Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

It is a shameless thing, when poets chaunt
The praises of their wives!—so some aver,
Whose judgment I dispute not—rather own
My full assent, albeit in this respect
Myself an old offender.—Hymen's bonds,
And that most deep contentment of chaste love
Within their magic links enclosed and bound,
Are holier things than that a man should sport
With them, as with the gay fantastic gawds
Of wanton gallantry, or to the gaze
Of public curiosity, with rude
And reckless hand, unveil them.—The whole world
Hath scarce a coarser spectacle to show,
Than your fond, foolish, amorous wedded pair
Betraying to all eyes, by act and look,
The giddy transports of their honeymoon!
From such may we for ever dwell apart,
Bride of my youth, and now, in middle age,
Ten thousand-fold beyond a bride beloved,—
My own true-hearted wife!—no sympathy,
And slender toleration can we yield
To such transgressors of love's holy laws,

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To such profaners of pure Hymen's bliss.
Yet, not the less, must I inscribe to thee
This portion of my song, design'd to tell
Of manhood's sober cares and temperate joys,
Its sorrows, and their solaces;—for thou
Art still the centre around which revolve
My earthly hopes and fears—to which converge
My yearnings and affections:—there is nought
Within the compass of my daily life,
But takes, in part, its character and form
From thy pervading influence;—nor now
Is this a bridegroom's fondness;—sixteen years
Have spent their noiseless flight since, each to each,
We pledged our nuptial faith.—Our eldest boy
Hath almost reach'd his teens, which were, in thee,
Still incomplete, when thou becam'st a wife;
And, in the full meridian of Life's day,
A staid and sober pair, we now look back
To the gay freaks and follies of our youth,
And forward to the late decline of years,
As worlds which have been and which are to be—
Diverse alike in form from that which is:—
The first remote and dwindling, day by day,
In the still lengthening retrospect—the last
Just looming through the mists of unknown Time,
And daily seen less distant, less unlike
The swiftly changing Present. Years have laid
A gentle hand on thee;—not I alone,
But all who knew thee in the days long past,
Still recognize, unchanged in face or form,
The bride of gay nineteen:—scarce, here and there,
Amidst the clusters of thy raven curls,
Close-peering eyes may trace a silver streak
Threading their ebon gloss;—thy full dark eye
Is yet undimm'd and lustrous, and thy form
Sylphlike, as when the brisk and tingling-blood
Of eighteen summers coursed along thy veins,
And thou, amidst our graver English girls,
In pride and strength of Scottish art elate,

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Wast foremost in the dance.—In ruder sort,
Yet not ungently, Time hath dealt with me—
Working perchance but little outward change,
For I, since earliest youth, have look'd so old,
I scarce look older now;—but, as my years
Cross their meridian, I discern and feel
The wane of life within:—the reckless strength
And confidence of health, which knew no change,
Are gone for ever:—Death appears no more
A dim and distant phantom—nor this world,
With all its charms for ear, and eye, and heart,
The permanent abode which once it seem'd.
My old acquaintance, Asthma, pays me still
His annual visit—but not now alone;—
With him his daughter, pale Dyspepsia, comes,
And shows me, in her train, approaching fast,
Gout and his grimmer brother, her twin sons
More hideous than their parent!—It may be
That thou, ere long, wilt have to nurse and tend
With all the patience of thy Woman's love,
A fractious invalid;—and thou wilt do
That office nobly, though with small return
Of gratitude, perchance, from thy self-will'd
And all too froward charge.—But we will not
Anticipate, in thought, impending ills:
Rather, while health suffices, let me seize
And fix, if that may be, the form and hue
Of this existing Present, which, ere long,
Must swell the increasing Past, and be, with it,
From memory's page erased, unless the Muse
Shall, in ambrosial song, embalm it now,
And cause it to become, to me and mine,
An heritage for ever.

I described,
Of late, how poets, in their lusty youth,
Sport with the world of Phantasy;—such sport
In me was past its height, and had begun
To sadden into toil and daily care,
And all the unblest anxieties of life,

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When thou and I first met:—young love's first dream
(A dream indeed, unreal, shadowy, brief,)
Was done and ended—and my heart, so far,
Not much the worse for wear:—a heavier blow
Had done it deeper mischief;—Friendship's bonds,
Holy and pure as e'er bound heart to heart,
Had, in the rash and headstrong war of thought—
The conflict of opinions, old and new,—
Been snapp'd, as seem'd, for ever.—I had lost
A mistress, and a friend—and in the void
Of objectless affection, sought in vain
For sympathy and solace—yet even then
Was not forsaken wholly:—I had kept,
Though not unscathed, the faith and hope in which
I had been nurtured, and although not yet,
By ordination and its solemn vows,
Expressly set apart to be a priest
And steward of the mysteries of Christ,
Was storing knowledge, and, with studious thought,
Preparing to devote my after life
To that high office;—Youth, and youth's wild dreams,
Gorgeous and gloomy, sorrowful and gay,
Were fading in the clear and sober light
Of ripening manhood, and the world become
A working place for me.—Then 'twas that thou
Didst rise, a prosperous star, upon my path,
Discern'd at once among the sparkling throng
Of more ignoble fires—discern'd and loved,
And by the Muse's aid (who never yet
Did bard more blessed service) woo'd and won.
Not smooth, nor altogether unbeset
By trouble or perplexity, to us
Was true love's course;—we shared the common lot
Of such as deem that life is more than meat,
The body more than raiment, and the mind,
With its inborn capacities of bliss,
Than all the wealth of this world.—Yet, in truth,
Our conflict with adversity was short,
Though stubborn while it lasted—and, that done,

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Sweet were the days of courtship,—fair the haunts
Through which we wander'd, a wild-hearted pair,
Framing our pleasant plans of future life,
Its duties and employments. O'er our heads,
The forest oaks of Windsor interlaced
Their dark umbrageous branches, as we roam'd
Through many a brake and dell and bosky bourn,
Arm link'd in arm,—or, on our gallant steeds,
With fleet and fearless gallop, plunged amain
Into the forest's heart.—Along the marge
Of that majestic river, dear to me
From boyhood, as to thee romantic Doon—
Through Datchet's fabled mead—beyond that grey
And ivy-mantled tower, sole relic left
Of what was Upton Church—across the lane
Misnamed of cut-throats,—o'er that well-known stile
Where first our faith was pledged, (supplanted since
By a trim upstart lodge)—thence through the fields
Of Eton, with remembrances intense
Of early joy and sorrow in my heart
Indissolubly link'd,—we roam'd and roam'd;
While thou, with patient ear, to many a tale
Of boyhood, by those well-known scenes recall'd,
Didst listen, and in turn, with earnest speech,
Discourse of all that thou hadst known and loved
In thy own mountain land. So pass'd the months—
The pleasant months of courtship, till, at length,
The Day of days arrived, for many a year
With fond anticipation imaged forth
To Hope's keen earnest gaze—Life's crowning day,
The blest fulfilment of the purest dreams
On which young Fancy feeds.—Without a cloud,
Calm, clear, serene, the summer's loveliest child,
(A summer such as England seldom knows,)
It rose, and shone, and set!—Before the lark
I left the lonely couch of my unrest,
And to the river's bank, as I was wont,
But in far other than my wonted mood,
Directed my wild steps:—the clear cold stream

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Received me in its bosom, cooling thus
The fever of my own;—with practised arms
I clave the waters, and from shore to shore
Cross'd and recross'd,—now striving with the stream,
Which mock'd and overbore my puny strength,—
Now floating down its current,—now supine
On the smooth surface of some tranquil pool,
With face upturn'd to the blue, cloudless sky,
Lay gazing on its beauty, and inhaled
The freshness and the fragrance of the morn
From air, and earth, and water,—to myself
Repeating oft “It is my wedding day!—
No dream, but a reality!” And now
The hour was come;—before the altar-rails
We two stood side by side;—the solemn vows
Were utter'd,—and I wonder'd, while we knelt,
That I should feel so calm!—The wedding peal
Rang briskly out,—around the well-spread board
The wedding guests assembled,—all due rites
Were decently perform'd,—and, ere 'twas noon,
(Friends, kinsfolk, feasters, bridemaids, thy old home
And all who dwelt within it left behind)
We were alone, and with our faces set
Toward Cambria's mountain region.—Till 'twas eve,
Conversing in such sort as lovers use,
We journey'd;—then above the horizon rose
The towers of Oxford—spire and pinnacle,
And stately dome, and cupola, relieved
In outline clear against the cloudless sky
With sunset tints suffused.

—Our hasty meal
Dispatch'd—till twilight faded into night,
We roam'd amidst those silent palaces:—
Through broad and spacious courts, deserted then,
Nor echoing to the students' sober tread,
Nor (as sometimes) by bacchanalian roar
Of revellers profaned—through long arcades,
And many a pillar'd aisle, and cloister dim,
We stroll'd, and mark'd the moonbeams, as they stole

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Through gorgeous panes of stain'd and storied glass,
Gild the rich fretted roofs and marble floors
Of those time-hallow'd temples.—On our hearts
The spirit of the place descended, calm
And solemn, and the day which rose in smiles
Accordant to our sunbright morn of hope
And hymeneal gladness, closed at last
(Meet emblem of a Christian life's decline)
In contemplations tranquil and serene,
Of life, of death, and of eternity.

And we were wedded !—and life's young romance
Henceforth to fade away and be dissolved
In the clear daylight of reality!
Yet, for the space of some three years, or more,
The vision seem'd to tarry:—household cares
So long we knew not, nor the pleasant sound
Of children's voices, nor had yet commenced
Those pastoral duties, amidst which hath past,
Since then, the prime of life:—my daily task
Employ'd, but not oppress'd me, nor engross'd
So large a space of time but more remain'd
For pleasant studies and amusements, such
As we might share together:—Life was still
Almost a constant holiday to us;
And when the waning summer set us free
Even from that gentle yoke which gall'd us not,
With what exultant eagerness we broke
Our bondage, and, uncheck'd by nursery ties,
Shaped our swift flight, as fancy might direct,
Or old affection urge—now skimm'd the lakes
And climb'd the mountains of thy native land;
Now, on green Devon's slopes, forgot the ways
Of artificial life, and grew adepts
At old Arcadian usages; and now
In deep Salopian vales, amidst the homes
And habitations of my kindred, shared
Familiar joys, feeding our gaze meanwhile
On nature's richest beauty!—Dreamlike still,—
A trance Elysian,—was our Dream of Life.

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It is not good that years should pass away
Unburden'd by the weight of care and toil
Which is Man's lot and portion here on Earth.
Those years—I mourn them not—nor wish them back,
Though pleasant in the retrospect—unlike
(O how unlike!) the round of varied tasks,
And duties which employ my noon of life!—
The daily load of ministerial care,—
The parent's anxious toil of head and heart,—
The ceaseless stir and tumult of the world!—
It is by these that men must live—in these
Our Father's spirit breathes. No easier lot
I covet,—only ask for heartier zeal,
And strength according to my need, and faith
Working by love, to do and to endure
Whatever Heaven may will, till the day close,
And the night come wherein no man can work.

There is a little town, within short space
Of England's central point, of various brick
Irregularly built, nor much adorn'd
By architectural craft—save that, indeed,
As you approach it from the south, a pile
Of questionable Gothic lifts its head
With somewhat of a grave collegiate air,
Not unbefitting what, in truth, it is,—
A seat of academic discipline
And classic education:—at its base
Stretches a broad expanse of verdant turf
With stately trees bestudded—the resort
Of schoolboys from their studious toil released,
And bent on sport athletic:—but for this,
The place might pass unnoticed—to speak truth,
As insignificant a market-town
As may be seen in England. Far around
Extends a pastoral glade, to numerous herds
Yielding abundant herbage, but ungraced
By much of rural beauty—featureless,

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And to the poet's and the painter's eye
Alike insipid ;—a wide, weary tract
Of hedgerow upon hedgerow.—Rock nor hill,—
Nor graceful undulation here is seen;
The very stream which waters the fat meads
(Shaksperian Avon) hath not yet attain'd
The breadth and beauty of his later course,
But winds between his flat and reedy banks,
A thin, meandering, melancholy thread
Of slow, dull, slimy water:—the sole charms
Of which, with truth, the unvaried landscape boasts,
Are verdure and fertility:—the grass
Grows freshly, and the hedgerow trees present
Masses of summer foliage, with rich tints
Diversified in Autumn:—there is nought
To seek or shun, to hate or fondly love,
For miles and miles around! Amidst such scenes,
The lines are fallen to me ;—amidst such scenes
I own a goodly heritage—content,
In the fulfilment of allotted tasks,
Here, if Heaven will, to live, and here to die.

Strange to the youthful minister of Christ,
Yet not unmixt with pleasure, is the awe
And anxious curiosity with which
He first approaches his appointed sphere
Of pastoral duty—first inspects the fold
Of which he is the shepherd, and looks round
On faces which henceforth he is to know
In joy and grief, in sickness and in health,
Through many a chance and change of mortal life,
In many a close relation; he meanwhile—
(Though haply versed in theologic lore)—
Unpractised, inexperienced in the ways
Of Man's mysterious heart,—unused to guide,
To comfort, to reprove, exhort, convince,
Or do the thousand offices of love
And Christian wisdom at his hands required,
And pressing on his heart. With what keen sense
Of high responsibilities, incurr'd

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By weakness (then, if ever, deeply felt,)
He first ascends the pulpit !—first surveys
The motley congregation closely pack'd,
And all intent, with curious eye and ear,
To see, hear, criticise—some few to learn
And welcome, with devout and docile hearts,
Him, their commission'd teacher! In their homes,
And by their hospitable hearths, for him
With festal fires ablaze,—at social board,
Or cheerful tea-table, whence fairest hands
Dispense the nectarous fluid, to his taste
With nicest art adapted—each new face
Arrests his anxious eye; each voice conveys
To his awaken'd and attentive ear
Some token, faint perchance, of fear or hope,
Of comfort or discouragement.—To whom,
Among these cordial guests, in years to come,
Shall he resort for counsel? Which shall aid,
With sympathy and solace pure and true,
His ministerial toil—and which oppose,
Impede, embarrass,—sometimes haply mar
His all too feeble efforts to promote
The welfare of his flock?—Which shall be found
His friend, and which his enemy?—With whom,
At intervals of rest from pastoral care,
Shall he take pleasant counsel, and converse
On subjects which unbend, but not unnerve
The else o'er-labour'd mind?—Such thoughts, perchance,
Flit swiftly thro' his brain:—Meanwhile he knows
Himself the mark of scrutinizing eyes,
And curious observation:—apt remarks
Are ventured—subtle questions ask'd, to probe
And fathom his opinions:—“Is he Whig
In Politics, or Tory?—Orthodox
In creed, or Evangelical?—What sect
Within the Church,—what party in the State,
Minutely in the parish imaged forth,
Shall find him its ally?—Will he adhere
To old establish'd customs, and uphold

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The right prescriptive of a parish priest
To hunt, and shoot, and fish, and be the first
In all convivial revels?—strong at whist,
And matchless at back-gammon?—or, imbued
With puritanic scruples, will he shun
The world and all its pleasures—in their stead
Frequenting the resort of serious folk,
Committee-rooms and platforms—where the stage
And its profane excitements are eclipsed
(As some aver) by oratoric feats
Of reverend men, who spurn alike the rules
Of grammar and the Church, and, in glib phrase,
Clip the Queen's English,—worthily repaid
For such achievements by the breath and bruit
Of popular applause?—Or will he prove
A stern ascetic, in Tractarian lore
Profoundly versed, entangling simple souls
In bonds from which the Gospel sets them free—
Enjoining strict observance of the round
Of festivals and fasts and daily prayers,
And inconvenient alms-deeds,—apt himself
To fast and watch and mortify the flesh
With superstitious rigour,—teaching much
By precept and example, against which
We must perforce contend?”—With such profound
And profitable queries, others mix
Less abstract speculations—“Is he one
Accessible as yet to Beauty's charms?—
A prize to be contested by the skill
Of mothers and their daughters?—the church glebe
Is rich and ample, and the Parsonage
(Judiciously enlarged) might well be made
A comfortable mansion.”—Cease, fair dames,
Such musings, which the invulnerable man
With grim, sly smiles suspects.—In distant bowers,
The lady of his love already twines
Her nuptial wreath, and, ere six months have flown,
The bells from yon grey tower, with deafening peal,
Shall blithely welcome to their destined home

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The Rector and his Bride.

It ill beseems
The poet—him especially whose crown
Of laurel must surmount the sober garb
For reverend clerks appointed—to select,
Amidst the present scenes of actual life,
The subjects of his song. This week-day world—
Its cares—its toils—its sharp anxieties—
The friends and foes of living flesh and blood,
With whom we sympathise and strive by turns—
These to Reality's dull realm belong,
And scarcely from that realm can be transferr'd
To Phantasy's domain, without neglect
Or partial violation of the laws
Of social life.—Such fault be far from me!
Not in the Present, but the dreamy Past,
And not among the Living, but the Dead—
The unforgotten tenants of the grave—
The men o'er whose infirmities and faults
Remembrance draws a veil of shadowy haze,
Which glorifies their virtues—among such
Would I once more, in retrospective thought,
Live over my young days of pastoral care,
And interweave with this historic song
Some faint reflection of departed worth
And excellence still honour'd, which perchance,
Not by surviving eyes unrecognized,
May to surviving hearts recall a train
Of pleasant recollections, nor incur
Reproach or censure—rather, let me hope,
Awaken kind and not unthankful thoughts
Tow'rd him who, if he could, would thus embalm,
In unguent mix'd of grave and sportive verse,
Their loved and lost on Earth.

At the town's end
There is a neat and unpretending house,

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Which you approach through a low wooden gate
Beneath an arch of laurel;—a small porch
Of trellis-work, with odorous jessamine
And most luxuriant clematis entwined,
Shelters the expectant visitor, whose knock
Is yet unanswer'd;—a bay window, fill'd
With flowering shrubs, on the left hand, admits
The late effulgence of the western Sun
To what, when first I knew it, long had been
The favourite room of one in many a heart
Still honour'd and remember'd—then my kind
And hospitable host. An aged man,
Already on the verge of full fourscore,
Was he, and, in his youth and middle age,
Had on the seas, beneath old England's flag,
Fought and commanded; but for many a year
(The toils and perils of the deep foregone)
Had led a quiet and secluded life
In that snug dwelling, by the general voice
Of friends and neighbours quaintly named, from him,
“The Admiralty.” Seldom hath a heart
So frank and simple dwelt within a frame
So burly and gigantic; lustier voice
Than his, on shipboard, never yet outroar'd
The thunder, or was heard above the din
Of battle:—he was, all in all, compact,
Heart, voice, soul, sinews, bulk;—colossal—vast,
As of the race of Anak,—yet, withal
As gentle as a lamb:—no kindlier smile
Than his e'er beam'd on childhood—(and, in truth,
He had his share of grandchildren;)—no brow
Was e'er unbent on Woman with more bland
And guileless show of love; and if his laugh
Was somewhat over-boisterous, and his jest
Couch'd in sea-phrase, and, like a seaman's speech,
Blunt and unpolish'd,—if fastidious ears
Might shrink from his sea-ditties, thunder'd forth

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As though a broadside roar'd—the daintiest dame
Forgot such venial trespass in the sense
Of that inborn benignity which glow'd
And glisten'd in his look, and was diffused
Through his whole soul and spirit. Him all ranks
And classes loved and honour'd;—to his house
Gentle and simple, country squire and clown,
Scholar and tradesman, pedagogue and peer,
Each sure of his appropriate welcome, came.
The nobles of the land were not ashamed
To leave awhile their lordly palace halls,
And spend an hour beneath that humble roof
In pleased, familiar talk with the old man,
Who on his part received them with blunt phrase
Of unaffected courtesy;—the poor
Flock'd to him as their friend:—in grief and joy
He sympathized with all.—Two serving-maids,
Some twenty years his juniors,—one obese
And rubicund,—the other spare and lean,—
With a red-nosed, ill-manner'd serving-man,
Who rather ruled than served his easy lord,—
These form'd his household:—an asthmatic steed
Was, like his master, pension'd on half-pay,
Or rarely into active service call'd
From the near paddock. Such, for some few years
From the first date of my incumbency,
Continued his establishment, by laws
Most primitive and patriarchal ruled,
And unprofaned by aught of modish taste
Or over-costly luxury, though rich
In whatsoever to the incorrupt
And unsophisticated heart affords
Repose and satisfaction.—At the end
Of that brief time, with little outward change,
Or more decided symptom of decay,
After some days of sickness, meekly borne,
With calm expression of a Christian's hope
The old man fell asleep. Light lie the turf
On that stout heart, as simple and sincere,

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As gentle and as brave as ever throbb'd
Beneath a sailor's bosom!—be his sleep
The sleep of Paradise, till the last trump
To resurrection and their final doom
Summon the awaken'd dead!

Nor let me pass
Unnoticed or unhonour'd in this lay
One who; by me but little known, hath yet
Left on my memory the abiding trace
Of his urbane and cordial courtesy,
By scholarship and classic taste refined;
—A courtly, polish'd man, of bland address,
And clerical attire with rigorous taste
Adjusted and adorn'd—his reverend head
Well powder'd and pomatum'd—even the crown,
Which five and fifty winters had made bald,
With scrupulous exactness frosted o'er;—
His central bulk, spruce, dapper, and rotund,
In silk and broadcloth of correctest cut
And sablest hue array'd;—his nether parts
In hose unwrinkled of the finest woof,
And breeches, silver-buckled at the knee,
Display'd their plump proportions:—voice and look,
Gesture and phrase, to the discerning mind,
Proclaim'd the pedagogue—one of a race
Now passing from the earth;—no man of thought,
Deep, earnest, serious, seething in the brain
Incessantly;—no framer of vague plans
And purposes, imperfect, ever new,
From the rich depths of an exhaustless mind,
By the strong working of a Christian heart
Evolved;—no rash enthusiast, labouring still
To purify, exalt, and bless mankind,
And using education as the means
By Heaven, beyond all other means, ordain'd
To accomplish that high task.—Such men our age,
In this beyond preceding ages blest,

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Hath seen, and loved, and mourn'd;—but unlike these
The generation which preceded ours,—
The teachers of our sires and of ourselves.
Less lofty was their aim;—more moderate praise
Contented their ambition.—The dead tongues—
Their prosody and syntax—the nice rules
Of composition—the mysterious craft
Of metres—these to them were all in all—
The end of education, not the means.
Nor be it held dispraise to speak of one
Not last, nor least distinguish'd in his day,
As walking in the ways of his compeers
With steps which equall'd theirs, but not outstripp'd.
It was enough, for him of whom I speak,
To guard, with rigid and punctilious zeal,
That which he found establish'd;—to maintain,
Unchang'd and unimpair'd, the old, tried course
Of classic education, handed down
From those who went before him. This he did
With firm, unbending purpose, and became
The perfect model of a schoolmaster,
Such as our sires respected—such as we,
In the vain pride of our conceited age,
Are prone to undervalue—blind alike
To what exalts the Present—what the Past.
Far juster was the estimate which he
Form'd of himself:—proud was he of his craft,
Nor would abate one tittle of its claims
To honour and respect:—his air and tone
Were those of one who felt himself high raised
Above unlearned, unscholastic men;
And, in or out of school, with equal pomp,
Right stately did he bear himself:—all rules
Of etiquette—all nice formalities,
He practised and exacted—was, in truth,
In discipline a very martinet;
And when, in annual chair of state enthroned—
Surrounded by aristocratic groups,
The county's high nobility,—he sat

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Dispensing prizes—the world could not shew
A prouder, happier man! Yet deem him not
Haughty or arrogant,—in manners stiff,
Cold and repulsive:—kindly was his heart,
Gentle he was and affable to all;
And, when the labour of the day was done,
Loved with his neighbours at the social board
To spend a joyous hour, well pleased to reign
Supreme o'er mirth and music, whist and wit,—
Assuming and receiving at all hands
Precedency of place, and recognized
As absolute Dictator.

Yet such rank
Was not, without resistance and dispute,
At once assign'd him:—Our Republic found
A Brutus for this Cæsar.—One there was
Whom Nature's hand had moulded to resist
Unconstitutional autocracy,
And hold it at defiance—a true son
Of Albion—all her dauntless Saxon blood
Careering in his veins—a brave, blunt man,
Laborious, energetic, shrewd of wit,
And resolute of action:—no adept
Was he at rules conventional—no slave
To forms of etiquette—no worshipper
Of rank or sounding titles:—small respect
He own'd or felt for academic grade,
Or dignity ecclesiastical,
Save as the visible and outward garb
Of solid worth within:—his piercing eye,
Disdaining shows and seemings, ever sought
That which was real:—he esteem'd the man,
And not the cloak—the kernel, not the husk.
Whate'er himself possess'd of place, or wealth,
Or credit with the world, had been acquired
By the innate and energetic strength
And vigour of his mind,—by industry
And persevering toil of head and heart—
By due discharge of honourable trust

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In the far Indies, whence he had return'd,
After few years in public duties spent,
A rich and prosperous man. Such energy,
Moral and intellectual, as could work
What he had wrought,—could bear what he had borne,
And gain what he had gain'd—and such alone,
He honour'd and esteem'd in other men.
All else—diplomas—dignities—degrees—
Hereditary rank—ancestral pride—
Whate'er weak minds revere—he held dirt cheap,
And view'd, with somewhat of a jealous eye,
Monopolies of homage from of old,
In this aristocratic land, assign'd
To place, and station, and official rank,
Or well or ill maintain'd, with small regard
To aught which truly dignifies them all,
And gives them actual value:—hence he grew,
Almost by Nature's strong necessity,
Antagonistic to the Powers that were—
A stout and sturdy oppositionist,
Obstructing, by all lawful ways and means,
What seem'd encroachments of despotic sway;
Asserting and maintaining the plain rights
Of social independence against all
Which look'd like usurpation. Hence arose
Occasional sedition—tart debate
Colloquial—insurrection, to restrain,
Within legitimate and wholesome bounds,
Monarchical prerogative.—Meanwhile
The Monarch was not slow to take the field,
With such offensive and defensive arms
As courteous scholars use—grave irony—
Sarcastic repartee—serenest smile
Of dignified compassion. Thus they two
(If old, traditionary tales speak truth
Of times beyond the memory of the Bard)
For many a year contended, yet broke not
The bonds of social neighbourhood, nor lost
Their sense of mutual good-will. O'er both

455

The grave long since hath closed:—the petty feuds
And jealousies of earth divide them not
In that good land where both; we trust, have found
Acceptance and repose.

But all too long,
Methinks, we dwell among remembrances
Of days and things gone by:—'tis meet we turn,
Beloved, to the Present.—Our abode—
The tabernacle of our earthly joys
And sorrows, hopes and fears—this home of ours—
Is it not pleasant?—Is there one eleswhere
For which we would exchange it?—Fourteen years,
Well nigh elapsed, have rear'd the puny trees
We planted at our coming, to a screen
And somewhat of a shade;—our small domain,
Compact within itself, nor overlook'd,
(Albeit well nigh on every side begirt
By new and upstart dwellings,) forms a nook
In which the meek and unambitious heart
May live and die contented:—within doors
We have enough of comfort—and, without,
Of verdure, and bright sunshine, and fresh air,
To make our dwelling cheerful:—yon green field,
Between us and intrusion interposed,
Forms for our children a broad ample realm
Of undisturb'd enjoyment:—that tall pair
Of venerable elms, beneath whose shade
Lie buried those old favourites canine
Whose race, had we been childless, might perchance
E'en now have shared our hearth—those elms, methinks,
May serve us for apt emblems of ourselves—
A hale, green pair, not yet much past their prime,
And from their grassy mound, in reverend state,
On a new generation looking down
Of young and hopeful plants.—By Fancy's aid
We might suppose them representatives
Of the successive tenants of this house—
The pastors of the parish and their wives,
Whose spirits, from the burden of the flesh

456

And all its toil released, have migrated,
Like Baucis and Philemon's in old time,
Into those leafy tenements, and there,
Fast by the mansion of their earthly life,
Await the body's waking.—But such sport
Of wilful Fancy haply ill accords
With the sad aspect of yon burial-ground
Contiguous to our garden—the long home
Of vanish'd generations, and in which
Both thou and I, ere many years have pass'd,
Must look to lay our bones. We lack not here
Mementos of mortality:—no knell
Proclaims the passing of a neighbour's soul,
But we are first to hear it;—not a corpse
Is carried to its resting-place, but I
Do the last sacred offices;—no week,—
Scarce a day passes, but some bed of death,
Or long consuming sickness, summons me
To minister beside it:—nor art thou
With sorrow less familiar, or less apt
To do thy part as comforter, and yield
Such help as woman only can dispense
To sickness and affliction. Strange 'twould be,
If all that we behold of chance and change,
Of sorrow and mortality, should leave
No trace upon our spirits, nor impress
On our remembrance ineffaceably
The lesson of the Church, that “in the midst
Of life we are in death.”—Yet more perhaps
Than most of those with whom our lot is cast,
We lack such admonition:—life to us
Is fill'd, by bounteous Providence, so full
Of purest comfort! Since this house became
Our habitation, it hath seen more bliss
Than many a life of threescore years and ten
Brings to another dwelling—less of grief
Than one brief month hath brought to not a few.
There's scarce a room, beneath our roof, unmark'd
By some distinction of remember'd joy;—

457

Of friends, whose visits, though too much like those
Of angels—passing short and far between—
Almost like those of angels gladden'd us;—
Of pleasant and endearing intercourse
With neighbours whom we love;—of home-content,
Enliven'd by those studies and pursuits
Which purify and strengthen, while they soothe
The weary mind. Here, in this study, cramm'd
With strangest piles of heterogeneous lore,
O'er Shakspere's magic pages we have laugh'd
And wept by turns, while fairest fingers plied
The busy needle, and the reader's art
Repaid their cheerful toil:—on yonder chair,
Honour'd beyond its drawing-room compeers,
Sate once the mighty Poet of the Lakes,
And in his deep, sonorous voice conversed
On themes of loftiest import:—in this house
Six children have been born to us—of whom
Five until now, by Heaven's rich grace, remain,
And one hath fallen asleep.—My boyish dreams
Of happiness (though passing bright they were)
Fell short of the reality which still
Beneath this roof abides—reality
Too bright to be enduring.—May we wait
In thoughtful preparation, and endure
With patience, whatsoever change shall come!

High theme it were—(too high for verse like mine)—
To tell the toils, the pleasures, and the cares
Of ministerial duty;—to set forth
The life of an ambassador for Christ
Such as it is—alas! how much unlike
That which it ought to be! Else there were food
For musing not unfruitful, not unblest,
In that long retrospect of years elapsed
Amidst parochial cares and toils and plans,
Which teems, as I survey it, with strange forms
Of human joy and sorrow. In the town
There's scarce a house but to my mind recalls
Some sad or pleasing image of past days—

458

Some consolation offer'd—some sick bed
Sooth'd or alarm'd—some confidence enjoy'd—
Some doubt dispell'd—alas! some vain assault
On some stronghold of Satan—some defeat
Encounter'd—some discomfiture sustain'd
Through lack of faith or courage.—Of such things
Let me not lightly speak, but speak in words
Recorded ere remembrance yet had lost
Its first impression.—Two such homely lays
I framed in other years;—the first a tale
(If tale it may be call'd) of grievous pain,
Through faith and patience wondrously endured,
And by endurance vanquish'd;—a wild strain
The other, in Spenserian rhyme jocose
Recounting rustic feats of boisterous glee
And festal recreation, with a cause
Connected, righteous once, though since, alas!
By erring and fanatic zeal profaned,
And fitly, to sectarian patronage
Abandon'd by the Church.—Elsewhere than here
Be those twin songs recorded, and preserve
(If that perchance may be) to after days
Some memory of the English pastor's cares
And pastimes in this nineteenth century!

So end my Dream of Life!—for life is now
Less dream-like than it has been;—save, indeed,
That with a swifter and yet swifter course
The years begin and end—their hopes and fears
Blossom and fade—their sorrows and their joys
Are born and buried. While I strive to grasp
What seems the Present, it becomes the Past.
All things appear more fugitive, and yet
Less lovely than they did. The gorgeous hues
In which imagination clothed the world
While life was young, have faded:—what remains
Is, in its proper lineaments, discern'd,
And felt to be precarious—a brief dream,

459

Without a dream's magnificence:—and yet
To this the heart still cleaves, as in its youth
It clave to Fancy's daintiest imagery;
Still as one joy dissolves and fades away,
Reposing on a new one. Death and Change
Are found to teach but slowly that sad truth,
That no continuing city have we here—
No rest for our foot-sole.—And yet their school,
Severe and stern, allows few holidays
From grief and disappointment!—while I weave
This meditative lay, how rich a source
Of present solace, and of hope that gave
Bright promise for the future, with a stroke
Hath been cut off for ever!—HE is dead!—
He, whom all England honour'd as her first
Of Christian teachers;—He, by whom her youth
Were train'd and lesson'd with most earnest zeal,
And depth unknown of wisdom from above,
In Christ's all-perfect rule, and taught to take
His yoke upon them, and to bear His cross,
As Men who, with divine and human lore
Rightly imbued—in intellect and heart
Well disciplined—with heavenly arms equipp'd—
And knowing both the prize for which they strove,
And how it must be won—should, in this world,
Fight the good fight of faith.—Alas! for us!
His townsmen and near neighbours!—us, whose hopes
Parental with his life were close entwined!
Who deem'd our children's the most blessed lot
By Providence to children e'er assign'd,
In that, by him, their young intelligence,
Develop'd and inform'd, should first expand
Its fresh and tender blossoms,—that in him,
Their teacher and their guide, they should behold
A model of what Christians ought to be!
Alas! for us!—but not for us alone!—
Britain—all Europe—Christendom itself

460

Mourns his untimely loss:—the Church bewails,
In him, the best and bravest of her sons;
Him, if sometimes an erring, never found
A weak or craven champion in her cause:
For ne'er were truth and goodness loved and sought
With more devoted fervour than by him;
Nor oft have noblest intellectual gifts
Been sanctified by loftier piety
Than in his bosom dwelt. His inward eye,
Clear, rapid, comprehensive, at a glance
Discern'd—if not the perfect form of Truth—
At least her shadowy lineaments—which straight
With stedfast gaze he follow'd, in his course
Flashing swift gleams of unexpected light
On whatsoever subject of high thought
Cross'd or approach'd his path. For human ills—
The want and woe—the ignorance and sin—
The bondage of corruption beneath which
The creature, in its anguish and unrest,
Still groans and travails—for whatever wrong
The feeble suffer and the strong inflict—
His was the sorrow of a Christian saint—
His were the projects of a Christian sage.—
For Britain's helpless millions above all,
Writhing in dumb, blind pain—untaught, unfed—
With earnest heart, and brain, and tongue, and pen,
He toil'd to achieve deliverance;—to his end,
Through honour and dishonour, through report
Evil and good, still constant.—Yet, in him,
Philanthropy (too oft in feebler minds
Destructive of less liberal sympathies)
Marr'd not one home affection, but enhanced
And purified them all:—no happier hearth
Than his e'er flung its winter evening blaze
On groups of joyous faces;—there was not
In all the world a parent, husband, friend,
More excellent than he! Nor was the face
Of Nature—her mysterious loveliness—
To him indifferent;—flowers, and trees, and fruits,—

461

Beast, insect, feather'd fowl, and creeping thing—
Whatever God hath made—the mountain ridge
Embosoming the lake, near which he spent
His intervals of rest from lifelong toil—
The primrose on the bank—the hawthorn hedge,
With woodbines and wild roses intertwined—
He loved them all! Majestic was his soul,
And gentle in its majesty—alive
To whatsoe'er in this material world
Reveals the presence of Divinity,
And therefore full of love! Alas for us!
Who knew him—who beheld and felt the power
Of goodness which abode in him—and yet
Scarce loved it till 'twas lost!—Alas for thee!
Poor town, in which he sojourn'd for a time,
And which his sojourn dignified!—Alas!
For what thou art and hast been!—Ichabod!
Thy glory hath departed!

—Fare thee well!—
Henceforth, though I shall know thee as my home,
I will not view thee with a Poet's eye,
Nor wed thy name to verse.—And yet indeed
I love thee much, unlovely as thou art,
And in thy featureless repose of look,
Reflecting well that uneventful course
Of the mid life of man, to which my days
Have now attain'd;—and though thou must become
Less pleasant, less endear'd to me, as years
Roll onward—though this house, now musical
With voices which I love, as I grow old
Must lose them, one by one, till we are left—
(If death by swifter stroke divide us not)
—I and my partner—inmates of a home
Childless at last—not therefore will I now
Grudge thee such love as thou hast well deserv'd—
Such as thou still deserv'st. When I am gone,
May better and more gifted pastors dwell
Where I have dwelt so pleasantly!—Yon Church,
Not even by Rickman's genius, in late years,

462

Reclaim'd from that unblushing ugliness
And degradation of deformity
By parsimonious thrift inflicted once—
May a new generation, more devout
Than we and than our fathers—pull it down,
As what defies amendment, and erect
A temple, worthier of the name it bears,
On what is now its site!—But till it fall,
Still may the worship of our English Church,
As now, within its walls, in solemn pomp
Liturgical, with full accordant strains
Of the deep organ and symphonious chaunt
Of choristers, ascend from it to Heaven,
Wafting the aspirations pure and deep
Of Christian hearts!—may never sound of hymn,
Such as these latter days have spawn'd in shoals—
Doggrel, prosaic, puritanical,
Quintessence of flat balderdash—pollute
Its sacred walls, suggesting to the mind
Of worshippers, who wish to be devout,
Involuntary thoughts which curl the lip
Perforce into a smile!—may all who there
Kneel at one altar, be hereafter One
In heart and spirit!—the whole Church on Earth
Anticipating, as the dawn draws nigh,
The eternal concord of the Church in Heaven!

Rugby, in Warwickshire.

Used to be the last house to the left on the Newbold Road: now pulled down and re-built.

See “Lays of the Parish,” in the second volume.