University of Virginia Library

Are ye the same?
Ye Downs! gray cliffs of Brighton, and thou, Sea,
Rolling in thy sublimity?
Thou, on whose shore, in other time,
The May-day of my prime,
I challeng'd the swift billow, as it leapt,
To catch my light foot, racing, fearlessly,
On the dank rocky edge,
Lin'd by the sea-wrack sedge,
While the wing'd foam around my temples swept?
Art thou the sunny strand,
Along whose level sand
My frolic step its untaught measures kept,
Attemper'd to the music of the main,
As Echo from her cave breath'd back the ocean strain?

The Downs in vernal robes are dress'd,
On the gray cliff the sunbeams rest;
The sea beneath their radiance bright
Beams like an element of light,
And o'er the bosom of the deep
Soft sea winds in their freshness sweep:
These are not chang'd: 'tis I alone,
Thus musing here on joy foregone.

'Twas youth's enchanted ear that gave
Its music to the wind and wave;
'Twas youth's charm'd eye that deck'd the scene,
That rob'd the Downs with fresher green,
And cast o'er all that broad bright sea
The spell of Nature's wizardry.

Yet—o'er the mirror of the mind
The beauteous visions pass,
And leave a lingering shade behind
As Memory holds her glass.
Once more I hail that golden time,
The brightness of my vernal prime,
When, as my step was passing o'er
The bound where youth and manhood meet,
And in my pulse ambition beat,
A lovely image came my charmed sight before.
O'er me a voice celestial stole,
That sooth'd the swelling of my soul:
It bad Ambition's turmoil cease,
It spake of paths that lead to peace,
Haunts where contented spirits dwell,
And bards that love the woodland dell,
Draw down in hallow'd solitude
High visions that the world exclude.
It spake of days that at their close
Sink into nights of calm repose,
And dreams of guiltless pleasure born,
That fly the opening lids of Morn.
It warned me that to man was given
A Being, form'd of earth and heaven,
That here the soul might undergo
Temptation, and the test of woe,
And in its passage to the tomb
Prepare, self-judg'd, its future doom.
It warn'd me that the vital breath,
That quickens here the seeds of death,
Teems with a life that ne'er shall die,
Whose birth is immortality—
It warned of life that shall recall
Earth's transitory interval,
And fix on scenes that pass'd below
Th' eternal seal of bliss or woe.

While thus the sounds like music stole,
And sooth'd the swelling of my soul,
Mary! methought thy voice I heard,
And thine the form that there appear'd.

“Yes—(I exclaim'd) 'twere sweet, 'twere blest,
“In woodland haunts with thee to rest,
“There nurse in hallow'd solitude
“High visions that the world exclude:
“So pass o'er earth's uncertain stage,
“And close in peace my pilgrimage.”

If yet—one spot, one resting-place
Where Peace may build on earth her bow'r,
And in its hallow'd haunt retrace
A dream of Eden's blissful hour,
'Tis in that sole that sacred spot
Where Innocence and Woman dwell:
'Tis in that heart which, wavering not,
Believes what God has deign'd to tell,
And anchoring its Hope above,
Passes o'er earth in sinless love—
Such, Mary! thy unsullied heart,
And such the spot where'er thou art.

'Twas not th' unfolding of the rose
That in the cheek's fresh vermeil glows;
Not Health, whose fragrant lip exhales
The breath it stole from morning gales;
Not the smooth front, as spotless fair,
As chaste as Guido's angel air;
Nor the blue eye that brighter far
And steadier than Eve's herald star,
That passes lonely o'er the Deep
When Ocean rests in summer sleep:
It was not these that touch'd my heart,
And held me from the world apart:
'Twas the pure soul that glow'd within,
'Twas Innocence that thought no sin,
'Twas Fancy, whose keen glance, unsated,
Beam'd on a world herself created,
And, like the sun that pours alone
The beauteous light it looks upon,
Embellish'd every form it view'd,
And its own charm in all pursu'd.
'Twas more than these: 'twas fearless youth,
Whose guardian was celestial truth;
'Twas instinct that, like lightning, caught
The slow result of patient thought;
'Twas quick sensation, that convey'd
The answer that the lip delay'd:
'Twas the first thought that spoke the soul,
Nor sought reflection's slow controul;
'Twas force with gentleness combin'd,
Mildness of heart with strength of mind,
And Virtue, to itself severe,
That gave to woe—to sin—a tear:—
These were the charms that chain'd my heart,
And held me from the world apart.

And yet I knew not at that hour
The influence of thy gentle pow'r:
I deem'd not that the future day
Would still some latent grace display,
Some virtue more and more reveal,
That youth and beauty half conceal:
That when affliction's keenest dart
Pierc'd with domestic wound my heart,
Thy gentle spirit would sustain
My soul, and lead to peace again,
Teach me to bear the trial grief,
And in submission find relief.

Mary! I led thee to a plain
Where Hanton meets the Southern main,
And bids the enchanted eye survey,
Throughout the windings of her bay,
Scenes such as charm the midland sea,
Thy bow'rs of bliss, Parthenope!
Yet here the forests wider sweep,
And on the margin of the deep
The broad oak, shadowing o'er the main,
Spreads, conscious of its future reign.
Lovelier than Caprea's rocky head,
Green Vectis from her ocean bed
Lifts to the sun her beauteous form,
And, mid-way, meets the billowy storm.
The abbey here, 'mid pathless groves,
Breathes of the peace Religion loves;
Nor wanting to enchant the eye
Proud wrecks of ancient chivalry,
Castles that climb the steep ascent,
Bold as St. Elmo's battlement.
Turret, and fort, on Time's gray wall,
Whose shades along the sea-line fall,
Nor gardens that, like Chaia, shed
Their bloom on Ocean's azure bed.

There, in thy youth, thy beauty's flow'r,
Mary! for thee I deck'd the bow'r,
And woo'd the Muse to haunt the grove,
Sacred to Peace and wedded Love.

Be witness, thou, how peaceful pass'd
Our years, each happier than the last,
While bloom'd around us in that grove
The fruits and pledges of our love,
And hope with each new day arose,
And soothing visions blest its close.

Mary! thou inly sigh'dst farewell,
And thy mute tear in secret fell,
When from those bow'rs, that southern strand,
I led thee to my native land,
A region where the eastern gale
Cuts with rude breath the flow'ry vale:—
Yet—soft the hills, and rich the meads
Where Lea his silvery windings leads,
Or bursts, by wintery torrents fed,
O'er the low level of his bed,
And spreads round Waltham's Saxon fane
Floods that new-robe the pastur'd plain.

I led thee to a forest glade,
A green isle girt around with shade,
Woods where of old, with hound and horn,
The Norman hunter woke the morn:
Where yet along the grassy lawn
At dim of eve, and gray of dawn,
The deer his silent way pursues,
And prints his hoof in treacherous dews.
The Keeper's lodge, our summer seat,
A wild, sequester'd, still retreat:
Where each new day but more endears
Some vestige of my earliest years,
Some fav'rite spot in grove and glade,
Where in wild woods my childhood stray'd.

Are these the haunts where stray'd the child
Thro' thorny brakes 'mid woodlands wild?
How chang'd the scene! With fond delay
The woodman, lingering on his way,
Asks the cold soil, and clay-bound earth,
What magic hand has chang'd its birth,
Or art—if art, in that recess—
Has tam'd the forest wilderness?

Mary! thy hand has touch'd that place,
And o'er it cast an added grace,
That oak, that elm, that beech are thine,
Those bow'rs that breathe of eglantine:
It was thy hand that rear'd my grove,
And lin'd with moss the seat I love,
Entic'd the ivy twine that weaves
O'er the thatch'd roof its glossy leaves,
Shap'd each gay plot that decks the scene,
Varied my walk their flow'rs between;
And from Italia's fragrant shore
Gay shrubs to deck my dwelling bore.
Thou bad'st the myrtle scent the gale
With sweets that breath'd on Arno's vale,
Woo'dst gentlest Zephyrs to awake
The flow'rs that glow'd on Como's lake,
And Britain's boldest suns illume
The Pæstan rose's double bloom.

Ah! ere shall pass another age
What foot will haunt our hermitage?
Who—of thy flow'rets, ere they fall,
Will wreathe one grateful coronal?
Who? From yon mansion's statelier bow'rs
At vernal tide, at sun-set hours,
Our children's children shall retrace
Our path round that deserted place:
Now down the rude romantic dell,
Where one bold oak o'erhangs the well,
Now thro' the leafy labyrinths stray,
Now thro' the thick fern force their way,
Or where the woods afar recede,
Pursue it on the level mead,
Around our lone and little lake,
Where the deer loves his thirst to slake,
When Summer on the sparkling stream
Darts the broad sunshine's noon-day beam.
If there no lingering trace be found,
All pass away, all change around,
That little lake no more supply
A mirror to the starry sky,
If the unsparing axe invade
Each sacred bow'r that guards our glade,
May one, one monument remain,
The patriarch of the woodland plain!
Long may it tow'r that Druid oak,
That whilom felt the woodman's stroke,
Then, as disdainful of the blow,
Drove its gnarl'd roots more deep below;
And proudlier to the tempest spread
An ampler girt, a broader head.
There, underneath its brow that rears
The burden of a thousand years,
Beneath the arms whose branch of yore
The quiver of the Norman bore,
And heard the twanging of the yew,
When Harold's shaft like lightning flew:
There shall our children's children trace
Some feature that endears the place:
Picture anew the hunter's cot,
Thy favourite glade, my peaceful grot,
And, tracing each familiar spot,
Tell of the lady who array'd
With flow'r and fruit the woodland glade;
While her own grace to Nature lent
A temper'd, chaste embellishment.
And tell of him, who in these bow'rs
Gave to the Muse his summer hours,
Now tun'd to British chords the strain
Whose sweetness charm'd the Mantuan swain,
Wound Oberon's horn, or boldly woo'd
Th' Athenian Muse with blood embru'd,
When Frenzy, as the murd'ress pray'd,
Sheath'd in a mother's breast the blade:
Now track'd along the Alpine snow
The victim of remorse and woe:
Now wept th' imperial heir who fell
By murder in Ladoga's cell,
Or, glorying in his country's fame,
Hymn'd Pæans to a Nelson's name.

While underneath that gloom profound
They look on our enchanted ground:
Be their's the peace that once was our's,
Bliss that once dwelt within those bow'rs:
When in the blossom of their May
Our children, in life's holiday,
When the full moon, at magic hour,
Shot thro' the leaves a spangled show'r,
Trac'd on the dew-empearled glade
Fresh rings that fairy feet betray'd!
Or they themselves, like fays at sport,
Made that lone spot our elfine court,
Laid the fresh garland at our feet,
The thymy bloom and meadow sweet;
Or for our beverage gather'd up
A dew-drop in each acorn cup;
Then girt our moss-throne, hand in hand,
And we were Lords of Fairy-land.

And was the tear to gladness turn'd?
Ah! had I then thy doom discern'd,
Had Heav'n the page of life unseal'd,
Had Time his awful form reveal'd,
And rent the veil of darkness, thrown
In mercy o'er the dread unknown,
Ah! what had been a father's pray'r?
But Hope had spread his rainbow there,
And brighten'd to the beaming eye
The vision of futurity.

Where now th' enchanting vision, the fair dream?
Gone, like the rainbow gleam,
That in its splendour vanisheth:
Dark as the solar beam,
That in the fullness of its light
Suffers eclipse ere sunk in night.
Thus, thou wert doom'd to death,
And in the brightness of thy day,
In life's meridian course its glory pass'd away.

Its glory!—for thy Spirit was endu'd
With quick and keen intelligence,
That with an eagle eye pursu'd
Thro' the dim veil that clouds the outward sense,
In all, whate'er it view'd,
Its essence, and its soul,
And seiz'd with eagle grasp the undivided whole.

Thee, pure Ilyssus rear'd, and the fair stream
Which fed the bow'rs of Academe:
Thee, Anio rushing down its rocks amain;
And the slow wind of waters, whose soft gliding,
The trembling reeds dividing,
Freshens the Mantuan plain:
And all in after time,
Of rich-inwoven rhyme,
That borne down Arno to the Tuscan sea,
Varies the voice of melody:
And all that Danube in his wanderings fed,
Or Tajo's golden bed.

But—neither these
Avail'd thee, nor thy spirit unsubdu'd,
And more than martial fortitude,
That call'd thee from the couch of slow disease,
Thee, inly worn with undivulged pain,
To combat on the battle-plain,
Where Britain, resolute to shield
Her honour, on Corunna's field,
The hydra crest of Gallia quell'd,
Turn'd back the battle as it swell'd,
Then, o'er brave Moore's heroic bed
The tear that mourn'd her victory shed.

Not on Corunna's fatal plain
Thou slept'st untimely slain.
We hail'd thee on thy native shore,
And health and joy seem'd thine once more:
So thought we—fondly thought—nor knew
Thy days were number'd—sad—and few.
We fondly thought 'twas health that bloom'd,
When fatal fires thy cheek illum'd.
'Twas but the pause of death that made
More keen the blow which hope betray'd.

Ah! if ere earthly pray'r had pow'r
To ward the inevitable hour,
A mother, bending o'er thy brow,
Has fenc'd the mortal agony,
Nor in the prime of manhood thou
Hadst sunk beneath a father's eye:
Ah, if a sister's love might save,
Thou ne'er hadst known th' untimely grave.

Thou art not—such the will of heav'n:—
To us, yet left, one solace giv'n,
That not at life's last close,
Not on a far and foreign land
Thine the vain wish to touch some kindred hand,
And on a kindred breast thy wearied brow repose.

Thy brow was pillow'd on the breast
Where thou wert laid in infant rest;
While yet a spark of life remain'd,
While yet thy heart a beat retain'd,
We o'er thee hung, and, soothing, heard
The solace of thy farewell word.
'Twas mine—a father's hand that paid
The last sad rites where thou art laid;
'Twas mine—the hand that blest thy birth,
Entomb'd thee in thy native earth,
And there, uplifted unto God,
Left a last blessing on thy sod.

Ah! Mary! would that such had been
The closing of that fatal scene,
When, while we wept our First-born dead,
Again the bitter tear we shed,
As o'er another in his bloom
Untimely clos'd a foreign tomb—
Would that we, too, had had the pow'r
To calm, my Child! thy mortal hour!
Would that the voice once wont to steep
Thy earliest moan in tranquil sleep,
Had at thy latest pang been found
To soothe th' immedicable wound!
Ah! had we seen thee breathe thy last,
So had to heav'n thy spirit pass'd,
The peaceful stillness of thy smile
Would now a mother's woe beguile,
With her thy last, last word would dwell:
A mother's solace—thy “Farewell.”

Thou, whose firm footstep walk'd in youth
With honour and immortal truth,
Whose boundless energy of mind
Compass'd what daring Hope design'd,
Now search'd the Hebrew's sacred roll,
Fathom'd the depth of Plato's soul,
Grasp'd the wide scope of Tully's lore,
Rang'd all the western region o'er,
Cull'd from the East what brightest glow'd,
Each gem of Hafez' sparkling ode,
All that in Mecca's dome uphung,
The honey of Arabia's tongue,
Retrac'd, on Persia's steel-clad plain,
A Homer in Ferdousi's strain,
And where hoar Time o'er India threw
The Shanscrit veil, its fold withdrew:
Such—such thy mastery of mind—
Thy heart—how warm—how true—how kind!

If ere Simplicity imprest
The seal of Truth on human breast;
If ever Friendship rais'd a shrine
In human bosom—'twas in thine:
If ever kindness kindness mov'd,
Thou, thou wert born to be belov'd.

My Child! thy youth our morning blest,
And clos'd each eve in peaceful rest,
But far from us thy manhood past:—
Ah—far from us thou breath'dst thy last.

Yet still, where'er thy doom to roam,
Thy heart was in thy father's home.
I know, my Child! when o'er thee came
The agony that loos'd thy frame,
That—'mid these scenes, once wont to bless
Thy dawn, thy dream of happiness,
We hung on thy departing breath,
Our woe—thy bitterness of death.

Hadst thou return'd, ere sunk our day,
Ere pass'd our light of life away,
How had the brightness of thy beam
Cast round our eve a golden gleam:
How had our age on thee repos'd,
And thy kind hand our eyelid clos'd.
Shade of the Valiant, and the Wise!
On thee thy country's blessing lies;
But never shall these eyes behold
The trophied tomb that guards thy mould:
Ne'er view o'ershadowing Glory wave
A hero's banner o'er thy grave;
But there, thro' many a distant age,
The Briton, on his pilgrimage,
Shall, pointing where thy relics lie,
Learn—how to live—and how—to die—
How—die!—the chord is snap'd in twain—
No father's hand can touch that strain—
There is a grief earth cannot close:
Soothe, God of Heav'n! a mother's woes.

Yet—unto us remain
Thoughts that the soul sustain;
Memory, that dwelling on the dead,
Hallows the tear we shed.
We may not grieve, like those of hope bereft,
We are not childless left.

There is a light which can illume
Age leaning on the tomb:
Thy light, oh, filial Love! dispels the gloom—
There is a smile upon the lip of death,
When on the filial breast,
Age, laid in peaceful rest,
Yields up, in blessing yields, his farewell breath.—
Mary! our lip shall that last smile retain;
And thou, Redeemer! God of Love,
Deign to unite, in realms above,
With those on earth once blest, our souls in bliss again!