Nugae Canorae :: :: University of Virginia Library

The piteous sobs that choak the Virgin's breath,
For him, the fair betrothed Youth, who lies
Cold in the narrow dwelling; or the cries
With which a Mother wails her Darling's death;
These from our Nature's common impulse spring
Unblam'd, unprais'd; but o'er the piled earth,
Which hides the sheeted corse of grey-hair'd Worth,
If droops the soaring Youth with slacken'd wing;
If He recal in saddest minstrelsy
Each tenderness bestow'd, each truth imprest;
Such Grief is Reason, Virtue, Piety!
And from the Almighty Father shall descend
Comforts on his late Evening, whose young breast
Mourns with no transient love the Aged Friend.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

147

DEDICATORY LINES TO THE AUTHOR'S BROTHER.

My James! to whom can I more fitly bring
These rhymes, which I have caroll'd sorrowing,
Than to a Brother who did once possess
With me an equal share of kindliness
From Her departed! and whose tears will swell
At these, my dirgelike melodies, that tell
How good She was.—Thou sportedst once with me,
A careless infant round her aged knee,
And aye, at welcome eve didst haste to share
Her pious greetings and her simple fare.
When Manhood's maze, trac'd by wild-footed Hope,
Seem'd all inviting, towards our upward slope
How did she often turn her moisten'd eye,
That, but for us, were fix'd beyond the sky!

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And ah! how feelingly would She express
The aid that Virtue brings to Happiness!
And when She droop'd, we both, my James, did bend,
O'er a lost Parent, Confessor, and Friend!

My Brother, I have sought that he who gave
And took our Friend, her virtues may engrave
Deep in our bosoms; as we journey on
Cheerily sometimes, oftner woe-begone,
Still we may think on her with holiest sighs,
And “struggle to believe,” from yonder skies,
Her children She regards; and when we fare
Hardly on this bleak road, our mutual prayer
Shall rise, that we in heaven may repossess
Our earliest Guide to heavenly happiness!

CHARLES LLOYD.

149

SONNET I.

[My pleasant Home! where erst when sad and faint]

My pleasant Home! where erst when sad and faint
I sought maternal friendship's sheltering arms,
My pleasant Home! where is the rev'renc'd Saint
Whose presence gave thee thy peculiar charms?
Ah me! when slow th' accustom'd doors unfold,
No more her looks affectionate and mild
Beam on my burthen'd heart! O, still and cold
The cherish'd spot where Welcome sat and smil'd!
My spirit pines not nursing fancied ill;
'Tis not the fev'rish and romantic tie
Which now I weep dissever'd; not a form
That woke brief passion's desultory thrill:
I mourn the Cherisher of Infancy!
The dear Protectress from life's morning storm!

150

SONNET II.

[Oh, I have told thee every secret care!]

Oh, I have told thee every secret care!
And crept to thee when pale with sickliness!
Thou did'st provide my morrow's simple fare,
And with meek love my elfin wrongs redress.
My Grandmother! when pondering all alone
Fain would I list thy footstep! but my call
Thou dost not hear; nor mark the tears that fall
From my dim eyes! No, Thou art dead and gone!
How can I think that Thou didst mildly spread
Thy feeble arms, and clasp me o'er and o'er
Ere infant Gratitude one tear could shed!
How think of Thee, to whom its little store
My bosom owes, nor tempted by Despair
Mix busy anguish with imperfect prayer!

151

SONNET III. Written at the Hotwells, near Bristol.

Meek Friend! I have been traversing the steep
Where when a frolic boy with patient eye
Thou heededst all my wand'rings, (I could weep
To think perchance thy Shade might hover nigh,
Marking thy alter'd Child); how little then
Dreamed I, that Thou, a tenant of the grave,
No more shouldst smile on me, when I might crave
Some little solace 'mid the hum of men!
Those times had joys which I no more shall know,
And e'en their saddest moments now seem sweet,
Such comforts mingle with remember'd woe!
Now with this hope I prompt my onward feet,
That He, who took Thee, pitying my lone heart,
Will reunite us where Friends never part!

152

SONNET IV.

[Erst when I wander'd far from those I lov'd]

Erst when I wander'd far from those I lov'd,
If weariness o'ertook me, if my heart
Heav'd big with sympathy, and ach'd t'impart
Its secret treasures, much have I been mov'd
Thinking of those most dear; and I have known
The task how welcome, feelingly to pour
Of youthful phantasies th' eccentric store
Thro' the warm line: nor didst thou seldom own
The tender gratulation, earliest Friend!
And now when heavily the lone hours roll
Stealeth an Image on my cheated soul
No other than Thyself! and I would send
Tidings of love—till the mind starts from sleep
As it had heard thy knell!—I pause, and weep!

153

SONNET V.

[When that dear Saint my fancy has possess'd]

When that dear Saint my fancy has possess'd,
Cheating my griefs, and then to bitter tears
Leaves me, I seek to calm my aching fears,
Thinking how holily She still suppress'd
Each dim disquietude, looking to Him
The Friend of patient souls, who wait to hear
The “still small voice” to forlorn Sorrow dear!
Then do mine eyes with kindlier sadness swim:—
And I implore, that She whom I did weep
As I had had no hope, as on Death's sleep
No morn arose, when She shall liveliest dart
On each tranc'd sense, may teach my prayers to rise
Impassion'd, and a purer sacrifice,
Lifted by Her, the Priestess of my Heart!

154

SONNET VI.

[When Thou that agonized Saint dost see]

When Thou that agonized Saint dost see
Worn out, and trembling on the verge of death,
Murmur meek praises with convulsed breath,
And sanctify each rending agony,
Deeming it a dim Minister of Grace
Medicinal, and stealing her from all
That subtly might her ling'ring spirit thrall;
When Thou dost read in her unearthly face,
How She doth keep in thankful quietness
Her patient soul, dar'st Thou thy best Friend deem
As One deceiv'd by a most idle dream?
Ah, surely no! if Thou at all possess
A humanized heart; e'en if thy mind
Hate not the only hopes of humankind!

155

SONNET VII.

[Oft when I brood on what my heart has felt]

Oft when I brood on what my heart has felt,
And think on former friends, of whom alas!
She the most dear, sleeps where th' autumnal grass
To the wet night-wind flags, I inly melt;
And oft I seem (my spring-tide fled away;
While the heart's anguish darkens on my brow)
Likest the lone leaf on the wintry bough
That pines for the glad season's parted ray!
Such thoughts as these, when the dull hours pass by
Shroud them in hues of saddest sickliness!
Yet oft I wiselier muse, yea almost bless
The shiverings of departed extasy;
Thinking that He who thus my spirit tries
Draws it to Heaven a cleansed sacrifice!

156

SONNET VIII.

[My Bible, scarcely dare I open thee!]

My Bible, scarcely dare I open thee!
Remembering how each eve I wont to give
Thy due texts holily, while She did live,
The pious Woman!—What tho' for the meek
Thou treasurest glad tidings, still to me
Of her I lov'd thou dost so plainly speak,
And kindling virtue dost so amply tell
Of her most virtuous, that 'twere hard to quell
The pang which thou wilt wake! Yet, hallow'd book,
Tho' for a time my bosom thou wilt wring,
Thy great and precious promises will bring
Best consolation! Come then, I will look
In thy long-clasped volume, there to find
Haply, tho' lost her form, my best friend's mind!

157

SONNET IX.

[When from my dreary home I first mov'd on]

When from my dreary home I first mov'd on,
After my Friend was in her grave-clothes drest,
A dim despondence on my spirit prest,
As all my pleasant days were come and gone!
Strange whispers parted from th' entombing clay,
The thin air murmur'd, each dumb object spake,
Bidding my overwhelmed bosom ache:
Oft did I look to Heaven, but could not pray!
“How shall I leave thee, quiet scene?” said I,
“How leave the passing breeze that loves to sweep
“The holy sod where my due footsteps creep?
“The passing breeze? 'Twas She! The Friend pass'd by!”
But the time came; the passing breeze I left;
“Farewell!” I sigh'd, and seem'd of all bereft!

158

SONNET X.

[Oh, She was almost speechless! nor could hold]

Oh, She was almost speechless! nor could hold
Awakening converse with me! (I shall bless
No more the modulated tenderness
Of that dear voice!) Alas, 'twas shrunk and cold,
Her honour'd face! yet, when I sought to speak,
Through her half-open'd eye-lids She did send
Faint looks, that said “I would be yet thy friend!”
And (Oh, my choak'd breast!) e'en on that shrunk cheek
I saw one slow tear roll! my hand She took,
Placing it on her heart—I heard her sigh,
“'Tis too, too much!” 'Twas Love's last agony!
I tore me from Her! 'Twas her latest look,
Her latest accents—Oh, my heart, retain
That look, those accents, till we meet again!

159

SONNET XI.

[As o'er the dying embers oft I cower]

As o'er the dying embers oft I cower,
When my tir'd spirits rest, and my heart swells
Lull'd by domestic quiet, Mem'ry dwells
On that blest tide, when thou the evening hour
Didst gladden: while upon th' accustom'd chair
I look, it seems as if Thou wert still there:
Kirtled in snowy apron thy dear knees,
Propt on the fender'd hearth my fancy sees,
O'er which exchanging souls we wont to bend!
And as I lift my head, thy features send
A cheering smile to me—but, in its flight
O'er my rain-pelted sash, a blast of night
Sweeps surlily! starting, my fancy creeps
To the bleak dwelling where thy cold corse sleeps!

160

LINES

Written on a Friday, the Day in each Week formerly devoted by the Author and his Brothers and Sisters to the Society of their Grandmother.

This is the day we children wont to go
In best attire, with gay high-swelling hearts,
And infant pride, to the belov'd repast
Of her, our reverenc'd Grandmother! the time
By us, delighted infants, still was call'd
An holiday! E'en ere the shadowy morn
Peep'd dimly thro' our half-drawn curtains, we
Would tell each other of the day, and hail
With one accord, and interchange of soul,
The heartsome festival of home-born love!

Our matin task, with o'ercharg'd restless souls
That wearily suppress'd joy's giddiness,
How ill perform'd! Learning's dull mockery o'er,
How did we shout, and rend the air with cries
Of glad deliverance! For the hour was come,

161

The hour of Joy! Faint-heard, the rumbling wheels
Proclaim the kind conveyance sent by her,
The watchful Friend, to bear the feeble ones:
Perchance some babe that still in helplessness
Clings to its Mother's breast, or one that left
But now its Nurse's lap, another yet
That scarcely lisps its benefactress' name,
Yet calls itself, in pride of infancy,
Woman or Man!—Ah, enviable state!
When, in simplicity of heart, we're pleased
With misery-meaning names! The mother still
With kisses fond, or smiles of anxious hope,
Tended affection's tott'ring troop: while we,
By pedant watch'd, hurried along with step
Measuring back half its way, all anxious now
To reach the lov'd abode, yet oft repress'd
By him, the surly Tyrant of those years,
When freedom seems most precious. But the tree
First seen, that screen'd that spot, how eagerly
We hail'd it, beat our hearts, our froward steps
Now quicken'd, now untractable, in spite
Of threaten'd durance, bore us on, till soon,
A happy train! athwart the lawn we rush'd,
Mounted the steps, burst swiftly thro' each door
In vain our course impeding, and at last

162

Threw our fond arms around the much-lov'd form
That smil'd our welcome, bright'ning every face
With kind reflection of propitious Love!
Oh! 'twas a scene that fill'd the happy heart!
A scene, which when my musing memory feigns,
Starts a warm tear unwittingly, a sigh
Rises within, for it will ne'er return!

The welcome o'er, and intercourse of looks
Anxiously smiling, interrupted oft
By quaint inquiry, and meek playfulness,
Each hastens to his sport. This to a spot
Trimly defended from the intruding step,
Hight by the busy urchin, who had there
Exhausted all his little store of taste,
A Garden!—There he weekly brought some flower,
Primrose or violet, or, of costlier kind,
The rose tree, or the tulip's gaudy gloss:
For all his scanty hoard unsparingly
This tiny scene engross'd, the well-earn'd gift
Was here expended, and he oft would gaze
With big-swoln heart, exulting at the thought
That he might call the spot belov'd his own!

It was a fairy scene! the utmost range

163

Of some soft sylph that guards infantine bliss,
And prompts its nascent dreams! Aloft in air
Some tempt th' adventurous swing, while others waft
The shapely kite. Thus pleasing still and pleas'd
The day pass'd on: the hospitable meal
(Where circulated looks affectionate)
Employ'd no tedious hour, for all around
Was childish mirth, and warm solicitude;
So fled, 'twixt cares of friendliness and joys
Heartfelt and unrestrain'd, all cheerily,
In sanctity of bliss, the simple day!
'Twere not misnam'd if call'd a little Sabbath!

To me, when frisking in the sports which now
Memory tenacious dwells on, 'twas I ween
A prodigality of bliss! but, ah!
I elder than the train that gather'd there
Joy's infant buds, earlier their blight deplor'd!
When ran the urchins to their sports, for me
Ere youth to manhood all reluctantly
Resign'd its sway; or evanescent, ere
The tremulous dimple to the rigid line,
The woe-fix'd character of countenance,
Had yielded quite; how oft unblest and restless,
Slow, and with ling'ring gaze reverted still,

164

I've wander'd from the scene, the simple scene
That once engross'd me wholly; and would pine
Troubled with wishes, and perplex'd desires,
Then all mysterious. Often would I weep
Still wond'ring at my tears, and sigh, and sigh—
Yet could my fancy feign no rapt'ring object
Apt for my hopes. Nor seldom would I brood
On vision'd bliss seen dimly. Thus consum'd
My days inactive: thus my infant powers
Fed on imagination's airy stores,
Till all reality was anguish! Now
Manhood advanc'd, bringing the unsumm'd ills
Of Life, and bleak disaster claim'd my tear
While yet I wept o'er fancy-pictur'd woe.

For She, the Friend, departed! died, and left
Her child but half matur'd! (for manly years
Produc'd not manly thought)—I can no more!
Farewell, best friend! ah, holy Friend farewell!
This day was once with thee enjoy'd, 'tis now
In sad remembrance more than ever thine!