The poetical works of James Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where the roving rill meander'd
Down the green retiring vale,
Poor forlorn Alcæus wander'd,
Pale with thought, serenely pale:
Timeless sorrow o'er his face
Breathed a melancholy grace,
And fix'd on every feature there
The mournful resignation of despair.

O'er his arm, his lyre neglected,
Once his dear companion, hung,
And, in spirit deep dejected,
Thus the pensive poet sung;
While, at midnight's solemn noon,
Sweetly shone the cloudless moon,
And all the stars, around his head,
Benignly bright, their mildest influence shed.

“Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart;
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We must now for ever part;

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For in vain thy poet sings,
Woos in vain thine heavenly strings;
The Muse's wretched sons are born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.

“That which Alexander sigh'd for,
That which Cæsar's soul possess'd,
That which heroes, kings, have died for—
Glory!—animates my breast:
Hark! the charging trumpets' throats
Pour their death-defying notes;
‘To arms!’ they call: to arms I fly,
Like Wolfe to conquer, and like Wolfe to die.

“Soft!—the blood of murder'd legions
Summons vengeance from the skies;
Flaming towns and ravaged regions,
All in awful judgment rise.—
O then, innocently brave,
I will wrestle with the wave;
Lo! Commerce spreads the daring sail,
And yokes her naval chariots to the gale.

“Blow, ye breezes!—gently blowing,
Waft me to that happy shore
Where, from fountains ever flowing,
Indian realms their treasures pour;
Thence returning, poor in health,
Rich in honesty and wealth,
O'er thee, my dear paternal soil,
I'll strew the golden harvest of my toil.

“Then shall Misery's sons and daughters
In their lowly dwellings sing:
Bounteous as the Nile's dark waters,
Undiscover'd as their spring,
I will scatter o'er the land
Blessings with a secret hand;
For such angelic tasks design'd,
I give the lyre and sorrow to the wind.”

On an oak, whose branches hoary
Sigh'd to every passing breeze,
Sigh'd and told the simple story
Of the patriarch of trees;
High in air his harp he hung,
Now no more to rapture strung;
Then, warm in hope, no longer pale,
He blush'd adieu, and rambled down the dale.

Lightly touch'd by fairy fingers,
Hark!—the Lyre enchants the wind;
Fond Alcæus listens, lingers—
Lingering, listening, looks behind.
Now the music mounts on high,
Sweetly swelling through the sky;
To every tone, with tender heat,
His heart-strings vibrate, and his pulses beat.

Now the strains to silence stealing,
Soft in ecstasies expire;
Oh! with what romantic feeling
Poor Alcæus grasps the Lyre:
Lo! his furious hand he flings
In a tempest o'er the strings;
He strikes the chords so quick, so loud,
'Tis Jove that scatters lightning from a cloud.

“Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart;
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We will never, never part:
Glory, Commerce, now in vain
Tempt me to the field, the main;
The Muse's sons are blest, though born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.

“What though all the world neglect me,
Shall my haughty soul repine?
And shall poverty deject me,
While this hallow'd Lyre is mine?
Heaven—that o'er my helpless head
Many a wrathful vial shed,—
Heaven gave this Lyre,—and thus decreed,
Be thou a bruised, but not a broken reed.”

1803.

REMONSTRANCE TO WINTER.

Ah! why, unfeeling Winter, why
Still flags thy torpid wing?
Fly, melancholy season, fly,
And yield the year to Spring.

Spring,—the young harbinger of love,
An exile in disgrace,—
Flits o'er the scene, like Noah's dove,
Nor finds a resting-place.

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When on the mountain's azure peak
Alights her fairy form,
Cold blow the winds,—and dark and bleak
Around her rolls the storm.

If to the valley she repair
For shelter and defence,
Thy wrath pursues the mourner there,
And drives her, weeping, thence.

She seeks the brook;—the faithless brook,
Of her unmindful grown,
Feels the chill magic of thy look,
And lingers into stone.

She woos her embryo-flowers in vain
To rear their infant heads;—
Deaf to her voice, her flowers remain
Enchanted in their beds.

In vain she bids the trees expand
Their green luxuriant charms;—
Bare in the wilderness they stand,
And stretch their withering arms.

Her favourite birds, in feeble notes,
Lament thy long delay;
And strain their little stammering throats
To charm thy blasts away.

Ah! Winter, calm thy cruel rage,
Release the struggling year;
Thy power is past, decrepit Sage,
Arise and disappear!

The stars that graced thy splendid night
Are lost in warmer rays;
The Sun, rejoicing in his might,
Unrolls celestial days.

Then why, usurping Winter, why
Still flags thy frozen wing?
Fly, unrelenting tyrant, fly!
And yield the year to Spring.

SONG.

Round Love's Elysian bowers
The fairest prospects rise;
There bloom the sweetest flowers,
There shine the purest skies:
And joy and rapture gild awhile
The cloudless heaven of Beauty's smile.

Round Love's deserted bowers
Tremendous rocks arise;
Cold mildews blight the flowers,
Tornadoes rend the skies:
And Pleasure's waning moon goes down
Amid the night of Beauty's frown.

Then Youth, thou fond believer!
The wily Siren shun;
Who trusts the dear Deceiver
Will surely be undone:
When Beauty triumphs, ah! beware;—
Her smile is hope—her frown despair.

LINES WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF YARDLEY OAK,

CELEBRATED BY COWPER.

[_]

See Hayley's Life and Letters of W. Cowper, Esq.

This sole survivor of a race
Of giant oaks, where once the wood
Rang with the battle or the chase,
In stern and lonely grandeur stood.

From age to age it slowly spread
Its gradual boughs to sun and wind;
From age to age its noble head
As slowly wither'd and declined.

A thousand years are like a day,
When fled;—no longer known than seen;
This tree was doom'd to pass away,
And be as if it ne'er had been;—

But mournful Cowper, wandering nigh,
For rest beneath its shadow came,
When, lo! the voice of days gone by
Ascended from its hollow frame.

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O that the Poet had reveal'd
The words of those prophetic strains,
Ere death the eternal mystery seal'd!
—Yet in his song the Oak remains.

And, fresh in undecaying prime,
There may it live, beyond the power
Of storm and earthquake, Man and Time,
Till Nature's conflagration-hour.

SONG

WRITTEN FOR A SOCIETY WHOSE MOTTO WAS “FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND TRUTH.”

When “Friendship, Love, and Truth” abound
Among a band of Brothers,
The cup of joy goes gaily round,
Each shares the bliss of others:
Sweet roses grace the thorny way
Along this vale of sorrow;
The flowers that shed their leaves to-day
Shall bloom again to-morrow:
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy “Friendship, Love, and Truth!”

On halcyon wings our moments pass,
Life's cruel cares beguiling;
Old Time lays down his scythe and glass,
In gay good-humour smiling:
With ermine beard and forelock grey
His reverend front adorning,
He looks like Winter turn'd to May,
Night soften'd into Morning.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy “Friendship, Love, and Truth!”

From these delightful fountains flow
Ambrosial rills of pleasure:
Can man desire, can Heaven bestow,
A more resplendent treasure?
Adorn'd with gems so richly bright,
We'll form a Constellation,
Where every Star with modest light
Shall gild his proper station.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy “Friendship, Love, and Truth!”

1799.

RELIGION.

AN OCCASIONAL HYMN.

Through shades and solitudes profound
The fainting traveller winds his way;
Bewildering meteors glare around,
And tempt his wandering feet astray.

Welcome, thrice welcome, to his eye
The sudden moon's inspiring light,
When forth she sallies through the sky,
The guardian-angel of the night.

Thus mortals, blind and weak, below
Pursue the phantom Bliss, in vain;
The world's a wilderness of woe,
And life a pilgrimage of pain,

Till mild Religion, from above,
Descends, a sweet engaging form—
The messenger of heavenly love,
The bow of promise in a storm.

Then guilty passions wing their flight,
Sorrow, remorse, affliction, cease;
Religion's yoke is soft and light,
And all her paths are paths of peace.

Ambition, pride, revenge, depart,
And folly flies her chastening rod;
She makes the humble contrite heart
A temple of the living God.

Beyond the narrow vale of time,
Where bright celestial ages roll,
To scenes eternal, scenes sublime,
She points the way, and leads the soul.

At her approach the Grave appears
The Gate of Paradise restored;
Her voice the watching Cherub hears,
And drops his double-flaming sword.

Baptized with her renewing fire,
May we the crown of glory gain;
Rise when the Host of Heaven expire,
And reign with God, for ever reign!

1799.

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“THE JOY OF GRIEF.”

Ossian.

Sweet the hour of tribulation,
When the heart can freely sigh,
And the tear of resignation
Twinkles in the mournful eye.

Have you felt a kind emotion
Tremble through your troubled breast,
Soft as Evening o'er the ocean
When she charms the waves to rest?

Have you lost a friend or brother?
Heard a father's parting breath?
Gazed upon a lifeless mother,
Till she seem'd to wake from death?

Have you felt a spouse expiring
In your arms before your view?
Watch'd the lovely soul retiring
From her eyes that broke on you?

Did not grief then grow romantic,
Raving on remember'd bliss?
Did you not, with fervour frantic,
Kiss the lips that felt no kiss?

Yes! but when you had resign'd her,
Life and you were reconciled;
Anna left—she left behind her—
One, one dear, one only child.

But, before the green moss, peeping,
His poor mother's grave array'd,
In that grave the infant sleeping
On the mother's lap was laid.

Horror then, your heart congealing,
Chill'd you with intense despair:
Can you call to mind the feeling?
No! there was no feeling there.

From that gloomy trance of sorrow
When you woke to pangs unknown,
How unwelcome was the morrow,
For it rose on you alone!

Sunk in self-consuming anguish,
Can the poor heart always ache?
No; the tortured nerve will languish,
Or the strings of life must break.

O'er the yielding brow of Sadness
One faint smile of comfort stole;
One soft pang of tender gladness
Exquisitely thrill'd your soul.

While the wounds of woe are healing,
While the heart is all resign'd;
'Tis the solemn feast of feeling,
'Tis the sabbath of the mind.

Pensive memory then retraces
Scenes of bliss for ever fled,
Lives in former times and places,
Holds communion with the dead.

And when night's prophetic slumbers
Rend the veil to mortal eyes,
From their tombs the sainted numbers
Of our lost companions rise.

You have seen a friend, a brother,
Heard a dear dead father speak;
Proved the fondness of a mother,
Felt her tears upon your cheek.

Dreams of love your grief beguiling,
You have clasp'd a consort's charms,
And received your infant smiling
From his mother's sacred arms.

Trembling, pale, and agonising,
While you mourn'd the vision gone,
Bright the morning-star arising,
Open'd heaven, from whence it shone.

Thither all your wishes bending,
Rose in ecstasy sublime;
Thither all your hopes ascending,
Triumph'd over death and time.

Thus afflicted, bruised, and broken,
Have you known such sweet relief?
Yes, my friend; and, by this token,
You have felt “the joy of grief.”

1803.

267

THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA.

[_]

At Thebes, in Ancient Egypt, was erected a statue of Memnon, with a harp in his hand, which is said to have hailed with delightful music the rising sun, and in melancholy tones to have mourned his departure. The introduction of this celebrated Lyre on a modern occasion will be censured as an anachronism by those only who think that its chords have been touched unskilfully.

Harp of Memnon! sweetly strung
To the music of the spheres;
While the Hero's dirge is sung,
Breathe enchantment to our ears.

As the Sun's descending beams,
Glancing o'er thy feeling wire,
Kindle every chord that gleams,
Like a ray of heavenly fire:

Let thy numbers, soft and slow,
O'er the plain with carnage spread,
Soothe the dying while they flow
To the memory of the dead.

Bright as Beauty, newly born,
Blushing at her maiden charms;
Fresh from Ocean rose the Morn,
When the trumpet blew to arms.

Terrible soon grew the light
On the Egyptian battle-plain,
As the darkness of that night
When the eldest born was slain.

Lash'd to madness by the wind,
As the Red Sea surges roar,
Leave a gloomy gulf behind,
And devour the shrinking shore;

Thus, with overwhelming pride,
Gallia's brightest, boldest boast,
In a deep and dreadful tide,
Roll'd upon the British host.

Dauntless these their station held,
Though with unextinguish'd ire
Gallia's legions thrice repell'd,
Thrice return'd through blood and fire.

Thus, above the storms of time,
Towering to the sacred spheres,
Stand the Pyramids sublime,—
Rocks amid the flood of years.

Now the veteran Chief drew nigh,
Conquest towering on his crest,
Valour beaming from his eye,
Pity bleeding in his breast.

Britain saw him thus advance
In her Guardian-Angel's form;
But he lower'd on hostile France,
Like the Demon of the Storm.

On the whirlwind of the war
High he rode in vengeance dire;
To his friends a leading star,
To his foes consuming fire.

Then the mighty pour'd their breath,
Slaughter feasted on the brave!
'Twas the Carnival of Death;
'Twas the Vintage of the Grave.

Charged with Abercrombie's doom,
Lightning wing'd a cruel ball:
'Twas the Herald of the Tomb,
And the Hero felt the call—

Felt—and raised his arm on high;
Victory well the signal knew,
Darted from his awful eye,
And the force of France o'erthrew.

But the horrors of that fight
Were the weeping Muse to tell,
O 'twould cleave the womb of night,
And awake the dead that fell!

Gash'd with honourable scars,
Low in Glory's lap they lie;
Though they fell, they fell like stars,
Streaming splendour through the sky.

Yet shall Memory mourn that day,
When, with expectation pale,
Of her soldier far away
The poor widow hears the tale.

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In imagination wild
She shall wander o'er this plain,
Rave,—and bid her orphan-child
Seek his sire among the slain.

Gently, from the western deep,
O ye evening breezes, rise!
O'er the Lyre of Memnon sweep,
Wake its spirit with your sighs.

Harp of Memnon! sweetly strung
To the music of the spheres;
While the Hero's dirge is sung,
Breathe enchantment to our ears.

Let thy numbers, soft and slow,
O'er the plain with carnage spread,
Soothe the dying while they flow
To the memory of the dead.

None but solemn, tender tones
Tremble from thy plaintive wires:
Hark! the wounded Warrior groans:
Hush thy warbling!—he expires.

Hush!—while Sorrow wakes and weeps:
O'er his relics cold and pale,
Night her silent vigil keeps,
In a mournful moonlight veil.

Harp of Memnon! from afar,
Ere the lark salute the sky,
Watch the rising of the star
That proclaims the morning nigh.

Soon the Sun's ascending rays,
In a flood of hallow'd fire,
O'er thy kindling chords shall blaze,
And thy magic soul inspire.

Then thy tones triumphant pour,
Let them pierce the Hero's grave;
Life's tumultuous battle o'er,
O how sweetly sleep the brave!

From the dust their laurels bloom,
High they shoot and flourish free;
Glory's Temple is the tomb;
Death is immortality.

1801.

THE PILLOW.

The head that oft this Pillow press'd,
That aching head, is gone to rest;
Its little pleasures now no more,
And all its mighty sorrows o'er,
For ever, in the worm's dark bed,
For ever sleeps that humble head!

My friend was young, the world was new;
The world was false, my friend was true;
Lowly his lot, his birth obscure,
His fortune hard, my friend was poor;
To wisdom he had no pretence,
A child of suffering, not of sense;
For Nature never did impart
A weaker or a warmer heart.
His fervent soul, a soul of flame,
Consumed its frail terrestrial frame;
That fire from Heaven so fiercely burn'd,
That whence it came it soon return'd:
And yet, O Pillow! yet to me,
My gentle friend survives in thee;
In thee, the partner of his bed,
In thee, the widow of the dead.

On Helicon's inspiring brink,
Ere yet my friend had learn'd to think,
Once as he pass'd the careless day
Among the whispering reeds at play,
The Muse of Sorrow wander'd by;
Her pensive beauty fix'd his eye;
With sweet astonishment he smiled;
The Gipsy saw—she stole the child;
And soft on her ambrosial breast
Sang the delighted babe to rest;
Convey'd him to her inmost grove,
And loved him with a Mother's love.
Awaking from his rosy nap,
And gaily sporting on her lap,
His wanton fingers o'er her lyre
Twinkled like electric fire:
Quick and quicker as they flew,
Sweet and sweeter tones they drew;
Now a bolder hand he flings,
And dives among the deepest strings;
Then forth the music brake like thunder;
Back he started, wild with wonder.
The Muse of Sorrow wept for joy,
And clasp'd and kiss'd her chosen boy.

269

Ah! then no more his smiling hours
Were spent in Childhood's Eden-bowers;
The fall from Infant-innocence,
The fall to knowledge, drives us thence:
O Knowledge! worthless at the price,
Bought with the loss of Paradise.
As happy ignorance declined,
And reason rose upon his mind,
Romantic hopes and fond desires
(Sparks of the soul's immortal fires)
Kindled within his breast the rage
To breathe through every future age,
To clasp the flitting shade of fame,
To build an everlasting name,
O'erleap the narrow vulgar span,
And live beyond the life of man.

Then Nature's charms his heart possess'd,
And Nature's glory fill'd his breast:
The sweet Spring-morning's infant rays,
Meridian Summer's youthful blaze,
Maturer Autumn's evening mild,
And hoary Winter's midnight wild,
Awoke his eye, inspired his tongue;
For every scene he loved, he sung.
Rude were his songs, and simple truth,
Till Boyhood blossom'd into Youth:
Then nobler themes his fancy fired,
To bolder flights his soul aspired;
And as the new moon's opening eye
Broadens and brightens through the sky,
From the dim streak of western light
To the full orb that rules the night,—
Thus, gathering lustre in its race,
And shining through unbounded space,
From earth to heaven his Genius soar'd,
Time and eternity explored,
And hail'd, where'er its footsteps trod,
In Nature's temple, Nature's God:
Or pierced the human breast to scan
The hidden majesty of Man;
Man's hidden weakness too descried,
His glory, grandeur, meanness, pride:
Pursued along their erring course
The streams of passion to their source;
Or in the mind's creation sought
New stars of fancy, worlds of thought.
—Yet still through all his strains would flow
A tone of uncomplaining woe,
Kind as the tear in Pity's eye,
Soft as the slumbering Infant's sigh,
So sweetly, exquisitely wild,
It spake the Muse of Sorrow's child.

O Pillow! then, when light withdrew,
To thee the fond enthusiast flew;
On thee, in pensive mood reclined,
He pour'd his contemplative mind,
Till o'er his eyes with mild control
Sleep like a soft enchantment stole,
Charm'd into life his airy schemes,
And realised his waking dreams.

Soon from those waking dreams he woke,
The fairy spell of fancy broke;
In vain he breathed a soul of fire
Through every chord that strung his lyre.
No friendly echo cheer'd his tongue;
Amidst the wilderness he sung:
Louder and bolder bards were crown'd,
Whose dissonance his music drown'd:
The public ear, the public voice,
Despised his song, denied his choice,
Denied a name,—a life in death,
Denied—a bubble and a breath.

Stript of his fondest, dearest claim,
And disinherited of fame,
To thee, O Pillow! thee alone,
He made his silent anguish known;
His haughty spirit scorn'd the blow
That laid his high ambition low;
But, ah! his looks assumed in vain
A cold ineffable disdain,
While deep he cherish'd in his breast
The scorpion that consumed his rest.

Yet other secret griefs had he,
O Pillow! only told to thee:
Say, did not hopeless love intrude
On his poor bosom's solitude?
Perhaps on thy soft lap reclined,
In dreams the cruel Fair was kind,
That more intensely he might know
The bitterness of waking woe.

Whate'er those pangs from me conceal'd,
To thee in midnight groans reveal'd,

270

They stung remembrance to despair:
“A wounded spirit who can bear!”
Meanwhile disease, with slow decay,
Moulder'd his feeble frame away;
And as his evening sun declined,
The shadows deepen'd o'er his mind.
What doubts and terrors then possess'd
The dark dominion of his breast!
How did delirious fancy dwell
On Madness, Suicide, and Hell!
There was on earth no Power to save:
—But, as he shudder'd o'er the grave,
He saw from realms of light descend
The friend of him who has no friend,
Religion!—Her almighty breath
Rebuked the winds and waves of death;
She bade the storm of frenzy cease,
And smiled a calm, and whisper'd peace:
Amidst that calm of sweet repose,
To Heaven his gentle Spirit rose.

1803.

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOSEPH BROWNE, OF LOTHERSDALE,

ONE OF THE PEOPLE CALLED QUAKERS,

[_]

Who, with seven others of his religious community, had suffered a long confinement in the Castle of York, and loss of all his worldly property, for conscience sake, in the years 1795 and 1796. He was a thoughtful, humble-minded man, and occasionally solaced himself with “Prison Amusements” in verse, at the time when the Author of these Stanzas, in a neighbouring room, was whiling away the hours of a shorter captivity in the same manner.

“Spirit, leave thine house of clay;
Lingering Dust, resign thy breath!
Spirit, cast thy chains away;
Dust, be thou dissolved in death!”

Thus thy Guardian Angel spoke,
As he watch'd thy dying bed;
As the bonds of life he broke;
And the ransom'd captive fled.

“Prisoner, long detain'd below;
Prisoner, now with freedom blest;
Welcome from a world of woe,
Welcome to a land of rest!”

Thus thy Guardian Angel sang,
As he bore thy soul on high;
While with Hallelujahs rang
All the region of the sky.

—Ye that mourn a Father's loss,
Ye that weep a Friend no more,
Call to mind the Christian cross
Which your Friend, your Father, bore.

Grief, and penury, and pain
Still attended on his way;
And Oppression's scourge and chain,
More unmerciful than they.

Yet, while travelling in distress
('Twas the eldest curse of sin)
Through the world's waste wilderness,
He had paradise within.

And along that vale of tears
Which his humble footsteps trod,
Still a shining path appears
Where the Mourner walk'd with GOD.

Till his Master, from above,
When the promised hour was come,
Sent the chariot of his love
To convey the Wanderer home.

Saw ye not the wheels of fire,
And the steeds that cleft the wind?
Saw ye not his soul aspire,
When his mantle dropp'd behind?

Ye who caught it as it fell,
Bind that mantle round your breast;
So in you his meekness dwell,
So on you his spirit rest!

Yet, rejoicing in his lot,
Still shall Memory love to weep
O'er the venerable spot
Where his dear cold relics sleep.

Grave! the guardian of his dust,
Grave! the treasury of the skies,
Every atom of thy trust
Rests in hope again to rise.

271

Hark! the judgment-trumpet calls—
“Soul, rebuild thine house of clay:
Immortality thy walls,
And Eternity thy day!”

THE THUNDER-STORM.

O for Evening's brownest shade!
Where the breezes play by stealth
In the forest-cinctured glade,
Round the hermitage of Health:
While the noon-bright mountains blaze
In the sun's tormenting rays.

O'er the sick and sultry plains,
Through the dim delirious air,
Agonising silence reigns,
And the wanness of despair:
Nature faints with fervent heat,
Ah! her pulse hath ceased to beat.

Now, in deep and dreadful gloom,
Clouds on clouds portentous spread,
Black as if the day of doom
Hung o'er Nature's shrinking head:
Lo! the lightning breaks from high,
God is coming!—God is nigh!

Hear ye not his chariot-wheels,
As the mighty thunder rolls?
Nature, startled Nature, reels
From the centre to the poles:
Tremble!—Ocean, Earth, and Sky,
Tremble!—God is passing by!

Darkness, wild with horror, forms
His mysterious hiding-place;
Should He, from his ark of storms,
Rend the veil, and show his face,
At the judgment of his eye
All the universe would die.

Brighter, broader lightnings flash,
Hail and rain tempestuous fall;
Louder, deeper thunders crash,
Desolation threatens all;
Struggling Nature gasps for breath
In the agony of death.

God of Vengeance, from above
While thine awful bolts are hurl'd,
O remember thou art Love!
Spare! O spare a guilty world!
Stay Thy flaming wrath awhile,
See Thy bow of promise smile.

Welcome in the eastern cloud,
Messenger of Mercy still;
Now, ye winds, proclaim aloud,
“Peace on Earth, to Man good-will.”
Nature! God's repenting child,
See thy Parent reconciled.

Hark the nightingale, afar,
Sweetly sings the sun to rest,
And awakes the evening star
In the rosy-tinted west:
While the moon's enchanting eye
Opens Paradise on high.

Cool and tranquil is the night,
Nature's sore afflictions cease,
For the storm, that spent its might,
Was a covenant of peace;
Vengeance drops her harmless rod:
Mercy is the POWER OF GOD.

1805.

ODE TO THE VOLUNTEERS OF BRITAIN

ON THE PROSPECT OF INVASION.

O for the death of those
Who for their country die,
Sink on her bosom to repose,
And triumph where they lie!

How beautiful in death
The Warrior's corse appears,
Embalm'd by fond Affection's breath,
And bathed in Woman's tears!

Their loveliest native earth
Enshrines the fallen brave;
In the dear land that gave them birth
They find their tranquil grave.

272

—But the wild waves shall sweep
Britannia's foes away,
And the blue monsters of the deep
Be surfeited with prey.—

No!—they have 'scaped the waves,
'Scaped the sea-monsters' maws;
They come! but O! shall Gallic Slaves
Give English Freemen laws?

By Alfred's Spirit, No!
—Ring, ring the loud alarms;
Ye drums, awake! ye clarions, blow!
Ye heralds, shout “To arms!”

To arms our heroes fly;
And, leading on their lines,
The British Banner in the sky,
The star of conquest shines.

The lowering battle forms
Its terrible array;
Like clashing clouds in mountain-storms,
That thunder on their way:—

The rushing armies meet;
And while they pour their breath,
The strong earth shudders at their feet,
The day grows dim with death.

—Ghosts of the mighty dead!
Your children's hearts inspire;
And while they on your ashes tread,
Rekindle all your fire.

The dead to life return;
Our fathers' spirits rise;
—My brethren, in your breasts they burn,
They sparkle in your eyes.

Now launch upon the foe
The lightning of your rage;
Strike, strike the assailing giants low,
The Titans of the age.

They yield,—they break,—they fly;
The victory is won:
Pursue!—they faint,—they fall,—they die:
O stay!—the work is done.

Spirit of Vengeance! rest:
Sweet Mercy cries, “Forbear!”
She clasps the vanquish'd to her breast;
Thou wilt not pierce them there?

—Thus vanish Britain's foes
From her consuming eye;
But rich be the reward of those
Who conquer,—those who die.

O'ershadowing laurels deck
The living Hero's brows;
But lovelier wreaths entwine his neck,
—His children and his spouse.

Exulting o'er his lot,
The dangers he has braved,
He clasps the dear ones, hails the cot,
Which his own valour saved.

Daughters of Albion! weep:
On this triumphant plain
Your fathers, husbands, brethren sleep,
For you and freedom slain.

O gently close the eye
That loved to look on you;
O seal the lip whose earliest sigh,
Whose latest breath, was true:

With knots of sweetest flowers
Their winding-sheet perfume;
And wash their wounds with true-love showers,
And dress them for the tomb.

For beautiful in death
The Warrior's corse appears,
Embalm'd by fond Affection's breath,
And bathed in Woman's tears.

—Give me the death of those
Who for their country die;
And O! be mine like their repose,
When cold and low they lie!

Their loveliest mother Earth
Enshrines the fallen brave;
In her sweet lap who gave them birth
They find their tranquil grave.

1804.

273

HANNAH.

At fond sixteen my roving heart
Was pierced by Love's delightful dart:
Keen transport throbb'd through every vein,
—I never felt so sweet a pain!

Where circling woods embower'd the glade,
I met the dear romantic maid:
I stole her hand,—it shrunk,—but no;
I would not let my captive go.

With all the fervency of youth,
While passion told the tale of truth,
I mark'd my Hannah's downcast eye—
'Twas kind, but beautifully shy:

Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The Sun, enamour'd, woos young May;
Nor May, with softer maiden grace,
Turns from the Sun her blushing face.

But, swifter than the frighted dove,
Fled the gay morning of my love;
Ah! that so bright a morn, so soon,
Should vanish in so dark a noon.

The angel of Affliction rose,
And in his grasp a thousand woes;
He pour'd his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled.

Yet, in the glory of my pride,
I stood,—and all his wrath defied;
I stood,—though whirlwinds shook my brain,
And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.

I shunn'd my nymph;—and knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye;
I shunn'd her, for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.

Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.

The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
The halcyon Peace rebuilt her nest:
The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild
The sea of Youth and Pleasure smiled.

'Twas on the merry morn of May,
To Hannah's cot I took my way:
My eager hopes were on the wing,
Like swallows sporting in the Spring.

Then, as I climb'd the mountains o'er,
I lived my wooing days once more;
And fancy sketch'd my married lot,—
My wife, my children, and my cot.

I saw the village steeple rise,—
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes:
The rural bells rang sweet and clear,—
My fond heart listen'd in mine ear.

I reach'd the hamlet:—all was gay;
I love a rustic holyday;
I met a wedding,—stepp'd aside;
It pass'd,—my Hannah was the bride.

—There is a grief that cannot feel;
It leaves a wound that will not heal;
—My heart grew cold,—it felt not then:
When shall it cease to feel again?

1801.

A FIELD FLOWER.

ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM, ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1803.

There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine,
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the Sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

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The purple heath and golden broom
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem
Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page;—in every place,
In every season fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms every where.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The Rose has but a summer-reign,
The DAISY never dies.

1805.

THE SNOW-DROP.

Winter, retire,
Thy reign is past!
Hoary Sire,
Yield the sceptre of thy sway,
Sound thy trumpet in the blast,
And call thy storms away.
Winter, retire;
Wherefore do thy wheels delay?
Mount the chariot of thine ire,
And quit the realms of day;
On thy state
Whirlwinds wait;
And blood-shot meteors lend thee light;
Hence to dreary arctic regions
Summon thy terrific legions;
Hence to caves of northern night
Speed thy flight.

From halcyon seas
And purer skies,
O southern breeze!
Awake, arise:
Breath of heaven, benignly blow,
Melt the snow;
Breath of heaven, unchain the floods,
Warm the woods,
And make the mountains flow.

Auspicious to the Muse's prayer,
The freshening gale
Embalms the vale,
And breathes enchantment through the air;
On its wing
Floats the Spring,
With glowing eye, and golden hair:
Dark before her Angel-form
She drives the demon of the storm,
Like Gladness chasing Care.

Winter's gloomy night withdrawn,
Lo! the young romantic Hours
Search the hill, the dale, the lawn,
To behold the SNOW-DROP white
Start to light,
And shine in Flora's desert bowers,
Beneath the vernal dawn,
The Morning Star of Flowers.

O welcome to our isle,
Thou Messenger of Peace!
At whose bewitching smile
The embattled tempests cease:
Emblem of Innocence and Truth,
First-born of Nature's womb,
When, strong in renovated youth,
She bursts from Winter's tomb;
Thy parent's eye hath shed
A precious dew-drop, on thine head
Frail as a mother's tear
Upon her infant's face,
When ardent hope to tender fear
And anxious love gives place.
But lo! the dew-drop flits away,
The sun salutes thee with a ray
Warm as a mother's kiss
Upon her infant's cheek,
When the heart bounds with bliss
And joy that cannot speak.

275

—When I meet thee by the way,
Like a pretty sportive child,
On the winter-wasted wild,
With thy darling breeze at play,
Opening to the radiant sky
All the sweetness of thine eye;
—Or bright with sunbeams, fresh with showers,
O thou Fairy-Queen of flowers!
Watch thee o'er the plain advance
At the head of Flora's dance;
Simple SNOW-DROP, then in thee
All thy sister-train I see;
Every brilliant bud that blows,
From the blue-bell to the rose:
All the beauties that appear
On the bosom of the Year,
All that wreathe the locks of Spring,
Summer's ardent breath perfume,
Or on the lap of Autumn bloom,
—All to thee their tribute bring,
Exhale their incense at thy shrine,
—Their hues, their odours, all are thine.
For while thy humble form I view,
The Muse's keen prophetic sight
Brings fair Futurity to light,
And Fancy's magic makes the vision true.

—There is a Winter in my soul,
The Winter of despair;
O when shall Spring its rage control?
When shall the SNOW-DROP blossom there?
Cold gleams of comfort sometimes dart
A dawn of glory on my heart,
But quickly pass away:
Thus Northern-lights the gloom adorn,
And give the promise of a morn
That never turns to day!

—But, hark! methinks I hear
A still small whisper in mine ear;
“Rash youth, repent:
Afflictions, from above,
Are angels sent
On embassies of love.
A fiery legion, at thy birth,
Of chastening woes were given,
To pluck the flowers of hope from earth,
And plant them high
O'er yonder sky,
Transform'd to stars,—and fix'd in heaven.”

1805.

THE OCEAN.

WRITTEN AT SCARBOROUGH, IN THE SUMMER OF 1805.

All hail to the ruins, the rocks and the shores!
Thou wide-rolling Ocean, all hail!
Now brilliant with sunbeams, and dimpled with oars,
Now dark with the fresh-blowing gale,
While soft o'er thy bosom the cloud-shadows sail,
And the silver-wing'd sea-fowl on high,
Like meteors bespangle the sky,
Or dive in the gulf, or triumphantly ride
Like foam on the surges, the swans of the tide.

From the tumult and smoke of the city set free,
With eager and awful delight,
From the crest of the mountain I gaze upon thee;
I gaze,—and am changed at the sight;
For mine eye is illumined, my Genius takes flight,
My soul, like the sun, with a glance
Embraces the boundless expanse,
And moves on thy waters, wherever they roll,
From the day-darting zone to the night-shadow'd pole.

My spirit descends where the day-spring is born,
Where the billows are rubies on fire,
And the breezes that rock the light cradle of morn
Are sweet as the Phœnix's pyre:
O regions of beauty, of love, and desire!
O gardens of Eden! in vain
Placed far on the fathomless main,
Where Nature with Innocence dwelt in her youth,
When pure was her heart, and unbroken her truth.

But now the fair rivers of Paradise wind
Through countries and kingdoms o'erthrown;
Where the giant of Tyranny crushes mankind,
Where he reigns,—and will soon reign alone;
For wide and more wide, o'er the sun-beaming zone,
He stretches his hundred-fold arms,
Despoiling, destroying its charms;
Beneath his broad footstep the Ganges is dry,
And the mountains recoil from the flash of his eye.

Thus the pestilent Upas, the Demon of trees,
Its boughs o'er the wilderness spreads,

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And, with livid contagion polluting the breeze,
Its mildewing influence sheds:
The birds on the wing, and the flowers in their beds,
Are slain by its venomous breath,
That darkens the noonday with death;
And pale ghosts of travellers wander around,
While their mouldering skeletons whiten the ground.

Ah! why hath Jehovah, in forming the world,
With the waters divided the land,
His ramparts of rocks round the continent hurl'd,
And cradled the Deep in his hand,
If man may transgress His eternal command,
And leap o'er the bounds of his birth,
To ravage the uttermost earth,
And violate nations and realms that should be
Distinct as the billows, yet one as the sea?

There are, gloomy Ocean! a brotherless clan,
Who traverse thy banishing waves,
The poor disinherited outcasts of man,
Whom Avarice coins into slaves:
From the homes of their kindred, their forefathers' graves,
Love, friendship, and conjugal bliss,
They are dragg'd on the hoary abyss;
The shark hears their shrieks, and, ascending to day,
Demands of the spoiler his share of the prey.

Then joy to the tempest that whelms them beneath,
And makes their destruction its sport!
But woe to the winds that propitiously breathe,
And waft them in safety to port,
Where the vultures and vampires of Mammon resort;
Where Europe exultingly drains
The life-blood from Africa's veins;
Where man rules o'er man with a merciless rod,
And spurns at his footstool the image of God!

The hour is approaching,—a terrible hour!
And Vengeance is bending her bow;
Already the clouds of the hurricane lour,
And the rock-rending whirlwinds blow:
Back rolls the huge Ocean, Hell opens below:
The floods return headlong,—they sweep
The slave-cultured lands to the deep;
In a moment entomb'd in the horrible void,
By their Maker Himself in his anger destroy'd!

Shall this be the fate of the cane-planted isles,
More lovely than clouds in the west,
When the sun o'er the ocean descending in smiles
Sinks softly and sweetly to rest?
—NO!—Father of mercy! befriend the opprest;
At the voice of thy Gospel of peace
May the sorrows of Africa cease;
And the slave and his master devoutly unite
To walk in thy freedom, and dwell in thy light!

As homeward my weary-wing'd fancy extends
Her star-lighted course through the skies,
High over the mighty Atlantic ascends,
And turns upon Europe her eyes;
Ah me! what new prospects, new horrors, arise!
I see the war-tempested flood
All foaming and panting with blood;
The panic-struck Ocean in agony roars,
Rebounds from the battle, and flies to his shores:

For Britannia is wielding the trident to-day,
Consuming her foes in her ire,
And hurling the thunder of absolute sway
From her wave-ruling chariots of fire:
—She triumphs;—the winds and the waters conspire
To spread her invincible name;
—The universe rings with her fame;
—But the cries of the fatherless mix with her praise,
And the tears of the widow are shed on her bays.

O Britain! dear Britain! the land of my birth;
O Isle, most enchantingly fair!
Thou Pearl of the Ocean! Thou Gem of the Earth!
O my Mother! my Mother! beware;
For wealth is a phantom, and empire a snare:
O let not thy birthright be sold
For reprobate glory and gold!
Thy distant dominions like wild graftings shoot,
They weigh down thy trunk—they will tear up thy root:—

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The root of thine OAK, O my country! that stands
Rock-planted, and flourishing free;
Its branches are stretch'd o'er the uttermost lands,
And its shadow eclipses the sea:
The blood of our ancestors nourish'd the tree;
From their tombs, from their ashes, it sprung;
Its boughs with their trophies are hung;
Their spirit dwells in it:—and, hark! for it spoke;
The voice of our fathers ascends from their Oak!

‘Ye Britons, who dwell where we conquer'd of old,
Who inherit our battle-field graves;
Though poor were your fathers,—gigantic and bold,
We were not, we could not be, slaves;
But, firm as our rocks, and as free as our waves,
The spears of the Romans we broke,
We never stoop'd under their yoke;
In the shipwreck of nations we stood up alone,—
The world was great Cæsar's—but Britain our own.

“For ages and ages, with barbarous foes,
The Saxon, Norwegian, and Gaul,
We wrestled, were foil'd, were cast down, but we rose
With new vigour, new life, from each fall;
By all we were conquer'd:—WE CONQUER'D THEM ALL!
—The cruel, the cannibal mind,
We soften'd, subdued, and refined:
Bears, wolves, and sea monsters, they rush'd from their den;
We taught them, we tamed them, we turn'd them to men.

“Love led the wild hordes in his flower-woven bands,
The tenderest, strongest of chains;
Love married our hearts, he united our hands,
And mingled the blood in our veins;
One race we became:—on the mountains and plains
Where the wounds of our country were closed,
The Ark of Religion reposed,
The unquenchable Altar of Liberty blazed,
And the Temple of Justice in Mercy was raised.

“Ark, Altar, and Temple, we left with our breath,
To our children, a sacred bequest:
O guard them, O keep them, in life and in death!
So the shades of your fathers shall rest,
And your spirits with ours be in Paradise blest:
—Let Ambition, the sin of the brave,
And Avarice, the soul of a slave,
No longer seduce your affections to roam
From Liberty, Justice, Religion, AT HOME.”

THE COMMON LOT.

[_]

A Birthday Meditation, during a solitary Winter walk, of seven miles, between a village in Derbyshire and Sheffield, when the ground was covered with snow, the sky serene, and the morning air intensely pure.

Once, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man:—and WHO was HE?—
Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That Man resembled Thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perish'd from the earth;
This truth survives alone:—

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast;
His bliss and woe,—a smile, a tear!—
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd,—but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoy'd,—but his delights are fled;
Had friends,—his friends are now no more;
And foes,—his foes are dead.

He loved,—but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O, she was fair!—but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encounter'd all that troubles thee:
He was—whatever thou hast been;
He is—what thou shalt be.

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The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life and light,
To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,
Their ruins since the world began,
Of HIM afford no other trace
Than this,—THERE LIVED A MAN!

Nov. 4. 1805.

THE HARP OF SORROW.

I gave my Harp to Sorrow's hand,
And she has ruled the chords so long,
They will not speak at my command;—
They warble only to her song.

Of dear departed hours,
Too fondly loved to last,
The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers,
Snapt in their freshness by the blast:

Of long, long years of future care,
Till lingering Nature yields her breath,
And endless ages of despair,
Beyond the judgment-day of death:—

The weeping Minstrel sings;
And while her numbers flow,
My spirit trembles with the strings,
Responsive to the notes of woe.

Would gladness move a sprightlier strain,
And wake this wild Harp's clearest tones,
The chords, impatient to complain,
Are dumb, or only utter moans.

And yet, to soothe the mind
With luxury of grief,
The soul to suffering all resign'd
In Sorrow's music feels relief.

Thus o'er the light Æolian lyre
The winds of dark November stray,
Touch the quick nerve of every wire,
And on its magic pulses play;—

Till all the air around,
Mysterious murmurs fill,
A strange bewildering dream of sound,
Most heavenly sweet,—yet mournful still.

O! snatch the Harp from Sorrow's hand,
Hope! who hast been a stranger long;
O! strike it with sublime command,
And be the Poet's life thy song.

Of vanish'd troubles sing,
Of fears for ever fled,
Of flowers that hear the voice of Spring,
And burst and blossom from the dead;—

Of home, contentment, health, repose,
Serene delights, while years increase;
And weary life's triumphant close
In some calm sunset hour of peace;—

Of bliss that reigns above,
Celestial May of Youth,
Unchanging as Jehovah's love,
And everlasting as his truth:—

Sing, heavenly Hope!—and dart thine hand
O'er my frail Harp, untuned so long;
That Harp shall breathe, at thy command,
Immortal sweetness through thy song.

Ah! then, this gloom control,
And at thy voice shall start
A new creation in my soul,
A native Eden in my heart.

1807.

POPE'S WILLOW.

[_]

Verses written for an Urn made out of the trunk of the Weeping Willow, imported from the East, and planted by Pope in his grounds at Twickenham, where it flourished many years; but, falling into decay, it was lately cut down.

Ere Pope resign'd his tuneful breath,
And made the turf his pillow,
The minstrel hung his harp in death
Upon the drooping Willow;

279

That Willow, from Euphrates' strand,
Had sprung beneath his training hand.

Long as revolving seasons flew,
From youth to age it flourish'd,
By vernal winds and starlight dew,
By showers and sunbeams, nourish'd;
And while in dust the Poet slept,
The Willow o'er his ashes wept.

Old Time beheld its silvery head
With graceful grandeur towering,
Its pensile boughs profusely spread,
The breezy lawn embowering.
Till, arch'd around, there seem'd to shoot
A grove of scions from one root.

Thither, at summer noon, he view'd
The lovely Nine retreating,
Beneath its twilight solitude
With songs their Poet greeting,
Whose spirit in the Willow spoke,
Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak.

By harvest moonlight there he spied
The fairy bands advancing;
Bright Ariel's troop, on Thames's side,
Around the Willow dancing;
Gay sylphs among the foliage play'd,
And glow-worms glitter'd in the shade.

One morn, while Time thus mark'd the tree
In beauty green and glorious,
“The hand,” he cried, “that planted thee
O'er mine was oft victorious;
Be vengeance now my calm employ,—
One work of Pope's I will destroy.”

He spake, and struck a silent blow
With that dread arm whose motion
Lays cedars, thrones, and temples low,
And wields o'er land and ocean
The unremitting axe of doom,
That fells the forest of the tomb.

Deep to the Willow's root it went,
And cleft the core asunder,
Like sudden secret lightning, sent
Without recording thunder:
—From that sad moment, slow away
Began the Willow to decay.

In vain did Spring those bowers restore,
Where loves and graces revell'd,
Autumn's wild gales the branches tore,
The thin grey leaves dishevell'd,
And every wasting Winter found
The Willow nearer to the ground.

Hoary, and weak, and bent with age,
At length the axe assail'd it:
It bow'd before the woodman's rage;
The swans of Thames bewail'd it,
With softer tones, with sweeter breath,
Than ever charm'd the ear of death.

O Pope! hadst thou, whose lyre so long
The wondering world enchanted,
Amidst thy paradise of song
This Weeping Willow planted;
Among thy loftiest laurels seen,
In deathless verse for ever green,—

Thy chosen Tree had stood sublime,
The storms of ages braving,
Triumphant o'er the wrecks of Time
Its verdant banner waving,
While regal pyramids decay'd,
And empires perish'd in its shade.

An humbler lot, O Tree! was thine,
—Gone down in all thy glory,
The sweet, the mournful task be mine,
To sing thy simple story:
Though verse like mine in vain would raise
The fame of thy departed days.

Yet, fallen Willow! if to me
Such power of song were given,
My lips should breathe a soul through thee,
And call down fire from heaven,
To kindle in this hallow'd Urn
A flame that would for ever burn.

1806.

A WALK IN SPRING.

I wander'd in a lonely glade,
Where, issuing from the forest shade,
A little mountain stream
Along the winding valley play'd,
Beneath the morning beam.

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Light o'er the woods of dark-brown oak
The west-wind wreathed the hovering smoke,
From cottage-roofs conceal'd;
Below a rock abruptly broke,
In rosy light reveal'd.

'Twas in the infancy of May,—
The uplands glow'd in green array,
While from the ranging eye
The lessening landscape stretch'd away,
To meet the bending sky.

'Tis sweet in solitude to hear
The earliest music of the year,
The blackbird's loud wild note,
Or, from the wintry thicket drear,
The thrush's stammering throat.

In rustic solitude 'tis sweet
The earliest flowers of Spring to greet,—
The violet from its tomb,
The strawberry, creeping at our feet,
The sorrel's simple bloom.

Wherefore I love the walks of Spring,—
While still I hear new warblers sing,
Fresh-opening bells I see;
Joy flits on every roving wing,
Hope buds on every tree.

That morn I look'd and listen'd long,
Some cheering sight, some woodland song,
As yet unheard, unseen,
To welcome, with remembrance strong
Of days that once had been;—

When, gathering flowers, an eager child,
I ran abroad with rapture wild;
Or, on more curious quest,
Peep'd breathless through the copse, and smiled,
To see the linnet's nest.

Already had I watch'd the flight
Of swallows darting through the light,
And mock'd the cuckoo's call;
Already view'd, o'er meadows bright,
The evening rainbow fall.

Now in my walk, with sweet surprise,
I saw the first Spring cowslip rise,
The plant whose pensile flowers
Bend to the earth their beauteous eyes,
In sunshine as in showers.

Lone on a mossy bank it grew,
Where lichens, purple, white, and blue,
Among the verdure crept;
Its yellow ringlets, dropping dew,
The breezes lightly swept.

A bee had nestled on its blooms,
He shook abroad their rich perfumes,
Then fled in airy rings;
His place a butterfly assumes,
Glancing his glorious wings.

O, welcome, as a friend! I cried;
A friend through many a season tried,
Nor ever sought in vain,
When May, with Flora at her side,
Is dancing on the plain.

Sure as the Pleiades adorn
The glittering coronet of morn,
In calm delicious hours,
Beneath their beams thy buds are born,
'Midst love-awakening showers.

Scatter'd by Nature's graceful hand,
In briary glens or pasture-land,
Thy fairy tribes we meet;
Gay in the milk-maid's path they stand,
They kiss her tripping feet.

From Winter's farm-yard bondage freed,
The cattle, bounding o'er the mead
Where green the herbage grows,
Among thy fragrant blossoms feed,
Upon thy tufts repose.

Tossing his forelock o'er his mane,
The foal, at rest upon the plain,
Sports with thy flexile stalk,
But stoops his little neck in vain
To crop it in his walk.

281

Where thick thy primrose blossoms play,
Lovely and innocent as they,
O'er coppice lawns and dells,
In bands the rural children stray,
To pluck thy nectar'd bells;

Whose simple sweets, with curious skill,
The frugal cottage-dames distil,
Nor envy France the vine,
While many a festal cup they fill
With Britain's homely wine.

Unchanging still from year to year,
Like stars returning in their sphere,
With undiminish'd rays,
Thy vernal constellations cheer
The dawn of lengthening days.

Perhaps from Nature's earliest May,
Imperishable 'midst decay,
Thy self-renewing race
Have breathed their balmy lives away
In this neglected place.

And O, till Nature's final doom,
Here unmolested may they bloom,
From scythe and plough secure;
This bank their cradle and their tomb,
While earth and skies endure!

Yet, lowly Cowslip, while in thee
An old unalter'd friend I see,
Fresh in perennial prime;
From Spring to Spring behold in me
The woes and waste of Time.

This fading eye and withering mien
Tell what a sufferer I have been,
Since, more and more estranged,
From hope to hope, from scene to scene,
Through Folly's wiles I ranged.

Then fields and woods I proudly spurn'd;
From Nature's maiden love I turn'd,
And woo'd the enchantress Art;
Yet while for her my fancy burn'd,
Cold was my wretched heart,—

Till, distanced in Ambition's race,
Weary of Pleasure's joyless chase,
My peace untimely slain,
Sick of the world,—I turn'd my face
To fields and woods again.

'Twas Spring;—my former haunts I found,
My favourite flowers adorn'd the ground,
My darling minstrels play'd;
The mountains were with sunset crown'd,
The valleys dun with shade.

With lorn delight the scene I view'd,
Past joys and sorrows were renew'd;
My infant hopes and fears
Look'd lovely, through the solitude
Of retrospective years.

And still, in Memory's twilight bowers,
The spirits of departed hours,
With mellowing tints, portray
The blossoms of life's vernal flowers
For ever fall'n away.

Till youth's delirious dream is o'er,
Sanguine with hope, we look before,
The future good to find;
In age, when error charms no more,
For bliss we look behind.

1808.

THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG IN A FOREIGN LAND.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

O, when shall I visit the land of my birth,
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains,
With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?
O, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,
In the shade of an elm to the sound of the reed?

When shall I return to that lowly retreat,
Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,—

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The lambs and the heifers, that follow my call,
My father, my mother,
My sister, my brother,
And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?
O, when shall I visit the land of my birth?
—'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.

THE OAK.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASIO.

The tall oak, towering to the skies,
The fury of the wind defies,
From age to age in virtue strong,
Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.

O'erwhelm'd at length upon the plain,
It puts forth wings, and sweeps the main;
The self-same foe undaunted braves,
And fights the wind upon the waves.

THE DIAL.

This shadow on the Dial's face,
That steals from day to day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments, and months, and years away;
This shadow, which, in every clime,
Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime;
What is it?—Mortal Man!
It is the scythe of Time:
—A shadow only to the eye;
Yet, in its calm career,
It levels all beneath the sky;
And still, through each succeeding year,
Right onward with resistless power,
Its stroke shall darken every hour,
Till Nature's race be run,
And Time's last shadow shall eclipse the sun.

Nor only o'er the Dial's face,
This silent phantom, day by day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Steals moments, months, and years away;
From hoary rock and aged tree,
From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls,
From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,
From every blade of grass it falls;
For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,
The scythe of Time destroys,
And man at every footstep weeps
O'er evanescent joys;
Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn,
Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn:
—Ah! soon, beneath the inevitable blow,
I too shall lie in dust and darkness low.

Then Time, the Conqueror, will suspend
His scythe, a trophy o'er my tomb,
Whose moving shadow shall portend
Each frail beholder's doom:
O'er the wide earth's illumined space,
Though Time's triumphant flight be shown,
The truest index on its face
Points from the churchyard stone.

1807.

THE ROSES.

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON THE BIRTH OF HIS FIRST CHILD.

Two Roses on one slender spray
In sweet communion grew,
Together hail'd the morning ray,
And drank the evening dew;
While, sweetly wreathed in mossy green,
There sprang a little bud between.

Through clouds and sunshine, storms and showers,
They open'd into bloom,
Mingling their foliage and their flowers,
Their beauty and perfume;
While, foster'd on its rising stem,
The bud became a purple gem.

But soon their summer splendour pass'd,
They faded in the wind;
Yet were these Roses to the last
The loveliest of their kind,
Whose crimson leaves, in falling round,
Adorn'd and sanctified the ground.

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When thus were all their honours shorn,
The bud unfolding rose,
And blush'd and brighten'd as the morn
From dawn to sunrise glows,
Till o'er each parent's drooping head
The daughter's crowning glory spread.

My Friends! in youth's romantic prime,
The golden age of man,
Like these twin Roses spend your time,—
Life's little, lessening span;
Then be your breasts as free from cares,
Your hours as innocent, as theirs.

And in the infant bud that blows
In your encircling arms,
Mark the dear promise of a Rose,
The pledge of future charms,
That o'er your withering hours shall shine,
Fair, and more fair, as you decline;—

Till, planted in that realm of rest
Where Roses never die,
Amidst the gardens of the Blest,
Beneath a stormless sky,
You flower afresh, like Aaron's rod,
That blossom'd at the sight of God.

1808.

TO AGNES.

REPLY TO SOME LINES, BEGINNING, “ARREST, O TIME! THY FLEETING COURSE.”

Time will not check his eager flight,
Though gentle Agnes scold,
For 'tis the Sage's dear delight
To make young ladies old.

Then listen, Agnes, friendship sings;
Seize fast his forelock grey,
And pluck from his careering wings
A feather every day.

Adorn'd with these, defy his rage,
And bid him plough your face,
For every furrow of old age
Shall be a line of grace.

Start not;—old age is Virtue's prime;
Most lovely she appears,
Clad in the spoils of vanquish'd Time,
Down in the vale of years.

Beyond that vale, in boundless bloom,
The eternal mountains rise;
Virtue descends not to the tomb,
Her rest is in the skies.

1804.

AN EPITAPH.

Art thou a man of honest mould,
With fervent heart, and soul sincere?
A husband, father, friend?—Behold,
Thy brother slumbers here.

The sun that wakes yon violet's bloom,
Once cheer'd his eye, now dark in death;
The wind that wanders o'er his tomb
Was once his vital breath.

The roving wind shall pass away,
The warming sun forsake the sky;
Thy brother, in that dreadful day,
Shall live and never die.

THE OLD MAN'S SONG.

Shall Man of frail fruition boast?
Shall life be counted dear,
Oft but a moment, and at most
A momentary year?

There was a time,—that time is past,—
When, youth! I bloom'd like thee!
A time will come,—'tis coming fast,—
When thou shalt fade like me:—

Like me through varying seasons range,
And past enjoyments mourn;—
The fairest, sweetest Spring shall change
To Winter in its turn.

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In infancy, my vernal prime,
When life itself was new,
Amusement pluck'd the wings of Time,
Yet swifter still he flew.

Summer my youth succeeded soon,
My sun ascended high,
And pleasure held the reins till noon,
But grief drove down the sky.

Like Autumn, rich in ripening corn,
Came manhood's sober reign;
My harvest-moon scarce fill'd her horn,
When she began to wane.

Close follow'd age, infirm old age,
The Winter of my year;
When shall I fall before his rage,
To rise beyond the sphere!

I long to cast the chains away
That hold my soul a slave,
To burst these dungeon-walls of clay,
Enfranchised from the grave.

Life lies in embryo,—never free
Till Nature yields her breath,
Till Time becomes Eternity,
And Man is born in Death.

1804.

THE GLOW-WORM.

[_]

The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the female caterpillar attracts in the night by the lustre of her train.

When Evening closes Nature's eye,
The Glow-worm lights her little spark,
To captivate her favourite fly,
And tempt the rover through the dark.

Conducted by a sweeter star
Than all that deck the fields above,
He fondly hastens from afar,
To soothe her solitude with love.

Thus in this wilderness of tears,
Amidst the world's perplexing gloom,
The transient torch of Hymen cheers
The pilgrim journeying to the tomb.

Unhappy he whose hopeless eye
Turns to the light of love in vain;
Whose cynosure is in the sky,
He on the dark and lonely main.

1804.

BOLEHILL TREES.

[_]

A conspicuous plantation, encompassing a school-house and play-ground, on a bleak eminence, at Barlow, in Derbyshire: on the one hand facing the high moors; on the other, overlooking a richly-cultivated, well-wooded, and mountainous country, near the seat of a gentleman where the writer has spent many happy hours.

Now peace to his ashes who planted yon trees,
That welcome my wandering eye!
In lofty luxuriance they wave with the breeze,
And resemble a grove in the sky;
On the brow of the mountain, uncultured and bleak,
They flourish in grandeur sublime,
Adorning its bald and majestical peak,
Like the lock on the forehead of Time.

A land-mark they rise;—to the stranger forlorn,
All night on the wild heath delay'd,
'Tis rapture to spy the young beauties of morn
Unveiling behind their dark shade:
The homeward-bound husbandman joys to behold,
On the line of the grey evening scene,
Their branches yet gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sunset expiring between.

The maidens that gather the fruits of the moor,
While weary and fainting they roam,
Through the blue dazzling distance of noon-light explore
The trees that remind them of home:
The children that range in the valley suspend
Their sports, and in ecstasy gaze,
When they see the broad moon from the summit ascend,
And their school-house and grove in a blaze.

O! sweet to my soul is that beautiful grove,
Awakening remembrance most dear;—
When lonely in anguish and exile I rove,
Wherever its glories appear,

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It gladdens my spirit, it soothes from afar
With tranquil and tender delight,
It shines through my heart, like a hope-beaming star
Alone in the desert of night.

It tells me of moments of innocent bliss,
For ever and ever gone o'er;
Like the light of a smile, like the balm of a kiss,
They were,—but they will be no more:
Yet wherefore of pleasures departed complain,
That leave such endearment behind?
Though the sun of their sweetness be sunk in the main,
Their twilight still rests on the mind.

Then peace to his ashes who planted those trees!
Supreme o'er the landscape they rise,
With simple and lovely magnificence please
All bosoms, and gladden all eyes:
Nor marble nor brass could emblazon his fame
Like his own sylvan trophies, that wave
In graceful memorial, and whisper his name,
And scatter their leaves on his grave.

Ah! thus, when I sleep in the desolate tomb,
May the laurels I planted endure,
On the mountain of high immortality bloom,
'Midst lightning and tempest secure!
Then ages unborn shall their verdure admire,
And nations sit under their shade,
While my spirit, in secret, shall move o'er my lyre,
Aloft in their branches display'd.

Hence dream of vain glory!—the light drop of dew
That glows in the violet's eye,
In the splendour of morn, to a fugitive view,
May rival a star of the sky;
But the violet is pluck'd, and the dew-drop is flown,
The star unextinguish'd shall shine:
Then mine be the laurels of virtue alone,
And the glories of Paradise mine.

1807.

THE MOLE-HILL.

Tell me, thou dust beneath my feet,
Thou dust that once hadst breath!
Tell me how many mortals meet
In this small hill of death?

The mole that scoops with curious toil
Her subterranean bed,
Thinks not she ploughs a human soil,
And mines among the dead.

But, O! where'er she turns the ground,
My kindred earth I see:
Once every atom of this mound
Lived, breathed, and felt, like me.

Like me these elder-born of clay
Enjoy'd the cheerful light,
Bore the brief burden of a day,
And went to rest at night.

Far in the regions of the morn,
The rising sun surveys
Palmyra's palaces forlorn,
Empurpled with his rays.

The spirits of the desert dwell
Where eastern grandeur shone,
And vultures scream, hyænas yell
Round Beauty's mouldering throne.

There the pale pilgrim, as he stands,
Sees, from the broken wall,
The shadow tottering on the sands,
Ere the loose fragment fall.

Destruction joys, amid those scenes,
To watch the sport of Fate,
While Time between the pillars leans,
And bows them with his weight.

But towers and temples, crush'd by Time,
Stupendous wrecks! appear
To me less mournfully sublime
Than the poor Mole-hill here.

Through all this hillock's crumbling mould
Once the warm life-blood ran:
Here thine original behold,
And here thy ruins, Man!

Methinks this dust yet heaves with breath;
Ten thousand pulses beat;
Tell me,—in this small hill of death,
How many mortals meet?

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By wafting winds and flooding rains,
From ocean, earth, and sky,
Collected here, the frail remains
Of slumbering millions lie.

What scene of terror and amaze
Breaks through the twilight gloom?
What hand invisible displays
The secrets of the tomb?

All ages and all nations rise,
And every grain of earth
Beneath my feet, before mine eyes,
Is startled into birth.

Like gliding mists the shadowy forms
Through the deep valley spread,
And like descending clouds in storms
Lower round the mountain's head.

O'er the wild champaign while they pass,
Their footsteps yield no sound,
Nor shake from the light trembling grass
A dew-drop to the ground.

Among the undistinguish'd hosts,
My wondering eyes explore
Awful, sublime, terrific ghosts,
Heroes and kings of yore:—

Tyrants, the comets of their kind,
Whose withering influence ran
Through all the promise of the mind,
And smote and mildew'd man:—

Sages, the Pleiades of earth,
Whose genial aspects smiled,
And flowers and fruitage sprang to birth
O'er all the human wild.

Yon gloomy ruffian, gash'd and gored,
Was he, whose fatal skill
First beat the plough-share to a sword,
And taught the art to kill.

Behind him skulks a shade, bereft
Of fondly worshipp'd fame;
He built the Pyramids, but left
No stone to tell his name.

Who is the chief, with visage dark
As tempests when they roar?
—The first who push'd his daring bark
Beyond the timid shore.

Through storms of death and seas of graves
He steer'd with steadfast eye;
His path was on the desert waves,
His compass in the sky.

That youth who lifts his graceful hand,
Struck the unshapen block,
And beauty leap'd, at his command,
A Venus from the rock.

Trembling with ecstasy of thought,
Behold the Grecian maid,
Whom love's enchanting impulse taught
To trace a slumberer's shade.

Sweet are the thefts of love;—she stole
His image while he lay,
Kindled the shadow to a soul,
And breathed that soul through clay.

Yon listening nymph, who looks behind,
With countenance of fire,
Heard midnight music in the wind,—
And framed the Æolian lyre.

All hail!—The Sire of Song appears
The Muse's eldest born;
The skylark in the dawn of years,
The poet of the morn.

He from the depth of cavern'd woods,
That echoed to his voice,
Bade mountains, valleys, winds, and floods,
And earth and heaven, rejoice.

Though, charm'd to meekness while he sung,
The wild beasts round him ran,
This was the triumph of his tongue,—
It tamed the heart of man.

Dim through the mist of twilight times
The ghost of Cyrus walks;
Behind him, red with glorious crimes,
The son of Ammon stalks.

287

Relentless Hannibal, in pride
Of sworn fix'd hatred, lowers;
Cæsar,—'tis Brutus at his side,—
In peerless grandeur towers.

With moonlight softness Helen's charms
Dissolve the spectred gloom,
The leading star of Greece in arms,
Portending Ilion's doom.

But Homer;—see the bard arise!
And hark!—he strikes the lyre;
The Dardan warriors lift their eyes,
The Argive Chiefs respire.

And while his music rolls along,
The towers of Troy sublime,
Raised by the magic breath of song,
Mock the destroyer Time.

For still around the eternal walls
The storms of battle rage:
And Hector conquers, Hector falls,
Bewept in every age.

Genius of Homer! Were it mine
To track thy fiery car,
And in thy sunset course to shine
A radiant evening star,—

What theme, what laurel, might the Muse
Reclaim from ages fled?
What realm-restoring hero choose
To summon from the dead?

Yonder his shadow flits away:
—Thou shalt not thus depart;
Stay, thou transcendent spirit, stay,
And tell me who thou art!

'Tis Alfred!—In the rolls of Fame,
And on a midnight page,
Blazes his broad refulgent name,
The watch-light of his age.

A Danish winter, from the north,
Howl'd o'er the British wild,
But Alfred, like the spring, brake forth,
And all the desert smiled.

Back to the deep he roll'd the waves,
By mad invasion hurl'd;
His voice was liberty to slaves,
Defiance to the world.

And still that voice o'er land and sea
Shall Albion's foes appal;
The race of Alfred will be free;
Hear it, and tremble, Gaul!

But lo! the phantoms fade in flight,
Like fears that cross the mind,
Like meteors gleaming through the night,
Like thunders on the wind.

The vision of the tomb is past;
Beyond it who can tell
In what mysterious region cast
Immortal spirits dwell?

I know not,—but I soon shall know,
When life's sore conflicts cease,
When this desponding heart lies low,
And I shall rest in peace.

For see, on Death's bewildering wave,
The rainbow Hope arise,
A bridge of glory o'er the grave,
That bends beyond the skies.

From earth to heaven it swells and shines
The pledge of bliss to Man;
Time with Eternity combines,
And grasps them in a span.

1807.

M. S. TO THE MEMORY OF “A FEMALE WHOM SICKNESS HAD RECONCILED TO THE NOTES OF SORROW,”

[_]

Who corresponded with the Author under this signature, on the first publication of his Poems, in 1806, but died soon after; when her real name and merits were disclosed to him by one of her surviving friends.

My Song of Sorrow reach'd her ear;
She raised her languid head to hear,
And, smiling in the arms of Death,
Consoled me with her latest breath.

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What is the Poet's highest aim,
His richest heritage of fame?
—To track the warrior's fiery road,
With havoc, spoil, destruction, strow'd,
While nations bleed along the plains,
Dragg'd at his chariot-wheels in chains?
—With fawning hand to woo the lyre,
Profanely steal celestial fire,
And bid an idol's altar blaze
With incense of unhallow'd praise?
—With syren strains, Circean art,
To win the ear, beguile the heart,
Wake the wild passions into rage,
And please and prostitute the age?

NO!—to the generous Bard belong
Diviner themes and purer song:
—To hail Religion from above,
Descending in the form of Love,
And pointing through a world of strife
The narrow way that leads to life:
—To pour the balm of heavenly rest
Through Sorrow's agonising breast;
With Pity's tender arms embrace
The orphans of a kindred race;
And in one zone of concord bind
The lawless spoilers of mankind:
—To sing in numbers boldly free
The wars and woes of Liberty;
The glory of her triumphs tell,
Her nobler suffering when she fell,
Girt with the phalanx of the brave,
Or widow'd on the patriot's grave,
Which tyrants tremble to pass by,
Even on the car of Victory.

These are the Bard's sublimest views,
The angel-visions of the Muse,
That o'er his morning slumbers shine;
These are his themes,—and these were mine.
But pale Despondency, that stole
The light of gladness from my soul,
While youth and folly blindfold ran
The giddy circle up to Man,
Breathed a dark spirit through my lyre,
Dimm'd the noon-radiance of my fire,
And cast a mournful evening hue
O'er every scene my fancy drew.
Then though the proud despised my strain,
It flow'd not from my heart in vain;
The lay of freedom, fervour, truth,
Was dear to undissembling youth,
From manly breasts drew generous sighs,
And Virtue's tears from Beauty's eyes.

My Song of Sorrow reach'd HER ear;
She raised her languid head to hear,
And, smiling in the arms of Death,
She bless'd me with her latest breath.

A secret hand to me convey'd
The thoughts of that inspiring Maid;
They came like voices on the wind,
Heard in the stillness of the mind,
When round the Poet's twilight walk
Aërial beings seem to talk:
Not the twin-stars of Leda shine
With vernal influence more benign,
Nor sweeter, in the sylvan vale,
Sings the lone warbling nightingale,
Than through my shades her lustre broke,
Than to my griefs her spirit spoke.

My fancy form'd her young and fair,
Pure as her sister-lilies were,
Adorn'd with meekest maiden grace,
With every charm of soul and face,
That Virtue's awful eye approves,
And fond Affection dearly loves;
Heaven in her open aspect seen,
Her Maker's image in her mien.

Such was the picture fancy drew,
In lineaments divinely true;
The Muse, by her mysterious art,
Had shown her likeness to my heart,
And every faithful feature brought
O'er the clear mirror of my thought.
—But she was waning to the tomb;
The worm of death was in her bloom:
Yet, as the mortal frame declined,
Strong through the ruins rose the mind;
As the dim moon when night ascends,
Slow in the east the darkness rends,
Through melting clouds, by gradual gleams.
Pours the mild splendour of her beams,
Then bursts in triumph o'er the pole,
Free as a disembodied soul!

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Thus, while the veil of flesh decay'd,
Her beauties brighten'd through the shade;
Charms which her lowly heart conceal'd,
In nature's weakness were reveal'd;
And still the unrobing spirit cast
Diviner glories to the last,
Dissolved its bonds, and clear'd its flight,
Emerging into perfect light.

Yet shall the friends who loved her weep,
Though shrined in peace the sufferer sleep,
Though rapt to heaven the saint aspire,
With seraph guards on wings of fire;
Yet shall they weep;—for oft and well
Remembrance shall her story tell,
Affection of her virtues speak,
With beaming eye and burning cheek,
Each action, word, and look recall,
The last, the loveliest of all,
When on the lap of death she lay,
Serenely smiled her soul away,
And left surviving Friendship's breast
Warm with the sunset of her rest.

O thou, who wert on earth unknown,
Companion of my thought alone!
Unchanged in heaven to me thou art,
Still hold communion with my heart;
Cheer thou my hopes, exalt my views,
Be the good angel of my Muse;
—And if to thine approving ear
My plaintive numbers once were dear;
If, falling round thy dying hours,
Like evening dews on closing flowers,
They soothed thy pains, and through thy soul
With melancholy sweetness stole,
HEAR ME:—When slumber from mine eyes,
That roll in irksome darkness, flies;
When the lorn spectre of unrest
At conscious midnight haunts my breast;
When former joys, and present woes,
And future fears, are all my foes;
Spirit of my departed friend,
Calm through the troubled gloom descend,
With strains of triumph on thy tongue,
Such as to dying saints are sung;
Such as in Paradise the ear
Of God himself delights to hear;
—Come, all unseen; be only known
By Zion's harp of higher tone,
Warbling to thy mysterious voice;
Bid my desponding powers rejoice;
And I will listen to thy lay,
Till night and sorrow flee away,
Till gladness o'er my bosom rise,
And morning kindle round the skies.

If thus to me, sweet saint, be given
To learn from thee the hymns of heaven,
Thine inspiration will impart
Seraphic ardours to my heart;
My voice thy music shall prolong,
And echo thy entrancing song;
My lyre with sympathy divine
Shall answer every chord of thine,
Till their consenting tones give birth
To harmonies unknown on earth.
Then shall my thoughts, in living fire
Sent down from heaven, to heaven aspire;
My verse through lofty measures rise,
A scale of glory to the skies,
Resembling, on each hallow'd theme,
The ladder of the Patriarch's dream,
O'er which descending angels shone,
On earthly missions from the Throne,
Returning by the steps they trod,
Up to the Paradise of God.

1808.

THE PEAK MOUNTAINS. IN TWO PARTS.

WRITTEN AT BUXTON, IN AUGUST, 1812.

[_]

It may be useful to remark, that the scenery in the neighbourhood of Buxton, when surveyed from any of the surrounding eminences, consists chiefly of numerous and naked hills, of which many are yet unenclosed, and the rest poorly cultivated; the whole district, except in the immediate precincts of the Baths and the village of Fairfield, being miserably bare of both trees and houses.

Part I.

Health on these open hills I seek,
By these delicious springs, in vain;
The rose on this deserted cheek
Shall never bloom again;
For youth is fled;—and, less by time
Than sorrow worn away,

290

The pride, the strength, of manhood's prime
Falls to decay.

Restless and fluttering to expire,
Life's vapour sheds a cold dim light,
Frail as the evanescent fire
Amidst the murky night,
That tempts the traveller from afar
To follow, o'er the heath,
Its baleful and bewildering star
To snares of death.

A dreary torpor numbs my brain;
Now shivering pale,—now flush'd with heat;
Hurried, then slow, from vein to vein
Unequal pulses beat;
Quick palpitations heave my heart,
Anon it seems to sink;
Alarm'd at sudden sounds I start,
From shadows shrink.

Bear me, my failing limbs! O! bear
A melancholy sufferer forth,
To breathe abroad the mountain air
Fresh from the vigorous north;
To view the prospect, waste and wild,
Tempestuous or serene,
Still dear to me, as to the child
The mother's mien.

Ah! who can look on Nature's face,
And feel unholy passions move?
Her forms of majesty and grace
I cannot choose but love:
Her frowns or smiles my woes disarm,
Care and repining cease;
Her terrors awe, her beauties charm
My thoughts to peace.

Already through mine inmost soul
A deep tranquillity I feel,
O'er every nerve, with mild control,
Her consolations steal;
This fever'd frame and fretful mind,
Jarring midst doubts and fears,
Are soothed to harmony:—I find
Delight in tears.

I quit the path, and track with toil
The mountains' unfrequented maze;
Deep moss and heather clothe the soil,
And many a springlet plays,
That, welling from its secret source,
Down rugged dells is tost,
Or spreads through rushy fens its course,
Silently lost.

The flocks and herds, that freely range
These moorlands, turn a jealous eye,
As if the form of man were strange,
To watch me stealing by;
The heifer stands aloof to gaze,
The colt comes boldly on:—
I pause,—he shakes his forelock, neighs,
Starts, and is gone.

I seek the valley:—all alone
I seem in this sequester'd place:
Not so; I meet unseen, yet known,
My Maker face to face;
My heart perceives his presence nigh,
And hears his voice proclaim,
While bright his glory passes by,
His noblest name.

LOVE is that name,—for GOD is LOVE;
—Here, where, unbuilt by mortal hands,
Mountains below and heaven above,
His awful temple stands,
I worship:—“Lord! though I am dust
And ashes in thy sight,
Be thou my strength; in Thee I trust:
Be thou my light.”

Part II.

Emerging from the cavern'd glen,
From steep to steep I slowly climb,
And, far above the haunts of men,
I tread in air sublime:
Beneath my path the swallows sweep;
Yet higher crags impend,
And wild flowers from the fissures peep,
And rills descend.

Now on the ridges bare and bleak,
Cool round my temples sighs the gale:
Ye winds! that wander o'er the Peak;
Ye mountain spirits! hail!

291

Angels of health! to man below
Ye bring celestial airs;
Bear back to Him, from whom ye blow,
Our praise and prayers.

Here, like the eagle from his nest,
I take my proud and dizzy stand;
Here, from the cliff's sublimest crest,
Look down upon the land:
O for the eagle's eye to gaze
Undazzled through this light!
O for the eagle's wings to raise
O'er all my flight!

The sun in glory walks the sky,
White fleecy clouds are floating round,
Whose shapes along the landscape fly,—
Here, chequering o'er the ground;
There, down the glens the shadows sweep,
With changing lights between;
Yonder they climb the upland steep,
Shifting the scene.

Above, beneath, immensely spread,
Valleys and hoary rocks I view,
Heights over heights exalt their head,
Of many a sombre hue;
No waving woods their flanks adorn,
No hedge-rows, gay with trees,
Encircle fields, where floods of corn
Roll to the breeze.

My soul this vast horizon fills,
Within whose undulated line
Thick stand the multitude of hills,
And clear the waters shine;
Grey mossy walls the slopes ascend;
While roads, that tire the eye,
Upward their winding course extend,
And touch the sky.

With rude diversity of form,
The insulated mountains tower;
—Oft o'er these cliffs the transient storm
And partial darkness lower,
While yonder summits far away
Shine sweetly through the gloom,
Like glimpses of eternal day
Beyond the tomb.

Hither, of old, the Almighty came;
Clouds were his car, his steeds the wind:
Before Him went devouring flame,
And thunder roll'd behind;
At his approach the mountains reel'd
Like vessels to and fro;
Earth, heaving like a sea, reveal'd
The gulfs below.

Borne through the wilderness in wrath,
He seem'd in power alone a God;
But blessings follow'd in his path,
For Mercy seized his rod;
She smote the rock,—and, as He pass'd,
Forth gush'd a living stream;
The fire, the earthquake, and the blast
Fled as a dream.

Behold the everlasting hills,
In that convulsion scatter'd round;
Hark! from their caves the issuing rills
With sweetest music sound:
Ye lame and impotent! draw near;
With healing on her wing,
The cherub Mercy watches here
Her ancient spring.

TO ANN AND JANE.

VERSES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF IN THE SMALL VOLUME OF HYMNS FOR INFANT MINDS.

When the shades of night retire
From the morn's advancing beams,
Ere the hills are tipt with fire,
And the radiance lights the streams,
Lo! the lark begins her song,
Early on the wing, and long.

Summon'd by the signal notes,
Soon her sisters quit the lawn,
With their wildly warbling throats,
Soaring in the dappled dawn:
Brighter, warmer, spread the rays;
Louder, sweeter, swell their lays.

292

Nestlings, in their grassy beds,
Hearkening to the joyful sound,
Heavenward point their little heads,
Lowly twittering from the ground,
Ere their wings are fledged to fly
To the chorus in the sky.

Thus, fair Minstrels, while ye sing,
Teaching infant minds to raise
To the Universal King
Humble hymns of prayer and praise,
O may all who hear your voice
Look, and listen, and rejoice!

Faltering like the skylark's young,
While your numbers they record,
Soon may every heart and tongue
Learn to magnify the Lord;
And your strains divinely sweet,
Unborn millions thus repeat.

Minstrels! what reward is due
For this labour of your love?
—Through eternity may You,
In the Paradise above,
Round the dear Redeemer's feet,
All your infant readers meet!

OCCASIONAL ODE.

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE ROYAL BRITISH SYSTEM OF EDUCATION,

Held at Freemasons' Hall, May 16. 1812.

The lion o'er his wild domains
Rules with the terror of his eye;
The eagle of the rock maintains
By force his empire in the sky;
The shark, the tyrant of the flood,
Reigns through the deep with quenchless rage:
Parent and young, unwean'd from blood,
Are still the same from age to age.

Of all that live, and move, and breathe,
Man only rises o'er his birth;
He looks above, around, beneath,
At once the heir of heaven and earth:
Force, cunning, speed, which Nature gave
The various tribes throughout her plan,
Life to enjoy, from death to save,—
These are the lowest powers of Man.

From strength to strength he travels on:
He leaves the lingering brute behind;
And when a few short years are gone,
He soars, a disembodied mind:
Beyond the grave, his course sublime
Destined through nobler paths to run,
In his career the end of Time
Is but Eternity begun.

What guides him in his high pursuit,
Opens, illumines, cheers his way,
Discerns the immortal from the brute,
God's image from the mould of clay?
'Tis Knowledge:—Knowledge to the soul
Is power, and liberty, and peace;
And while celestial ages roll,
The joys of Knowledge shall increase.

Hail to the glorious plan, that spread
The light with universal beams,
And through the human desert led
Truth's living, pure, perpetual streams!
—Behold a new creation rise,
New spirit breathed into the clod,
Where'er the voice of Wisdom cries,
“Man, know thyself, and fear thy God.”

A DAUGHTER (C. M.) TO HER MOTHER.

On her Birth-day, Nov. 25. 1811.

This the day to me most dear
In the changes of the year:
Spring, the fields and woods adorning,
Spring may boast a gayer morning;
Summer noon with brighter beams
Gild the mountains and the streams;
Autumn, through the twilight vale,
Breathe a more delicious gale:
Yet, though stern November reigns
Wild and wintry o'er the plains,
Never does the morning rise
Half so welcome to mine eyes;

293

Noontide glories never shed
Rays so beauteous round my head;
Never looks the evening-scene
So enchantingly serene,
As on this returning day,
When, in spirit rapt away,
Joys and sorrows I have known,
In the years for ever flown,
Wake at every sound and sight,
Reminiscence of delight;—
All around me, all above,
Witnessing a Mother's love.

Love, that watch'd my early years
With conflicting hopes and fears;
Love, that through life's flowery May
Led my childhood, prone to stray;
Love, that still directs my youth
With the constancy of Truth,
Heightens every bliss it shares,
Softens and divides the cares,
Smiles away my light distress,
Weeps for joy, or tenderness:
—May that love, to latest age,
Cheer my earthly pilgrimage!
May that love, o'er death victorious,
Rise beyond the grave more glorious!
Souls, united here, would be
One to all eternity.

When these eyes from native night
First unfolded to the light,
On what object, fair and new,
Did they fix their fondest view?
On my Mother's smiling mien;
All the mother there was seen.
When their weary lids would close,
And she sang me to repose,
Found I not the sweetest rest
On my Mother's peaceful breast?
When my tongue from hers had caught
Sounds to utter infant thought,
Readiest then what accents came?
Those that meant my Mother's name.
When my timid feet begun,
Strangely pleased, to stand or run,
'Twas my Mother's voice and eye
Most encouraged me to try,
Safe to run, and strong to stand,
Holding by her gentle hand.

Time since then hath deeper made
Lines, where youthful dimples play'd;
Yet to me my Mother's face
Wears a more angelic grace;
And her tresses thin and hoary,
Are they not a crown of glory?—
Cruel griefs have wrung that breast,
Once my Paradise of rest:
While in these I bear a part,
Warmer grows my Mother's heart,
Closer our affections twine,
Mine with hers, and hers with mine.
—Many a name, since hers I knew,
Have I loved with honour due,
But no name shall be more dear
Than my Mother's to mine ear.—
Many a hand that friendship plighted
Have I clasp'd, with all delighted,
But more faithful none can be
Than my Mother's hand to me.

Thus by every tie endear'd,
Thus with filial reverence fear'd,
Mother! on this day 'tis meet
That, with salutation sweet,
I should wish you years of health,
Worldly happiness and wealth,
And, when good old age is past,
Heaven's eternal peace at last!
But with these I frame a vow
For a double blessing now;
One, that richly shall combine
Your felicity with mine;
One, in which with soul and voice
Both together may rejoice:
O what shall that blessing be?
—Dearest Mother! may you see
All your prayers fulfill'd for me!

CHATTERTON.

[_]

Stanzas on reading the Verses entitled ‘Resignation,’ written by Chatterton a few days before his melancholy end.

A dying swan of Pindus sings
In wildly mournful strains;
As Death's cold fingers snap the strings,
His suffering lyre complains.

294

Soft as the mist of evening wends
Along the shadowy vale:
Sad as in storms the moon ascends,
And turns the darkness pale:

So soft the melting numbers flow
From his harmonious lips;
So sad his woe-wan features show,
Just fading in eclipse.

The Bard, to dark despair resign'd,
With his expiring art,
Sings, midst the tempest of his mind,
The shipwreck of his heart.

If Hope still seem to linger nigh,
And hover o'er his head,
Her pinions are too weak to fly,
Or Hope ere now had fled.

Rash Minstrel! who can hear thy songs,
Nor long to share thy fire?
Who read thine errors and thy wrongs,
Nor execrate the lyre?

The lyre, that sunk thee to the grave,
When bursting into bloom,—
That lyre, the power to Genius gave
To blossom in the tomb.

Yes, till his memory fail with years,
Shall Time thy strains recite;
And while thy story swells his tears,
Thy song shall charm his flight.

1802.

THE WILD ROSE.

ON PLUCKING ONE LATE IN THE MONTH OF OCTOBER.

Thou last pale promise of the waning year,
Poor sickly Rose! what dost thou here?
Why, frail flower! so late a comer,
Hast thou slept away the Summer?
Since now, in Autumn's sullen reign,
When ev'ry breeze
Unrobes the trees,
And strews their annual garments on the plain,
Awaking from repose,
Thy fairy lids unclose.

Feeble, evanescent flower,
Smile away thy sunless hour;
Every daisy, in my walk,
Scorns thee from its humbler stalk:
Nothing but thy form discloses
Thy descent from royal roses:
How thine ancestors would blush
To behold thee on their bush,
Drooping thy dejected head
Where their bolder blossoms spread;
Withering in the frosty gale,
Where their fragrance fill'd the vale!

Last and meanest of thy race,
Void of beauty, colour, grace,
No bee delighted sips
Ambrosia from thy lips;
No spangling dew-drops gem
Thy fine elastic stem;
No living lustre glistens o'er thy bloom,
Thy sprigs no verdant leaves adorn,
Thy bosom breathes no exquisite perfume;
But pale thy countenance as snow,
While, unconceal'd below,
All naked glares the threatening thorn.

Around thy bell, o'er mildew'd leaves,
His ample web a spider weaves;
A wily ruffian, gaunt and grim,
His labyrinthine toils he spreads
Pensile and light;—their glossy threads
Bestrew'd with many a wing and limb;
Even in thy chalice he prepares
His deadly poison and delusive snares.

While I pause, a vagrant fly
Giddily comes buzzing by;
Round and round, on viewless wings,
Lo! the insect wheels and sings:
Closely couch'd, the fiend discovers,
Sets him with his sevenfold eyes,
And, while o'er the verge he hovers,
Seems to fascinate his prize,

295

As the snake's magnetic glare
Charms the flitting tribes of air,
Till the dire enchantment draws
Destined victims to his jaws.
Now midst kindred corses mangled,
On his feet alights the fly;
Ah! he feels himself entangled,
Hark! he pours a piteous cry.
Swift as Death's own arrows dart,
On his prey the spider springs,
Wounds his side,—with dexterous art
Winds the web about his wings;
Quick as he came, recoiling then,
The villain vanishes into his den.
The desperate fly perceives too late
The hastening crisis of his fate;
Disaster-crowds upon disaster,
And every struggle to get free
Snaps the hopes of liberty,
And draws the knots of bondage faster.

Again the spider glides along the line;
Hold, murderer! hold;—the game is mine.
—Captive! unwarn'd by danger, go,
Frolic awhile in light and air;
Thy fate 'tis easy to foreshow,
Preserved—to perish in a safer snare!
Spider! thy worthless life I spare;
Advice on thee 'twere vain to spend,
Thy wicked ways thou wilt not mend,—
Then haste thee, spoiler, mend thy net;
Wiser than I
Must be yon fly,
If he escapes thy trammels yet;
Most eagerly the trap is sought
In which a fool has once been caught.

And thou, poor Rose! whose livid leaves expand,
Cold to the sun, untempting to the hand,
Bloom unadmired, uninjured die;
Thine aspect, squalid and forlorn,
Ensures thy peaceful, dull decay:
Hadst thou with blushes hid thy thorn,
Grown “sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye,”
I might have pluck'd thy flower,
Worn it an hour,
“Then cast it like a loathsome weed away.”

1796.

ON FINDING THE FEATHERS OF A LINNET

SCATTERED ON THE GROUND IN A SOLITARY WALK.

These little relics, hapless bird!
That strew the lonely vale,
With silent eloquence record
Thy melancholy tale.

Like Autumn's leaves, that rustle round
From every withering tree,
These plumes, dishevell'd o'er the ground,
Alone remain of thee.

Some hovering kite's rapacious maw
Hath been thy timeless grave:
No pitying eye thy murder saw,
No friend appear'd to save.

Heaven's thunder smite the guilty foe!
No:—spare the tyrant's breath,
Till wintry winds, and famine slow,
Avenge thy cruel death!

But every feather of thy wing
Be quicken'd where it lies,
And at the soft return of Spring,
A fragrant cowslip rise!

Few were thy days, thy pleasures few,
Simple and unconfined;
On sunbeams every moment flew,
Nor left a care behind.

In Spring to build thy curious nest,
And woo thy merry bride,
Carol and fly, and sport and rest,
Was all thy humble pride.

Happy beyond the lot of kings,
Thy bosom knew no smart,
Till the last pang, that tore the strings
From thy dissever'd heart.

When late to secret griefs a prey,
I wander'd slowly here,
Wild from the copse an artless lay,
Like magic, won mine ear.

296

Perhaps 'twas thy last evening song,
That exquisitely stole
In sweetest melody along,
And harmonised my soul.

Now, blithe musician! now no more
The mellow pipe resounds,
But jarring drums at distance roar,
And yonder howl the hounds:—

The hounds, that through the echoing wood
The panting hare pursue;
The drums, that wake the cry of blood,
—The voice of glory too!

Here at my feet thy frail remains,
Unwept, unburied, lie,
Like victims on embattled plains,
Forsaken where they die.

Yet could the Muse, whose strains rehearse
Thine unregarded doom,
Enshrine thee in immortal verse,
Kings should not scorn thy tomb.

Though brief as thine my tuneful date,
When wandering near this spot,
The sad memorials of thy fate
Shall never be forgot.

While doom'd the lingering pangs to feel,
Of many a nameless fear,
One truant sigh from these I'll steal,
And drop one willing tear.

1796.

SONNET.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF P. SALANDRI.

TO A BRIDE.

The more divinely beautiful thou art,
Lady! of love's inconstancy beware;
Watch o'er thy charms, and with an angel's care
O guard thy maiden purity of heart:
At every whisper of temptation start;
The lightest breathings of unhallow'd air
Love's tender trembling lustre will impair,
Till all the light of innocence depart.

Fresh from the bosom of an Alpine hill,
When the coy fountain sparkles into day,
And sunbeams bathe and brighten in its rill;
If here a plant, and there a flower, in play,
Bending to sip, the little channel fill,
It ebbs, and languishes, and dies away.

SONNET.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH.

Lonely and thoughtful o'er deserted plains,
I pass with melancholy steps and slow,
Mine eyes intent to shun, where'er I go,
The track of man:—from him to hide my pains,
No refuge save the wilderness remains:
The curious multitude would quickly know,
Amidst affected smiles, the cherish'd woe
That wrings my bosom, and consumes my veins.

O that the rocks and streams of solitude,
The vales and woods, alone my griefs might see!
But paths, however secret, wild and rude,
I find not from tormenting passion free;
Where'er I wander, still by Love pursued,
With Him I hold communion, He with Me.

SONNET.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GAETANA PASSERINI.

ON THE SIEGE OF GENOA BY THE FRENCH ARMY IN 1684.

Liberty speaks.

“My native Genoa! if with tearless eye,
Prone in the dust thy beauteous form I see,
Think not thy daughter's heart is dead to thee;
'Twere treason, O my mother! here to sigh,
For here, majestic though in ashes, lie
Trophies of valour, skill, and constancy;
Here at each glance, each footstep, I descry
The proud memorials of thy love to me.

“Conquest to noble suffering lost the day,
And glorious was thy vengeance on the foe,
—He saw thee perish, yet not feel the blow.”
Thus Liberty, exulting on her way,
Kiss'd the dear relics, mouldering as they lay,
And cried,—“In ruins?—Yes! In slavery?—No.”

297

SONNET.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF BENEDETTO DALL' UVA.

ON THE SIEGE OF FAMAGUSTA, IN THE ISLAND OF CYPRUS, BY THE TURKS, IN 1571.

Thus saith the Lord:—“In whom shall Cyprus trust,
With all her crimes, her luxury, and pride?
In her voluptuous loves will she confide,
Her harlot-daughters, and her queen of lust?
My day is come when o'er her neck in dust
Vengeance and fury shall triumphant ride,
Death and captivity the spoil divide,
And Cyprus perish:—I the Lord am just.

“Then he that bought, and he that sold in thee,
Thy princely merchants, shall their loss deplore,
Brothers in ruin as in fraud before;
And thou, who madest thy rampart of the sea,
Less by thy foes cast down than crush'd by Me!
Thou, Famagusta! fall, and rise no more.”

DEPARTED DAYS: A RHAPSODY,

Written on visiting Fulneck, in Yorkshire (where the Author was educated), in the Spring of 1806.

Days of my childhood, hail!
Whose gentle spirits wandering here,
Down in the visionary vale,
Before mine eyes appear,
Benignly pensive, beautifully pale;
O days for ever fled, for ever dear,
Days of my childhood, hail!
Joys of my early hours!
The swallows on the wing,
The bees among the flowers,
The butterflies of Spring,
Light as their lovely moments flew,
Were not more gay, more innocent, than you:
And fugitive as they,
Like butterflies in Spring,
Like bees among the flowers,
Like swallows on the wing,
How swift, how soon, ye pass'd away,
Joys of my early hours!

The loud Atlantic ocean,
On Scotland's rugged breast,
Rocks, with harmonious motion,
His weary waves to rest,
And, gleaming round her emerald isles,
In all the pomp of sunset smiles.
On that romantic shore
My parents hail'd their first-born boy:
A mother's pangs my mother bore,
My father felt a father's joy:
My father, mother,—parents now no more!
Beneath the Lion-Star they sleep,
Beyond the western deep,
And when the sun's noon-glory crests the waves,
He shines without a shadow on their graves.

Sweet seas, and smiling shores!
When no tornado-demon roars,
Resembling that celestial clime
Where, with the spirits of the blest,
Beyond the hurricanes of Time,
From all their toils my parents rest:
There, skies eternally serene
Diffuse ambrosial balm
Through sylvan isles for ever green,
O'er seas for ever calm;

298

While saints and angels, kindling in his rays,
On the full glory of the Godhead gaze,
And taste and prove, in that transporting sight,
Joy without sorrow, without darkness light.

Light without darkness, without sorrow joy,
On earth are all unknown to man;
Here, while I roved, a heedless boy,
Here, while through paths of peace I ran,
My feet were vex'd with puny snares,
My bosom stung with insect-cares:
But ah! what light and little things
Are childhood's woes!—they break no rest;
Like dew-drops on the sky-lark's wings,
While slumbering in his grassy nest,
Gone in a moment, when he springs
To meet the morn with open breast,
As o'er the eastern hills her banners glow,
And veil'd in mist the valley sleeps below.

Like him, on these delightful plains,
I taught, with fearless voice,
The echoing woods to sound my strains,
The mountains to rejoice.
Hail! to the trees beneath whose shade,
Rapt into worlds unseen, I stray'd;
Hail! to the stream that purl'd along
In hoarse accordance to my song;
My song that pour'd uncensured lays,
Tuned to a dying Saviour's praise,
In numbers simple, wild, and sweet,
As were the flowers beneath my feet;—
Those flowers are dead,
Those numbers fled,
Yet o'er my secret thought,
From cold Oblivion's silent gloom,
Their music to mine ear is brought,
Like voices from the tomb.
As yet in this untainted breast
No baleful passion burn'd,
Ambition had not banish'd rest,
Nor Hope had earthward turn'd;
Proud Reason still in shadow lay,
And in my firmament alone,
Forerunner of the day,
The dazzling star of wonder shone,
By whose enchanting ray
Creation open'd on my earliest view,
And all was beautiful, for all was new.

Too soon my mind's awakening powers
Made the light slumbers flee,
Then vanish'd with the golden hours,
The morning dreams, of Infancy;
Sweet were those slumbers, dear those dreams, to me;
And yet to mournful Memory lingering here,
Sweet are those slumbers, and those dreams are dear;
For hither, from my native clime,
The hand that leads Orion forth,
And wheels Arcturus round the north,
Brought me, in Life's exulting prime:
—Blest be that hand!—Whether it shed
Mercies or judgments on my head,
Extend the sceptre or exalt the rod,—
Blest be that hand!—It is the hand of GOD.

299

HOPE.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF SERAFINO AQUILANO.

Hope, unyielding to despair,
Springs for ever fresh and fair;
Earth's serenest prospects fly,
Hope's enchantments never die.

At Fortune's frown, in evil hour,
Though honour, wealth, and friends depart,
She cannot drive, with all her power,
This lonely solace from the heart:
And while this the soul sustains,
Fortune still unchanged remains;
Wheresoe'er her wheel she guides,
Hope upon the circle rides.

The Syrens, deep in ocean's caves,
Sing while abroad the tempests roar,
Expecting soon the frantic waves
To ripple on a smiling shore:
In the whirlwind, o'er the spray,
They behold the halcyon play;
And through midnight clouds afar
Hope lights up the morning star.

This pledge of bliss in future years
Makes smooth and easy every toil;
The swain who sows the waste with tears,
In fancy reaps a teeming soil:
What though mildew blight his joy,
Frost or flood his crops destroy,
War compel his feet to roam,
Hope still carols Harvest Home!

The monarch exiled from his realm,
The slave in fetters at the oar,
The seaman sinking by the helm,
The captive on his dungeon floor;
All, through peril, pain, and death,
Fondly cling to parting breath:
Glory, freedom, power, are past,
But the dream of hope will last.

Weary and faint, with sickness worn,
Blind, lame, and deaf, and bent with age,
By man the load of life is borne
To his last step of pilgrimage:
Though the branch no longer shoot,
Vigour lingers at the root,
And in Winter's dreariest day
Hope foretels returning May.

When, wrung with guilt, the wretch would end
His gloomy days in sudden night,
Hope comes, an unexpected friend,
To win him back to hated light:
“Hold!” she cries; and from his hand
Plucks the suicidal brand;
“Now await a happier doom,
Hope will cheer thee to the tomb.”

When virtue droops, as comforts fail,
And sore afflictions press the mind,
Sweet Hope prolongs her pleasing tale,
Till all the world again looks kind:
Round the good man's dying bed,
Were the wreck of Nature spread,
Hope would set his spirit free,
Crying—“Immortality!”

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

A Mother's Love,—how sweet the name!
What is a Mother's Love?
—A noble, pure, and tender flame,
Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold:
This is a Mother's Love.

To bring a helpless babe to light,
Then, while it lies forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,
And feel herself new-born,
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone:
This is a Mother's Love.

300

Its weakness in her arms to bear;
To cherish on her breast,
Feed it from Love's own fountain there,
And lull it there to rest;
Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath,
As if to guard from instant death:
This is a Mother's Love.

To mark its growth from day to day,
Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray
Of intellectual fire;
smile and listen while it talks,
And lend a finger when it walks:
This is a Mother's Love.

And can a Mother's Love grow cold?
Can she forget her boy?
His pleading innocence behold,
Nor weep for grief—for joy?
A Mother may forget her child,
While wolves devour it on the wild;
Is this a Mother's Love?

Ten thousand voices answer “No!”
Ye clasp your babes and kiss;
Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow;
Yet, ah! remember this,—
The infant, rear'd alone for earth,
May live, may die,—to curse his birth;
—Is this a Mother's Love?

A parent's heart may prove a snare;
The child she loves so well,
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,
Down the smooth road to hell;
Nourish its frame,—destroy its mind:
Thus do the blind mislead the blind,
Even with a Mother's Love.

Blest infant! whom his mother taught
Early to seek the Lord,
And pour'd upon his dawning thought
The day-spring of the word;
This was the lesson to her son—
Time is Eternity begun:
Behold that Mother's Love.

Blest Mother! who, in wisdom's path
By her own parent trod,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,
And know the fear, of God:
Ah, youth! like him enjoy your prime;
Begin Eternity in time,
Taught by that Mother's Love.

That Mother's Love!—how sweet the name!
What was that Mother's Love?
—The noblest, purest, tenderest flame,
That kindles from above,
Within a heart of earthly mould,
As much of heaven as heart can hold,
Nor through eternity grows cold:
This was that Mother's Love.

1814.

THE TIME-PIECE.

Who is He, so swiftly flying,
His career no eye can see?
Who are They, so early dying,
From their birth they cease to be?
Time:—behold his pictured face!
Moments:—can you count their race?

Though, with aspect deep-dissembling,
Here he feigns unconscious sleep,
Round and round this circle trembling,
Day and night his symbols creep,
While, unseen, through earth and sky
His unwearying pinions ply.

Hark! what petty pulses, beating,
Spring new moments into light;
Every pulse, its stroke repeating,
Sends its moment back to night;
Yet not one of all the train
Comes uncall'd, or flits in vain.

In the highest realms of glory,
Spirits trace, before the Throne,

301

On eternal scrolls, the story
Of each little moment flown;
Every deed, and word, and thought,
Through the whole creation wrought.

Were the volume of a minute
Thus to mortal sight unroll'd,
More of sin and sorrow in it,
More of man, might we behold,
Than on History's broadest page
In the relics of an age.

Who could bear the revelation?
Who abide the sudden test?
—With instinctive consternation,
Hands would cover every breast,
Loudest tongues at once be hush'd,
Pride in all its writhings crush'd.

Who, with leer malign exploring
On his neighbour's shame durst look?
Would not each, intensely poring
On that record in the book,
Which his inmost soul reveal'd,
Wish its leaves for ever seal'd?

Seal'd they are for years, and ages,
Till,—the earth's last circuit run,
Empire changed through all its stages,
Risen and set the latest sun,—
On the sea and on the land
Shall a midnight Angel stand:—

Stand;—and, while the' abysses tremble,
Swear that Time shall be no more:
Quick and Dead shall then assemble,
Men and Demons range before
That tremendous judgment-seat
Where both worlds at issue meet.

Time himself, with all his legions,
Days, Months, Years, since Nature's birth,
Shall revive,—and from all regions,
Singling out the sons of earth,
With their glory or disgrace,
Charge their spenders face to face.

Every moment of my being
Then shall pass before mine eyes:
—God, all-searching! God, all-seeing!
Oh! appease them, ere they rise:
Warn'd I fly, I fly to Thee;
God be merciful to me!

Liverpool, 1816.

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. THOMAS SPENCER, OF LIVERPOOL,

WHO WAS DROWNED WHILE BATHING IN THE TIDE, ON THE 5TH OF AUGUST, 1811, IN HIS 21ST YEAR.

“Thy way is in the sea, and thy path in the great waters; and thy footsteps are not known.”— Psalm lxxvii. 19.

I will not sing a mortal's praise;
To Thee I consecrate my lays,
To whom my powers belong!
These gifts upon thine altar strown,
O God! accept—accept thine own;
My gifts are Thine,—be Thine alone
The glory of my song.

In earth and ocean, sky and air,
All that is excellent and fair,
Seen, felt, or understood,
From one eternal cause descends,
To one eternal centre tends,
With God begins, continues, ends,
The source and stream of good.

I worship not the Sun at noon,
The wandering Stars, the changing Moon,
The Wind, the Flood, the Flame;
I will not bow the votive knee
To Wisdom, Virtue, Liberty:
“There is no God but God” for me;
—Jehovah is his name.

Him through all nature I explore,
Him in his creatures I adore,
Around, beneath, above;
But clearest in the human mind,
His bright resemblance when I find,
Grandeur with purity combined,
I most admire and love.

302

Oh! there was One,—on earth a while
He dwelt;—but, transient as a smile
That turns into a tear,
His beauteous image pass'd us by;
He came like lightning from the sky,
He seem'd as dazzling to the eye,
As prompt to disappear.

Mild in his undissembling mien,
Were genius, candour, meekness seen;
—The lips, that loved the truth;
The single eye, whose glance sublime
Look'd to eternity through time;
The soul, whose hopes were wont to climb
Above the joys of youth.

Of old, before the lamp grew dark,
Reposing near the curtain'd ark,
The child of Hannah's prayer
Heard, through the temple's silent round,
A living voice, nor knew the sound,
—That thrice alarm'd him, ere he found
The Lord, who chose him there.

Thus early call'd, and strongly moved,
A prophet from a child, approved,
Spencer his course began;
From strength to strength, from grace to grace,
Swiftest and foremost in the race,
He carried victory in his face;
He triumph'd as he ran.

How short his day!—the glorious prize,
To our slow hearts and failing eyes,
Appear'd too quickly won:
—The warrior rush'd into the field,
With arm invincible to wield
The Spirit's sword, the Spirit's shield,
When, lo! the fight was done.

The loveliest star of evening's train
Sets early in the western main,
And leaves the world in night;
The brightest star of morning's host,
Scarce risen, in brighter beams is lost:
Thus sank his form on ocean's coast,
Thus sprang his soul to light.

Who shall forbid the eye to weep,
That saw him, from the ravening deep,
Pluck'd like the lion's prey?
For ever bow'd his honour'd head,
The spirit in a moment fled,
The heart of friendship cold and dead,
The limbs a wreath of clay!

Revolving his mysterious lot,
I mourn him, but I praise him not:
Glory to God be given,
Who sent him, like the radiant bow,
His covenant of peace to show;
Athwart the breaking storm to glow,
Then vanish into heaven.

O Church! to whom that youth was dear,
The Angel of thy mercies here,
Behold the path he trod,
“A milky way” through midnight skies!
—Behold the grave in which he lies;
Even from this dust thy prophet cries,
“Prepare to meet thy GOD.”

HUMAN LIFE.

[_]

Job, xiv.

How few and evil are thy days,
Man, of a woman born!
Trouble and peril haunt thy ways:
—Forth like a flower at morn
The tender infant springs to light,
Youth blossoms with the breeze,
Age, withering age, is cropt ere night,
—Man like a shadow flees.

And dost Thou look on such an one?
Will God to judgment call
A worm, for what a worm hath done
Against the Lord of all?
As fail the waters from the deep,
As summer brooks run dry,
Man lieth down in dreamless sleep:
—Our life is vanity.

Man lieth down, no more to wake,
Till yonder arching sphere

303

Shall with a roll of thunder break,
And Nature disappear.
—Oh! hide me, till thy wrath be past,
Thou, who canst kill or save;
Hide me, where hope may anchor fast,
In my Redeemer's grave.

THE VISIBLE CREATION.

The God of Nature and of Grace
In all his works appears;
His goodness through the earth we trace,
His grandeur in the spheres.

Behold this fair and fertile globe,
By Him in wisdom plann'd;
'Twas He who girded, like a robe,
The ocean round the land.

Lift to the firmament your eye,
Thither his path pursue;
His glory, boundless as the sky,
O'erwhelms the wondering view.

He bows the heavens—the mountains stand
A highway for their God;
He walks amidst the desert land,
—'Tis Eden where He trod.

The forests in his strength rejoice;
Hark! on the evening breeze,
As once of old, the Lord God's voice
Is heard among the trees.

Here on the hills He feeds his herds,
His flocks on yonder plains:
His praise is warbled by the birds;
—O could we catch their strains!

—Mount with the lark, and bear our song
Up to the gates of light,
Or with the nightingale prolong
Our numbers through the night!

In every stream His bounty flows,
Diffusing joy and wealth;
In every breeze His spirit blows,
—The breath of life and health.

His blessings fall in plenteous showers
Upon the lap of earth,
That teems with foliage, fruit, and flowers,
And rings with infant mirth.

If God hath made this world so fair,
Where sin and death abound,
How beautiful beyond compare
Will Paradise be found!

SONNET.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GAETANA PASSERINI.

If in the field I meet a smiling flower,
Methinks it whispers, “God created me,
And I to Him devote my little hour,
In lonely sweetness and humility.”
If, where the forest's darkest shadows lower,
A serpent quick and venomous I see,
It seems to say,—“I, too, extol the power
Of Him who caused me, at his will, to be.”

The fountain purling, and the river strong,
The rocks, the trees, the mountains, raise one song;
“Glory to God!” re-echoes in mine ear:
Faithless were I, in wilful error blind,
Did I not Him in all his creatures find,
His voice through heaven, and earth, and ocean hear.

SONNET.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GIAMBATTISTA COTTA.

I saw the' eternal God, in robes of light,
Rise from his throne,—to judgment forth he came;
His presence pass'd before me, like the flame
That fires the forest in the depth of night:
Whirlwind and storm, amazement and affright,
Compass'd his path, and shook all Nature's frame,
When from the heaven of heavens, with loud acclaim,
To earth he wing'd his instantaneous flight.

304

As some triumphal oak, whose boughs have spread
Their changing foliage through a thousand years,
Bows to the rushing wind its glorious head,
The universal arch of yonder spheres
Sunk with the pressure of its Maker's tread,
And earth's foundations quaked with mortal fears.

SONNET.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF CRESCIMBENI.

I ask'd the Heavens,—“What foe to God hath done
This unexampled deed?”—The Heavens exclaim,
“'Twas Man;—and we in horror snatch'd the sun
From such a spectacle of guilt and shame.”

I ask'd the Sea;—the Sea in fury boil'd,
And answer'd with his voice of storms, “'Twas Man:
My waves in panic at his crime recoil'd,
Disclosed the' abyss, and from the centre ran.”

I ask'd the Earth;—the Earth replied, aghast,
“'Twas Man;—and such strange pangs my bosom rent,
That still I groan and shudder at the past.”
—To Man, gay, smiling, thoughtless Man, I went,
And ask'd him next:—He turn'd a scornful eye,
Shook his proud head, and deign'd me no reply.

THE BIBLE.

What is the world!—A wildering maze,
Where Sin hath track'd ten thousand ways,
Her victims to ensnare;
All broad, and winding, and aslope,
All tempting with perfidious hope,
All ending in despair.

Millions of pilgrims throng those roads,
Bearing their baubles, or their loads,
Down to eternal night;
—One humble path, that never bends,
Narrow, and rough, and steep, ascends
From darkness into light.

Is there a Guide to show that path?
The Bible:—He alone, who hath
The Bible, need not stray:
Yet he who hath, and will not give
That heavenly Guide to all that live,
Himself shall lose the way.

1815.

INSTRUCTION.

From heaven descend the drops of dew,
From heaven the gracious showers,
Earth's Winter-aspect to renew,
And clothe the Spring with flowers;
From heaven the beams of morning flow,
That melt the gloom of night;
From heaven the evening breezes blow,
Health, fragrance, and delight.

Like genial dew, like fertile showers,
The words of wisdom fall,
Awaken man's unconscious powers,
Strength out of weakness call:
Like morning-beams they strike the mind,
Its loveliness reveal;
And softer than the evening wind
The wounded spirit heal.

As dew and rain, as light and air,
From heaven Instruction came,
The waste of Nature to repair,
Kindle a sacred flame;
A flame to purify the earth,
Exalt her sons on high,
And train them for their second birth,—
Their birth beyond the sky.

Albion! on every human soul,
By thee be knowledge shed,
Far as the ocean-waters roll,
Wide as the shores are spread:
Truth makes thy children free at home;
Oh! that thy flag, unfurl'd,
Might shine, where'er thy children roam,
Truth's banner round the world.

London, 1812.

305

THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER.

OCCASIONED BY THE SUDDEN DEATH OF THE REV. THOMAS TAYLOR; After having declared, in his last Sermon, on a preceding evening, that he hoped to die as an old soldier of Jesus Christ, with his sword in his hand.

“Servant of God! well done;
Rest from thy loved employ;
The battle fought, the victory won,
Enter thy Master's joy.”
—The voice at midnight came;
He started up to hear:
A mortal arrow pierced his frame,
He fell,—but felt no fear.

Tranquil amidst alarms,
It found him in the field,
A veteran slumbering on his arms,
Beneath his red-cross shield:
His sword was in his hand,
Still warm with recent fight,
Ready that moment at command,
Through rock and steel to smite.

It was a two-edged blade,
Of heavenly temper keen;
And double were the wounds it made,
Where'er it smote between:
'Twas death to sin;—'twas life
To all that mourn'd for sin;
It kindled and it silenced strife,
Made war and peace within.

Oft, with its fiery force,
His arm had quell'd the foe,
And laid, resistless in his course,
The alien-armies low
Bent on such glorious toils,
The world to him was loss;
Yet all his trophies, all his spoils,
He hung upon the cross.

At midnight came the cry,
“To meet thy God prepare!”
He woke, and caught his Captain's eye;
Then, strong in faith and prayer,
His spirit, with a bound,
Burst its encumbering clay;
His tent at sunrise, on the ground,
A darken'd ruin lay.

The pains of death are past,
Labour and sorrow cease,
And, life's long warfare closed at last,
His soul is found in peace.
Soldier of Christ! well done;
Praise be thy new employ;
And while eternal ages run,
Rest in thy Saviour's joy.

ON THE ROYAL INFANT,

Still-born, Nov. 5. 1817.

A throne on earth awaited thee;
A nation long'd to see thy face,
Heir to a glorious ancestry,
And father of a mightier race.

Vain hope! that throne thou must not fill;
Thee may that nation ne'er behold;
Thine ancient house is heirless still,
Thy line shall never be unroll'd.

Yet, while we mourn thy flight from earth,
Thine was a destiny sublime;
Caught up to Paradise in birth,
Pluck'd by Eternity from Time.

The Mother knew her offspring dead:
Oh! was it grief, or was it love,
That broke her heart?—The spirit fled
To seek her nameless child above.

Led by his natal star, she trod
The path to heaven:—the meeting there,
And how they stood before their God,
The day of judgment shall declare.

A MIDNIGHT THOUGHT.

In a land of strange delight,
My transported spirit stray'd;
I awake where all is night,
Silence, solitude, and shade.

306

Is the dream of Nature flown?
Is the universe destroy'd,
Man extinct, and I alone
Breathing through the formless void?

No:—my soul, in God rejoice!
Through the gloom his light I see,
In the silence hear his voice,
And his hand is over me.

When I slumber in the tomb,
He will guard my resting-place:
Fearless in the day of doom,
May I stand before his face!

INCOGNITA.

ON VIEWING THE PICTURE OF AN UNKNOWN LADY.

WRITTEN AT LEAMINGTON, IN 1817.

“She was a phantom of delight.” —Wordsworth.

Image of One, who lived of yore!
Hail to that lovely mien,
Once quick and conscious,—now no more
On land or ocean seen!
Were all earth's breathing forms to pass
Before me in Agrippa's glass,
Many as fair as Thou might be,
But, oh! not one—not one—like Thee.

Thou art no Child of Fancy;—Thou
The very look dost wear,
That gave enchantment to a brow,
Wreathed with luxuriant hair;
Lips of the morn embathed in dew,
And eyes of evening's starry blue;
Of all who e'er enjoy'd the sun,
Thou art the image of but One.

And who was she, in virgin prime,
And May of womanhood,
Whose roses here, unpluck'd by Time,
In shadowy tints have stood;
While many a winter's withering blast
Hath o'er the dark cold chamber pass'd,
In which her once-resplendent form
Slumber'd to dust beneath the storm?

Of gentle blood;—upon her birth
Consenting planets smiled,
And she had seen those days of mirth
That frolic round the child;
To bridal bloom her strength had sprung,
Behold her beautiful and young!
Lives there a record, which hath told
That she was wedded, widow'd, old?

How long her date, 'twere vain to guess:
The pencil's cunning art
Can but a single glance express,
One motion of the heart;
A smile, a blush,—a transient grace
Of air, and attitude, and face;
One passion's changing colours mix,
One moment's flight for ages fix.

Her joys and griefs alike in vain
Would fancy here recall;
Her throbs of ecstasy or pain
Lull'd in oblivion all;
With her, methinks, life's little hour
Pass'd like the fragrance of a flower,
That leaves upon the vernal wind
Sweetness we ne'er again may find.

Where dwelt she?—Ask yon aged tree,
Whose boughs embower the lawn,
Whether the birds' wild ministrelsy
Awoke her here at dawn?
Whether beneath its youthful shade,
At noon, in infancy she play'd?
—If from the oak no answer come,
Of her all oracles are dumb.

The Dead are like the stars by day;
—Withdrawn from mortal eye,
But not extinct, they hold their way
In glory through the sky:

307

Spirits, from bondage thus set free,
Vanish amidst immensity,
Where human thought, like human sight,
Fails to pursue their trackless flight.

Somewhere within created space,
Could I explore that round,
In bliss, or woe, there is a place
Where she might still be found;
And oh! unless those eyes deceive,
I may, I must, I will believe,
That she, whose charms so meekly glow,
Is what she only seem'd below;—

An angel in that glorious realm
Where God himself is King:
—But awe and fear, that overwhelm
Presumption, check my wing;
Nor dare imagination look
Upon the symbols of that book,
Wherein eternity enrols
The judgments on departed souls.

Of Her of whom these pictured lines
A faint resemblance form;
Fair as the second rainbow shines
Aloof amid the storm;—
Of Her, this “shadow of a shade,”
Like its original, must fade,
And She, forgotten when unseen,
Shall be as if she ne'er had been.

Ah! then, perchance, this dreaming strain
Of all that e'er I sung,
A lorn memorial may remain,
When silent lies my tongue;
When shot the meteor of my fame,
Lost the vain echo of my name,
This leaf, this fallen leaf, may be
The only trace of her and me.

With One who lived of old, my song
In lowly cadence rose;
To One who is unborn, belong
The accents of its close:
Ages to come, with courteous ear,
Some youth my warning voice may hear;
And voices from the dead should be
The warnings of eternity.

When these weak lines thy presence greet,
Reader! if I am blest,
Again, as spirits, may we meet
In glory and in rest!
If not,—and I have lost my way,
Here part we,—go not Thou astray:
No tomb, no verse, my story tell;
Once, and for ever, Fare Thee well!

THE LITTLE CLOUD.

[_]

Seen in a country excursion among the woods and rocks of Wharncliffe and the adjacent park and pleasure-grounds of Wortley Hall, the seat of the Right Honourable Lord Wharncliffe, near Sheffield, on the 30th day of June, 1818.

The summer sun was in the west,
Yet far above his evening rest;
A thousand clouds in air display'd
Their floating isles of light and shade,—
The sky, like ocean's channels, seen
In long meandering streaks between.

Cultured and waste, the landscape lay,
Woods, mountains, valleys stretch'd away,
And throng'd the' immense horizon round,
With heaven's eternal girdle bound;
From inland towns, eclipsed with smoke,
Steeples in lonely grandeur broke;
Hamlets, and cottages, and streams
By glimpses caught the casual gleams,
Or blazed in lustre broad and strong
Beyond the picturing powers of song:
O'er all the eye enchanted ranged,
While colours, forms, proportions changed,
Or sunk in distance undefined,
Still as our devious course inclined,
—And oft we paused, and look'd behind.

One little cloud, and only one,
Seem'd the pure offspring of the sun,
Flung from his orb to show us here
What clouds adorn his hemisphere;
Unmoved, unchanging in the gale,
That bore the rest o'er hill and dale,
Whose shadowy shapes, with lights around,
Like living motions, swept the ground,

308

This little cloud, and this alone,
Long in the highest ether shone;
Gay as a warrior's banner spread,
Its sunward margin ruby-red,
Green, purple, gold, and every hue
That glitters in the morning-dew,
Or glows along the rainbow's form,—
The apparition of the storm.
Deep in its bosom, diamond-bright,
Behind a fleece of pearly white,
It seem'd a secret glory dwelt,
Whose presence, while unseen, was felt:
Like Beauty's eye, in slumber hid
Beneath a half-transparent lid,
From whence a sound, a touch, a breath,
Might startle it,—as life from death.

Looks, words, emotions of surprise
Welcomed the stranger to our eyes:
Was it the phœnix, that from earth
In flames of incense sprang to birth?
Had ocean from his lap let fly
His loveliest halcyon through the sky?
No:—while we gazed, the pageant grew
A nobler object to our view;
We deem'd, if heaven with earth would hold
Communion as in days of old,
Such, on his journey down the sphere,
Benignant Raphael might appear,
In splendid mystery conceal'd,
Yet by his rich disguise reveal'd:
—That buoyant vapour, in mid-air,
An angel in its folds might bear,
Who, through the curtain of his shrine,
Betray'd his lineaments divine.
The wild, the warm illusion stole,
Like inspiration, o'er the soul,
Till thought was rapture, language hung
Silent but trembling on the tongue;
And fancy almost hoped to hail
The seraph rushing through his veil,
Or hear an awful voice proclaim
The embassy on which he came.

But ah! no minister of grace
Show'd from the firmament his face,
Nor, borne aloof on balanced wings,
Reveal'd unutterable things.
The sun went down:—the vision pass'd;
The cloud was but a cloud at last;
Yet, when its brilliancy decay'd,
The eye still linger'd on the shade,
And, watching till no longer seen,
Loved it for what it once had been.

That cloud was beautiful,—was one
Among a thousand round the sun;
The thousand shared the common lot;
They came,—they went,—they were forgot;
This fairy form alone impress'd
Its perfect image in my breast,
And shines as richly blazon'd there
As in its element of air.

The day on which that cloud appear'd,
Exhilarating scenes endear'd:
—The sunshine on the hills, the floods;
The breeze, the twilight of the woods;
Nature in every change of green,
Heaven in unnumber'd aspects seen;
Health, spirits, exercise, release
From noise and smoke; twelve hours of peace;
No fears to haunt, no cares to vex;
Friends, young and old, of either sex;
Converse familiar, sportive, kind,
Where heart meets heart, mind quickens mind,
And words and thoughts are all at play,
Like children on a holyday;
—Till themes celestial rapt the soul
In adoration o'er the pole,
Where stars are darkness in His sight
Who reigns invisible in light,
High above all created things,
The Lord of Lords, the King of Kings!
Faith, which could thus on wing sublime
Outsoar the bounded flight of time;
Hope full of immortality,
And God in all the eye could see;
—These, these endear'd that day to me,
And made it, in a thousand ways:
A day among a thousand days,
That share with clouds the common lot;
They come,—they go,—they are forgot:
This, like that plaything of the sun,
—The little, lonely, lovely one,—
This lives within me; this shall be
A part of my eternity.

Amidst the cares, the toils, the strife,
The weariness and waste of life,

309

That day shall memory oft restore,
And in a moment live it o'er,
When, with a lightning flash of thought,
Morn, noon, and eve at once are brought
(As through the vision of a trance)
All in the compass of a glance.

Oh! should I reach a world above,
And sometimes think of those I love,
Of things on earth too dearly prized
(Nor yet by saints in heaven despised),
Though spirits made perfect may lament
Life's holier hours as half mis-spent,
Methinks I could not turn away
The fond remembrance of that day,
The bright idea of that cloud
(Survivor of a countless crowd),
Without a pause, perhaps a sigh,
To think such loveliness should die,
And clouds and days of storm and gloom
Scowl on Man's passage to the tomb.
—Not so:—I feel I have a heart,
Blessings to share, improve, impart,
In blithe, severe, or pensive mood,
At home, abroad, in solitude,
Whatever clouds are on the wing,
Whatever day the seasons bring.

That is true happiness below
Which conscience cannot turn to woe;
And though such happiness depends
Neither on clouds, nor days, nor friends,
When friends, and days, and clouds unite,
And kindred chords are tuned aright,
The harmonies of heaven and earth,
Through eye, ear, intellect, give birth
To joys too exquisite to last,
—And yet more exquisite when past!
When the soul summons by a spell
The ghosts of pleasures round her cell,
In saintlier forms than erst they wore,
And smiles benigner than before,
Each loved, lamented scene renews,
With warmer touches, tenderer hues;
Recalls kind words for ever flown,
But echoed in a soften'd tone;
Wakes, with new pulses in the breast,
Feelings forgotten or at rest;
—The thought how fugitive and fair,
How dear and precious, such things were!
That thought, with gladness more refined,
Deep, and transporting, thrills the mind,
Than all those pleasures of an hour,
When most the soul confess'd their power.
Bliss in possession will not last:
Remember'd joys are never past;
At once the fountain, stream, and sea,
They were,—they are,—they yet shall be.

THE ALPS:

A REVERIE.

Part I. Day.

The mountains of this glorious land
Are conscious beings to mine eye,
When at the break of day they stand
Like giants looking through the sky,
To hail the sun's unrisen car,
That gilds their diadems of snow;
While one by one, as star by star,
Their peaks in ether glow.

Their silent presence fills my soul,
When, to the horizontal ray,
The many-tinctured vapours roll
In evanescent wreaths away,
And leave them naked on the scene,
The emblems of eternity,
The same as they have ever been,
And shall for ever be.

Yet, through the valley while I range,
Their cliffs, like images in dreams,
Colour and shape and station change;
Here crags and caverns, woods and streams,
And seas of adamantine ice,
With gardens, vineyards, fields embraced,
Open a way to Paradise,
Through all the splendid waste.

The goats are hanging on the rocks,
Wide through their pastures roam the herds;
Peace on the uplands feeds her flocks,
Till suddenly the king of birds

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Pouncing a lamb, they start for fear;
He bears his bleating prize on high;
The well-known plaint his nestlings hear,
And raise a ravening cry.

The sun in morning freshness shines;
At noon behold his orb o'ercast;
Hollow and dreary o'er the pines,
Like distant ocean, moans the blast;
The mountains darken at the sound,
Put on their armour, and anon,
In panoply of clouds wrapt round,
Their forms from sight are gone.

Hark! war in heaven!—the battle-shout
Of thunder rends the echoing air;
Lo! war in heaven!—thick-flashing out
Through torrent-rains red lightnings glare,
As though the Alps, with mortal ire,
At once a thousand voices raised,
And with a thousand swords of fire
At once in conflict blazed.

Part II. Night.

Come, golden Evening, in the west
Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun,
And let the triple rainbow rest
O'er all the mountain-tops:—'Tis done;
The deluge ceases; bold and bright
The rainbow shoots from hill to hill;
Down sinks the sun; on presses night;
—Mont Blanc is lovely still.

There take thy stand, my spirit;—spread
The world of shadows at thy feet;
And mark how calmly, overhead,
The stars like saints in glory meet:
While hid in solitude sublime,
Methinks I muse on Nature's tomb,
And hear the passing foot of Time
Step through the gloom.

All in a moment, crash on crash,
From precipice to precipice,
An avalanche's ruins dash
Down to the nethermost abyss;
Invisible, the ear alone
Follows the uproar till it dies;
Echo on echo, groan for groan,
From deep to deep replies.

Silence again the darkness seals,—
Darkness that may be felt;—but soon
The silver-clouded east reveals
The midnight spectre of the moon;
In half-eclipse she lifts her horn,
Yet, o'er the host of heaven supreme,
Brings the faint semblance of a morn
With her awakening beam.

Ha! at her touch, these Alpine heights
Unreal mockeries appear;
With blacker shadows, ghastlier lights,
Enlarging as she climbs the sphere;
A crowd of apparitions pale!
I hold my breath in chill suspense,
—They seem so exquisitely frail,—
Lest they should vanish hence.

I breathe again, I freely breathe;
Lake of Geneva! thee I trace,
Like Dian's crescent far beneath,
And beautiful as Dian's face.
Pride of this land of liberty!
All that thy waves reflect I love;
Where heaven itself, brought down to thee,
Looks fairer than above.

Safe on thy banks again I stray,
The trance of poesy is o'er,
And I am here at dawn of day,
Gazing on mountains as before;
For all the strange mutations wrought
Were magic feats of my own mind;
Thus, in the fairy-land of thought,
Whate'er I seek I find.

Yet, O ye everlasting hills!
Buildings of God not made with hands,
Whose word performs whate'er He wills,
Whose word, though ye shall perish, stands;
Can there be eyes that look on you,
Till tears of rapture make them dim,
Nor in his works the Maker view,
Then lose his works in Him?

By me, when I behold Him not,
Or love Him not when I behold,

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Be all I ever knew forgot;
My pulse stand still, my heart grow cold;
Transform'd to ice, 'twixt earth and sky,
On yonder cliff my form be seen,
That all may ask, but none reply,
What my offence hath been.

1822.

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

Flowers, wherefore do ye bloom?
—We strew thy pathway to the tomb.

Stars, wherefore do ye rise?
—To light thy spirit to the skies.

Fair Moon, why dost thou wane?
—That I may wax again.

O Sun, what makes thy beams so bright?
—The Word that said, “Let there be light.”

Planets, what guides you in your course?
—Unseen, unfelt, unfailing force.

Nature, whence sprang thy glorious frame?
—My Maker call'd me, and I came.

O Light, thy subtle essence who may know?
—Ask not; for all things but myself I show.

What is yon arch which everywhere I see?
—The sign of omnipresent Deity.

Where rests the horizon's all-embracing zone?
—Where earth, God's footstool, touches heaven, his throne.

Ye Clouds, what bring ye in your train?
—God's embassies,—storm, lightning, hail, or rain.

Winds, whence and whither do ye blow?
—Thou must be born again to know.

Bow in the cloud, what token dost thou bear?
—That Justice still cries “strike,” and Mercy “spare.”

Dews of the morning, wherefore were ye given?
—To shine on earth, then rise to heaven.

Rise, glitter, break; yet, Bubble, tell me why?
—To show the course of all beneath the sky.

Stay, Meteor, stay thy falling fire!
—No, thus shall all the host of heaven expire.

Ocean, what law thy chainless waves confined?
—That which in Reason's limits holds thy mind.

Time, whither dost thou flee?
—I travel to Eternity.

Eternity, what art thou,—say?
—Time past, time present, time to come,—to-day.

Ye Dead, where can your dwelling be?
—The house for all the living:—come and see.

O Life, what is thy breath?
—A vapour lost in death.

O Death, how ends thy strife?
—In everlasting life.

O Grave, where is thy victory?
—Ask Him who rose again for me.

YOUTH RENEWED.

Spring-flowers, spring-birds, spring-breezes,
Are felt, and heard, and seen;
Light trembling transport seizes
My heart,—with sighs between;
These old enchantments fill the mind
With scenes and seasons far behind;
Childhood, its smiles and tears,
Youth, with its flush of years,
Its morning clouds and dewy prime,
More exquisitely touch'd by Time.

Fancies again are springing,
Like May-flowers in the vales;
While hopes, long lost, are singing,
From thorns, like nightingales;
And kindly spirits stir my blood,
Like vernal airs that curl the flood:

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There falls to manhood's lot
A joy, which youth has not,
A dream more beautiful than truth,
—Returning Spring renewing Youth.

Thus sweetly to surrender
The present for the past;
In sprightly mood, yet tender,
Life's burden down to cast,
—This is to taste, from stage to stage,
Youth on the lees refined by age:
Like wine well kept and long,
Heady, nor harsh, nor strong,
With every annual cup, is quaff'd
A richer, purer, mellower draught.

Harrowgate, 1825.

THE BRIDAL AND THE BURIAL.

“Blessed is the bride whom the sun shines on;
Blessed is the corpse which the rain rains on.”

I saw thee young and beautiful,
I saw thee rich and gay,
In the first blush of womanhood,
Upon thy wedding-day:
The church-bells rang,
And the little children sang,—
“Flowers, flowers, kiss her feet;
Sweets to the sweet;
The winter's past, the rains are gone;
Blessed is the bride whom the sun shines on.”

I saw thee poor and desolate,
I saw thee fade away,
In brokenhearted widowhood,
Before thy locks were grey;
The death-bell rang,
And the little children sang,—
“Lilies, dress her winding-sheet;
Sweets to the sweet;
The summer's past, the sunshine gone;
Blessed is the corpse which the rain rains on.”

“Blessed is the bride whom the sun shines on;
Blessed is the corpse which the rain rains on.”

FRIENDS.

Friend after friend departs:
Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts,
That finds not here an end:
Were this frail world our only rest,
Living or dying, none were blest.

Beyond the flight of Time,
Beyond this vale of death,
There surely is some blessed clime,
Where life is not a breath,
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward to expire.

There is a world above,
Where parting is unknown;
A whole eternity of love,
Form'd for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that happier sphere.

Thus star by star declines,
Till all are pass'd away,
As morning high and higher shines
To pure and perfect day;
Nor sink those stars in empty night,
—They hide themselves in heaven's own light.

1824.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT

ON THE DEATH OF HER INFANT DAUGHTER.

I loved thee, Daughter of my heart;
My Child, I loved thee dearly;
And though we only met to part,
—How sweetly! how severely!—
Nor life nor death can sever
My soul from thine for ever.

Thy days, my little one, were few,—
An Angel's morning-visit,
That came and vanish'd with the dew:
'Twas here, 'tis gone, where is it?
Yet didst thou leave behind thee
A clue for love to find thee.

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The eye, the lip, the cheek, the brow,
The hands stretch'd forth in gladness,
All life, joy, rapture, beauty now.
Then dash'd with infant sadness,
Till, brightening by transition,
Return'd the fairy vision:—

Where are they now?—those smiles, those tears,
Thy Mother's darling treasure?
She sees them still, and still she hears
Thy tones of pain or pleasure,
To her quick pulse revealing
Unutterable feeling.

Hush'd in a moment on her breast,
Life, at the well-spring drinking,
Then cradled on her lap to rest,
In rosy slumber sinking,
Thy dreams—no thought can guess them;
And mine—no tongue express them.

For then this waking eye could see,
In many a vain vagary,
The things that never were to be,
Imaginations airy;
Fond hopes that mothers cherish,
Like still-born babes to perish.

Mine perish'd on thy early bier;
No—changed to forms more glorious,
They flourish in a higher sphere,
O'er time and death victorious;
Yet would these arms have chain'd thee,
And long from heaven detain'd thee.

Sarah! my last, my youngest love,
The crown of every other!
Though thou art born in heaven above,
I am thine only Mother,
Nor will affection let me
Believe thou canst forget me.

Then,—thou in heaven, and I on earth,—
May this one hope delight us,
That thou wilt hail my second birth
When death shall re-unite us,
Where worlds no more can sever
Parent and child for ever.

THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS.

Well, thou art gone, and I am left;
But, oh! how cold and dark to me
This world, of every charm bereft,
Where all was beautiful with thee!

Though I have seen thy form depart
For ever from my widow'd eye,
I hold thee in mine inmost heart;
There, there at least, thou canst not die.

Farewell on earth; Heaven claim'd its own;
Yet, when from me thy presence went,
I was exchanged for God alone:
Let dust and ashes learn content.

Ha! those small voices silver sweet!
Fresh from the fields my babes appear;
They fill my arms, they clasp my feet;
—“Oh! could your father see us here!”

THE DAISY IN INDIA.

[_]

The simple history of these stanzas is the following. A friend of mine, a scientific botanist, residing near Sheffield, had sent a package of sundry kinds of British seeds to the learned and venerable Doctor William Carey, one of the first Baptist Missionaries to India, where they had established themselves in the small Danish settlement of Serampore, in the province of Bengal. Some of the seeds had been enclosed in a bag, containing a portion of their native earth. In March, 1821, a letter of acknowledgment was received by his correspondent from the Doctor, who was himself well skilled in botany, and had a garden rich in plants both tropical and European. In this enclosure he was wont to spend an hour every morning, before he entered upon those labours and studies which have rendered his name illustrious both at home and abroad, as one of the most accomplished of oriental scholars, and a translator of the Holy Scriptures into many of the Hindoo languages. In the letter afore-mentioned, which was shown to me, the good man says,—“That I might be sure not to lose any part of your valuable present, I shook the bag over a patch of earth in a shady place: on visiting which, a few days afterwards, I found springing up, to my inexpressible delight, a bellis perennis of our English pastures. I know not that I ever enjoyed, since leaving Europe, a simple pleasure so exquisite as the sight of this English Daisy afforded me; not having seen one for upwards of thirty years, and never expecting to see one again.”

On the perusal of this passage, the following stanzas seemed to spring up almost spontaneously in my mind, as the “little

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English Flower” in the good Doctor's garden, whom I imagined to be thus addressing it on its sudden appearance. —With great care and attention he was able to perpetuate “the Daisy in India,” as an annual only, raised by seed from season to season. It may be observed that, amidst the luxuriance of tropical vegetation, there are comparatively few small plants, like the multifarious progeny of our native Flora.

There is a beautiful coincidence between a fact and a fiction in this circumstance. Among the many natural and striking expedients by which the ingenious author of Robinson Crusoe contrives to supply his hero on the desolate island with necessaries and comforts of life, not indigenous, we are informed that Crusoe one day, long after his shipwreck and residence there, perceived some delicate blades of vegetation peeping forth, after the rains, on a patch of ground near his dwelling-place. Not knowing what they were, he watched their growth from day to day, till he ascertained, to his “inexpressible delight,” that they were plants of some kind of English corn. He then recollected having shaken out on that spot the dusty refuse of “a bag” which had been used to hold grain for the fowls on shipboard. “With great care and attention” he was enabled to preserve the precious stalks till the full corn ripened in the ear. He then reaped the first fruits of this spontaneous harvest, sowed them again, and, till his release from captivity there, ate bread in his lonely abode,

“Placed far amid the melancholy main.”

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
My mother-country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread:
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribes, beneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower;
But, when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabash'd but modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant offspring tower
In gorgeous liveries all the year:
Thou, only thou, art little here,
Like worth unfriended and unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes beloved by me,
While happy in my father's bower,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be;
The fairy sports of infancy,
Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,
Home, country, kindred, friends,—with thee
I find in this far clime.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand:
Oh, for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May dews, of that fair land,
Where Daisies, thick as star-light, stand
In every walk!—that here may shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,
A hundred from one root.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To me the pledge of hope unseen:
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower,
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind, how, fresh and green,
I saw thee waking from the dust;
Then turn to heaven with brow serene,
And place in God my trust.

1822.

THE DROUGHT.

WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OF 1826.

[_]

Hosea, ii. 21, 22.

What strange, what fearful thing hath come to pass?
The ground is iron, and the heavens are brass;
Man on the withering harvests casts his eye,
“Give me your fruits in season, or I die;”
The timely Fruits implore their parent Earth,
“Where is thy strength to bring us forth to birth?”
The Earth, all prostrate, to the Clouds complains,
“Send to my heart your fertilising rains;”
The Clouds invoke the Heavens,—“Collect, dispense
Through us your quickening, healing influence;”

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The Heavens to Him that made them raise their moan,
“Command thy blessing, and it shall be done:”
The Lord is in his temple:—hush'd and still,
The suppliant Universe awaits his will.

He speaks; and to the Clouds the Heavens dispense,
With lightning-speed, their genial influence;
The gathering, breaking Clouds pour down their rains,
Earth drinks the bliss through all her eager veins;
From teeming furrows start the Fruits to birth,
And shake their treasures on the lap of Earth;
Man sees the harvests grow beneath his eye,
Turns, and looks up with rapture to the sky;
All that have breath and being now rejoice;
All Nature's voices blend in one great voice,
“Glory to God, who thus Himself makes known!”
—When shall all tongues confess Him God alone?

Lord! as the rain comes down from Heaven,—the rain
Which waters Earth, nor thence returns in vain.
But makes the tree to bud, the grass to spring,
And feeds and gladdens every living thing,—
So may thy word, upon a world destroy'd,
Come down in blessing, and return not void;
So may it come in universal showers,
And fill Earth's dreariest wilderness with flowers,
—With flowers of promise fill the world, within
Man's heart, laid waste and desolate by sin;
Where thorns and thistles curse the infested ground,
Let the rich fruits of righteousness abound;
And trees of life, for ever fresh and green,
Flourish where trees of death alone have been;
Let Truth look down from heaven, Hope soar above,
Justice and Mercy kiss, Faith work by Love;
Nations new-born their fathers' idols spurn;
The Ransom'd of the Lord with songs return;
Heralds the year of Jubilee proclaim;
Bow every knee at the Redeemer's name;
O'er lands, with darkness, thraldom, guilt, o'erspread,
In light, joy, freedom, be the Spirit shed;
Speak Thou the word: to Satan's power say “Cease,”
But to a world of pardon'd sinners, “Peace.”
—Thus in thy grace, Lord God, Thyself make known;
Then shall all tongues confess Thee God alone.

A SEA PIECE.

IN THREE SONNETS.

[_]

Scene.—Bridlington Quay, 1824.

I

At nightfall, walking on the cliff-crown'd shore,
Where sea and sky were in each other lost;
Dark ships were scudding through the wild uproar
Whose wrecks ere morn must strew the dreary coast;
I mark'd one well-moor'd vessel tempest-toss'd,
Sails reef'd, helm lash'd, a dreadful siege she bore,
Her deck by billow after billow cross'd,
While every moment she might be no more:
Yet firmly anchor'd on the nether sand,
Like a chain'd Lion ramping at his foes,
Forward and rearward still she plunged and rose,
Till broke her cable;—then she fled to land,
With all the waves in chase; throes following throes;
She 'scaped,—she struck,—she stood upon the strand.

II

The morn was beautiful, the storm gone by;
Three days had pass'd; I saw the peaceful main,
One molten mirror, one illumined plane,
Clear as the blue, sublime, o'erarching sky;
On shore that lonely vessel caught mine eye,
Her bow was seaward, all equipt her train,
Yet to the sun she spread her wings in vain,
Like a caged Eagle, impotent to fly;
There fix'd as if for ever to abide;
Far down the beach had roll'd the low neap-tide,
Whose mingling murmur faintly lull'd the ear:
“Is this,” methought, “is this the doom of pride,
Check'd in the onset of thy brave career,
Ingloriously to rot by piecemeal here?”

III

Spring-tides return'd, and Fortune smiled; the bay
Received the rushing ocean to its breast;
While waves on waves innumerably prest,
Seem'd, with the prancing of their proud array,
Sea-horses, flash'd with foam, and snorting spray;
Their power and thunder broke that vessel's rest;
Slowly, with new expanding life possest,
To her own element she glid away;
Buoyant and bounding like the polar Whale,
That takes his pastime; every joyful sail
Was to the freedom of the wind unfurl'd,
While right and left the parted surges curl'd:
—Go, gallant Bark! with such a tide and gale,
I'll pledge thee to a voyage round the world.

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ROBERT BURNS.

What bird, in beauty, flight, or song,
Can with the Bard compare,
Who sang as sweet, and soar'd as strong,
As ever child of air?

His plume, his note, his form, could Burns
For whim or pleasure change;
He was not one, but all by turns,
With transmigration strange.

The Blackbird, oracle of spring,
When flow'd his moral lay;
The Swallow wheeling on the wing,
Capriciously at play:

The Humming-bird, from bloom to bloom,
Inhaling heavenly balm;
The Raven, in the tempest's gloom;
The Halcyon, in the calm:

In “auld Kirk Alloway,” the Owl,
At witching time of night;
By “bonnie Doon,” the earliest Fowl
That caroll'd to the light.

He was the Wren amidst the grove,
When in his homely vein;
At Bannockburn the Bird of Jove,
With thunder in his train:

The Woodlark, in his mournful hours;
The Goldfinch, in his mirth;
The Thrush, a spendthrift of his powers,
Enrapturing heaven and earth;

The Swan, in majesty and grace,
Contemplative and still;
But roused,—no Falcon, in the chase,
Could like his satire kill.

The Linnet in simplicity,
In tenderness the Dove;
But more than all beside was he
The Nightingale in love.

Oh! had he never stoop'd to shame,
Nor lent a charm to vice,
How had Devotion loved to name
That Bird of Paradise!

Peace to the dead!—In Scotia's choir
Of Minstrels great and small,
He sprang from his spontaneous fire,
The Phœnix of them all.

1820.

A THEME FOR A POET.

[_]

1814. Written in contemplation of a poem on the evangelisation of one of the most degraded tribes of heathens. This the Author some years afterwards attempted, and partly executed, in “Greenland,” in five cantos of which the following were the opening lines, but withdrawn, as inapplicable to the unfinished work, when it was published:—

Give me a theme to grace an Angel's tongue,
A theme to which a lyre was never strung;
Barbarian hordes, by Satan's craft enthrall'd,
From chains to freedom, guilt to glory call'd;
The deeds of men unfriended and unknown,
Sent forth by Him who loves and saves his own,
With faithful toil a barren land to bless,
And feed his flocks amid the wilderness.

These lines were afterwards adopted as a motto to the second volume of the last edition of Crantz's Greenland, including the history of the Missions of the Moravian Brethren there, which was begun in the year 1733. (See also the notes to “Greenland,” p. 72.)

The arrow that shall lay me low
Was shot from Death's unerring bow,
The moment of my breath;
And every footstep I proceed,
It tracks me with increasing speed;
I turn,—it meets me,—Death
Has given such impulse to that dart,
It points for ever at my heart.

And soon of me it must be said,
That I have lived, that I am dead;
Of all I leave behind,
A few may weep a little while,

317

Then bless my memory with a smile:
What monument of mind
Shall I bequeath to deathless Fame,
That after-times may love my name?

Let Southey sing of war's alarms,
The pride of battle, din of arms,
The glory and the guilt,—
Of nations barb'rously enslaved,
Of realms by patriot valour saved,
Of blood insanely spilt,
And millions sacrificed to fate,
To make one little mortal great.

Let Scott, in wilder strains, delight
To chant the Lady and the Knight,
The tournament, the chase,
The wizard's deed without a name,
Perils by ambush, flood, and flame:
Or picturesquely trace
The hills that form a world on high,
The lake that seems a downward sky.

Let Byron, with untrembling hand,
Impetuous foot, and fiery brand
Lit at the flames of hell,
Go down and search the human heart,
Till fiends from every corner start,
Their crimes and plagues to tell;
Then let him fling the torch away,
And sun his soul in heaven's pure day.

Let Wordsworth weave, in mystic rhyme,
Feelings ineffably sublime,
And sympathies unknown;
Yet so our yielding breasts enthral,
His Genius shall possess us all,
His thoughts become our own,
And, strangely pleased, we start to find
Such hidden treasures in our mind.

Let Campbell's sweeter numbers flow
Through every change of joy and woe;
Hope's morning dreams display,
The Pennsylvanian cottage wild,
The frenzy of O'Connor's child,
Or Linden's dreadful day;
And still in each new form appear
To every Muse and Grace more dear.

Transcendent Masters of the lyre!
Not to your honours I aspire;
Humbler, yet higher, views
Have touch'd my spirit into flame:
The pomp of fiction I disclaim;
Fair Truth! be thou my muse;
Reveal in splendour deeds obscure,
Abase the proud, exalt the poor.

I sing the men who left their home,
Amidst barbarian hordes to roam,
Who land and ocean cross'd,
Led by a load-star, mark'd on high
By Faith's unseen, all-seeing eye,—
To seek and save the lost;
Where'er the curse on Adam spread,
To call his offspring from the dead.

Strong in the great Redeemer's name,
They bore the Cross, despised the shame;
And, like their Master here,
Wrestled with danger, pain, distress,
Hunger, and cold, and nakedness,
And every form of fear;
To feel his love their only joy,
To tell that love their sole employ.

O Thou, who wast in Bethlehem born,
The Man of sorrows and of scorn,
Jesus, the sinners' Friend!
—O Thou, enthroned in filial right,
Above all creature-power and might;
Whose kingdom shall extend,
Till earth, like heaven, thy name shall fill,
And men, like angels, do thy will:—

Thou, whom I love, but cannot see,
My Lord, my God! look down on me;
My low affections raise;
The spirit of liberty impart,
Enlarge my soul, inflame my heart,
And, while I spread thy praise,
Shine on my path, in mercy shine,
Prosper my work, and make it thine!

318

NIGHT.

Night is the time for rest;—
How sweet, when labours close,
To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose,
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head
Down on our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams;—
The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems,
Mix in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are!

Night is the time for toil;—
To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, and heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;—
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;
Hopes, that were angels at their birth,
But died when young like things of earth.

Night is the time to watch;—
O'er ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings into the home-sick mind
All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care;—
Brooding on hours misspent,
To see the spectre of Despair
Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host,
Summon'd to die by Cæsar's ghost.

Night is the time to think;—
When, from the eye, the soul
Takes flight, and, on the utmost brink
Of yonder starry pole,
Discerns beyond the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray;—
Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;
So will his followers do,
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And commune there alone with God.

Night is the time for Death;—
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,
From sin and suffering cease,
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends;—such death be mine!

Harrowgate, Sept. 1821.

MEET AGAIN!

Joyful words,—we meet again!
Love's own language, comfort darting
Through the souls of friends at parting:
Life in death,—we meet again!

While we walk this vale of tears,
Compass'd round with care and sorrow,
Gloom to-day, and storm to-morrow,
“Meet again!” our bosom cheers.

Far in exile when we roam,
O'er our lost endearments weeping,
Lonely, silent vigils keeping,
“Meet again!”transports us home.

When this weary world is past,
Happy they whose spirits soaring,
Vast eternity exploring,
“Meet again” in heaven at last.

319

VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.

Night turns to day:—
When sullen darkness lowers,
And heaven and earth are hid from sight,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Ere long the opening flowers,
With dewy eyes, shall shine in light.

Storms die in calms:—
When over land and ocean
Roll the loud chariots of the wind,
Cheer up, cheer up;
The voice of wild commotion
Proclaims tranquillity behind.

Winter wakes spring:—
When icy blasts are blowing
O'er frozen lakes, through naked trees,
Cheer up, cheer up;
All beautiful and glowing,
May floats in fragrance on the breeze.

War ends in peace:—
Though dread artillery rattle,
And ghastly corses load the ground,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Where groan'd the field of battle,
The song, the dance, the feast go round.

Toil brings repose:—
With noon-tide fervours beating,
When droop thy temples o'er thy breast,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Grey twilight, cool and fleeting,
Wafts on its wing the hour of rest.

Death springs to life:—
Though brief and sad thy story,
Thy years all spent in care and gloom,
Look up, look up;
Eternity and glory
Dawn through the portals of the tomb.

THE PILGRIM.

How blest the Pilgrim, who in trouble
Can lean upon a bosom friend;
Strength, courage, hope with him redouble,
When foes assail, or griefs impend!
Care flees before his footsteps, straying,
At daybreak, o'er the purple heath;
He plucks the wild flowers round him playing,
And binds their beauty in a wreath.

More dear to him the fields and mountains,
When with his friend abroad he roves,
Rests in the shade near sunny fountains,
Or talks by moonlight through the groves:
For him the vine expands its clusters,
Spring wakes for him her woodland quire;
Yea, when the storm of winter blusters,
'Tis summer round his evening fire.

In good old age serenely dying,
When all he loved forsakes his view,
Sweet is affection's voice replying,
“I follow soon,” to his “Adieu!”
Even then, though earthly ties are riven,
The spirit's union will not end;
—Happy the man whom Heaven hath given,
In life and death, a faithful friend.

GERMAN WAR-SONG.

Heaven speed the righteous sword,
And freedom be the word!
Come, brethren, hand in hand,
Fight for your father-land!

Germania from afar
Invokes her sons to war;
Awake! put forth your powers,
And victory must be ours.

On to the combat, on!
Go where your sires have gone;
Their might unspent remains,
Their pulse is in our veins.

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On to the battle, on!
Rest will be sweet anon;
The slave may yield, may fly,—
We conquer, or we die!

O Liberty! thy form
Shines through the battle-storm;
Away with fear, away!
Let justice win the day.

REMINISCENCES.

Where are ye with whom in life I started,
Dear companions of my golden days?
Ye are dead, estranged from me, or parted,
—Flown, like morning clouds, a thousand ways.

Where art thou, in youth my friend and brother,
Yea, in soul my friend and brother still?
Heaven received thee, and on earth none other
Can the void in my lorn bosom fill.

Where is she, whose looks were love and gladness?
—Love and gladness I no longer see!
She is gone; and, since that hour of sadness,
Nature seems her sepulchre to me.

Where am I?—life's current faintly flowing
Brings the welcome warning of release;
Struck with death, ah! whither am I going?
All is well,—my spirit parts in peace.

THE AGES OF MAN.

Youth, fond youth! to thee, in life's gay morning,
New and wonderful are heaven and earth!
Health the hills, content the fields adorning,
Nature rings with melody and mirth;
Love invisible, beneath, above,
Conquers all things; all things yield to love.

Time, swift time, from years their motion stealing,
Unperceived hath sober manhood brought;
Truth, her pure and humble forms revealing,
Peoples fancy's fairy-land with thought;
Then the heart, no longer prone to roam,
Loves, loves best, the quiet bliss of home.

Age, old age, in sickness, pain, and sorrow,
Creeps with lengthening shadow o'er the scene;
Life was yesterday, 'tis death to-morrow,
And to-day the agony between:
Then how longs the weary soul for thee,
Bright and beautiful eternity!

ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.

Higher, higher will we climb
Up the mount of Glory,
That our names may live through time
In our country's story;
Happy, when her welfare calls,
He who conquers, he who falls.

Deeper, deeper let us toil
In the mines of knowledge;
Nature's wealth and learning's spoil
Win from school and college;
Delve we there for richer gems
Than the stars of diadems.

Onward, onward will we press
Through the path of duty;
Virtue is true happiness,
Excellence true beauty;
Minds are of supernal birth,
Let us make a heaven of earth.

Close and closer then we knit
Hearts and hands together,
Where our fire-side comforts sit
In the wildest weather:
Oh! they wander wide, who roam,
For the joys of life, from home.

Nearer, dearer bands of love
Draw our souls in union,
To our Father's house above,
To the saints' communion;
Thither every hope ascend,
There may all our labours end.

321

A HERMITAGE.

Whose is this humble dwelling-place,
The flat turf-roof with flowers o'ergrown?
Ah! here the tenant's name I trace,
Moss-cover'd, on the threshold stone.

Well, he has peace within and rest,
Though nought of all the world beside;
Yet, stranger, deem not him unblest,
Who knows not avarice, lust, or pride.

Nothing he asks, nothing he cares
For all that tempts or troubles round;
He craves no feast, no finery wears,
Nor once o'ersteps his narrow bound.

No need of light, though all be gloom,
To cheer his eye,—that eye is blind;
No need of fire in this small room,
He recks not tempest, rain, or wind.

No gay companion here; no wife
To gladden home with true-love smiles;
No children,—from the woes of life
To win him with their artless wiles.

Nor joy, nor sorrow, enter here,
Nor throbbing heart, nor aching limb:
No sun, no moon, no stars appear,
And man and brute are nought to him.

This dwelling is a hermit's cave,
With space alone for one poor bed;
This dwelling is a mortal's grave,
Its sole inhabitant is dead.

1822.

THE FALLING LEAF.

Were I a trembling leaf,
On yonder stately tree,
After a season gay and brief,
Condemn'd to fade and flee:

I should be loth to fall
Beside the common way,
Weltering in mire, and spurn'd by all,
Till trodden down to clay.

Nor would I choose to die
All on a bed of grass,
Where thousands of my kindred lie,
And idly rot in mass.

Nor would I like to spread
My thin and wither'd face
In hortus siccus, pale and dead,
A mummy of my race.

No,—on the wings of air
Might I be left to fly,
I know not and I heed not where,
A waif of earth and sky!

Or flung upon the stream,
Curl'd like a fairy boat,
As through the changes of a dream,
To the world's end to float!

Who that hath ever been,
Could bear to be no more?
Yet who would tread again the scene
He trod through life before?

On, with intense desire,
Man's spirit will move on;
It seems to die, yet, like heaven's fire,
It is not quench'd, but gone.

Matlock, 1822.

ON PLANTING A TULIP-ROOT.

Here lies a bulb, the child of earth,
Buried alive beneath the clod,
Ere long to spring, by second birth,
A new and nobler work of God.

'Tis said that microscopic power
Might through its swaddling folds descry
The infant-image of the flower,
Too exquisite to meet the eye.

This, vernal suns and rains will swell,
Till from its dark abode it peep,—
Like Venus rising from her shell,
Amidst the spring-tide of the deep.

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Two shapely leaves will first unfold,
Then, on a smooth elastic stem,
The verdant bud shall turn to gold,
And open in a diadem.

Not one of Flora's brilliant race
A form more perfect can display;
Art could not feign more simple grace,
Nor Nature take a line away.

Yet, rich as morn of many a hue,
When flushing clouds through darkness strike,
The tulip's petals shine in dew,
All beautiful—but none alike.

Kings, on their bridal, might unrobe
To lay their glories at its foot;
And queens their sceptre, crown, and globe,
Exchange for blossom, stalk, and root.

Here could I stand and moralise;
Lady, I leave that part to thee:
Be thy next birth in Paradise,
Thy life to come eternity!

1824.

INSCRIPTION UNDER THE PICTURE OF AN AGED NEGRO-WOMAN.

Art thou a woman?—so am I; and all
That woman can be, I have been, or am;
A daughter, sister, consort, mother, widow.
Whiche'er of these thou art, O be the friend
Of one who is what thou canst never be!
Look on thyself, thy kindred, home, and country,
Then fall upon thy knees, and cry “Thank God,
An English woman cannot be a SLAVE!”

Art thou a man?—Oh! I have known, have loved,
And lost, all that to woman man can be;
A father, brother, husband, son, who shared
My bliss in freedom, and my woe in bondage.
—A childless widow now, a friendless slave,
What shall I ask of thee, since I have nought
To lose but life's sad burthen; nought to gain
But heaven's repose?—these are beyond thy power;
Me thou canst neither wrong nor help;—what then?
Go to the bosom of thy family,
Gather thy little children round thy knees,
Gaze on their innocence; their clear, full eyes,
All fix'd on thine; and in their mother, mark
The loveliest look that woman's face can wear,
Her look of love, beholding them and thee:
Then, at the altar of your household joys,
Vow one by one, vow altogether, vow
With heart and voice, eternal enmity
Against oppression by your brethren's hands:
Till man nor woman under Britain's laws,
Nor son nor daughter born within her empire,
Shall buy, or sell, or hold, or be, a slave.

Scarborough, Dec. 1826.

THOUGHTS AND IMAGES.

“Come like shadows, so depart.”
—Macbeth.

The Diamond, in its native bed,
Hid like a buried star may lie,
Where foot of man must never tread,
Seen only by its Maker's eye:
And though imbued with beams to grace
His fairest work in woman's face,
Darkling, its fire may fill the void,
Where fix'd at first in solid night,
Nor, till the world shall be destroy'd,
Sparkle one moment into light.

The Plant, upspringing from the seed,
Expands into a perfect flower;
The virgin-daughter of the mead,
Woo'd by the sun, the wind, the shower:
In loveliness beyond compare,
It toils not, spins not, knows no care;
Train'd by the secret hand, that brings
All beauty out of waste and rude,
It blooms its season, dies, and flings
Its germs abroad in solitude.

Almighty skill, in ocean's caves,
Lends the light Nautilus a form
To tilt along the Atlantic waves,
Fearless of rock, or shoal, or storm;
But, should a breath of danger sound,
With sails quick furl'd it dives profound,

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And far beneath the tempest's path,
In coral grots, defies the foe,
That never brake, in heaviest wrath,
The sabbath of the deep below.

Up from his dream, on twinkling wings,
The Sky-lark soars amid the dawn;
Yet, while in Paradise he sings,
Looks down upon the quiet lawn,
Where flutters, in his little nest,
More love than music e'er express'd;
Then, though the Nightingale may thrill
The soul with keener ecstasy,
The merry bird of morn can fill
All Nature's bosom with his glee.

The Elephant, embower'd in woods,
Coeval with their trees might seem,
As though he drank from Indian floods
Life in a renovating stream:
Ages o'er him have come and fled;
Midst generations of the dead,
His bulk survives to feed and range,
Where ranged and fed of old his sires;
Nor knows advancement, lapse, or change,
Beyond their walks, till he expires.

Gem, flower, and fish, the bird, the brute,
Of every kind occult or known
(Each exquisitely form'd to suit
Its humble lot, and that alone),
Through ocean, earth, and air fulfil,
Unconsciously, their Maker's will,
Who gave, without their toil or thought,
Strength, beauty, instinct, courage, speed;
While through the whole his pleasure wrought
Whate'er his wisdom had decreed.

But Man, the master-piece of God,
Man, in his Maker's image framed,—
Though kindred to the valley's clod,
Lord of this low creation named,—
In naked helplessness appears,
Child of a thousand griefs and fears:
To labour, pain, and trouble born,
Weapon, nor wing, nor sleight hath he;
Yet, like the sun, he brings his morn,
And is a king from infancy.

For, him no destiny hath bound
To do what others did before,
Pace the same dull perennial round,
And be a man, and be no more:
A man?—a self-will'd piece of earth,
Just as the lion is, by birth;
To hunt his prey, to wake, to sleep,
His father's joys and sorrows share,
His niche in Nature's temple keep,
And leave his likeness in his heir!—

No: infinite the shades between
The motley millions of our race;
No two, the changing moon hath seen
Alike in purpose, or in face:
Yet all aspire beyond their fate;
The least, the meanest, would be great;
The mighty future fills the mind
That pants for more than earth can give:
Man, to this narrow sphere confined,
Dies when he but begins to live.

Oh! if there be no world on high
To yield his powers unfetter'd scope;
If man be only born to die,
Whence this inheritance of hope?
Wherefore to him alone were lent
Riches that never can be spent?
Enough, not more, to all the rest,
For life and happiness, was given;
To Man, mysteriously unblest,
Too much for any state but heaven.

It is not thus;—it cannot be,
That one so gloriously endow'd
With views that reach eternity,
Should shine and vanish like a cloud:
Is there a God?—all Nature shows
There is,—and yet no mortal knows:
The mind that could this truth conceive,
Which brute sensation never taught,
No longer to the dust would cleave,
But grow immortal with the thought.

1819.

A VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD.

Emblem of eternity,
Unbeginning, endless sea!
Let me launch my soul on thee.

324

Sail, nor keel, nor helm, nor oar,
Need I, ask I, to explore
Thine expanse from shore to shore.

By a single glance of thought,
Thy whole realm's before me brought,
Like the universe, from nought.

All thine aspects now I view,
Ever old, yet ever new,
—Time nor tide thy power subdue.

All thy voices now I hear;
Sounds of gladness, grandeur, fear,
Meet and mingle in mine ear.

All thy wonders are reveal'd,
Treasures hidden in thy field,
From the birth of nature seal'd.

But thy depths I search not now,
Nor thy liquid surface plow
With a billow-breaking prow.

Eager fancy, unconfined,
In a voyage of the mind,
Sweeps along thee like the wind.

Here a breeze, I skim thy plain;
There a tempest, pour amain
Thunder, lightning, hail, and rain.

Where the surges never roll
Round the undiscover'd pole,
Thence set out, my venturous soul!

See o'er Greenland, cold and wild,
Rocks of ice eternal piled,
—Yet the mother loves her child,—

And the wildernesses drear
To the native's heart are dear;
All love's charities dwell here.

Next on lonely Labrador,
Let me hear the snow-storms roar,
Blinding, burying all before.

Yet even here, in glens and coves,
Man the heir of all things roves,
Feasts and fights, and laughs and loves.

But a brighter vision breaks
O'er Canadian woods and lakes;
—These my spirit soon forsakes.

Land of exiled liberty,
Where our fathers once were free,
Brave New England! hail to thee!

Pennsylvania, while thy flood
Waters fields unbought with blood,
Stand for peace, as thou hast stood.

The West Indies I behold,
Like the' Hesperides of old,
—Trees of life with fruits of gold.

No,—a curse is on their soil;
Bonds and scourges, tears and toil,
Man degrade, and earth despoil.

Horror-struck, I turn away,
Coasting down the Mexique bay,
—Slavery there hath had her day.

Hark! eight hundred thousand tongues
Startle midnight with strange songs;
—England ends her negroes' wrongs.

Loud the voice of freedom spoke,
Every accent split a yoke,
Every word a fetter broke.

South America expands
Forest-mountains, river-lands,
And a nobler race demands.

And a nobler race arise,
Stretch their limbs, unclose their eyes,
Claim the earth, and seek the skies.

Gliding through Magellan's Straits,
Where two oceans ope their gates,
What a glorious scene awaits!

The immense Pacific smiles,
Round ten thousand little isles,
—Haunts of violence and wiles.

But the powers of darkness yield,
For the Cross is in the field,
And the light of life reveal'd.

325

Rays from rock to rock it darts,
Conquers adamantine hearts,
And immortal bliss imparts.

North and west, receding far
From the evening's downward star,
Now I mount Aurora's car:—

Pale Siberia's deserts shun,
From Kamschatka's storm-cliffs run,
South and east, to meet the sun.

Jealous China, dire Japan,
With bewilder'd eyes I scan,
—They are but dead seas of man,—

Ages in succession find
Forms that change not, stagnant mind,
And they leave the same behind.

Lo! the eastern Cyclades,
Phœnix-nests and sky-blue seas,
—But I tarry not with these.

Pass we drear New Holland's shoals,
Where no ample river rolls,
—World of unawaken'd souls!

Bring them forth;—'tis Heaven's decree.
Man, assert thy liberty;
Let not brutes look down on thee.

Either India next is seen,
With the Ganges stretch'd between;
—Ah! what horrors here have been.

War, disguised as commerce, came;
Britain, carrying sword and flame,
Won an empire,—lost her name.

But that name shall be restored,
Law and justice wield the sword,
And her God be here adored.

By the Gulf of Persia sail,
Where the true-love nightingale
Woos the rose in every vale.

Though Arabia charge the breeze
With the incense of her trees,
On I press through southern seas.

Cape of storms, thy spectre fled,
See, the angel Hope, instead,
Lights from heaven upon thine head;—

And where Table-mountain stands,
Barbarous hordes from desert sands,
Bless the sight with lifted hands.

St. Helena's dungeon-keep
Scowls defiance o'er the deep;
There a warrior's relics sleep.

Who he was, and how he fell,
Europe, Asia, Afric tell:
—On that theme all time shall dwell.

But henceforth, till nature dies,
These three simple words comprise
All the future: “Here he lies.”

Mammon's plague-ships throng the waves:
—O 'twere mercy to the slaves,
Were the maws of sharks their graves!

Not for all the gems and gold,
Which thy streams and mountains hold,
Or for which thy sons are sold,—

Land of negroes!—would I dare
In this felon-trade to share,
Or to brand its guilt forbear.

Hercules! thy pillars stand,
Sentinels of sea and land!
Cloud-capt Atlas towers at hand.

Where, when Cato's word was fate,
Fell the Carthaginian state,
And where exiled Marius sate,—

Mark the dens of caitiff Moors;
Ha! the pirates seize their oars,
—Haste we from the' accursed shores.

Egypt's hieroglyphic realm
Other floods than Nile's o'erwhelm,
—Slaves turn'd despots hold the helm.

Judah's cities are forlorn,
Lebanon and Carmel shorn,
Zion trampled down with scorn.

326

Greece, thine ancient lamp is spent;
Thou art thine own monument;
But the sepulchre is rent,—

And a wind is on the wing,
At whose breath new heroes spring,
Sages teach, and poets sing.

Italy, thy beauties shroud
In a gorgeous evening cloud;
Thy refulgent head is bow'd.

Rome, in ruins lovely still,
On her Capitolian hill,
Bids thee, mourner, weep thy fill.

Yet where Roman genius reigns,
Roman blood must warm the veins;
—Look well, tyrants, to your chains!

Splendid realm of old romance,
Spain, thy tower-crown'd crest advance,
Grasp the shield, and couch the lance.

At the fire-flash of thine eye,
Giant bigotry would fly,
At thy voice oppression die.

Lusitania, from the dust,
Shake thy locks,—thy cause is just;
Strike for freedom, strike and trust.

France, I hurry from thy shore,
Thou art not the France of yore,
Thou art new-born France no more.

Great thou wast; and who like thee?
Then mad-drunk with liberty;
What now?—neither great nor free.

Sweep by Holland like the blast,
One quick glance on Denmark cast,
Sweden, Russia,—all are past.

Elbe nor Weser tempt my stay;
Germany, beware the day
When thy schools again bear sway!

Now to thee, to thee, I fly,
Fairest isle beneath the sky,
To my heart, as in mine eye.

I have seen them, one by one,
Every shore beneath the sun,
And my voyage now is done.

While I bid them all be blest,
Britain is my home, my rest;
—Mine own land! I love thee best.

Scarborough, Dec. 1826.

BIRDS.

THE SWALLOW.
Swallow, why homeward turn'd thy joyful wing?
—In a far land I heard the voice of Spring;
I found myself that moment on the way;
My wings, my wings, they had not power to stay.

SKYLARKS.
What hand lets fly the skylark from his rest?
—That which detains his mate upon the nest;
Love sends him soaring to the fields above;
She broods below, all bound with cords of love.

THE CUCKOO.
Why art thou always welcome, lonely bird?
—The heart grows young again when I am heard;
Nor in my double note the magic lies,
But in the fields, the woods, the streams, and skies.

THE RED-BREAST.
Familiar warbler, wherefore art thou come?
—To sing to thee, when all beside are dumb;
Pray let thy little children drop a crumb.

THE SPARROW.
Sparrow, the gun is levell'd, quit that wall.
—Without the will of Heaven I cannot fall.

THE RING-DOVE.
Art thou the bird that saw the waters cease?
—Yes, and brought home the olive-leaf of peace;
Henceforth I haunt the woods of thickest green,
Pleased to be often heard, but seldom seen.

THE NIGHTINGALE.
Minstrel, what makes thy song so sad, so sweet?
—Love, love; there, agony and rapture meet:
O 'tis the dream of happiness, to feign
Sorrow in joy, and wring delight from pain!

327

THE WATER-WAGTAIL.
What art thou made of,—air, or light, or dew?
—I have no time to tell you, if I knew;
My tail,—ask that,—perhaps may solve the matter;
I've miss'd three flies already by this chatter.

THE WREN.
Wren, canst thou squeeze into a hole so small?
—Ay, with nine nestlings too, and room for all;
Go, compass sea and land in search of bliss,
Then tell me if you find a happier home than this.

THE THRUSH.
Thrush, thrush, have mercy on thy little bill.
—“I play to please myself, albeit ill;”
And yet, but how it comes I cannot tell,
My singing pleases all the world as well.

THE BLACKBIRD.
Well done!—they're noble notes, distinct and strong;
Yet more variety might mend the song.
—Is there another bird that chants like me?
My pipe gives all the grove variety.

THE BULLFINCH.
Bully, what fairy warbles in thy throat?
—Oh! for the freedom of my own wild note!
Art has enthrall'd my voice; I strive in vain
To break the “linked sweetness” of my chain;
Love, joy, rage, grief, ring one melodious strain.

THE GOLDFINCH.
Live with me, love me, pretty goldfinch, do!
—Ay, pretty maid, and be a slave to you;
Wear chains, fire squibs, draw water,—nay, not I,
While I've a bill to peck, or wing to fly.

THE STONE-CHAT.
Why art thou ever flitting to and fro?
—Plunge through these whins, their thorns will let thee know.
There are five secrets brooding here in night,
Which my good mate will duly bring to light;
Meanwhile she sees the ants around her throng,
And hears the grasshopper chirp all day long.

THE GREY LINNET.
Linnet, canst thou not change that humble coat?
Linnet, canst thou not mellow that sharp note?
—If rude my song, and mean my garb appear,
Have you, sir, eyes to see, or ears to hear?

THE RED LINNET.
Sweet is thy warble, beautiful thy plume!
—Catch me, and cage me, then behold my doom;
My throat will fail, my colour wane away,
And the red linnet soon become a grey.

THE CHAFFINCH.

Stand still a moment!

—Spare your idle words,
I'm the perpetual mobile of birds;
My days are running, rippling, twittering streams,
When fast asleep I'm all afloat in dreams.

THE CANARY.
Dost thou not languish for thy father-land,
Madeira's fragrant woods and billowy strand?
—My cage is father-land enough for me;
Your parlour all the world,—heaven, earth, and sea.

THE TOMTIT.
Least, nimblest, merriest bird of Albion's isle,
I cannot look on thee without a smile.
—I envy thee the sight, for all my glee
Could never yet extort a smile from me;
Think what a tiresome thing my life must be.

THE SWIFT.
Why ever on the wing, or perch'd elate?
—Because I fell not from my first estate;
This is my charter for the boundless skies,
“Stoop not to earth, on pain no more to rise.”

THE KING-FISHER.
Why dost thou hide thy beauty from the sun?
—The eye of man, but not of Heaven, I shun;
Beneath the mossy bank, with alders crown'd,
I build and brood where running waters sound;
There, there the halcyon peace may still be found.

THE WOODLARK.
Thy notes are silenced, and thy plumage mew'd;
Say, drooping minstrel, both shall be renew'd.
—Voice will return,—I cannot choose but sing;
Yet liberty alone can plume my wing;
Oh! give me that!—I will not, cannot fly
Within a cage less ample than the sky;
Then shalt thou hear, as if an angel sung,
Unseen in air, heaven's music from my tongue:

328

Oh! give me that!—I cannot rest at ease
On meaner perches than the forest trees;
There, in thy walk, while evening shadows roll,
My song shall melt into thine inmost soul;
But, till thou let thy captive bird depart,
The sweetness of my strain shall wring thy heart.

THE COCK.
Who taught thee, chanticleer, to count the clock?
—Nay, who taught man that lesson but the cock?
Long before wheels and bells had learn'd to chime,
I told the steps unseen, unheard, of time.

THE JACK-DAW.
Canst thou remember that unlucky day,
When all thy peacock-plumes were pluck'd away?
—Remember it?—believe me, that I can,
With right good cause, for I was then a man!
And for my folly, by a wise old law,
Stript, whipt, tarr'd, feather'd, turn'd into a daw:
—Pray, how d'ye like my answer? Caw, caw, caw!

THE BAT.
What shall I call thee,—bird, or beast, or neither?
—Just what you will; I'm rather both than either;
Much like the season when I whirl my flight,
The dusk of evening,—neither day nor night.

THE OWL.

Blue-eyed, strange-voiced, sharp-beak'd, ill-omen'd fowl,
What art thou?

—What I ought to be, an owl;
But if I'm such a scarecrow in your eye,
You're a much greater fright in mine;—good bye!

ROOKS.
What means that riot in your citadel?
Be honest, peaceable, like brethren dwell.
—How, while we live so near to man, can life
Be any thing but knavery, noise, and strife?

THE JAY.
Thou hast a crested poll, a scutcheon'd wing,
Fit for a herald of the eagle king,
But such a voice! I would that thou couldst sing!
—My bill has tougher work,—to scream for fright,
And then, when screaming will not do, to bite.

THE PEACOCK.
Peacock! of idle beauty why so vain?
—And art thou humble, who hast no proud train?
It is not vanity, but Nature's part,
To show, by me, the cunning of her art.

THE SWAN.
Sing me, fair swan, that song which poets dream.
—Stand thou an hundred years beside this stream,
Then may'st thou hear, perchance, my latest breath
“Create a soul beneath the ribs of death.”

THE PHEASANT.
Pheasant, forsake the country, come to town;
I'll warrant thee a place beneath the crown.
—No; not to roost upon the throne, would I
Renounce the woods, the mountains, and the sky.

THE RAVEN.
Thin is thy plumage, death is in thy croak;
Raven, come down from that majestic oak.
—When I was hatch'd, my father set this tree,
An acorn; and its fall I hope to see,
A century after thou hast ceased to be.

THE PARROT.
Camest thou from India, popinjay,—and why?
—To make thy children open ear and eye,
Gaze on my feathers, wonder at my talk,
And think 'tis almost time for Poll to walk.

THE MAGPIE.
Magpie, thou too hast learn'd by rote to speak
Words without meaning, through thy uncouth beak.
—Words have I learn'd? and without meaning too?
No wonder, sir, for I was taught by you.

THE CORN-CRAKE.
Art thou a sound, and nothing but a sound?
—Go round the field, and round the field, and round,
You'll find my voice for ever changing ground;
And while your ear pursues my creaking cry,
You look as if you heard it with your eye.

THE STORK.
Stork, why were human virtues given to thee?
—That human beings might resemble me;

329

Kind to my offspring, to my partner true,
And duteous to my parents,—what are you?

THE WOODPECKER.
Rap, rap, rap, rap, I hear thy knocking bill,
Then thy strange outcry, when the woods are still.
—Thus am I ever labouring for my bread,
And thus give thanks to find my table spread.

THE HAWK.

A life at every meal, rapacious hawk!
Spare helpless innocence!

—Troth, pleasant talk!
Yon swallow snaps more lives up in a day
Than in a twelvemonth I could take away.
But hark, most gentle censor, in your ear
A word, a whisper,—you—are you quite clear?
Creation's groans, through ocean, earth, and sky,
Ascend from all that walk, or swim, or fly.

VULTURES.
Abominable harpies! spare the dead.
—We only clear the field which man has spread;
On which should Heaven its hottest vengeance rain?
You slay the living, we but strip the slain.

THE HUMMING-BIRD.
Art thou a bird, or bee, or butterfly?
—Each and all three.—A bird in shape am I,
A bee collecting sweets from bloom to bloom,
A butterfly in brilliancy of plume.

THE EAGLE.
Art thou the king of birds, proud eagle, say?
—I am; my talons and my beak bear sway;
A greater king than I if thou wouldst be,
Govern thy tongue, but let thy thoughts be free.

THE PELICAN.
Bird of the wilderness, what is thy name?
—The pelican!—go, take the trump of fame,
And if thou give the honour due to me,
The world may talk a little more of thee.

THE HERON.
Stock-still upon that stone, from day to day,
I see thee watch the river for thy prey.
—Yes, I'm the tyrant here; but when I rise,
The well-train'd falcon braves me in the skies:
Then comes the tug of war, of strength and skill;
He dies, impaled on my updarted bill,
Or, powerless in his grasp, my doom I meet,
Dropt as a trophy at his master's feet.

THE BIRD OF PARADISE.

The bird of paradise!

—That name I bear,
Though I am nothing but a bird of air:
Thou art a child of earth, and yet to thee,
Lost and recover'd, paradise is free;
Oh! that such glory were reserved for me!

THE OSTRICH.
Hast thou expell'd the mother from thy breast,
And to the desert's mercies left thy nest?
—Ah! no; the mother in me knows her part:
Yon glorious sun is warmer than my heart;
And when to light he brings my hungry brood,
He spreads for them the wilderness with food.

TIME:

A RHAPSODY.

Sed fugit, interea, fugit irreparabile tempus.
Virg. Goerg. iii. 284.

'Tis a mistake: Time flies not,
He only hovers on the wing:
Once born, the moment dies not,
'Tis an immortal thing;
While all is change beneath the sky,
Fix'd like the sun as learned sages prove,
Though from our moving world he seems to move,
'Tis Time stands still, and we that fly.

There is no past; from nature's birth,
Days, months, years, ages, till the end
Of these revolving heavens and earth,
All to one centre tend;
And, having reach'd it late or soon,
Converge,—as in a lens, the rays,
Caught from the fountain-light of noon,
Blend in a point that blinds the gaze:
—What has been is, what is shall last;
The present is the focus of the past;
The future, perishing as it arrives,
Becomes the present, and itself survives.

330

Time is not progress, but amount;
One vast accumulating store,
Laid up, not lost;—we do not count
Years gone, but added to the score
Of wealth untold, to clime nor class confined,
Riches to generations lent,
For ever spending, never spent,
The' august inheritance of all mankind.
Of this, from Adam to his latest heir,
All in due turn their portion share,
Which, as they husband or abuse,
Their souls they win or lose.

Though History, on her faded scrolls,
Fragments of facts and wrecks of names enrols,
Time's indefatigable fingers write
Men's meanest actions on their souls,
In lines which not himself can blot:
These the last day shall bring to light,
Though through long centuries forgot,
When hearts and sepulchres are bared to sight.

Then, having fill'd his measure up,
Amidst his own assembled progeny,
(All that have been, that are, or yet may be,)
Before the great white throne,
To Him who sits thereon,
Time shall present the' amalgamating cup,
In which, as in a crucible,
He hid the moments as they fell,
More precious than Golconda's gems,
Or stars in angels' diadems,
Though to our eyes they seem'd to pass
Like sands through his symbolic glass:
But now, the process done,
Of millions multiplied by millions, none
Shall there be wanting,—while, by change
Ineffable and strange,
All shall appear at once, all shall appear as one.

Ah! then shall each of Adam's race,
In that concentred instant, trace,
Upon the tablet of his mind,
His whole existence in a thought combined,
Thenceforth to part no more, but be
Impictured on his memory;
—As in the image-chamber of the eye,
Seen at a glance, in clear perspective, lie
Myriads of forms of ocean, earth, and sky.
Then shall be shown, that but in name
Time and eternity were both the same;
A point which life nor death could sever,
A moment standing still for ever.

1833.

TO A FRIEND, WITH A COPY OF THE FOREGOING LUCUBRATION.

May she for whom these lines are penn'd,
By using well, make Time her friend;
Then, whether he stands still or flies,
Whether the moment lives or dies,
She need not care,—for Time will be
Her friend to all eternity.

A LUCID INTERVAL.

Oh! light is pleasant to the eye,
And health comes rustling on the gale;
Clouds are careering through the sky,
Whose shadows mock them down the dale;
Nature as fresh and fragrant seems
As I have met her in my dreams.

For I have been a prisoner long
In gloom and loneliness of mind;
Deaf to the melody of song,
To every form of beauty blind;
Nor morning dew, nor evening balm,
Might cool my cheek, my bosom calm.

But now the blood, the blood returns
With rapturous pulses through my veins;
My heart from out its ashes burns;
My limbs break loose, they cast their chains;
New kindled at the sun, my sight
Tracks to a point the eagle's flight.

I long to climb those old grey rocks,
Glide with yon river to the deep,
Range the green hills with herds and flocks,
Free as the roebuck run and leap;
Or mount the lark's victorious wing,
And from the depth of ether sing.

331

O earth! in maiden innocence,
Too early fled thy golden time;
O earth! earth! earth! for man's offence,
Doom'd to dishonour in thy prime;
Of how much glory then bereft!
Yet what a world of bliss is left!

The thorn, harsh emblem of the curse,
Puts forth a paradise of flowers;
Labour, man's punishment, is nurse
To home-born joys at sunset hours;
Plague, earthquake, famine, want, disease,
Give birth to holiest charities.

And death himself, with all the woes
That hasten yet prolong his stroke,
Death brings with every pang repose,
With every sigh he solves a yoke;
Yea, his cold sweats and moaning strife
Wring out the bitterness of life.

Life, life with all its burdens dear!
Friendship is sweet, love sweeter still;
Who would forego a smile, a tear,
One generous hope, one chastening ill?
Home, kindred, country,—these are ties
Might keep an angel from the skies.

But these have angels never known;
Unvex'd felicity their lot;
The sea of glass before the throne,
Storm, lightning, shipwreck, visit not;
Our tides, beneath the changing moon,
Are soon appeased, are troubled soon.

Well, I would bear what all have borne,
Live my few years, and fill my place;
O'er old and young affections mourn,
Rent one by one from my embrace,
Till suffering ends, and I have done
With every thing beneath the sun.

Whence came I?—Memory cannot say;
What am I?—Knowledge will not show;
Bound whither?—Ah! away, away,
Far as eternity can go:—
Thy love to win, thy wrath to flee,
O God! thyself my teacher be.

1823.

WORMS AND FLOWERS.

You're spinning for my lady, worm!
Silk garments for the fair;
You're spinning rainbows for a form
More beautiful than air,
When air is bright with sun-beams,
And morning mists arise
From woody vales and mountain streams
To blue autumnal skies.

You're springing for my lady, flower!
You're training for my love,
The glory of her summer-bower,
While skylarks soar above:
Go, twine her locks with rose-buds,
Or breathe upon her breast,
While zephyrs curl the water-floods
And rock the halcyon's nest.

But, oh! there is another worm
Ere long will visit her,
And revel on her lovely form,
In the dark sepulchre:
Yet from that sepulchre shall spring
A flower as sweet as this;
Hard by the nightingale shall sing,
Soft winds its petals kiss.

Frail emblems of frail beauty, ye!
In beauty who would trust?
Since all that charms the eye must be
Consign'd to worms and dust:
Yet, like the flower that decks her tomb,
Her spirit shall quit the sod,
To shine in amaranthine bloom,
Fast by the throne of God.

1834.

THE RECLUSE.

A fountain, issuing into light
Before a marble palace, threw
To heaven its column, pure and bright,
Returning thence in showers of dew;
But soon a humbler course it took,
And glid away a nameless brook.

332

Flowers on its grassy margin sprang,
Flies o'er its eddying surface play'd,
Birds 'midst the alder-branches sang,
Flocks through the verdant meadows stray'd;
The weary there lay down to rest,
And there the halcyon built her nest.

'Twas beautiful, to stand and watch
The fountain's crystal turn to gems,
And from the sky such colours catch,
As if 'twere raining diadems;
Yet all was cold and curious art,
That charm'd the eye, but miss'd the heart.

Dearer to me the little stream,
Whose unimprison'd waters run,
Wild as the changes of a dream,
By rock and glen, through shade and sun;
Its lovely links had power to bind
In welcome chains my wandering mind.

So thought I when I saw the face,
By happy portraiture reveal'd,
Of one, adorn'd with every grace,
—Her name and date from me conceal'd,
But not her story;—she had been
The pride of many a splendid scene.

She cast her glory round a court,
And frolick'd in the gayest ring,
Where fashion's high-born minions sport,
Like sparkling fire-flies on the wing;
But thence, when love had touch'd her soul,
To nature and to truth she stole.

From din, and pageantry, and strife,
Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains,
She treads the paths of lowly life,
Yet in a bosom-circle reigns;
No fountain scattering diamond showers,
But the sweet streamlet watering flowers.

1829.

THE RETREAT.

[_]

Written on finding a copy of verses in a small edifice so named, at Raithby, in Lincolnshire, the seat of R. C. Brackenbury, to whom the Author made a visit in the autumn of 1815, after a severe illness.

A stranger sat down in the lonely retreat:—
Though kindness had welcomed him there,
Yet, weary with travel, and fainting with heat,
His bosom was sadden'd with care:
That sinking of spirit they only can know
Whose joys are all chasten'd with fears;
Whose waters of comfort, though deeply they flow,
Still wind through the valley of tears.

What ails thee, O stranger! but open thine eye
A paradise bursts on thy view;
The sun in full glory is marching on high
Through cloudless and infinite blue:
The woods, in their wildest luxuriance display'd,
Are stretching their coverts of green,
While bright from the depth of their innermost shade
Yon mirror of waters is seen.

There, richly reflected, the mansion, the lawn,
The banks and the foliage, appear,
By nature's own pencil enchantingly drawn,
—A landscape enshrined in a sphere;
While the fish in their element sport to and fro,
Quick glancing or gliding at ease,
The birds seem to fly in a concave below,
Through a vista of down-growing trees.

The current, unrippled by volatile airs,
Now glitters, now darkens along,
And yonder o'erflowing, incessantly bears
Symphonious accordance to song:—
The song of the ring-dove enamour'd, that floats
Like soft-melting murmurs of grief;—
The song of the red-breast, in ominous notes,
Foretelling the fall of the leaf:—

The song of the bee, in its serpentine flight,
From blossom to blossom that roves;—
The song of the wind in the silence of night,
When it wakens or hushes the groves:—
Thus sweet in the chorus of rapture and love,
Which God in his temple attends,

333

With the song of all nature beneath and above,
The voice of these waters ascends.

The beauty, the music, the bliss of that scene
With ravishing sympathy stole
Through the stranger's lorn bosom, illumined his mien,
And soothed and exalted his soul:
Cold gloomy forebodings then vanish'd away,
His terrors to ecstasies turn,
As the vapours of night, at the dawning of day,
With splendour and loveliness burn.

The stranger reposed in the lonely retreat,
Now smiling at phantoms gone by,
When, lo! a new welcome, in numbers most sweet,
Saluted his ear through his eye:
It came to his eye, but it went to his soul;
—Some muse, as she wander'd that way,
Had dropt from her bosom a mystical scroll,
Whose secrets I dare not betray.

Strange tones, we are told, the pale mariner hears
When the mermaids ascend from their caves,
And sing, where the moon's lengthen'd image appears
A column of gold on the waves;
—And wild notes of wonder the shepherd entrance,
Who dreaming beholds in the vale,
By torchlight of glow-worms, the fairies that dance
To minstrelsy piped in the gale.

Not less to that stranger mysteriously brought,
With harmony deep and refined,
In language of feeling and music of thought,
Those numbers were heard in his mind:
Then quick beat the pulse which had languidly crept,
And sent through his veins a spring-tide;
It seem'd as the harp of a seraph were swept
By a spirit that sung at his side.

All ceased in a moment, and nothing was heard,
And nothing was seen, through the wood,
But the twittering cry of a fugitive bird,
And the sunset that blazed on the flood:
He rose, for the shadows of evening grew long,
And narrow the glimpses between;
The owl in his ambush was whooping his song,
And the gossamer glanced on the green.

Oft pausing, and hearkening, and turning his eye,
He left the sequester'd retreat;
As the stars in succession awoke through the sky,
And the moon of the harvest shone sweet;
So pure was her lustre, so lovely and bright,
So soft on the landscape it lay,
The shadows appear'd but the slumber of light,
And the night-scene a dream of the day.

He walk'd to the mansion,—though silent his tongue,
And his heart with its fulness opprest,
His spirit within him melodiously sung
The feelings that throbb'd in his breast:
—“Oh! ye, who inherit this privileged spot!
All blooming like Eden of yore,
What earth can afford is already your lot,
With the promise of ‘life evermore.’

“Here, oft as to strangers your table is spread,
May angels sit down at your board;
Here, oft as the poor by your bounty are fed,
Be charity shown to your Lord;
Thus walking with God in your paradise here,
In humble communion of love,
At length may your spirits, when He shall appear,
Be caught up to glory above.”

SPEED THE PROW.

Not the ship that swiftest saileth,
But which longest holds her way
Onward, onward, never faileth,
Storm and calm, to win the day;
Earliest she the haven gains,
Which the hardest stress sustains.

O'er life's ocean, wide and pathless,
Thus would I with patience steer;
No vain hope of journeying scathless,
No proud boast to face down fear;
Dark or bright his Providence,
Trust in God be my defence.

Time there was,—'tis so no longer,—
When I crowded every sail,
Battled with the waves, and stronger
Grew, as stronger grew the gale;

334

But my strength sunk with the wind,
And the sea lay dead behind.

There my bark had founder'd surely,
But a Power invisible
Breathed upon me;—then securely,
Borne along the gradual swell,
Helm, and shrouds, and heart renew'd,
I my humbler course pursued.

Now, though evening shadows blacken,
And no star comes through the gloom,
On I move, nor will I slacken
Sail, though verging tow'rds the tomb:
Bright beyond,—on heaven's high strand,
Lo, the lighthouse!—land, land, land!

Cloud and sunshine, wind and weather,
Sense and sight, are fleeing fast;
Time and tide must fail together,
Life and death will soon be past;
But where day's last spark declines,
Glory everlasting shines.

1834.

THE SKY-LARK.

(ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.)

[_]

On hearing one singing at daybreak, during a sharp frost on the 17th of February, 1832, while the Author was on travel, between Bath and Stroud.

O warn away the gloomy night,
With music make the welkin ring,
Bird of the dawn!—On joyful wing,
Soar through thine element of light,
Till nought in heaven mine eye can see,
Except the morning star and thee.

O welcome in the cheerful day!
Through rosy clouds the shades retire,
The sun hath touch'd thy plumes with fire,
And girt thee with a golden ray:
Now shape and voice are vanish'd quite,
Nor eye nor ear can track thy flight.

Could I translate thy strains, and give
Words to thy notes in human tongue,
The sweetest lay that e'er I sung,
The lay that would the longest live,
I might record upon this page,
And sing thy song from age to age.

But speech of mine can ne'er reveal
Secrets so freely told above,
Yet is their burden joy and love,
And all the bliss a bird can feel,
Whose wing in heaven to earth is bound,
Whose home and heart are on the ground.

Unlike the lark be thou, my friend!
No downward cares thy thoughts engage,
But in thine house of pilgrimage,
Though from the ground thy songs ascend,
Still be their burden joy and love:
—Heaven is thy home, thy heart above.

The gloom that brings, through evening skies,
Your beauty from the deep;
The clouds that hide you from our eyes;
The storms that seem to sweep
Your scatter'd train, like vessels tost
On ocean's waves, now seen, now lost;
—Belong to our inferior ball,
Ye shine above them all:
Your splendour noon eclipses not,
Nor night reveals, nor vapours blot;
O'er us, not you, these changes come and pass;
Ye navigate a sea of glass.

335

Thus, on their hyaline above,
In constellations stand
The tribes redeem'd by sovereign love:
—Crown'd, and with harp in hand,
They sing, before the great I AM,
The song of Moses and the Lamb;
Returning in perpetual streams
His own all-lightening beams.
—Theirs be thy portion, O my soul!
That, while heaven's years self-circling roll,
I may, among the ransom'd—they in me,
And I in them,—God's image see.

1834.

THE LILY.

TO A YOUNG LADY, E. P.

Flower of light, forget thy birth,
Daughter of the sordid earth,
Lift the beauty of thine eye
To the blue ethereal sky!

While thy graceful buds unfold
Silver petals starr'd with gold,
Let the bee among thy bells
Rifle their ambrosial cells,
And the nimble-pinion'd air
Waft thy breath to heaven like prayer.
Cloud and sun alternate shed
Gloom or glory round thine head;
Morn impearl thy leaves with dews,
Evening lend them rosy hues,
Noon with snow-white splendour bless,
Night with glow-worm jewels dress.
—Thus fulfil thy summer-day,
Spring, and flourish, and decay;
Live a life of fragrance,—then
Disappear,—to rise again,
When thy sisters of the vale
Welcome back the nightingale.

So may she, whose name I write,
Be herself a flower of light,
Live a life of innocence,
Die to be transplanted hence
To that garden in the skies,
Where the lily never dies.

1829.

THE GENTIANELLA.

IN LEAF.

Green thou art, obscurely green,
Meanest plant among the mean!

From the dust I took my birth;
Thou, too, art a child of earth;
I aspire not to be great;
Scorn not thou my low estate;
Time will come when thou shalt see
Honour crown humility,
Beauty set her seal on me.

IN FLOWER.

Blue thou art, intensely blue,
Flower, whence came thy dazzling hue?

When I open'd first mine eye,
Upward glancing to the sky,
Straightway from the firmament
Was the sapphire brilliance sent.
Brighter glory wouldst thou share,
Do what I did,—look up there;
What I could not,—look with prayer!

THE SUN-FLOWER.

Eagle of flowers! I see thee stand,
And on the sun's noon-glory gaze;
With eye like his, thy lids expand,
And fringe their disk with golden rays:
Though fix'd on earth, in darkness rooted there,
Light is thine element, thy dwelling air,
Thy prospect heaven.

So would mine eagle soul descry,
Beyond the path where planets run,
The light of immortality,
The splendour of creation's sun;
Though sprung from earth, and hastening to the tomb,
In hope a flower of paradise to bloom,
I look to heaven.

1834.

336

WINTER-LIGHTNING.

The flash at midnight!—'twas a light
That gave the blind a moment's sight,
Then sunk in tenfold gloom;
Loud, deep, and long the thunder broke,
The deaf ear instantly awoke,
Then closed as in the tomb:
An angel might have pass'd my bed,
Sounded the trump of God, and fled.

So life appears;—a sudden birth,
A glance revealing heaven and earth,
It is and it is not!
So fame the poet's hope deceives,
Who sings for after-times, and leaves
A name—to be forgot:
Life is a lightning-flash of breath,
Fame but a thunder-clap at death.

1834.

HUMILITY.

The bird that soars on highest wing,
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing,
Sings in the shade when all things rest:
—In lark and nightingale we see
What honour hath humility.

When Mary chose the “better part,”
She meekly sat at Jesus' feet;
And Lydia's gently-open'd heart
Was made for God's own temple meet;
—Fairest and best adorn'd is she
Whose clothing is humility.

The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown,
In deepest adoration bends;
The weight of glory bows him down,
Then most when most his soul ascends;
—Nearest the throne itself must be
The footstool of humility.

1833.

EVENING TIME.

[_]

Zech. xiv. 7.

At evening time let there be light:—
Life's little day draws near its close;
Around me fall the shades of night,
The night of death, the grave's repose;
To crown my joys, to end my woes,
At evening time let there be light.

At evening time let there be light:—
Stormy and dark hath been my day;
Yet rose the morn benignly bright,
Dews, birds, and flowers cheer'd all the way;
O for one sweet, one parting ray!
At evening time let there be light.

At evening time there shall be light:—
For God hath said,—“So let it be!”
Fear, doubt, and anguish, take their flight,
His glory now is risen on me;
Mine eyes shall his salvation see:—
'Tis evening time, and there is light.

Conway, North Wales, 1828.

REMINISCENCE.

Remembrance of the dead revives
The slain of time, at will;
Those who were lovely in their lives,
In death are lovelier still.

Unburden'd with infirmity,
Unplagued like mortal men,
O with what pure delight we see
The heart's old friends again!

Not as they sunk into the tomb,
With sickness-wasted powers,
But in the beauty and the bloom
Of their best days and ours.

The troubles of departed years
Bring joys unknown before;
And soul-refreshing are the tears
O'er wounds that bleed no more.

337

Lightnings may blast, but thunder-showers
Earth's ravaged face renew,
With nectar fill the cups of flowers,
And hang the thorns with dew.

Remembrance of the dead is sweet;
Yet how imperfect this,
Unless past, present, future, meet,—
A threefold cord of bliss!

Companions of our youth, our age,
With whom through life we walk'd,
And, in our house of pilgrimage,
Of home beyond it talk'd:—

Grief on their urn may fix her eyes,—
They spring not from the ground;
Love may invoke them from the skies,—
There is no voice nor sound.

Fond memory marks them as they were,
Stars in our horoscope;
But soon to see them as they are—
That is our dearest hope.

Not through the darkness of the night,
To waking thought unseal'd,
But in the uncreated light
Of Deity reveal'd.

They cannot come to us, but we
Ere long to them may go;—
That glimpse of immortality
Is heaven begun below.

A RECOLLECTION OF MARY F.,

A YOUNG LADY UNEXPECTEDLY REMOVED FROM A LARGE FAMILY CIRCLE.

[_]

Her life had twice been saved, once from the flames, and again from the water, by an affectionate father.

Thrice born for earth, and twice for heaven,
A lovely maiden once I knew,
To whom 'tis now in glory given
To grow, as here in shade she grew;
Brief was her course, but starry bright;
The linnet's song, the lily's white,
The fountain's freshness,—these shall be
Meet emblems of that maid to me.

A weeping babe to light she came,
And changed for smiles a mother's throes;
In childhood from devouring flame
Rescued, to second life she rose;
A father's arm had pluck'd her thence;
That arm again was her defence,
When, buried in the strangling wave,
He snatch'd her from an ocean grave.

Twice born for heaven as thrice for earth,
When God's eternal Spirit moved
On her young heart, a nobler birth
Than nature can confer, she proved:
—The dew-drop in the breeze of morn,
Trembling and sparkling on the thorn,
Falls to the ground, escapes the eye,
Yet mounts on sunbeams to the sky.

Thus in the dew of youth she shone,
Thus in the morn of beauty fell;
Even while we gazed, the form was gone,
Her life became invisible;
Her last best birth, with her last breath,
Came in the dark disguise of death;
Grief fill'd her parents' home of love,
But joy her Father's house above.

1833.

THE CHOLERA MOUNT.

LINES ON THE BURYING-PLACE FOR PATIENTS WHO DIED OF CHOLERA MORBUS: A PLEASANT EMINENCE IN SHEFFIELD PARK.

[_]

Written during the prevalence of the disease in 1832, and while great terror of infection from it was experienced throughout the kingdom, sanctioned by legislative authority requiring the separate interment of its unfortunate victims.

In death divided from their dearest kin,
This is “a field to bury strangers in:”
Fragments, from families untimely reft,
Like spoils in flight or limbs in battle left,
Lie here;—a sad community, whose bones
Might feel, methinks, a pang to quicken stones;

338

While from beneath my feet they seem to cry,
“Oh! is it nought to you, ye passers by!
When from its earthly house the spirit fled,
Our dust might not be ‘free among the dead?’
Ah! why were we to this Siberia sent,
Doom'd in the grave itself to banishment?”

Shuddering humanity asks, “Who are these?
And what their crime?”—They fell by one disease!
By the blue pest, whose gripe no art can shun,
No force unwrench, out-singled one by one;
When, like a monstrous birth, the womb of fate
Bore a new death of unrecorded date,
And doubtful name.—Far east the fiend begun
Its course; thence round the world pursued the sun,
The ghosts of millions following at its back,
Whose desecrated graves betray'd their track.
On Albion's shores unseen the invader stept;
Secret and swift through field and city swept ;
At noon, at midnight, seized the weak, the strong,
Asleep, awake, alone, amid the throng;
Kill'd like a murderer; fix'd its icy hold,
And wrung out life with agony of cold;
Nor stay'd its vengeance where it crush'd the prey,
But set a mark, like Cain's, upon their clay,
And this tremendous seal impress'd on all,—
“Bury me out of sight and out of call.”

Wherefore no filial foot this turf may tread,
No kneeling mother kiss her baby's bed;
No maiden unespoused, with widow'd sighs,
Seek her soul's treasure where her true love lies:
—All stand aloof, and eye this mount from far,
As panic-stricken crowds some baleful star,
Strange to the heavens, that, with bewilder'd light,
Like a lost spirit, wanders through the night.

Yet many a mourner weeps her fallen state,
In many a home by these left desolate,
Once warm with love, and radiant with the smiles
Of woman, watching infants at their wiles,
Whose eye of thought, when now they throng her knees,
Pictures far other scene than that she sees,
For one is wanting,—one, for whose dear sake
Her heart for very tenderness would ache,
As now with anguish,—doubled when she spies
In this his lineaments, in that his eyes,
In each his image with her own commix'd,
And there, at least, through life their union fix'd.

Humanity again asks, “Who are these?
And what their crime?”—They fell by one disease;
Not by the Proteus-maladies that strike
Man into nothingness, not twice alike;
But when they knock'd for entrance at the tomb,
Their fathers' bones refused to make them room;
Recoiling Nature from their presence fled,
As though a thunderbolt had smote them dead;
Their cries pursued her with the thrilling plea,
“Give us a little earth for charity!”
She linger'd, listen'd, all her bosom yearn'd,
Through every vein the mother's pulse return'd;
Then, as she halted on this hill, she threw
Her mantle wide, and loose her tresses flew:
“Live!” to the slain, she cried, “My children, live!
This for an heritage to you I give:
Had death consumed you by the common lot,
You with the multitude had been forgot,
Now through an age of ages shall ye not.”

Thus Nature spake; and, as her echo, I
Take up her parable, and prophesy:
—Here, as from Spring to Spring the swallows pass,
Perennial daisies shall adorn the grass;
Here the shrill sky-lark build her annual nest,
And sing in heaven while you serenely rest:
On trembling dew-drops morn's first glance shall shine,
Eve's latest beams on this fair bank decline,
And oft the rainbow steal through light and gloom,
To throw its sudden arch across your tomb;
On you the moon her sweetest influence shower,
And every planet bless you in its hour.

With statelier honours still, in time's slow round,
Shall this sepulchral eminence be crown'd,
Where generations long to come shall hail
The growth of centuries waving in the gale,
A forest landmark on the mountain's head,
Standing betwixt the living and the dead,
Nor, while your language lasts, shall traveller cease
To say, at sight of your memorial, “Peace!”
Your voice of silence answering from the sod,
“Whoe'er thou art, prepare to meet thy God!”

1832.

339

THE TOMBS OF THE FATHERS.

[_]

The Jews occasionally hold a “Solemn Assembly” in the valley of Jehoshaphat, the ancient burial-place of Jerusalem. They are obliged to pay a heavy tax for the privilege of thus mourning, in stillness, at the sepulchres of their ancestors.

Part I.

In Babylon they sat and wept,
Down by the river's willowy side;
And when the breeze their harp-strings swept,
The strings of breaking hearts replied:
—A deeper sorrow now they hide;
No Cyrus comes to set them free
From ages of captivity.

All lands are Babylons to them,
Exiles and fugitives they roam;
What is their own Jerusalem?
—The place where they are least at home!
Yet hither from all climes they come;
And pay their gold, for leave to shed
Tears o'er the generations fled.

Around, the eternal mountains stand,
With Hinnom's darkling vale between;
Old Jordan wanders through the land,
Blue Carmel's sea-ward crest is seen,
And Lebanon yet sternly green
Throws, when the evening sun declines,
Its cedar shades, in lengthening lines.

But, ah! for ever vanish'd hence,
The temple of the living God,
Once Zion's glory and defence!
—Now mourn beneath the oppressor's rod,
The fields which faithful Abraham trod,
Where Isaac walk'd by twilight gleam,
And heaven came down on Jacob's dream.

For ever mingled with the soil,
Those armies of the Lord of Hosts,
That conquer'd Canaan, shared the spoil,
Quell'd Moab's pride, storm'd Midian's posts,
Spread paleness through Philistia's coasts,
And taught the foes, whose idols fell,
“There is a God in Israel.”

Now, David's tabernacle gone,
What mighty builder shall restore?
The golden throne of Solomon,
And ivory palace, are no more;
The Psalmist's song, the Preacher's lore,
Of all they wrought, alone remain
Unperish'd trophies of their reign.

Holy and beautiful of old,
Was Zion 'midst her princely bowers;
Besiegers trembled to behold
Bulwarks that set at nought their powers;
—Swept from the earth are all her towers;
Nor is there—so was she bereft—
One stone upon another left.

340

The very site whereon she stood,
In vain the eye, the foot, would trace;
Vengeance, for saints' and martyrs' blood,
Her walls did utterly deface;
Dungeons and dens usurp their place;
The cross and crescent shine afar,
But where is Jacob's natal star?

Part II.

Still inexterminable, still
Devoted to their mother-land,
Her offspring haunt the temple-hill,
Amidst her desecration stand,
And bite the lip, and clench the hand:
—To-day in that lone vale they weep,
Where patriarchs, kings, and prophets sleep.

Ha! what a spectacle of woe!
In groups they settle on the ground;
Men, women, children, gathering slow,
Sink down in reverie profound;
There is no voice, no speech, no sound,
But through the shuddering frame is thrown
The heart's unutterable groan.

Entranced they sit, nor seem to breathe,
Themselves like spectres from the dead;
Where, shrined in rocks above, beneath,
With clods along the valley spread,
Their ancestors, each on his bed,
Repose, till, at the judgment-day,
Death and the grave give up their prey.

Before their eyes, as in a glass,
—Their eyes that gaze on vacancy,—
Pageants of ancient grandeur pass,
But, “Ichabod” on all they see
Brands Israel's foul apostasy;
—Then last and worst, and crowning all
Their crimes and sufferings—Salem's fall.

Nor breeze, nor bird, nor palm-tree stirs,
Kedron's unwater'd brook is dumb;
But through the glen of sepulchres
Is heard the city's fervid hum,
Voices of dogs and children come:
Till loud and long the medzin's cry,
From Omar's mosque, peals round the sky.

Blight through their veins those accents send;
In agony of mute despair,
Their garments, as by stealth, they rend;
Unconsciously they pluck their hair;
—This is the Moslem's hour of prayer!
'Twas Judah's once,—but fane and priest,
Altar and sacrifice, have ceased.

And by the Gentiles, in their pride,
Jerusalem is trodden down:
—“How long?—for ever wilt Thou hide
Thy face, O Lord;—for ever frown?
Israel was once thy glorious crown,
In sight of all the nations worn;
Now from thy brow in anger torn.

“Zion, forsaken and forgot,
Hath felt thy stroke, and owns it just:
O God, our God! reject us not,
Her sons take pleasure in her dust:
How is the fine gold dimm'd with rust!
The city throned in gorgeous state,
How doth she now sit desolate!

“Where is thine oath to David sworn?
We by the winds like chaff are driven:
Yet unto us a Child is born,
Yet unto us a Son is given;
His throne is as the days of Heaven:
When shall He come to our release,
The mighty God, the Prince of Peace?”

Part III.

Thus blind with unbelief they cry,
But hope revisits not their glooms;
Seal'd are the words of prophecy,
Seal'd as the secrets of yon tombs,
Where all is dark,—though nature blooms,
Birds sing, streams murmur, heaven above
And earth around are life, light, love.

341

The sun goes down;—the mourning crowds,
Re-quicken'd, as from slumber start;
They met in silence here like clouds,
Like clouds in silence they depart:
Still clings the thought to every heart,
Still from their lips escapes in sighs,
—“By whom shall Jacob yet arise?”

By whom shall Jacob yet arise?
—Even by the Power that wakes the dead:
He whom your fathers did despise,
He who for you on Calvary bled,
On Zion shall his ensign spread;
—Captives! by all the world enslaved,
Know your Redeemer, and be saved!

1828.

A CRY FROM SOUTH AFRICA.

[_]

On building a chapel at Cape Town, for the Negro slaves of the colony, in 1828.

Afric, from her remotest strand,
Lifts to high heaven one fetter'd hand,
And to the utmost of her chain
Stretches the other o'er the main:
Then, kneeling 'midst ten thousand slaves,
Utters a cry across the waves,
Of power to reach to either pole,
And pierce, like conscience, through the soul,
Though dreary, faint, and low the sound,
Like life-blood gurgling from a wound,
As if her heart, before it broke,
Had found a human tongue, and spoke.

“Britain! not now I ask of thee
Freedom, the right of bond and free;
Let Mammon hold, while Mammon can,
The bones and blood of living man;
Let tyrants scorn, while tyrants dare,
The shrieks and writhings of despair;
An end will come—it will not wait,
Bonds, yokes, and scourges have their date,
Slavery itself must pass away,
And be a tale of yesterday.

“But now I urge a dearer claim,
And urge it by a mightier name:
Hope of the world! on thee I call,
By the great Father of us all,
By the Redeemer of our race,
And by the Spirit of all grace;
Turn not, Britannia, from my plea;
—So help Thee God as Thou help'st me!
Mine outcast children come to light
From darkness, and go down in night;
—A night of more mysterious gloom
Than that which wrapt them in the womb:
Oh! that the womb had been the grave
Of every being born a slave!
Oh! that the grave itself might close
The slave's unutterable woes!
But what beyond that gulf may be,
What portion in eternity,
For those who live to curse their breath,
And die without a hope in death,
I know not, and I dare not think;
Yet, while I shudder o'er the brink
Of that unfathomable deep,
Where wrath lies chain'd and judgments sleep,
To thee, thou paradise of isles!
Where mercy in full glory smiles;
Eden of lands! o'er all the rest
By blessing others doubly blest,
—To thee I lift my weeping eye;
Send me the Gospel, or I die;
The word of Christ's salvation give,
That I may hear his voice and live.”

TO MY FRIEND, GEORGE BENNET, ESQ., OF SHEFFIELD

[_]

On his intended visit to Tahiti, and other islands of the South Sea, where Christianity had been recently established.

Go, take the wings of morn,
And fly beyond the utmost sea;
Thou shalt not feel thyself forlorn,
Thy God is still with thee;
And where his Spirit bids thee dwell,
There, and there only, thou art well.

342

Forsake thy father-land,
Kindred, and friends, and pleasant home;
O'er many a rude barbarian strand
In exile though thou roam,
Walk there with God, and thou shalt find
Double for all thy faith resign'd.

Launch boldly on the surge,
And, in a light and fragile bark,
Thy path through flood and tempest urge,
Like Noah in the ark,
Then tread like him a new world's shore,
Thine altar build, and God adore.

Leave our Jerusalem,
Jehovah's temple and his rest;
Go where no Sabbath rose on them
Whom pagan gloom oppress'd,
Till bright, though late, around their isles,
The Gospel-dawn awoke in smiles.

Amidst that dawn, from far,
Be thine expected presence shown:
Rise on them like the morning-star
In glory not thine own,
And tell them, while they hail the sight,
Who turn'd thy darkness into light.

Point where His hovering rays
Already gild their ocean's brim,
Erelong o'er heaven and earth to blaze;
Direct all eyes to Him,
—The Sun of Righteousness, who brings
Mercy and healing on his wings.

Nor thou disdain to teach
To savage hordes celestial truth,
To infant-tongues thy mother's speech,
Ennobling arts to youth,
Till warriors fling their arms aside,
O'er bloodless fields the plough to guide.

Train them, by patient toil,
To rule the waves, subdue the ground,
Enrich themselves with nature's spoil,
With harvest-trophies crown'd,
Till coral-reefs, 'midst desert seas,
Become the new Hesperides.

Thus then in peace depart,
And angels guide thy footsteps:—No!
There is a feeling in the heart,
That will not let thee go:
Yet go,—thy spirit stays with me;
Yet go,—my spirit goes with thee.

Though the broad world, between
Our feet, conglobe its solid mass;
Though lands and oceans intervene,
Which I must never pass;
Though day and night to thee be changed,
Seasons reversed, and climes estranged;—

Yet one in soul,—and one
In faith, and hope, and purpose yet,
God's witness in the heavens, yon sun,
Forbid thee to forget
Those from whose eyes his orb retires,
When thine his morning beauty fires!

When tropic gloom returns,
Mark what new stars their vigils keep,
How glares the wolf,—the phœnix burns,
And on a stormless deep,
The ship of heaven,—the patriarch's dove,
The emblem of redeeming love.

While these enchant thine eye,
O think how often we have walk'd,
Gazed on the glories of our sky,
Of higher glories talk'd,
Till our hearts caught a kindling ray,
And burn'd within us by the way.

Those hours, those walks, are past;
We part;—and ne'er again may meet:
Why are the joys that will not last
So perishingly sweet?
Farewell,—we surely meet again
In life or death;—farewell till then.

Sheffield, March 10. 1821.

343

STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE REV. JAMES HARVEY,

Of Weston Favell, Northamptonshire;

Who died on Christmas Day, 1758, aged 43 Years.

[_]

Composed on an occasional celebration of his virtues and talents, at that village, in 1833.

Where is the house for all the living found?
—Go ask the deaf, the dumb, the dead;
All answer, without voice or sound,
Each resting in his bed;
Look down and see,
Beneath thy feet,
A place for thee;
—There all the living meet.

Whence come the beauteous progeny of Spring?
—They hear a still, small voice, “Awake!”
And, while the lark is on the wing,
From dust and darkness break;
Flowers of all hues
Laugh in the gale,
Sparkle with dews,
And dance o'er hill and dale.

Who leads through trackless space the stars of night?
—The Power that made them guides them still;
They know Him not, yet, day and night,
They do his perfect will:
Unchanged by age,
They hold on high
Their pilgrimage
Of glory round the sky.

Stars, flowers, and tombs were themes for solemn thought
With him whose memory we recall;
Yet more than eye can see he sought:
His spirit look'd through all,
Keenly discern'd
The truths they teach,
Their lessons learn'd,
And gave their silence speech.

Go, meditate with him among the tombs,
And there the end of all things view;
Visit with him Spring's earliest blooms,
See all things there made new;
Thence rapt aloof
In ecstasy,
Hear, from heaven's roof,
Stars preach eternity.

We call him blessed whom the Lord hath blest
And made a blessing;—long to shed
Light on the living, from his rest,
And hope around the dead:
Oh! for his lot,
Who dwells in light,
Where flowers fade not,
And stars can find no night.

ONE WARNING MORE.

WRITTEN FOR DISTRIBUTION ON A RACE-COURSE, 1824.

[_]

To him who heeded none before.

The fly around the candle wheels,
Enjoys the sport, and gaily sings,
Till, nearer, nearer borne, he feels
The flame like lightning singe his wings;
Then weltering in the gulf below he lies,
And limb by limb, scorch'd miserably, dies.

From bough to bough, the wild bird hops,
Where late he caroll'd blithe and free,
But downward, downward, now he drops,
Faint, fluttering, helpless from the tree,
Where, stretch'd below, with eye of deadly ray,
The eager rattle-snake expects his prey.

Thou, child of pleasure, art the fly,
Drawn by the taper's dazzling glare;
Thou art the bird that meets an eye,
Alluring to the serpent's snare;
Oh! stay:—is reason lost?—is conscience dumb?
Be wise, be warn'd, escape the wrath to come.

Not swifter o'er the level course
The racer glances to the goal,
Than thou with blind and headlong force
Art running on—to lose thy soul;
Then, though the world were won, how dear the cost!
Can the whole world avail a spirit lost?

344

Death on his pale horse, following fast,
Gains on thy speed,—with hell behind;
Fool! all thy yesterdays are past,
To-morrow thou wilt never find;
To-day is hastening to eternity;
“This night thy soul shall be required of thee.”

THE VEIL.

There is a veil no mortal hand can draw,
Which hides what eye of mortal never saw;
Through that (each moment by the dying riven)
Could but a glance be to the living given,
How into nothing, less than nothing, all
Life's vanities, life's verities, would fall,
And that alone of priceless worth be deem'd
Which is most lightly by the world esteem'd!

Enough is known; there is a heaven, a hell;
Who 'scapes the last, and wins the first, doth well:
Whither away, my soul!—in which wouldst thou
Emerge from life, were death to smite me now?

1834.

A RIDDLE.

ADDRESSED TO E. R., 1820.

I know not who these lines may see;
I know not what these lines will be;
But, since a word in season sent,
As from a bow at hazard bent,
May reach a roving eye, or dart
Conviction to a careless heart,
Oh! that an arrow I could find
In the small quiver of my mind,
Which, with unerring aim, should strike
Each, who encounters it, alike!

Reader! attention!—I will spring
A wondrous thought; 'tis on the wing:
Guard well your heart, you guard in vain,
The wound is made, yet gives no pain;
Surprise may make your cheek to glow,
But, courage! none but you can know;
The thought, awaken'd by my spell,
Is more than I myself can tell.
How?—search the chamber of your breast,
And think of that which you love best!
I've raised the spirit, but cannot lay it,
Your secret found, but can't betray it.
So, ask yourself,—“What will this be,
A thousand ages hence, to me?”
And if it will not stand the fire
In which all nature shall expire,
Think,—ere these rhymes aside are cast,—
As though the thought might be your last,
“Where shall I find below, above,
An object worthy of my love?”

Now hearken, and forget it never,—
Love that which you may love for ever.

ON A WATCH-POCKET

WORKED BY A. L.

Within this curious case,
Time's sentinel I place,
Who, while calm unconscious slumber
Shuts creation from mine eyes,
Through the silent gloom shall number
Every moment as it flies,
And record, at dawn of day,
Thrice ten thousand pass'd away.

On each of these, my breath
May pause 'twixt life and death,
By a subtler line depending
Than the ray of twinkling light
Which the smallest star is sending,
Every instant, through the night;
Yea, on films more finely spun,
All things hang, beneath the sun.

Rapt through a wildering dream,
Awake in sleep I seem;
Sorrow wrings my soul with anguish,
Joy expands my throbbing breast;
Now, o'erwhelm'd with care, I languish,
Now serene and tranquil rest;
—Morning comes, and all between
Is as though it ne'er had been.

345

But Time has daylight hours,
And man immortal powers;
Waking joy and sleepless sorrow,
Worldly care and heavenly peace;
Life, renew'd with every morrow,
Not in death itself shall cease;
Man, through all eternity,
What he here hath been shall be.

May she, whose skilful hand
This fairy net-work plann'd,
Still, in innocent employment,
Far from vanity and vice,
Seek the Pearl of pure enjoyment,
On her path to Paradise;
Time, for earth or heaven employ'd,
(Both have claims,) is time enjoy'd.

Each day to her, in flight,
Bequeath a gem at night;
Some sweet hope, some hallow'd pleasure,
From remembrance ne'er to part:
Hourly blessings swell the treasure
Hidden in her grateful heart,
And may every moment past
Leave a ray to gild her last!

1821.

TO CYNTHIA

[_]

A young Lady, unknown to the Author, who, by letter, requested “a stanza,” or “a few lines in his handwriting.”

Spirits in heaven can interchange
Thoughts without voice or sound;
Spirits on earth at will can range,
Wherever man is found;
Their thoughts (as silent and as fleet
As summer lightnings in the west,
When evening sinks to glorious rest,)
In written symbols meet.

The motion of a feather darts
The secrets of sequester'd hearts
To kindred hearts afar;
As, in the stillness of the night,
Quick rays of intermingling light
Sparkle from star to star.

A spirit to a spirit speaks,
Where these few letters stand;
Strangers alike,—the younger seeks
A token from the hand
That traced an unpretending song,
Whose numbers won her gentle soul,
While, like a mountain-rill, they stole
In trembling harmony along:—
What shall the poet's spirit send
To his unseen, unseeing friend?
—A wish as pure as e'er had birth
In thought or language of this earth.

Cynthia is young,—may she be old;
And fair, no doubt,—may she grow wrinkled;
Her locks, in verse at least, are gold,
May they turn silver, thinly sprinkled;
The rose her cheek, the fire her eye,
Youth, health, and strength, successive fly,
And in the end,—may Cynthia die!

“Unkind! inhuman!”—Stay your tears;
I only wish you length of years;
And wish them still, with all their woes,
And all their blessings, till the close;
For hope and fear, with anxious strife,
Are wrestlers in the ring of life,
And yesterday, to-day, to-morrow,
Are but alternate joy and sorrow.

Now mark the sequel:—may your mind
In wisdom's paths true pleasure find
Grow strong in virtue, rich in truth,
And year by year renew its youth;
Till, in the last triumphant hour,
The spirit shall the flesh o'erpower,—
This from its sufferings gain release,
And that take wing, and part in peace.

FOR J. S.:

A PREAMBLE TO HER ALBUM.

“Ut pictura poesis.”
—Hor. De Arte Poetica, v. 361.

Two lovely sisters here unite
To blend improvement with delight,—
Painting and Poetry engage
To deck by turns the varied page.

346

Here every glowing picture be
The quintessence of poesy,
With skill so exquisitely wrought
As if the colours were pure thought,
—Thought, from the bosom's inmost cell,
By magic tints made visible,
That, while the eye admires, the mind,
As in a glass, itself may find.

And may the Poet's verse, alike,
With all the power of painting strike,
So freely, so divinely, trace
In every line “the line of grace,”
And beautify with such sweet art
The image-chamber of the heart,
That Fancy here may gaze her fill,
Forming fresh scenes and shapes at will,
Where silent words alone appear,
Or, borrowing voice, but touch the ear.

Yet humble Prose with these shall stand,
Friends, kindred, comrades, hand in hand,
All in this fair enclosure meet,
The lady of the book to greet,
And, with the pen or pencil, make
The leaves love-tokens for her sake.

TO MARGARET

[_]

A little Girl, who begged to have some Verses from the Author, at Scarborough, in 1814.

Margaret! we never met before,
And, Margaret! we may meet no more;
What shall I say at parting?
Scarce half a moon has run her race
Since first I saw your fairy-face,
Around this gay and giddy place,
Sweet smiles and blushes darting;
Yet from my soul, I frankly tell,
I cannot help but wish you well.

I dare not wish you stores of wealth,
A troop of friends, unfailing health,
And freedom from affliction;
I dare not wish you beauty's prize,
Carnation lips, and bright blue eves;
These look through tears, those breathe in sighs;—
Hear, then, my benediction:
Of these good gifts be you possest
Just in the measure God sees best.

But, little Margaret, may you be
All that His eye delights to see,
All that He loves and blesses;
The Lord in darkness be your light,
Your help in need, your shield in fight,
Your comfort in distresses;
Your hope through every future breath,
And your eternal joy in death!

ON THE FIRST LEAF OF MISS J.'s ALBUM.

What thoughts, beyond the reach of thought
To guess what they may be,
Shall in succession here be brought
From depths no eye can see!

Those thoughts are now upon their way,
Like light from stars unseen,
Though, ere they reach us, many a day
And year may intervene:—

Thoughts, which shall spring in friendship's breast,
Or genius touch with fire;
Thoughts, which good angels may suggest,
Or God himself inspire.

Such, o'er these pages pure and white,
By many a willing hand,
Be writ in characters of light,
And here unfading stand!

That she who owns the whole may find,
Reveal'd in every part,
The trace of some ingenuous mind,
The love of some warm heart.

TO MARY.

Mary!—it is a lovely name,
Thrice hallow'd in the rolls of fame,
Not for the blazonry of birth,
Nor honours springing from the earth,

347

But what evangelists have told
Of three, who bare that name of old:
—Mary, the mother of our Lord;
Mary, who sate to hear his word;
And Mary Magdalen, to whom
Christ came, while weeping o'er his tomb:
These to that humble name supply
A glory which can never die.

Mary! my prayer for you shall be,—
May you resemble all the three
In faith, and hope, and charity.

SHORT-HAND.

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO E. P.

These lines and dots are locks and keys,
In narrow space to treasure thought,
Whose precious hoards, whene'er you please,
Are thus to light from darkness brought.

On the small tablet of your heart,
By Heaven's own finger, be engraved,
Within, without, through every part,
The “words whereby you must be saved.”

There the bright pages of God's book
In secret characters may lie,
Where you alone have power to look,
While hid from man and angel's eye.

Could nature's mysteries all be found,
Unbosom'd, where the billows roll,
In flowers embroider'd o'er the ground,
By stars emblazon'd round the pole;—

Less were the sum of truth reveal'd,
Through heaven, and earth, and sea express'd,
Than would be written, sign'd, and seal'd,
Once and for ever, in your breast.

1828.

THE BLANK LEAF.

Fair page! the eye that looks on thee
Ere long shall slumber in the dust,
And wake no more, until it see
The resurrection of the just:
—May he, to whom that eye belongs,
Join their assembly and their songs!

Whose is that eye?—Just now 'tis mine,
But, reader! when thou look'st 'tis thine.

1825.

THE GNAT.

[_]

Written with pencil round an insect of that kind, which had been accidentally crushed, and remained fixed on a blank page of a lady's album.

Lie here embalm'd, from age to age;
This is the album's noblest page,
Though every glowing leaf be fraught
With painting, poetry, and thought;
Where tracks of mortal hands are seen,
A hand invisible hath been,
And left this autograph behind,
This image from the' eternal Mind;
A work of skill, surpassing sense,
A labour of Omnipotence;
Though frail as dust it meet thine eye,
He form'd this gnat who built the sky.

Stop—lest it vanish at thy breath,
This speck had life, and suffer'd death.

1832.

AN INFANT'S ALBUM.

[_]

A. H. R. to her friends and contributors: written to accompany her portrait at the beginning of the book.

Now look upon my face, and say
If you can turn your eyes away,
Nor grant the little boon I ask,
As if it were some mighty task.

What is it?—Only take your pen,
Look wise, and think a moment,—then

348

Write anything, to which, for shame,
You need not fear to put your name;
Or, with a pencil's curious skill,
Draw flowers, birds, figures,—what you will;
I, like my elders and my betters,
Love pictures quite as well as letters.
Thus, page by page, my album store,
Till it an album be no more,
But, richly fill'd, from end to end,
On every leaf present a Friend.

Now look upon my face, and see
Yourself, your very self, in me;
Were you not once as mild and meek,
With lip demure, and plump round cheek?
Did you not sometimes, too, look sly
Out of the corner of your eye,
As if you held an infant's jest,
Like a bird fluttering, to your breast,
Which wanted but an inch of wing,
Up through the air to soar and sing?
So I can feign to hide a joke,
And be as arch as graver folk.

Well, time runs on, and I, you know,
As tall and stout as you may grow,
Nay, more unlike my portrait here,
Than you just now like me appear.
Ah! then, if I must change so fast,
What will become of me at last?
—A poor old woman of fourscore!
That's a long way to look before,
So I would learn of you, meanwhile,
How best the journey to beguile.
Look in my face again, you'll find
The album of an infant's mind,
Unsoil'd by care, unworn by grief,
Like new-fall'n snow each maiden-leaf,
On which, if not in black and white,
In lines eternal you may write
All that is lovely, pure, and good,
To be possess'd or understood.

Then, in this volume, as it lies,
Trace words and pictures to my eyes,
Which, thence, their mystic way may find
Into that album of my mind,
And there impress each opening page
With thoughts for childhood, youth, and age;
Breathe a sweet spirit through the whole,
That, like a soul within my soul,
Shall, by the early impulse given,
Guide me on earth, and bring to heaven.
Let every leaf unfold a text,
Either for this world or the next;
To learn of each, I'm nothing loth,
They tell me I was born for both.
Let mirth with innocence combine,
And human knowledge aid divine.

Thus form'd by it, and it by you,
This Book shall render each their due;
For whoso peeps therein may start,
As though he look'd into my heart;
And if he did, you must beware,
That he would see your image there;
Then grant the boon with such a grace,
That you may have a good warm place:
—Walk in, walk in; my heart, though small,
Is large enough to hold you all.

1828.

A WEDDING WISH.

TO MR. AND MRS. H.

A leading light of midnight skies
Appears but one to seamen's eyes,
Yet twain there are,
And each a star,
Perhaps a sun:—
May you, my Friends, reverse the view,
And while on earth you look like Two,
From heaven be seen as One;
Yea, like that graceful symbol, be
A double star of constancy.

MOTTO TO “A POET'S PORTFOLIO.”

(FRAGMENT OF A PAGE OF OBLIVION.)

Fall'n feathers of a moulting wing,
Which ne'er again may soar;
Notes sung in Autumn woods, where Spring
Shall hear their sounds no more:
Her voice and plume—the bird renews;
Man fails but once;—'tis in the tomb
His strength he mews.

1835.

349

THE VALENTINE WREATH.

Rosy-red the hills appear
With the light of morning,
Beauteous clouds in ether clear,
All the east adorning;
White through mist the meadows shine,—
Wake, my love, my Valentine!

For thy locks of raven-hue,
Flowers with hoar-frost pearly,
Crocus-cups of gold and blue,
Snow-drops drooping early,
With mezereon-sprigs combine;
Rise, my love, my Valentine!

O'er the margin of the flood
Pluck the daisy, peeping;
Through the dry leaves in the wood
Hunt the sorrel, creeping;
With the little celandine
Crown my love, my Valentine!

Pansies, on their lowly stems,
Scatter'd o'er the fallows;
Hazel-buds, with crimson gems,
Green and glossy sallows;
Tufted moss and ivy-twine,
Deck my love, my Valentine!

Few and simple flowerets these;
Yet to me less glorious
Garden-beds and orchard-trees,
Since this wreath victorious
Binds thee now for ever mine,
O my love, my Valentine!

1811.

THE WIDOW.

[_]

Written at the request of a lady, who furnished several of the lines and the plan of the whole.

Ah! who is she that sits and weeps,
And gazes on the narrow mound?
—In that fresh grave her true love sleeps,
Her heart lies with him in the ground:
She heeds not, while her babe, at play,
Plucks the frail flowers, that gaily bloom,
And casts them, ere they fade away,
In garlands, on its father's tomb;
—Unconscious where its father lies,
“Sweets to the sweet!” the prattler cries;
Ah! then she starts, looks up, her eyes o'erflow
With all a mother's love, and all a widow's woe.

Again she turns away her head,
Nor marks her infant's sportive air,
Its cherub-cheeks all rosy-red,
Its sweet blue eyes and ringlet-hair;
Silent she turns away her head,
Nor dare behold that smile-bright face,
Where live the features of the dead
In lineaments of fairy-grace:
For there at once, with transport wild,
She sees her husband and her child;
Ah! then her bosom burns, her eyes o'erflow
With all a mother's love, and all a widow's woe.

And still I find her sitting here,
Though dark October frowns on all;
And from the lime-trees rustling near,
The scatter'd leaves around her fall:
O then it charms her inmost soul,
It suits the sadness of her mind,
To watch the clouds of autumn roll,
And listen to the moaning wind;
In every shadow, every blast,
The spirits of enjoyments past,
She sees, she hears;—ah! then her eyes o'erflow,
Not with the mother's love, but with the widow's woe.

Yon peasant dreads a gathering storm,
Yet pauses as he hastens by,
Marks the pale ruin of her form,
The desolation of her eye;
Beholds her babe for shelter creep
Behind the grave-stone's dreary shade,
Where all its father's sorrows sleep,
And all its mother's hopes are laid:
Remembering then his own heart's joy,
A rosy wife, a blooming boy;
“Ah me!” he sighs, “when I am thus laid low,
Must my poor partner feel a widow'd mother's woe?”

He gently stretches out his arm,
And calls the babe in accents mild;

350

The mother shrieks with strange alarm,
And snatches up her wondering child;
She thought that voice of tender tone,
Those accents soft, endearing, kind,
Came from beneath the hollow stone!
—He marks the wandering of her mind,
And, thankful for his happier lot,
Seeks the warm comforts of his cot;
He meets his wife;—ah! then his eyes o'erflow;
She feels a mother's love, nor dreads a widow's woe.

The storm retires;—and hark! the bird,
The lonely bird of autumn's reign,
From the church pinnacle is heard;
O what a clear and simple strain!
See the delighted mourner start,
While Robin red-breast's evening song
Pours all its sweetness through her heart.
And soothes it as it trills along:
Then gleams her eye, her fancy hears
The warbled music of the spheres;
She clasps her babe; she feels her bosom glow,
And in a mother's love forgets a widow's woe.

Go to thine home, forsaken fair!
Go to thy solitary home;
Thou lovely pilgrim, in despair,
To thy saint's shrine no longer roam;
He rests not here;—thy soul's delight
Attends where'er thy footsteps tread;
He watches in the depth of night,
A guardian-angel round thy bed;
And still a father, fondly kind,
Eyes the dear pledge he left behind:
So love may deem, and death may prove it so:
—In heaven at least there is no widow's woe;
Thither, in following him, with thy sweet infant go.

1809.

IN MEMORY OF E. B.,

FORMERLY E. R.

Hers was a soul of fire that burn'd,
Too soon for us, its earthly tent,
But not too soon for her return'd
To Him from whom it first was sent:
Grave! keep the ashes, till, redeem'd from thee,
This mortal puts on immortality.

Hers was a frame so frail, so fine,
The soul was seen through every part,
A light that could not choose but shine
In eye and utterance, hand and heart;
That soul rests now, till God, in His great day,
Remoulds his image from this perish'd clay.

Body and soul, eternally,
No more conflicting nor estranged,
One saint made perfect then shall be,
From glory into glory changed:
This was her hope in life, in death;—may I
Live like the righteous, like the righteous die.

1833.

IN MEMORY OF E. G.

Soft be the turf on thy dear breast,
And heavenly calm thy lone retreat;
How long'd the weary frame for rest;
That rest is come, and O how sweet!

There's nothing terrible in death;
'Tis but to cast our robes away,
And sleep at night, without a breath
To break repose till dawn of day.

'Tis not a night without a morn,
Though glooms impregnable surround;
Nor lies the buried corse forlorn,
A hopeless prisoner in the ground.

The darkest clouds give lightnings birth,
The pearl is form'd in ocean's bed;
The germ, unperishing in earth,
Springs from its grave as from the dead.

So shall the relics of the just;
In weakness sown, but raised in power,
The precious seed shall leave the dust,
A glorious and immortal flower.

But art thou dead?—must we deplore
Joys gone for ever from our lot?
And shall we see thy face no more,
Where all reminds us—thou art not?

351

No,—live while those who love thee live,
The sainted sister of our heart;
And thought to thee a form shall give
Of all thou wast and all thou art:—

Of all thou wast, when from thine eyes
The latest beams of kindness shone;
Of all thou art, when faith descries
Thy spirit bow'd before the Throne.

1821.

GARDEN THOUGHTS.

[_]

On occasion of a Christian assembly in the grounds of a gentleman at York, for the purpose of promoting missions among the heathen.

In a garden—man was placed,
Meet abode for innocence,
With his Maker's image graced;
—Sin crept in and drove him thence,
Through the world, a wretch undone,
Seeking rest, and finding none.

In a garden—on that night
When our Saviour was betray'd,
With what world-redeeming might
In his agony he pray'd!
Till he drank the vengeance up,
And with mercy fill'd the cup.

In a garden—on the cross,
When the spear his heart had riven,
And for earth's primeval loss
Heaven's best ransom had been given,
—Jesus rested from his woes,
Jesus from the dead arose.

Here, not Eden's bowers are found,
Nor forlorn Gethsemane,
Nor that calm sepulchral ground
At the foot of Calvary;
—Yet this scene may well recall
Sweet remembrances of all.

Emblem of the church below!
Where the Spirit and the Word
Fall like dews, like breezes blow,
And the Lord God's voice is heard,
Walking in the cool of day,
While the world is far away:—

Emblem of the church above!
Where, as in their native clime,
Midst the garden of his love,
Rescued from the rage of time,
Saints, as trees of life, shall stand,
Planted by his own right hand!

Round the fair enclosure here
Flames no cherub's threatening sword,
Ye who enter feel no fear:
—Roof'd by Heaven, with verdure floor'd,
Breathing balm from blossoms gay,
This be paradise to-day.

Yet one moment meditate
On our parents' banishment,
When from Eden's closing gate,
Hand in hand, they weeping went,
Spikenard groves no more to dress,
But a thorn-set wilderness.

Then remember Him who laid
Uncreated splendour by,
Lower than the angels made,
Fallen man to glorify,
And from death beyond the grave
Unto life immortal save.

Think of Him—your souls He sought,
Wandering, never to return;
Hath He found you?—At the thought
Your glad hearts within you burn;
Then your love like His extend,
Be like Him the sinner's friend.

O'er Jerusalem He wept,
Doom'd to perish;—can't you weep
O'er a world, by Satan kept
Dreaming in delirious sleep,
Till the twinkle of an eye
Wakes them in eternity?

Ye, who smile in rosy youth,
Glow with manhood, fade through years,
Send the life, the light, the truth,
To dead hearts, blind eyes, deaf ears,
And your very pleasures make
Charities for Jesus' sake.

352

So shall Gospel-glory run
Round the globe, to every clime,
Brighter than the circling sun,
Hastening that millennial time
When the earth shall be restored
As the garden of the Lord.

1829.

TO MR. AND MRS. T., OF YORK:

WITH THE FOREGOING STANZAS.

Ye who own this quiet place,
Here, like Enoch, walk with God;
And, till summon'd hence, through grace
Tread the path your Saviour trod;
Then to paradise on high,
With the wings of angels fly.

FAREWELL TO A MISSIONARY.

Home, kindred, friends, and country,—these
Are things with which we never part;
From clime to clime, o'er land and seas,
We bear them with us in our heart;
And yet 'tis hard to feel resign'd,
When they must all be left behind.

But when the pilgrim's staff we take,
And follow Christ from shore to shore,
Gladly for Him we all forsake,
Press on, and only look before;
Though humbled nature mourns her loss,
The spirit glories in the cross.

It is no sin, like man, to weep,—
Even Jesus wept o'er Lazarus dead;
Or yearn for home beyond the deep,—
He had not where to lay his head;
The patriot's tears will He condemn
Who grieved o'er lost Jerusalem?

Take up your cross, and say—“Farewell:”
Go forth without the camp to Him
Who left heaven's throne with men to dwell,
Who died his murderers to redeem:
Oh! tell his name in every ear
Doubt not,—the dead themselves will hear,—

Hear, and come forth to life anew;
—Then while the Gentile courts they fill,
Shall not your Saviour's words stand true?
Home, kindred, friends, and country still,
In earth's last desert you shall find,
Yet lose not those you left behind.

THE LOT OF THE RIGHTEOUS.

“We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.” —Rom. viii. 28.

Yea,—“all things work together for their good!”
How can this glorious truth be understood?
'Tis like Jehovah's throne, where marvellous light
Hides in thick darkness from created sight:
The first-born seraph, trembling while he sings,
Views its veil'd lustre through his shadowing wings;
Or, if he meets, by unexpected grace,
The beatific vision, face to face,
Shrinks from perfection which no eye can see,
Entranced in the abyss of Deity.

Yea,—“all things work together for their good!”
How shall the mystery be understood?

From man's primeval curse are these set free,
Sin slain, death swallow'd up in victory?
The body from corruption so refined,
'Tis but the immortal vesture of the mind?
The mind from folly so to wisdom won,
'Tis a pure sunbeam of the eternal sun?

Ah! no, no;—all that troubles life is theirs,
Hard toil, sharp suffering, slow-consuming cares;
To mourn and weep; want raiment, food, and rest,
Brood o'er the unutter'd anguish of the breast;
To love, to hope, desire, possess, in vain;
Wrestle with weakness, weariness, and pain,
Struggle with fell disease from breath to breath,
And every moment die a moment's death.

This is their portion, this the common lot;
But they have sorrows which the world knows not:

353

—Their conflicts with that world, its fair false joys,
Ensnaring riches, and delusive toys;
Its love, its hatred; its neglect and scorn;
With self-abhorrence harder to be borne;
The pangs of conscience, when God's holy law,
Through Sinai's thunders, strikes them dumb with awe;
Passions disorder'd, when insane desires
Blow the rank embers of unhallow'd fires;
Evils that lurk in ambush at the heart,
And shoot their arrows thence through every part;
Harsh roots of bitterness; light seeds of sin,
Oft springing up, and stirring strife within;
Pride, like the serpent, vaunting to deceive,
As with his subtilty beguiling Eve;
Ambition, like the great red dragon, hurl'd
Sheer from heaven's battlements to this low world,
Boundless in rage, as limited in power,
Ramping abroad, and roaring to devour:
—These, which blithe worldlings laugh at and contemn,
Are worse than famine, sword, and fire to them.

Nor these alone, for neither few nor small
The trials rising from their holy call:
—The Spirit's searching, proving, cleansing flames;
Duty's demands, the Gospel's sovereign claims;
Stern self-denial counting all things loss
For Christ, and daily taking up the cross;
The broken heart, or heart that will not break,—
That aches not, or that cannot cease to ache;
Doubts and misgivings, lest when storms are past
They make sad shipwreck of the faith at last:
—These, and a thousand forms of fear and shame,
Bosom-temptations, that have not a name,
But have a nature, felt through flesh and bone,
Through soul and spirit,—felt by them alone;
—These, these the Christian pilgrims sore distress,
Like thorns and briars of the wilderness;
These keep them humble, keep them in the path,
As those that flee from everlasting wrath.

Yet, while their hearts and hopes are fix'd above,
As those who lean on everlasting love,
On faithfulness, which, though heaven's pillars bend
And earth's base fail, uphold them to the end;—
By them, by them alone, 'tis understood
How all things work together for their good.
Would'st thou too understand?—behold I show
The perfect way,—Love God , and thou shalt know.

A BENEDICTION FOR A BABY.

What blessing shall I ask for thee,
In the sweet dawn of infancy?
—That, which our Saviour, at his birth,
Brought down with Him from heaven to earth.

What next, in childhood's April years
Of sunbeam smiles and rainbow tears?
—That, which in Him all eyes might trace,
To grow in wisdom and in grace.

What in the wayward path of youth,
Where falsehood walks abroad as truth?
—By that good Spirit to be led
Which John saw resting on His head.

What, in temptation's wilderness,
When wants assail, and fears oppress?
—To wield like Him the Scripture-sword,
And vanquish Satan by “the word.”

What, in the labour, pain, and strife,
Combats and cares, of daily life?
—In His cross-bearing steps to tread
Who had not where to lay his head.

What, in the agony of heart,
When foes rush in, and friends depart?
—To pray like Him, the Holy One,
“Father! thy will, not mine, be done.”

What, in the bitterness of death,
When the last sigh cuts the last breath?
—Like Him your spirit to commend,
And up to paradise ascend.

What in the grave, and in that hour
When even the grave shall lose its power?
—Like Him, your rest awhile to take;
Then at the trumpet's sound awake,
Him as He is in heaven to see,
And as He is, yourself to be.

1831.

354

“OCCUPY TILL I COME.”
[_]

Luke, xix. 13.

ON THE DEATH OF THE LATE JOSEPH BUTTERWORTH, ESQ.

AN EXEMPLARY CHRISTIAN, PATRIOT, AND PHILANTHROPIST.

“He was a burning and a shining light:”
—And is he now eclipsed in hopeless night?
No; faith beholds him near the sapphire throne,
Shining more bright than e'er on earth he shone;
While, where created splendour all looks dim,
Heaven's host are glorifying God in him.

If faith's enraptured vision now be true,
And things invisible stand forth to view,
Though eye to eye the' embodied soul can see,
Self-lost amidst unclouded Deity,
He chooses, rather than a seraph's seat,
The lowest place at his Redeemer's feet;
And, with the' eternal weight of glory prest,
Turns, even in paradise, to Christ for rest.

Come we who once beheld his noontide blaze,
And hid before him our diminish'd rays;
Since his translation to a higher sphere,
We may, we must, by our own light appear:
When sun and moon their greater beams resign,
The stars come out; they cannot choose but shine:
With force like his all eyes we cannot strike,
We may not equal him, but may be like:
Nor let the meanest think his lamp too dim,
In a dark world the Lord hath need of him;
By feeble instruments in providence,
God is well pleased his bounties to dispense:
In his economy of grace the same,—
The weakest are almighty in his name.

What though the great, the good, the glorious fall,
He reigns whose kingdom ruleth over all.
—Talk not of talents;—what hast thou to do?
Thy duty, be thy portion five or two;
Talk not of talents;—is thy duty done?
Thou hadst sufficient, were they ten or one.
Lord, what my talents are I cannot tell,
Till thou shalt give me grace to use them well:
That grace impart, the bliss will then be mine,
But all the power and all the glory Thine.

A MESSAGE FROM THE MOON.

[_]

A thought at Exeter, during the great Eclipse of the Sun, May 15. 1836.

The evening star peep'd forth at noon,
To learn what ail'd the sun, her sire,
When, lo! the intervening moon
Plunged her black shadow through his fire,
Of ray by ray his orb bereft,
Till but one slender curve was left,
And that seem'd trembling to expire.

The sickening atmosphere grew dim,
A faint chill breeze crept over all;
As in a swoon, when objects swim
Away from sight,—a thickening pall
Of horror, boding worse to come,
That struck both field and city dumb,
O'er man and brute was felt to fall.

“Avaunt, insatiate fiend!” I cry,—
“Like vampire stealing from its grave
To drain some sleeper's life-springs dry,
Back to thine interlunar cave;
Ere the last glimpse of fountain-light,
Absorpt by thee, bring on a night
From which nor moon nor morn can save.”

While yet I spake, that single beam
(Bent like Apollo's bow half-strung)
Broaden'd and brighten'd;—gleam o'er gleam,
Splendours that out of darkness sprung,
The sun's unveiling disk o'erflow'd,
Till forth in all his strength he rode,
For ever beautiful and young.

Reviving Nature own'd his power;
And joy and mirth, with light and heat,
Music and fragrance, hail'd the hour
When his deliverance was complete:
Aloft again the swallow flew,
The cock at second day-break crew;
When suddenly a voice most sweet,—

A voice as from the ethereal sphere,
Of one unseen yet passing by,
Came with such rapture on mine ear,
My soul sprang up into my eye,

355

But nought around could I behold,
No “mortal mixture of earth's mould”
Breathed that enchanting harmony.

“How have I wrong'd thee, angry bard
What evil to your world have done?
That I, the moon, should be debarr'd
From free communion with the sun?
If, while I turn'd on him my face,
Yours was o'ercast a little space,
Already are amends begun.

“The lustre I have gather'd now,
Not to myself I will confine;
Night after night, my crescent brow,
My full and waning globe, shall shine
On yours,—till every spark is spent,
Which for us both to me was lent;
—Thus I fulfil the law divine.

“A nobler sun on thee hath shone,
On thee bestow'd benigner light;
Walk in that light, but not alone,
Like me to darkling eyes give sight:
This is the way God's gifts to use,
First to enjoy them, then diffuse;
—Learn from the moon that lesson right.”

THE PURPLE BEECH.

[_]

On planting a tree at the Mount, near Sheffield; in presence of the resident families. Nov. 3, 1849.

Live long, live well, fair Beechen Tree!
And oh! that I could live like thee,—
Never to lose one moment more,
As I have millions lost before;
Never misspend another lent,
As millions past have been misspent:
Each, in our place, would then fulfil
Our Maker's and our Master's will.

Moments to ages train a tree;
To man they bring Eternity:
Here, as the tree falls, so it lies,
But men from death to judgment rise;
—To meet thy God, thy Saviour, there,
My soul, my soul! prepare, prepare!

FRANKLIN,

THE PRINTER, PHILOSOPHER, AND PATRIOT.

[_]

Written by desire of the Committee appointed to prepare for a National Celebration of the hundred and forty-first anniversary of Benjamin Franklin's birthday, at Rochester, New York, on January 18. 1847.

He call'd down lightning from the sky,
And, ere the thunder could reply,
The flash, like inspiration, came,
Heaven's own pure fire through all his frame:
Not the dread bolt, whose sudden stroke
Prostrates the tower, or rends the oak;—
A touch, a pulse, a spark, reveal'd
A secret from all ages seal'd;
One trembling moment, in its flight,
Drew such a train of wondrous light,
That his rapt spirit seem'd to pierce
The mystery of the universe,
And scan the power which, like a soul,—
Informs, expands, and rules the whole,
God's hidden minister, whose will
All Nature's elements fulfil.

Thus standing when the deed was done,
That victory of Science won,
He planted, where his foot had trod,
His conquering spear, the Electric Rod!
A trophy simple and sublime,
A monument defying Time.

That was to him a glorious day,
Whose fame can never pass away;
Philosophy had triumph'd there:
A nobler wreath he lived to share,
He lived a brighter day to see,—
His country by the PRESS made free.

THE PRESS.

“The Press!—What is the Press?” I cried:
When thus a wondrous voice replied;
Most like the multitude of seas,
Speaking at once all languages.

“In me all human knowledge dwells;
The Oracle of Oracles,

356

Past, present, future, I reveal,
Or in oblivion's silence seal;
What I preserve can perish never,
What I forego is lost for ever.

“I speak all dialects; by me
The deaf may hear, the blind may see,
The dumb converse, the dead of old
Communion with the living hold;
All lands are one beneath my rule,
All nations learners in my school;
Men of all ages, everywhere,
Become contemporaries there.

“What is the Press?—'Tis what the tongue
Was to the world when Time was young;
When, by tradition, sire to son
Convey'd whate'er was known or done,—
But fact and fiction so were mix'd,
Their boundaries never could be fix'd.

“What is the Press?—'Tis that which taught,
By hieroglyphic forms of thought,
Lore, from the vulgar proudly hid
Like treasure in a pyramid;
For knowledge then was mystery,
A captive under lock and key,
By priests and princes held in thrall,
Of little use, or none at all,
Till the redoubted ALPHABET
Free their own Great Deliverer set,
At whose command, by simple spells,
They work their mental miracles.

“What is the Press?—'Tis what the pen
Through thrice ten centuries was to men,
When sibyl-leaves lent wings to words,
Or, caged in books, they sang like birds.
But slow the quill, and frail the page;
To write twelve folios asked an age,
And a pet-babe in sport might spoil
The fruits of twenty authors' toil:
A power was wanting to insure
Life to works worthy to endure;
A power the race to multiply
Of intellectual polypi;
—It came, all hardships to redress,
And Truth and Virtue hail'd the PRESS.

“What am I, then?—I am a power
Years cannot waste, nor flames devour,
Nor waters drown, nor tyrants bind;
I am the mirror of man's mind,
In whose serene impassive face
What cannot die on earth you trace;
Not phantom shapes, that come and fly,
But, like the concave of the sky,
In which the stars, by night and day,
Seen or unseen, hold on their way.

“Then think me not that lifeless Frame
Which bears my honourable name;
Nor dwell I in the arm, whose swing
Intelligence from blocks can wring;
Nor in the hand, whose fingers fine
The cunning characters combine;
Nor even the cogitating brain,
Whose cells the germs of thought contain,
Which that quick hand with letters sows,
Like dibbled wheat, in lineal rows,
And that strong arm, like autumn sheaves,
Reaps and binds up in gather'd leaves,
The harvest-home of learned toil
From that dead Frame's well-cultured soil.

“I am not one, nor all, of these;
They are my Types and Images,
The implements with which I work;
In them no secret virtues lurk:
—I am an omnipresent Soul;
I live and move throughout the whole,
And thence, with freedom unconfined
And universal as the wind,
Whose source and issues are unknown,
Felt in its airy flight alone,
All life supplying with its breath,
And where it fails involving death,
I quicken minds from Nature's sloth,
Fashion their forms, sustain their growth;
And when my influence flags or flies,
Matter may live, but spirit dies.

“Myself withdrawn from mortal sight,
I am invisible as light,—
Light, which, revealing all beside,
Itself within itself can hide:
The things of darkness I make bare,
And, nowhere seen, am everywhere.
All that philosophers have sought,
Science discover'd, genius wrought;

357

All that reflective memory stores,
Or rich imagination pours;
All that the wit of man conceives,
All that he wishes, hopes, believes,
All that he loves, or fears, or hates,
All that to heaven and earth relates;
—These are the lessons that I teach
In speaking silence, silent speech.

“Ah! who like me can bless or curse?
What can be better, what be worse,
Than language framed for Paradise,
Or sold to infamy and vice?
—Blest be the man by whom I bless,
But curst be he who wrongs the Press!
The reprobate, in prose or song,
Who wields the glorious power for wrong,
—Wrong to outlast his laurell'd tomb,
And taint the earth till ‘crack-of-doom.’”

May, 1842.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

[_]

Scene—The Derbyshire moors.

Mine is but a summer song,
Merry as the day is long;
Yet, proud man! whoe'er thou be,
Scorn not thou my minstrelsy.
Though monotonous my note,
Can the nightingale's clear throat,
With its swells, and falls, and beats,
Through a wilderness of sweets,
Pour, in strains that never cloy,
More exuberance of joy
Than my tinkling tones reveal
What a grasshopper can feel,
What a grasshopper express
Of an insect's happiness,
Running in, and running o'er,—
Could a giant's heart hold more?
Or all human language tell
More than my one syllable?
How my pleasant moments pass
In this paradise of grass,
Where the heather and the broom
Flower, and breathe their faint perfume;
And the gorse, in green and gold,
All delightful to behold,
In its covert, dense and dark,
Hides my play-mate, name-sake, lark,
Which, when her low note is heard,
Seems a spirit, not a bird;
So bewildering, far and near,
Right and left, it haunts the ear,
While the listener's eye in vain
Hunts the sound through copse and plain.
Here the stone-chat, on her nest,
Lulls her little ones to rest;
There the linnet, for her brood,
Plies her wings in quest of food;
While the goldfinch plucks the down
From the regal thistle's crown;
And the cuckoo's double cry
Fills the hollow of the sky,
Answer'd by the raven's croak
From the lightning-smitten oak.

Where the fairy-tribes of moss
Ankle-deep the marsh emboss,
With their innocent decoys
Lapwings lure marauding boys;
And the rogues, through bog and mire,
Neither dam nor nest acquire,
Either prize which they pursue
Vanishing when most in view:
As, along the self-same place,
Jack-o-lantern's light they chase,
Till the meretricious spark
Leaves them floundering in the dark,

358

Equally by night and day
With false signals led astray.

Here, on berry-bearing shoots,
Autumn trains delicious fruits,
In whose shade the moor-fowl breed,
And upon the vintage feed;
From low crags and broken walls,
To his mate the black-cock calls,
While their new-fledged coveys run,
Unaware of dog and gun.

Feathery ferns, like palm-trees spread
In a forest o'er my head;
Daisies, thyme, white-clover, meet
On the greensward at my feet;
On the rocks the wild briar rose
In its single beauty blows,
With its deepest crimson glows;
Speedwell tinged with heavenly blue,
Eyebright pearl'd with morning dew,
Maiden pansy freak'd with jet,
And her sister violet,
Grace the turf, round whose small blades
Glow-worms light the evening shades.

Where yon glen of shatter'd stones
Seems a valley of dry bones,
Relics of an army slain,
Bleaching on their battle-plain,
Fox-gloves in superb array,
Rank and file, their hosts display;
While their banner'd spears betray
Hidden wealth beneath the soil,
Worthy of the ploughman's toil,
Which already, far and wide,
Presses on the desert's side,
Till the pathless sheep-track yields
Cottage-plots and harvest-fields.

Every element is rife
With intensity of life;
Earth is throng'd with creeping things,
All the air alive with wings,
Gnats, like motes, in dazzling streams,
Gaily people the sunbeams,
Which the swallows, in their play,
Sweep by hecatombs away;
Moths and butterflies, that show
All the colours of heaven's bow,
Flaunt and flutter to and fro;
O'er the pool's pellucid brim
Glossy beetles wheel and skim,
While the water-spider's trace
Scarcely dimples its smooth face.
There, with glittering armour drest,
Plated scales, and helmet-crest,
Dragon-flies, in locust forms,
Sport as harmlessly as worms:
Bees, to store their waxen cells,
Rifle honey-buds and bells,
Provident of winter's need,
Winter, which I never heed:
Ants their commonwealths arrange,
Molehills into mountains change,
And build cities in their wombs,
Palaces at once and tombs,
Where, as in the face of day,
Generations pass away.

But, could vulgar optics scan,
Hid from uninquiring man,
Nature's world invisible,
Wonders, which no tongue can tell,
(Microscopic beings, more
Than the sands on ocean's shore,
Suddenly from darkness brought,
Like the universe from nought,)
Seeing would extinguish sight,
Blinded by excess of light!

Now, of things that creep or fly,
Which is happier than I?
Deem not, then, my time misspent,
Idle and yet innocent,
Though I dance and sing and play
Through my summer-holyday;
All my blessings I enjoy,
All my faculties employ;
Few and feeble these may be,
Yet the eye of Deity
Condescends to look on me,
While by instinct I fulfill
All his manifested will.
—If an insect's life be such,
Reader, canst thou say as much?

June, 1846.

359

EMBLEMS.

An evening cloud, in brief suspense,
Was hither driven and thither;
It came I saw not whence,
It went, I knew not whither:
I watch'd it changing, in the wind,
Size, semblance, form, and hue,
Lessening and fading, till behind
It left no speck on heaven's pure blue.

Amidst the marshall'd host of night
Shone a new star supremely bright;
With marvelling eye, well pleased to err,
I hail'd that prodigy;—anon,
It fell,—it fell like Lucifer,
A flash,—a blaze,—a train,—'twas gone;
And then I sought in vain its place,
Throughout the infinite of space.

Dew-drops, at day-spring, deck'd a line
Of gossamer so frail, so fine,
A gnat's wing shook it:—round and clear
As if by fairy-fingers strung,
Like orient pearls at beauty's ear,
In trembling brilliancy they hung
Upon a rosy briar, whose bloom
Shed nectar round them, and perfume.

Ere long exhaled in limpid air,
Some mingled with the breath of morn,
While some slid singly, here and there,
Like tears by their own weight down borne;
At length the film itself collapsed, and where
The pageant glitter'd, lo! a naked thorn.

What are the living?—hark! a sound
From grave and cradle crying,
By earth and ocean echoed round,—
“The living are the dying!”

From infancy to utmost age,
What is man's scene of pilgrimage?
The passage to death's portal!
The moment we begin to be,
We enter on the agony,—
The dead are the immortal;
They live not on expiring breath,
They only are exempt from death.

Cloud-atoms, sparkles of a falling star,
Dew-drops on gossamer, all are:
What can the state beyond us be?
Life?—Death?—Ah! no, a greater mystery;
What thought hath not conceived, ear heard, eye seen;
Perfect existence from a point begun;
Part of what God's eternity hath been,—
Whole immortality belongs to none,
But Him, the First, the Last, the Only One.

CORONATION ODE FOR QUEEN VICTORIA.

The sceptre in a maiden-hand,
The reign of beauty and of youth,
Should wake to gladness all the land,
Where love is loyalty and truth:
Rule, Victoria, rule the free,
Hearts and hands we offer thee.

Not by the tyrant law of might,
But by the grace of God we own,
And by the people's voice, thy right
To sit upon thy fathers' throne:
Rule, Victoria, rule the free,
Heaven defend and prosper thee.

Thee, isles and continents obey;
Kindreds and nations nigh and far
Behold the bound-marks of thy sway,
—The morning and the evening star:
Rule, Victoria, rule the free,
Millions rest their hopes on thee.

No slave within thine empire breathe!
Before thy steps oppression fly!
The lamb and lion play beneath
The meek dominion of thine eye!
Rule, Victoria, rule the free,
Bonds and shackles yield to thee.

Still spreading influence more benign,
Light to thy realms of darkness send,
Till none shall name a God but thine,
None at an idol-altar bend:
Rule, Victoria, rule the free,
Till all tongues shall pray for thee.

360

At home, abroad, by sea, on shore,
Blessings to thee and thine increase;
The sword and cannon rage no more,
The whole world hail thee Queen of Peace:
Rule, Victoria, rule the free,
And the' Almighty rule o'er thee!

1838.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY,

On the Twenty-eighth of June, 1838.

TO THE QUEEN.

The orb and sceptre in thy hands they placed,
On thine anointed head a crown of gold;
A purple robe thy virgin form embraced;
Enthroned thou wert, all glorious to behold;
Before thee lay the Book of God unroll'd;
Thy tongue pronounced, thy pen the covenant traced,
Which men and angels witness'd;—young and old,
Peers, princes, statesmen, birth and beauty, graced
That scene of tombs and trophies.—

All is fled;
Like life itself, the living pass'd away,
And none that met remain'd there but the dead!
—Thence to thy closet didst thou not retreat,
In secret to thy Heavenly Father pray,
And cast thyself and kingdom at his feet?

A BRIDAL BENISON.

ADDRESSED TO MY FRIENDS, MR. AND MRS. B.

Ocean and land the globe divide,
Summer and winter share the year,
Darkness and light walk side by side,
And earth and heaven are always near.

Though each be good and fair alone,
And glorious, in its time and place,
In all when fitly pair'd, is shown
More of their Maker's power and grace.

Then may the union of young hearts,
So early and so well begun,
Like sea and shore, in all their parts,
Appear as twain, but be as one.

Be it like summer; may they find
Bliss, beauty, hope, where'er they roam:
Be it like winter, when confined,
Peace, comfort, happiness at home.

Like day and night,—sweet interchange
Of care, enjoyment, action, rest;
Absence nor coldness e'er estrange
Hearts by unfailing love possest.

Like earth's horizon, be their scene
Of life a rich and various ground,
And, whether lowering or serene,
Heaven all above it and around.

When land and ocean, day and night,
When time and nature cease to be;
Let their inheritance be light,
Their union an eternity.

1820.

THE BLACKBIRD.

[_]

Those who are apt to awake early on spring mornings, in rural neighbourhoods, must often have been charmed with the solitary song of the Blackbird, when all beside is still, and the Lark himself is yet on the ground. At evening, too, his broad and homely strain, different from that of every other, and chiming in at intervals with the universal chorus of wild throats, is known from infancy by all who have been accustomed to walk abroad in the hour of twilight. The yellow bill and glossy plumage of the same conspicuous bird, when he flits from hedge to tree, or across a meadow, are equally familiar to the eye of such; nor less to their ear is the chuckling note with which he bolts out of a bush before the startled passenger, who has unconsciously disturbed him from his perch.

MORNING.
Golden bill! Golden bill!
Lo! the peep of day;
All the air is cool and still,
From the elm-tree on the hill,
Chant away:
While the moon drops down the west,
Like thy mate upon her nest,

361

And the stars before the sun
Melt like snow-flakes, one by one;
Let thy loud and welcome lay
Pour along
Few notes but strong.

EVENING.
Jet-bright wing! jet-bright wing!
Flit across the sunset glade;
Lying there in wait to sing—
Listen with thy head awry,
Keeping time with twinkling eye,
While, from all the woodland shade,
Birds of every plume and note
Strain the throat,
Till both hill and valley ring,
And the warbled minstrelsy,
Ebbing, flowing, like the sea,
Claims brief interludes from thee:
Then, with simple swell and fall,
Breaking beautiful through all,
Let thy Pan-like pipe repeat
Few notes but sweet.

Askern, near Doncaster, 1835.

THE MYRTLE.

Dark-green and gemm'd with flowers of snow,
With close uncrowded branches spread,
Not proudly high, nor meanly low,
A graceful myrtle rear'd its head.

Its mantle of unwithering leaf
Seem'd, in my contemplative mood,
Like silent joy, or patient grief,
The symbol of pure gratitude.

Still life, methought, is thine, fair tree!
—Then pluck'd a sprig, and, while I mused,
With idle hands, unconsciously,
The delicate small foliage bruised.

Odours, at my rude touch set free,
Escaped from all their secret cells;
Quick life, I cried, is thine, fair tree!
In thee a soul of fragrance dwells:—

Which outrage, wrongs, nor wounds destroy,
But wake its sweetness from repose;
Ah! could I thus Heaven's gifts employ,
Worth seen, worth hidden, thus disclose:

In health, with unpretending grace,
In wealth, with meekness and with fear,
Through every season wear one face,
And be in truth what I appear.

Then, should affliction's chastening rod
Bruise my frail frame, or break my heart,
Life, a sweet sacrifice to God,
Out-breathed like incense would depart.

The Captain of Salvation thus,
When like a lamb to slaughter led,
Was by the Father's will, for us,
Himself through suffering purified.

1837.

DALE ABBEY.

[_]

A solitary arch in the middle of an open meadow, and a small oratory more ancient than the monastery itself, now the chapel of ease for the hamlet, are alone conspicuous of all the magnificent structures which once occupied this ground. The site is about five miles south-east from Derby.

I.

The glory hath departed from thee, Dale!
Thy gorgeous pageant of monastic pride,
—A power that once the power of kings defied,
Which truth and reason might in vain assail,
In mock humility usurp'd this vale,
And lorded o'er the region far and wide;
Darkness to light, evil to good allied,
Had wrought a charm, which made all hearts to quail.

What gave that power dominion on this ground,
Age after age?—the Word of God was bound!—
At length the mighty captive burst from thrall,
O'erturn'd the spiritual bastile in its march,
And left of ancient grandeur this sole arch,
Whose stones cry out,—“Thus Babylon herself shall fall.”

362

II.

More beautiful in ruin than in prime,
Methinks this frail yet firm memorial stands,
The work of heads laid low, and buried hands:
—Now slowly mouldering to the touch of time,
It looks abroad, unconsciously sublime,
Where sky above and earth beneath expands:
—And yet a nobler relic still demands
The grateful homage of a passing rhyme.

Beneath the cliff yon humble roof behold!
Poor as our Saviour's birthplace; yet a fold,
Where the good shepherd, in this quiet vale,
Gathers his flock, and feeds them, as of old,
With bread from heaven:—I change my note;—all hail!
The glory of the Lord is risen upon thee, Dale!

1830.

THE WILD PINK

ON THE WALL OF MALMESBURY ABBEY.

(Dianthus Cheirophyllus.)

[_]

On seeing a solitary specimen near the Great Archway, and being told that the plant was not to be found elsewhere in the neighbourhood.

The hand that gives the angels wings,
And plants the forest by its power,
O'er mountain, vale, and champaign flings
The seed of every herb and flower;
Nor forests stand, nor angels fly,
More at God's will, more in his eye,
Than the green blade strikes down its root,
Expands its bloom, and yields its fruit.

Beautiful daughter of a line
Of unrecorded ancestry!
What herald's scroll could vie with thine,
Where monarchs trace their pedigree?
Thy first progenitor had birth
While man was yet unquicken'd earth,
And thy last progeny may wave
Its flag o'er man's last-open'd grave.

Down from the day of Eden lost,
A generation in a year,
Unscathed by heat, unnipt by frost,
True to the sovereign sun, appear
The units of thy transient race,
Each in its turn, each in its place,
To make the world a little while
Lovelier and sweeter with its smile.

How camest thou hither? from what soil,
Where those that went before thee grew,
Exempt from suffering, care, and toil,
Clad by the sun-beams, fed with dew?
Tell me on what strange spot of ground
Thy rock-born kindred yet are found,
And I the carrier-dove will be
To bring them wondrous news of thee.

How, here, by wren or red-breast dropt,
Thy parent germ was left behind,
Or, in its trackless voyage stopt,
While sailing on the' autumnal wind,
Not rudely wreck'd, but safely thrown
On yonder ledge of quarried stone,
Where the blithe swallow builds and sings,
And the pert sparrow pecks his wings.

Then, by some glimpse of moonshine sped,
Queen Mab, methinks, alighting there,
A span-long hand-breadth terrace spread,
A fairy-garden hung in air,
Of lichens, moss, and earthy mould,
To rival Babylon's of old,
In which that single seed she nurst,
Till forth its embryo-wilding burst.

Now, like that solitary star,
Last in the morn's resplendent crown,
Or first emerging, faint and far,
When evening-glooms the sky embrown,

363

Thy beauty shines without defence,
Yet safe from gentle violence,
While infant-hands and maiden-eyes
Covet in vain the tempting prize.

Yon arch, beneath whose giant-span
Thousands of passing feet have trod
Upon the dust that once was man,
Gather'd around the house of God,
—That arch which seems to mock decay,
Fix'd as the firmament to-day,
Is fading like the rainbow's form,
Through the slow stress of Time's long storm.

But thou may'st boast perennial prime;
—The blade, the stem, the bud, the flower,
Not ruin'd, but renew'd, by Time,
Beyond the great destroyer's power,
Like day and night, like spring and fall,
Alternate, on the abbey-wall,
May come and go, from year to year,
And vanish but to re-appear.

Nay, when in utter wreck are strown
Arch, buttress, all this mighty mass,
Crumbled, and crush'd, and overgrown,
With thorns and thistles, reeds and grass,
While Nature thus the waste repairs,
Thine offspring, Nature's endless heirs,
Earth's ravaged fields may re-possess,
And plant once more the wilderness.

So be it:—but the sun is set,
My song must end, and I depart;
Yet thee I never will forget,
But bear thee in my inmost heart,
Where this shall thy memorial be,
—If God so cares for thine and thee,
How can I doubt that love divine
Which watches over me and mine?

1838.

TRANSMIGRATIONS.

A hail-stone, from the cloud set free,
Shot, slanting coastward, o'er the sea,
And thus, as eastern tales relate,
Lamented its untimely fate:
“Last moment born, condemn'd in this,
The next absorpt in yon abyss;
'Twere better ne'er to know the light,
Than see and perish at first sight.”
—An oyster heard, and, as it fell,
Welcomed the outcast to her shell,
Where, meekly suffering that “sea-change,”
It grew to “something rich and strange,”
And thence became the brightest gem
That decks the Sultan's diadem,
Turn'd from a particle of ice
Into a pearl of priceless price.
—Thus can the power that rules o'er all
Exalt the humble by their fall.

A dew-drop, in the flush of morn,
Sparkled upon a blossom'd thorn,
Reflecting from its mirror pure
The sun himself in miniature.
Dancing for gladness on the spray,
It miss'd its hold, and slid away;
A lark just mounting up to sing,
Caught the frail trembler on his wing,
But, borne aloft through gathering clouds,
Left it entangled with their shrouds:
Lost and for ever lost it seem'd,
When suddenly the sun forth gleam'd,
And round the showery vapours threw
A rainbow,—where our drop of dew
'Midst the prismatic hues of heaven
Outshone the beams of all the seven.
When virtue falls, 'tis not to die,
But be translated to the sky.

A babe into existence came,
A feeble, helpless, suffering frame;
It breathed on earth a little while,
Then vanish'd, like a tear, a smile,
That springs and falls,—that peers and parts,
The grief, the joy of loving hearts:
The grave received the body dead
Where all that live must find their bed.
Sank then the soul to dust and gloom,
Worms and corruption in the tomb?
No,—'midst the rainbow round the throne,
Caught up to paradise, it shone,
And yet shall shine, until the day
When heaven and earth must pass away.
And those that sleep in Jesus here
With Him in glory shall appear.

364

Then shall that soul and body meet;
And when His jewels are complete,
'Midst countless millions, form a gem
In the Redeemer's diadem,
Wherewith, as thorns his brows once bound,
He for his sufferings shall be crown'd;
Raised from the ignominious tree
To the right-hand of Majesty,
Head over all created things,
The Lord of lords, the King of kings.

1839.

SONNET.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GABRIELLO FIAMMA.

ON THE SEPULTURE OF CHRIST.

Where is the aspect more than heaven serene,
Which saints and angels view'd with pure delight?
The meekness and the majesty of mien,
That won the yielding heart with gentle might?

Where is the voice with harmony replete,
That changed to love the most obdurate will?
The eye, whose glance so ravishingly sweet,
The soul with joy unspeakable could fill?

Where is the hand that crush'd our direst foe,
And Satan's powers in chains of darkness bound?
Where is the servant's humble form below,
In which the eternal Son of God was found?

—Lo! where his pilgrimage of mercy ends:
What glory here into the grave descends!

1821.

SONNET.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF GIOVAMBATTISTA ZAPPI.

ON JUDITH RETURNING TO BETHULIA WITH THE HEAD OF HOLOFERNES IN HER HAND.

She held the head all-horrible with gore;
Nor of the woman in that act was seen
Aught save the' alluring locks and beauteous mien:
“Hail, heroine, hail!” all voices cried before.

At the glad news, the damsels came with speed;
Some kiss'd her feet and some her garment's hem,
None her right-hand, for terrible to them
Was the remembrance of that fatal deed.

A hundred prophets sang the matron's fame;
“Fly round the world, thine everlasting name!
The sun through all his march shall tell thy story.”
Great from that dread achievement though she rose,
Greater she stood at this triumphant close,
For she was humble in the height of glory.

1825.

SONNET.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF EUSTACHIO MANFREDI.

FOR A NUN, ON TAKING THE VEIL.

As when a lion, mad with hunger, springs
To seize the unguarded shepherd by surprise,
Fear in a moment lends the victim wings;
To some broad elm or ancient oak he flies,
Climbs for his life, amidst the branches cowers,
And sees the' infuriate brute, with ramping paws,
Leap at the trunk, and, wearying all his powers,
Spurn the loose sand, and grind his foaming jaws.

So she, whom hell's fierce lion mark'd for prey,
Flies to the tree of life's extended arms,
The cross of Calvary,—which, night and day,
Yields shade, and rest, and refuge from alarms;
Whence she beholds the baffled fiend again,
Gnashing his teeth, slink back to his old den.

365

SONNET.

[_]

From Petrarch: in which the poet laments the death of his friend Signore Stefano Colonna, occurring soon after that of Laura. In the original there is a symbolical allusion to the names of both,—the one as a Column, the other a Laurel.

Fall'n is the lofty Column, and uptorn
The verdant Laurel, in whose shade my mind
Found peace I ne'er again may hope to find,
Though round the heavens o'er earth and ocean borne:
—O Death! how hast thou me of comfort shorn!
My double treasure to the grave consign'd,
Which made life sweet!—and wealth with power combined
Can ne'er restore to soothe my thought forlorn.

What can I do, if fate have so decreed,
But let my sorrowing heart in secret bleed,
My brow be sad, mine eyes o'erflow with tears?
—O Life! so beautiful to look upon,
How, in a moment's space, for ever gone
Is all we toil to gain through many years!

“A CERTAIN DISCIPLE.”
[_]

Acts, ix. 10.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF THE REV. W. M.

Long may his living countenance express
The air and lineaments of holiness,
And, as from theme to theme his thoughts shall range
In high discourse, its answering aspects change!
—Like Abraham's, faith's sublimest pledge display,
When bound upon the altar Isaac lay;
—Kindle like Jacob's, when he felt his power
With God, and wrestled till the day-break hour;
—Shine like the face of Moses, when he came,
All radiant, from the mount that burn'd with flame;
—Flash like Elisha's, when, his sire in view,
He caught the mantle and the spirit too;
—Darken like Jonah's, when with “Woe!” he went
Through trembling Nineveh, yet cry “Repent!”
—Brighten like Stephen's, when his foes amazed,
As if an angel stood before them, gazed;
And like that martyr's, at his latest breath,
Reflect his Saviour's image full in death.

366

Yea, ever in the true disciple's mien
His meek and lowly Master must be seen,
And in the fervent preacher's boldest word
That voice which was the voice of mercy heard:
—So may the love which drew, as with a chain,
The Son of God from heaven, his heart constrain,
Draw him from earth, and fix his hopes above,
While with the self-same chain, that chain of love,
In new captivity, he strives to bind
Sin's ransom'd slaves, his brethren of mankind;
Labouring and suffering still, whate'er the cost,
By life or death, to seek and save the lost;
That, following Christ in pure simplicity,
As He was in this world, himself may be,
Till, call'd with Him in glory to sit down,
And with the crown then given the Giver crown.

1834.

STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF THE LATE REV. THOMAS RAWSON TAYLOR, OF BRADFORD, IN YORKSHIRE

[_]

A young minister of great promise, and a poet of no mean order, whose verses, entitled “Communion with the Dead,” on the removal in early life of a sister, would endear and perpetuate the remembrance of both, were they as generally known as they deserve to be. The survivor died on the 7th of March 1835, aged 28 years.

Millions of eyes have wept o'er frames
Once living, beautiful and young,
Now dust and ashes, and their names
Extinct on earth, because unsung:
Yet song itself hath but its day,
Like the swan's dirge,—a dying lay.

A dying lay I would rehearse,
In memory of one whose breath
Pour'd forth a stream of such sweet verse
As might have borne away from death
The trophy of a sister's name,
—Winning at once and giving fame.

But all is mortal here,—that song
Pass'd like the breeze, which steals from flowers
Their fragrance, yet repays the wrong
With dew-drops, shaken down in showers;
Ah! like those flowers with dew-drops fed,
They sprang, they blossom'd, they are dead.

The poet (spared a little while)
Follow'd the sister all too soon;
The hectic rose that flush'd his smile
Grew pale and wither'd long ere noon;
In youth's exulting prime he gave
What death demanded to the grave.

But that which death nor grave could seize,—
His soul,—into his Saviour's hands
(Who by the cross's agonies
Redeem'd a people from all lands)
He yielded, till “that day” to keep,
And then like Stephen fell asleep.

“That day” will come; meanwhile weep not,
O ye that loved him! and yet more
Love him for grief that “he is not:”—
Rather with joy let eyes run o'er,
And warm hearts hope his face to see
Where 'tis for ever “good to be.”

STANZAS IN MEMORY OF ROWLAND HODGSON, ESQ., OF SHEFFIELD

[_]

Who departed this life January 27. 1837, aged 63 years.— Through a long period of severe bodily affliction, aggravated in the sequel by loss of sight, he signally exemplified the Christian graces of faith, hope, and charity, with humble resignation to the will of God. He had been from his youth one of the most active, liberal, and unwearied supporters of benevolent and evangelical institutions throughout this neighbourhood and elsewhere, in foreign lands as well as at home. The writer of these lines had the happiness to be his travelling companion on annual visits and temporary sojourns, which they made together in many parts of the kingdom, from the autumn of 1817 to the same season of 1836.

Part I.

Go where thy heart had gone before,
And thy heart's treasure lay;
Go, and with open'd eye explore
Heaven's uncreated day:
Light in the Lord, light's fountain, see,
And light in Him for ever be.

367

But darkness thou hast left behind;
No sign, nor sight, nor sound,
At home, abroad, of thee I find
Where thou wert ever found;
Then gaze I on thy vacant place,
Till my soul's eye meets thy soul's face:—

As, many a time, quite through the veil
Of flesh 'twas wont to shine,
When thy meek aspect, saintly pale,
In kindness turn'd to mine,
And the quench'd eye its film forgot,
Look'd full on me,—yet saw me not!

Then, through the body's dim eclipse,
What humble accents broke,
While, breathing prayer or praise, thy lips
Of light within thee spoke!
'Midst Egypt's darkness to be felt,
Thy mind in its own Goshen dwelt.

Nor less in days of earlier health,
When life to thee was dear,
Borne on the flowing tide of wealth,
To me this truth was clear,
That hope in Christ was thy best health,
Riches that make not wings thy wealth.

When frequent sickness bow'd thy head,
And every labouring breath,
As with a heavier impulse, sped
Thy downward course to death,
Faith falter'd not that hope to show,
Though words, like life's last drops, fell slow.

How often when I turn'd away,
As having seen the last
Of thee on earth, my heart would say,—
“When my few days are past,
Such strength be mine, though nature shrink,
The cup my Father gives, to drink!”

I saw thee slumbering in thy shroud,
As yonder moon I view,
Now glimmering through a snow-white cloud,
'Midst heaven's eternal blue;—
I saw thee lower'd into the tomb,
Like that cloud deepening into gloom.

All darkness thou hast left behind;
—It was not thee they wound
In dreary grave-clothes, and consign'd
To perish in the ground;
'Twas but thy mantle, dropt in sight,
When thou wert vanishing in light.

That mantle, in earth's wardrobe lain,
A frail but precious trust,
Thou wilt reclaim and wear again,
When, freed from worms and dust,
The bodies of the saints shall be
Their robes of immortality.

Part II.

These fragments of departed years,
I gather up and store,
Since thou—in mercy to our tears
And prayers—art heal'd no more.
In that last war was no discharge;
—Yet walks thy ransom'd soul at large.

For what, my friend, was death to thee?
A king? a conqueror?—No;
Death, swallow'd up in victory,
Himself a captive foe,
Was sent in chains to thy release,
By Him who on the cross made peace.

When year by year, on pilgrimage,
We journey'd side by side,
And pitch'd and struck, from stage to stage,
Our tents, had we one guide?
One aim?—are all our meetings past?
Must our last parting be our last?

Nay, God forbid!—if, hand and heart,
On earth we loved to roam,
—Where once to meet is ne'er to part,
In heaven's eternal home,
Our Father's house, not made with hands,
May we renew our friendship's bands!

Thus, as I knew thee well and long,
Thy private worth be told:
What thou wert more, affection's song
Presumes not to unfold:
Thy works of faith, and zeal of love,
Are they not register'd above?

368

Are they not register'd below?
—If few their praise record,
Yet, in the judgment, all shall know
Thou didst them to thy Lord;
For 'twas thy soul's delight to cheer
The least of all His brethren here.

Though less than even the least of these
Thou didst thyself esteem,
Thou wert a flower-awakening breeze,
A meadow-watering stream:
The breeze unseen its odours shed,
The stream unheard its bounty spread.

What art thou now?—Methinks for thee
Heaven brightens round its King;
New beams of the Divinity
New-landing spirits bring,
As God on each his image seals,
And ray by ray Himself reveals.

While ray by ray those thronging lines
To one great centre tend,
Fulness of grace and glory shines
In Christ, their source and end,
To show, where all perfections meet,
The orb of Deity complete.

Part III.

So rest in peace, thou blessed soul!
Where sin and sorrow end;
So may I follow to the goal,
—Not thee, not thee, my friend!
But Him, whom thou, through joy and woe,
Thyself didst follow on to know.

Faint yet pursuing, I am strong,
Whene'er His steps I trace;
Else, slow of heart, and prone to wrong,
I yet may lose the race,
If on thy course I fix mine eye,
And Him in thee not glorify.

The wild, the mountain-top, the sea,
The throng'd highway he trode,
The path to quiet Bethany,
And Calvary's dolorous road:
Where He, then, leads me must be right;
—I walk by faith, and not by sight.