University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

I.

[If thou wouldst find what holiest men have sought]

If thou wouldst find what holiest men have sought,
Communion with the power of Poesy,
Empty thy mind of all unquiet thought,
Lay bare thy spirit to the vaulting sky
And glory of the sunshine: go and stand
Where nodding briers sport with the water-break,
Or by the plashings of a moonlight creek,
Or breast the wind upon some jutting land:
The most unheeded things have influences
That sink into the soul; in after-hours
We oft are tempted suddenly to dress
The tombs of half-forgotten moods with flowers:
Our own choice mocks us; and the sweetest themes
Come to us without call, wavward as dreams.

II.

[Weep ye and howl, for that ye did refuse]

Weep ye and howl, for that ye did refuse
God's feast of bounties when most largely spread,—
Sunrise and set, and clustering overhead
The nightly stars: for that ye did not choose
To wait on Beauty, all content to lose
The portion of the Spirit's offered bread
With which the humble wise are daily fed,
That grows from yielding things despised their dues.
Therefore your solitary hours unblest
Shall not be peopled with the memories dear
Of field, and church-way path, and runnel clear;
Therefore your fading age shall not be drest
With fresh spring-flowers: because ye did belie
Your noblest life, in sorrow ye shall die.

III.

[But deck the board;—for hither comes a band]

But deck the board;—for hither comes a band
Of pure young spirits, fresh arrayed in white,
Glistering against the newly-risen light;
Over the green and dew-impearlèd land
Blithsomely tripping forward, hand in hand:
Deck ye the board: and let the guest be dight
In gospel wedding-garment rich and bright,
And every bud that summer suns expand.
For you, ye humble ones, our thickets bloom:
Ye know the texture of each opening flower,
And which the sunshine, and which love the gloom.
The shrill of poisèd larks for many an hour
Ye watch; and all things gentle in your hearts
Have place, and play at call their tuneful parts.

IV.

[Out, palsied soul, that dost but tremble ever]

Out, palsied soul, that dost but tremble ever
In sight of the bright sunshine;—mine be joy,
And the full heart, and eye that faileth never
In the glad morning:—I am yet a boy;—
I have not wandered from the crystal river
That flowed by me in childhood: my employ
Hath been to take the gift and praise the Giver;
To love the flowers thy heedless steps destroy.
I wonder if the bliss that flows to me
In youth, shall be exhaled and scorched up dry
By the noonday glare of life; I must not lie
For ever in the shade of childhood's tree;
But I must venture forth and make advance
Along the toilèd path of human circumstance.

V.

[My own dear country, thy remembrance comes]

My own dear country, thy remembrance comes
Like softly-flowing music on my heart;
With thy green sunny hills, and happy homes,
And cots rose-bowered, bosomed in dells apart:
The merry pealings of our village bells
Gush ever and anon upon mine ear;
And is there not a far-off sound that tells
Of many-voicèd laughter shrill and clear?
Oh! were I now with thee, to sit and play
Under the hawthorn on the slope o' th' hill,
As I was wont to do; or pluck all day
The cowslip and the flaunting daffodil,
Till shepherds whistled homeward, and the west
Folded the large sun in her crimson breast!

VI.

[Oh, what doth it avail, in busy care]

Oh, what doth it avail, in busy care
The summer of our days to pass away
In-doors, nor forth into the sunny ray,
Nor by the wood nor river-side to fare,
Nor on far-seeing hills to meet the air,
Nor watch the land-waves yean the shivering spray?
Oh, what doth it avail, though every day
Fresh-catered wealth its golden tribute bear?
Rather along the field-paths in the morn
To meet the first laugh of the twinkling east,
Or when the clear-eyed Aphrodite is born
Out from the amber ripples of the west,
'Tis joy:—to move under the bended sky,
And smell the pleasant earth, and feel the winds go by.

VII.

[Truth loveth not to lavish upon all]

Truth loveth not to lavish upon all
The clear down-shining of her heavenly smile;
She chooseth those on whom its light shall fall.
And shuts them from the earthly crowd the while:
But they whom she hath lightened tread this earth
With step and mien of heavenly gentleness;
Ye shall not see them drunk with over-mirth,
Or tangled in the world's thick wilderness;
For there hath shone upon their path of life
Mild beamings from a hidden glory's ray;
A calm hath passed upon their spirit's strife,
The bounding of young hopes hath sunk away,
And certain bliss hath dawned, with still uprise,
Like the deep rest of joy in spirits' Paradise.

VIII.

[Come to me often, sportive Memory]

Come to me often, sportive Memory:
Thy hands are full of flowers; thy voice is sweet;
Thine innocent uncareful look doth meet
The solitary cravings of mine eye;
I cannot let thee flit unheeded by,
For I have gentle words wherewith to greet
Thy welcome visits: pleasant hours are fleet,
So let us sit and talk the sand-glass dry.
Dear visitant, who comest, dark and light,
Morning and evening, and with merry voice
Tellest of new occasion to rejoice;
And playest round me in the fairy night
Like a quaint spirit, on the moonlight beams
Threading the mazy labyrinth of dreams.

IX. TO THE AUTHOR OF THE “RECTORY OF VALEHEAD.”

There is a sweet well-spring of purity
In the holy heart, whereout unceasing flow
Its living waters, freshening as they go
The weary deserts of humanity:
There is a spirit in words, which doth express
Celestial converse and divine employ;
A surface of unbroken gentleness,
With an under-current of deep-running joy.
I closed thy holy book this Sabbath-morn;
And it hath spread like billow-calming oil
Upon my spirit, in the loud turmoil
Of ever-striving passions tempest-worn;—
Thy Master's peace be thine, even as thou hast
Over this soul a holy quiet cast.

X. TO MARY.

On thy young brow, my sister, twenty years
Have shed their sunshine; and this April morn
Looks on thee fresh and gladsome, as new-born
From veiling clouds the king of day appears:
Thou scarce canst order back the thankful tears
That swell in thy blue eyes; nor dare to meet
The happy looks that never cease to greet
Thee the dear nursling of our hopes and fears.
This Eastertide together we have read
How in the garden, when that weeping one
Asked sadly for her Lord of some unknown,
With look of sweet reproof He turned and said,
“Mary”—Sweet sister, when thy need shall be,
That word, that look, so may He turn on thee!

XI. TO THE SAME.

Cheeriest of maidens, who, with light of bliss
That waneth never in thy gladsome eye,
Passest all lightly earth's sad sorrows by,
Scarce crediting report of aught amiss
In the wide-wasted world; on thee the smile
Of heavenly peacefulness doth ever rest,
And thou art joying in a region blest,
With tempests raging round thee all the while.
So mayest thou ever be, if thou shalt keep
Unfailing communings with Him above;
And in thy sunshine-hours of wakeful love,
And the unchecked confidings of thy sleep,
With pure distilment be thy spirit fed
Of holiest influence, from His presence shed.

XII. TO WILLIAM JACKSON OF EXETER.

Jackson, than whom none better skilled to lead
The willing spirit captive with sweet lays,
Searching the hidden fountain-heads which feed
Our love of beauty—thine be all the praise
Of tuning to our England's hills and dales
Responsive melodies, whose music dwells
Among the memories of early tales,
And far-off chime of unforgotten bells.
With thee, sick at the boastful ignorance
Of this dull age, that hath no heart for song,
My winter hours I spend, and lead along
My thought in playful or in solemn dance,
Whether the harp discourse of fields and swains,
Or meditate high praise in angel-strains.

XIII. THE MENDIP HILLS OVER WELLS.

How grand beneath the feet that company
Of steep gray roofs and clustering pinnacles
Of the massy fane, brooding in majesty
Above the town that spreads among the dells!
Hark! the deep clock unrolls its voice of power;
And sweetly-mellowed sound of chiming bells
Calling to prayer from out the central tower
Over the thickly-timbered hollow dwells.
Meet worship-place for such a glorious stretch
Of sunny prospect—for these mighty hills,
And that dark solemn Tor, and all that reach
Of bright-green meadows, laced with silver rills,
Bounded by ranges of pale blue, that rise
To where white strips of sea are traced upon the skies.

XIV. GLASTONBURY.

On thy green marge, thou vale of Avalon,
Not for that thou art crowned with ancient towers
And shafts and clustered pillars many a one,
Love I to dream away the sunny hours;
Not for that here in charmèd slumber lie
The holy relics of that British king
Who was the flower of knightly chivalry,
Do I stand blest past power of uttering;—
But for that on thy cowslip-sprinkled sod
Alit of old the olive-bearing bird,
Meek messenger of purchased peace with God;
And the first hymns that Britain ever heard
Arose, the low preluding melodies
To the sweetest anthem that hath reached the skies.

XV. SUNSET AT BURTON PYNSENT, SOMERSET.

How bare and bright thou sinkest to thy rest
Over the burnished line of the Severn sea:
While somewhat of thy power thou buriest
In ruddy mists, that we may look on thee.
And while we stand and wonder, we may see
Far mountain-tops in visible glory drest,
Where 'twixt yon purple hills the sight is free
To search the regions of the dim north-west,
But shadowy bars have crossed thee: suddenly
Thou'rt fallen among strange clouds;—yet not the less
Thy presence know we by the radiancy
That doth thy shroud with golden fringes dress;
Even as hidden love to faithful eye
Brightens the edges of obscure distress.

XVI. RECOLLECTION OF WORDSWORTH'S “RUTH.”

Here are the brows of Quantock, purple-clad
With lavish heath-bloom: there, the banks of Tone.
Where is that woman, love-forlorn and sad,
Piping her flute of hemlock all alone?
I hear the Quantock woodman whistling home,—
The sunset flush is over Dunkery:—
I fear me much that she hath ceased to roam
Up the steep path, and lie beneath the tree.
I always fancied I should hear in sooth
That music,—but it sounds not!—wayward tears
Are filling in mine eyes for thee, poor Ruth;—
I had forgotten all the lapse of years
Since thy deep griefs were hallowed by the pen
Of that most pure of poesy-gifted men.

XVII. AN EVENING IN AUTUMN, NEAR NETHER STOWEY, SOMERSET.

How soothing is that sound of far-off wheels
Under the golden sheen of the harvest moon!
In the shade-chequered road it half reveals
A homeward-wending group, with hearts in tune
To thankful merriment;—father and boy,
And maiden with her gleanings on her head;
And the last waggon's rumble heard with joy
In the kitchen with the ending-supper spread.
But while I listening stand, the sound hath ceased,
And hark, from many voices lustily
The harvest home, the prelude to the feast,
In measured bursts is pealing loud and high;
Soon all is still again beneath the bright
Full moon, that guides me home this autumn night.

XVIII. CULBONE, OR KINTORE, SOMERSET.

Half way upon the cliff I musing stood
O'er thy sea-fronting hollow, while the smoke
Curled from thy cottage chimneys through the wood
And brooded on the steeps of glooming oak;
Under a dark green buttress of the hill
Looked out thy lowly house of Sabbath prayer;
The sea was calm below; only thy rill
Talked to itself upon the quiet air.
Yet in this quaint and sportive-seeming dell
Hath, through the silent ages that are gone,
A stream of human things been passing on,
Whose unrecorded story none may tell,
Nor count the troths in that low chancel given,
And souls from yonder cabin fled to heaven.

XIX. LINN-CLEEVE, LINTON, DEVON.

This onward-deepening gloom,—this hanging path
Over the Linn that soundeth mightily,
Foaming and tumbling on, as if in wrath
That ought should bar its passage to the sea,
These sundered walls of rock, tier upon tier
Built darkly up into the very sky,
Hung with thick woods, the native haunt of deer
And sheep that browse the dizzy slopes on high,—
All half-unreal to my fancy seem;
For opposite my crib, long years ago,
Were pictured just such rocks, just such a stream,
With just this height above, and depth below;
Even this jutting crag I seem to know:—
As when some sight calls back a half-forgotten dream.

XX. WATERS-MEET, LINN, DEVON.

(Recollection of Homer.)

Even thus, methinks, in some Ionian isle,
Yielding his soul to unrecorded joy,
Beside a fall like this, lingered awhile
On briery banks that wondrous minstrel-boy;
Long hours there came upon his vacant ear
The rushing of the river till strange dreams
Fell on him, and his youthful spirit clear
Was dwelt on by the power of voiceful streams.
Thenceforth began to grow upon his soul
The sound and force of waters; and he fed
His joy at many an ancient river's head,
And echoing caves, and thunder, and the roll
Of the wakeful ocean,—till the day when he
Poured forth that stream divine of mighty melody.

XXI. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD SPEDDING, WHO DIED SEPTEMBER 3, 1832.

(Written at Worthy Farm, near Porlock, Somerset.)

This side the brow of yon sea-bounding hill
There is an alley overarched with green,
Where thick-grown briers entwine themselves at will;
There, twinkling through the under-flowers, is seen
The ever-shaking ocean far below;
And on the upper side, a rocky wall
Where deepest mosses, and lithe ivies grow,
And honeysuckle-blooms in clusters fall.
There walked I when I last remembered thee;
And all too joyfully came o'er my mind
Moments of pleasure by the southern sea,
By our young lives two summers left behind;
Ah, sad-sweet memory;—for that very day
The gloom came on which may not pass away.

XXII. THE DYING BED.

Blest be the taper which hath power to shed
Light on the features of that angel-face;
Blest be the sadness of this solemn place;
Blest be the circle round that parting bed,
Whence many days all earthly hope hath fled;
And the spirit which hath well-nigh reached by grace
The rest of toil, the guerdon of its race,
Faint, but with hidden manna gently fed.
Oft have ye tended with unwearied care
This couch of hers in anxious time of birth:
Your meed of love, her mother-joys to share;
Now hers the joy, and ye are left to mourn:
For all your care can never keep on earth
The glorious Child, that shall to-night be born.

XXIII. THE DEATH-CHAMBER.

Still as a moonlight ruin is thy form.
Or meekness of carved marble, that hath prayed
For ages on a tomb; serenely laid
As some fair vessel that hath braved the storm
And past into her heaven, when the noise
That cheered her home hath all to silence died,
Her crew have shoreward parted, and no voice
Troubles her sleeping image in the tide.
Sister and saint, thou art a closed book,
Whose holy printing none may yet reveal;
A few days thou art granted us to look
On thy clasped binding, till that One unseal,
The Lamb, alone found worthy, and above
Thou teach sweet lessons to the kings of love.

XXIV. THE SAME.

Long we have mourned; but now the worst hath come,
We cannot weep, nor feel as we have felt
For aught in sorrow: thou art all too calm
And solemn-silent on thy bed of death;
And that white sunken face hath never a sign
To make of aught disquieted within.
'Tis a most awful thing, that face of thine
Seared with the traces which the soul hath left,—
The settlement from all the stir of life,
The fixed conclusion of all modes of thought,
The final impress of all joys and cares:—
We dare not whisper when we look on thee;
We scarce can breathe our breath when thou art by;
Dread image of the majesty of man!

XXV. THE FUNERAL.

Slowly and softly let the music go,
As ye wind upwards to the gray church-tower;
Check the shrill hautboy, let the pipe breathe low;
Tread lightly on the pathside daisy flower.
For she ye carry was a gentle bud,
Loved by the unsunned drops of silver dew;
Her voice was like the whisper of the wood
In prime of even, when the stars are few.
Lay her all gently in the sacred mould,
Weep with her one brief hour; then turn away,—
Go to hope's prison,—and from out the cold
And solitary gratings many a day
Look forth: 'tis said the world is growing old,
And streaks of orient light in Time's horizon play.

XXVI.

[Rise, said the Master, come unto the feast:—]

Rise, said the Master, come unto the feast:—
She heard the call, and rose with willing feet;
But thinking it not otherwise than meet
For such a bidding to put on her best,
She is gone from us for a few short hours
Into her bridal-closet, there to wait
For the unfolding of the palace-gate,
That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.
We have not seen her yet, though we have been
Full often to her chamber-door, and oft
Have listened underneath the postern green,
And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and soft;
But she hath made no answer, and the day
From the clear west is fading fast away.

XXVII. HEU QUANTO MINUS EST CUM RELIQUIS VERSARI, QUAM TUI MEMINISSE!

The sweetest flower that ever saw the light,
The smoothest stream that ever wandered by,
The fairest star upon the brow of night,
Joying and sparkling from his sphere on high,
The softest glances of the stockdove's eye,
The lily pure, the mary-bud gold-bright,
The gush of song that floodeth all the sky
From the dear flutterer mounted out of sight,—
Are not so pleasure-stirring to the thought,
Not to the wounded soul so full of balm,
As one frail glimpse, by painful straining caught
Along the past's deep mist-enfolded calm,
Of that sweet face, not visibly defined,
But rising clearly on the inner mind.

XXVIII.

[O when shall this frail tenement of clay]

O when shall this frail tenement of clay
Be emptied by Death's peremptory call,
And its celestial guest be fetched away
From mortal tenure and corporeal thrall,—
A beam, to mingle with the flood of day,
A part to join unto the glorious All?
When shall the kingly Intellect have fled
From this his dull material servitude,
And Thought exalt her long-abased head,
With pomp of heavenly majesty endued?
And when shall the Affection, here below
Broken by parting in its stream of light,
Dash off the earthly vestiture of woe,
And shine with everlasting radiance bright?

XXIX.

[All things are dying round us; days and hours]

All things are dying round us; days and hours,
A multitudinous troop are passing on;
Winter is fled, and spring hath shed her flowers,
And summer's sun was shining, and hath shone;
Autumn was with us, but his work is done;
They all have flitted by, as doth a dream;
And we are verging onward. 'Tis not so:
We name reality but as things seem,
And truth is hidden from our eyes below.
We live but in the dimness of a sleep;
Soon shall the veil be rent from certainty,
The spell of time be loosed from us, and we
Pass out from this incurved and fretful stream
Into the bosom of the tranquil deep.

XXX. ON SEEING OUR FAMILY-VAULT.

This lodging is well chosen: for 'tis near
The fitful sighing of those chestnut-trees;
And every Sabbath morning it can hear
The swelling of the hymnèd melodies;
And the low booming of the funeral bell
Shall murmur through the dark and vaulted room,
Waking its solemn echoes but to tell
That one more soul is gathered to its home.
There we shall lie beneath the trodden stone:—
Oh, none can tell how dreamless and how deep
Our peace will be when the last earth is thrown,
The last notes of the music fallen asleep,
The mourners past away, the tolling done,
The last chink closed, and the long dark begun.

XXXI. ON THE SAME OCCASION.

Could I for once be so in love with gloom
As to leave off with cold mortality,—
To finish with the deep peace of the tomb,
And the sealed darkness of the withering eye?
And could I look on thee, thou calm retreat,
And never once think of the joyous morn,
Which, bursting through the dark our eyes shall greet
With heavenly sunshine on the instant born?
O glorious time! then may we wake at length,
After life's tempest, under a clear sky,
And count our band, and find with keenest joy,
None wanting,—love preserved in all its strength;
And, with fresh beauty, hand in hand arise,
A link in the bright chain of ransomed families.

XXXII. ON HEARING THAT IT IS SUPPOSED, FROM ASTRONOMICAL CONSIDERATIONS, THE WORLD IS YET IN ITS INFANCY.

So then the lessons of all-teaching Time
Shall not be fruitless; but the sons of men
Will live to ripen into age, and ken
The hidden laws of God: the doubts and fears
That flit around us, when the light appears,
Shall cease to haunt us; and young Truth, by then
Vigorous for good, shall take his power and reign,
Nursed in the discipline of human tears.
Oh, might I live when, from this stir of things
That fills our days, some new and mighty birth
Of purest mind hath risen upon the earth;
Or when my spirit folds her weary wing
Where no storm comes, watching with calm delight,
On human beauty feed my angel-sight.

XXXIII.

[Before the day the gleaming dawn doth flee:—]

Before the day the gleaming dawn doth flee:—
All yesternight I had a dreary dream:
Methought I walked in desert Academe
Among fallen pillars; and there came to me
All in a dim half-twilight silently
A very sad old man: his eyes were red
With over-weeping: and he cried and said,
“The light hath risen, but shineth not on me.”
Beautiful Athens, all thy loveliness
Is like the scarce-remembered burst of spring
When now the summer in her party-dress
Hath clothed the woods, and filled each living thing
With ripest joy: because upon our time
Hath risen the noon, and thou wert in the prime.

XXXIV. SUGGESTED BY THE OPENING OF THE ŒDIPUS COLONEUS OF SOPHOCLES.

Colonos, can it be that thou hast still
Thy laurel and thine olive and thy vine?
Do thy close-feathered nightingales yet trill
Their warbles of thick-sobbing song divine?
Does the gold sheen of the crocus o'er thee shine
And dew-fed clusters of the daffodil,
And round thy flowery knots, Cephisus twine,
Aye oozing up with many a bubbling rill?
Oh, might I stand beside thy leafy knoll,
In sight of the far-off city towers, and see
The faithful-hearted pure Antigone
Toward the dread precinct leading sad and slow
That awful temple of a kingly soul,
Lifted to heaven by unexampled woe.

XXXV.

['Twere better far from noon to eventide]

'Twere better far from noon to eventide
To sit and feel sad care, and fence the while
The patient spirit for unwonted toil,
Than in the calm for ever to abide;
'Twere better far to climb the mountain-side
Through perilous buffeting of wind and steep
Than in the valley-nook, charmed into sleep,
All the fair blossoms of young life to hide.
So let me labour: for 'tis labour-worth
To feel the fruits of my seed-time of tears
Shedding their fragrance over half this earth;
No mother rues the sharpest pangs of birth,
So she may see the offspring of her fears
Standing in high estate and manly years.

XXXVI. THE GIPSY GIRL.

Passing I saw her as she stood beside
A lonely stream between two barren wolds;
Her loose vest hung in rudely-gathered folds
On her swart bosom, which in maiden pride
Pillowed a string of pearls; among her hair
Twined the light bluebell and the stonecrop gay;
And not far thence the small encampment lay,
Curling its wreathèd smoke into the air.
She seemed a child of some sun-favoured clime;
So still, so habited to warmth and rest;
And in my wayward musings on past time,
When my thought fills with treasured memories,
That image nearest borders on the blest
Creations of pure art that never dies.

XXXVII. TO WINTER. WRITTEN AT AMPTON, SUFFOLK.

Welcome, stern Winter, though thy brows are bound
With no fresh flowers, and ditties none thou hast
But the wild music of the sweeping blast;
Welcome this chilly wind, that snatches round
The brown leaves in quaint eddies; we have long
Panted in wearying heat; skies always bright,
And dull return of never-clouded light,
Sort not with hearts that gather food for song.
Rather, dear Winter, I would forth with thee,
Watching thee disattire the earth; and roam
On the bleak heaths that stretch about my home,
Till round the flat horizon I can see
The purple frost-belt; then to fireside-chair,
And sweetest labour of poetic care.

XXXVIII. EPIPHANY, 1833.

As some great actor, when the rhythmic strain
Of music, and the step of even dance,
Hath ceased, in conscious pride is seen advance,
Fixing the wandering looks of all again;
On whom the choric band, in comely train,
Wait ever, duly with responsive parts
Timing his measured passion, but all hearts
He hath in hand, to mould to pity or pain;—
So in the scenic skies that wondrous Star
Came forth; the myriads that spectators are
Of heavenly acts, baffled their lights in gloom
To give the great Protagonist his way;
And the drama opened, that nor night nor day
Shall see consummate till the final doom.

XXXIX. TO THE WOOD-PIGEON. WRITTEN IN PASSION-WEEK, 1833.

XL. EASTER-EVE, 1833.

I saw two women weeping by the tomb
Of one new-buried, in a fair green place
Bowered with shrubs; the eve retained no trace
Of aught that day performed; but the faint gloom
Of dying day was spread upon the sky;
The moon was broad and bright above the wood;
The breeze brought tokens of a multitude,
Music, and shout, and mingled revelry.
At length came gleaming through the thicket-shade
Helmet and casque, and a steel-armed band
Watched round the sepulchre in solemn stand;
The night-word past, from man to man conveyed;
And I could see those women rise and go
Under the dark trees, moving sad and slow.

XLI. IN LAUDEM S. EULALIÆ V. ET M

Young budding virgin, who in bashful pride,
All dedicate to Christ, didst stand apart
From crowds of pitying faithless, and with heart
Unmoved didst count the iron talons gride
Their purple furrows in thy tender side;
Beautiful is thy story; full of food
For youthful souls that need be gently wooed:
Few have confessed so young, so sweetly died.
Forth with thine ebbing breath was seen to fly
A milk-white dove to heaven, an emblem meet
Of undefiled baptismal purity;
And dead upon the inhospitable street,
With gently floating flakes the piteous sky
Snow-clad thy girlish limbs, as with a funeral sheet.

XLII.

[Saviour and Lord beloved, what homage new]

Saviour and Lord beloved, what homage new
Shall thy Church give thee in these latter days,
When there is nothing new; no song of praise
That ages have not sung, nor worship due
That hath not long been paid? Faithful and true
Our hearts are beating to thee: can we raise
No monument for victories of grace?
Must all our efforts be so poor and few?
O vain and earthly wish, that would be great
In over-serving! rather may we lie
In meekest self-devotion at thy feet,
And watch the quiet hours as they pass by,
Content and thankful for occasion shown
To make old service and old faith our own.

XLIII. THE MALVERN HILLS, MARCH 12, 1835.

Erewhile I saw ye faintly through far haze,
Spread many miles above the fields of sea;
Now ye rise glorious, and my steps are free
To wander through your valleys' beaten ways,
And climb above, threading the rocky maze;
And trace this stream alive with shifting light,
With whose successive eddies silver-bright
Not without pleasant sound the moonbeam plays.
My dear, dear bride—two days had made thee mine,
Two days of waxing hope and waning fear,
When under the night-planet's lavish shine
We stood in joy, and blessed that rillet clear;
Such joy unwarning comes and quickly parts,
But lives deep-rooted in our “heart of hearts.”

XLIV. WRITTEN IN AN INTERVAL OF MELANCHOLY FOREBODING RESPECTING THE CHURCH.

Herbert and Crashaw, and that other name
Now dear as those, of him beneath whose eye
Arose “the second Temple's” honoured frame,
After a carnal dark captivity,—
These are remembrances of promise high,
That set our smouldering energies on flame
To dare for our mother, and, if need, to die,
Sooner than blot her reverend cheek with shame.
O England, England, there hath twined among
The woof of all thy gloomiest destinies
A golden thread: a sound of sweetest song
Hath cheered thee under sad and threatening skies;
But thou hast revelled in the calm too long,
And waxest all unmindful where thy safety lies.

XLV.

[When I behold thee, only living one]

When I behold thee, only living one
In whom God's image pure and clear I see,
Far beyond all in humble sanctity,
Close at my side, attending me alone;
Strange questioning it raises, wherefore thine
Should be the subject life, and not the free;
Heavenly, but bound in earthly chains to me;
Superior, yet dependent; God's yet mine.
I therefore have been taught to feel at length
That not most precious in the Eternal's sight
Self-guiding freedom is, knowledge, or strength,
Or power of song, or wit's deceiving light;
But yielding meekness, careless to be free,
And the clear flame of love in chastity,

XLVI.

[Each morn the same sun rises on our day]

Each morn the same sun rises on our day,
Measuring with every year his usual round;
The merry bells that for our birthdays sound,
And those that knoll us to our homes of clay,
Speak ever with one voice; the skies obey
Spring whispering soft, and summer blossom-crowned,
And autumn flush, and winter icy-bound:
Down Life's smooth channel Ages sleep their way.
The babe that smiling in her slumber lies
Lapt in thy breast, hath been there oft before;
This day, this room, hath all been acted e'er;
And even the thought not first in me doth rise;—
Time measures but the course of human will;
'Tis we that move, while Providence is still.

XLVII.

[There is a bright space in yon rolling cloud]

There is a bright space in yon rolling cloud
Betokening the presence of the moon;—
Into the pure sky she will travel soon,
In clearest beauty, free from envious shroud.
Even so to thee, my soul's sweet partner, bowed
With pain severe, the light of hope was shown;
And thou art now in æther of thine own,
A clear blue space, with perfect calm endowed;
And this young babe, a treasure newly found,
Like some fair star attendant at thy side,
Shall journey on, through ease and peril tried:
To him, whose being in your own is bound,
For blest example and high solace given,—
Heaven at life's end, and life itself a heaven.

XLVIII.

[Sleep, gentle love! and let the soothing dew]

Sleep, gentle love! and let the soothing dew
Of deepest quiet cover every sense;
Calm visions rise before thine inward view,
And restless fears and doubts be banished thence;
And may the ministering hand of Providence
At every breathing give thee vigour new,
Thy gathering health from chill and danger fence,
And mantle fresh thy cheeks with beautiful hue.
And I, from whom the pangs of sudden pain
Lately my dearest treasure well-nigh reft,
Now safely sped, and, breathing free again,
Have not enough of thankful offerings left
To pay my vows to God; rather with prayer
I weary Him afresh, to make thy life His care.

XLIX.

[Long have we toiled, and passed from day to day]

Long have we toiled, and passed from day to day
Our stated round of duties till the mind
Reaches for change, and longs fresh paths to find
From her accustomed dwelling far away:
Come, then, dear wife, while yet the summer ray
Fills all the air with gladness, and unbind
Awhile the chains of duty; then reclined
Where Derwent or where Dove in varied play
Leaps through his mossy rocks, let us entice
The wary trout, or ply the pencil's art;
Or in some wooded dell that lies apart
Woo the maid Poesy: no unworthy price
Of year-long labour without ceasing wrought,
And intermission of poetic thought.

L. TO THE RIVER WYE

If, gentle stream, by promised sacrifice
Of kid or yearling, or by scattered flowers
Of votive roses culled from thy thick bowers,
Or golden cistus, we could thee entice
To be propitious to our love, no price
Should save these errant flocks; each nook but ours
Should shed its eglantine in twinkling showers,
For tribute from thy wooded paradise.
But not thy flocks, nor brier-roses hung
In natural garlands down thy rocky hills,
Shall win thee to be ours; more precious far
Than summer blossoms or rich offerings are,
We bring thee sweet poetic descants, sung
To the wild music of thy tinkling rills.

LI.

[Close is the nook; the valley-pathway steep]

Close is the nook; the valley-pathway steep
Above the river climbs; and down the bank,
With sweet wild roses and thick hazels rank,
By an unheeded track your feet may creep
Into a shady covert still and deep,
Harbour of flowery fragrance; with full tide
The river slumbers by; on either side
Over their rocks the merry runnels leap.
Here, in the freshness of each sunny morn,
Sit we in raptured converse; every flower
Opens to greet us in our trellised bower,
With warm dew sparkling; moss with hair unshorn
Is our soft pavement; and the social throng
Unscared, around us pour their airy song.

LII. TO THE YELLOW CISTUS.

Flower, that with thy silken tapestry
Of flexile petals interwove with green,
Clothest the mountain walls of this calm scene;
We, a love-led poetic company,
Pronounce thee happy; if happiness it be
In every cleft the bright gray rocks between
To plant thy seemly gems, and reign the queen
Of path-side blossoms over wood and lea.
Live, and of those poor fools who idly moan
Thy fragile lifetime's shortness, reck not aught;
Thou diest not, when thy ripe blossoms are strown
On the damp earth, or by the tempest caught;
Thou hast a future life to them unknown,
In the eternity of human thought.

LIII. HADDON HALL, DERBYSHIRE, (JULY 1836.)

Not fond displays of cost, nor pampered train
Of idle menials, me so much delight,
Nor mirrored halls, nor roofs with gilding bright,
Nor all the foolery of the rich and vain,
As these time-honoured walls, crowning the plain
With their gray battlements; within bedight
With ancient trophies of baronial might,
And figures dim, inwoven in the grain
Of dusky tapestry. I love to muse
In present peace, on days of pomp and strife;
The daily struggles of our human life,
Seen through Time's veil, their selfish colouring lose:
As here the glaring beams of outer day
Through ivy-shadowed oriels softened play.

LIV. STRATFORD-UPON-AVON, (JANUARY 1837.)

We stood upon the tomb of him whose praise
Time, nor oblivious thrift, nor envy chill,
Nor war, nor ocean with her severing space,
Shall hinder from the peopled world to fill;
And thus, in fulness of our heart, we cried:
God's works are wonderful—the circling sky,
The rivers that with noiseless footing glide,
Man's firm-built strength, and woman's liquid eye;
But the high spirit that sleepeth here below,
More than all beautiful and stately things,
Glory to God the mighty Maker brings;
To whom alone 'twas given the bounds to know
Of human action, and the secret springs
Whence the deep streams of joy and sorrow flow.

LV. ST ROBERT'S CAVE, KNARESBOROUGH, (1838.)

We gazed intent upon the murderous cave;
Too fair a place, methinks, for deeds of blood.
Above, the rocks, dappled with pendant wood,
Rose sheltering: and below with rippling wave
The crystal Nidd flowed by. The wondrous tale
That from of old had turned our young cheeks pale,
Came crowding on the present; yonder stood
The guilt-worn student, skilled without avail
In ancient lore; and yonder seemed to lie
The melancholy corse, year after year
Sending to Heaven its silent vengeance-cry,
Till Aram's hour was come, and He, whose ear
Was open, tracked the murderer where he fled,
And wrath's right-aiming stroke descended on his head.

LVI. WRITTEN AT YORK ON THE DAY OF THE CORONATION OF QUEEN VIOTORIA, JUNE 28, 1838.

Shine out, thou Sun, and let the minster-towers
Pour forth their solemn music, and the crowd
Utter their oft-repeated shouts and loud;
Let little children bless the gladsome hours
Of this auspicious day; for there are powers
Undreamt of by the selfish and the proud,
That work when avarice in the dust is bowed,
And mean utility. The summer flowers
That toil not, neither spin, the deep blue sky,
The ever-twinkling waves that gird our land,
Have taught ye to rejoice: therefore pass by,
Ye coloured pageants; shout each girl and boy:—
Ill fare the heart that doth not feel your joy!

LVII. SUMMIT OF SKIDDAW, JULY 7, 1838.

At length here stand we, wrapt as in the cloud
In which light dwelt before the sun was born,
When the great fiat issued, in the morn
Of this fair world; alone and in a shroud
Of dazzling mist, while the wind whistling loud
Buffets thy streaming locks:—result forlorn
For us who up yon steep our way have worn,
Elate with hope, and of our daring proud.
Yet though no stretch of glorious prospect range
Beneath our vision,—neither Scottish coast
Nor ocean-island, nor the future boast
Of far-off hills descried,—I would not change
For aught on earth this solitary hour
Of Nature's grandest and most sacred power.

LVIII. DESCENT OF THE SAME.

Glory on glory greets our wondering sight
As we wind down these slopes; mountain and plain
Robed in rich sunshine, and the distant main
Lacing the sky with silver; and yon height,
So lately left in clouds, distinct and bright.
Anon the mist enwraps us; then again
Burst into view lakes, pastures, fields of grain,
And rocky passes, with their torrents white.
So on the head perchance, and highest bent
Of thine endeavour, Heaven may stint the dower
Of rich reward long hoped; but thine ascent
Was full of pleasures,—and the teaching hour
Of disappointment hath a kindly voice,
That moves the spirit inly to rejoice.

LIX. WRITTEN AT AMPTON, SUFFOLK, JANUARY 1838.

Once more I stray among this wilderness
Of ancient trees, and through the rustling fern,
Golden and sere, brush forward; at each turn
Meeting fresh avenues in winter dress
Of long gray moss, or yellow lichen bright;
While the long lines of intercepted shade,
Spread into distance through the turfy glade,
Chequered with rosy paths of evening light.
Here first I learned to tune my youthful thoughts
To themes of blessed import: woods and sky,
And waters, as they rushed or slumbered by,
For my poetic soul refreshment brought;
And now within me rise, unbidden long,
Fresh springs of life,—fresh themes of earnest song.

LX. WYMESWOLD, APRIL 1837.

Dear streamlet, tripping down thy devious course,
Or lulled in smoothest pools of sombre hue,
Or breaking over stones with murmurs hoarse,
To thee one grateful strain is surely due
From me, the poet of thy native wolds,
Now that the sky is golden in the west,
And distant flocks are bleating from their folds,
And the pale eve-star lifts her sparkling crest.
Would it were thus with thee, when summer suns
Shed their strong heats, and over field and hill
Swims the faint air, and all the cattle shuns
The brighter slopes; but then thy scanty rill
Has dwindled to a thread, and, creeping through
The tangled herbage, shelters from the view.

LXI. THE SAME.

Nor is a thankful strain from me not due
To you, ye company of cherished flowers,
That look upon, throughout the weary hours,
My study and my prison; for from you
I learn that Nature to her charge is true;
That she, who clothes with bloom your lavish bowers
In kindlier climates, can, in skies like ours,
Paint your soft petals with their native hue.
And thence I learn that this poetic soul,
That fain would revel in the warmth and light
Of heavenly beauty, yet in strict control
Dwelling, and chilly realms of damp and blight,
Must not the more its proper task forego;
But in the dreariest clime its blossoms show.

LXII. OF OSTENDE, JUNE 11, 1837.

But now the level sea-horizon spanned
With its unbroken line the azure round:
I look again, and see the waters crowned
With a pale coronet of distant land;
A shore by us untrodden and unknown,
Thronged with strange men, and voices' stranger sound;
Where we shall wander long, and none be found
To greet with kind salutes and call our own.
Yet even thus, with thee, wife of my love,
Enough the world is peopled; one fond heart
Resting on mine, with others I can part,
Prizing thy gentle excellence above
All native comfort; and, on land or sea,
Then best befriended, if alone with thee.

LXIII. BRUGES.

Wouldst thou behold, not the ensnaring blaze
Of earthly grandeur in its envious noon,
But the calm majesty of other days
Reposing, as beneath the summer moon
Rests the laid Ocean; hie thee to the streets
Of ancient Bruges:—temple, dome, and tower,
Or pathside dwelling,—whatsoever meets
Thy roving sight, bears record of a power
Long since departed: surely not so fair
When pomp and pride were tenants here, as now,
When solitary forms, with pious care,
Or thankful haply for some granted vow,
Stately and dark these vistas churchward tread,
Fit habitants for her whose fame is with the dead.

LXIV. WRITTEN AT GHENT.

Alas for England, if her native hearts
Were only to be won by stately towers,
Or oft-recurring chime of many parts,
With lively music cheating the dull hours;
If only beauteous fields or lavish flowers
Would win and keep the children whom she bears!
Not that we lack of these, but there are ours
More healing medicines for our daily cares:—
Nations have fought against the fanes they raised;
For gold have bartered pomp: but where the law
Builds on men's hearts,—no longer vainly praised,
But with a settled and deep-rooted awe
It takes possession of its children's love,
And reigns, fit emblem of its source above.

LXV. ANTWERP CATHEDRAL.

Be it not mine in these high aisles to tread
Lightly, with scornful or with pitying gaze,
Viewing these worshippers, who on the days
When English fanes are silent as the dead,
Throng kneeling, where yon feeble candles shed
Their flickering light: for rather would I raise
My hands in prayer with them, or join in praise,
Or sit beneath their shrines in humble dread.
Because our being's end is furthered best
Not by the pride of reason, most unjust
When it condemneth,—but by self-distrust,
By mildness, and submission, and arrest
Of sudden judgment: thus we learn to feel
That all are one, and have one wound to heal.

LXVI. BRUSSELS.

The peaceful moon sheds downward from the sky
Upon the sleeping city her soft light;
Lines of storm-laden vapour heavily
From the low north advance upon the night;
The minster-towers are seen in vision bright
In front, distinct with fretted tracery;
And long glades stretch beneath this giddy height,
Dappled with shadows dark of tower and tree.
Such wert thou, Brussels, when I gazed on thee;
Thou, at whose name the circumstance of war
Rose to my youthful fancy; now no more
A sound to move to tears; to memory
Henceforth, as ever unto freedom, dear,
In virtue of this night so soft and clear.

LXVII. WATERLOO.

They stood upon these plains, and side by side
Did battle for the world, too long enthralled
To the universal tyrant; one was called,
And one was left to cross the homeward tide;
Both in their glory, as in arms, allied:
But the loud voice of fame is hushed asleep,
Their sires are gone, no more their widows weep,
Their orphan sons forget them in their pride.
Yet deem not that they sold their lives for nought:
Who, that hath springing in his breast the fount
Of self-devoting love, the cost would count,
So might he in those favoured ranks have fought,
Increasing by his single strength's amount
That blessed victory for freedom wrought?

LXVIII. WRITTEN AT FRANKFORT.

No voice is heard along the city-street
Of men, nor tramp of horse; but the night long
Yon nightingale fills all the air with song.
I am a stranger here, but no less sweet
Those heavenly notes, my raptured hearing greet,
Than when I stood my native dales among,
And the sweet blossom of the hawthorn flung
Its incense on my path, and at my feet
The glow-worm glistened. Bird of restless joy!
When first I learned to love this peopled earth,
I past beside thy haunts, a roving boy,
And thou wert mingled in my spirit's mirth;
But now I am spell-fastened by thy strain,
And oft return to listen once again.

LXIX. TO ALICE IN ENGLAND. ALSO WRITTEN AT FRANKFORT.

Child of our love, thou sleepest softly now
In our dear home perchance, with thine own smile
Resting upon thy rosy lips, the while
Thy little arm is folded on thy brow,
And thou art dreaming of the summer flowers
Shown thee this sunny morn. Blest be thy sleep!
Good angels round thy bed their watches keep
In holy station through the silent hours.
Thus we commit thee to the wakeful care
Of Him whose mercy gave thee; thus secure
We leave thee in the confidence of prayer,
Of thy best welfare and his blessing sure;
Near, though to these our earthly eyes unseen;
With us, though half the ocean rolls between.

LXX. MILAN CATHEDRAL.

Here stand, beloved, where the outer light
Falls glorified by entrance to the shrine
Of the Eternal; where the tracery fine
Of marble shafts springs upward beyond sight;
And hear the soaring chant in unison
Of manly voices, as by angel-bands
Sent up to God—or see with spreading hands
The fathers shout their ancient benison.
Shun not the full outpouring of thy soul;
Claim not exemption for thy judgment's sake:
He, who will not divided service take,
Loves more the heart of man when offered whole,
Though by unlearned simplicity of fools,
Than all the wrangling of polemic schools.

Pictorial Emblems for the Seasons.

LXXI. WINTER DREAR AND CHILL, BUT WITHAL MERRY AND FREE.

Had I the wondrous magic to invest
Ideal forms in colour, I would paint
Thee, Winter, first, by an age withered saint
Deep in his beads: on his bare ribs should rest
A cross of lichened boughs; and duly prest
Each morn by horny knees, one for each bone,
There should be two round hollows in the stone,
Whither his bent limbs should be half addrest.
And in the entry of the holy cave
Where the same saint should sit, a laughing boy,
Naked, and all aglow with play and joy,
Should peer full slily on that father grave,
In the full blessedness of childhood's morn,
And laugh his crusty solitude to scorn.

LXXII. SPRING, WHEN YOUNG FLOWERS PEEP, BUT THE FROST NIPPETH KEEN.

Spring should be drest in emblem quaint and shy;
A troop of rosy girls escaped from bed
For very wantonness of play, should tread
The garden-paths; one tucks her night-robe high,
The dewy freshness of the lawn to try;
Some have been bolder, and unclothed and bright
The group is seen in the moon's mellow light;
Some, scattered, gaze upon the trees and sky.
But there should be that turn with hurried glance
Beckoning their playmates, where by a side-path
Between the shrubs is seen to half-advance
The moody widow lodger; who in wrath
Is sure to scatter all their stealthy play,
And they will rue it ere the break of day.

LXXIII. SUMMER, WHEN THE PRIME IS REACHED, BUT THERE ARE TOKENS OF DECAY.

For Summer I would paint a married pair
Sitting in close embraces, while a band
Of children kneel before them hand in hand;
Healthful their cheeks, and from their mantling hair,
Well-knit and clear, their downward limbs are bare;
His hand is past over her neck, and prest
In pride of love upon her full ripe breast;
And yet his brow is delved with lines of care,
And in her shining eye one truant tear
Stands, ready to be shed:—a quiet scene,
But not without perchance intruding fear
That never comes again what once hath been;
And recollection that our fondest toil
But weaves a texture for the world to soil.

LXXIV. AUTUMN, WHOSE FRUITS ENDURE, THOUGH DEATH IS ON IT.

Autumn should be a youth wasted and wan,
A flush upon his cheek, and in his eye
Unhealthful fire; and there should sit hard by
She that best loves him, ever and anon
Wistfully looking, and for pleasures gone
(So would I paint her) she should seem to sigh;
The while some slender task her fingers ply,
Veiling the dread that trusts him not alone.
But he, high-wrapt in divine poesy,
Unrolls the treasures of creative art,
Spells framing for the world's unheeding heart;
His very eye should speak, and you should see
That love will brighten as his frame decays,
And song not fail but with his failing days.

LXXV. EPIMENIDES

He went into the woods a laughing boy;
Each flower was in his heart; the happy bird
Flitting across the morning sun, or heard
From way-side thicket, was to him a joy:
The water-springs that in their moist employ
Leapt from their banks with many an inward word
Spoke to his soul, and every leaf that stirred
Found notice from his quickly-glancing eye.
There wondrous sleep fell on him: many a year
His lids were closed: youth left him and he woke
A careful noter of men's ways; of clear
And lofty spirit: sages, when he spoke,
Forgot their systems; and the worldly-wise
Shrunk from the gaze of truth with baffled eyes.

LXXVI. ARION.

Not song, nor beauty, nor the wondrous power
Of the clear sky, nor stream, nor mountain glen,
Nor the wide Ocean, turn the hearts of men
To love, nor give the world-embracing dower
Of inward gentleness:—up from the bed
Blest by chaste beauty, men have risen to blood,
And life hath perished in the flowery wood,
And the poor traveller beneath starlight bled.
Thus that musician, in his wealth of song
Pouring his numbers, even with the sound
Swimming around them, would the heartless throng
Have thrust unto his death; but with a bound
Spurning the cursed ship, he sought the wave,
And Nature's children did her poet save.

LXXVII.

[Ilion, along whose streets in olden days]

Ilion, along whose streets in olden days
Shone that divinest form, for whose sweet face
A monarch sire with all his kingly race
Were too content to let their temples blaze;—
Where art thou now? no massive columns raise
Their serried shafts to heaven—we may not trace
Xanthus and Simois, nor each storied place
Round which poetic memory fondly plays.
But in the verse of the old man divine
Thy windy towers are built eternally;
Nor shall the ages, as they run by,
Print on thy bulwarks one decaying sign.
So true is beauty clothed in endless rime;
So false the sensual monuments of time.

LXXVIII.

[Friend of my heart, here in my close green bower]

Friend of my heart, here in my close green bower
I wait thy coming: slender clematis
And the rank wild-vine, with late primroses,
And classic tea-tree with small purple flower,
Are here, and foxglove with its bearded bell,
Haunt of the passing bee: and thy delight,
The lily of the valley, purest white,
Rising like fabled nymph from ocean-shell.
Nor wanting is Canova's art divine:
On the rude trunk, native in earth below,
The god of gladness, garlanded with vine,
And Ariadne re-assured from woe;
And the full noon, by leafy screen delayed,
Has spread the pebbled floor with fickle shade.

LXXIX. TO CHARLES MERIVALE

Thou friend whom chilling years have altered not,
When shall we once again by winter fire
Or in the summer sun, quench our desire
Of pleasant converse, mingling thought with thought?
For we have wandered far abroad, and brought
Treasures from many lands,—joys that require
The sympathy of friends that will not tire,
But find an interest though the tale be nought.
Come then, for Summer sheds her sickly flowers,
And the new buds, unable to expand,
Hang dripping on the stalk: notice that hours
Are near, in mercy portioned to our land,
When rest is granted to the outward eye,
And thought is busy with the things gone by.

LXXX. MY ANCESTORS.

Unknown it is to me, who handed down
From sire to son mine humble family;
Whether they dwelt in low obscurity,
Or by achievements purchased high renown:
Whether with princely or baronial crown
Their brows were bound, or martyr-wreath of flame:
No glories mark the track through which my name
Hath come: I only know it as mine own.
Yet I am one of no mean parentage:
The poorest line of Christian ancestry
Might serve upon the world's unbounded stage
To act God's dealings: all mankind might see
More truth than now they know, were this my line
Of distant sires their evidence to join.

LXXXI. THE TWO LOTS.

Two pilgrims on a pleasant road set forth:
Green was the herbage by their journey-side;
Through deep and shrubby dells their way they plied,
Fenced from the biting of the ruthless north;
At length said one, “I would that we were high
On yonder hill, whence we might look out wide
On towns and plains, even to the distant tide
Of Ocean, bordered by the vaulting sky.”
Thus parted they:—one by the aldered brook
Wandered in easeful calm; the other wound
Up the rock-path, with many a backward look
Tracing his progress, till no envious bound
Forbade his sight, and from the mountain-head
Earth, sea, and sky, in mighty prospect spread.

LXXXII.

[The heart of man is everywhere the same]

The heart of man is everywhere the same:
In distant Savoy roamed we long ago
With one to guide us o'er the mountain snow;
Scarce had we power in foreign tongue to frame
Unhindered converse; often did he name
Things strange to us, and dwell, in accents slow,
On wayside views, or aught we asked to know,
That we his skill in guidance might not blame.
Yet is there written all that old man's life
Deep on our memory; his cottage-hearth
Peopled with joy—his solitude and dearth
When God called thence the mother and the wife;
And how he looked, and said, “I'll trust Him yet:”
All these are things which we can ne'er forget.

LXXXIII. TO A FRIEND CONCERNED IN EDUCATION.

Force not to over-growth the subject mind:
Heaven's the power that spread the native soil;
The tillage only asks thy careful toil,
On primal strength dependent: if confined
In depth and barren, simple be thy seed,
Of hardy grain: God's providence hath need
Of some to marshal well the ranks behind,
As of the lofty spirits born to lead.
But if the tender plants of truth thou sow,
Let there be depth of matter genial;
And if the frosts should nip, and strong winds blow,
Their kindly opposites should countervail:
Blest gifts, unfailing in their fostering might,
Sunshine by day, the dews of heaven by night.

LXXXIV.

[Dear Spirit, lo, thy poet, full at heart]

Dear Spirit, lo, thy poet, full at heart,
Puts on his singing-garb and flowery gear,
To make sweet music in thy listening ear:
Too long hath he been mindless of his part;
But now before his sight come and depart
The dreams of thought in vision quick and clear;
And new creations of the soul appear,
Clothed in the glory of undying art.
Crush not, beloved, though with touch most pure,
The tender plants arising; stand beside,
And feed each springing leaf with daily showers:
So mayst thou see, in life's declining hours,
The goodly umbrage of the grove mature
Over the weary world spread far and wide.

LXXXV. ON MY STONE INKSTAND.

Loud raged the tumult: Ocean far and near
Seethed with wild anger, up the sloping sand
Driving the shreds of foam; while, half in fear,
We battled with the tempest, on the strand
Scarcely upheld; or, clinging arm to arm,
In wedge compact:—now would we venture brave
Into the trench of the retreating wave;
Now shoreward flee, with not all-feigned alarm.
A challenge did my gentle sister speak:
“Yon pebble fetch, 'mongst those that furthest roll,
Pierced on one face with an unsightly hole!”
Beneath a crested wave, that curled to break,
I grasped the prize, not scathless; and since then
That stone hath held the stuff that feeds my truant pen.

LXXXVI. JANUARY 19, 1839.

My fairy girl, amidst her mirthful play,
Suddenly kneeling, clasps her hands in one,
And prays the words she has been taught to pray
Morning and evening; when her prayer is done,
In calm, as though some Mighty One was near,
Who soothed her, but not awed, away she springs,
And runs to me with laughter silver-clear,
Till all our home with her full joyance rings.
Nor am I one who, with displeasure cold,
Such sport would chide; our heavenly Father's face
Each night and day her angel doth behold:
Her soul is filled with his baptismal grace;
Happy, if through her years and cares untold,
Such pure communion could her spirit hold.

LXXXVII.

[We want but little: in the morning-tide]

We want but little: in the morning-tide,
Bread to renew our energies; at noon,
Cool shade, to quiet evening yielding soon;
And then a ramble by the hedgerow side,
Or what our cottage-embers can provide
Of social comfort; and at night, the boon
Of peaceful slumber, when the gleamy moon
Up the lone heavens in starry state doth ride.
All that is more than these, into our life
By accident of place or station brought,
Feeds not the silent growth of ripening thought,
Wisdom best learned apart from throngs and strife,
In the broad fields, the sky's unvalued wealth,
And seasons gliding past us in their stealth.

LXXXVIII.

[The inward pleasure of our human soul]

The inward pleasure of our human soul
Oweth no homage to the tyrant Will:
Whether the roving spirit take its fill
Of strange delight, watching the far waves roll
And break upon the shore,—or by the bowl
Of some moss-lined fountain cool and still,
Or by the music of a tinkling rill,
Wander in maze of thought, without control:
Nor can the chains of ill-assured belief
Fetter the strivings of the deathless mind;
Nor dull prescription bound the throes of grief;
Spirits, in action nor degree confined,
Range the vast system:—whither, then, should I
But to sweet Nature for my wisdom fly?

LXXXIX.

[Dost thou complain that, in thy weary toil]

Dost thou complain that, in thy weary toil,
Day after day takes from thee something dear;
So that less welcome through the circling year
Come the new seasons;—Spring, with waking smile;
And full uncinctured Summer; and the guile
Of Autumn, lavishing, but stealing more;
And that close Winter brings thee not the store
Of sweet poetic labour, as erewhile?—
Be it thy care unfailing talk to hold
With Nature's children; be thou up at morn
Ere the the first warbler sinks into the corn;
Stand and watch evening spread her tent with gold:
Thence draw thy treasures, of their worth secure;
Lower deceives; the source alone is pure.

XC.

[Fresh fount of feeling, which from earliest days]

Fresh fount of feeling, which from earliest days
Hast sprung within mine heart, let not thy streams
Now fail me, when this world's unreal dreams
Fever my spirit; cool me, now the blaze
Of Mammon's temple burns my aching gaze;
Nor, though the world thy clearness shallow deems,
And all thy purity for nought esteems,
Shrink back into thy source in dread amaze.
And Thou, from whom is every perfect gift,
Speak to my spirit by Thy Church and Word;
Let Thy reminding voice be often heard
About my path; so shall my soul uplift
Her eyes, by growing cares cast down, and see,—
Though earth turn barren,—her fresh springs in Thee.

XCI. PASSION-WEEK, 1845.

XCII. THAT DAY WAS THE PREPARATION, AND THE SABBATH DREW ON.

XCIII.

[“One Lord, one faith, one baptism:” where are these?]

XCIV.

[Have pity, Holy One, on those who stray]

XCV.

[While the vain world around us buys and sells]

XCVI. ASCENSION DAY, 1845.

XCVII. THE CHURCH IN THE PARK.

XCVIII.

[‘There is one baptism:” thus wrote holy Paul—]

XCIX. DAY BY DAY WE MAGNIFY THEE.

C.

[In dreamy days of boyhood and of youth]

CI. OUR EARLY FRIENDS. (1849.)

One, and another—pass they, and are gone,
Our early friends. Like minute-bells of heaven,
Across our path in fitful wailings driven,
Hear we death's tidings ever and anon.
A little longer, and we stand alone:
A few more strokes of the Almighty rod,
And the dread presence of the voice of God
About our footsteps shall be heard and known.
Toil on, toil on, thou weary, weary arm:
Hope ever onward, heavy-laden heart:
Let the false charmer ne'er so wisely charm,
Listen we not, but ply our task apart,
Cheering each hour of work with thoughts of rest,
And with their love, who laboured and are blest.

CII., CIII. NOTTINGHAM MECHANICS' EXHIBITION, 1840.