Lyrics of the heart :: :: University of Virginia Library

Spring breathes around us; the bright air is filled
With glistening life, and odours dewy sweet;
The far off stir, by mellowing distance stilled,
Scarce wafts a murmur to our green retreat:
Come, let us seek the old accustomed seat,
Together watch day's ebbing waves decline;
Till our full hearts bow down, with reverence meet,
To Him who gave that glowing light to shine—
Bright in its morning prime, but at this hour divine!

316

II

Lo! what a flush is reddening all the skies,
What rays supernal yon proud throne surround;
What magic splendour, what unnumbered dyes,
Yon setting sun's increasing orb hath crowned:
Those golden bars upon their purple ground,
Seem each to fancy's eye a glowing stair
Leading to glories more and more profound!
How sweet to gaze upon a heaven so fair,
And deem our loved, and lost, are sphered for ever there!

III

It is a thought that well the scene beseems,
Bright, tranquil, soothing, full of hope and peace;
The cherished vision of unnumbered dreams;
The faith that bids all keener anguish cease.
For what was death to them? A sweet release
From all the mean and sordid cares of life;
From Pride's cold taunt, from Fortune's wild caprice;
From all the ills with which this world is rife;
Its blind but bitter hate, its perfidy and strife!

317

IV

All that our trusting hearts have bled to know;
Much that our aching breasts must brave again;
The hollow friend, the smooth, insidious foe;
Keen self-reproach for gifts bestowed in vain;
And all the racking “family of Pain!”
Oh, if 'tis sweet to 'scape such withering woes;
To break the bondage of so hard a chain;
How doubly blest the timeless doom of those
Who, all unstained by earth, enjoy that deep repose!

V

And such their lot, for whom we love to shed
Tears, that of rapture more than grief partake;
Locked in that slumber of the sinless dead,
No strife can stir, no agony can break:
Thrice blessed art thou for those fair children's sake;
Fetters of love to link thee to the skies!
Whoe'er would wish from such a dream to wake;
Who but must envy thee those holiest ties,
A mother's yearnings fond for babes in Paradise!

318

VI

Yet not to them be all thy thoughts still given,
Who bask in smiles that earth could ne'er bestow;
But turn thy tearful eyes awhile from heaven,
To helpless claimants on thy love below!
See, where yon archer bends his mimic bow,
With eager eye to trace his arrow's flight;
Can mortal hope a fairer promise show?
Look where the shaft hath struck,—he laughs outright,
Until his infant form seems buoyant with delight!

VII

And to that mirth an answering echo rings,
From the enchanted nursling on thy knee,
As all abroad her slighted toys she flings,
His sport to join with sympathetic glee;
Struggling with hot impatience to be free,
And share the triumphs of that wondrous feat:
Nor all unmoved doth he her gladness see;
But hastes the practised marvel to repeat,
Till the blue welkin rings with laughter wild and sweet.

319

VIII

And canst thou list and not be joyous too,
That simple music of the guileless heart?
Canst thou those sweet and sinless raptures view,
And in their bliss refuse to bear a part?
Forbid it, love, all gentle as thou art;
Forbid it, too, that fond, maternal smile;
Then let each sad and boding thought depart,
Turn from life's cankers and its cares awhile,
And let such sights and sounds thine anxious heart beguile!

IX

Deem it not strange I should prefer the string
That best accords with gentle themes like these,
And leave the realms of Fancy's wilder wing,
To sing of home and homebred sympathies:
Content with few and simple notes to please,
And win a poet's meed from hearts like thine,
All unambitious prouder wreaths to seize,
The Muse's loftier vision I resign,
So that her twilight tears and sunset smiles be mine!

320

X

The youthful lover's hopes and fears to tell;
Of childhood's budding bloom, and happy death;
Of those high thoughts that bid the soft heart swell;
When glowing Faith resigns her sainted breath:
To catch the hues from Pity's dew-sprent wreath,
And bid them live a moment in my lay;
To mourn, some old, umbrageous oak beneath,
O'er joys that wither like the waning day,
And wear their loveliest smiles even whilst they fade away!

XI

Or, haply, murmuring of some peaceful cot,
The home of pleasures pure, pursuits refined;
Some quiet nook, some calm, sequestered spot,
Radiant with triumphs of the heart and mind;
Where Poesy and Painting sit enshrined;
Where Art and Nature yield their treasures chaste,
And charm their votaries with their spells combined;
Where Genius' self, by Truth and Fancy graced,
Doth not disdain to own the plastic hand of Taste.

321

XII

Such are the simple songs I bring thee here,
Songs that a few will prize, that all may feel;
Records of bliss and woe, of hope and fear,
Of lowly lives like tranquil streams that steal,
And in their wanderings, dark or bright, reveal
The shade or sunshine of their chequered way:
Such is the offering that with duteous zeal,
And love, time-hallowed, at thy feet I lay;
Where could my votive Muse such well-earned homage pay?

XIII

To whom but thee could I so fitly bring
The fond memorials of that downy nest,
Where Fancy oft hath plumed her ruffled wing
With sounds of peace, and images of rest;
Where by life's ills and meaner cares depressed,
I joy to flee for solace and repose,—
The love and counsels of thy gentle breast;—
A hallowed home, no carking strife that knows,
Where lulling sights and sounds my world-vexed thoughts compose.

322

XIV

Oft from the loopholes of that still retreat,
Have we beheld the busy stir without;
Watched that wild ocean lashing at our feet,
With souls subdued and thankfulness devout:
And as the frequent, fierce, exulting shout
Of savage men that on each other prey,
Burst on the ear from madding crowds without;
'Twas sweet to feel we were not such as they,
And sadder, wiser, turn from that keen strife away!

XV

And sweet 'neath genial skies in summer weather,
To watch as now the radiant day decline;
To turn some bright, immortal page together,
Where Poesy's unnumbered treasures shine,
And Genius strews around her spells divine;
Milton's proud pomp for Spenser's sweetness leave;
Drink polished wit from Pope's melodious line;
With forceful Gray aspire, with Collins grieve;
Mourn hapless Auburn's fate, and Cowper's truths believe.

323

XVI

Or, sometimes seated by our smiling hearth,
When storms without uplift their wintry din,
And quiet thoughts from those wild sounds have birth,
Deepening the sweetness of the calm within;
In taste united, as in heart akin,
To seek (in thought) the bowers of modern Song,
A glowing garland of its flowers to twine;
Together, thus the cheerful eve prolong,
That seldom comes too soon—and never seems too long.

XVII

To wander forth with Harold's wayward Childe,
As storm or sunshine rules his Pilgrimage;
To share his gentler moods, his transports wild,
And hang with breathless wonder o'er his page.
Alas! that he who could all hearts engage,
And stir, at will, the soul's divinest springs,
War with his better self so oft would wage,
And wring harsh discords from harmonious strings;
Veiling his spirit's eyes, like the angel, with his wings!

324

XVIII

That he whose genius, upon manna fed,
Was imped to soar where loftiest thoughts have birth,
To Marah's bitter fount too often led,
Should dim its plumage with the stains of earth:
Alas, for Genius! Fame, of little worth,
The fickle world is ever ripe to wrong,—
That desolates the heart, then mourns the dearth
Of all that still might to that heart belong!
That Grief so oft should be the heritage of Song!

XIX

To seek, with Campbell, Susquehanah's wave,
And list the descant of his Indian Chief;
To muse awhile o'er Connocht Moran's grave,
And share his widowed bride's indignant grief:
Or, when the song peals forth, in grand relief,
Of England's meteor flag, and Nelson's fame,
In trumpet notes, sonorous, clear, and brief;
To feel, within, the patriotic flame
Lit in each British heart by that undying name!

325

XX

Poet of Hope! though many a joy hath fled,
And many a dream, too wildly loved to last,
In youth's bright spring our bounding hearts that fed,
And came like sunshine, have like sunshine past;
Though Hope for us may never more forecast
Her El-Dorado, sought so long in vain;
Though Fancy fail, and Youth may fleet as fast,
Till but life's cold realities remain,
Her Pleasures still will live in thy melodious strain!

XXI

And sweet, in concert, bending o'er his lay,
To own the spell of Wordsworth's loftier power;
By devious Duddon's tranquil stream to stray;
By swifter Wharfe to while a thoughtful hour;
List the sweet Sabbath-bells from Bolton Tower,
When glides from Rylstone Fell the milk-white Doe,
There, by one green sequestered grave to cower,
And, when the latest hymn hath ceased, to go
Back to her mountain haunts, with step screne and slow!

326

XXII

To linger with his wandering Sage, and hold
Communion with the mighty hills, ere yet,
O'er their proud summits capped with crowns of gold,
The westering sun's increasing orb hath set;
Trace from its source the mountain rivulet
Hurrying in ceaseless eddies to the vale;
Or watch the clouds in gorgeous pageant met
To usher out the day; till Twilight pale
Draws o'er the dimming scene her soft, mysterious veil.

XXIII

Nor has our homage been delayed till now,
Poet and Prophet! ere the voice of Fame,
That with unfading wreaths hath bound thy brow,
Was heard to more than murmur forth thy name,
Amid the scoffer's gibe, the critic's blame,
That loftiest truths from simplest lips should glide;
Ere Fashion's plaudits swelled the loud acclaim,—
For even fashion's fool can track the tide,—
A household word it grew our smiling hearth beside!

327

XXIV

And by the statue of the armed knight,
Where leans with lips apart fair Genevieve,
How sweet to share the tale of wrack and blight,
She loves the more because it makes her grieve;
Until the feigned woe doth so deceive,
She deems the “ladye”'s sorrows all her own;
And fearful fate should thus her heart bereave,
Yields coy consent before the tale is done;
And thus, by Pity stirred, without a prayer is won!

XXV

In Wilson's white-winged bark to sail away
To some green island in the Indian sea,
Where life is one long summer holiday,
And Nature keeps eternal jubilee:
Where Woman blooms in native purity,
And fairest flowers and fruits spontaneous smile;
Where nothing toils beside the busy bee;
Where Care comes not, nor Falsehood's serpent wile,
To mar the perfect peace of that enchanted isle.

328

XXVI

Or with melodious Rogers, earliest loved,—
The longer known more loved,—of whose pure strains
The soothing power our hearts so oft have proved
To call up Memory's joys without her pains,
O'er days gone by to muse: 'mid sunset plains,
Scenes such as Claude would paint and he has sung;
Or by the cheerful hearth, where calmly reigns
Domestic Peace her halcyon mates among;
His songs, so silver-sweet, glide oftenest from our tongue.

XXVII

But, see, the sun hath vanished from the sky,
And twilight's glow is deepening into night;
The crescent moon is climbing fast on high,
And countless stars, with intermittent light,
Are twinkling now, and now elude the sight!
Oh, for the dove's strong wings, that we might soar
From this dull earth to yon empyrean height,
Where life's mean cares, its fitful fever o'er,
The world's wild strife and wrong might never touch us more!

1833.