The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed :: :: University of Virginia Library

Talk not to me of learned dust,
Of reasoning and renown,
Of withering wreath and crumbling bust,
Torn book and tattered gown;
Oh Wisdom lives in Folly's ring,
And beards, thank Heaven, are not the thing!

Then let me live a long romance,
And learn to trifle well;
And write my motto, “Vive la danse,”
And “Vive la bagatelle!”
And give all honour, as is fit,
To sparkling eyes, and sparkling wit.

And let me deem, when Sophs condemn
And Seniors burn my lays,
That some bright eyes will smile on them,
And some kind hearts will praise;
And thus my little book shall be
A mine of pleasant thoughts to me.

276

And we, perchance, may meet no more,
For other accents sound,
And darker prospects spread before,
And colder hearts come round;
And cloistered walk and grated pane
Must wear their wonted gloom again.

But those who meet, as we have met,
In frolic and in laughter,—
O dream not they can e'er forget
The thoughts that linger after,
That parted friend and faded scene
Can be as if they ne'er had been:

No! I shall miss that merry smile
When thou hast left me lone;
And listen in the silent aisle
For that remembered tone;
And look up to the lattice high
For beckoning hand and beaming eye.

And thou perhaps, when years are gone,
Wilt turn these pages over,
And waste one idle thought upon
A rambling rhyming rover,
And deem the Poet and his line
Both wild, both worthless,—and both thine!

Trin. Coll., Cambridge, July 8, 1823.

277

STANZAS WRITTEN IN A COPY OF LILLIAN,

SENT TO A LADY IN EXCHANGE FOR TWO DRAWINGS ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POEM.

The gifts the Rhymer begs to-day
Shall long be dear to him,
When Passion's glow shall pass away,
And Fancy's light grow dim,
And nought remain of boyhood's schemes,
But Sorrow's tears, and Memory's dreams.

Yes, dear the gifts shall ever be;
For Humour there hath flung
A spell of magic witchery
On all he thought and sung,
And blended in a living dance
The creatures of his own romance.

E'en he might shudder at the sight
Of his own monster's feast;
E'en he might feel a sweet affright,
As, ruling the rude beast,
His own fair damsel skims the sea
In all her headless ecstacy.

278

These gifts shall be unfading signs
That, in his early days,
Some beaming eyes could read his lines,
Some beauteous lips could praise;
Fair Lady, from the cup of bliss
He wants and wishes only this!

For he was born a wayward boy,
To laugh when hopes deceive him,
To grasp at every fleeting joy,
And jest at all that leave him,
To love a quirk, and loathe a quarrel,
And never care a straw for laurel.

And thus, the creature of a day,
And rather fool than knave,
And either very gravely gay
Or very gaily grave,
He cares for nought but wit and wine,
And flatteries,—such as this of thine!

279

FRAGMENTS OF A DESCRIPTIVE POEM.

[OMITTED] And now
He stood upon the beetling brow
Of a huge cliff, and marked beneath
The sea-foam fling its hoary wreath
Upon the shore, and heard the waves
Run howling through their hollow caves.
Far on the right old Ocean lay;
But he had hushed his storm to-day,
And seemed to murmur a long sigh,
A melancholy melody,
As if his mourning had begun
For what he yesternight had done:
And on the left, in beauteous pride,
The river poured his rushing tide;
Fanned, as he came, by odorous gales
From grassy hills and mossy vales,
And gardens, where young nature set
No mask upon her features yet,

280

And sands which were as smooth as stone,
And woods whose birth no eye had known,
And rocks, whose very crags seemed bowers,
So bright they were with herbs and flowers.

He looked across the river stream;
A little town was there,
O'er which the morning's earliest beam
Was wandering fresh and fair;
No architect of classic school
Had pondered there with line and rule;
And, stranger still, no modern master
Had wasted there his lath and plaster;
The buildings in strange order lay,
As if the streets had lost their way,
Fantastic, puzzling, narrow, muddy,
Excess of toil from lack of study,
Where Fashion's very newest fangles
Had no conception of right angles.
But still about that humble place
There was a look of rustic grace;
'Twas sweet to see the sports and labours
And morning greetings of good neighbours,
The seamen mending sails and oars,
The matrons knitting at the doors,
The invalids enjoying dips,
The children launching tiny ships,

281

The beldames clothed in rags and wrinkles
Investigating periwinkles.

A little further up the tide,
There beamed upon the river side
A shady dwelling place: [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Most beautiful! upon that spot,
Beside that echoing wave,
A Fairy might have built her grot,
An Anchorite his grave.
The river, with its constant fall,
Came daily to the garden wall,
As if it longed, but thought it sin,
To look upon the charms within;
Behind, majestic mountains frowned,
And dark rich groves were all around,
And just before the gate there stood
Two trees which were themselves a wood;
Two lovely trees, whose clasping forms
Were blended still in calms and storms;
Like sisters who have lived together
Through every change of Fortune's weather,
United in their bliss or sorrow,
Their yesterday, and their to-morrow,—
So fond, so faithful,—you would wonder
To see them smile or weep asunder.

282

A PREFACE.

I have a tale of Love to tell;—
Lend me thy light lute, L.E.L.

Lend me thy lute! what other strings
Should speak of those delicious things,
Which constitute Love's joys and woes
In pretty duodecimos?
Thou knowest every herb and flower,
Of wondrous name, and wondrous power,
Which, gathered where white wood-doves nestle,
And beat up by poetic pestle,
Bind gallant knights in fancied fetters,
And set young ladies writing letters:
Thou singest songs of floods and fountains,
Of mounted lords and lordly mountains,
Of dazzling shields and dazzling glances,
Of piercing frowns and piercing lances,
Of leaping brands and sweeping willows,
Of dreading seas and dreaming billows,

283

Of sunbeams which are like red wine,
Of odorous lamps of argentine,
Of cheeks that burn, of hearts that freeze,
Of odours that send messages,
Of kingfishers and silver pheasants,
Of gems to which the Sun makes presents,
Of miniver and timeworn walls,
Of clairschachs and of atabals.
Within thy passion-haunted pages
Throng forward girls—and distant ages,
The lifeless learns at once to live,
The dumb grows strangely talkative,
Resemblances begin to strike
In things exceedingly unlike,
All nouns, like statesmen, suit all places,
And verbs, turned lawyers, hunt for cases.

Oh! if it be a crime to languish
Over thy scenes of bliss or anguish,
To float with Raymond o'er the sea,
To sigh with dark-eyed Rosalie,
And sit in reverie luxurious
Till tea grows cold, and aunts grow furious,
I own the soft impeachment true,
And burn the Westminster Review.
Lend me thy lute; I'll be a poet;
All Paternoster Row shall know it!

284

I'll rail in rhyme at cruel Fate
From Temple Bar to Tyburn Gate;
Old Premium's daughter in the City
Shall feel that love is kin to pity,
Hot ensigns shall be glad to borrow
My notes of rapture and of sorrow,
And I shall hear sweet voices sighing
“So young!—and I am told he's dying!”
Yes! I shall wear a wreath eternal,
For full twelve months, in Post and Journal,
Admired by all the Misses Brown
Who go to school at Kentish Town,
And worshipped by the fair Arachne
Who makes my handkerchiefs at Hackney!

Vain, vain!—take back the lute! I see
Its chords were never meant for me.
For thine own song, for thine own hand,
That lute was strung in Fairy-land;
And, if a stranger's thumb should fling
Its rude touch o'er one golden string,—
Good night to all the music in it!
The string would crack in half a minute.
Take back the lute! I make no claim
To inspiration or to fame;
The hopes and fears that bards should cherish,
I care not when they fade and perish;

285

I read political economy,
Voltaire and Cobbett, and gastronomy,
And, when I would indite a story
Of woman's faith or warrior's glory,
I always wear a night-cap sable,
And put my elbows on the table,
And hammer out the tedious toil
By dint of Walker, and lamp-oil.
I never feel poetic mania,
I gnaw no laurel with Urania,
I court no critic's tender mercies,
I count the feet in all my verses,
And own myself a screaming gander
Among the shrill swans of Mæander!

1824.

286

LOVE AT A ROUT.

When some mad bard sits down to muse
About the lilies and the dews,
The grassy vales and sloping lawns,
Fairies and Satyrs, Nymphs and Fawns,
He's apt to think, he's apt to swear,
That Cupid reigns not any where
Except in some sequestered village
Where peasants live on truth and tillage,
That none are fair enough for witches
But maids who frisk through dells and ditches
That dreams are twice as sweet as dances,
That cities never breed romances,
That Beauty always keeps a cottage,
And Purity grows pale on pottage.

Yes! those dear dreams are all divine;
And those dear dreams have all been mine.
I like the stream, the rock, the bay,
I like the smell of new-mown hay,

287

I like the babbling of the brooks,
I like the creaking of the crooks,
I like the peaches, and the posies,—
But chiefly, when the season closes,
And often, in the month of fun,
When every poacher cleans his gun,
And cockneys tell enormous lies,
And stocks are pretty sure to rise,
And e'en the Chancellor, they say,
Goes to a point the nearest way,
I hurry from my drowsy desk
To revel in the picturesque,
To hear beneath those ancient trees
The far-off murmur of the bees,
Or trace yon river's mazy channels
With Petrarch, and a brace of spaniels,
Combining foolish rhymes together,
And killing sorrow, and shoe-leather.

Then, as I see some rural maid
Come dancing up the sunny glade,
Coquetting with her fond adorer
Just as her mother did before her,
“Give me,” I cry, “the quiet bliss
Of souls like these, of scenes like this;
Where ladies eat and sleep in peace,
Where gallants never heard of Greece,

288

Where day is day, and night is night,
Where frocks—and morals—both are white;
Blue eyes below—blue skies above—
These are the homes, the hearts, for Love!

But this is idle; I have been
A sojourner in many a scene,
And picked up wisdom in my way,
And cared not what I had to pay;
Smiling and weeping all the while,
As other people weep and smile;
And I have learnt that Love is not
Confined to any hour or spot;
He lights the smile and fires the frown
Alike in country and in town.
I own fair faces not more fair
In Ettrick, than in Portman Square,
And silly danglers just as silly
In Sherwood, as in Piccadilly.
Soft tones are not the worse, no doubt,
For having harps to help them out;
And smiles are not a ray more bright
By moonbeams, than by candle-light;
I know much magic oft reposes
On wreaths of artificial roses,
And snowy necks,—I never found them
Quite spoilt by having cameos round them

289

In short, I'm very sure that all
Who seek or sigh for Beauty's thrall
May breathe their vows, and feed their passion,
Though whist and waltzing keep in fashion,
And make the most delicious sonnets,
In spite of diamonds, and French bonnets!

290

THE MODERN NECTAR.

One day, as Bacchus wandered out
From his own gay and glorious heaven,
To see what mortals were about
Below, 'twixt six o'clock and seven,
And laugh at all the toils and tears,
The endless hopes, the causeless fears,
The midnight songs, the morning smarts,
The aching heads, the breaking hearts,
Which he and his fair crony Venus
Within the month had sown between us,
He lighted by chance on a fiddling fellow
Who never was known to be less than mellow,
A wandering poet, who thought it his duty
To feed upon nothing but bowls and beauty,
Who worshipped a rhyme, and detested a quarrel,
And cared not a single straw for laurel,
Holding that grief was sobriety's daughter,
And loathing critics, and cold water.

Ere day on the Gog-Magog hills had fainted,
The god and the minstrel were quite acquainted;

291

Beneath a tree, in the sunny weather,
They sate them down, and drank together:
They drank of all fluids that ever were poured
By an English lout, or a German lord,
Rum and shrub and brandy and gin,
One after another, they stowed them in,
Claret of Carbonell, porter of Meux,
Champagne which would waken a wit in dukes,
Humble Port, and proud Tokay,
Persico, and Crême de Thé,
The blundering Irishman's Usquebaugh,
The fiery Welshman's Cwrw da;
And after toasting various names
Of mortal and immortal flames,
And whispering more than I or you know
Of Mistress Poll, and Mistress Juno,
The god departed, scarcely knowing
A zephyr's from a nose's blowing,
A frigate from a pewter flagon,
Or Thespis from his own stage waggon;
And rolling about like a barrel of grog,
He went up to heaven as drunk as a hog!

“Now may I,” he lisped, “for ever sit
In Lethe's darkest and deepest pit,
Where dullness everlasting reigns
O'er the quiet pulse and the drowsy brains,

292

Where ladies jest, and lovers laugh,
And noble lords are bound in calf,
And Zoilus for his sins rehearses
Old Bentham's prose, old Wordsworth's verses,
If I have not found a richer draught
Than ever yet Olympus quaffed,
Better and brighter and dearer far
Than the golden sands of Pactolus are!”

And then he filled in triumph up,
To the highest top-sparkle, Jove's beaming cup,
And pulling up his silver hose,
And turning in his tottering toes,
(While Hebe, as usual, the mischievous gipsy,
Was laughing to see her brother tipsy,)
He said—“May it please your high Divinity.
This nectar is—Milk Punch at Trinity!”

296

TIME'S SONG.

O'er the level plains, where mountains greet me as I go,
O'er the desert waste, where fountains at my bidding flow,
On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by night,
I am riding hence away: who will chain my flight?

War his weary watch was keeping,—I have crushed his spear;
Grief within her bower was weeping,—I have dried her tear;
Pleasure caught a minute's hold,—then I hurried by,
Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet dry.

Power had won a throne of glory: where is now his fame?
Genius said “I live in story:” who hath heard his name?
Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered “Why so fast?”
And the roses on his brow withered as I past.

297

I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild wave's bed;
I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed;
Where began my wanderings? Memory will not say!
Where will rest my weary wings? Science turns away!

299

LINES WRITTEN ON THE EVE OF A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.

I

St. Mary's tolls her longest chime, and slumber softly falls
On Granta's quiet solitudes, her cloisters and her halls;
But trust me, little rest is theirs, who play in glory's game,
And throw to-morrow their last throw for academic fame;
Whose hearts have panted for this hour, and, while slow months went by,
Beat high to live in story—half a dozen stories high.

II

No; there is no repose for them, the solitary few,
Who muse on all that they have done, and all they meant to do;
And leave the prisoned loveliness of some hope-haunted book,
With many a melancholy sigh, and many an anxious look;
As lovers look their last upon the Lady of their fancies,
When barb or bark is waiting, in the middle of romances.

300

III

And some were born to be the first, and some to be the last:—
I cannot change the future now; I will not mourn the past;
But while the firelight flickers, and the lonely lamp burns dim,
I'll fill one glass of Claret till it sparkles to the brim,
And, like a knight of chivalry first vaulting on his steed,
Commend me to my Patron Saint, for a blessing and good speed!—

IV

O Lady! if my pulse beats quick, and my heart trembles now,
If there is flush upon my cheek, and fever on my brow,
It is not, Lady, that I think, as others think to-night,
Upon the struggle and the prize, the doubt and the delight,
Nor that I feel, as I have felt, ambition's idle thrill,
Nor that defeat, so bitter once, is bitter to me still:

V

I think of thee! I think of thee! It is but for thy sake
That wearied energies arise, and slumbering hopes awake;
For others other smiles might beam, so only one were mine;
For others other praise might sound, so I were worthy thine;

301

On other brows the wreath might bloom, but it were more than bliss
To fling it at thy feet, and say “Thy friendship hath done this.”

VI

Whate'er of chastened pride is mine, whate'er of nurtured power,
Of self restraint when suns invite, of faith when tempests lower,
Whate'er of morning joy I have, whate'er of evening rest,
Whate'er of love I yet deserve from those I love the best,
Whate'er of honest fame upon my after life may be,—
To thee, my best and fairest,—I shall owe it all to thee!

VII

I am alone—I am alone! thou art not by my side
To smile on me, to speak to me, to flatter or to chide;
But oh! if Fortune favour now the effort and the prayer,
My heart will strive, when friends come round, to fancy thou art there;
To hear in every kindly voice an echo of thy tone,
And clasp in every proffered hand the pressure of thy own.

302

VIII

As those who shed in Fairy-land their childhood's happy tears
Have still its trees before their sight, its music in their ears,
Thus, midst the cold realities of this soul-wearying scene,
My heart will shrink from that which is, to that which once hath been;
Till common haunts, where strangers meet to sorrow or rejoice,
Grow radiant with thy loveliness, and vocal with thy voice.

IX

My sister!—for no sister can be dearer than thou art—
My sister!—for thou hadst to me indeed a sister's heart,—
Our paths are all divided now, but believe that I obey,
And tell me thou beholdest what I bid thee not repay:
The star in heaven looks brightest down upon the watery tide:
It may not warm the mariner,—dear Lady, let it guide!

303

ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES.

“Diogenes Alexandro roganti ut diceret si quid opus esset, ‘nunc quidem paullulum,’ inquit, ‘a sole.’”—Cicero, Tusc. Disp.

I

Slowly the monarch turned aside:
But when his glance of youthful pride
Rested upon the warriors gray
Who bore his lance and shield that day,
And the long line of spears, that came
Through the far grove like waves of flame,
His forehead burned, his pulse beat high,
More darkly flashed his shifting eye,
And visions of the battle plain
Came bursting on his soul again.

II

The old man drew his gaze away
Right gladly from that long array,
As if their presence were a blight
Of pain and sickness to his sight;
And slowly folding o'er his breast
The fragments of his tattered vest

304

As was his wont, unasked, unsought,
Gave to the winds his muttered thought,
Naming no name of friend or foe,
And reckless if they heard or no.

III

“Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing,
Puppet, which mortals call a King,
Adorning thee with idle gems,
With drapery and diadems,
And scarcely guessing, that beneath
The purple robe and laurel wreath,
There's nothing but the common slime
Of human clay and human crime!—
My rags are not so rich,—but they
Will serve as well to cloak decay.

IV

“And ever round thy jewelled brow
False slaves and falser friends will bow:
And Flattery,—as varnish flings
A baseness on the brightest things,—
Will make the monarch's deeds appear
All worthless to the monarch's ear,
Till thou wilt turn and think that fame
So vilely drest, is worse than shame!—
The gods be thanked for all their mercies!
Diogenes hears nought but curses.

305

V

“And thou wilt banquet!—air and sea
Will render up their hoards for thee;
And golden cups for thee will hold
Rich nectar, richer than the gold.—
The cunning caterer still must share
The dainties which his toils prepare;
The page's lip must taste the wine
Before he fills the cup for thine:
Wilt feast with me on Hecate's cheer?
I dread no royal hemlock here!

VI

“And night will come; and thou wilt lie
Beneath a purple canopy,
With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed
Their feverish fragrance round thy bed,
A princess to unclasp thy crest,
A Spartan spear to guard thy rest.—
Dream, happy one!—thy dreams will be
Of danger and of perfidy,—
The Persian lance, the Carian club!—
I shall sleep sounder in my tub.

VII

“And thou wilt pass away, and have
A marble mountain o'er thy grave,

306

With pillars tall, and chambers vast,—
Fit palace for the worm's repast!—
I too shall perish! let them call
The vulture to my funeral;
The Cynic's staff, the Cynic's den,
Are all he leaves his fellow men;
Heedless how this corruption fares,—
Yea, heedless, though it mix with theirs.’

307

ARMINIUS.

“Cernebatur contra minitabundus Arminius, præliumque denuntians.” Tacit. Annal. ii. 10.

I

Back,—back!—he fears not foaming flood
Who fears not steel-clad line!
No offspring this of German blood,—
No brother thou of mine;
Some bastard spawn of menial birth,—
Some bound and bartered slave:
Back,—back!—for thee our native earth
Would be a foreign grave!

II

Away! be mingled with the rest
Of that thy chosen tribe;
And do the tyrant's high behest,
And earn the robber's bribe;
And win the chain to gird the neck,
The gems to hide the hilt,

308

And blazon honour's hapless wreck
With all the gauds of guilt.

III

And would'st thou have me share the prey?
By all that I have done,
By Varus' bones, which day by day
Are whitening in the sun,—
The legion's shattered panoply,
The eagle's broken wing,
I would not be, for earth and sky,
So loathed and scorned a thing!

IV

Ho! bring me here the wizard, boy,
Of most surpassing skill,
To agonize, and not destroy,
To palsy, and not kill:
If there be truth in that dread art.
In song, and spell, and charm,
Now let them torture the base heart,
And wither the false arm!

V

I curse him by our country's gods,
The terrible, the dark,
The scatterers of the Roman rods,
The quellers of the bark!

309

They fill a cup with bitter woe,
They fill it to the brim;
Where shades of warriors feast below,
That cup shall be for him!

VI

I curse him by the gifts our land
Hath owed to him and Rome,—
The riving axe and burning brand,
Rent forests, blazing home;—
O may he shudder at the thought,
Who triumphs in the sight;
And be his waking terrors wrought
Into fierce dreams by night!

VII

I curse him by the hearts that sigh
In cavern, grove, and glen,—
The sobs of orphaned infancy,
The tears of aged men;—
When swords are out, and spear and dart
Leave little space for prayer,
No fetter on man's arm and heart
Hangs half so heavy there.

VIII

Oh misery, that such a vow
On such a head should be!

310

Why comes he not, my brother, now,
To fight or fall with me,—
To be my mate in banquet bowl,
My guard in battle throng,
And worthy of his father's soul
And of his country's song?

IX

But it is past:—where heroes press
And spoilers bend the knee,
Arminius is not brotherless,—
His brethren are the free!
They come around; one hour, and light
Will fade from turf and tide;
Then onward, onward to the fight,
With darkness for our guide!

X

To-night, to-night,—when we shall meet
In combat face to face,—
There only would Arminius greet
The renegade's embrace;
The canker of Rome's guilt shall be
Upon his Roman name,
And as he lives in slavery,
So shall he die in shame!

311

REMEMBER ME.

In Seville, when the feast was long,
And lips and lutes grew free,
At Inez' feet, amid the throng,
A masquer bent his knee;
And still the burthen of his song
Was “Sweet, remember me!

“Remember me in shine and shower,
In sorrow and in glee;
When summer breathes upon the flower,
When winter blasts the tree,
When there are dances in the bower
Or sails upon the sea.

“Remember me beneath far skies,
On foreign lawn or lea;
When others worship those wild eyes
Which I no more may see,
When others wake the melodies
Of which I mar the key.

312

“Remember me! my heart will claim
No love, no trust, from thee;
Remember me, though doubt and blame
Linked with the record be;
Remember me.—with scorn or shame,—
But yet, remember me!”

313

TO THE REV. DERWENT COLERIDGE

ON HIS MARRIAGE.

Who must the beauteous Lady be
That wins that heart of thine?
In a dream, methinks, she comes to me,
Half mortal, half divine,
Robed in a fine and fairy dress
From Fancy's richest store,—
A more becoming garb, I guess,
Than e'er man's mistress wore!
With a step that glides o'er turf and stone
As light as the morning beams,
And a voice whose every whispered tone
Calls up a host of dreams;
And a form which you might safely swear
Young Nature taught to dance,
And dazzling brow and floating hair
Which are themselves romance;

314

And eyes more eloquently bright
Than ether's brightest star,
With much of genius in their light,
And more of fondness far;
And an untainted love of earth
And all earth's lovely things,
And smiles and tears, whose grief and mirth,
Flow forth from kindred springs;
And a calm heart, so wholly given
To him whose love it wakes,
That through all storms of Fate and Heaven
It bends with his—or breaks.

Such must the beauteous Lady be
That wins that heart of thine
And is to thy fair destiny
What none may be to mine!

316

MEMORY.

Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.
Dante.

Stand on a funeral mound,
Far, far from all that love thee;
With a barren heath around,
And a cypress bower above thee:
And think, while the sad wind frets,
And the night in cold gloom closes.
Of spring, and spring's sweet violets,
Of summer, and summer's roses.

Sleep where the thunders fly
Across the tossing billow,
Thy canopy the sky,
And the lonely deck thy pillow;
And dream, while the chill sea foam
In mockery dashes o'er thee,
Of the cheerful hearth, and the quiet home,
And the kiss of her that bore thee.

317

Watch in the deepest cell
Of the foeman's dungeon tower,
Till hope's most cherished spell
Has lost its cheering power;
And sing, while the galling chain
On every stiff limb freezes,
Of the huntsman hurrying o'er the plain,
Of the breath of the mountain breezes.

Talk of the minstrel's lute,
The warrior's high endeavour,
When the honied lips are mute
And the strong arm crushed for ever:
Look back to the summer sun
From the mist of dark December,
Then say to the broken-hearted one—
“'Tis pleasant to remember!”

April 11, 1829.

318

FUIMUS!

Go to the once loved bowers;
Wreathe blushing roses for the lady's hair:
Winter has been upon the leaves and flowers,—
They were!

Look for the domes of kings;
Lo, the owl's fortress, or the tiger's lair!
Oblivion sits beside them; mockery sings
They were!

Waken the minstrel's lute;
Bid the smooth pleader charm the listening air:
The chords are broken, and the lips are mute;—
They were!

Visit the great and brave;
Worship the witcheries of the bright and fair.
Is not thy foot upon a new-made grave?—
They were!

319

Speak to thine own heart; prove
The secrets of thy nature. What is there?
Wild hopes, warm fancies, fervent faith, fond love,—
They were!

We too, we too must fail;
A few brief years to labour and to bear;—
Then comes the sexton, and the old trite tale,
“We were!”

May 21, 1829.

320

LINES SENT IN THANKS FOR A BOTTLE OF VERY FINE OLD BRANDY.

WRITTEN FOR LADY C---.

Spirits there were, in olden time,
Which wrought all sorts of wondrous things
(As we are told in prose and rhyme)
With wands and potions, lamps and rings;
I know not, Lady fair,—do you?—
Whether those tales be false or true.

But in our day—our dismal day
Of sadder song and soberer mirth.
If any spirits ever play
Upon the faded fields of earth,
Whose magic, Lady fair, can fling
O'er winter's frosts the flowers of spring,—

If any spirits haunt our Isle
Whose power can make old age look gay,
Revive the tone, relume the smile,
And chase three score of years away,—
Such spirits, Lady fair, must be
Like those your kindness sends to me!

May 2, 1829.

321

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS.

I

Once on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers,
I saw fair Childhood hard at play
Upon a bank of blushing flowers:
Happy—he knew not whence or how,—
And smiling,—who could choose but love him?
For not more glad than Childhood's brow,
Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.

II

Old Time, in most appalling wrath,
That valley's green repose invaded;
The brooks grew dry upon his path,
The birds were mute, the lilies faded.
But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,
That Childhood watched his paper kite,
And knew just nothing of the matter.

322

III

With curling lip and glancing eye
Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute;
But Childhood's glance of purity
Had such a holy spell within it,
That the dark demon to the air
Spread forth again his baffled pinion,
And hid his envy and despair,
Self-tortured, in his own dominion.

IV

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,
Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter,
And proffered him a fearful cup
Full to the brim of bitter water:
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;
And when the beldame muttered—“Sorrow,”
He said,—“Don't interrupt my game;
I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.”

V

The Muse of Pindus thither came,
And wooed him with the softest numbers
That ever scattered wealth and fame
Upon a youthful poet's slumbers;
Though sweet the music of the lay,
To Childhood it was all a riddle,
And “Oh,” he cried, “do send away
That noisy woman with the fiddle!”

323

VI

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,
And taught him, with most sage endeavour,
Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,
And why no toy may last for ever.
She talked of all the wondrous laws
Which Nature's open book discloses,
And Childhood, ere she made a pause,
Was fast asleep among the roses.

VII

Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood's dreams
Are all of earthly pain or pleasure,
Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes,
Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure:
But to the couch where Childhood lies
A more delicious trance is given,
Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,
And glimpses of remembered Heaven!

324

CHILDHOOD'S CRITICISM.

TO MISS K--- S---, ON HER REPEATING THE PRECEDING LINES.

“You've only got to curtsey, whisp—
—er, hold your head up, laugh and lisp,
And then you're sure to take.”
Rejected Addresses.

I

A Poet o'er his tea and toast
Composed a page of verse last winter,
Transcribed it on the best Bath post,
And sent the treasure to a printer.
He thought it an enchanting thing;
And, fancying no one else could doubt it,
Went out, as happy as a king,
To hear what people said about it.

II

Queen Fame was driving out that day;
And, though she scarcely seemed to know him,
He bustled up, and tried to say
Something about his little poem;
But ere from his unhappy lip
Three timid trembling words could falter,
The goddess cracked her noisy whip,
And went to call upon Sir Walter!

325

III

Old Criticism, whose glance observed
The minstrel's blushes and confusion,
Came up and told him he deserved
The rack at least for his intrusion:
The poor youth stared and strove to speak;
His tyrant laughed to see him wincing,
And grumbled out a line of Greek,
Which Dullness said was quite convincing.

IV

Then stepped a gaunt and wrinkled witch,
Hight Avarice, from her filthy hovel;
And “Rhyme,” quoth she, “won't make you rich;
Go home, good youth, and write a novel!
Cut up the follies of the age;
Sauce them with puns and disquisitions;
Let Colburn cook your title-page,
And I'll ensure you six editions.”

V

Ambition met him next;—he sighed
To see those once-loved wreaths of laurel,
And crept into a bower to hide,
For he and she had had a quarrel.
The goddess of the cumbrous crown
Called after him, in tones of pity,
“My son, you've dropped your wig and gown!
And, bless me, how you've torn your Chitty!”

326

VI

'Twas all unheeded or unheard,
For now he knocked at Beauty's portal;
One word from her, one golden word,
He knew, would make his lays immortal.
Alas! he elbowed through a throng
Of danglers, dancers, catgut scrapers,
And found her twisting up his song
Into the sweetest candlepapers.

VII

He turned away with sullen looks
From Beauty, and from Beauty's scorning.
“To-night,” he said, “I'll burn my books;
I'll break my harpstrings in the morning.”—
When lo, a laughing Fay drew near;
And with soft voice, more soft than Circe's,
She whispered in the poet's ear
The sounds the poet loved—his verses!

VIII

He looked, and listened; and it seemed
In Childhood's lips the lines grew sweeter:
Good lack! till now he had not dreamed
How bright the thought, how smooth the metre.
Ere the last stanza was begun,
He managed all his wrath to smother;
And when the little Nymph had done,
Said “Thank you, Love;—I'll write another!’

October 1, 1829

327

BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS.

I

I looked for Beauty:—on a throne,
A dazzling throne of light, I found her;
And Music poured its softest tone
And flowers their sweetest breath around her.
A score or two of idle gods,
Some dressed as peers, and some as peasants
Were watching all her smiles and nods,
And making compliments and presents.

II

And first young Love, the rosy boy,
Exhibited his bow and arrows,
And gave her many a pretty toy,
Torches, and bleeding hearts, and sparrows:
She told him, as he passed, she knew
Her court would scarcely do without him;
But yet—she hoped they were not true—
There were some awkward tales about him.

328

III

Wealth deemed that magic had no charm
More mighty than the gifts he brought her,
And linked around her radiant arm
Bright diamonds of the purest water:
The Goddess, with a scornful touch,
Unclasped the gaudy galling fetter;
And said,—she thanked him very much,—
She liked a wreath of roses better.

IV

Then Genius snatched his golden lute,
And told a tale of love and glory:
The crowd around were hushed and mute
To hear so sad and sweet a story;
And Beauty marked the minstrel's cheek.
So very pale—no bust was paler;
Vowed she could listen for a week;
But really—he should change his tailor!

V

As died the echo of the strings,
A shadowy Phantom kneeled before her,
Looked all unutterable things,
And swore, to see was to adore her;
He called her veil a cruel cloud,
Her cheek a rose, her smile a battery:
She fancied it was Wit that bowed;—
I'm almost certain it was Flattery.

329

VI

There was a beldame finding fault
With every person's every feature;
And by the sneer, and by the halt,
I knew at once the odious creature:
“You see,” quoth Envy, “I am come
To bow—as is my bounden duty;—
They tell me Beauty is at home;—
Impossible! that can't be Beauty!”

VII

I heard a murmur far and wide
Of “Lord! how quick the dotard passes!”
As Time threw down at Beauty's side
The prettiest of his clocks and glasses;
But it was noticed in the throng
How Beauty marred the maker's cunning;
For when she talked, the hands went wrong;
And when she smiled, the sands stopped running.

VIII

Death, in a doctor's wig and gown,
Came, arm in arm with Lethe, thither,
And crowned her with a withered crown,
And hinted, Beauty too must wither!
“Avaunt!” she cried,—“how came he here?
The frightful fiend! he's my abhorrence!”
I went and whispered in her ear,
“He shall not hurt you!—sit to Lawrence!”

330

HOW AM I LIKE HER?

“You are very like her.”—Miss E--- H---.

“Resemblances begin to strike
In things exceedingly unlike.”
—MS. Poem.

How am I like her?—for no trace
Of pain, of passion, or of aught
That stings or stains, is on her face:—
Mild eyes, clear forehead,—ne'er was wrought
A fitter, fairer dwelling-place
For tranquil joy and holy thought.

How am I like her?—for the fawn
Not lighter bounds o'er rock and rill,
Than she, beneath the intruding dawn
Threading, all mirth, our gay quadrille;
Or tripping o'er our level lawn
To those she loves upon the hill.

How am I like her?—for the ear
Thrills with her voice. Its breezy tone
Goes forth, as eloquently clear
As are the lutes at Heaven's high throne;
And makes the hearts of those who hear
As pure and peaceful as her own.

331

How am I like her?—for her ways
Are full of bliss. She never knew
Stern avarice, nor the thirst of praise
Insatiable;—Love never threw
Upon her calm and sunny days
The venom of his deadly dew.

How am I like her?—for her arts
Are blessing. Sorrow owns her thrall;
She dries the tear-drop as it starts,
And checks the murmurs as they fall;
She is the day-star of our hearts,
Consoling, guiding, gladdening all.

How am I like her?—for she steals
All sympathies. Glad Childhood's play
Is left for her; and wild Youth kneels
Obedient to her gentle sway;
And Age beholds her smile, and feels
December brightening into May.

How am I like her?—The rude fir
Is little like the sweet rose-tree:—
Unless perchance, fair flatterer,
In this your fabled likeness be,—
That all who are most dear to her
Are apt to be most dear to me.

October 10, 1829.

332

MY LITTLE COUSINS.

“E voi ridete? Certo ridiamo.” Così fan tutte.

Laugh on, fair Cousins, for to you
All life is joyous yet;
Your hearts have all things to pursue,
And nothing to regret;
And every flower to you is fair,
And every month is May:
You've not been introduced to Care,—
Laugh on, laugh on to-day!

Old Time will fling his clouds ere long
Upon those sunny eyes;
The voice whose every word is song
Will set itself to sighs;
Your quiet slumbers,—hopes and fears
Will chase their rest away:
To-morrow you'll be shedding tears,—
Laugh on, laugh on to-day!

333

Oh yes, if any truth is found
In the dull schoolman's theme,
If friendship is an empty sound,
And love an idle dream,
If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue
Too soon on life's long way,
At least he'll run with you a league;—
Laugh on, laugh on to-day!

Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright
As childhood's hues depart;
You may be lovelier to the sight
And dearer to the heart;
You may be sinless still, and see
This earth still green and gay;
But what you are you will not be;
Laugh on, laugh on to-day!

O'er me have many winters crept
With less of grief than joy;
But I have learned, and toiled, and wept;
I am no more a boy!
I've never had the gout, 'tis true;
My hair is hardly grey;
But now I cannot laugh like you:
Laugh on, laugh on to-day!

334

I used to have as glad a face,
As shadowless a brow;
I once could run as blithe a race
As you are running now;
But never mind how I behave!
Don't interrupt your play;
And though I look so very grave,
Laugh on, laugh on to-day;

March 8, 1830.

335

ON AN INFANT NEPHEW.

The little one—the little one!
'Tis a fearful thing and strange,
That the silent seasons as they run
Should work such mighty change;
The lips that cannot lisp my name
May rule the stern debate;
And the hands too weak for childhood's game
Sport with the falchion's weight!

The beauteous one—the beauteous one!
In the wide world, I wis,
There's many a beauteous thing, but none
Of beauty like to this.
In youth and age, earth's sinful leaven
Where'er we go we trace;
But there is only peace and Heaven
In the smile of an infant's face.

The merry one—the merry one!
He is all wit and whim;
Our life has nought but a cloudless sun
And a waveless sea for him.

336

He knows not sorrow's thorny path,
Nor pleasure's flowery snare,
Nor heeds the bitter glance of wrath,
Nor the haggard cheek of care.

The cherished one—the cherished one!
A mystery is the love
Of parents for their infant son;
It cometh from above.
He is all music to their ear,
All glory to their sight,
By day he is their hope and fear,
Their thought and dream by night.

The guiltless one—the guiltless one!
How blest the earth would be,
If her best and holiest men had done
No more of wrong than he!
If the blot of sin and the doom of pain
On the baby's brow be set,—
O brother!—who shall see the stain
Or read the sentence yet?

337

LINES.

[The hues of life are fading from her wan and wasted cheek]

The hues of life are fading from her wan and wasted cheek;
Her voice is as an infant's voice, a whisper faint and weak;
But still we look and listen, for our hearts have never known
Such sweetness in a countenance, such softness in a tone.

She is passing from the world, from the weary world away,
From the sorrows that afflict us, from the pleasures that betray;
And another Home—a fairer Home—is opened to her sight,
Where the summer shines for ever, where the roses know no blight.

I know that we shall miss her, in the evening and the dawn,
In our converse round the fireside, in our walk upon the lawn;

338

I know that we shall miss her, in our mirth and in our care,
In the breaking of our bread, and in the breathing of our prayer.

And not the ring or brooch alone, but whatsoe'er we see,
The river and the green hill-side, the cottage and the tree,
Will bring her image back to us; there is not in our heart
A single hope—a single fear—in which she has no part.

Yet weep not, if you love her, that her tedious toil is done;
O weep not, if you love her, that her holy rest is won!
There should be gladness in your thought and smiles upon your brow,
For will she not be happy then?—is she not happy now?

And we will learn to talk of her;—and after many years
The tears which we shall shed for her will not be bitter tears,

339

When we shall tell each other, with a fond and thankful pride,
In what purity she lived, and in what peacefulness she died.

May 26, 1830.

340

A FRAGMENT.

Hast thou e'er watched and wept beside the bed
On which some dying friend reposed his head,—
Some loved and reverenced friend, from whom thy youth
Learned its first dream of happiness and truth?
When those fast-fading eyes were closed on earth,
On its vain mourning, and its vainer mirth,
When the strong spirit in the painful strife
Already seemed to live its after-life,
Viewing the homes which are prepared above
With firmer knowledge and with fonder love,—
Oh then with what sad reverence didst thou dwell
On every word that from those wan lips fell!
How didst thou consecrate with grateful care
The half-told message and the half-breathed prayer!
And, when the soul was trembling to depart,
How was the look engraven on thy heart
Which turned to seek thee, ere the spirit past,
And smiled a blessing on thee at the last!

341

HOPE AND LOVE.

I

One day through Fancy's telescope,
Which is my richest treasure,
I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope
Set out in search of Pleasure:
All mirth and smiles I saw them go;
Each was the other's banker;
For Hope took up her brother's bow,
And Love, his sister's anchor.

II

They rambled on o'er vale and hill,
They passed by cot and tower;
Through summer's glow and winter's chill,
Through sunshine and through shower:
But what did those fond playmates care
For climate, or for weather?
All scenes to them were bright and fair
On which they gazed together.

III

Sometimes they turned aside to bless
Some Muse and her wild numbers,

342

Or breathe a dream of holiness
On Beauty's quiet slumbers:
“Fly on,” said Wisdom, with cold sneers,
“I teach my friends to doubt you:”
“Come back,” said Age, with bitter tears,
“My heart is cold without you.”

IV

When Poverty beset their path
And threatened to divide them,
They coaxed away the beldame's wrath
Ere she had breath to chide them,
By vowing all her rags were silk,
And all her bitters, honey,
And showing taste for bread and milk,
And utter scorn of money.

V

They met stern Danger in their way
Upon a ruin seated;
Before him kings had quaked that day,
And armies had retreated:
But he was robed in such a cloud
As Love and Hope came near him,
That though he thundered long and loud,
They did not see or hear him.

VI

A gray-beard joined them, Time by name;
And Love was nearly crazy

343

To find that he was very lame,
And also very lazy:
Hope, as he listened to her tale,
Tied wings upon his jacket;
And then they far outran the mail,
And far outsailed the packet.

VII

And so, when they had safely passed
O'er many a land and billow,
Before a grave they stopped at last,
Beneath a weeping willow:
The moon upon the humble mound
Her softest light was flinging;
And from the thickets all around
Sad nightingales were singing.

VIII

“I leave you here,” quoth father Time,
As hoarse as any raven;
And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme
Upon the rude stone graven:
But Hope looked onward, calmly brave,
And whispered “Dearest brother—
We're parted on this side the grave,—
We'll meet upon the other.”

344

SELWORTHY.

WRITTEN UNDER A SKETCH OF SIR THOMAS ACLAND'S COTTAGES FOR THE POOR.

I

A gentle Muse was hovering o'er
The wide wide world, and looking long
For a pleasant spot where a Muse might pour
To the wood or the wave her liquid song;
And “Who,” said she, “of the kind and free—
Who will open his gate for me?”

II

“Come hither,” said Wealth, “to my crowded mart,
Where splendour dazzles the gazer's eye,
Where the sails approach and the sails depart
With every breath of the summer sky:”
“Oh no,” said she; “by the shore of the sea
Wealth has no room in his store for me!”

III

“Come hither,” said War, “to my moated tower;
Danger and Death have walked the plain;
But the arrowy sleet of the iron shower
Beats on these stubborn walls in vain:”

345

“Oh no,” said she,—“there is blood on the key;
War shall not open a lock for me!”

IV

“Come hither,” said Love, “to my rosy dell,
Where nothing of grief or care has birth;
Rest in my bower, where sweet dreams dwell,
Making a Heaven—a Heaven of earth.”
“Oh no,” said she; “at his trysting-tree
Love is too happy to think of me!”

V

And she lifted at last the humble latch
And entered in at a lowly door;
For Charity there had spread the thatch
O'er the peaceful roof of the sick and poor.
And “Here,” said she, “my rest shall be;
Here is a home and a theme for me.”

August 7, 1830.

346

CASSANDRA.

Στενω, στενω σε, δισσα και τριπλα δορος
Αυθις προς αλκην και διαρπαγας δομων
Και πυρ εναυγαζουσαν αιστωτηριον.
Lycophron, Cassandra, 69.

I

They hurried to the feast,
The warrior and the priest,
And the gay maiden with her jewelled brow;
The minstrel's harp and voice
Said “Triumph and rejoice!”—
One only mourned!—many are mourning now!

II

“Peace! startle not the light
With the wild dreams of night!”—
So spake the Princes in their pride and joy,
When I in their dull ears
Shrieked forth my tale of tears,
“Woe to the gorgeous city, woe to Troy!”—

III

Ye watch the dun smoke rise
Up to the lurid skies;
Ye see the red light flickering on the stream:
Ye listen to the fall
Of gate and tower and wall;
Sisters, the time is come!—alas, it is no dream!

347

IV

Through hall and court and porch
Glides on the pitiless torch;
The swift avengers faint not in their toil:
Vain now the matron's sighs,
Vain now the infant's cries;—
Look, sisters, look! who leads them to the spoil?

V

Not Pyrrhus, though his hand
Is on his father's brand;
Not the fell framer of the accursed steed;
Not Nestor's hoary head,
Nor Teucer's rapid tread,
Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede.

VI

Visions of deeper fear
To-night are warring here;—
I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three:
Minerva's lightning frown,
And Juno's golden crown,
And him, the mighty Ruler of the sounding sea!

VII

Through wailing and through woe
Silent and stern they go;
So have I ever seen them in my trance:
Exultingly they guide
Destruction's fiery tide,
And lift the dazzling shield, and poise the deadly lance.

348

VIII

Lo, where the old man stands,
Folding his palsied hands,
And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer:
“Where is my noble son,
My best, my bravest one—
Troy's hope and Priam's—where is Hector, where?”

IX

Why is thy falchion grasped?
Why is thy helmet clasped?
Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine!
The altar reeks with gore;
O sisters, look no more!
It is our father's blood upon the shrine!

X

And ye, alas! must roam
Far from your desolate home,
Far from lost Ilium, o'er the joyless wave;
Ye may not from these bowers
Gather the trampled flowers
To wreathe sad garlands for your brethren's grave.

XI

Away, away! the gale
Stirs the white-bosomed sail;
Hence! look not back to freedom or to fame
Labour must be your doom,
Night-watchings, days of gloom,
The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame.

349

XII

Even now some Grecian dame
Beholds the signal flame,
And waits, expectant, the returning fleet;
“Why lingers yet my lord?
Hath he not sheathed his sword?
Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?”

XIII

Me, too, the dark Fates call:
Their sway is over all,
Captor and captive, prison-house and throne:—
I tell of others' lot;
They hear me, heed me not!
Hide, angry Phœbus, hide from me mine own!

350

SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR.

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion's note is high;
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the huge drum makes reply:
Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers,
And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter on our ears.
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door,
And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor.

Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer,
And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair.
Oh, many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed,
As she worked the bright word “Glory” in the gay and glancing thread;

351

And mournful was the smile that o'er those beauteous features ran,
As she said, “It is your lady's gift, unfurl it in the van.”

“It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride,
Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black dragoons of Pride;
The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm,
And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,
When they see my lady's gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing,
And hear her loyal soldiers' shout, for God and for the King!”—

'Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line;
They fly, the braggarts of the Court, the bullies of the Rhine:
Stout Langley's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down,
And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown;
And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight,
“The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.”

352

The Knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,
His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain;
But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout—
“For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!”
And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave,
And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave.

Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;
Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here.
The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust,
“Down, down,” they cry, “with Belial, down with him to the dust!”
“I would,” quoth grim old Oliver, “that Belial's trusty sword
This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!”—

The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;

353

The gray-haired warden watches on the castle's highest tower.—
“What news, what news, old Anthony?”—“The field is lost and won;
The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun;
And a wounded man speeds hither,—I am old and cannot see,
Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step should be.”—

“I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray,
As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for minstrel's lay.
Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff.;
I'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff;
Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life,
And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife!

‘Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,
And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm's mischance;

354

Or, if the worst betide me, why, better axe or rope,
Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope!
Alas, alas, my gallant Guy!—out on the crop-eared boor,
That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!”

355

THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG.

The men of sin prevail!
Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn;
Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne
Before the stormy gale.

Where are our brethren? where
The good and true, the terrible and fleet?
They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,
With whom we kneeled in prayer?

Mangled and marred they lie
Upon the bloody pillow of their rest;
Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest
Spurs his fierce charger by.

So let our foes rejoice;
We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts,
Will call for comfort; to the God of hosts
We will lift up our voice.

356

Give ear unto our song;
For we are wandering o'er our native land
As sheep that have no shepherd; and the hand
Of wicked men is strong.

Only to thee we bow:
Our lips have drained the fury of thy cup;
And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up
To Heaven for vengeance now.

Avenge,—oh! not our years
Of pain and wrong, the blood of martyrs shed,
The ashes heaped upon the hoary head,
The maiden's silent tears,

The babe's bread torn away,
The harvest blasted by the war steed's hoof,
The red flame wreathing o'er the cottage roof,
Judge not for these to-day!—

Is not thine own dread rod
Mocked by the proud, thy holy book disdained,
Thy name blasphemed, thy temple courts profaned?—
Avenge thyself, O, God!

Break Pharaoh's iron crown;
Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings;
Wash from thine house the blood of unclean things,
And hurl their Dagon down!

357

Come in thine own good time!
We will abide; we have not turned from thee,
Though in a world of grief our portion be,
Of bitter grief, and crime.

Be thou our guard and guide!
Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go,
That we may worship where the torrents flow
And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves
We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.—
On, brethren, to the mountains! Seek we there
Safe temples, quiet graves!

358

STANZAS WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

Most beautiful! I gaze and gaze
In silence on the glorious pile,
And the glad thoughts of other days
Come thronging back the while.
To me dim memory makes more dear
The perfect grandeur of the shrine;
But if I stood a stranger here,
The ground were still divine.

Some awe the good and wise have felt,
As reverently their feet have trod
On any spot where man hath knelt
To commune with his God;
By sacred spring, or haunted well,
Beneath the ruined temple's gloom,
Beside the feeble hermit's cell,
Or the false Prophet's tomb.

But when was high devotion graced
With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,
Than here the limner's art hath traced
From the time-honoured stone?

359

The Spirit here of Worship seems
To bind the soul in willing thrall,
And heavenward hopes and holy dreams
Come at her voiceless call;

At midnight, when the lonely moon
Looks from a vapour's silvery fold;
At morning, when the sun of June
Crests the high towers with gold;
For every change of hour and form
Makes that fair scene more deeply fair,
And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,
Are all Religion there.

360

LINES WRITTEN FOR A BLANK PAGE OF “THE KEEPSAKE.”

Lady, there's fragrance in your sighs,
And sunlight in your glances;
I never saw such lips and eyes
In pictures or romances;
And Love will readily suppose,
To make you quite enslaving,
That you have taste for verse and prose,
Hot pressed, and line engraving.

And then, you waltz so like a Fay,
That round you envy rankles;
Your partner's head is turned, they say,
As surely as his ankles;
And I was taught, in days far gone,
By a most prudent mother,
That in this world of sorrow, one
Good turn deserves another.

361

I may not win you!—that's a bore!
But yet 'tis sweet to woo you;
And for this cause,—and twenty more,
I send this gay book to you.
If its songs please you,—by this light!
I will not hold it treason
To bid you dream of me to-night,
And dance with me next season.

362

ANTICIPATION.

“Oh yes! he is in Parliament;
He's been returning thanks;
You can't conceive the time he's spent
Already on his franks.
He'll think of nothing, night and day,
But place, and the gazette:”—
No matter what the people say,—
You won't believe them yet.

“He filled an album, long ago,
With such delicious rhymes;
Now we shall only see, you know,
His speeches in the ‘Times;’
And liquid tone and beaming brow,
Bright eyes and locks of jet,
He'll care for no such nonsense now:”—
Oh! don't believe them yet!

“I vow he's turned a Goth, a Hun,
By that disgusting Bill;
He'll never make another pun;
He's danced his last quadrille.

363

We shall not see him flirt again
With any fair coquette;
He'll never laugh at Drury Lane.”—
Psha!—don't believe them yet.

“Last week I heard his uncle boast
He's sure to have the seals;
I read it in the ‘Morning Post’
That he has dined at Peel's;
You'll never see him any more,
He's in a different set;
He cannot eat at half-past four:”—
No?—don't believe them yet.

“In short, he'll soon be false and cold,
And infinitely wise;
He'll grow next year extremely old,
He'll tell enormous lies;
He'll learn to flatter and forsake,
To feign and to forget:”—
O whisper—or my heart will break—
You won't believe them yet!

364

STANZAS WRITTEN IN LADY MYRTLE'S “BOCCACCIO.”

In these gay pages there is food
For every mind and every mood,
Fair Lady, if you dare to spell them:
Now merriment—now grief prevails;
But yet the best of all the tales
Is of the young group met to tell them.

Oh was it not a pleasant thought
To set the pestilence at nought,
Chatting among sweet streams and flowers
Of jealous husbands, fickle wives,
Of all the tricks which love contrives
To see through veils, and talk through towers?

Lady, they say the fearful guest
Onward—still onward to the west,
Poised on his sulphurous wings, advances,
Who on the frozen river's banks
Has thinned the Russian despot's ranks,
And marred the might of Warsaw's lances.

365

Another year—a brief brief year—
And lo, the fell destroyer here!
He comes with all his gloomy terrors;
Then Guilt will read the properest books,
And Folly wear the soberest looks,
And Virtue shudder at her errors.

And there'll be sermons in the street;
And every friend and foe we meet
Will wear the dismal garb of sorrow;
And quacks will send their lies about,
And weary Halford will find out
He must have four new bays to-morrow.

But you shall fly from these dark signs,
As did those happy Florentines,
Ere from your cheek one rose is faded;
And hide your youth and loveliness
In some bright garden's green recess,
By walls fenced round, by huge trees shaded.

There brooks shall dance in light along,
And birds shall trill their constant song
Of pleasure, from their leafy dwelling;
You shall have music, novels, toys;
But still the chiefest of your joys
Must be, fair Lady, story-telling.

366

Be cautious how you choose your men:
Don't look for people of the pen,
Scholars who read, or write the papers;
Don't think of wits, who talk to dine,
Who drink their patron's newest wine,
And cure their patron's newest vapours.

Avoid all youths who toil for praise
By quoting Liston's last new phrase,
Or sigh to leave high fame behind them
For swallowing swords, or dancing jigs,
Or imitating ducks and pigs;
Take men of sense,—if you can find them.

Live, laugh, tell stories; ere they're told,
New themes succeed upon the old,
New follies come, new faults, new fashions;
An hour—a minute will supply
To thought a folio history
Of blighted hopes, and thwarted passions.

King Death, when he has snatched away
Drunkards from brandy, Dukes from play,
And Common-councilmen from turtle,
Shall break his dart in Grosvenor Square,
And mutter in his fierce despair
“Why, what's become of Lady Myrtle?”

367

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, THE GIFT OF QUEEN ADELAIDE TO LADY MAYO.

A beautiful and bounteous Fay
Beside a cradle sang one day;
The mother heard not, but the child
In her glad dream looked up, and smiled.

“I bring thee a rose—a rose for thee,
The sweetest of my bower;
It is a token thou shalt be
As lovely and loved a flower:
Thou too shalt brightly bloom, and wear
In future years, as now,
Deep beauty in thy sunny hair,
Blue eyes, and tranquil brow.

“I bring thee a lute—an ivory lute;
I bring it for a sign
That Wit shall sue with an anxious suit
For a look or a word of thine.

368

Grave Science at thy feet shall lay
Whate'er the wise have known,
And Music charm thy cares away
With her most delicious tone.

“I bring thee a sceptre! wake and gaze
On the symbol of high command:
A nation's love, in after days,
Shall trust it to thy hand,
When from thy home thou shalt depart
And go o'er the bounding wave
To be the Bride of a Monarch's heart,
The Queen of the free and brave.

“I bring thee a Book—a holy Book:
In all thy grief and mirth
It is a spell to bid thee look
Still up to Heaven from earth,
And turn to Him who alone forgives
With a firm and faithful trust,
And live the life which virtue lives,
And die, as die the just!”

I need not whisper to your thought
For what fair child those gifts were wrought,
Nor tell how true our English eyes
Have found the Fairy's prophecies.

369

LINES WRITTEN IN THE SAME,

UNDER A PICTURE OF THE DUCAL PALACE AT HESSE HOMBURG, THE RESIDENCE OF THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH, DAUGHTER OF GEORGE III.

It is a joyous land, I guess;
The sun shines bright, the breeze roves free;
And Nature flings her fairest dress
On humble herb and lofty tree;
But thou wilt think in those far bowers,
With half a smile, and half a sigh,
Thy childhood wreathed as fragrant flowers,
And laughed beneath as warm a sky.

And proudly o'er those poplars tall
And tapering firs the Palace gleams;
But ah! the time-worn Castle's wall
Is still remembered in thy dreams;
And that broad Terrace still is dear,
Where, when the star of day went down,
Thy good old Sire went forth to hear
Rich blessings, richer than his crown.

370

And other friends are round thee now
Than those that shared thine early mirth;
And thou hast newer slaves to bow,
And foreign lutes to hymn thy worth;
But thou wilt never quite forget
That here, where first thy praise was heard,
Thy virtues are recorded yet,
Thy name is yet a household word.

And if thou ne'er may'st see again
The white cliffs of thy father-land,
And if henceforth we seek in vain
Thy cheering smile, and bounteous hand,—
Thou wilt be what thou wast and art,
Where'er thy bark may chance to roam;
And thou wilt keep thine English heart,
And thou wilt love thine English home!

371

LINES WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF LORD MAYO, DRAWN BY THE QUEEN.

A courtier of the nobler sort,
A Christian of the purer school;—
Tory, when Whigs are great at Court,
And Protestant, when Papists rule;

Prompt to support the Monarch's crown,
As prompt to dry the poor man's tears;
Yet fearing not the Premier's frown,
And seeking not the rabble's cheers;

Still ready,—favoured or disgraced,—
To do the right, to speak the true;—
The Artist who these features traced
A better Subject never knew!

November, 1833.

372

LINES WRITTEN UNDER A VIEW OF BERSTED LODGE, BOOKOR.

If e'er again my wayward fate
Should bring me, Lady, to your gate,
The trees and flowers might seem as fair
As in remembered days they were;
But should I in their loved haunts find
The friends that were so bright and kind?

My heart would seek with vain regret
Some tones and looks it dreams of yet;
I could not follow through the dance
The heroine of my first romance
At his own board I could not see
The kind old man that welcomed me.

When round the grape's rich juices pass,
Sir William does not drain his glass;
When music charms the listening throng,
“O Pescator” is not the song;

373

Queen Mab is ageing very fast,
And Cœlebs has a wife at last.

I too am changed, as others are;
I'm graver, wiser, sadder far:
I study reasons more than rhymes,
And leave my Petrarch for the “Times,”
And turn from Laura's auburn locks
To ask my friend the price of stocks.

A wondrous song does Memory sing,
A merry—yet a mournful thing;
When thirteen years have fleeted by,
'Twere hard to say if you or I
Would gain or lose in smiles or tears,—
By just forgetting thirteen years.

374

LATIN HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

I

Virgin Mother, thou hast known
Joy and sorrow like my own;
In thy arms the bright Babe lay,
As my own in mine to-day;
So he wept and so he smiled;
Ave Mary! guard my child!

II

From the pains and perils spread
Round about our path and bed,
Fierce desires, ambitious schemes,
Moody doubts, fantastic dreams,
Pleasures idle, passions wild,
Ave Mary! guard my child!

III

Make him whatsoe'er may be
Dearest to the saints and thee;
Tell him, from the throne above,
What to loathe and what to love;
To be true and just and mild,
Ave Mary! teach my child!

375

IV

By the wondrous mercy won
For the world by thy blest Son,
By the rest his labours wrought,
By the bliss his tortures bought,
By the Heaven he reconciled,
Ave Mary! bless my child!

V

If about his after fate
Sin and sorrow darkly wait,
Take him rather to thine arms
From the world and the world's harms;
Thus unscathed, thus undefiled,
Ave Mary! take my child!

376

THE SABBATH.

I

For whom was the Sabbath made?—
It brings repose and rest;
It hushes study's aching head,
Ambition's anxious breast:
The slave that digs the mine,
The serf that ploughs the soil,
For them it was ordained to shine;—
It is for all that toil.

II

For whom was the Sabbath made?—
It opens the Book of Peace,
Which tells of flowers that never fade,
Of songs that never cease:
If the hopes you nursed decline,
If the friends you cherished die,
For you it was ordained to shine;—
It is for all that sigh.

377

III

For whom was the Sabbath made?—
It calls the wretch to prayer,
Whose soul the noonday thoughts upbraid
And the midnight visions scare:
It calls thee to the shrine;
Fear'st thou to enter in?
For thee it was ordained to shine—
It is for all that sin.

378

THE NEWLY-WEDDED.

I

Now the rite is duly done;
Now the word is spoken;
And the spell has made us one
Which may ne'er be broken:
Rest we, dearest, in our home,—
Roam we o'er the heather,—
We shall rest, and we shall roam,
Shall we not? together.

II

From this hour the summer rose
Sweeter breathes to charm us;
From this hour the winter snows
Lighter fall to harm us:
Fair or foul—on land or sea—
Come the wind or weather,
Best and worst, whate'er they be,
We shall share together.

379

III

Death, who friend from friend can part,
Brother rend from brother,
Shall but link us, heart and heart,
Closer to each other:
We will call his anger play,
Deem his dart a feather,
When we meet him on our way
Hand in hand together.

380

TO HELEN.

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF KEBLE'S “CHRISTIAN YEAR”, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

My Helen, for its golden fraught
Of prayer and praise, of dream and thought,
Where Poesy finds fitting voice
For all who hope, fear, grieve, rejoice,
Long have I loved, and studied long,
The pious minstrel s varied song.

Whence is the volume dearer now?
There gleams a smile upon your brow,
Wherein, methinks, I read how well
You guess the reason, ere I tell,
Which makes to me the simple rhymes
More prized, more conned, a hundred times.

Ere vanished quite the dread and doubt
Affection ne'er was born without,
Found we not here a magic key
Opening thy secret soul to me?
Found we not here a mystic sign
Interpreting thy heart to mine?

381

What sympathies up-springing fast
Through all the future, all the past,
In tenderest links began to bind
Spirit to spirit, mind to mind,
As we, together wandering o'er
The little volume's precious store,

Mused, with alternate smile and tear.
On the high themes awakened here
Of fervent hope, of calm belief,
Of cheering joy, of chastening grief,
The trials borne, the sins forgiven,
The task on earth, the meed in Heaven.

My Own! oh surely from above
Was shed that confidence of love,
Which, in such happy moments nurst
When soul with soul had converse first,
Now through the snares and storms of life
Blesses the husband and the wife!

February 12, 1838.

382

TO HELEN.

When some grim sorceress, whose skill
Had bound a sprite to work her will,
In mirth or malice chose to ask
Of the faint slave the hardest task,

She sent him forth to gather up
Great Ganges in an acorn-cup,
Or heaven's unnumbered stars to bring
In compass of a signet ring.

Thus Helen bids her poet write
The thanks he owes this morning's light;
And “Give me,”—so he hears her say,—
“Four verses, only four, to-day.”

Dearest and best! she knows, if wit
Could ever half love's debt acquit,
Each of her tones and of her looks
Would have its four, not lines, but books.

House of Commons, July 7, 1836.

383

SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY

FIVE MONTHS OLD.

My pretty, budding, breathing flower,
Methinks, if I to-morrow
Could manage, just for half an hour,
Sir Joshua's brush to borrow,
I might immortalize a few
Of all the myriad graces
Which Time, while yet they all are new,
With newer still replaces.

I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes,
Their quick and earnest flashes;
I'd paint the fringe that round them lies,
The fringe of long dark lashes;
I'd draw with most fastidious care
One eyebrow, then the other,
And that fair forehead, broad and fair,
The forehead of your mother.

I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek
Where health in sunshine dances;
And oft the pouting lips, where speak
A thousand voiceless fancies,

384

And the soft neck would keep me long,
The neck, more smooth and snowy
Than ever yet in schoolboy's song
Had Caroline or Chloe.

Nor less on those twin rounded arms
My new-found skill would linger,
Nor less upon the rosy charms
Of every tiny finger;
Nor slight the small feet, little one,
So prematurely clever
That, though they neither walk nor run,
I think they'd jump for ever.

But then your odd endearing ways—
What study ere could catch them?
Your aimless gestures, endless plays—
What canvass ere could match them?
Your lively leap of merriment,
Your murmur of petition,
Your serious silence of content,
Your laugh of recognition.

Here were a puzzling toil, indeed,
For Art's most fine creations!—
Grow on, sweet baby; we will need,
To note your transformations,

385

No picture of your form or face,
Your waking or your sleeping,
But that which Love shall daily trace,
And trust to Memory's keeping.

Hereafter, when revolving years
Have made you tall and twenty,
And brought you blended hopes and fears,
And sighs and slaves in plenty,
May those who watch our little saint
Among her tasks and duties,
Feel all her virtues hard to paint.
As now we deem her beauties.

October 10, 1836.

386

SONNET TO R. C. HILDYARD.

Profit and praise attend you, wheresoe'er
You charm the country, or amaze the town,
With flow of argument, and flow of gown!
I will not here forget you; but will spare,
Amidst my tranquil joys, a wish and prayer
That you may win quick riches, high renown,—
Hereafter, better gifts—more like my own!
O kindest found, when kindness was most rare!
When I recall the days of hope and fear
In which I first dared call my Helen mine,
Or the sweet hour when first upon my ear
Broke the shrill cry of little Adeline,
The memory of your friendship, Friend sincere,
Among such memories grateful I entwine.

October 15, 1836.

387

SONNET TO B. J. M. P.

A sad return, my Brother, thine must be
To thy void home! loosed is the silver cham,
The golden bowl is broken!—not again
Love's fond caress and Childhood's earnest glee
After dull toil may greet and gladden thee.
How shall we bid the mourner not complain.
Not murmur, not despond?—ah me, most vain
Is sympathy, how soft soe'er the key,
And argument, how grave soe'er the tone!
In our still chambers, on our bended knees.
Pray we for better help! There is but One
Who shall from sorrow, as from sin, release:
God send thee peace, my Brother! God alone
Guideth the fountains of eternal peace.

October 19, 1836.

388

TO HELEN

WITH CRABBE'S POEMS, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

Give Crabbe, dear Helen, on your shelf,
A place by Wordsworth's mightier self;
In token that your taste, self wrought
From mines of independent thought,
And shaped by no exclusive rule
Of whim or fashion, sect or school,
Can honour Genius, whatsoe'er
The garb it chance or choose to wear.

Nor deem, dear Helen, unallied
The bards we station side by side;
Different their harps,—to each his own;
But both are true and pure of tone.
Brethren, methinks, in times like ours
Of misused gifts, perverted powers,—
Brethren are they, whose kindred song
Nor hides the Right, nor gilds the Wrong.

February 12, 1837.

389

TO HELEN.

What prayer, dear Helen, shall I pray
On this my brightest holiday
To the great Giver of all good,
By whom our thoughts are understood—
Lowly or lofty, wild or weak—
Long ere the tardy tongue can speak?

For you, my treasure, let me pray
That, as swift Time shall steal away
Year after year, you ne'er may deem
The radiance of this morning's beam
Less happy—holy,—than you know
It dawned for us two years ago.

And for our infants let me pray—
Our little precious babes—that they,
Whate'er their lot in future years,
Sorrow or gladness, smiles or tears,
May own whatever is, is just,
And learn their mother's hope and trust.

390

And for my own heart let me pray
That God may mould me day by day,
By grace descending from above,
More worthy of the joy and love
Which His beneficence divine
On this, my best of days, made mine.

July 7, 1837.

391

SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF LOCKHART'S “LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.”

Lo the magician, whose enchantments lend
To the dim past a fresh and fairy light,
Who makes the absent present to our sight,
And calls the dead to life! Till time shall end,
O'er him the grateful Muses shall extend
Unfading laurels; yet methinks, of right,
With holier glory shall his fame be bright,—
Leal subject, honest patriot, cordial friend.
Of such a spirit, by your cheerful fire
This record, Helen, welcome shall appear;
To which your husband-lover's duteous lyre,
Not tuneless yet, sweet Helen, to your ear,
Adds the warm wish these winter eves inspire,
“A merry Christmas, and a glad New Year!”

December 25, 1837.

392

VERSES WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A CHILD'S BOOK, GIVEN BY ------ TO HER GODSON, AGED FOUR.

My little Freddy, when you look
Into this nice new story-book
Which is my Christmas present,
You'll find it full of verse and prose,
And pictures too, which I suppose
Will make them both more pleasant.

Stories are here of girls and boys,
Of all their tasks, and all their toys,
Their sorrows and their pleasures;
Stories of cuckoos, dogs, and bees,
Of fragrant flowers and beauteous trees,
In short, a hoard of treasures.

When you have spelled the volume through,
One tale will yet remain for you,—
(I hope you'll read it clearly;)
'Tis of a Godmamma, who proves
By such slight token, that she loves
Her God-child very dearly.

December 25, 1837

393

TO HELEN

WITH A SMALL CANDLESTICK, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

If, wandering in a wizard's car
Through yon blue ether, I were able
To fashion of a little star
A taper for my Helen's table,—

“What then?” she asks me with a laugh;—
Why then, with all Heaven's lustre glowing
It would not gild her path with half
The light her love o'er mine is throwing!

February 12, 1838.

394

TO HELEN

WITH SOUTHEY'S POEMS.

A happy and a holy day
Is this alike to soul and sight;
With cheerful love and joyful lay
Would I, dear Helen, greet its light.

But vain the purpose—very vain!
I cannot play the minstrel's part,
When recent care and present pain
Untune the lyre, unnerve the heart.

Yet prize these tomes of golden rhyme;
And let them tell you, in far years,
When faint the record traced by Time
Of brightest smiles or saddest tears,

As sunward rose the Persian's prayer,
Though clouds might dim the votary's view,
So still, through doubt and grief and care,
My spirit, Helen, turned to you.

July 7, 1838.

395

THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD.

I

He knows that the paleness still grows on his cheek.
He feels that the fever still burns on his brow,
And what in his thought, in his dream, does he seek
Far, far o'er the ocean that circles him now?
'Tis the Home of his Childhood! the first and the best
O why have you hurried him over the wave,
That the hand of the stranger may tend on his rest,
That the foot of the stranger may tread on his grave?

II

Here the sun may be brighter, the heaven more blue,
But on! to his eyes they are joyless and dim:
Here the flowers may be richer of perfume and hue,—
They are not so fair nor so fragrant to him:
'Tis the Home of his Childhood! O bear him again
To the play-haunted lawn, to the love-lighted room,
That his mother may watch by his pillow of pain,
That his father may whisper a prayer o'er his tomb!

St. Leonard's-on-Sea, December 22, 1838.

396

TO HELEN

WITH A DIARY, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

If daily to these tablets fair
My Helen shall entrust a part
Of every thought, dream, wish, and prayer,
Born from her head or from her heart,

Well may I say each little page
More precious records soon will grace.
Than ever yet did bard or sage
From store of truth or fable trace.

Affection—friendship here will glow,
The daughter's and the mother's love.
And charity to man below,
And piety to God above.

Such annals, artless though they be,
Of all that is most pure and bright—
Oh blessed are the eyes that see!
More blessed are the hands that write!

February 12, 1839.

397

TO HELEN.

Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago,
When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine,
Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low,
And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,
That in so brief—so very brief a space,
He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life,
Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace,
The darker, sadder duties of the wife,—
Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care
For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested;
The daily tendance on the fractious chair,
The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.

Yet not unwelcomed doth this morn arise,
Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone:
Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes,
In sickness, as in health,—bless you, My Own!

Sudbury, July 7, 1839.