University of Virginia Library

With no unmoved or irresponsive heart,
Have I, O Alford, listened to thy lay;
Thy pure and fervent lay of holy thoughts
And heavenward aspirations, tempered down
To apprehension of earth's grosser sense
By intermixture sweet of human love
And hymeneal fondness. Under heaven
My thought shapes not a happier lot than thine;
Who, in life's sunny summer, hand in hand
With the dear object of thy earliest love,
Walk'st through this world, at liberty to cull
Whate'er of bright and beautiful it yields
To thy keen instinct of poetic sense;
Therewith to feed the pure religious flame
Which burns upon the altar of thy heart,
And through the inner temple of thy being
Pours a continual gleam of living light,
Irradiating with splendour, not of earth,
Each well-proportioned and harmonious part
Of all its rich and graceful architecture.
Yea, blessed is thy lot, for thou enjoy'st
God's three divinest gifts,—love of Himself,
And love domestic, and the inward eye
Of the true poet; while, from earliest youth,
Thy soul hath been so disciplined, by use,
To wait on duty's call,—so taught to wield
Its inborn powers aright,—each natural sense
So exercised and strengthened to discern
The beautiful and good, and, when discern'd,
To mould them to God's service, that to thee
All things belong;—this world, and life and death;
All immaterial and material forms
Of glory and of loveliness;—'tis thine
To extract from all things seen, all things believed,
All things imagined, their essential sweetness,
As none but Christian poets, train'd like thee,
In sweet experience of earth's richest love,
Know to extract it.

Such, ten years ago,
Might seem to be my lot; for I was then
A youthful poet, even as thou art now;
And, like thee, newly join'd in holy bands
Of fond and fervent wedlock; like thee, too,
Had I then newly utter'd, in God's house,
The vows of an ambassador for Christ;
And, with no insincere or base intent,
(Albeit but ill prepared for such high task,
And little recking of its weightier cares
And dread responsibilities), assumed
The pastoral name and office. What forbade
But that, like thee, I too should then devote
My mind's expanded energies, my prime
And lustihood of thought, to heavenly song,
Hymning, in strains of such poor minstrelsy
As my less gifted spirit might send forth,
The truths thou hymn'st; and from my daily walk
Of ministerial duty, gathering food
For meditation calm, and serious thought,
Materials of no vain or aimless verse.
So had I, haply, ere my noon of life,
Won some poor niche amid the humbler shrines
Of Christian poets; and not only so,
But, e'en by the indulgence of sweet thought
And fond imagination, train'd my soul
For tasks of Christian duty; kept it clear
From this world's worst intrusions; tamed it down
More nearly to subjection to the Spirit;
And, while I breathed an atmosphere of peace
And holy joy, still drawn more nigh to heaven;
Meantime constructing, e'en from what supplied
My present comfort and my future hope,
A temple to God's glory.

Hopes like these,
If e'er such hopes were mine, have vanish'd long.
I must not think to have my name enroll'd
Among the names of those who gave to God
Their strength and fervour of poetic thought.
The days are gone, wherein I might have framed
Lays which, outlasting my own span of life,
Should, when my bones were dust, have warm'd the hearts
Of Christ's true servants: ne'er, in after years,
Shall my sweet babes associate with the thought
Of their lost parent the fair name of one
Bruited in good men's mouths for rich bequests
Left to the pious and reflective heart,
In tuneful records of his own calm thoughts
And meditative intercourse with heaven.
Nor sage, nor scholar, nor world-weary man,
Who seeks a respite from heart-stifling cares
In Poesy's domain, nor saint devout,
Yearning for pious sympathy, and fain
To vent the feelings of his own full heart
In the rich breathings of religious song,
Shall have recourse to me, or count my lays
Among the pure refreshments of his soul.
My songs will not be sung on winter nights
By cottage hearths, nor elevate the soul
Of sunburnt peasant or pale artizan,
Forgetting their six days of care and toil
In the calm gladness of the Sabbath eve,
And leading up their children's thoughts to Heaven
By grave and pious converse, interspersed
With psalms and hymns and spiritual songs,
Making the heart's rich melody to God.
My spirit must not mingle after death
With the free spirit of my native land;
Nor any tones, from these poor chords sent forth,
Linger upon her breezes, and be heard
Faintly, and yet with no discordant sound,
In her full chorus of religious song.
So I shall rest unhonour'd in my grave,
And unremember'd. Be it so. For this
Slight cause have I to grieve, if I may win
A better immortality; nor yet
Need I lament that all my better years
Have thus been lost to verse; since graver cares,
And pastoral labours, not, I trust, unblest,
And study of stern truth, according ill
With fond imagination's fervent dreams,
And daily intercourse with real grief,
Not to be soothed or solaced by the skill
Of vain and airy phantasy, have fill'd
The hours which else I might have dream'd away
On Helicon's green marge, in converse blest
With those celestial mistresses of song.
Not for these years I grieve, albeit defiled
With imperfections numberless, with much
Unfaithfulness of heart, and cold neglect
Of duties great and many, as I grieve
For that, the spring and seed-time of my life,
Wasted, alas, in academic shades,
Through blind self-love and indolence supine,
And rash misuse of all those better gifts
Wherewith my spirit was, or seem'd, endued;
While, all regardless of its youthful needs
And seasonable culture,—owning not
The obligation of a higher law
Than my own will,—I travell'd uncontroll'd
Through all the fields of song, as fancy led,
Or passionate caprice; from idle hearts
Winning vain praise, and solacing my own
With what was wasting all its better strength,
And leaving it unstored and unprepared
For future tasks of duty.

For all this,
I am content to be what now I am;
And deem such retribution meet and right:
Nor blame I any, save myself alone,
For aught that hath been done, or left undone,
Now or in earlier days; yet I rejoice
To think that now a brighter day hath risen
On Granta's reverend towers than I beheld;
(For so thy lays assure me);—that the free
And noble spirit of her sons hath burst
The trammels of that false philosophy
Which fetter'd, in my day, her strongest hearts
And most capacious intellects to low
And sensual contemplations, shutting out
From youth's perverted and polluted gaze
All spiritual glories,—God and Heaven;
All that exalts and purifies the will,
And teaches us to feel and know even here
Our everlasting destiny.

Not long
Might such pollution dwell in fane so pure;
And years, I trust, have swept away all trace
Of mischief then wide spread; beneath those shades
A purer generation feeds its thought,
And trains its mental energies for deeds
Of great and Christian daring, undefiled
By base alloy of superstitious zeal
And bigot fury, such as, on the banks
Of Isis, darkens the meridian beams
Of piety and truth, and grossly mars
Their beauty with obscene companionship.
So may our Mother flourish while the name
Of England holds its proud pre-eminence
Among the nations: in her ancient halls,
And venerable cloisters, be our youth
Invigorated by salubrious draughts
Of free and fervent thought; and let the mind
Of our great country, like a mighty sea,
Be fed and freshen'd by perpetual streams
Of pure and virtuous wisdom, from those springs
Gushing unceasingly.

But thou, meanwhile,
In youth, in hope, in faith, in genius strong,
Fulfil thy noble doom; attune thy song
To themes of glorious daring; feed thy mind
On contemplations pure and peaceable
Of heavenly truth and beauty; ever cheer'd
And strengthen'd for thy high and holy task,
By constant increase of domestic love,
And fireside joys and comforts, and the sweets,
Many and pure, with ministerial toil
Inseparably link'd, and rendering back
Into the labourer's bosom rich reward.
So doubt not that thy name shall find a niche
Among the names of Earth's illustrious sons;
Nor that, when earth itself shall be burnt up
With all its works, and, in the fervent heat,
Its elements dissolve and fade away,
Thou shalt receive the recompense of one
Who put his talent out to usury,
And render'd to his lord, when he return'd,
A great and glorious interest of souls
Won to his love; helping to accomplish here
The number of the elect, and lead them back
With songs of triumph to their home in Heaven.