of God was given without its end;
And had it not been right that we should see,
As through this world's bleak wilderness we wend,
Beyond the reach of dull reality,
Imagination, fearless, fond and free,
Had not been given us. It has—and why?
But to enable us at times to be
Partakers of those raptures pure and high,
Unearthly visions bring before our mental eye.

107

The danger of such dear delights is this:
'Tis sweet to soar, but dreary to descend;
To exchange for real bale, ideal bliss,
And see the beauteous forms which round us blend
In airy loveliness, no more befriend
The heart they lighten'd, vanishing afar!
True, it is painful! but think we to mend
Our mortal destiny, or rather mar,
By quenching in our minds each brightest, loveliest star?

The Patriarch, who laid him down to rest,
And saw in holy visions of the night,
'Mid opening clouds the angelic host confest,
Ascending and descending in his sight,
Those golden steps so glitteringly bright,
Which led from earth to heaven—from heaven to earth;
Did he, repining at the morning light,
Arraign the Power which gave those phantoms birth?
No! with adoring heart he humbly own'd their worth.

Oh, hallow'd Fancy! sweet Imagination!
Although your blessings unto me have been
Not pure and unalloy'd; my admiration,
My love of you is not the less, I ween.

108

Still gild at intervals life's clouded scene;
And though your lofty glories brightly breaking
On my mind's eye, be “few and far between,”
May I, in dreams at least, your powers partaking,
Woo your sublime delights, and bless you on my waking.

109

PLAYFORD,

A DESCRIPTIVE FRAGMENT.—1817.

Hast thou a heart to prove the power
Of a landscape lovely, soft, and serene?
Go, when its fragrance hath left the flower,
When the leaf is no longer glossy and green;
When the clouds are careering across the sky,
And the rising winds tell the tempest nigh,
Though the slanting sunbeams are lingering still,
On the tower's grey top, and the side of the hill:
Then go to the village of Playford, and see
If it be not a lovely spot;
And, if nature can boast of charms for thee,
Thou wilt love it, and leave it not,
Till the shower shall warn thee no longer to roam,
And then thou wilt carry its picture home,
To feed thy fancy when far away,
A source of delight for a future day.
Its sloping green is verdant and fair,
And between its tufts of trees
Are white cottages, peeping here and there,
The pilgrim's eye to please:

110

A white farm-house may be seen on its brow,
And its grey old hall in the valley below,
By a moat encircled round;
And from the left verge of its hill you may hear,
If you chance on a sabbath to wander near,
A sabbath-breathing sound:
'Tis the sound of the bell which is slowly ringing
In that tower, which lifts its turrets above
The wood-fring'd bank, where birds are singing,
And from spray to spray are fearlessly springing,
As if in a lonely and untrodden grove;
For the grey church-tower is far over-head;
And so deep is the winding lane below,
They hear not the sound of the traveller's tread,
If a traveller there should chance to go:—
But few pass there, for most who come,
At the bell's last summons have left their home,
That bell which is tolling so slow.
And grassy and green may the path be seen
To the village church that leads;
For its glossy hue is as verdant to view
As you see it in lowly meads.
And he who the ascending pathway scales,
By the gate above, and the mossy pales,
Will find the trunk of a leafless tree,
All bleak, and barren, and bare;
Yet it keeps its station, and seems to be
Like a silent monitor there:

111

Though wasted and worn it smiles in the ray
Of the bright warm sun, on a sunny day;
And more than once I have seen
The moonbeams sleep on its barkless trunk,
As calmly and softly as ever they sunk
On its leaves, when its leaves were green:
And it seem'd to rejoice in their light the while,
Reminding my heart of the patient-smile
Resignation can wear in the hour of grief,
When it finds in religion a source of relief,
And stript of delights which earth had given,
Still shines in the beauty it borrows from heaven!
But the bell hath ceas'd to ring;
And the birds no longer sing;
And the grasshopper's carol is heard no more;
Yet sounds of praise and prayer
The wandering breezes bear,
Like the murmur of waves on the ocean shore.
All else is still! but silence can be
More eloquent far than speech;
And the valley below, and that tower and tree,
Through the eye to the heart can reach.
Could the sage's creed, the historian's tale,
Utter language like that of yon silent vale?
As it basks in the beams of the sabbath-day,
And rejoices in nature's reviving ray;
While its peaceful meadows, and autumn-ting'd trees,
Seem enjoying the sun, and inhaling the breeze.

112

And that not that church a lovely look
In the page of this landscape's open book?
Like a capital letter which catches the eye
Of the reader, and says a new chapter is nigh;
So its tower, by which the horizon is broken,
Of prayer and of praise, a beautiful token,
Lifts up its head, and silently tells
Of a world hereafter, where happiness dwells.
While that scathed tree seems a link between
The dead and the living!—'Tis barren and bare,
But the grass below it is fresh and green,
Though its roots can find no moisture there:
Yet still on its birth-place it loves to linger,
And evermore points with its silent finger
To the clouds, and the sun, and the sky so fair.

113

VERSES

TO SOME FRIENDS RETURNING FROM THE SEA-SIDE.

Forget not the moments
I've wander'd with you,
When nature was glorious,
And beautiful too.

When the dash of the billow
That broke on the beach,
Made loftier music
Than science can reach.

When the clouds, sailing over
The bright azure sky,
Look'd like structures of glory
That proudly pass'd by.

When the breeze sweeping near us
Seem'd life to impart,
And each glowing sun-beam
Shone into the heart.

114

O think of those moments,
When home you return!
And your social fire blazing
Before you shall burn.

While you, sitting by it,
With many a smile,
And sisterly converse,
The hours shall beguile.

Should fancy then wander,
As wander it will,
May it come back and tell you
I think of you still.

Should you, when 'tis star-light,
Look out on the sky,
And Jupiter's glory
Flash full on your eye;—

Will you then remember
How brightly he shone
In your lone sea-side parlour,
When day-light was gone?

And we sat and watch'd him,
As sun-like he beam'd;
While far, far beneath him
The beacon-fire gleam'd.

115

Or, when nights are stormy,
And winter-winds high,
When the war of the elements
Sweeps through the sky;—

Should it rouse you from slumber,
May memory awake;
And the sounds that disturb you
Be sweet for its sake.

Let their music remind you
How awfully grand
Was that of the wild waves
On ocean's far strand!

Be the tone of the tempest
Like that of the sea;
In its pauses of silence
Give one thought to me!

Then turn on the pillow,
And sleep until dawn;
And be health, peace, and happiness,
Yours on the morn.

116

TO THE MOON.

All hail to thee! radiant ruler of night!
Shedding round thee thy soft and thy silvery light;
Now touching the hill-tops, now threading the vale,
Oh! who can behold thee, nor bid thee all hail?

The monarch of day more majestic may be,
When he rises in pomp on the verge of the sea;
When, the clouds that have curtain'd him slowly undrawn,
His magnificence scatters the mists of the morn.

His glory at noon may be greater than thine;
More splendid and glowing his evening decline,
When the hues of the rainbow illumine the west,
And millions of happy birds sing him to rest.

But not in his rise, in his zenith, nor even
When his parting effulgence irradiates half heaven,
Though grand and majestic his glory be shown,
Does he shine with a loveliness sweet as thy own.

117

The pleasures, the cares, and the business of life
Are ever with calm contemplation at strife;
And, absorb'd in our selfish pursuits, we forget
The sun and his glories, till after his set.

But Thou comest forth when the stir is subsiding,
Like an angel of light through the clear heavens gliding;
As if to remind us, ere sinking to rest,
Of worlds more delightful, of beings more blest.

Through the path which thy Maker has trac'd thee on high,
Thou walkest, in silence, across the vast sky;
Suns and worlds scatter'd round thee, though brilliant they be,
Appear but like humble attendants on thee.

All silent thyself! yet that stillness appears
The signal for music, as sweet as the tears
That the dews of the night o'er the landscape distil,
Which, seen by thy bright beams, are lovelier still.

For the softest of sounds shed their harmony round,
More musical far in a calm so profound;
The murmur of brooks, and the nightingale's song,
And the sigh of the breeze, sweeping gently along:

118

These alone form thy orchestra; yet in the hour
Of thy pensive dominion, and heart-touching power,
Their exquisite magic seems fraught with a tone,
To the music of gaudier day-light unknown.

Roll on then, thou radiant ruler of night!
Exult in thy empire, rejoice in thy light;
Over mountain and valley, o'er ocean and isle,
Pour down thy soft splendour, and lavish thy smile.

For thy splendour, undazzling, and touchingly sweet,
Is one that e'en sorrow serenely can greet;
And thy smile glist'ning bright on each dew-drop appears
Bringing hope from on high, forming rainbows in tears.

119

RECOLLECTIONS

All round was still and calm; the noon of night
Was fast approaching: up the unclouded sky
The glorious moon pursued her path of light,
And shed her silvery splendour far and nigh:
Nor sound, save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh,
Could reach the ear; and that so softly blew,
It scarcely stirr'd, in sweeping lightly by,
The acacia's airy foliage; faintly too
It kiss'd the jasmine's stars which just below me grew.

Before me, scatter'd here and there, were trees
Whose massy outline of reposing shade,
Unbroken by that faint and fitful breeze,
With the clear sky a lovely contrast made:
'Twas Nature, in her chastest charms array'd!
How could I then abruptly leave such scene?
I could not: for the beauties it display'd
To me were dearer than the dazzling sheen
Of noon's effulgent hour, or morning's sparkling mien.

120

Awhile in silent reverie I stood,
Pensively gazing on the objects round;
And soon my mind, in contemplative mood,
Abundant theme for meditation found;
And far beyond the shadowy visible bound
Of my eye's glance did eager fancy fly;
Nor even Virtue on her flight then frown'd,
But mark'd her progress with approving eye,
For heav'n-ward was her course, her visions pure and high.

They err, who calculate Time's silent pace
By the mere lapse of minutes, or of hours;
Not even thought his printless step can trace,
Which hastens onward, over thorns and flowers,
Nor cares for sun that shines, or storm that lowers.
'Twere wiser far in us to count his flight
By the improvement of our mental powers,
And by the store of suffering, or delight,
Which cheers Life's fleeting day, or clouds Death's coming night.

Oh, there are hours! ay moments, that contain
Feelings, that years may pass and never bring;
Which, whether fraught with pleasure or with pain,
Can never be forgot: as if the wing
Of time, while passing o'er, had power to fling
A dark'ning shade, or tint of happier hue,
To which fond memory faithfully should cling
In after life: I felt, and own'd it true,
While I stood still, and look'd upon that moonlight view.

121

I thought of some, who once beheld, like me,
The peaceful prospect then before me spread;
And its still loveliness appear'd to be
One of those visions morning slumbers shed
Upon the pensive mourner's pillow'd head:
Its beauties, less distinct, but far more dear,
Seem'd to invoke the absent, and the dead!
And by some spell to bring the former near,
Although it could not call the latter from their sphere.

Nor did I wish it.—No, dear Mary! no:
How could I ever wish thou shouldst resign,
For any bliss this being can bestow,
Pleasures eternal, deathless, and divine?
Yet, when I saw the pale moon coldly shine
On the same paths and turf which thou hadst trod,
Forgive my vain regret!—Yet, why repine?
Its beams sleep sweetly on thy peaceful sod,
And thou thyself hast sought thy Father, and thy God!

For thou wert number'd with the “pure in heart,”
Whom Christ pronounced blessed! and to thee,
When thou wast summon'd from this world to part,
We well may hope the promis'd boon would be
Vouchsaf'd in mercy,—that thy soul should see
Him, whom the angelic hosts of heaven adore;
And from each frailty of our nature free,
Which clogg'd that gentle spirit heretofore,
Exulting, sing His praise, who lives for evermore!

122

Farewell! thou lov'd and gentle one, farewell!
Thou hast not liv'd in vain, or died for nought!
Oft of thy worth survivors' tongues shall tell,
And thy long-cherish'd memory shall be fraught
With many a theme of fond and tender thought,
That shall preserve it sacred. What could years,
Or silver'd locks, of added good have brought
Unto a name like thine? Even the tears
Thy early death has caus'd, thy early worth endears!

Mix'd with thy memory, in that moonlight scene,
Came thoughts of one still living here below,
Who had thy sister-like companion been,
When first I met you both, long, long ago;
And all the pleasure which I us'd to know
In your society, to my mind's eye
Reviv'd again, ting'd with a brighter glow
Of feeling than it wore in days gone by;
Like some delightful dream, whose influence could not die.

I turn'd me to past hours, remember'd yet,
When we together walk'd the ocean shore;
What time the sun in hues of glory set,
What time the waves obey'd the winds no more,
And music broke, where thunder burst before:
I thought of moments when we turn'd the page
Of Scotia's Shepherd Bard, and linger'd o'er
His simple pictures of an earlier age,
Kilmeny's heav'nly trance, The Abbot's pilgrimage.

123

These Recollections still have charms for me,
And for their sake, my lovely friend, wilt thou
Pardon me, if thine eye this page should see,
The expression of my feelings then, and now:
So may the breeze which fans thy Sister's brow
Bear healing on its wings! and when for home
Once more your bark shall ocean's surface plough,
May your bright eyes, around you as they roam,
Tell that your hearts are light as ocean's feathery foam.

Thou too, young Bride! thine image pass'd me by,
While looking on a spot to thee so dear,
It scarcely could be left without a sigh,
Though Love had conquer'd vain, foreboding fear:
I thought of thee; and hope and faith were near,
And whisper'd tidings of thy future fate;
They told me too, that feelings cherish'd here
Should on life's after progress love to wait,
And gild with happiest hues thy hymeneal state.

Then, shouldst thou cast a retrospective glance
On thy late home, may its lov'd memory seem
Thy present pleasures only to enhance,
By flinging from the past a vivid gleam
Of brightness, like some well-remember'd dream,
Which charms us when we wake to sober bliss:
Still be life's earliest ties a tender theme,
Dear to affection; and thou shalt not miss,
In any earthly home, enjoyment found in this.

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But why pursue to Memory's utmost scope
Her “Recollections?” Here then let them end.
Peace to the dead! And oh! may blissful hope
Wait on the image of each absent friend;
That so with our adieus may sweetly blend
The pleasing prospect of a future day,
When the last parting shall but seem to lend
To our re-union a still brighter ray,
Like the sun's new-born beams, when night has past away.

Frail is that friendship, that affection cold,
Whose transient influence is limited
To the brief hour in which we can behold
Their faces whom we love; and then is fled!
The sweetest drops which Providence hath shed
Into my cup of life have ever flown
From the remembrance of the moments sped
With those whom I hold dear: and joys then known
On solitary hours their social light have thrown.

And therefore are they, in my inmost heart,
As the deep waters of a hidden well;
Whose living freshness have a power to impart
Far more than e'en the poet's page can tell
Of pure enjoyment inexhaustible,
Valued beyond old ocean's rarest gem;
Nor, while I feel my grateful bosom swell
With feelings they confer, can I condemn
Myself, for having thus in song recorded them!

These verses were first suggested by, and indeed partly composed during, a long meditated visit at a friend's house. Those referred to in it the writer had once hoped to meet there.

Vide “the Queen's Wake,” a Poem by the Ettrick Shepherd.

125

STANZAS

TO AN AFFECTIONATE AND PIOUS PARENT, ON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD.

When good old Jacob mourn'd his child,
How bitter were the tears he shed!
With garments rent, in anguish wild,
He sorrow'd for his Joseph dead.
He mourn'd his hopes for ever fled,
And said that, even to his tomb,
Grief should bow down his aged head
For Joseph's melancholy doom.

But hark! what sounds salute my ear?
Sorrow inspires the artless lay;
A pious parent's frequent tear
Laments her Joseph snatch'd away.
But, though to deepest grief a prey,
She humbly strives to kiss the rod;
She owns the debt that all must pay,
Nor doubts the justice of her God.

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But let us not too harshly blame
The good old patriarch's anguish sore;
Well might his much-lov'd Joseph claim
A father's sorrow when no more:
Nor can the proud, the boasted lore
Of this refin'd, enlighten'd age,
A mother's lost delights restore,
A mother's natural grief assuage.

What makes the difference? Grace alone;
'Tis grace divine, with cheering ray,
Hath made a brighter prospect known—
Hath usher'd in a happier day.
The patriarch trod his weary way,
No gospel sun had dawn'd on him;
'Twas his at twilight's hour to stray,
When truth's clear lamp shone pale and dim.

Yet even then the still small voice,
Assuming a prophetic tone,
Oft bade his trembling heart rejoice
In scenes unveil'd to faith alone,
By faith's pure influence made his own:
With humble gratitude inspir'd,
He blest the glorious light that shone
On Judah, and in hope expir'd.

127

The patriarch's hope, the prophet's theme,
The pious Christian's heart-felt joy
At length is come; its matchless scheme
Hath been proclaim'd from heaven on high:
Light, life, and immortality
Now shine reveal'd; beyond the tomb
The Christian's vision can descry
A blissful rest, a tranquil home.

And wilt thou, Christian! then lament
(Like him whose every hope is fled,)
When life's short feverish day is spent,
Those whom it numbers with the dead?
No, rather lift thy weary head,
Raise from the dust thy tearful eye;
When nature's pious drops are shed,
Let faith her cordial cup apply.

For thee, who pour'st thy plaintive strain,
Lament no more thy Joseph's flight
From scenes of sorrow, sin, and pain,
To realms of endless, pure delight.
At times shall burst upon thy sight
A seraph form, thy griefs to calm,
Scattering, from pinions dazzling bright,
Kind drops of Gilead's healing balm.

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Hovering unseen thy steps around
Its soothing voice shall greet thine ear;
Shall tell what blessings still abound,
And gently chide the falling tear.
A husband's sympathy sincere
In grief's dark hour some stay may prove;
One hopeful pledge is left to cheer
Thy closing days with filial love.

Thine too that gentle soothing aid
Which friendship yields the wounded heart:
Does pining grief thy breast invade?
Let willing friendship bear her part.
Do pensive tears unbidden start,
As memory brings the past to view?
Let faithful friendship's blameless art
Share every pang, and heal it too.

But friendship soon or late must prove,
On earth at least, a fleeting dream;
Both conjugal and filial love
May shed a bright but transient beam.
When these decay, and life would seem
A barren waste, a gloomy void;
Then, what a source of bliss supreme
Is found in talents well employ'd!

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Thine is that bliss: then oh! what cause
For heart-felt gratitude is thine;
In death's dread hour the heart's applause
Can yield a pleasure half divine.
If at that hour unclouded shine
That path which all the just have trod,
The soul with rapture shall resign
Its hopes and fears, and fly to God.

130

“THE HEAVEN WAS CLOUDLESS.”

The heaven was cloudless, the ocean was calm,
For the breeze which blew o'er it scarce ruffled its breast;
Not a sight, not a sound, that might waken alarm,
Could the eye or the ear of the wanderer molest.

As I roam'd on the beach, to my memory rose
The bliss I had tasted in moments gone by;
When my soul could rejoice in a scene of repose,
And my spirit exult in an unclouded sky.

I thought of the past; and while thinking, thy name
Came uncall'd to my lips, but no language it found;
Yet my heart felt how dear, and how hallow'd its claim
I could think, though my tongue dar'd not utter a sound.

131

I did not forget how with thee I had paced
On the shore I now trod, and how pleasant it seem'd;
How my eye then sought thine, and how gladly it traced
Every glance of affection which mildly it beam'd.

The beginning and end of our loves were before me;
And both touch'd a chord of the tenderest tone;
For thy spirit, then near, shed its influence o'er me,
And told me that still thou wert truly my own.

Yes, I thought at the moment, (how dear was the thought!)
That there still was a union which death could not break;
And if with some sorrow the feeling was fraught,
Yet even that sorrow was sweet for thy sake.

Thus musing on thee, every object around
Seem'd to borrow thy sweetness to make itself dear;
Each murmuring wave reach'd the shore with a sound
As soft as the tone of thy voice to my ear.

132

The lights and the shades on the surface of ocean
Seem'd to give back the glimpses of feeling and grace,
Which once so expressively told each emotion
Of thy innocent heart, as I gaz'd on thy face.

And, when I look'd up to the beautiful sky,
So cloudless and calm; oh! it harmoniz'd well
With the gentle expression which spoke in that eye,
Ere the curtain of death on its loveliness fell!

How proud is the prize which thy virtues have won,
When their memory alone is so precious to me,
That this world cannot give, what my soul would not shun,
If it tore from my breast the remembrance of thee!

133

VERSES

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

If, long ere this, no lay of mine
Has been to thee devoted,
'Tis not because such worth as thine
Has idly pass'd un-noted.

To charms more transient, tribute due
Has oft been idly chanted;
And auburn locks, or eyes of blue,
Have gain'd what folly wanted!

To beauty's song and beauty's smile
My Muse has homage render'd,
And unto many a trifling wile
Some trifling meed has tender'd.

In praising such, my short-liv'd song
Did all that I desir'd it:
It liv'd, perchance, about as long
As that which first inspir'd it.

Not such, my friend, the song for thee:
Did I that lyre inherit,
Which Cowper woke, its strings should be
Responsive to thy merit.

134

Still, such a wreath as I can twine,
Thy virtues well have won thee;
Could I an apter one assign,
I'd gladly place it on thee.

Thou art not one whose path has been
Strew'd but with summer roses;
With sky above of blue serene,
Which never storm discloses.

Who tread such paths, with graceful glee,
May cull what clusters round them:
And, fading, may to memory be
Just like the flowers that crown'd them.

But, in the bloom of youth to tread
As through a desert dreary;
With much to harass heart and head,
And many a care to weary;

With much to jar each mood of joy,
With much to tease and try thee,
With many a duty to employ
Each hour that passes by thee;

So circumstanc'd, to cultivate
Each flower that leisure graces;
And thus to find, in spite of fate,
Sweet spots in desert places:

135

To do all this, yet still to be,
In social life, a woman,
From half thy sex's follies free,
Is merit far from common.

Nor think this flattery! I've been taught
One maxim worth receiving,
Which every passing day has brought
Fresh motive for believing:

That flattery no excuse can find!
'Tis loath'd as soon as tasted,
When offer'd to a well-taught mind;
And on a fool 'tis wasted!

A POSTSCRIPT.

Such was the strain which, years ago,
My Muse of thee recorded:
Those years have but conspir'd to show
How justly 'twas awarded.

Some plaudits which thy sex have gain'd
In time have prov'd unfounded;
But well hast thou the hopes maintain'd
On which my own were grounded.

136

STANZAS,

COMPOSED WHILE WALKING ON THE WARREN HILL EARLY ON A SUMMER'S MORNING.

Lonely and low is thy dwelling-place now,
On which the bright sunbeams are dawning;
But oh! I remember the moments when thou
Wast as blithe as the breeze of the morning.

Silent and sad is the place of thy rest,
Where thou sleep'st the last slumber decreed thee;
But well I remember, when warm was that breast,
How few in gay mirth could exceed thee.

137

Yet, rest in thy mansion! sleep quietly on:
There was nought in that mirth which should cost thee,
Or those who best knew thee, one sigh now thou'rt gone;
Were it not that too early we lost thee.

Thine was not the laughter which leaves us more sad;
Unnatural, unheeded, unglowing;
'Twas a gush of enjoyment, which seem'd to be glad
To get loose from a heart overflowing.

But 'tis not the memory of moments of mirth,
Which thy claim to remembrance now gives thee;
Their light is obscur'd by the grave! but thy worth,
In spite of the grave, still outlives thee.

Thy sterling integrity, candour, and sense,
Thy benevolence, frank and warm-hearted,
Which sham'd the professions of empty pretence:
These live, though thy life has departed.

And long shall they lend to thy lonely tomb
A glory like that the sun grants us;
When the clouds he hath set in have lost all their gloom,
And a beautiful twilight enchants us.

8th Mo. 4th, 1817.

The Warren Hill is an eminence near Woodbridge, commanding a view of the river Deben and part of the town of Woodbridge. It is perhaps one of the pleasantest walks in the vicinity: just below it is the Barrack burial-ground, in which a solitary tombstone is erected to the memory of W. H. Finnie, Esq. several years Barrack-master of the Garrison at that place: a man no less respected for the uprightness of his character, than beloved for his social qualifications.

138

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

Like one who, fruitlessly perchance,
Engraves his name upon a tree,
In hopes to win a casual glance,
And woo remembrance still, when he
A distant wanderer may be:
Thus have I claim'd a page of thine:
Be it but reckon'd worthy thee,
And I shall proudly own it mine.

1st Mo. 5th, 1818.

139

THE ADIEU,

TO A FRIEND LEAVING SUFFOLK.

Farewell! and oh! if aught of grief
Shall mingle with thy last adieu,
May it at least afford relief,
That those thou leav'st partake it too.

Though weeks have pass'd uncounted by,
Thy presence has not taught us yet
To feel, with thee, satiety;
Or part with thee, without regret.

Is it not meet it thus should be,
That light and shade should mingle thus;
When we must lose a friend like thee,
And thou, awhile, must part from us?

Yes, surely.—Nor could friendship ask
A stronger test, her power to tell,
Than that it should be felt a task,
A painful one, to say farewell!

140

Yet not a painful one alone;
For our regrets a pledge shall give,
That days and hours, too swiftly flown,
In cherish'd memory long shall live.

Then let our parting hour befit
The happy ones that we have spent;
Though grave, let grief not darken it
With aught like thankless discontent.

'Tis something to have shar'd so much
Of joy, that Friends alone can know:
'Tis more to feel we part as such,
Ay! render'd more than ever so.

But oh! it is more soothing still,
To feel a fond hope, when we sever,
Absence can not affection chill,
And we may meet more dear than ever.

141

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.

Pale and cold is the cheek that my kisses oft press'd,
And quench'd is the beam of that bright-sparkling eye:
For the soul, which its innocent glances confess'd,
Has flown to its God and its Father on high.

No more shall the accents, whose tones were more dear
Than the sweetest of sounds even music can make,
In notes full of tenderness fall on my ear;
If I catch them in dreams, all is still when I wake!

No more the gay smiles that those features display'd,
Shall transiently waken their own mirth in mine:
Yet, though these, and much more, be now cover'd in shade,
I must not, I cannot, and dare not repine.

However enchantingly flattering and fair
Were the hopes, that for thee I had ventur'd to build,
Can a frail, finite mortal presume to declare
That the future those hopes would have ever fulfill'd?

142

In the world thou hast left, there is much to allure
The most innocent spirit from virtue and peace:
Hadst thou liv'd, would thy own have been equally pure,
And guileless, and happy, in age's increase?

Temptation, or sooner or later, had found thee:
Perhaps had seduc'd thee from pathways of light:
Till the dark clouds of vice, gath'ring gloomily round thee,
Had enwrapt thee for ever in horror and night.

But now, in the loveliest bloom of the soul,
While thy heart yet was pangless, and true, and unstain'd:
Ere the world one vain wish by its witcheries stole,
What it could not confer, thou for ever hast gain'd!

Like a dew-drop, kiss'd off by the sun's morning beam,
A brief, but a beauteous existence was given;
Thy soul seem'd to come down to earth, in a dream,
And only to wake, when ascended to heaven!

143

STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

Farewell to the hopes which the nation has cherish'd!
To the visions of glory, now vanish'd in gloom!
To the prospects that dawn'd, and for ever have perish'd!
To the feelings we foster'd, now chill'd in their bloom!

The oak of our fathers, which once flourish'd proudly,
And struck deep its roots, and its branches spread wide;
Which listen'd unmov'd, when the tempest roar'd loudly,
No longer exults in its prosperous pride.

Its stem, struck by lightning, has long since been shiver'd;
All its earliest boughs of their beauty been shorn;
And fate's stern decree has to death now deliver'd
The last sapling shoot which wav'd bright in the morn!

144

Not with lingering decline, or by gentle gradation,
Did its loveliness wither—its leaves drop away;
At sunset it seem'd all secure in its station,
And was torn from its stem ere the dawning of day!

But adieu to such images!—Ours is a sorrow,
Which can find in no image of fiction relief;
And the depth of its anguish forbids us to borrow
From the bard's brightest fancies a balm for our grief.

No! Charlotte, we need not be taught to deplore thee
By the poet's warm page, or the orator's arts;
For the high hopes of thousands, who now sorrow o'er thee,
Had long turn'd to thee in their innermost hearts.

There are those who, at seasons, with fond expectation,
To the future look'd forward; and fancied, in thee
Might yet be fulfill'd every wish of a nation,
Both generous and faithful, both loyal and free.

And well does each bosom's high-throbbing emotion
Refute the base cant of the sycophant slave,
Who would brand, as deficient in loyal devotion,
An empire which mourns o'er thy premature grave.

But it is not as Britons and patriots only
That we publicly grieve: other feelings must glow
In the hearts of the lovely, the lov'd, and the lonely;
And thoughts the most tender our nature can know.

145

Oh! many a mother, but yesterday folding
Her lov'd infant close to her bosom with joy,
Believ'd with delight, her own cherub beholding,
That such would, ere long, be thy blissful employ.

But now! while the drops in her gentle eye glisten,
From the babe on her breast, for one moment forgot,
She looks silently up, with reluctance to listen
To the faltering tongue which relates thy sad lot.

Farewell! and when History, telling thy story
To Britons unborn, shall thy destiny speak,
They may turn from the record of grandeur and glory,
With a sigh in each heart, and a tear on each cheek.

And those of this age, while on earth they outlive thee,
Shall, deeply regretting thy too early doom,
With feelings of anguish that pure homage give thee
Which retires from the Throne, to repose on the Tomb!

146

SLEEP.

What is it that stills the sigh of sorrow,
And forbids her tears to flow?—
That allows the desolate-hearted to borrow
A transient relief from woe?
It is thou, sweet Sleep! O then listen to me!
Be it but in thy dreams, while I sing of thee.

Could I embody the thoughts which now
Pass my soul's living tablet over,
No being more lovely and fair than thou
Before mortal eye could hover:
Not deathly and pale, like a spectre stealing
On the slumb'rer, whose eyes thy power is sealing;—

But a form full of beauty, of joy, and grace,
And features with kindness bright,
Such as a Raphael would love to trace;
A creature of glory and light,
With a silvery cloud, to chasten each hue
Too radiant else, should arise to view.

147

With angel eye, and a brow that never
Had been other than meekly calm;
And lips which a soft smile seems to sever,
Such as shed round a soothing charm;
With a step more light than Zephyr's sigh,
Would I paint thee, in loveliness passing by.

Such could I fancy thee, roving far
Beneath the pale moon's glistening beam;
Or the fainter light of heaven's fairest star,
Attended by many a shadowy dream:
Those purer visions, in mercy given
To slumbering souls, when they dream of heaven!

By an infant's couch I behold thee sit,
Its widow'd parent's earthly treasure;
And over its features, like sunshine, flit
Bright gleams of half-unconscious pleasure:
Smiles of a spirit that knows no fears,
Such as belong not to after years.

And then to its parent, disconsolate-hearted
But for that cherub, thou turn'st; and lo!
The undried tear, which perhaps had started
Before those eyelids could slumber know,
Like a dew-drop at morn is exhal'd, in the union
Of souls, still mingling in blest communion.

148

And last, to the bed of some dying saint,
I can fancy thee gliding with noiseless foot,
Who, worn out with anguish, and ready to faint,
Ere thou drew'st nigh, was patiently mute:
Thou comest; and straight on his closing lids
Falls a spell, that protracted pain forbids.

As soon as his eyes soft slumbers seal,
He forgets all the anguish he felt before:
And the glory his faded features reveal
Tells whither his thoughts exulting soar:
He seems to have cast off his mortal array,
“And walks in the light of a sunless day.”

Must he awake upon earth, to prove
The vision but cheated? O! rather say,
That He, who is goodness, compassion, and love,
Permits him in slumber to pass away;
And all in that dream he could feel or see
Is his through a blissful eternity!

149

STANZAS TO WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ.

When first, like a child building houses with cards,
I mimick'd the labours of loftier bards;
Though the fabrics I built felt each breath that came near,
Thy smiles taught me hope, and thy praise banish'd fear.

Thou didst not reprove with an Aristarch's pride;
Or unfeelingly chill, or uncandidly chide;
It was not in thy nature with scorn to regard
The fresh-breathing hopes of an untutor'd bard.

Thou knew'st, whether Fame crown'd his efforts or not,
That his love of the Muse might enliven his lot;
That poesy acts like a magical charm;
And in seasons of care it can silently calm.

150

It might win him no wealth, yet its treasure would add
To the store of his mind, what would make the heart glad;
That the feelings and thoughts its enchantments can cherish,
Are too precious, too pure, and too lofty to perish.

Then accept of my thanks! they are justly thy due;
And forgive me for seeking once more to renew
A claim pronounc'd sacred, with being begun,
By the Father once own'd, and bequeath'd to the Son.

151

A DREAM.

Thou art not of the living now;
And yet a form appears
At times before me, such as thou
In days of former years;
It rises, to my spirit's sight,
In thoughts by day, in dreams by night.

Nor can I choose but fondly bless
A shade, if shade it be,
Which, with such soft expressiveness,
Recalls one thought of thee:
I own it, in itself, ideal;
Its influence o'er my heart is real.

I grant that dreams are idle things,
Yet have I known a few,
To which my faithful memory clings;
They seem'd so sweet and true,
That, let who will the fault condemn,
It was a grief to wake from them.

152

One such came lately in the hours
To nightly slumber due;
It pictur'd forth no fairy bowers
To fancy's raptur'd view;
It had not much of marvels strange,
Nor aught of wild and frequent change:—

But all seem'd real.—Ay! as much,
As now the page I trace
Is palpable to sight and touch;
Then how could doubt have place?
Yet was I not from doubt exempt,
But ask'd myself if still I dreamt.

I felt I did; but, spite of this,
Even thus in dreams to meet,
Had much, too much of dearest bliss,
Though not enough to cheat:
I knew the vision might not stay,
And yet I bless'd its transient sway.

But oh, thy look!—It was not one
That earthly features wear;
Nor was it aught to fear or shun,
As fancied spectres are:
'Twas gentle, pure, and passionless,
Yet full of heavenly tenderness.

153

One thing was strange.—It seem'd to me
We were not long alone;
But many more were circling thee,
Whom thou on earth hadst known:
Who seem'd as greeting thy return
From some unknown, remote sojourn.

To them thou wast, as others be
Whom on this earth we love;
I marvell'd much they could not see
Thou camest from above:
And often to myself I said,
“How can they thus approach the dead?”

But though all these, with fondness warm,
Said, “Welcome!” o'er and o'er,
Still that expressive shade, or form,
Was silent, as before!
And yet its stillness never brought
To them one hesitating thought.

I only knew thee as thou wert;
A being not of earth!
Yet had I not the power to exert
My voice to check their mirth;
For blameless mirth was theirs, to see,
Once more, a friend belov'd like thee.

154

And so apart from all I stood,
Till tears, though not of grief,
Afforded, to that speechless mood,
A soothing, calm relief:
And, happier than if speech were free,
I stood, and watch'd thee silently!

I watch'd thee silently, and while
I mus'd on days gone by,
Thou gav'st me one celestial smile—
One look that cannot die.
It was a moment worthy years!
I woke, and found myself in tears.

In tears; but not such tears as fall
From sorrow's waking eye;
Nor such as flow at feeling's call
From woman's.—Mine are dry;
Save when they melt with soft'ning bliss
And love, in some such dream as this!

155

STANZAS

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF H--- A---.

Would I deck truth in fiction's graceful dress,
Easy it were for votary of the Nine
To find, in fair creation's loveliness,
Apt emblems of a life and death like thine.

The first, a streamlet scattering, though unseen,
Its silent virtues, well might represent;
The last, a light cloud, lovely and serene,
View'd on the verge of a bright firmament.

But these are poor comparisons.—The stream
One summer's radiance may for ever dry;
The cloud, so beauteous in the sunset's gleam,
May be forgotten in night's starless sky.

Not so with thee; thy memory long shall live,
Through starless nights, through dark and distant days;
Thy virtues! 'twere more fitting they should give
Impulse to imitation, than to praise.

156

Indeed, they were not thine! That gentleness,
That patient resignation—kindness—truth;
That candour—sympathy with all distress,
And quiet cheerfulness, surpassing youth;—

That self-forgetfulness—unbounded love:
These were not thine, though thou wert lov'd for them;
Thou knew'st they were but lent thee from above;
This knowledge was their crown and diadem!

Thou art no longer of this world: and even
While yet its path of flowers and thorns was trod
By thee, thy “conversation was in heaven,”
Where thy pure spirit now beholds its God!

2d Mo. 5th, 1820.

157

TO A FATHER, On the Death of his only Child,

A PROMISING YOUTH OF EIGHTEEN.

The hand of the Highest, who woundeth, can heal
Every pang that the keenest affliction may feel;
And though misery's cup may be fill'd to its brim,
It can be endur'd, through obedience to Him.

I grant that the stroke which has laid thy hopes low
Is perhaps the severest that nature can know;
If hope but deferr'd may cause sickness of heart,
How dreadful to see it for ever depart!

Yet, even in this hour of unutterable grief,
Religion and reason may whisper relief,
If the sufferer confide in the goodness of God,
Who withholds not his staff, when he strikes with his rod.

158

Though the worth of the dead may at present but be
A source of additional anguish to thee;
Yet a period may come, when that worth shall awake
A soul-soothing sadness, belov'd for his sake.

Then arise! like the monarch of Judah, repair
To the house of the Lord, humbly worship him there:
And may love of thy lost-one instruct thee to learn
That thou mayst go to him, though he cannot return.

159

VERSES

RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO A PROFESSIONAL FRIEND.

Thou art not one of those, who, by retreating
Far from the tumult of life's busy throng,
Have foster'd feelings, fair; but, oh how fleeting!—
Fraught with delight to every child of song:
Yet should I do thee, sure, ungrateful wrong,
Did I not feel a poet's warmest pride
In styling thee my patron: since among
The few, whose partial smiles have hope supplied,
Thine, dear for friendship's sake, have never been denied.

Yet when at first I met thee, (pardon me,
I did not know thee then as now I do,)
I scarcely dar'd to hope that there might be
One rallying point between us: well I knew,
By common fame, thy life to honour true;
Integrity unquestion'd, warm good-will;
And yet I could but think how very few
Can mingle with the world and cherish still
That genuine love of song which worldly feelings chill.

160

The panting pilgrim, who on Arab's sands
Plods wearily along the sterile scene,
Where far and wide a dreary waste expands;
When on his eye a glimpse of living green
Glances at distance, with what alter'd mien
He journeys on: hope in his bosom glows,
And fancy's eye beholds the glist'ning sheen
Of the fair streamlet, as it freshly flows,
Beside whose brink ere long he gladly shall repose.

And such the feeling was, by thee excited,
When first this volume ask'd thy friendly aid:
All I could ask was given, though unrequited,
Except as far as feeble thanks repaid
Thy generous efforts; still more grateful made
By that unpatronizing grace, which cast
O'er kindnesses conferr'd a partial shade
As wishing them to be unheeded past;
Despite that delicate veil their memory long shall last.

To thee, and one like thee, whose honour'd name
Could not be honour'd more by verse of mine,
These fleeting pages owe their right to claim
Existence; and if here and there a line,
Worthy a votary of the tuneful Nine,
Be found to Nature's better feelings true;
Or in my verses aught of genius shine,
Or passion's genuine tone, or fancy's hue;
Much of their meed of praise is justly due to you.

The remark made in one of the preceding verses, that these pages owe their existence to the party addressed, was perfectly true, as respected the volume in which the Poem was first published; and is, in great measure, appropriate to this: for had not the former been printed, the present would not have been attempted. I cannot conclude this note without applying to my “professional friend” one of the most expressive tributes ever paid by an Author to a Patron: “Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, speaking of one by whom he had been early encouraged, “he praised me at a time when praise was valuable to me.”

161

Enough of this:—'tis time such theme should end,
Yet more might be forgiven: could he say less,
Who in a stranger finds a steadfast friend?
No, surely not: the warm heart will express
What generous bosoms easily may guess
Is glowing in it: it will entertain
Wishes most ardent for the happiness
Of those who've foster'd it: nor can refrain
E'en when expression gives a sense of transient pain.

One of the purest blessings life can give
Is felt by those, who, ere its final close,
Have given decided proof they did not live
For themselves only: this the parent knows,
Who, ere he sink to Nature's last repose,
Sees round him those who owe their all to him;
While the warm smile that in each visage glows
Lends buoyant vigour to the languid limb,
And keeps the cup of joy still mantling to its brim.

Nor less his pure delight, though far more rare,
Who lonely, not unlov'd;—by ties unbound,
Except by choice impos'd, and free as air,
Attaches to him those whose hearts have found
Much in the world to inflict that rankling wound
Which disappointment deals. Oh! does not he,
(If ever bard his benefactor crown'd,)
Deserve that round his brows entwin'd should be
A wreath more deathless far than I have woven thee?

163

TO MARY,

OCCASIONED BY HER HAVING ENGRAVEN ON A SEAL THE WORDS “FORGET ME NOT.”

Forget thee, Mary!—no, not yet;
Too pleasing is the pensive debt
Which memory owes to thee;
Not out of mind, though out of sight;
While retrospection claims her right,
And friendship can afford delight,
From all such fears be free.

For whom would memory's magic art
Wish to enshrine within the heart?
Oh, would it not be one
Simple, ingenuous, modest, meek;
Whose praise we scarcely dare to speak,
So much her eye, and changing cheek,
Each plaudit seems to shun?

164

Whose gentle manners, void of art,
Can cheer and charm that wounded heart
Which beauty could not bow:
Such live in memory's ear and eye,
Endear'd by many a tender tie,
And though remote, are ever nigh,
And such, dear friend, art thou.

Yet, lovely as thou art, not thine
The praise alone: for this one line
I know thou'lt not reprove me;
Young as thou art, thou know'st from whence
Thy brightest charms of soul and sense;
Be He who gave them their defence,
And all who know must love thee.

165

SONNET, TO CHARLOTTE M---.

Thou art but in life's morning, and as yet
The world looks witchingly: its fruits and flowers
Are fair and fragrant, and its beauteous bowers
Seem haunts of happiness, before thee set,
All lovely as a landscape freshly wet
With dew, or bright with sunshine after showers;
Where pleasure dwells, and Flora's magic powers
Woo thee to pluck joy's peerless coronet.
Thus be it ever: wouldst thou have it so,
Preserve thy present openness of heart;
Cherish those generous feelings which now start
At base dissimulation, and that glow
Of native love for ties which home endears,
And thou wilt find the world no vale of tears.

166

“ALL IS VANITY.”

Oh! what can be more frail
Than all this world can grant us?
Why should its power avail
So often to enchant us?

In vain the chase, when won,
Declares our hopes defeated;
Lur'd by fresh object on,
We cherish what has cheated!

In childhood, any toy
For one short hour amuses;
And all its store of joy
With its new lustre loses.

The boy keeps up the game,
Just as the child began it;
For boyhood's joyous flame
Needs novelty to fan it.

167

The youth, when beauty's eye
First wakes the pulse of pleasure,
Thinks, with a pensive sigh,
That he has found life's treasure.

How oft the smile he woo'd,
Proud beauty has denied him,
While, in capricious mood,
It beam'd on all beside him.

And oh! how many an one
Has gain'd, and fondly nurs'd it;
Then, by that smile undone,
With bitterness has curs'd it.

Existence further scan,
In all its various stages;
View it in ripen'd man,
In hoary-headed sages:—

What pleasure can it give,
Except it stoop to borrow;
And lead us on to live
On bliss to be—to-morrow?

If rapture's brightest hour
Be soon by sorrow shaded;
If pleasure's fairest flower
Scarce bloom before 'tis faded:

168

If proud ambition's steeps
But dazzle to deceive us;
If vales, where soft love sleeps,
Allure, then lonely leave us:

If wealth, with all its toys,
Shrink at death's stern ordeal;
If fancy's boasted joys
Be, like herself, unreal:

What can this world bestow
That should enchain us to it?
Or compensate the woe
All bear, who journey through it?

O, man! if to this earth
Thy heart be wedded, only;
Each hope it can give birth
Will leave thee doubly lonely:

And, when that hope is gone,
Thou'lt find, by all forsaken,
Thy spirit lean'd upon
A reed, by each wind shaken!

169

TO A FRIEND,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 1818.

Once more, my gentle friend! has time's swift flight
(Suspended never) reach'd thy natal day;
And that pure friendship which first bade me plight
My promise to devote to it a lay,
Shall be fulfill'd: what, though perchance it may
Bear token of the hour that gives it birth,
Yet wilt thou not its sober tone gainsay;
For thou hast sojourn'd long enough on earth,
Young as thou art, to know the emptiness of mirth.

I mean that mirth, which, flashing but to fade,
Exhil'rates not, but soon exhausts the mind;
And, transiently delighting, leaves a shade
Of self-engender'd dreariness behind.
With such my clouded spirit oft has pin'd;
Until, disgusted with the treacherous gleam,
In which a moment's bliss it sought to find,
Despair has almost tempted me to deem
Joy an unreal shade—delight an empty dream.

170

Yet is there left us an alternative
In chasten'd cheerfulness, deriving birth
From other sources than the world can give,
Far, far superior to its heartless mirth:
And though at times, while we remain on earth,
Clouds may obscure this “sunshine of the breast,”
Those who have truly known and priz'd its worth
Will own with gratitude, in hours deprest,
Its memory boasts that charm left by a blameless guest.

Something of this, dear friend, have we not tasted
In hours gone by? Then, since those hours to me
Have still a living charm, by time unwasted,
Proving that they were never born to be
Enjoy'd, and then forgotten; unto thee
O may they seem, as in my heart they are
When fond imagination wanders free,
Like a bright beacon, or a cloudless star
Flinging o'er ocean's waves its lovely light afar.

This is thy birth-day! and for Friendship's sake,
Even in this gloomiest season of the year,
Feelings as warm as Spring could ever wake
Have chronicled, and bid me hold it dear.
The heart has in itself a hemisphere
That knows not change of season, day or night;
For still when thoughts of those we love are near,
Their cherish'd forms arise before our sight,
And o'er the spirit shed fresh sunshine and delight.

171

Nature, who wore when few months since we met
Her summer garb, a different dress displays:
Your garden walks may now be moss'd and wet;
The jasmine's star-like bloom, which, in the rays
Of the bright moon seem'd lovely to my gaze,
Has faded now; and the green leaves, that grew
So lightly on the acacia's topmost sprays,
Have lost, ere this, their glossy verdant hue,
Shading no more the path their reliques soon must strew.

Is there nought left then, loveliness to lend
Unto the spot my memory loves to trace?
Should I now find, were I to come and spend
A day with you, no beauty left to grace
What seem'd of quiet joy the dwelling-place?
Oh, yes! believe me, much as I admir'd
Those charms which change of seasons can efface,
It was not such alone, when home retir'd,
That memory cherish'd most, or most the muse inspir'd.

When nature sheds her leafy loveliness,
She does not die: her vital principle
But seeks awhile its innermost recess,
And there securely finds a citadel
Which even winter owns impregnable;
The sap, retreating downward to the root,
Is still alive, as spring shall shortly tell,
By swelling buds, whence blossoms soon will shoot,
Dispensing fragrance round, and pledge of future fruit.

172

And thus our best affections, those which bind
Heart unto heart by friendship's purest tie,
Have an internal life, and are enshrin'd
Too deeply in our bosoms soon to die.
Spring's opening bloom and summer's azure sky
Might borrow from them beauties not their own;
But when November winds are loud and high,
And nature's dirge assumes its deepest tone,
The joy of social hours in its full charm is known.

For as the sap, whose quickening influence
Shall be in spring the birth of future flowers,
Confin'd and concentrated, is from thence
More full of life, than in those brighter hours
When birds sang sweetly in their shady bowers,
And all unclouded was heaven's vaulted dome;
Thus is it with the mind's electric powers,
Forbid by winter's frowning skies to roam,
Their radiance is condens'd, their focus found at Home!

Then stir the cheerful fire! and let its light
The rallying point of home-born pleasures be;
Where spirit-sparkling eyes, and smiles as bright,
Their own fit emblem may delighted see:
And let the overflow of innocent glee
Be like the exub'rance of the Nile, and bless
The seeds of future joy's fertility;
That days, in years to come, may bear th' impress
Of hours of blameless bliss and social happiness.

173

Since such, dear friend! is the delightful season
When thou wast born, oh! let it, as it ought,
Be kept with due observance, for that reason;
Not lighted up with borrow'd splendour caught
From outward themes, which time or chance may thwart:
But be its zest those charms that have their flow
Fresh from the source of feeling and of thought;
And full of all that pure and vivid glow
Which speaks them born above, though spent on earth below.

174

THE SOLITARY TOMB.

Not a leaf of the tree which stood near me was stirr'd,
Though a breath might have mov'd it so lightly;
Not a farewell note from a sweet singing bird
Bade adieu to the sun setting brightly.

The sky was cloudless and calm, except
In the west where the sun was descending;
And there the rich tints of the rainbow slept,
As his beams with their beauty were blending.

And the evening star, with its ray so clear,
So tremulous, soft, and tender,
Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from its sphere
Its dewy, delightful splendour.

And I stood, all alone, on that gentle hill,
With a landscape so lovely before me;
And its spirit and tone, so serene and still,
Seem'd silently gathering o'er me.

175

Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood
By its winding banks was sweeping;
And just at the foot of the hill where I stood,
The dead in their damp graves were sleeping.

How lonely and lovely their resting-place seem'd!
An enclosure which care could not enter:
And how sweetly the grey lights of evening gleam'd
On the solitary tomb in its centre!

When at morn, or at eve, I have wander'd near,
And in various lights have view'd it,
With what differing forms, unto friendship dear,
Has the magic of fancy endued it.

Sometimes it has seem'd like a lonely sail,
A white spot on the emerald billow;
Sometimes like a lamb in a low grassy vale,
Stretch'd in peace on its verdant pillow.

But no image of gloom, or of care, or strife,
Has it ever given birth to one minute;
For lamented in death, as beloved in life,
Was he who now slumbers within it.

He was one who in youth on the stormy seas
Was a far and a fearless ranger;
Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze,
Counted lightly of death or of danger.

176

Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept
All the freshness of gentlest feeling;
Nor in woman's warm eye has a tear ever slept,
More of softness and kindness revealing.

And here, when the bustle of youth was past,
He liv'd and he lov'd, and he died too;
Oh! why was affection, which death could outlast,
A more lengthen'd enjoyment denied to?

But here he slumbers! and many there are
Who love that lone tomb, and revere it;
And one far off, who, like eve's dewy star,
Though at distance, in fancy dwells near it.

177

SONNET TO A FRIEND, ON HIS SECOND MARRIAGE.

To Hymen's shrine, where once thy vows were paid,
Once more a pilgrim thou hast been; and now
Thy evening fire, whose fitful radiance play'd
Often for us alone, lights up a brow,
And eye, and cheek, which by its dancing rays
Look lovelily; and make the circle round
One upon which thy gladden'd eye may gaze
Untired, till thy heart own its wishes crown'd.
May health, and home-born bliss, and calm content,
Long haunt the spot! and still increasing love
Of her, now own'd its brightest ornament,
An ample source of purest pleasure prove.
That you may both confess each hope fulfill'd,
On which love prompted you again to build.

178

VERSES,

ON SEEING IN AN ALBUM A SKETCH OF AN OLD GATEWAY .

Relique of hoar antiquity!
With moss and weeds array'd,
The debt I long have ow'd to thee
May fitly now be paid;
When, in thy semblance here, I trace
Each well-known, venerable grace,
So livingly portray'd:
For thou hast power to wake a throng
Of thoughts and feelings, dormant long.

Thou wast the earliest monument
Of what, in former days,
Had once been deem'd magnificent,
Which met my boyish gaze.
And first emotions, kindled then,
Now seem to start to life again;
As thou, when morning's rays
Are on thy time-worn forehead shed,
And gild thy brow so garlanded.

179

For, even in boyhood, I possess'd
Untutor'd love for all
Which since, by Scott, or Froissart dress'd,
Wove fancy's sweetest thrall.
Deride who may, I then could feel
What wildest romance might reveal
At fiction's fairy call:
And thou for many years hadst been
The only ruin I had seen.

And though thou wert a puny shred
Of Grandeur's vestment hoary,
Before me was not vainly spread
The page of thy past glory.
I of thy history nothing knew,
But with thee rose to memory's view
Fragments of ancient story,
O'er which, in boyhood, had I ponder'd,
To which again my fancy wander'd.

Through such a gate as this, perchance,
Thought I, once issued free,
All I have read of in romance,
And reading, half could see;
Robed priests, advancing one by one,
And banners gleaming in the sun,
With knights of chivalry:
And then I almost seem'd to hear
The trumpet's clangor thrilling near.

180

“'Twas idlesse all:” such flights as please
A castle-building boy,
Whom nature early taught to seize
(Far more than childish toy)
Ideal bliss; by thought created,
Such as on marvels strange awaited,
And gave romantic joy;
Who even then was wont, alone,
To dream adventures of his own.

Such are gone by! experience now
Has fetter'd fancy's flight;
And years upon my pensive brow
Inscrib'd, what time must write
On heads that think, on hearts that feel,
That all the bliss such dreams reveal
Is brief, though passing bright:
Yet not the less, now these are gone,
I love to think how fair they shone.

For oh! the morning of the soul
Has heavenly brightness in it;
And, as the mind's first mists unrol,
Gives years in every minute!
Years of ideal joy! Life's path,
First trod, such dewy freshness hath,
'Tis rapture to begin it:
But soon, too soon, the dew-drops dry,
Or glisten but in sorrow's eye.

181

And if in mine they gather not,
Nor such by me be shed;
Like waters in a stony grot,
Deep is their fountain head!
They, who in tears can find relief,
Know little of the excess of grief
With which some hearts have bled,
When burning eyes, forbid to sleep,
Have ach'd, because they could not weep.

It boots but little; smiles and tears,
Even from beauty beaming,
Must fade alike with fleeting years,
Like phantoms from the dreaming:
But never can they be so bright,
As when life's sweet and dawning light
On both by turns was gleaming;
Unless it be, when unforgot,
We feel “they were, and they are not!”

The Verses were written as an accompaniment to the drawing: the Ruin itself was one familiar to me in very early life.

182

“THOU ART GONE TO THE LAND OF THE LEAL.”

Thou art gone to the land of the leal, and the bell
Is mournfully tolling thy funeral knell;
Within the dark coffin is pillow'd thy head,
And without it the pall for a covering spread;
From the home which thy presence so long has endear'd,
Where thy smiles were belov'd, and thy worth was rever'd,
To the last earthly home, where thy reliques shall rest,
Thou art journeying in peace!—Be thy memory blest!
And blest it shall be: for thou dost not descend
To the cold grave unhonour'd; the grief of each friend,
The sigh of the poor, and the sorrow of those
Who have known thee the longest, attended thy close.
Oh! often before me thy image shall pass,
Like a shadow reflected from memory's glass;
With thy time-silver'd locks, and those spirits, whose play
Seem'd fresh from the fount of life's earliest day;
And the vision, thus brought, to my bosom shall be
Ever welcome, if bearing the semblance of thee!

2d Mo. 6th, 1818.

183

THE SEA.

I remember a time when existence was young,
When the halo of hope round futurity hung,
When I stoop'd not to commune with sorrow or strife,
But enjoyment alone seem'd the business of life.

The bright sun himself, in an unclouded sky,
Exulted not more in his brightness than I;
And the clouds that his last rays of light lov'd to gild
Could not rival the castles my fancy would build.

The loud-singing bird, and the blithe humming bee,
Were not happier than I, in that season of glee;
Like the butterfly, flitting round spring's gayest bowers,
Fly whither I would, I alighted on flowers.

Yet then, even then, when my young spirit found
Its own heaven within, and above, and around,
There was nothing more dear or delightful to me
Than to gaze on the glorious and beautiful sea.

Oh! I shall not forget, until memory depart,
When first I beheld it, the glow of my heart;
The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole o'er me,
When its billowy boundlessness open'd before me!

184

As I stood on its margin, or roam'd on its strand,
I felt new ideas within me expand,
Of glory and grandeur, unknown till that hour,
And my spirit was mute in the presence of Power!

But soon, as young boyhood is wont, I o'ercame
The feeling of awe which first master'd my frame,
And that wide world of waters appear'd in my view
A scene of enjoyment unbounded and new.

In the surf-beaten sands that encircled it round,
In the billow's retreat, and the breaker's rebound,
In its white-drifted foam, and its dark-heaving green,
Each moment I gaz'd some fresh beauty was seen.

And thus, while I wander'd on ocean's bleak shore,
And survey'd its vast surface, and heard its waves roar,
I seem'd wrapt in a dream of romantic delight,
And haunted by majesty, glory, and might!

[OMITTED]

So it was in the morning of life! but no more
Can thy grandeur, old Ocean! such visions restore;
With the freshness of youth those enchantments have flown,
But a charm still survives that is proudly thy own.

185

It is thine to awaken that tenderest thrill
Of pensive enjoyment, which time cannot chill;
Which survives even love, on its memory to live,
And is dearer by far than all rapture can give.

It is not a feeling of gloom or distress,
But something that language can never express;
'Tis the essence of joy, and the lux'ry of woe,
The bliss of the blest, faintly imag'd below.

For if ever to mortals sensations are given
As pledges of purer ones hoped for in heaven,
They are those which arise, when, with humble devotion,
We gaze upon thee, thou magnificent ocean.

Though, while in these houses of clay we must dwell,
We but faintly can guess, and imperfectly tell
What the feelings of fetterless spirits may be;
They are surely like those which are waken'd by thee.

A sense of His greatness, whose might, and whose will
First gave thee existence, and governs thee still;
By the force of whose “Fiat” thy waters were made!
By the strength of whose arm thy proud billows are stay'd!

Nor less, when our vision thy vastness would scan,
And our spirits would fain thy immensity span,
Does thy empire, which spreads from equator to pole,
Prove how feeble and finite is human control.

186

Yet, mix'd with emotions that humble our pride,
Are others to nature's best feelings allied;
To the wounded in spirit, the stricken in heart,
Thy breezes and billows can solace impart.

And this I have found, when, with spirits deprest,
I have walk'd by thy side as thy waves sank to rest;
When the winds which had swept thee were softly subsiding,
And where breakers had foam'd rippling billows were gliding.

Oh, thus! have I thought, when the tempests that roll,
And the clouds that o'ershadow and darken my soul,
Have fulfill'd their commission, my sorrows may cease,
And my thoughts, like thy waves, find a season of peace.

Flow on then, thou type of eternity! flow;
In boyhood my heart in thy presence would glow;
“For the strength of the happy, the might of the free,
Seem'd spread like a garment of glory o'er thee.”

But more chasten'd, and passionless, now is thy sway,
Since dark clouds have shadow'd the noon of my day;
Oh, then! like the sun's setting beam on thy wave,
May a ray from Hope's star shed its light on my grave!

187

TO A PROFILE.

I knew thee not! then wherefore gaze
Upon thy silent shadow there,
Which so imperfectly portrays
The form thy features us'd to wear?
Yet have I often look'd at thee,
As if those lips could speak to me.

I knew thee not! and thou couldst know,
At best, but little more of one
Whose pilgrimage on earth below
Commenc'd, just ere thy own was done;
For few and fleeting days were thine,
To hope or fear for lot of mine.

Yet few and fleeting as they were,
Fancy and feeling picture this,
They prompted many a fervent prayer,
Witness'd, perchance, a parting kiss;
And might not kiss, and prayer, from thee,
At such a period, profit me?

188

Whether they did, or not; I owe
At least this tribute to they worth;
Though little all I can bestow,
Yet fond affection gives it birth;
And prompts me, as thy shade I view,
To bless thee, whom I never knew!

189

SONNET TO A FRIEND.

In thy profession thou hast many peers,
Whose skill may equal thine: but few I know
Whom converse, manners, kindness, so endears
To patients, in that most impatient woe
Disease gives birth to. I would rather be
(As who would not?) a stranger to you all:
But if I were by sad necessity
Compell'd to seek for aid, thine would I call.
For I have found thee, in some tedious hours
Of pain and languor, capable of being
Expert in more than med'cine's healing powers;
Not nauseous drugs, alone, with pomp decreeing,
But nearly able by thy social skill
To make me half forget that I was ill.

190

TO--- ---.

Our friendship, Arthur, was not form'd,
As some have been, in boyhood's heat,
When feelings may be chill'd or warm'd
By any specious counterfeit.

We met not until both had past
The inexperienc'd flush of youth;
And learnt, as all may do, at last,
The worth of confidence and truth.

We ask'd no pledge, nor aught profess'd;
Each knew he had no selfish ends;
And time, the most unerring test
Of every tie, has made us friends.

Long may we be so! One event,
Which friendship views with jealous eye,
(Sometimes from selfish discontent)
Has but the more endear'd our tie.

191

How should it have been otherwise?
No groundless hopes my bosom warm'd;
A heart, whose love thy own would prize,
I well might guess for friendship form'd.

And I have liv'd to see thee prove
The purest joys that life can lend;
Yet never found thee made by love
Less worthy of the name of friend.

Farewell! I give no thanks to thee,
Or thine; though surely few would doubt them,
And some might look for them; but we
Will do, as we have done, without them.

192

SONNET TO W--- P---.

If genuine love of freedom, testified
Alike by words and deeds; if sterling sense,
Pure taste, directed by intelligence,
And candidly to liberal arts applied;
If, with such high acquirements, be allied
A heart, replete with true benevolence;
Who will assert I have not just pretence
To call their owner “Friend,” with honest pride?
None would dispute it, might I, unrestrain'd
By scruples, which but add redoubled strength
To all I feel, inscribe thy name at length,
But not by me thy feelings shall be pain'd.
Cost what it will, that cherish'd name shall be
Honour'd, rever'd, and lov'd; but utter'd not by me.

193

VERSES

TO HER WHO IS JUSTLY ENTITLED TO THEM.

In childhood thy kindness has often caress'd me,
Its memory is mix'd with my earliest days;
It brighten'd my boyhood, in manhood it bless'd me,
It thought not of thanks, and it pin'd not for praise.

Can I, in thy evening, forget the mild brightness
Which beam'd in thy zenith,—which shines round thee still?
No: ere I forget thee must memory be sightless,
And the heart thou hast cherish'd death only can chill.

Long, long since belov'd, now as warmly respected,
To my fancy thou seem'st like some time-honour'd tree;
And the plant, which thy fostering shadow protected,
Still looks up with filial fondness to thee.

194

Dark storms passing over, perhaps may have sear'd thee,
The moss of old age be thy livery now;
But much still survives which has justly endear'd thee;
Some greenness still graces each gently bent bough.

May that sun, which must set, in descending enwreath thee
With a mild pensive splendour no cloud can o'ercast;
And all that has flourish'd around and beneath thee,
Will preserve thy remembrance when sunset is past.

A POSTSCRIPT.

Thy latest leaf is shed,
Life's beaming sun hath set;
Thou sleep'st among the dead,
But art remember'd yet.
Not only to the last,
Did I look up, and love;
But now, when all is past,
Thought follows thee above.

While life had aught to give
That might seem bliss to thee,
I wish'd that thou might'st live,
Though parted far from me.

195

But when existence here
Could suffering but increase;
All, all who held thee dear
Desir'd thy soul's release.

It came, and thou art free,
Nor can I mourn the stroke,
Although, in losing thee,
Some sweetest ties are broke.
Farewell! belov'd, rever'd;
We part, but to be nearer;
Though much thy life endear'd,
Death seems to make thee dearer!

196

LINES TO HANNAH AND PHŒBE.

I have known you so long, and have lov'd you so well,
It is fit that one page of our friendship should tell;
For experience has made it as firm and as fond,
On my part, at least, as a brotherly bond;
And on yours, I should hope, some such feelings are known
Towards me, as affectionate sisters might own.
Ought it not to be thus? Oh! most surely it should;
For through pain, and through pleasure; through evil and good;
Or what the world call such, I think I may say
We have mutually strove to make smoother the way;
In moments of sunshine, that sunshine to share,
And in days overclouded, the darkness to bear:—
May we still do the same; and increasingly feel
That joy genuine friendship alone can reveal:
And gratefully own, while it doubles our bliss,
Its influence extends even further than this;
For, in seasons of grief, it is equally true,
By dividing our sorrows it lessens them too.

197

THE AUTHOR'S PARTING ADDRESS TO THE MUSE .

Our task is ended now, and we may part,
As lovers do when Fate and Fortune frown;
With some foreboding heaviness of heart,
Each struggle quell'd, each stubborn sigh kept down:
Experience cools “the fever of renown;”
More serious duties claim increasing care;
Nor glimpse of future fame, nor laurel crown,
Can woo me with their soul-seducing snare;
Since Prudence bids me shun what Hope once bade me dare.

And yet, like truant school-boy, I have known
The dear delights of stolen liberty;
And bow'd at times before thy magic throne,
Like one half conscious of idolatry,
And half asham'd; for thou hast been to me,
“My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;”
'Twas loneliness first led to love of thee;
Hence, before men though I have oft denied
Thy name, in secret still I've call'd thee to my side.

198

There is a cause for this: thou know'st there is;
Ask of thy numerous worshippers, and they
Can truly tell what empty meed is his,
Who, fondly prompted unto thee to pay
His votive vows, and hail thee with his lay,
Deems thou wilt grant the barren boon he craves;
One in a thousand wins a wreath of bay,
Which o'er his brow in sterile splendour waves;
The rest in mute despair crouch before Mammon's slaves.

“Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre,”
Like many a lofty precept, potent seems,
Till prov'd by sage experience: but the fire
Unfed is soon extinct; and when the dreams
Of proud distinction and the fancied gleams
Of future fame fade from the mental eye;
What wonder if the bright and witching beams
Thy brow once wore, when its first majesty
Dawn'd on thy votary's view, should seem a dream gone by?

Happy, if this were all; but worse remains;
There are who have profess'd themselves to be
Thy worshippers, whose souls have worn the chains
Of lust, ambition, avarice, sophistry;
Who, mindless of the homage sworn to thee,
Have basely bow'd to idols, pomp and power;
Or in false glory's fane have bent the knee:
And thereby forfeited the deathless dower
They might have shar'd with thee in lone sequester'd bower.

199

Thus hath apostasy, from that pure spirit
Befitting thee, and those who use thy name,
Made it a dubious gift for man to inherit
A bard's desires, or seek a poet's fame:
Yet, fickle as thou art, not thine the shame
Of this degeneracy; when man shall learn
His real interest, and his noblest aim,
With genuine love to thee shall thousands turn,
And pure and hallow'd fires shall on thy altar burn.

When man shall know the real worth of wealth,
And prize it for that worth; when truth shall keep
The heart, and heart's affections, in sound health
By love's unerring law; when man shall weep
To see the murdering sword its lustre steep
In human blood, and shun false glory's fane:
Then shall thy songs of triumph proudly sweep
From realm to realm, from billowy main to main,
And freedom, peace, and love, with thee for ever reign!

These verses concluded a volume of Poems published anonymously.

200

TO JOANNA,

ON HER SENDING ME THE LEAF OF A FLOWER GATHERED IN WORDSWORTH'S GARDEN.

Joanna! though I well can guess
That in mirth's very idleness,
And raillery's enjoyment,
This leaf is sent; it shall not lose
Its errand, but afford the Muse
Some minutes' light employment.

Thou sent'st it, in thy naughty wit,
As emblem, type, or symbol, fit
For a mere childish rhymer;
And I accept it, not as such,
But as indicative of much
Lovelier and far sublimer.

I own, as over it I pore,
It is a simple leaf, no more:
And further, without scandal,
It is so delicate and small,
One sees 'twas never meant at all
For vulgar clowns to handle.

201

But in itself, for aught I see,
'Tis perfect as a leaf can be;
Nor can I doubt a minute,
That on the spot where first it grew,
It had each charm of shape, and hue,
And native sweetness in it.

Thus sever'd from the stem where first
To life and light its beauty burst;—
It brings to recollection
A fragment of the poet's lay,
Torn from its native page away,
For critical dissection.

But 'tis not by one leaf alone,
The beauty of the flower is known;
Nor do I rank a poet
By parts, that critics may think fit
To quote, who, “redolent of wit,”
Take up his works to show it.

If on its stem, this leaf display'd
Beauty which sought no artful aid,
And scatter'd fragrance round it;
If the sweet flower on which it grew
Was graceful, natural, lovely too,
Delighting all who found it:—

202

Then will I own that flower to be
A type of Wordsworth, or of thee;
For kindred virtues grace you;
And though the bard may think me bold,
And thou mayst half resolve to scold,
I in one page will place you!

203

VERSES TO --- ---,

ON THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THEIR MARRIAGE.

Sweet is the early dream of love,
When first we feel its sacred sway;
When earth around, and heaven above,
Seem lit by joy's new-dawning ray.

Then nature's charms more radiant seem,
Opening fresh beauties to our view;
Joy dances on the sparkling stream,
Hope lends the flower its brightest hue.

More chasten'd, but more justly dear,
Are love's delights in manhood's strife;
When month by month, and year by year,
Have brought us to the noon of life.

Some of the fabrics Fancy built
In earlier hours, perchance have faded;
And many a prospect Hope had gilt,
Experience may have somewhat shaded:—

204

Yet not the less we fondly prize
That which has stood Time's potent test;
What has surviv'd, still proudly vies,
With all we fancied we possess'd.

Earth's loveliest bower more lovely seems
In the sun's fierce meridian heat;
And thus in manhood's bustling schemes,
Domestic bliss is doubly sweet.

But oh! more hallow'd, calm, and pure,
Than love's first dawn, or noon-tide ray,
Those milder glories which endure
Through both, and mark its closing day.

Then, then we know the light that blest
Our morn and zenith, God hath given;
Its beams, like suns which reach the west,
Seem opening vistas into heaven.

For you, who, in a good old age,
Have reach'd this calm and glorious hour,
Whom half a century's pilgrimage
Has taught to bless love's soothing power;—

For you, what wish could bard express
Which Providence hath not surpass'd?
May then your well-earn'd happiness
Be pure and cloudless to the last.

205

Since it has been your lot to prove
All that this world can give to please,
Mutual affection, filial love,
And children's children round your knees;—

May consciousness of present bliss
An earnest of your future be;
And holier, happier far than this,
Be heaven's eternal jubilee.

206

LEISTON ABBEY.

Beautiful fabric! even in decay
And desolation, beauty still is thine:
As the rich sunset of an autumn day,
When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine
To render homage to its slow decline,
Is more majestic in its parting hour:
Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine
Possesses now a more subduing power,
Than in thine earlier sway with pomp and pride thy dower.

To voice of praise or prayer, or solemn sound
Of sacred music, once familiar here,
Thy walls are echoless; within their bound,
Once holy deem'd, and to religion dear,
No sound salutes the most attentive ear
That tells thy former destiny; unless
It be when fitful breezes wandering near
Wake such faint sighs, as feebly might express
Some unseen spirit's woe for thy lost loveliness.

207

Or when on stormy nights the winds are high,
And through thy roofless walls and arches sweep,
In tones more full of thrilling harmony,
Than art could reach; while from the neighbouring deep
The roar of bursting billows seems to keep
Accordant measure with the tempest's chime;
Oh, then! at times have I, arous'd from sleep,
Fancied that thou, even in thy proudest prime,
No music couldst have known more awfully sublime.

But to the eye, revolving years still add
Fresh charms, which make thee lovelier to the view;
For nature has luxuriantly clad
Thy ruins; as if wishing to renew
Their claim to homage from those hearts that woo
Her gentle influence: with indulgent hand
She has aton'd for all that time could do,
Though she might not his ravages withstand;
And now thou art her own: her skill thy beauties plann'd.

The mantling ivy's ever-verdant wreath
She gave thee as her livery to wear;
Thy wall-flowers, waving at the gentlest breath,
And scattering perfume on the summer air,
Wooing the bee to come and labour there;
The clinging moss, whose hue of sober grey
Makes beautiful what else were bleak and bare;
These she has given thee as a fit array
For thy declining pomp, and her delightful sway.

208

Yet, is it not her power, or these alone
That make thee interesting as thou art;
The merely beautiful, however prone
We are to prize it, could not touch the heart.
Mere form and colour would not thus impart,
Unto the pensive, contemplating mind,
Thoughts which might almost cause a tear to start
In eyes not given to weep: there is assign'd
To thee a stronger power in deeper feeling shrin'd.

It is a consciousness of what thou wert,
Compar'd with what thou art; a feeling sense
Which even steals upon the most inert,
Who have the least conception how, or whence
Such mixt sensation should arise from thence;
But so it is, that few there are can gaze
Upon the wrecks of old magnificence,
Nor own the moral that their fate conveys,
How all that man can build his own brief power betrays.

And most of all this truth arrests the heart,
When edifices that were meant to be,
Not mere mementos of the builder's art,
That future ages should with wonder see;
But monuments of wealth and piety,
To the Most High for ever consecrate;
When these, too, share the fate now fallen on thee,
Who can with stoic coldness contemplate
Their splendour thusdefac'd, their pomp thus desolate?

209

No catholic am I, in whom the sight
Of glories tarnish'd, altars overthrown,
Aught of revengeful feeling could excite:
Pope, Cardinal, and Abbot, I disown
Alike, as empty titles; seldom shown
More insignificant and profitless,
Than where they once assum'd their haughtiest tone;
Yet do I feel what words cannot express,
Viewing the faded pride of fancied holiness.

Of fancied holiness! O say not so,
Nor judge unkindly of another's creed;
The intent and motive God alone can know,
And these condemn, or sanctify the deed.
Ave-maria, crucifix and bead
Are nothing in themselves; but if they were
Imagin'd helpful in the votary's need,
Although a faith more spiritual may spare
Such outward aids to seek, from blame it may forbear.

And thus this gorgeous edifice, if rear'd
By piety, which sought with honest aim
The glory of The Lord, should be rever'd,
Even for that cause, by those who seek the same.
Perchance the builders err'd; but who shall blame
Error, nor feel that they partake it too?
Then judge with charity, whate'er thy name,
Be thou a Pagan, Protestant, or Jew;
Nor with a scornful glance these papal reliques view.

210

I grant that Popery's was a galling yoke;
Its ritual, one that reason must disdain:
And much I venerate their names who broke
The fetters, and releas'd us from the chain.
Dreadful indeed is superstition's reign,
And priestcraft has pollution in its touch;
Yet, as extremes beget extremes again,
There is a danger, or there may be such,
That we in turn may doubt, as they believ'd, too much.

To give implicit credence to each tale
Of monkish legends; reliques to adore;
To think God honour'd by the cowl or veil,
Reckless or who, or what, the emblem wore;
Indeed is mockery, mummery, nothing more:
But if cold scepticism usurp the place
That superstition held in days of yore,
We may not be in much more hopeful case
Than if we still implor'd the Virgin Mary's grace.

There is a medium, could we find it out,
(And all may find it if they seek aright,)
Between extreme credulity and doubt;
A safe and middle path, not gain'd by might
Or wisdom of our own; a path, whose light
“Shines more and more unto the perfect day;”
Not overcast by bigotry's dark night,
Nor faintly lit by reason's twilight ray;
But cloudless, straight, and plain; a high and holy way.

211

And those who walk therein, with humble trust
In Him who cast it up, and led them there,
Remembering this, that they are form'd of dust,
The gifts they have receiv'd with meekness bear:
Reason and faith are such; a peerless pair,
Would man but use them both with holy awe,
And of the abuse of each, in turn, beware,
Their influence would instruct him how to draw
His life upon the line of God's unerring law.

But I have wander'd widely from my theme,
And some perhaps may think have wander'd long;
Yet others more indulgently may deem,
Nor chide the minstrel for his sober song:
It could not well be gay, thus fram'd among
The desolate ruins of departed days,
And years gone by, whose presence wakes a throng
Of pensive thoughts, compelling me to raise,
In contemplative mood, chasten'd and solemn lays—

Congenial to the scene; and, as is fit,
Imprest with somewhat of its temper'd hues;
One, if no more, I trust will cherish it,
When she, the past retracing, shall peruse
This frail memorial of an humble muse:
For she will then remember how, erewhile,
Far from her home upon the banks of Ouse,
She wander'd with me through this ruin'd pile,
When autumn's setting sun shed round his softest smile.

212

Yes, thou, my young friend, will not soon forget,
Nor shouldst thou, visiting this lovely scene;
Because upon thy brow thou bear'st as yet
Youth's joyous chaplet of unblighted green,
Surpassing far the poet's bay, I ween;
For the fresh dews which unto thine dispense
Its living loveliness—its charm serene,
Rise from the fount of early innocence,
That makes in happy hearts its hidden residence.

Thou art exactly at the age, when all
Within, each outward beauty can enhance;
When bliss has too much novelty to pall,
As it does afterward in life's advance,
Even reality may seem romance;
It often does, while yet delight is new;
And time, and place, and trivial circumstance,
That feed the eager fancy, charm the view,
At such an age as thine, may last existence through.

Therefore do I believe, that in thy heart
These ruins will their own remembrance keep;
And, sketch'd with them on memory's faithful chart,
Will be, the wild walk to the mighty deep,
The lone and shady spot for washing sheep,
Where the tall, trembling aspens ceaseless play,
And we stood still to hear the light winds sweep
Their rustling leaves, while, in the unseen bay,
We heard the billows' dash: these shall not pass away!

213

Nor will the scene that hail'd us at the close
Of our wild ramble, less survive to each;
When we exchang'd the stillness and repose
Of the lone common, for the open beach;
And saw before us, far as eye could reach,
The bursting breakers fling their foam on high,
And felt how poor was all the power of speech
To paint the grandeur and rude melody
That spoke, in nature's tone, to heart, and ear, and eye.

Farewell! I may not lengthen out a strain
Already too protracted; then, farewell!
Nor shall I think that I have writ in vain,
If they, who love such scenes, whose bosoms swell
With those pure feelings that delight to dwell
In yet untroubled hearts; if such shall own
That I have spoken what their tongues would tell,
Returning from such haunts: that praise alone
Shall recompense me well, and for the task atone.

9th Mo. 20th, 1819.

214

TO A CHILD

OF THREE YEARS OLD.

Thou art a thing made up of all
Delightful glorious elements,
Which thought, in fancy's sweetest thrall,
By her creative power invents.

For could she by her spell command
That there should stand before me now
A denizen of fairy-land,
It were not lovelier than thou!

Yet not for this alone, have I
With tender fondness gaz'd on thee;
There is another, stronger tie
Which makes thee dearer still to me.

It is a tie I would not name,
Because by few 'twere understood;
Yet holier, purer far, its claim,
Than consanguinity of blood.

215

And thus to feel, and this to know,
That I would seek thee, more than shun,
Wakes in my heart a warmer glow
Than all it ever wish'd has done!

To form fallacious schemes of joy;
To wish and hope, we know not what;
To see reality destroy
Such phantoms, is a common lot.

But, while beholding others blest,
To feel no vain regrets intrude,
Convinc'd that Heaven has order'd best,
Is cause of sober gratitude!

216

THE QUAKER POET:

VERSES ON SEEING MYSELF SO DESIGNATED.

“The Quaker Poet!”—is such name
A simple designation;—
Or one expressive of my shame,
And thy vituperation?—

If but the former—I, for one,
Have no objection to it:
A name, as such, can startle none
Who rationally view it.

But if such title would convey
Contempt, or reprobation,
Allow me, briefly as I may,
To state my vindication.

It is not splendour of costume
That prompts harmonious numbers;—
The nightingale, of sober plume,
Sings, while the peacock slumbers.

217

The shallow brooks, in spring so gay,
In summer soonest fail us;
Their sparkling pride has pass'd away,
Their sounds no more regale us.

While the more deep, but quiet streams,
By alders overshaded,
Flow on, in spite of scorching beams,
Their beauties uninvaded.

And on their peaceful verge we see
Green grass, fresh flowers, and round them
Hover the butterfly and bee,—
Rejoicing to have found them.

Is it the gayest of the gay,
The votaries of fashion,
Who feel most sensibly the sway
Of pure and genuine passion?

No!—hearts there be, the world deems cold,
As warm, as true, as tender
As those which gayer robes enfold,
However proud their splendour.

Of mine I speak not:—He, alone,
Who form'd, can truly know it;
Nor of my verse;—I frankly own
Myself no lofty poet.

218

But I contend the Quaker creed,
By fair interpretation,
Has nothing in it to impede
Poetic aspiration:

All that fair nature's charms display
Of grandeur, or of beauty;
All that the human heart can sway,
Joy, grief, desire, or duty;—

All these are ours—The copious source
Of true poetic feeling:—
And wouldst thou check their blameless course,
Our lips in silence sealing?

Nature, to all her ample page
Impartially unfolding,
Prohibits neither saint, nor sage,
Its beauties from beholding.

And thus the muse her gifts assigns,
With no sectarian spirit;
For all the wreath of fame she twines
Who fame and favour merit.

Through every age, in every clime,
Her favour'd sons have flourish'd;
Have felt her energy sublime,
Her pure delights have nourish'd.

219

From Lapland's snows, from Persia's bowers,
Their songs are still ascending;
Then, Quaker Poets, try your powers!
Why should you fear offending?

Still true to nature be your aim,
Abhorring affectation;
You with peculiar grace may claim
Each simpler decoration.

And, with such you may blend no less,
Spite of imputed weakness,
The god-like strength of gentleness,
The majesty of meekness!

The blameless pride of purity,
Chast'ning each soft emotion;
And, from fanaticism free,
The fervour of devotion!

Be such your powers:—and in the range
Of themes which they assign you,
Win wreaths you need not wish to change
For aught that fame could twine you.

For never can a poet's lays
Obtain more genuine honor,
Than whilst his Gift promotes the praise
Of Him, who is its Donor!

220

STANZAS

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF A RELATIVE ABROAD.

Thou sleep'st far from the land of thy birth,
But thy Name and thy Memory are dear;
And, though foreign thy grave, its fresh earth,
Closing o'er thee, was wet with a tear.

The warm tear of affection!—as true,
As sincere, and as kind,—as if drawn
From fond eyes, which here wept for thee too,
And had watch'd thee from infancy's morn.

But, though bitter the tidings appear'd,
Which told us that thou wert no more;
And though painful it was, ere we fear'd,
To find that suspense was all o'er:—

And though mournful it was, as we read
The last record thy love had addrest,
To reflect that it came from—the dead:
Now, for Thee, every care is at rest.

221

Thou art number'd with those who can know
Neither sickness, nor sorrow, nor pain;
From whose bright eyes no tears ever flow,
And whom death cannot conquer again.

For their God dwells among them;—and they
See his face, and rejoice in its light;
And his Presence is pledge of their day,
For his glory has banish'd the night.

Since such the fruition—that Faith
Suggests to thy spirit as given;
Can we mourn, although sudden thy death,
And distant thy transit to Heaven?

No! it surely were selfish indeed,
To regret that thy troubles are o'er;
Reason's law, Christianity's creed,
Command us to sorrow no more.

But to think of thee, now, as of one
Remov'd far from sorrow's control;
Whose brief race of existence is run,
And hath ended at Glory's last goal.

Perhaps He, whose omniscience transcends
All wisdom to mortals made known,
But conducted thee far from thy friends,
To make thee more truly his own.

222

For it is not while here we sojourn,
Encircled by all we love best,
That our hearts are most likely to learn
This is not the place of our rest!

That place of true rest thou hast found;
At least so we humbly may trust,
Nor boots it, though foreign the ground
Where thy reliques may moulder to dust.

For thy spirit, redeem'd through His love,
Which alone can redeem,—sought its sphere;
Joys immortal surround it above:—
Peace be with its Memory here!

223

TO THE WINDS.

Ye viewless Minstrels of the sky!
I marvel not, in times gone by
That ye were deified:
For, even in this later day,
To me oft has your power, or play,
Unearthly thoughts supplied.

Awful your power! when, by your might
You heave the wild waves, crested white,
Like mountains in your wrath;
Ploughing between them valleys deep,
Which, to the seaman rous'd from sleep,
Yawn like Death's opening path!

Graceful your play! when, round the bower
Where Beauty culls Spring's loveliest flower,
To wreathe her dark locks there,
Your gentlest whispers lightly breathe
The leaves between, flit round that wreath,
And stir her silken hair.

224

Still, thoughts like these are but of earth,
And you can give far loftier birth:—
Ye come!—we know not whence!
Ye go!—can mortals trace your flight?
All imperceptible to sight:
Though audible to sense.

The Sun,—his rise, and set we know;
The Sea,—we mark its ebb, and flow;
The Moon,—her wax, and wane;
The Stars,—Man knows their courses well,
The Comets' vagrant paths can tell;—
But You his search disdain.

Ye restless, homeless, shapeless things!
Who mock all our imaginings,
Like Spirits in a dream;
What epithet can words supply
Unto the Bard who takes such high
Unmanageable theme?

But one:—to me, when Fancy stirs
My thoughts, ye seem Heaven's messengers,
Who leave no path untrod;
And when, as now, at midnight's hour,
I hear your voice in all its power,
It seems the Voice of God.

225

AN ASPIRATION.

“Nor do I name of Men the common rout,
“That wandering loose about,
“Grow up and perish, as the summer fly,
“Heads without name—no more remember'd.”
Milton.

O let me not, when death shall end
The turmoil of life's transient day,
Thus to the silent grave descend:—
And unremember'd pass away!

To me that life alone has worth,
Which, from the virtuous, and the wise,
Wins no ignoble name on earth;
And gains a new one in the skies!

226

“WHO THAT HAS SEEN THE SPEAKING EYE.”

Who that has seen the speaking eye,
Whose light was love,—grow dim in death,
And hung upon the deep drawn sigh
Which mark'd the last, the parting breath;—

Who, in that awful, solemn hour,
When thought and reason seem'd to reel,—
Imagin'd love possess'd a power
Such hopeless agony to heal?

But if affection have been pure,
Those who have truly felt its sway,
Have found its essence will endure
Even beyond that sunless day.

Dear are the joys the dead can give;
And deathless must love's nature be;—
Since time itself it can outlive,
And triumph in eternity.

227

WRITTEN ON A STORMY EVENING.

The voice of thy thunder was in the heavens; the lightnings lightened the world.—Psalm lxxvii. ver. 18.

When the beam of the sun, on a bright summer's day,
To each light-drifted cloud his own glory is granting;
I love to recline on the turf, and survey,
As the clouds sail above me, a scene so enchanting.

But the soul-speaking grandeur of seasons like this
Gives birth to a deeper, sublimer emotion;
And wakens a feeling more pure than such bliss,
Of fearful delight, and of awful devotion.

How transcendently grand in its gloom is yon cloud,
Through which the fork'd lightning is brilliantly darting;
And when spent the first peal of the thunder-clap proud,
How majestic the echoes which speak its departing!

228

I know all I witness results from those laws
Which plann'd by the Infinite, act without error;
And, knowing who rules each effect, and its cause,
This war of the elements wakens no terror.

But I cannot behold it, unmov'd at the sight;
Nor think without awe, as the cloud's cleft asunder,
Of Him who is cloth'd in a garment of light!
And whose voice in the heavens is heard in his thunder!

“Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment.” Psalm civ. ver. 2.

229

VERSES

ON SEEING SOME PAINTINGS BY THE OLD MASTERS, AT BREDFIELD HOUSE, THE RESIDENCE OF JOHN FITZGERALD, ESQ.

They err'd not who relied for fame
On works of such magnificence;
Whose charms, unchangeably the same,
Surprise and rapture can dispense.

Their genius, whose conceptions plann'd
What still such feelings can supply;
Their master-touch,—who could command
Such phantoms forth;—have long gone by!

Yet here triumphantly they live,
With power to waken smiles or tears;
And to unconscious canvas give
What liv'd, and breath'd, in distant years.

230

What still shall captivate,—when we,
Who now with admiration gaze,
Like those who fashion'd them, shall be
The creatures of departed days!

Still shall that sleeping infant's face
Beauty and innocence reveal;
That sainted mother's matron grace
To every mother's heart appeal.

Those misty mountains still shall rise,
As now they do; those vales expand;
And still those torrents, trees, and skies
Tell of each master's magic hand.

Oblivion by that art is scorn'd,
Which thus survives the slow decline
Of splendid piles it once adorn'd;—
And still seems deathless, and divine!

231

SEA-SIDE THOUGHTS.

Beautiful, sublime, and glorious;
Mild, majestic, foaming, free;—
Over time itself victorious,
Image of eternity.

Epithet-exhausting Ocean!
'Twere as easy to control
In the storm thy billowy motion,
As thy wonders to unrol.

Sun, and moon, and stars shine o'er thee,
See thy surface ebb, and flow;
Yet attempt not to explore thee
In thy soundless depths below.

Whether morning's splendours steep thee
With the rainbow's glowing grace;
Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee,
'Tis but for a moment's space.

232

Earth,—her valleys, and her mountains,
Mortal man's behests obey;
Thy unfathomable fountains
Scoff his search, and scorn his sway.

Such art thou—stupendous Ocean!
But if overwhelm'd by thee,
Can we think without emotion
What must thy Creator be?

233

STANZAS.

O! who that has an eye to see,—
A heart to feel,—a tongue to bless;—
Can ever undelighted be
By Nature's magic loveliness?

The bright sun's animating beams,—
The pale moon's mild and pensive ray;
The living freshness of the streams;
The glories of a new-born day:—

The foliage of o'ershadowing trees,
Earth's verdant mossiness beneath;
The balmy odours of the breeze;
The silence of the lonely heath:

The matchless melody that swells
Upon the lonely loiterer's ear,—
From hum of bees in fox-glove bells,—
Or sky-lark's song in loftier sphere,—

234

To those more solemn sounds that wake
The deeper chords of harmony,
Where Ocean's restless billows make
Wild music everlastingly!

Such Nature's charms! O why should vice
Unwisely, impiously destroy them!
Even this world were Paradise,
Would Man but virtuously enjoy them!

235

TO MARY.

Remember me, love, when thou walkest alone,
In a still summer's evening, beside the green sea;
When all that thy gentle eye gazes upon
Is peaceful, and pure, and attractive, like thee.

In the brightness of morn, when thou seekest the shore,
To revive on thy soft cheek health's loveliest hue,
Rejoice in the sunshine, and smile at the roar
Of the loud bursting billows, as others may do.

Talk gaily with those who may roam with thee then,
And share all an innocent bosom may crave,—
Till the western horizon is glorious again,
And soft music breaks with each murmuring wave:—

Then devote a few moments of silence to him
Who often reverts to that calm even-tide,
When waves rippled gently, and day-light grew dim,
As we rov'd, arm in arm, on the green ocean's side.

236

THE WITHER'D LEAF.

[_]

FREELY TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.

Sever'd from thy slender stalk,
Wither'd wand'rer! knowest thou?
Would'st thou tell, if leaves might talk,
Whence thou art?—Where goest thou?

“Nothing know I!—tempests' strife
From the proud oak tore me;
Broke my every tie to life,
Whelm'd the tree that bore me.

“Zephyr's fickle breath,—the blast
From the northern ocean,
Since that day my lot have cast
By their varying motion.

“From the mountain's breezy height
To the silent valley,
From the forest's darksome night
To the plain I sally.

237

“Wheresoever wafts the wind,
Restless flight constraining,
There I wander, unconfin'd,
Fearless, uncomplaining.

“On I go—where all beside
Like myself are going;
Where Oblivion's dreamless tide
Silently is flowing.

“There, like Beauty, frail and brief,
Fades the pride of roses;
There the laurel's honour'd leaf—
Sear'd and scorn'd—reposes.”

238

HYMN.

The Heavens are telling the glory of God,
The firmament showeth his handy work;
In the lowliest flower that springs from the sod,
The proofs of His wisdom and goodness lurk.

When the Sun cometh forth from the gates of the morn,
Giving light and life to the landscape round;
When the dews of night are empearl'd on the thorn,
And with joyful songs the echoes resound;

Oh! His is the splendor whose beauty makes dim
All that Art can frame to enchant the eye;
And the Music we hear is the Matin Hymn
Of unconscious praise to the Deity!

When the silence of night o'er the earth is spread,
And the moon and stars in their courses shine,
The stillness around and the pomp over-head
Alike to the heart have a voice divine.

239

For day unto day ever uttereth speech,
And night unto night doth knowledge declare,
And the soul that attends to the truths they teach
May worship God always—and every-where!

240

TO MY DAUGHTER,

WITH HER FATHER'S “POEMS,” &C.

I hope not through these pages
To bid my humble Name
Survive to distant ages,
Enwreath'd by splendid Fame.

Such prouder expectation
May loftier Bards inspire;
A lowlier aspiration
Repays my simple Lyre.

Enough—if it shall give me,
At Memory's sweetest shrine,
Thoughts—feelings—to outlive me
In hearts belov'd—like thine.

The wreath that crowns a Poet
May wake a transient thrill;
But who would not forego it
For something dearer still?

241

A purer joy is blended
With many a look, and smile,
Than e'er from Fame most splendid
The bosom can beguile.

Oh! such at times have lighten'd
Like sunshine on my way,
And by their influence brighten'd
Thy Father's darkest day.

I have no Foes,—to set them
As beacons in thy sight;
And if I had,—“Forget them!”
Is all that I would write.

But well my Friends thou knowest,
And blessings rest on Thee!
As gratitude thou showest
For kindness done to me.

242

A SONG OF PRAISE.

Give praises to God! unto Him who first founded
The fabric of earth by the word of His Power;
Who arch'd the sky's vault, and the Ocean depths sounded,
Gave the day-spring its birthright, and darkness its dower:—
Praise! praise ye The Lord! and his goodness proclaim,
Everlasting His mercy, and glorious His Name.

Bend the knee to Jehovah! with humble emotion
Bow down at the throne of the awful I AM!
Be His Spirit the guide in each act of devotion,
And Salvation implor'd through the blood of The Lamb!
Pray! pray to The Lord! and His goodness proclaim,
Everlasting His mercy, and glorious His Name.

243

In spirit and truth draw ye near to that altar
Which God in the depth of each heart would make known;
Where love cannot languish, and faith cannot falter,
But each thought and each feeling are truly his own:—
With prayers and with praises His goodness proclaim,
Everlasting His mercy, and glorious His Name!

[_]

The above Verses were written for a Collection of Sacred Pieces, with Music; intended to be published by A. Pettit, of Norwich: and are here inserted by his permission.

244

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF KIRKE WHITE'S REMAINS.

“Unhappy White! while life was in its Spring,
And thy young Muse just wav'd her joyous wing,
The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to rest for ever there.”
Byron.

“Unhappy White?”—Expression misapplied!
Who blends unhappiness with thoughts of Thee?
Not Faith,—for Faith is more than eagle-eyed,
Beholding what no glance but hers can see:
Not Hope,—for hers are glories yet to be
In purer realms, and these she trusts are thine;
Not Charity, last, greatest of the three,
For hers is patience that can ne'er repine,
Enduring trust in Heaven, and every thought benign.

245

“Unhappy White?”—Oh! how much happier Thou
Than he who thus miscall'd Thee. When has Time
'Twin'd a more fadeless wreath for Age's brow,
Than grac'd thy own in Manhood's opening prime?
How many a lonely Votary of rhyme
Has labour'd, late and early, to ascend
Where 'twas thy happier destiny to climb
In few brief years, and with thy Name to blend
Fame pure as ever crown'd Life's most protracted end.

Grant that, though brief, the conflict was severe,
Hast'ning thy passage to the silent tomb;
That many a hope of thine was chill'd by fear,
And many a gleam of brightness quench'd in gloom;
Yet such hath been the not unfrequent doom
Of hearts like thine:—in temporary woe
Hath most enduring glory found its womb,
And many a keen and agonizing throe
Attends upon its birth, and marks its course below.

But thou hadst hopes, sustaining, pure, and high,
And thou hadst Friends—affectionate and true;
Those glorious hopes that cheer a heaven-ward eye
Oft rose in nightly vigils to thy view,
Reviv'd thy heart, and strung thy nerves anew;
What though at last thy strength was worn away,
Who would the heavenly gift of Genius rue,
Which “o'er-inform'd thy tenement of clay,”
Because in early youth it mark'd thee for decay?

246

We rate not honour'd age by length of days,
Nor estimate its span by number'd years;
He lives the longest—who in Wisdom's ways
Travels with steadiest step: Truth more reveres
The spotless life, which Youth like thine endears,
Than Age's hoary locks:—Life's longest span,
Unless the Vet'ran may surpass his peers
In what most graces it,—we coldly scan,
And try Life's noblest worth by what ennobles Man.

Thus view'd and valued, who could wish thy own
Had been on earth a more protracted date?
Had lengthen'd years been thine—to us unknown
It must remain, if fruit commensurate
To thy young bloom had follow'd:—not blind fate—
But God's omniscient goodness governs all;
We know but this—that He, the Good, the Great,
Chose to himself thy spirit to recal,
Nor can his wise decree the Christian's heart appal.

Could we conceive that all “the promise fair”
Of thy bright soul was veil'd by Death's dark shade,
And “sought the Grave to rest for ever there,”—
Then had thy early death our hearts dismay'd,
And round thy urn the mournful Cypress braid
Had Sorrow wreath'd; while o'er the honour'd spot,
Where thy cold reliques in the dust are laid—
Might anguish'd hearts that own thee unforgot
Confess with painful grief unhappy was thy lot.

247

But now we count thee Happy! Who can claim
That proud distinction—if to thee denied?
Happy in having sav'd thy humble Name
From the cold depths of dark Oblivion's tide,
To do which thousands fruitlessly have sigh'd:—
Happy in Friendship and Affection here,
Whose kindly sympathy so oft supplied
Joy in thy sorrow, hope in hours of fear,
Watch'd o'er thy living worth, and holds its memory dear.

Happiest of all in this—that Thou didst give
To heavenly themes, and Heaven's Almighty King,
While yet it was thy lot on Earth to live,
The richest, fairest blossoms of thy Spring;
Thy Harp—when woke by thee its sweetest string,
Was vocal in Religion's sacred cause;
Thy proudest aim a Saviour's praise to sing,
With thought attentive—in each silent pause,
To a far higher meed than mortal Man's applause.

And rich hath been thy recompense.—On earth
Thy honour'd Name, with noble ones enroll'd,
Has given in ardent hearts bright visions birth,
Bade Genius in its Giver's praise be bold;
Electrified the young, reviv'd the old:—
While Faith, before whose vision brightly shine
Glimpses of joy too glorious to be told,
Owns with The Bard “full bliss is bliss divine,”
And feels a hope assured such happiness is Thine.

248

TO THE LAURUSTINUS.

Lowly though thy stature be,
Plac'd by many a tow'ring tree,
Sober as may seem the air
Of the blossoms thou dost wear,
When compar'd with tints more gay
Spring and summer shall display,—
Gladly would I claim for mine
Simple chaplet laurustine.

Beauty for her brow may braid
Fairer flowers—but soon they fade;
War may twine its victor laurel,
Stain'd by many a bloody quarrel;
Love its myrtle crown may wreathe
Blighted if indiff'rence breathe;
Let the votary of the Nine
Seek a chaplet laurustine.

249

Dost thou, reader, ask me why?
Look abroad in fierce July,
When the bright sun's fervid heat
Withers flowers as frail as sweet,
Then the laurustinus view,
Mark its leaf of glossy hue,
And, should prosp'rous hours be thine,
Prize the chaplet laurustine.

Look abroad again—when snow
Mantles earth, and cold winds blow,
See its cheerful, hardy bloom
Smiling amid winter's gloom;
Green of leaf in summer's heat,
Gay of flower in frost and sleet;
Oh! if poet's claim be mine,
Be my chaplet laurustine.

250

THE DESERTED MANSION.

SONNET I.

As lightly, in November's cheerless sky,
Thy smoke ascends,—and to the eye as fair
Thy flowers in spring may bloom; thy trees may wear
Their summer coronals as bright of dye;
And glorious, as in days and years gone by,
Thy hues autumnal: yet a change is there
Which no revolving seasons can repair,
For thou hast lost what these may not supply.
Gone are art's treasur'd works! That art which hung
Unfading splendour on each trophied wall;
Where living beauty—which appeal'd to all,
A silent fascination round it flung,
Till admiration loos'd the gazer's tongue,
Owning the mastery of its magic thrall.

251

ON THE SAME.

SONNET II.

Is thy loss only this?—then where are they
Whom erst thy venerable walls enshrin'd?
Manhood—frank, hospitable, courteous, kind,
With hand and heart open as light of day:—
And womanhood, whose captivating sway
Was founded on the empery of mind,
With with accomplish'd, and by taste refin'd;
Who but must mourn when such have pass'd away!
Nor these alone we miss:—from thee are fled
Childhood's wild glee, youth's bright-eyed joy of heart,
Whose dawn of promise bade the fond hopes start
To distant years:—what thou hast left instead
I ask not, all that thought and fancy fed
Is link'd with what thou wast—not what thou art.

252

THE DYING AMAZON.

SUGGESTED BY A COPY FROM AN ANTIQUE.

Ay! lay thee down, and die!
For what hadst thou to do with martial shield,
When nature did supply
Arms worthier of thy sex for thee to wield?

She gave thee glances—bright
As morning's splendours on the eastern hill,
And smiles—whose cheering light
Might bow before thee man's most stubborn will.

She gave thee tones—whose sound
Surpasses far the trumpet's loud commotion;
Tresses, like those around
Some Nereid's snowy neck uprising from the ocean.

And, far beyond all these,
She gave thee gentleness, affection, love;
Arms—which can win with ease
Triumphs the conqueror's proudest wreaths above.

253

Oh! why should woman slight
Such graceful meeds, well worthy of her wooing;
And win, in ruder fight,
The sadder dirge call'd forth for her undoing?

254

A WINTER EVENING DITTY,

FOR A LITTLE GIRL.

'Tis dark and cold abroad, my love, but warm and bright within,
So ransack o'er thy treasur'd store, and evening's sports begin;
Thy playthings, what an endless list! thy dolls both great and small,
Empty thy Lilliputian hoard, and let us see them all.

There's not a king who wears a crown, nor miser hoarding pelf,
More absolute and rich than thou, my little sportive elf;
Those dolls thy docile subjects are, that footstool is thy throne,
And all the wealth which Mammon boasts is worthless to thy own.

Or must it be a living thing to please thy fancy now,
There's Puss, although she looks so grave, as fond of play as thou;
Who patiently submits to sports which common cats would tire,
Contented if she can but keep her post beside the fire.

255

She quietly consents to be in baby garments drest,
Or in thy little cradle rock'd as quietly will rest;
I know not which most happy seems when mirthful is your air,
Nor could I find a Puck, or Puss, with either to compare.

But if a graver mood be thine—with needle and with thread—
When sport grows dull, e'en give it o'er, and play at work instead;
Yet much I doubt, though sage thy look, and busy as a bee,
Whether that fit of sempstress-ship will long suppress thy glee.

But hark! I hear the Curfew-bell:—thy little eyes grow dim;
Put by thy work, dolls, toys, and all—and say thy Evening Hymn:
'Tis said! now bid us all farewell! kiss dear mamma—and then
Sweet sleep and pleasant dreams be thine till morning dawn again.

256

STANZAS.

There's splendour in the eye's bright beam,
With youth and pleasure glancing,
And in the ripple of the stream
In morning's sunshine dancing.

But quench'd too soon that eye's clear ray
In the passing clouds of sorrow;
And the stream that rippled yesterday,
May be dark and dry to-morrow.

Oh! for a happier state than this
Which cloud can darken never;
The brightness of whose perfect bliss
But dawns to shine for ever.

257

STANZAS,

WRITTEN IN AUTUMN.

Hoarser gales are round us blowing,
Clouds obscure the sky,
Day's brief span is shorter growing,
Darker nights draw nigh.

Morn and ever are chill and dreary,
Songs have lost their mirth,
Whisp'ring leaves—of converse weary,
Silent sink to earth.

Flowers are in the garden faded,
From the fields have fled,
Many a nook their beauty shaded
With their seed is spread.

Dewy drops—the long grass bending,
Glitter bright, yet chill;
Earth is cold, and showers descending
Make her colder still.

258

Brighter skies and warmer weather
Bade our fancies roam;
Thought may now itself up-gather,
Feeling centre home.

Man, too, has his seasons changing,
Clos'd in wintry gloom,
When, on earth no longer ranging,
He must seek the tomb.

By no vain regrets attended—
Christian! view that bourn;
With thy fears bright hopes are blended
Which forbid to mourn.

To those hopes—sublime and glorious,
If thy spirit cleave,
Thou, o'er every fear victorious,
Conquest shalt achieve.

Conquest over sin and error
Thou with joy shalt see,
Over Death, with all its terror,
More than victor be.

Through His power, and meek dominion,
Who hath died to save,
Thought shall soar on eagle pinion
From the silent grave.

259

Faith, and Hope, and Love unbounded,
To His name shall cling,
And, by wintry Death surrounded—
Hail immortal Spring!

260

TO THE SKY-LARK.

“But a Larke, upspyringe above them all,
As if released from earthe's dull thrall,
Appeared aloude from the cloudis to call
In heaven is pleasaunce—in heaven is pleasaunce.”

Bird of the free and fearless wing!
Up, up, and greet the sun's first ray;
Until the spacious welkin ring
With thy enlivening matin lay:
I love to track thy heaven-ward way
'Till thou art lost to aching sight,
And hear thy numbers, blithe and gay,
Which set to music morning's light.

261

Songster of sky and cloud! to thee
Hath Heaven a joyous lot assign'd;
And thou, to hear those notes of glee,
Would'st seem therein thy bliss to find:
Thou art the first to leave behind
At day's return this lower earth,
And soaring as on wings of wind
To spring whence light and life have birth.

Bird of the sweet and taintless hour,
When dew-drops spangle o'er the lea,
Ere yet upon the bending flower
Has lit the busy humming-bee;—
Pure as all Nature is to thee—
Thou, with an instinct half divine,
Wingest thy fearless flight so free
Up tow'rd a yet more glorious shrine.

Bird of the morn! from thee might man,
Creation's lord, a lesson take;
If thou whose instinct ill may scan
The glories that around thee break,
Thus bidd'st a sleeping world awake
To joy and praise;—Oh! how much more
Should mind, immortal, earth forsake,
And man look upward to adore!

262

Bird of the happy, heaven-ward song!
Could but the Poet act thy part,
His soul, up-borne on wings as strong
As thought can give—from earth might start,
And with a far diviner art
Than genius ever can supply,
As thou the ear, might glad the heart,
And bring down music from the sky.

263

THE CYPRESS TREE.

Oaks have leaves of glossy green,
Bright the holly's fadeless sheen,
Graceful in its slenderness
Is the birch's airy tress,
Sweetly in the rippling wave
Willow boughs their foliage lave;
Beautiful all these may be,
Dearer far the Cypress Tree.

'Tis the tree whose branches wave
Gently o'er the quiet grave;
It has music, scarce of earth,
Wreaths, but not for hours of mirth;
Beauty—proudest flowers above,
Haunts for grief, not bowers for love:
Worldlings from its shadow flee,
Mourners love the Cypress Tree.

264

A CHRISTIAN'S DIRGE.

The hour is come, the solemn hour,
When earth to earth we give;
Our hope, our stay, the Saviour's power,
Who died that man might live.

Though dear the form, and lov'd the heart
We now commit to dust,
No virtues of the dead impart
Our spirits' holiest trust.

Those virtues memory oft shall trace
With pensive placid brow,
But Christian faith and Christian grace
Must be our refuge now.

The light they lend alone can cheer
The dark and silent tomb,
Can hush the sigh, make bright the tear,
And glory give for gloom.

265

We would not mourn as those who see
No hope beyond the grave;
Before thee, Lord! we bend the knee,
The Comforter we crave.

His power can make the soul rejoice,
Though eyes with grief be dim,
And bid us raise with grateful voice
A Christian's funeral hymn.

266

STANZAS

TO TWO PINE TREES IN AN ADJOINING GARDEN.

While trees of brighter leaf, and gayer bloom,
Shone in Spring's light, in Summer's breezes stirr'd,
Even your freshest shoots were ting'd with gloom,
Your gentlest music listlessly was heard.

But now—when wintry winds in sadness sigh
Through leafless branches—musical your sound;
And verdant, even in December's sky,
Appear your tufted crests with sunshine crown'd.

Thus thoughts and feelings are there which derive
From transient joy the only charm they know;
Others which many a fleeting bliss survive,
Unknown, unvalued till our hours of woe.

And friends there are whose hearts can change and turn
Like summer skies, or leaves in autumn bowers;
Others whose noble worth we only learn
When the bleak winter of the soul is ours.

267

SONNET

ON THE BLINDNESS OF MILTON.

“Undeterr'd by the warning , I seemed to hear the voice—not of a physician, or from the shrine of Æsculapius at Epidaurus, but of an internal and more divine monitor.” Milton's Second Defence.

Oh! who at sleepless nights and toilsome days,
To duty consecrate, would e'er repine?
Though outward strength may day by day decline,
And night by night the taper's glimm'ring rays
Illume a cheek whose healthful bloom decays:
What boots it? if, from its internal shrine,
The wakeful spirit hear a voice divine
Whisper approval passing mortal praise.
Milton! 'twas worthy greatness like thine own
To lend to such high oracle thine ear;
Relinquishing the light of day, though dear,
For that which in thy soul yet brighter shone,
And, glorying in infirmities alone,
To prove how perfect love can cast out fear.

Milton was expressly forewarned by his physicians that total blindness must be the result of his protracted labours.

268

TO THE EVENING STAR.

Star of the silent hour,
When, in the garden bower,
Flowrets are closing their blooms for the night,
Fain would my vesper lay
Woo thy mild-beaming ray,
Gentle and soft as the day's parting light.

Dews are descending round,
Busy day's dying sound
Fainter and fainter still, sinks on the ear;
Only one singing bird,
One ever fondly heard,
Warbles its melody, soothing and dear.

The moon hath not risen yet—
Though the proud sun has set,
Few of thy rivals look out from the sky;
Not one bright sparkler there
Could with thy beams compare
Wouldst thou but light up thy splendour on high.

269

Come forth then, shining one!
Be thou the twilight's sun;
Star of the lover and minstrel, come forth!
Hide not thy gentle rays,
Envy no brighter blaze,
Feeling and Fancy acknowledge thy worth.

270

VERSES

ON AN ENGRAVING FROM A MADONNA BY RAPHAEL.

Although I may not hold their creed
Who, bending low, adore
What thus to outward sense can plead,
Nor feel the want of more;
Yet touching, soothing, and refin'd,
I own its mastery o'er my mind.

And may my spirit ever feel
The loveliness benign
Of charms which bear the stamp and seal
Imprinted here on thine:
To Love, and Purity, and Peace,
Oh! never may my homage cease.

For every pure delight that springs
From harmony and beauty,
Bears heavenly healing on its wings
To bless the path of duty:
The holiest spell by such made known
Appeals not unto sense alone.

271

But deep within the immortal mind
The thoughts they waken live,
And to the feelings there enshrin'd
Their own endurance give:
Exalt our hopes, dispel our fears,
And lift us from this vale of tears.

I would not blindly over-rate
Art's most triumphant dower,
Yet Truth should justly estimate
Its well-directed power,
And yield the tribute of applause
To all that pleads in Virtue's cause.

To all that bears our souls above,
By showing here on earth
Of meekness, purity, and love
The elevating worth,—
Till every glimpse of glory given
Seems an ascending step to Heaven.

272

BOW HILL .

Cloudless and lovely is the night, the stars are bright on high,
The full-orb'd Moon in glorious light shines from the vaulted sky;
There's not a breath of wind to move the pine-tree's tufted crest;
But all around, and all above, seems hush'd in silent rest.
Methinks it were no vulgar bliss, could I my dream fulfil,
To climb in such an hour as this the summit of Bow Hill.

It was a lovely Summer's day, when last I wander'd there,
Nor has the picture pass'd away which then appear'd so fair;

273

On Memory's faithful tablet trac'd, its featuresoft arise,
Perchance with added beauty graced by fancy's magic dyes:
Though when beheld, I thought no hue of Mind's creative skill
Could with a heighten'd charm imbue the landscape from Bow Hill.

The birds were singing sweetly round, the sun in heaven shone bright,
And there was music in the sound, and beauty in the light;
That glancing light on Ocean's breast diffus'd a richer glow,
That music rose with sweetest zest from Kingley's depths below:
And many a flow'ret's simple bloom there flourish'd wild at will,
Decking each ancient sea-king's tomb who fell on proud Bow Hill.

Fair was the landscape then! and now with fancy's aid I scale
At midnight's hour that summit's brow, and view that peaceful vale:
Though beautiful when I was there the prospect round might seem,
She paints it to my mind more fair by moonlight's silent gleam;

274

Its charms might then delight impart which woke a livelier thrill,
But, Oh! how soothing to the heart night's silence on Bow Hill.

How bright, in tints of moonlight drest, looks each fierce sea-king's tomb,
While massy shadows darkly rest around the Yewtrees' gloom!
How does the distant glimm'ring light dance on the restless main,
Or clothe in splendour palely bright the wide extended plain!
While whispering leaves just faintly stirr'd, soft as a murm'ring rill,
At intervals alone, are heard, by night upon Bow Hill.

Past is my vision! lingers yet the charm that woke my lay,
And owns a more enduring debt than verse can ever pay:
The Danish tombs, the shadowy grove, the distant main I see,
But charms their beauty far above endear that scene to me;
And feelings absence cannot change, and distance cannot chill,
Must oft compel my thoughts to range with pleasure on Bow Hill.

Bow Hill is an eminence near Chichester. For an interesting account of it, as well as for a very pleasing description of the beautiful and extensive prospect from its summit, the author refers his readers to the opening chapter of Maria Hack's “English Stories.”—Kingley Bottom, the subject of the following Sonnet, is situated at the foot of Bow Hill.

275

KINGLEY BOTTOM,

A SONNET.

[_]

Written on hearing it remarked that its scenery was too gloomy to be termed beautiful; and that it was also associated with dolorous recollections of Druidical sacrifices.

Nay! nay! it is not gloomy:—visit it
On a bright summer morning, thou wilt see
The dark green foliage of each ancient tree,
By the young splendour of the sunshine lit,
Look smilingly:—or go at noon, and sit
Beneath that ample arbour, watch the bee
Hum gaily by; or hear the vesper glee
Of happy birds that to its covert flit.
Nor fancy Druid rites have left a stain
Upon its gentle beauties:—loiter there
In a calm summer night, confess how fair
Its moonlight charms, and thou wilt learn how vain
And transitory Superstition's reign
Over a spot which gladsome thoughts may share.

276

ON The Death of Samuel Alexander,

OF NEEDHAM-MARKET.

“He whom the wretched and the poor knew best,
Whom, when the ear his footstep heard, it blest;
To whom the eye, with age or sorrow dim,
Gave witness, and whose works shall follow him:
Who silently his Saviour's steps pursued;
Whose creed was love, whose life was gratitude.”
Josiah Conder.

Belov'd, rever'd, and mourn'd,—Farewell!
Though lost to every human eye,
Thy memory in our hearts shall dwell,
'Till we, like thee, in earth shall lie:
Thy name, now utter'd with a sigh,
As we thy recent loss deplore,
Hereafter shall a theme supply
For fondest thoughts to linger o'er.

277

Though well we knew thy zenith past,
And westward saw thy sun decline;—
So brightly, warmly—to the last
That orb in glory seem'd to shine;
We can but mournfully resign
A splendour which had known no chill,
Though, with a lustre more benign,
In brighter skies 'tis glowing still.

There are who in advancing years
Yet more and more our love engage,
In whom the worth that most endears
Seems mellow'd, not impair'd, by age;
Who blend the wisdom of the Sage
With Childhood's tenderness and truth,
And bear about to life's last stage
The earlier greenness of its youth.

From such, although their locks be grey,
Oh! who can feel prepared to part?
For them affection would delay
By each procrastinating art
Life's certain close;—and tears will start
When Death has snapt the vital chain,
And sighs uncheck'd will rend the heart,
Though sighs and tears alike are vain.

278

Thus have we mourn'd, thus mourn we yet;—
And cold indeed that heart must be
Which owns no pensive, fond regret,
When Death removes a friend like thee:
Oh! Spring may hang on many a tree
Green leaves by after Winter reft,
Ere we can hope on earth to see
Fill'd up the void which thou hast left.

How deeply will thy loss be known
In many a low and wretched cot,
Where oft thy kindness has been shown
To cheer the inmates' joyless lot!
From many a sweet, secluded spot
Whose beauties tell thy forming taste,
The eye which seeks, and finds thee not—
Will turn—as from a dreary waste.

I dare not pause o'er every scene
Where it was sweet with thee to share
Of social life each joy serene,
For Thou wast oft the centre there!
Nor will I—in The House of Prayer—
Dwell on that vacant seat—in thought,
Where thy deep meditative air
With silent eloquence has taught.

279

Rather let thought and feeling turn—
From themes that vain regret excite,
That Principle's true worth to learn
Which gave thy soul its inward light;
Which, far beyond the transient might
Of aught that we can deem thine own,
Gave thee that influential right—
More deeply lov'd—as longer known.

This last, this crowning gift of all
Was Grace Divine—belov'd, obey'd;
Follow'd, at Duty's secret call,
With meek reliance on its aid:
Through life's bright sunshine or its shade
Thy Spirit view'd with reverend awe
This inward guide, nor less display'd
Obedience to God's written law.

Here shone the finish'd charm that lent
Such brightness to thy lengthen'd days;
And—in the mortal instrument
Proclaimed Thy Master's power and praise:
The glory of the world decays,
As added years its splendour dim;
Thine seem'd to borrow brighter rays
As age but brought thee nearer Him.

280

Therefore thy memory long shall live
In hearts that truly knew thy worth,
Because the light it there may give
Is not a meteor born of earth:
The flash of wit, the gleam of mirth,
Death's shadowy clouds may veil in gloom;
But thine—immortal in its birth,
Is unextinguish'd by the tomb!

281

HYMN.

Praises! praises! Lord on high!
Humbler of the haughty eye;
Strength in weakness, friend in need,
Glorious God! in word and deed.

Thee we thank, and Thee we trust;
Holy, holy, true, and just!
Thine the power, the kingdom thine—
Which are deathless and divine.

Unto Thee, O God! above,
To thy Son—the sent in love,
And thy Holy Spirit's power
Thanks! and praises! every hour.

282

CONCLUDING VERSES,

WRITTEN AFTER RETURNING FROM AN AUTUMNAL MORNING WALK.

It is the very carnival of nature,
The loveliest season that the year can show!
When earth, obedient to her great Creator,
Hér richest boons delighteth to bestow.
The gently-sighing breezes, as they blow,
Have more than vernal softness; and the sun
Sheds on the landscape round a mellower glow
Than in his summer splendour he has done,
As if he near'd his goal, and knew the race was won.

It is the season when the green delight
Of leafy luxury begins to fade!
When leaves are changing daily to the sight,
Yet seem but lovelier from each deepening shade,
Or tint, by autumn's touch upon them laid;
It is the season when each streamlet's sound,
Flowing through lonely vale, or woody glade,
Assumes a tone more pensive, more profound;
And yet that hoarser voice spreads melody around.

283

And I have wander'd far, since the bright east
Was glorious with the dawning light of day;
Seeing, as that effulgence more increas'd,
The mists of morning slowly melt away:
And, as I pass'd along, from every spray,
With dew-drops glistening, evermore have heard
Some feather'd songster chant his roundelay;
Or bleat of sheep, or lowing of the herd;
Or rustling of fall'n leaf, when morning's breezes stirr'd.

Thus having roam'd, and reach'd my home at last,
Can I do better, while my bosom glows
With all the loveliness through which I've pass'd,
Even till enjoyment wishes for repose,
And meditation still with memory grows;
Can I do better, than once more to trim
My evening fire, and these my labours close,
Before my feelings chill, or sense wax dim,
With solemn strain of prayer, fit for a parting hymn?

O God! it is an awful thing indeed
For one who estimates our nature well,
Be what it may his outward sect, or creed,
To name thee, thou Incomprehensible!
Hadst thou not chosen of thyself to tell,
As in thy gospel thou hast done; nor less,
By condescending in our hearts to dwell;
Could man have ever found to thee access,
Or worshipp'd thee aright, in spiritual holiness?

284

“No! for the utmost that we could have done,
Were to have rais'd, as Paul at A'thens saw,
Altars unto the dread and unknown One,
Bending before, we knew not what, with awe;
And even now, instructed by a law
Holier than that of Moses, what know we
Of thee the Highest? Yet thou bidd'st us draw
Near thee in spirit: O then pardon me
If, in this closing strain, I crave a boon of thee.

“It shall be this: permit me not to place
My soul's affections on the things of earth:
But, conscious of the treasures of thy grace,
To let them, in my inmost heart, give birth
To gratitude proportion'd to their worth:
Teach me to feel that all which thou hast made
Upon this mighty globe's gigantic girth,
Though meant with filial love to be survey'd,
Is nothing to thyself:—the shadow of a shade.

“If thou hast given me, more than unto some,
A feeling sense of nature's beauties fair,
Which sometimes renders admiration dumb,
From consciousness that words cannot declare
The beauty thou hast scatter'd every where;
O grant that this may lead me still through all
Thy works to thee! nor prove a treach'rous snare
Adapted those affections to enthral,
Which should be thine alone, and waken at thy call.

285

“I would not merely dream my life away
In fancied rapture, or imagin'd joy;
Nor that a perfum'd flower, a dew-gemm'd spray,
A murmuring brook, or any prouder toy,
Should, for its own sake, thought or song employ;
So far alone as nature's charms can lead
To thee who fram'd them all, and canst destroy,
Or innocent enjoyment serve to feed;
Grant me to gaze and love, and thus thy works to read.

“But while from one extreme thy power may keep
My erring frailty, O preserve me still
From dulness, nor let cold indifference steep
My senses in oblivion: if the thrill
Of early bliss must sober, as it will,
And should, when earthly things to heavenly yield,
I would have feelings left time cannot chill;
That, while I yet can walk through grove or field,
I may be conscious there of charms by thee reveal'd.

“And when I shall, as, soon or late, I must,
Become infirm: in age, if I grow old;
Or, sooner, if my strength should fail its trust;
When I relinquish haunts where I have stroll'd
At morn or eve, and can no more behold
Thy glorious works: forbid me to repine;
Let memory still their loveliness unfold
Before my mental eye, and let them shine
With borrow'd light from thee, for they are Thine!”

THE END.