 | Blank verse (1798) |  |
3
BLANK VERSE, BY CHARLES LLOYD.
TO PAINT THE FINEST FEATURES OF THE MIND,
AND TO MOST SUBTLE AND MYSTERIOUS THINGS
GIVE COLOUR, STRENGTH, AND MOTION.
AKENSIDE.
5
TO ROBERT SOUTHEY.
7
TO ---.
WRITTEN IN WORCESTERSHIRE, JULY 1797.
Escap'd the jarrings of the restless crowd,
Oh, my ---, I am well content
To loiter here awhile! My spirit fails,
And my heart aches when jostling with the crew
Which (goaded to activity by pain,
Or rous'd from squalid slowth and apathy
By maniac wickedness) annihilates
The soul's best attributes! The world to me
Seemeth the prison-house of man, where Power
And loathlier Wealth inflict on trembling slaves
The rackings of despair! And Love, and Truth,
And social Happiness, and meekest Peace
From every beaten path are fled afar.
Sometimes a glimpse of their sweet countenance
Blesses the solitary man, who roves
Musing 'mid Nature's silent majesty.
And so beseems it now—for to my breast
A mild assurance of predestin'd bliss
Stole most refreshingly, and with strange calm
Allay'd my feverish agonies of care,
My ruffled spirits boding, and the pang
Familiar to that heart which loveth not
The ways of human kind!
Oh, my ---, I am well content
To loiter here awhile! My spirit fails,
And my heart aches when jostling with the crew
Which (goaded to activity by pain,
Or rous'd from squalid slowth and apathy
By maniac wickedness) annihilates
The soul's best attributes! The world to me
Seemeth the prison-house of man, where Power
And loathlier Wealth inflict on trembling slaves
The rackings of despair! And Love, and Truth,
8
From every beaten path are fled afar.
Sometimes a glimpse of their sweet countenance
Blesses the solitary man, who roves
Musing 'mid Nature's silent majesty.
And so beseems it now—for to my breast
A mild assurance of predestin'd bliss
Stole most refreshingly, and with strange calm
Allay'd my feverish agonies of care,
My ruffled spirits boding, and the pang
Familiar to that heart which loveth not
The ways of human kind!
Yes, as I rov'd
Adown that glade, above whose simple brook
The inwoven thicket bends, and caught a gleam
That from the unseen west'ring orb of day
Stole faintly yellowing yon cowslip bank,
Whose cool recess look'd quietness; each sense
Slumbering in soft enchantment minist'red
Its hallow'd workings to the lifted soul.
Adown that glade, above whose simple brook
The inwoven thicket bends, and caught a gleam
9
Stole faintly yellowing yon cowslip bank,
Whose cool recess look'd quietness; each sense
Slumbering in soft enchantment minist'red
Its hallow'd workings to the lifted soul.
Often in no uninterested mood
I've told thee that there were of noble souls
Who deem'd it wise, e'en in the morn of youth,
To quit this world ! (a scene in my poor thought
Deliver'd over long by outrag'd Heaven
To wasting fiends, and unrepenting guilt,)
They counted still beyond the Atlantic deep
To find those virtues, of whose sweets bereft
The unearthly soul calleth its sojourn here
A most impure enthralment! Oh my best friend,
That I had liv'd in high-soul'd fellowship
With such as fancy pictures these might be,
Tried spirits, and unspotted from the world!
But I must sicken thy awaken'd soul,
Storying their blasted hopes! Yet, honour'd few,
The seeds that ye have sown, the unworldly dreams,
The lofty thoughts, disinterested loves,
That ye have nurs'd, silently long shall work
In beings unknown, regenerating thus
Full many a guilt-vex'd mind, that, but for you,
Had sunken in dismay (now animate
With noblest emulation), and to truth
Leavening each baser wish, shall perfect them!
Yes! it shall rise again, your godlike scheme;
And every fleshly lust, and every sin,
Pampering the subtleties of selfish pride,
Shall vanish swiftly, as the morning cloud,
From its most holy influence; and all those,
Who struggled with the spirit of this world,
Shall come forth with unutterable joy,
And (as with recognition of dear friends
Long lost, and sought for) join the elect of Heaven.
Meanwhile, till I may find a brother heart,
Stain not my soul with sin, ye tainted scenes
That rise around! Oh keep me, gracious Heaven!
That to the councils of the wicked ones
I enter not! Man's strength is weakness; him
It booteth most to feel that he is frail,
And all, mistrusting wisdom self-deriv'd,
Stand trembling at the gate where Sin doth dwell.
Then let us, ---, watch aloof,
Till the long night be past, that, so prepar'd,
We, with the first redeem'd from this bad world,
May hail the promis'd time, when pain and grief
Shall be no more; of love and blessedness
The hallow'd advent; and with unstain'd hands
Circle the grassy altar which shall rise
In every grove and mead, when equal man
Shall deem the world his temple, to that God,
Who destin'd all his creatures to be good,
And who, with sympathies of holiest love,
Shall teach best fellowship with kindred souls,
Or loftier breathings of devoutest praise.
I've told thee that there were of noble souls
Who deem'd it wise, e'en in the morn of youth,
To quit this world ! (a scene in my poor thought
Deliver'd over long by outrag'd Heaven
To wasting fiends, and unrepenting guilt,)
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To find those virtues, of whose sweets bereft
The unearthly soul calleth its sojourn here
A most impure enthralment! Oh my best friend,
That I had liv'd in high-soul'd fellowship
With such as fancy pictures these might be,
Tried spirits, and unspotted from the world!
But I must sicken thy awaken'd soul,
Storying their blasted hopes! Yet, honour'd few,
The seeds that ye have sown, the unworldly dreams,
The lofty thoughts, disinterested loves,
That ye have nurs'd, silently long shall work
In beings unknown, regenerating thus
Full many a guilt-vex'd mind, that, but for you,
Had sunken in dismay (now animate
With noblest emulation), and to truth
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Yes! it shall rise again, your godlike scheme;
And every fleshly lust, and every sin,
Pampering the subtleties of selfish pride,
Shall vanish swiftly, as the morning cloud,
From its most holy influence; and all those,
Who struggled with the spirit of this world,
Shall come forth with unutterable joy,
And (as with recognition of dear friends
Long lost, and sought for) join the elect of Heaven.
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Stain not my soul with sin, ye tainted scenes
That rise around! Oh keep me, gracious Heaven!
That to the councils of the wicked ones
I enter not! Man's strength is weakness; him
It booteth most to feel that he is frail,
And all, mistrusting wisdom self-deriv'd,
Stand trembling at the gate where Sin doth dwell.
Then let us, ---, watch aloof,
Till the long night be past, that, so prepar'd,
We, with the first redeem'd from this bad world,
May hail the promis'd time, when pain and grief
Shall be no more; of love and blessedness
The hallow'd advent; and with unstain'd hands
Circle the grassy altar which shall rise
In every grove and mead, when equal man
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Who destin'd all his creatures to be good,
And who, with sympathies of holiest love,
Shall teach best fellowship with kindred souls,
Or loftier breathings of devoutest praise.
This alludes to a plan projected by S. T. Coleridge and Robert Southey, together with some common friends, of establishing a society in America, in which all individual property was to be abandoned.
Wherever the word elect is used in the following pages, the authors by no means intend the arbitrary dogma of Calvinism. They are both believers in the doctrine of philosophical necessity, and in the final happiness of all mankind. They apply the word elect therefore to those persons whom secondary causes, under providence, have fitted for an immediate entrance into the paradisiacal state.
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WRITTEN AT BURTON IN HAMPSHIRE, AUGUST 1797.
And I have turn'd away again from those
Who beckon'd me to ruin! Hollow friends,
Ye worldly ones, on whose unfaithful lip
The vacant smile sits ever, I rejoice
That you no more profane my honest name
With supercilious tongue. 'Twere better far
Not to be known or knowing, than to dwell
With the hard bustlers of this wicked world!
Whom shall I trust? for I have trusted many,
And they have been most false! 'Tis true there are
Who in the free convivial scene will ape,
With most deceitful seeming, the full soul
Of holiest virtue; and will sigh, or smile,
As they her delicate vicissitudes
Had keenly witness'd: but the ready mimic
Plant in his proper station, and the thing
(Though late so exquisitely organiz'd)
Will stand the statue of obduracy,
And scatter back, with strange inaptitude,
Love's unadmissible radiance. Oh my God!
Why is the fleshly heart so petrified?
Why all its avenues clos'd, and the high swell
Of infinite perfection disciplin'd
To base manœuverings, to the unnatural guilt
Of intellectual murder?
Who beckon'd me to ruin! Hollow friends,
Ye worldly ones, on whose unfaithful lip
The vacant smile sits ever, I rejoice
That you no more profane my honest name
With supercilious tongue. 'Twere better far
Not to be known or knowing, than to dwell
With the hard bustlers of this wicked world!
Whom shall I trust? for I have trusted many,
And they have been most false! 'Tis true there are
Who in the free convivial scene will ape,
With most deceitful seeming, the full soul
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As they her delicate vicissitudes
Had keenly witness'd: but the ready mimic
Plant in his proper station, and the thing
(Though late so exquisitely organiz'd)
Will stand the statue of obduracy,
And scatter back, with strange inaptitude,
Love's unadmissible radiance. Oh my God!
Why is the fleshly heart so petrified?
Why all its avenues clos'd, and the high swell
Of infinite perfection disciplin'd
To base manœuverings, to the unnatural guilt
Of intellectual murder?
To repine
It matters not; nor do my feelings prompt
The coward weakness: for so tried am I,
That if a kindly smile ne'er met my gaze,
That if an accent of subduing love
Did never more pierce my unwelcom'd ear,
I think I could go onward undismay'd,
And uncomplaining. I would wrap myself
In holiest quiet; I would brood on years
That have been happy; I would strive to think
That the sincere pass on not unbeheld
Of Him who knows the heart; and I would shape
A happier future, a redeemed race,
The retributions of a better world:
Yea, all these thoughts should minister to me
Till I were rich in friends!
It matters not; nor do my feelings prompt
The coward weakness: for so tried am I,
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That if an accent of subduing love
Did never more pierce my unwelcom'd ear,
I think I could go onward undismay'd,
And uncomplaining. I would wrap myself
In holiest quiet; I would brood on years
That have been happy; I would strive to think
That the sincere pass on not unbeheld
Of Him who knows the heart; and I would shape
A happier future, a redeemed race,
The retributions of a better world:
Yea, all these thoughts should minister to me
Till I were rich in friends!
The noble soul
Swells as the tempest thickens, and most feels
Its own sufficiencies of happiness,
Its plenitude of solitary strength,
When all the puppetry of life's brief day
Has done its business; when the dark night comes,
And all is vacancy, or unshap'd gloom,
Big with invisible perils.
Swells as the tempest thickens, and most feels
Its own sufficiencies of happiness,
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When all the puppetry of life's brief day
Has done its business; when the dark night comes,
And all is vacancy, or unshap'd gloom,
Big with invisible perils.
Bear me on,
Blest consciousness of virtue; nor sometimes
Let me not ponder on that elder lore
Which shapes a world within, and thence derives
(Supreme of blessings) the unbending will!
Or if my truant fancy still must dwell
On aught save its own workings, let it fly
To unborn years, intensely imaging
That blessed spectacle when self shall sink
In the immensity of being, and God
Be all in all. Here, ye wandering thoughts,
Direct your workings—Hither, lingering hopes,
Turn and be satisfied! Than such a calm,
(Which steals when living in the days to come
With blessed self-desertion, present ills,
And present miseries, we annihilate)
I dare not ask for more! Let Him who hears
And weighs our supplications grant it me,
If so seem good to his unerring will.
Ungranted—I will struggle—not repine!
Blest consciousness of virtue; nor sometimes
Let me not ponder on that elder lore
Which shapes a world within, and thence derives
(Supreme of blessings) the unbending will!
Or if my truant fancy still must dwell
On aught save its own workings, let it fly
To unborn years, intensely imaging
That blessed spectacle when self shall sink
In the immensity of being, and God
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Direct your workings—Hither, lingering hopes,
Turn and be satisfied! Than such a calm,
(Which steals when living in the days to come
With blessed self-desertion, present ills,
And present miseries, we annihilate)
I dare not ask for more! Let Him who hears
And weighs our supplications grant it me,
If so seem good to his unerring will.
Ungranted—I will struggle—not repine!
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[Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.]
Burton, August 1797.
Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Through many tribulations ye shall enter the kingdom of heaven.
Through many tribulations ye shall enter the kingdom of heaven.
Dishearten'd outcasts, wheresoe'er ye be,
Who drag along the burden of a life,
Whose uses all seem blasted; ye who look,
And in the wide world's desolated round
Meet with no heart that heeds, no friendly hands
To work your glad deliverance: mournful ones,
Be of good cheer, for he whose loves and hopes,
Whose mortified desires are disciplin'd
By bitter disappointment (e'en till all
Or gross or bodily unsensualliz'd
Waits on the spiritual) in better worlds
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Methinks the sum of hopes and joys withdrawn
From life's entanglements, doth manifest
The measure of our confidence in Heaven.
And for each mortal buffetting below
A guerdon of unutterable price
Shall there await us.—Bear ye then your cross
With inward quiet, ye despised ones!
Cleans'd by the trespasses of those who fain
Would vex your souls: turn ye their evil to good!
Yea, all the enemies ye meet, transform'd
By magic of unconquerable truth
Of ministers of happiness (themselves
Blind to the effect meanwhile) shall point away
Miraculous, of high triumph; and refine
Your spirits for the company of the just;
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Or mortal change, shall vex the soul no more.
When in this low state man begins to live,
Though destin'd for a high career, a being
Mysterious, incorporeal, infinite,
He (shapeless embryo, whose future powers
Slumber in nothingness to the unpurg'd eye)
Is as the beasts who perish! Nor high Heaven,
A thing so prone to earth, to sense, could raise,
So prone to joys, which e'en the downward brute
May share in common, save by trial of pain,
And all the hard inflictions which correct
Our carnal longings. These so fierce desires
(Turbulent drudges to the better part)
Furnish the active impulse, push us on
To bold endeavour: but the end denied,
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Of feelings, thoughts, imaginations, (food
For the infant reason) and with sense unblest
Combines the loftier ardours of the soul.
Thus e'en base lust the being may befriend
Destin'd for high perfection, minist'ring
New aims, exciting to activity,
Most fortunate when most ungratified.
These are the chasten'd strangers in this world,
Loved of God, who blasts, or ere obtain'd,
The promis'd pleasure; thus transferring all
Their disappointed feelings, blighted hopes,
To the ‘divine stability of Heaven.’
And blest are they who meekly turn their cheeks
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Who in the furnace of affliction tried,
Shall thence come forth, enduring to the end.
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TO A SISTER .
Burton, August 1797.
My Sister, often does my lonely heart
Dwell on thy parting look, thy grasp of love!
Dear girl, thou know'st with what a willing fondness
I've watch'd thy opening mind; with how much warmth
I've caught the unfolding sentiment, the wish
Newly develop'd: I have listen'd to thee,
And of thy innocent feelings have partook,
E'en till I liv'd in thee, and melted down
Years of past bitterness: and now unblest
By all the hallow'd charities of home,
By all those nameless offices of love
Which never pass its bounds; treasures whose worth
The mortal may not know, who sojourns not
An alien from his kindred, I would fain
Solace my spirit, imaging thy smiles,
Thy kindly accents, thy mute eagerness
To fill for me life's gnawing vacancies!
But, ah! the thought how distant thou art from me
Embitters the remembrance, turns the tear
Of gentle sorrow to so hard a pang,
I may not give it utterance.
Dwell on thy parting look, thy grasp of love!
Dear girl, thou know'st with what a willing fondness
I've watch'd thy opening mind; with how much warmth
I've caught the unfolding sentiment, the wish
Newly develop'd: I have listen'd to thee,
And of thy innocent feelings have partook,
E'en till I liv'd in thee, and melted down
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By all the hallow'd charities of home,
By all those nameless offices of love
Which never pass its bounds; treasures whose worth
The mortal may not know, who sojourns not
An alien from his kindred, I would fain
Solace my spirit, imaging thy smiles,
Thy kindly accents, thy mute eagerness
To fill for me life's gnawing vacancies!
But, ah! the thought how distant thou art from me
Embitters the remembrance, turns the tear
Of gentle sorrow to so hard a pang,
I may not give it utterance.
But mayst thou
Live happy! And may he, whose shaping soul
Had imag'd a stability of bliss
This earth may never boast; may he prevent
The sad experience that would supplicate
That mourning one, that melancholy form
Of dreariest Peace, which broods on Folly's grave.
And with a fixedness of look, which tells
That mortal hopes and fears have shaken her,
Till all was blank, and they could work no more,
Strikes a most deadly calm. May he, dear friend,
His disappointments so transfer to thee,
That they may hush each mortal restlessness;
Yet mixt with somewhat of the sweet delight
Which mingles with past griefs, rather subdue
To a most enviable quiet, a mood
Of meekest self-content, than numb the soul,
Or freeze to apathy.
Live happy! And may he, whose shaping soul
Had imag'd a stability of bliss
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The sad experience that would supplicate
That mourning one, that melancholy form
Of dreariest Peace, which broods on Folly's grave.
And with a fixedness of look, which tells
That mortal hopes and fears have shaken her,
Till all was blank, and they could work no more,
Strikes a most deadly calm. May he, dear friend,
His disappointments so transfer to thee,
That they may hush each mortal restlessness;
Yet mixt with somewhat of the sweet delight
Which mingles with past griefs, rather subdue
To a most enviable quiet, a mood
Of meekest self-content, than numb the soul,
Or freeze to apathy.
Nor do not I
Sometimes indulge the dream that we may meet,
Beloved Sister, in some lowly shed,
Far from the stir of men; and we will there
Sum up each earthly peril; and if so,
Our souls may win that holy confidence,
Cheering the pure in heart; some natural tears
Of no mean transport shall bedew our cheeks,
And we will hallow to the Being that gave
‘The mystery of life’ that blessed spot
E'en till it seem a little heaven below.
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Beloved Sister, in some lowly shed,
Far from the stir of men; and we will there
Sum up each earthly peril; and if so,
Our souls may win that holy confidence,
Cheering the pure in heart; some natural tears
Of no mean transport shall bedew our cheeks,
And we will hallow to the Being that gave
‘The mystery of life’ that blessed spot
E'en till it seem a little heaven below.
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LINES TO THOMAS SOUTHEY,
ON HIS LEAVING THE AUTHOR TO RESUME HIS SERVICE AS MIDSHIPMAN IN HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP MARS.
September 19, 1797.
Soon the sad hour will come, and we must part!
I, not unmindful that ‘my way of life’
Has past with thee most cheerily, full oft
Shall offer for my friend, when far away,
Affection's warm involuntary prayer!
And I shall brood upon the days we spent
Together, in the present time absorb'd,
Heedless of parted ills, and ills to come.
When on the silvery ocean we did sail,
And gaz'd on either side the gradual slope
Of freshest woodiness; and when each eye
Glisten'd with joyance, as the downy hills,
The hanging groves, the green and tufted vales,
Of Vecta's isle , pour'd on the beating heart
Shapes of sweet character; or when we trod
Those glens whose forest shade majestical
Would ever and anon, as the gale past,
Disclose the blue waves melting into air:
What time we glided o'er the element,
Or trac'd those beauteous scenes, what transport fill'd
My swelling breast—the voice of friend was heard
With new emotion, and that thou wast there,
When I would muse upon those pleasant days,
I never can forget!
I, not unmindful that ‘my way of life’
Has past with thee most cheerily, full oft
Shall offer for my friend, when far away,
Affection's warm involuntary prayer!
And I shall brood upon the days we spent
Together, in the present time absorb'd,
Heedless of parted ills, and ills to come.
When on the silvery ocean we did sail,
And gaz'd on either side the gradual slope
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Glisten'd with joyance, as the downy hills,
The hanging groves, the green and tufted vales,
Of Vecta's isle , pour'd on the beating heart
Shapes of sweet character; or when we trod
Those glens whose forest shade majestical
Would ever and anon, as the gale past,
Disclose the blue waves melting into air:
What time we glided o'er the element,
Or trac'd those beauteous scenes, what transport fill'd
My swelling breast—the voice of friend was heard
With new emotion, and that thou wast there,
When I would muse upon those pleasant days,
I never can forget!
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But themes like these
Suit not the present time—Thee duty calls
A hard task to fulfill—to quit thy home,
Thy peaceful home, and all the hallow'd ties
Of brother, son, and friend! Instead of tones
Soften'd and mellow'd by Affection's tongue,
Instead of kindest looks, and promptest smiles,
The tyrant voice of stern authority,
Or the coarse greetings of a brutish rout,
Must grate upon thine ear!
Suit not the present time—Thee duty calls
A hard task to fulfill—to quit thy home,
Thy peaceful home, and all the hallow'd ties
Of brother, son, and friend! Instead of tones
Soften'd and mellow'd by Affection's tongue,
Instead of kindest looks, and promptest smiles,
The tyrant voice of stern authority,
Or the coarse greetings of a brutish rout,
Must grate upon thine ear!
I know it well—
It must be hard to bear! But, at such times,
‘Think on thy absent friend;’ in heaviness
He too may struggle on his weary way.
Living in future hours, when we may meet,
Melt down the day's rude business, and the thought
That may intrude, and force thy manly breast
To wrestle with its heavings!
It must be hard to bear! But, at such times,
‘Think on thy absent friend;’ in heaviness
He too may struggle on his weary way.
Living in future hours, when we may meet,
Melt down the day's rude business, and the thought
35
To wrestle with its heavings!
Now, dear friend,
Farewell, and prosper! Led in the right path;
Which, save the All-powerful, All-wise Living One,
None may presume to dictate to the soul.
Farewell, and prosper! Led in the right path;
Which, save the All-powerful, All-wise Living One,
None may presume to dictate to the soul.
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LINES TO A BROTHER.
September 20, 1797.
My Robert, since we met at that abode
How many scenes I've trod; how many joys
And griefs have swoln my breast! Thinking of thee,
Dearest companion of my youthful hours,
I have subdued hard disappointment's pang,
Till it assum'd a shade so soft and sweet,
That it seem'd like very comfort. Oftentimes
Do I recall the days of infancy,
When we did wander hand in hand, and shar'd
Our tears and smiles, our tasks and sports, together.
Thou, younger than myself, hast ever known
How I have labour'd with a fervent zeal
To discipline thy heart for the keen wrongs,
The cruel buffettings that here await
Man journeying heavenward! When passion's gust
Or childhood's fitful pangs gnawing the breast,
Have vex'd the better part, oft have we sought
The lonely walk, and with sincerest love
Pouring out all our troubles, every wo
That ach'd within, have commun'd till our souls
Mingled with kindliest yearnings, and have felt
How sweet it is (pondering on the same path
Of future life) to lose ourselves in one,
A friend we dearly love!
How many scenes I've trod; how many joys
And griefs have swoln my breast! Thinking of thee,
Dearest companion of my youthful hours,
I have subdued hard disappointment's pang,
Till it assum'd a shade so soft and sweet,
That it seem'd like very comfort. Oftentimes
Do I recall the days of infancy,
When we did wander hand in hand, and shar'd
Our tears and smiles, our tasks and sports, together.
Thou, younger than myself, hast ever known
How I have labour'd with a fervent zeal
37
The cruel buffettings that here await
Man journeying heavenward! When passion's gust
Or childhood's fitful pangs gnawing the breast,
Have vex'd the better part, oft have we sought
The lonely walk, and with sincerest love
Pouring out all our troubles, every wo
That ach'd within, have commun'd till our souls
Mingled with kindliest yearnings, and have felt
How sweet it is (pondering on the same path
Of future life) to lose ourselves in one,
A friend we dearly love!
And surely thou
Recall'st those moments when we frisk'd along
That path so often trod (a path mine eye
Dare hardly gaze on now) t' embrace the friend
Whose most intelligible smiles of love
Gather'd around her cherish'd dwelling-place
The choicest hours of youth! I was not by
When thou didst hear the tidings of her death!
And oh, my Brother! with what hollow speech,
With what misgiving, and averted looks,
Must we conceal the dull heart's heaviness,
When on that same spot we shall meet again!
Enough!—With grief's unprofitable pangs
I would not wound thy breast: for in this world
All grief is vain, which taketh not from guilt
The hues of fascination. Thee I know
Of tenderest soul; and I would not subdue
Thy mind with the indolence that ever waits
On pamper'd feeling, and the delicate train
Of coward sympathies! Bear thou right on!
Dream not of happiness, nor of the glow
That fills the inebriate soul, and satisfies
Its infinite cravings! The sweet consciousness
Of rectitude support thee, and the thought
That (in thy day fulfilling as thou mayst
The work assign'd by thy great master) thou
With sure feet pressest to perfection's goal!
Recall'st those moments when we frisk'd along
That path so often trod (a path mine eye
Dare hardly gaze on now) t' embrace the friend
38
Gather'd around her cherish'd dwelling-place
The choicest hours of youth! I was not by
When thou didst hear the tidings of her death!
And oh, my Brother! with what hollow speech,
With what misgiving, and averted looks,
Must we conceal the dull heart's heaviness,
When on that same spot we shall meet again!
Enough!—With grief's unprofitable pangs
I would not wound thy breast: for in this world
All grief is vain, which taketh not from guilt
The hues of fascination. Thee I know
Of tenderest soul; and I would not subdue
Thy mind with the indolence that ever waits
On pamper'd feeling, and the delicate train
Of coward sympathies! Bear thou right on!
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That fills the inebriate soul, and satisfies
Its infinite cravings! The sweet consciousness
Of rectitude support thee, and the thought
That (in thy day fulfilling as thou mayst
The work assign'd by thy great master) thou
With sure feet pressest to perfection's goal!
40
LINES
ON PASSING A PLACE OF FORMER RESIDENCE.
December 1796.
I past my childhood's home, and, lo, 'twas dark!
The night-wind whistled 'mid its leafless trees!
No taper twinkled cheerily to tell
That she had heap'd the hospitable fire,
Spread the trim board, and with an anxious heart
Expected me, her “dearest boy,” to spend
With her the evening hour! Oh, no! 'twas gone,
The friendly taper, and the warm fire's glow
Trembling athwart the gloom! I listen'd long,
Nor heard, save the unfeeling blast of night,
Which chill'd my frame, or the sere ice-glaz'd twig
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Then I bethought me she was coffin'd far
Away—entombed on the earth's cold lap!
I look'd again; such thoughts were too, too true;
For no ray glimmer'd! I did pass along
Shivering, and bowed to earth with heaviness.
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WRITTEN THE 12TH OF FEBRUARY 1797.
This is my natal day! To me the thought
Awakens serious musings, and the sigh
Of soften'd recollection. Heretofore
This day has ne'er return'd, since manhood shap'd
My wayward heart, not finding me the dupe
Of feverish day-dreams, and the very slave
Of hope's pernicious phantasies. This day
Has ne'er return'd, not finding me possest
Of her, whose parent-claims to love were lost
In friendship's mightier attributes! Oh God,
And I am doom'd this dark, dark day to know
Those dreams, hope's phantasies, and my best friend,
For ever gone!
Awakens serious musings, and the sigh
Of soften'd recollection. Heretofore
This day has ne'er return'd, since manhood shap'd
My wayward heart, not finding me the dupe
Of feverish day-dreams, and the very slave
Of hope's pernicious phantasies. This day
Has ne'er return'd, not finding me possest
Of her, whose parent-claims to love were lost
In friendship's mightier attributes! Oh God,
And I am doom'd this dark, dark day to know
Those dreams, hope's phantasies, and my best friend,
For ever gone!
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It boots not to complain;
Therefore will I, with meek and bowed thoughts,
Muse calmly on life's desolated path,
As the way-wanderer, who the onward brack
Gazes unanxious, though the bleak day fade,
Though the wet winds sweep chilly, and the bark
Of shepherd's watch-dog from the far-off hill
Die on the gusty blast; if he reflect,
That still in scenes remote a goodly home
Awaits his wearied steps! Yes, so can I
Look on life's waste with the composed smile
Of resignation; tranquil in the hope
That I may reach the abode where tears are wip'd
From every eye, where the dear bury'd friend
Shall recognize her long-bewilder'd child!
Yet let me, as I travel on, if chance
A pilgrim like myself cross the drear scene
I needs must tread, mingle with his my tear
For this bad world, beguile the little hour
With what my spirit from its scanty store
May spare, in kindliest sort to entertain
One haply not unsuffering; then pursue
My simple path, nor let the woes or joys
Of weak, self-satisfied humanity,
Break the long sabbath of my centred soul!
Enough if I the vacant moment soothe
With social intercourse! 'Tis not in man
To fill the aching breast! My God, thou know'st
How the heart pines that rests on human love!
Therefore will I, with meek and bowed thoughts,
Muse calmly on life's desolated path,
As the way-wanderer, who the onward brack
Gazes unanxious, though the bleak day fade,
Though the wet winds sweep chilly, and the bark
Of shepherd's watch-dog from the far-off hill
Die on the gusty blast; if he reflect,
That still in scenes remote a goodly home
Awaits his wearied steps! Yes, so can I
Look on life's waste with the composed smile
Of resignation; tranquil in the hope
That I may reach the abode where tears are wip'd
From every eye, where the dear bury'd friend
Shall recognize her long-bewilder'd child!
Yet let me, as I travel on, if chance
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I needs must tread, mingle with his my tear
For this bad world, beguile the little hour
With what my spirit from its scanty store
May spare, in kindliest sort to entertain
One haply not unsuffering; then pursue
My simple path, nor let the woes or joys
Of weak, self-satisfied humanity,
Break the long sabbath of my centred soul!
Enough if I the vacant moment soothe
With social intercourse! 'Tis not in man
To fill the aching breast! My God, thou know'st
How the heart pines that rests on human love!
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ADDRESS TO WEALTH.
WRITTEN JULY 1797.
Thou hateful Mammon, leave my loathing sight!
I view in thee the murderer of those joys
That satisfy the heart, with hard lean hand
Clenching the steel which severs lastingly
Humanity's best ties! Self-centring fiend!
Thou sealest every eye, lest any more
It catch the charms of nature, or perceive
The vivid movements of the human soul
Pourtray'd in fleshly characters; thou numb'st
The nerve that throbb'd so finely to the grasp
Of generous friendship, or of 'witching love
The more intense embrace; quenchest the glow
Of wide benevolence; mock'st her holy schemes
Of amplest bliss, and on her very lip
Freezest the mellow sigh, just risen to soothe
A passing wretched one!
I view in thee the murderer of those joys
That satisfy the heart, with hard lean hand
Clenching the steel which severs lastingly
Humanity's best ties! Self-centring fiend!
Thou sealest every eye, lest any more
It catch the charms of nature, or perceive
The vivid movements of the human soul
Pourtray'd in fleshly characters; thou numb'st
The nerve that throbb'd so finely to the grasp
Of generous friendship, or of 'witching love
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Of wide benevolence; mock'st her holy schemes
Of amplest bliss, and on her very lip
Freezest the mellow sigh, just risen to soothe
A passing wretched one!
I hate thee, Mammon!
I hate thy servants; hate them, Heaven, as those
Who counteract thy plans!
I hate thy servants; hate them, Heaven, as those
Who counteract thy plans!
To me, methinks,
'Twere well to humanize the heart, t' expand
The active soul, t' embrace, with one wide wish,
The universe, and move (uncentred here)
As he that travels to a better world!
One infinite, benevolent, and wise,
Works through extended space, and we but live,
Living in him! Learn then, my soul, to look
With indefatigable gaze to God;
And struggle (aye, annihilating self)
To view the bearings of the complex whole
From him, and with him. This is the best aim,
The perfect triumph of redeemed man!
'Twere well to humanize the heart, t' expand
The active soul, t' embrace, with one wide wish,
The universe, and move (uncentred here)
As he that travels to a better world!
One infinite, benevolent, and wise,
Works through extended space, and we but live,
Living in him! Learn then, my soul, to look
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And struggle (aye, annihilating self)
To view the bearings of the complex whole
From him, and with him. This is the best aim,
The perfect triumph of redeemed man!
| Blank verse (1798) | |