 | Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with Other Poems |  |
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FAREWELL TO THE RHINE.
(Lines written at Bonn.)
Fare thee well, thou regal river, proudly-rolling German Rhine,
Sung in many a minstrel's ballad, praised in many a poet's line!
Thou from me too claim'st a stanza; ere thy oft-trod banks I leave,
Blithely, though with thread the slenderest, I the grateful rhyme will weave;
Many a native hymn thou hearest, many a nice and subtle tone,
Yet receive my stranger lispings, strange, but more than half thine own.
Fare thee well! but not in sorrow; while the sun thy vineyards cheers,
I will not behold thy glory through a cloud of feeble tears;
Bring the purple Walportzheimer, pour the Rudesheimer bright,
In the trellis'd vine-clad arbour I will hold a feast to-night.
Call the friends who love me dearly, call the men of sense and soul,
Call the hearts whose blithe blood billows, like the juice that brims the bowl:
Let the wife who loves her husband, with her eyes of gracious blue,
Give the guests a fair reception—serve them with a tendance true;
With bright wine, bright thoughts be mated; and if creeping tears must be,
Let them creep unseen to-morrow, Rhine, when I am far from thee!
Sung in many a minstrel's ballad, praised in many a poet's line!
Thou from me too claim'st a stanza; ere thy oft-trod banks I leave,
Blithely, though with thread the slenderest, I the grateful rhyme will weave;
Many a native hymn thou hearest, many a nice and subtle tone,
Yet receive my stranger lispings, strange, but more than half thine own.
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I will not behold thy glory through a cloud of feeble tears;
Bring the purple Walportzheimer, pour the Rudesheimer bright,
In the trellis'd vine-clad arbour I will hold a feast to-night.
Call the friends who love me dearly, call the men of sense and soul,
Call the hearts whose blithe blood billows, like the juice that brims the bowl:
Let the wife who loves her husband, with her eyes of gracious blue,
Give the guests a fair reception—serve them with a tendance true;
With bright wine, bright thoughts be mated; and if creeping tears must be,
Let them creep unseen to-morrow, Rhine, when I am far from thee!
Lo! where speeds the gallant steamer, prankt with flags of coloured pride,
With strong heart of iron, panting stoutly up the swirling tide;
While from fife, and flute, and drum, the merry music bravely floats,
And afar the frequent cannon rolls his many-pealing notes;
And as thick as flowers in June, or armies of the ruddy pine,
Crown the deck the festive sailors of the broad and German Rhine.
“Der Rhein! Der Rhein!” I know the song, the jovial singers too I know,—
'Tis a troop of roving Burschen, and to Heisterbach they go;
There beneath the seven hills' shadow, and the cloister'd ruin grey,
Far from dusty books and paper, they will spend the sunny day;
There will bind their glittering caps with oaken wreaths fresh from the trees,
And around the rustic table sit, as brothers sit, at ease;
Hand in hand will sit and laugh, and drain the glass with social speed,
Crowned with purple Asmannshausen, drugged with many a fragrant weed;
While from broad and open bosom, with a rude and reinless glee,
Sounds the jocund-hearted pæan,—Live the Bursch! the Bursch is free!
Thus they through the leafy summer, when their weekly work is o'er,
Make the wooded hamlets echo with strong music's stirring roar,
From young life's high-brimming fulness—while the hills that bear the vine
Brew their juice in prescient plenty for the Burschen of the Rhine.
With strong heart of iron, panting stoutly up the swirling tide;
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And afar the frequent cannon rolls his many-pealing notes;
And as thick as flowers in June, or armies of the ruddy pine,
Crown the deck the festive sailors of the broad and German Rhine.
“Der Rhein! Der Rhein!” I know the song, the jovial singers too I know,—
'Tis a troop of roving Burschen, and to Heisterbach they go;
There beneath the seven hills' shadow, and the cloister'd ruin grey,
Far from dusty books and paper, they will spend the sunny day;
There will bind their glittering caps with oaken wreaths fresh from the trees,
And around the rustic table sit, as brothers sit, at ease;
Hand in hand will sit and laugh, and drain the glass with social speed,
Crowned with purple Asmannshausen, drugged with many a fragrant weed;
While from broad and open bosom, with a rude and reinless glee,
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Thus they through the leafy summer, when their weekly work is o'er,
Make the wooded hamlets echo with strong music's stirring roar,
From young life's high-brimming fulness—while the hills that bear the vine
Brew their juice in prescient plenty for the Burschen of the Rhine.
Oft at eve, when we were sated with the various feast of sight,
Looking through our leafy trellis on the hues of loveliest light,
Poured on the empurpled mountains by the gently westering sun;
When at length the blazing god, his feats of brilliant duty done,
Veiled his head, and Güdinghofen's gilded woods again were grey;
When the various hum was hushed that stirred the busy-striving day,
And the air was still and breezeless, and the moon with fresh-horned beam
Threw aslant a shimmering brightness o'er the scarcely sounding stream;
We with ear not idly pleased would rise to catch the mellow note
Softly o'er the waters wandering from the home-returning boat;
And we saw the festive brothers, sobered by the evening hour,
Shoreward drifted by the river's deep and gently-rolling power;
And our ear imbibed sweet concord, and our hearts grew young again,
And we knew the deep devotion of that solemn social strain.
And we loved the Bursch who mingles truth and friendship with the wine,
While his floods of deep song echo o'er the broad and murmuring Rhine.
Looking through our leafy trellis on the hues of loveliest light,
Poured on the empurpled mountains by the gently westering sun;
When at length the blazing god, his feats of brilliant duty done,
Veiled his head, and Güdinghofen's gilded woods again were grey;
When the various hum was hushed that stirred the busy-striving day,
And the air was still and breezeless, and the moon with fresh-horned beam
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We with ear not idly pleased would rise to catch the mellow note
Softly o'er the waters wandering from the home-returning boat;
And we saw the festive brothers, sobered by the evening hour,
Shoreward drifted by the river's deep and gently-rolling power;
And our ear imbibed sweet concord, and our hearts grew young again,
And we knew the deep devotion of that solemn social strain.
And we loved the Bursch who mingles truth and friendship with the wine,
While his floods of deep song echo o'er the broad and murmuring Rhine.
Fare thee well, thou people-bearing, joy-resounding, ample flood,
Mighty now, but mightier then, when lusty Europe's infant blood
Pulsed around thee; when thy Kaisers, titled with the grace of Rome,
With a holy sanction issued from hoar Aquisgranum's dome,
And with kingly preparation, where the Alps frostbelted frown,
Marched with German oak to wreathe the fruitful Lombard's iron crown.
Mighty now, but mightier then, when lusty Europe's infant blood
Pulsed around thee; when thy Kaisers, titled with the grace of Rome,
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And with kingly preparation, where the Alps frostbelted frown,
Marched with German oak to wreathe the fruitful Lombard's iron crown.
Then the stream of wealth adown thee freely floated; then the fire
Of a rude but hot devotion piled strong tower, and fretted spire,
Thick as oaks within the forest, where thy priestly cities rose.
Weaker now, and faint and small, the sacerdotal ardour glows
Round the broad Rhine's unchurched billows; but an echo still remains,
And a fond life stiffly lingers, in the old faith's ghostly veins.
Ample rags of decoration, scutcheons of the meagre dead,
By thy banks, thou Christian river, still, from week to week, are spread.
Flags and consecrated banners wave around thee; I have seen
Strewn with flowers thy streets, and marching in the gay sun's noonday sheen
Lines of linen-vested maidens, lines of sober matrons grey,
Lines of feeble-footed fathers, priests in motley grim array;
I have seen the bright cross glitter in the summer's cloudless air,
While the old brown beads were counted to the drowsy-mutter'd prayer;
I have seen the frequent beggar press his tatters in the mud,
For the bread that is the body, and the wine that is the blood,
(So they deem in pious stupor), of the Lord who walked on earth.
Such thy signs of life, thou strangely-gibbering imp of Roman birth,
Old, but lusty in thy dotage, on the banks of German Rhine:
Though thy rule I may not own it, and thy creed be far from mine,
I have loved to hear thy litany o'er the swelling waters float,
Gently chaunted from the crowded, gaily-garnished pilgrim-boat;
I have felt the heart within me strangely stirred; and, half believer,
For a moment wished that Reason on her throne might prove deceiver.
Live, while God permits thy living, on the banks of German Rhine,
Fond old faith!—thou canst not live but by some spark of power divine;
And while man, who darkly gropes, and fretful feels, hath need of thee,
Soothe his ear with chiming creeds, and fear no jarring taunt from me.
Of a rude but hot devotion piled strong tower, and fretted spire,
Thick as oaks within the forest, where thy priestly cities rose.
Weaker now, and faint and small, the sacerdotal ardour glows
Round the broad Rhine's unchurched billows; but an echo still remains,
And a fond life stiffly lingers, in the old faith's ghostly veins.
Ample rags of decoration, scutcheons of the meagre dead,
By thy banks, thou Christian river, still, from week to week, are spread.
Flags and consecrated banners wave around thee; I have seen
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Lines of linen-vested maidens, lines of sober matrons grey,
Lines of feeble-footed fathers, priests in motley grim array;
I have seen the bright cross glitter in the summer's cloudless air,
While the old brown beads were counted to the drowsy-mutter'd prayer;
I have seen the frequent beggar press his tatters in the mud,
For the bread that is the body, and the wine that is the blood,
(So they deem in pious stupor), of the Lord who walked on earth.
Such thy signs of life, thou strangely-gibbering imp of Roman birth,
Old, but lusty in thy dotage, on the banks of German Rhine:
Though thy rule I may not own it, and thy creed be far from mine,
I have loved to hear thy litany o'er the swelling waters float,
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I have felt the heart within me strangely stirred; and, half believer,
For a moment wished that Reason on her throne might prove deceiver.
Live, while God permits thy living, on the banks of German Rhine,
Fond old faith!—thou canst not live but by some spark of power divine;
And while man, who darkly gropes, and fretful feels, hath need of thee,
Soothe his ear with chiming creeds, and fear no jarring taunt from me.
Fare ye well, ye broad-browed thinkers! pride of Bonn upon the Rhine,
Patient teachers, in the rock of ancient lore that deeply mine;
Men, with whom in soul lives Niebuhr, loving still to glean with them
From huge piles of Roman ruin many a bright and human gem.
Oft with you, beneath the rows of thickly-blooming chestnut trees,
I have walked, and seen with wonder how ye flung, with careless ease,
Bales of treasured thought about ye, even as children play with toys.
Strange recluses! we who live 'mid bustling Britain's smoke and noise,
Ill conceive the quiet tenorof your deeply-brooding joys;
How ye sit with studious patience, and with curious travelling eyes
Wander o'er the well-browned folio, where the thoughtful record lies;
Musing in some lonely chamber day by day, and hour by hour,
Dimly there ye sit, and sip the ripest juice from Plato's bower;
Each fair shape that graceful floateth through the merry Grecian clime,
Each religious voice far-echoed through the galleries of time,
There with subtle eye and ear ye watch, and seize the airy booty,
And with faithful ken to know the rescued truth is all your duty.
Souls apart! with awe I knew your silent speculative looks,
And the worship that ye practise in the temples of your books;
And I felt the power of knowledge; and I loved to bridge with you
Gulfs of time, till oldest wisdom rose to shake hands with the new;
May the God of truth be with you, still to glean, with pious patience,
Grains of bright forgotten wisdom for the busy-labouring nations;
And, while books shall feed my fancy, may I use the pondered line,
Grateful to the broad-browed thinkers, pride of Bonn upon the Rhine!
Patient teachers, in the rock of ancient lore that deeply mine;
Men, with whom in soul lives Niebuhr, loving still to glean with them
From huge piles of Roman ruin many a bright and human gem.
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I have walked, and seen with wonder how ye flung, with careless ease,
Bales of treasured thought about ye, even as children play with toys.
Strange recluses! we who live 'mid bustling Britain's smoke and noise,
Ill conceive the quiet tenorof your deeply-brooding joys;
How ye sit with studious patience, and with curious travelling eyes
Wander o'er the well-browned folio, where the thoughtful record lies;
Musing in some lonely chamber day by day, and hour by hour,
Dimly there ye sit, and sip the ripest juice from Plato's bower;
Each fair shape that graceful floateth through the merry Grecian clime,
Each religious voice far-echoed through the galleries of time,
There with subtle eye and ear ye watch, and seize the airy booty,
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Souls apart! with awe I knew your silent speculative looks,
And the worship that ye practise in the temples of your books;
And I felt the power of knowledge; and I loved to bridge with you
Gulfs of time, till oldest wisdom rose to shake hands with the new;
May the God of truth be with you, still to glean, with pious patience,
Grains of bright forgotten wisdom for the busy-labouring nations;
And, while books shall feed my fancy, may I use the pondered line,
Grateful to the broad-browed thinkers, pride of Bonn upon the Rhine!
Fare ye well, old crags and castles! now with me for ever dwells,
Twined with many a freakish joy, the stately front of Drachenfels.
O'er thy viny cliffs we rambled, where the patient peasant toils,
Where the rugged copse scarce shelters from the sun that broadly smiles,
And the fresh green crown is plaited from the German's oaken bower:
Here we wandered, social pilgrims, careless as the sunny hour,
Gay and free, nor touched with horror of the legendary wood,
Harnessed priests and iron knights, and dragons banqueting on blood.
Praise who will the mail-clad epoch, when the princes all were reivers,
Every maundering monk a god, and all who heard him dumb believers;
Me the peaceful present pleases, and the sober rule of law,
Quiet homes, and hearths secure, and creeds redeemed from idiot-awe;
Peopled cities' din; and where then tolled the cloister's languid chime,
Now the hum of frequent voices from each furthest human clime,
Every form of various life beneath the crag that bears the vine,
Borne upon the steam-ploughed current of the placid rolling Rhine.
Twined with many a freakish joy, the stately front of Drachenfels.
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Where the rugged copse scarce shelters from the sun that broadly smiles,
And the fresh green crown is plaited from the German's oaken bower:
Here we wandered, social pilgrims, careless as the sunny hour,
Gay and free, nor touched with horror of the legendary wood,
Harnessed priests and iron knights, and dragons banqueting on blood.
Praise who will the mail-clad epoch, when the princes all were reivers,
Every maundering monk a god, and all who heard him dumb believers;
Me the peaceful present pleases, and the sober rule of law,
Quiet homes, and hearths secure, and creeds redeemed from idiot-awe;
Peopled cities' din; and where then tolled the cloister's languid chime,
Now the hum of frequent voices from each furthest human clime,
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Borne upon the steam-ploughed current of the placid rolling Rhine.
Fare thee well, thou kingly river! while the sun thy vineyards cheers,
I will not behold thy glory through a cloud of feeble tears.
Bring the purple Walportzheimer, pour the Rudesheimer clear,
In the green and vine-clad arbour spread the goodly German cheer;
Call the friends who love me dearly, call the men of sense and soul,
Call the hearts whose blithe blood billows like the juice that brims the bowl;
With free cheer free thoughts be wedded; high as heaven, deep as hell,
Wide as are the dark blue spaces where the starry tenants dwell.
Let the German hymn, that echoes from the Sound to Adria's Sea,
Ring damnation to the despot, peal salvation to the free!
And when I from vine-clad mountains and from sunny woods am far,
On thy breezy steeps, Dunedin, where wild Winter loves to war,
In my memory crag and castle, church and learned hall shall shine
Brightly, with the seven hills glorious of fair Bonn upon the Rhine.
I will not behold thy glory through a cloud of feeble tears.
Bring the purple Walportzheimer, pour the Rudesheimer clear,
In the green and vine-clad arbour spread the goodly German cheer;
Call the friends who love me dearly, call the men of sense and soul,
Call the hearts whose blithe blood billows like the juice that brims the bowl;
With free cheer free thoughts be wedded; high as heaven, deep as hell,
Wide as are the dark blue spaces where the starry tenants dwell.
Let the German hymn, that echoes from the Sound to Adria's Sea,
Ring damnation to the despot, peal salvation to the free!
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On thy breezy steeps, Dunedin, where wild Winter loves to war,
In my memory crag and castle, church and learned hall shall shine
Brightly, with the seven hills glorious of fair Bonn upon the Rhine.
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LIKING AND LOVING.
Liking is a little boy
Dreaming of a sea employ,
Sitting by the stream, with joy
Paper frigates sailing;
Love's an earnest-hearted man,
Champion of Beauty's clan,
Fighting bravely in the van,
Pushing and prevailing.
Dreaming of a sea employ,
Sitting by the stream, with joy
Paper frigates sailing;
Love's an earnest-hearted man,
Champion of Beauty's clan,
Fighting bravely in the van,
Pushing and prevailing.
Liking hovers round and round,
Capers with a nimble bound,
Plants light foot on easy ground,
Through the glass to view it;
Love shoots sudden glance for glance,
Spurs the steed and rests the lance,
With a brisk and bold advance,
Sworn to die or do it.
Capers with a nimble bound,
Plants light foot on easy ground,
Through the glass to view it;
Love shoots sudden glance for glance,
Spurs the steed and rests the lance,
With a brisk and bold advance,
Sworn to die or do it.
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Liking's ever on the wing,
From new blooms new sweets to bring,
Nibbling aye, the nimble thing
From the hook is free still;
Love's a tar of British blue,
Let mad winds their maddest do,
To his haven carded true,
As I am to Thee still.
From new blooms new sweets to bring,
Nibbling aye, the nimble thing
From the hook is free still;
Love's a tar of British blue,
Let mad winds their maddest do,
To his haven carded true,
As I am to Thee still.
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LOVE'S REASONS.
Tell me why the forky fire,Darting dire
From its cloud-home dark profound,
Seeks the ground;
Tell me why the magnet's soul
Finds the pole;
Why the warm-rubb'd amber wings
Stirless things.
Tell me why the pungent power
Of the sour,
Harshly wedding, this mate chooses,
That refuses;
Why the fragrant birch, with grace,
Decks the face
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Loves the billow;
Why to-day the gentle West
Fans the breast;
Rudely why the North did bray
Yesterday.
Tell me why thy own self art
What thou art
Now, not Pompey, Cicero,
Long ago;
Why, with eager agile start,
Thy strong heart
Bounds to-day, to-morrow why
Thou must die:
Tell me this, and I will tell
Why I love my lov'd one well.
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I THINK OF THEE.
I think of thee,
When day's first gleams through the east casement glitter,
When 'neath the eaves the frequent swallows twitter,
With busy glee;
When quiet eve, with crimson curtains mellow,
O'erspreads her couch of soft green-tinted yellow,
I think of thee.
When day's first gleams through the east casement glitter,
When 'neath the eaves the frequent swallows twitter,
With busy glee;
When quiet eve, with crimson curtains mellow,
O'erspreads her couch of soft green-tinted yellow,
I think of thee.
I think of thee,
In noon-tide's heat, when myriad wings, sun-glancing,
O'erlace sweet waters with their woven dancing,
(Life's revelry;)
In dewy night, when the blithe birds are silent,
And earth, I' the ambient blue, sleeps like an island,
I think of thee.
In noon-tide's heat, when myriad wings, sun-glancing,
O'erlace sweet waters with their woven dancing,
(Life's revelry;)
In dewy night, when the blithe birds are silent,
And earth, I' the ambient blue, sleeps like an island,
I think of thee.
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I think of thee,
I' the babbling streets, where din with din contendeth.
And the chaste eye sees much that much offendeth
Chaste eye to see;
In the lone glen, where no rude tread may follow,
Plucking the gem-eyed flower from shady hollow.
I think of thee.
I' the babbling streets, where din with din contendeth.
And the chaste eye sees much that much offendeth
Chaste eye to see;
In the lone glen, where no rude tread may follow,
Plucking the gem-eyed flower from shady hollow.
I think of thee.
I think of thee,
In happy hour when healthy fancy, firing
The pure-toned blood, wings me with high aspiring.
Noble and free;
When I have sinned, and written mine own sentence.
And the foul stain is washed in fair repentance,
I think of thee.
In happy hour when healthy fancy, firing
The pure-toned blood, wings me with high aspiring.
Noble and free;
When I have sinned, and written mine own sentence.
And the foul stain is washed in fair repentance,
I think of thee.
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TO A CAGED EAGLE.
(Suggested by a Visit to the Zoological Gardens.)
Bird of the far-commanding eye
And wide-spread wing, who will not sigh
Thee cooped and chained to see?
To me my life's my liberty,—
Should it be else to thee?
Ah, no! thy now sunk, sullen eye
Gives silent, eloquent reply,
“He killed who cabined me.”
The pleasure of some lady light,
Or peeping microscopic wight,
Is harshest hell to thee.
And wide-spread wing, who will not sigh
Thee cooped and chained to see?
To me my life's my liberty,—
Should it be else to thee?
Ah, no! thy now sunk, sullen eye
Gives silent, eloquent reply,
“He killed who cabined me.”
The pleasure of some lady light,
Or peeping microscopic wight,
Is harshest hell to thee.
Him I denounce who did prepare
Thy bonds: what title he may bear
I reck not; he did sin.
If from his stock more than thy share
Thy noble theft did win,
He had the right, by force or snare,
Where thou wert found, to fell thee there;
But so to bar thee in,
To rob the wingful of his wing,
To chain thee here, the mountain king,
I say, it was a SIN!
Thy bonds: what title he may bear
I reck not; he did sin.
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Thy noble theft did win,
He had the right, by force or snare,
Where thou wert found, to fell thee there;
But so to bar thee in,
To rob the wingful of his wing,
To chain thee here, the mountain king,
I say, it was a SIN!
A monkey in a cage may spring,
A sparrow hop, a linnet sing,
But can an eagle fly?
Or, were more space, with his proud wing
He would disdain to try.
Think'st thou that God made such a thing
For scientific torturing,
Or food of idle eye?
O barren bliss to look upon
The cabineted skeleton
Of fallen majesty!
A sparrow hop, a linnet sing,
But can an eagle fly?
Or, were more space, with his proud wing
He would disdain to try.
Think'st thou that God made such a thing
For scientific torturing,
Or food of idle eye?
O barren bliss to look upon
The cabineted skeleton
Of fallen majesty!
Trust thou the instinct of thy heart;
Thy wit sees but the smallest part,
When deepest it may pry.
Let knowledge be thy daily mart,
Keep aye an open eye;
But still with holy shrinking start
From the strange wisdom of an art
That teaches life to die.
For this nor reason ask nor give,
All living things have right to live,
All flying things to fly.
Thy wit sees but the smallest part,
When deepest it may pry.
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Keep aye an open eye;
But still with holy shrinking start
From the strange wisdom of an art
That teaches life to die.
For this nor reason ask nor give,
All living things have right to live,
All flying things to fly.
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THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH.
The Earth is drest in leafy June;
'Mid fleecy banners white
The Sun rides through the azure noon:
But in my heart 'tis night.
The blackbird from the wood doth pour
His mellow-throated troll,
But like the pewit o'er the moor
So wails my desert soul
This heavy day!
'Mid fleecy banners white
The Sun rides through the azure noon:
But in my heart 'tis night.
The blackbird from the wood doth pour
His mellow-throated troll,
But like the pewit o'er the moor
So wails my desert soul
This heavy day!
Flow freely, tears!—I will not stay
The tide that Nature sends;
These tears ye have(my all to-day)
Whom I have left, my friends.
I vowed to bear a manly heart,
And like a rock to stand;
But, oh! 'tis hard in one to part
From friend and fatherland,
As I this day!
The tide that Nature sends;
These tears ye have(my all to-day)
Whom I have left, my friends.
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And like a rock to stand;
But, oh! 'tis hard in one to part
From friend and fatherland,
As I this day!
Farewell, Dun-Edin's castled seat,
Dear, and thou, dearer still,
Where oft we clomb blithe May to greet.
The lion-crouching hill!
And the high crags, where we did walk
Bewondering the rocks,
And of pent fires wove learned talk,
And terrible earthquake shocks
'Fore Adam's day!
Dear, and thou, dearer still,
Where oft we clomb blithe May to greet.
The lion-crouching hill!
And the high crags, where we did walk
Bewondering the rocks,
And of pent fires wove learned talk,
And terrible earthquake shocks
'Fore Adam's day!
Farewell, green Pentland's pastoral braes.
The rock, the scaur, the glen,
The burn that wimples mazy ways
Sweet through the furzy den!
And many a peak where Boreas snorts,
And I would climb with glee,
Blessing our chain of mountain forts
That make us bold and free,
And strong as they!
The rock, the scaur, the glen,
The burn that wimples mazy ways
Sweet through the furzy den!
And many a peak where Boreas snorts,
And I would climb with glee,
Blessing our chain of mountain forts
That make us bold and free,
And strong as they!
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Farewell, thou beauty-skirted Firth,
With glancing islets spotted;
Farewell, thou land of wealth and mirth,
With busy cities dotted.
Ban thee who will, and stay at home,
The coldest, bleakest, barest;
But force him, Fate, abroad to roam,
He'll bless thee, freshest, fairest,
As I this day!
With glancing islets spotted;
Farewell, thou land of wealth and mirth,
With busy cities dotted.
Ban thee who will, and stay at home,
The coldest, bleakest, barest;
But force him, Fate, abroad to roam,
He'll bless thee, freshest, fairest,
As I this day!
Farewell, the homes that I have known,
The skies that I have loved,
Each heart that I have called mine own,
Each friend that I have proved!
Farewell; and, if the Heavens be kind,
A better-omened oar
Shall speed me back from scorching Ind,
To my green native shore,
Some future day!
The skies that I have loved,
Each heart that I have called mine own,
Each friend that I have proved!
Farewell; and, if the Heavens be kind,
A better-omened oar
Shall speed me back from scorching Ind,
To my green native shore,
Some future day!
334
THE PATRON OF THE PARISH.
The good little King of Yvetôt
The Muse shall ever cherish;
But with your leave, Messieurs, just so
I'm king in my own parish.
It is a land of little kings
This England; and its glory
Must pale, when pale to limbo wings
The pious, ancient Tory.
Let Chartist and Dissenter rave!
This creed I fondly cherish,
There's none the storm-tost ship can save,
But the Patron of the Parish.
The Muse shall ever cherish;
But with your leave, Messieurs, just so
I'm king in my own parish.
It is a land of little kings
This England; and its glory
Must pale, when pale to limbo wings
The pious, ancient Tory.
Let Chartist and Dissenter rave!
This creed I fondly cherish,
There's none the storm-tost ship can save,
But the Patron of the Parish.
Our parson, in his early day,
Taught my smart boys their letters,
And learned, betimes, himself to pay
Due deference to his betters.
He sat so modest, meek, and mum,
While we discussed our claret;
And now he beats the pulpit drum
With decent, sober spirit.
There's danger in a bolting brain;
No youth that's high and airish
A living neat and snug shall gain,
From the Patron of the parish.
Taught my smart boys their letters,
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Due deference to his betters.
He sat so modest, meek, and mum,
While we discussed our claret;
And now he beats the pulpit drum
With decent, sober spirit.
There's danger in a bolting brain;
No youth that's high and airish
A living neat and snug shall gain,
From the Patron of the parish.
The gospel, when it 'gan to stir,
Was on a vulgar plan quite;
But now we've changed the carpenter
Into the gentleman quite.
To meet some twenty in a garret
They once might deem delectable;
But, now with lords and dukes we star it,
The gospel is RESPECTABLE.
The Church no more is scandalized
By scoffers bold and bearish:
God's gospel now is patronized
By the Patron of the parish.
Was on a vulgar plan quite;
But now we've changed the carpenter
Into the gentleman quite.
To meet some twenty in a garret
They once might deem delectable;
But, now with lords and dukes we star it,
The gospel is RESPECTABLE.
The Church no more is scandalized
By scoffers bold and bearish:
God's gospel now is patronized
By the Patron of the parish.
336
When with my wife to church I go,
So flaunting, gay, and garish,
I hear the flattering murmur flow—
“The Patron of the parish!
And the young squire, how spruce, how trim
He graces his majority;
While on his father's broad hat-brim
Sits visibly AUTHORITY!”
Then, in the gallery's velvet front
We sit so gay and garish;
I well may bear the battle's brunt,
The Patron of the Parish!
So flaunting, gay, and garish,
I hear the flattering murmur flow—
“The Patron of the parish!
And the young squire, how spruce, how trim
He graces his majority;
While on his father's broad hat-brim
Sits visibly AUTHORITY!”
Then, in the gallery's velvet front
We sit so gay and garish;
I well may bear the battle's brunt,
The Patron of the Parish!
A jolly, dapper boy, they say,
The purple Pope in Rome is;
But red and ruddy as the May
The Patron in his home is.
Full many a dainty feast from him
The curate and schoolmaster
Enjoy: their shallow souls do brim;
Their slow thoughts travel faster.
For so it is, and so shall be,
The Church I kindly cherish;
This goodly arch must have a key—
The Patron of the Parish.
The purple Pope in Rome is;
But red and ruddy as the May
The Patron in his home is.
Full many a dainty feast from him
The curate and schoolmaster
Enjoy: their shallow souls do brim;
Their slow thoughts travel faster.
For so it is, and so shall be,
The Church I kindly cherish;
337
The Patron of the Parish.
For truth is ONE; and there must be
One Church, with bell and steeple;
One Law must stamp the Liturgy;
One Patron lead the people.
And every true church has one scope
To check all fiery particles
That would rebel against their Pope—
The law-established Articles!
It is, and shall be so, no doubt,
This creed I fondly cherish,
Religion would die out without
The Patron of the Parish!
One Church, with bell and steeple;
One Law must stamp the Liturgy;
One Patron lead the people.
And every true church has one scope
To check all fiery particles
That would rebel against their Pope—
The law-established Articles!
It is, and shall be so, no doubt,
This creed I fondly cherish,
Religion would die out without
The Patron of the Parish!
338
THE SONG OF METRODORUS.
Παντοιην βιοτοιο ταμοις τριβον. ειν αγορη μεν
κυδεα και πινυται πρηξιες: εν δε δομοις
αμπαυμ': εν δ'αγροις Φυσιος χαρις: εν δε θαλασση
κερδος: επι ξεινης, ην μεν εχης τι, κλεος:
ην δ' απορης, μονος οιδας. εχεις γαμον; οικος αριστος
εσσεται: ου γαμεεις; ζης ετ' ελαφροτερον.
τεκνα ποθος. αφροντις απαις βιος: αι νεοτητες
ρωμαλεαι: πολιαι δ' εμπαλιν ευσεβεες.
ουκ αρα των δισσων ενος αιρεσις, η το γενεσθαι
μηδεποτ', η το θανειν. παντα γαρ εσθλα βιω.
κυδεα και πινυται πρηξιες: εν δε δομοις
αμπαυμ': εν δ'αγροις Φυσιος χαρις: εν δε θαλασση
κερδος: επι ξεινης, ην μεν εχης τι, κλεος:
ην δ' απορης, μονος οιδας. εχεις γαμον; οικος αριστος
εσσεται: ου γαμεεις; ζης ετ' ελαφροτερον.
τεκνα ποθος. αφροντις απαις βιος: αι νεοτητες
ρωμαλεαι: πολιαι δ' εμπαλιν ευσεβεες.
ουκ αρα των δισσων ενος αιρεσις, η το γενεσθαι
μηδεποτ', η το θανειν. παντα γαρ εσθλα βιω.
Metrodorus was a rare old blade,
His wine he drank, his prayers he said,
And did his duty duly;
But with grave affairs of Church and State
He never fretted his smooth pate,
For he said, and he said full truly,
If a man about and about will go,
To mend all matters high and low,
He'll find no rest full surely.
In his chair of ease a thorn will grow,
The gall will in his bladder flow,
Thick seeds of sorrow he will sow,
And make his dearest friend a foe,
And go to the grave prematurely.
One day he sate beside the fire,
With all things square to his desire,
—A wintry day, when Boreas blew
Through the piping hills with wild halloo—
Just after dinner, when the wine
On the tip of his nose was glowing fine.
A pleasant vapour 'fore him floats,
The logs are blazing brightly,
And in his brain the happy thoughts
Begin to move full lightly.
He never wrote a verse before,
Though now he counted good threescore,
And scarcely knew what poets meant,
When in their high conceited bent
They talked of inspiration.
But now his soul a fancy stirred;
He trilled and chirped like any bird;
His bright imagination
Poured forth a pleasant flowing verse,
Which, if you please, I will rehearse
For gentle meditation.
'Twas Greek of course, but by the skill
Made English, of my classic quill,
As good, or better, if you will,
In this my free translation.
His wine he drank, his prayers he said,
And did his duty duly;
But with grave affairs of Church and State
He never fretted his smooth pate,
For he said, and he said full truly,
345
To mend all matters high and low,
He'll find no rest full surely.
In his chair of ease a thorn will grow,
The gall will in his bladder flow,
Thick seeds of sorrow he will sow,
And make his dearest friend a foe,
And go to the grave prematurely.
One day he sate beside the fire,
With all things square to his desire,
—A wintry day, when Boreas blew
Through the piping hills with wild halloo—
Just after dinner, when the wine
On the tip of his nose was glowing fine.
A pleasant vapour 'fore him floats,
The logs are blazing brightly,
And in his brain the happy thoughts
Begin to move full lightly.
He never wrote a verse before,
Though now he counted good threescore,
And scarcely knew what poets meant,
When in their high conceited bent
They talked of inspiration.
But now his soul a fancy stirred;
346
His bright imagination
Poured forth a pleasant flowing verse,
Which, if you please, I will rehearse
For gentle meditation.
'Twas Greek of course, but by the skill
Made English, of my classic quill,
As good, or better, if you will,
In this my free translation.
I.
They may rail at this world, and say that the devilRules o'er it, usurping the mace of the Lord;
In my soul I detest all such impious cavil,
While I sit as a guest at life's bountiful board.
I was young; I am old, and my temples are hoary,
On Time's rocking tide I have gallantly oared;
This wisdom I learned, 'tis the sum of my story,
With blessings God's earth like a garner is stored.
II.
You blame your condition; by Jove I was neverSo placed that I could not with pride be a man;
347
Content was my watchword, enjoyment my plan.
Where busy men bustle, to elbow and jostle
What sport! then at home how delightful repose!
What comfort and pleasure your body to measure
At large in the elbow-chair, toasting your toes!
III.
A soldier? how gallant through smoke and through thunderTo ride like the lightning, when Jupiter roars;
A farmer? to gaze on the green leafy wonder
Of April how sweet, and to think on the stores
Of golden-sheaved Autumn!—to dash through the billow
Is dear to the merchant who carries his gains;
How sweet to the poet on green grassy pillow,
To lie when spring zephyrs are fanning his brains!
IV.
When you find a good wife, Nature urges to marry;But art thou a bachelor, never complain;
348
And over yourself like a king you may reign.
'Tis pleasant to hear children prattling around you,
Thank Heaven you've arrows enough for your bow;
But if you love quiet, they'll only confound you,
So if now you have none—may it ever be so!
V.
Art young? then rejoice in thy youth,—give the pinionOf passion free play—love and hate like a man;
And gather around thee a mighty dominion
Of venturous thoughts, like the crest-waving van
Of a conquering host. Art old? reputation
And honour shall find thee and pleasures serene,
And a power like to Jove's, when the fate of the nation
Shall wait on thy word in the hall of the queen.
VI.
Blow hot or blow cold, with hearty endeavourStill witch out a virtue from all that you see;
349
And think everything good in its place and degree.
I've told you my thoughts, and I think you're my debtor,
And if you don't think so, I wish you were dead;
The sooner you rot on a dunghill the better,
You're not worth the straw that they shake for your bed.
350
CONCLUSION.
Reader, my songs are sung. If thou hast readWith love and pious kindness to the bard,
Thy reading was not bare of all reward.
But if thou curled thy lip and tossed thy head,
As one to nice fastidious notions bred,
Judging all men with bitter sentence hard,
Thyself against thyself the way hast barred
To know my best, and on my worst hast fed.
In the pure eye to stir the sacred tear,
To lift the low, and dash the lofty look,
Bright thoughts to nurse, the cloudy brain to clear,
Was all the plan that shaped this little book:
Choose what thou needest, what thou choosest hold,
As men from sand redeem the glancing gold.
| Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with Other Poems | |