Household Verses | ||
TO I. AND G. H.
ON THEIR LEAVING WOODBRIDGE. WITH A COPY OF BURNS'S POEMS.
In memory of the hoursBy us together spent;
Strewed with the thornless flowers
Of pangless merriment.
In memory, too, of some,
When clouds were in our sky;
When hearts with grief were dumb,
And tears were in each eye!
For the bitter, and the sweet,
Which endear alike “lang syne,”
Hearts like your own will greet
This trivial gift of mine.
The life we live on earth
Is dark and bright by turns;
And in sorrow, or in mirth,
Few bards can equal Burns!
FRAMLINGHAM CASTLE.
From thy once palmy state;
Thy ruins may outlast a while
Splendours of later date.
Firm as in by-gone years;
As if within yet ruled the powers
Of England's haughtiest peers.
Wert first upreared and swayed,
Piles grand as thou their heads have bowed
In dark oblivion's shade:
Have, long since thy decline,
Crumbled away, and left no site
Their memory to enshrine.
Still bear'st a gallant form;
Thy canopy—heaven's vault of blue,
Or crest—the lowering storm.
Thine ivied towers look down;
And far their giant shadows throw
With feudal grandeur's frown.
Thy glory past and gone,
Fancy might deem thine inmate yet
Bigod! or Brotherton!
On Bosworth's bloody field;
Or bigot Mary, who the tide
Of martyr-blood unsealed!
As dwellers in thy hold?
The abject, and the hope-bereft,
The helpless, poor, and old!
Some, to the world unknown,
Who hold a higher hope in fee,
Than Mary on her throne!
HELMINGHAM HALL.
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!”
Hemans.
And on it as I fondly gaze,
Well may it unto thought recall
The visions of departed days.
Bring back its revelry and mirth;
And people its apartments still
With inmates proud, of noble birth.
Had been, perchance, my chosen theme,
Till, duped by Fancy's vivid power,
I half believed her idle dream.
Beyond what words can e'er express,
Which unto thought appears to dwell
In its own silent loneliness!
Which once its earlier annals crowned,
And seemed to lend it life and light,
Within its walls no more be found;
Of all of which the world is proud;
And waken thoughts of more avail
Than those which court us in a crowd!
Of its old pomp and pageantry;
Of fashions—that once charmed its fair,
And swayed its gallant chivalry.
To win the eye, to reach the heart;
Where admiration yet may trace
The touches of a master's art.
Bright tints, fair forms, which time defy;
Imparting all that these can give
Of earth's frail immortality!
A POSTSCRIPT IN 1845.
When “silent loneliness” was thine;
But now a change has o'er thee past,
And renovated glories shine.
And that thou mayst new charms have won
In other eyes—though in my view
Thy beauty may be half undone.
MARY'S DIRGE.
For though thy outward life be fled,
Thine inward one still lives
In more than one void aching heart,
And there, though tears unbidden start,
Unto its own immortal part
Undying sweetness gives.
Nor do we sink in utter death
When that frail boon is gone:
Still true those blessed words must be,
E'en now, we trust, fulfilled to thee,
“The pure in heart their God shall see!”
And thou art living on!
Than can, in this world of un-rest,
On mortals be conferred:
A life to endless bliss allied,
Which He, our sinless Saviour, died
For his own ransomed to provide,
And sealed it by His word!
Thy gifts and graces from above,
Which earth could not supply;
These formed, in truth, thy hidden life,
Were with unearthly blessings rife,
They perished not in time's short strife,
Nor can they ever DIE!
Who of thee speak with grief alone,
And, in short-sighted gloom,
Lament for thy untimely lot,
As if they understood it not,
Or in their sorrow half forgot
It ends not with the tomb!
For oh! what human lot could be
More free from earthly leaven,
Than that which lent thee here below
The freshest brightness earth can show,
The purest bliss it can bestow,
Then gave thee, while unchilled their glow,
To vanish into heaven!
Whose hopes, loves, joys, were intertwined
Around thy presence bright;
O'er whom it cast a gentle ray,
Chasing some transient clouds away,
And shedding light surpassing day,
Now veiled awhile in night.
Immortal spirits! Like a star,
Thy memory there may rise!
To such a radiant angel still;
Love's gentle mission to fulfil;
And for Grief's icy, sickening chill,
To waken Hope's ecstatic thrill,
With Faith's—triumphant over ill,
In realms beyond the skies!
A POET'S MEMORIAL
OF A DEPARTED FRIEND.
But scattering odours round it—lovelier seems:
The spotless lily, by the moon's pale light,
Shows yet more beauteous in its silvery beams:
Appears unearthly music to impart:—
Each grace and blessing worthiest of our love
Eludes the eye—but more to touch the heart.
Which shunned display, nor ever sought to roam
Beyond the spot to which it owed its birth,
“True to the kindred points of heaven and home!”
To its late earthly home a hallowing leaven;
There in the spirits of survivors live,
And whisper comfort from thy home in heaven!
“JESUS CHRIST THE SAME YESTERDAY, TO-DAY, AND FOR EVER!”
The best beloved may leave us,
Familiar ones—grow strange,
Or death of all bereave us.
The Friend who never fails?
In whom the heart, relying,
May trust—when grief assails!
Believers' sins away:
For such He ever careth—
And now! as yesterday!
TO ANNA---.
IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A COPY OF THE RELIQUARY.
Dear Anna, thus present to thee
Our unpretending tome;
But in the hope that thou mayest prize
Aught that is linked by slightest ties
Unto thy future home!
Most of these pages have been penned;
And, to a heart like thine,
The spot to which they owe their birth,
May give them a far prouder worth
Than critics would assign.
Of our warm wish to see thee here,
Your wedding tour once ended,
Because with thee the happiness
Of one we love, and ours no less,
Is intimately blended.
A POSTSCRIPT;
IN THE LAST LEAF OF THE SAME VOLUME. ADDED SOME YEARS AFTER.
Years have flown by, as years will flit,
Succeeding one another;
And thou, a blissful maiden then,
Hast added claims to prompt my pen,
A grateful wife and mother.
And passing clouds the brightest morn
May shade with transient sadness;
So of the ills life needs must bear,
Thou mayst, dear friend, have had a share,
To make more prized its gladness.
And thou mayst confidently cast
Thy cares on Him—who careth
For them whose filial trust and love,
First seek His blessing from above,
Who all their burthens beareth!
STANZAS.
[Oh! mourn not for the early blest]
Called from a world of care away;
And gathered to her blissful rest,
In the bright realms of sunless day!
Combine to make her memory dear;
The fitter seems her flight from earth,
To that far purer, happier sphere.
Mourn—when the Shepherd, in his love,
Takes from his lower earthly fold
Another lamb to one above?
Around it spoilers seek their prey;
But there we know that all is well!
For nothing can that flock dismay.
Appeared to blossom—but to die;
Because in this, its earthly bower,
Its charms no longer greet our eye?
Beyond the grave's dark, chilling gloom,
And there that flowret shall be seen
Unfolding in immortal bloom.
Who hath transplanted it from sight,
And, knowing best its fragile frame,
Placed it where storms can never blight?
Since there our sorrow cannot err,
For some who yet on earth sojourn,
That gladly would change lots with her.
Than for the seeming dead—who live!
These need no tears our grief can shed;
But those far more than we can give!
Of what the world as LIFE declares!
Oh! doubt not these more truly claim
Our tears; more deeply still our prayers!
That He who still is—as of old,
The Resurrection, and The Life!
May such with pitying eye behold.
Called from a world of care away;
And gathered to her blissful rest,
In the bright realms of sunless day!
A CHILD'S DREAM.
Which bless an infant's dream?
Or, could we guess them, what more meet
To be a poet's theme?
The hope that e'en a glimpse of such
My numbers might make known,
To fond imagination brings
A day-dream of its own.
Upon whose peaceful sleep
Fair visions of another world
With silent footsteps creep;
Or moonlight on the sea,
The influence of that blissful dream
To Fancy seems to be.
Wears joy's delightful tinge:
The eyes are closed, yet joy's bright tear
Steals through the eyelid's fringe:
The lips are voiceless, yet they wear
The sweetest smile of bliss,
A smile so sweet, it well might chide
The fondest mother's kiss.
Where now thy spirit roams,
The lot it shares, how poor would seem
The pomp of proudest domes!
Fame, wealth, or grandeur never yet
A pleasure could impart,
So pangless and so pure as those
Which now possess thy heart.
And far hast left behind
The fading happiness of earth,
For raptures more refined:
Thine seems a foretaste of the boon
Appointed for the blest;
“Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest!”
May seem too young to bear
The full effulgence of that light
Which bursts around thee there;
Thy “vital spark of heavenly flame”
May shine with trembling ray,
Amid the bright and sunless blaze
Of heaven's unclouded day.
Thy soul may now partake
Those glories, which the harps and songs
Of angels ever wake;
Are transient glimpses given,
Whose bright beatitudes fulfil
A child's sweet dream of heaven!
That greets thy vision now?
Where gratitude warms every breast,
And joy lights every brow!
Where tears are wiped from every eye,
And sickness comes not near,
And hope in certainty fulfilled
Has banished every fear!
The spirits of the just,
Made perfect through the blood of Him,
In whom they placed their trust?
The tuneful seraph host, that raise
Their songs around the throne,
Giving to God, and to the Lamb,
The praise that is their own?
Whose foliage yet may heal
The nations—and the earlier curse
Of Eden's tree repeal?
Or gazest thou upon that stream,
Like clearest crystal bright,
Proceeding from Jehovah's throne,
And glorious from His light?
What sights and sounds divine,
May rise in slumber's tranquil hour
On spirits pure as thine;
Not wholly so, if, while he sings,
Within the minstrel's soul,
The influence of such heavenly themes
May earth-born cares control.
And may thy mental powers
By visions such as these be nursed
For future waking hours;
Thy spirit may ascend,
To know the fulness of all joy,
In glory without end!
A POSTSCRIPT.
“Would dream like this; or dream of heaven at all!”
And how knowest thou, despite thy critic fame,
What heavenly dreams on childhood's slumbers fall?
In aught of heaven or heavenly things disclosed,
Of guileless hearts the best interpreter,
Hath said—of such that kingdom is composed!
By self-conceit presumptuously beguiled;
But rather study that sweet, lowlier lore,
Which makes its learner as a little child!
JOHN EVELYN.
A true philosopher! well taught to scanThe works of nature, those of art to prize;
The latter cordially to patronize,
But to the first, their Author, and their plan,
Giving that homage of far ampler span
Awarded by the good, the great, the wise:
A hearty lover of old household ties;
And, to crown all, a Christian gentleman!
Such wert thou, Evelyn, in a busy age
Of restless change, to dissipation prone;
And, at thy death, upon thy coffin-stone,
Hast left this record, worthy many a page,
That “all not honest,” on this mortal stage,
“Is vain! and nothing wise save piety alone! ”
Evelyn is buried at Wotton, under a tomb of freestone, shaped like a coffin; with an inscription thereon, by his own direction, stating that, “Living in an age of extraordinary events and revolutions, he had learned from thence this truth, which he desired might be thus communicated to posterity; That all is vanity which is not honest! and that there is no solid wisdom but in real piety!”
A COLLOQUY WITH MYSELF.
And myself replied to me;
And the questions myself then put to myself,
With their answers, I give to thee.
Put them home to thyself, and if unto thyself
Their responses the same should be,
O look well to thyself, and beware of thyself,
Or so much the worse for thee.”
May, indeed, thy coffers fill;
Yet, like earth's most fleeting pleasures,
Leave thee poor and heartless still.
But by gauds that pass away,
Read its fate in lines recorded
On the sea-sands yesterday.
She her worth can best express.
What is moping melancholy?
Go and learn of idleness.
For the prosperous and the gay;
But a safe and wholesome teacher
In adversity's dark day.
Like some beacon's heavenward glow;
If on false pretensions grounded,
Like the treacherous sands below.
Like a meteor of the night;
Shining but to leave more lonely
Hearts that hailed its transient light.
Purified from passion's stain,
Like the moon, in gentle splendour,
Ruling o'er the peaceful main.
Glancing darkest clouds between;
Or foam-crested waves, whose whiteness
Gladdens ocean's darksome green.
Shadows o'er the pilgrim's way,
Every moment darker growing
If we yield unto their sway.
Followed but by deeper gloom.
Patience?—More than sunshine brightening
Sorrow's path, and labour's doom.
To eternity's vast sea;
Forward, whither all are going,
On its bosom bearing thee.
On that silent, rapid stream;
Few, too few, its progress noting,
Till it bursts and ends the dream.
Every tie we love so well?
But the gate to life un-ending,
Joy in heaven! or woe in hell!
Lose their magnitude or weight?
Estimate thy own condition,
Ere thou pass that fearful gate.
Much may still be left to do:
Be not by profession cheated;
Live! as if thou knew'st them true!
ORFORD.
A SONNET, INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND JOHN WODDERSPOON.
Rememberest thou that pleasant summer daySpent by us at old Orford, like a dream?
How, as we went, the morning's fitful gleam
Made the bleak “walks” and barren heaths look gay!
Rememberest thou the hour we wiled away
In ferrying over Ore's broad, billowy stream;
And all our converse, held on many a theme,
As at our feet the German Ocean lay?
But, above all, rememberest thou the hour
We gave that noble room; which well may vie,
In its rude grandeur of simplicity,
With any—feudal baron in his power
Could wish to feast in; and, from its high tower,
Beheld, well-pleased, our humble hostelrie!
ORFORD CASTLE.
Beacon for barks that navigate the streamOf Ore, or Alde, or breast old Ocean's spray;
Land-mark for inland travellers—far away
O'er heath and sheep-walk—as bright morning's beam,
Or evening sunset's richer, mellower gleam
Lights up thy weather-beaten turrets grey;
Still dost thou bear thee bravely in decay,
As if thy by-gone glories were no dream!
E'en now with lingering grandeur thou look'st down
From thy once fortified, embattled hill,
Striving thine ancient office to fulfil;
And though thy keep be now the only crown
Of Orford's desolate and dwindled town,
Seem'st to assert thyself its sovereign still.
THE DEPARTED.
Of those who, day by day,
Tread with us on this toilsome earth
Its devious, thorny way;
A charm more hallowed and profound,
By purer feelings fed,
Imagination casts around
The memory of the dead!
Our spirits to that state
Of being—pangless, pure, refined,
For which, in faith, we wait.
We feel, in hours serene,
Connected with a world above,
Immortal, and unseen!
Withdrawn from mortal eye;”
Yet holding unperceived their way
In heaven's unclouded sky.
The mists of earth to us may mar
The splendour of their light;
But they, beyond sun, moon, or star,
Shine on—in glory bright.
Who has not felt and known
How much may alter, and estrange
Hearts fondly deemed our own?
But those whom we lament awhile,
“Not lost, but gone before,”
Doubt cannot darken, sin defile,
Or frailty alter more!
On bright and by-gone hours!
And they—whose absence we regret,
Seem more than ever OUR'S!
Our's—by the pledge of love, and faith,
And hope of heaven on high;
A trust—triumphant over death
In immortality!
ON A DRAWING OF NORWICH MARKET-PLACE
BY COTMAN. TAKEN IN 1807.
And the busy hum of men.”
Milton.
We feel it is not good to be alone!
Shrined in our narrow niche,
As if we would all fellowship disown.
A poor recluse and book-worm, is it good
An alien thus to be,
Standing aloof from my own flesh and blood!
In minstrel labour to the noon of night,
I would not wear away
My sympathy with every social right.
And solitary, musing mood of mind,
Good is it to be brought
Thus into intercourse with humankind!
Who throng the busy market's ample space;
To hear their murmur loud;
And watch the workings of each busy face.
As fancy will, would we but grant her leave,
With each—unto his home!
There finding what may glad the heart—or grieve!
With a true heart to feel and sympathize;
As reading in a book,
Those countless windows—looking down like eyes—
Oh! who can guess what feelings, past and gone,
Of varied weal or woe,
Throbbed in the busiest there—or lookers-on!
To give the motley scene more solemn power?
How quickly is it brought
By that old church's lengthened roof and tower!
Where buyers—sellers—earn their daily bread;
Forming a link between
The busy living—and the silent dead!
High above all that hubbub's mingled swell,
For some one—dead and gone,
Is heard its deep, sonorous funeral bell!
Thus did this motley, moving medley look!
And still, unto mine eye,
It utters more than any printed book.
Tells more than prose or verse can ever scan,
In glimpses that impart
The natural brotherhood of man with man!
FOR THE QUEEN'S ALBUM.
COMPOSED IN A DREAM.
Introductory Note to the two following Album Verses.
Once, and once only in my life, I was in the royal presence: at some courtly festival, I opine; for I “sate at meat” with unwonted company, and surrounded by regal splendour. Chide me not, gentle reader, with presumption; for it was— in a dream! and I am sure no waking thoughts of mine led me there. In this most strange conjunction, I was called on for a contribution to the Royal Album! Awake, under such circumstances, I feel certain I could not have written letter or line: in my sleep I was bolder, and actually perpetrated two stanzas; which I subjoin, as a literary curiosity, having been, veritably, composed in a dream.
A blessing on thy crownéd head!My country's youthful Queen!
If such may be or sung or said,
Amid this courtly scene!
And if a poet's loyal love
Might more than this impart,
Oh! may that blessing from above
Sink deep into thy heart!
TO THE DEBEN.
Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find
Still soothing, and of power to charm me still!”
Cowper.
May be reflected in thy tide;
No lawn-like parks, outstretching round,
The willing loiterer's footsteps bound
By woods—that cast their leafy shade,
Or deer that start across each glade;
No ruined abbey, grey with years,
Upon thy marge its pile uprears;
Nor crumbling castle, valour's hold,
Recalls the feudal days of old.
To make thee, Deben, dear to me:
Thou hast thine own befitting charms,
Of quiet heaths, and fertile farms,
With here and there a copse to fling
Its welcome shade, where wild birds sing;
Thy meads, for flocks and herds to graze;
Thy quays and docks, where seamen raise
Their anchor, and unfurl their sail
To woo and win the favouring gale.
Endearing memories of the past!
Thy winding banks, with grass o'er-grown,
By me these forty years well known,
Where, eve or morn, 'tis sweet to rove,
Have oft been trod by those I love;
By those who, through life's by-gone hours,
Have strewed its thorny paths with flowers,
And by their influence made thy stream
A grateful poet's favourite theme.
TO A VERY YOUNG HOUSE-WIFE.
Without one verse to thee,
Whom I have known and loved so long,
Were all unworthy me.
With as much ready glee,
As if it were thy greatest pride
A sempstress famed to be?
And bread—thy hands had kneaded,
All excellent—as if those arts
Were all that thou hadst heeded?
And heard thy voice—as gay,
As if such household cares, the while,
To thee were sport and play?
Landscape, or flower, or face;
And thou canst waken music's spell
With simple, natural grace.
Before thy teens are spent,
Honours far more thy head, and heart,
Than mere accomplishment!
And be it understood
I frame it not in idle fun
For girlish womanhood.
Worth teaching now-a-days;
That girls may do all household work,
Nor lose a poet's praise!
SONNET, TO THE MEMORY OF GAINSBOROUGH;
SUGGESTED BY THE FRONTISPIECE.
By scenes like this thine earlier taste was fedFor Nature's beauty in each lone recess,
Where, with her richest sylvan loveliness,
She courts her fond enthusiast's lingering tread!
Embowering foliage—arching over-head
Steep, broken sand-banks, she knows how to dress
In charms few pencils could like thine express,
Heightened by gleams of light through darkness shed.
This spot, in early life a haunt of thine,
And honoured still, because it bears thy name,
Is drawn by one who feels how dear that claim
To Nature's votaries; nor would wish to shine,
Either in execution, or design,
By other arts than those which won thee fame!
Household Verses | ||