University of Virginia Library

With slow and toilsome course, this summer noon
Have I, in pensive and fantastic mood,
Forsaking, for a time the converse bland
And fair urbanities, which suit so well
Yon English hearth and household, wound my way
Up to this green hill's topmost eminence;
Whence, with a quick and comprehensive glance,
Which fills the soul with beauty, the glad eye
Takes in a vast and richly-varied plain
Of England's own fertility, adorn'd,
At intervals, with old ancestral halls,
Trim farms and village spires, which crown the hills,
Or just out-top the dark and leafy woods,
O'er which the blue smoke, like a level sea,
Delights to linger; to the thoughtful heart
Conveying no inapt or empty type
Of that which still hath been, and still shall be,
Despite the vaunts of democratic hate,
And turbulent assaults of godless men,
Our country's strength and glory;—household love
And social union, strengthen'd, not dissolv'd,
By meet gradation of well-order'd ranks,
Each melting into each, and, by the warmth
Of undefiled religion's genial sun,
Matured and cherish'd. On the extremest verge
Of the remote horizon, wavy lines
Of hills, which might almost assume the style
And dignity of mountains, mark the site
Of my paternal home, whereto, so oft
As summer's fervour or midwinter's frost
Restored our liberty, from school return'd,
Once more I mingled with the noisy group
Of brothers and of sisters, who, since then,
Have parted,—all upon their several paths
Of destiny or duty, through the world
To fare as Heaven may guide them. One, alas!
Slumbers already, many a fathom deep,
Beneath the stormy and tumultuous swell
Of the “still vext Bermoothes.” One, cut off
In childhood's ripest bloom, my earliest song
In fitting strains bewail'd. A third, the heat
Of India's burning suns is withering fast,
Albeit in youth's maturest lustihood.
A fourth, who went from home with gallant port,
Wearing a soldier's frankness on his brow,
And, in his young heart, proudly cherishing
A soldier's noblest zeal, had found a home,
When last he wrote, near Afric's southern cape;
And there, in tranquil and inglorious ease,
Forsaking the plumed host and tented field
For peaceful tillage and the hunter's sport,
Was fashioning his idle sword and spear
To ploughshare and to pruning-hook, content
To learn war's trade no more, but to forego
Its present honours and its future hopes
For liberty and rest. In that old house,
Once echoing to the loud obstreperous mirth
Of ten wild boys and girls, now, in their age,
My parents dwell alone, from time to time
Gladden'd and cheer'd by visits few and brief
Of children and of grandchildren, whose sports
Haply recall the days of other years,
When we all dwelt about them, and diffuse
A gleam of pleasant light athwart the gloom
(If gloom indeed it be) which settles now
On all that large remainder of the year
Mark'd by our absence. Visits such as these
Should constitute, methinks, a last firm bond
Of sympathy between their souls and Earth,
And cherish still, even in their heart of hearts,
The light of earthly joy, sweetening the eve
Of this their mortal day, and with the hope
(Now brightening hour by hour) of fairer worlds,
And a more rich inheritance to come,
Connecting the remembrance of past bliss,
And sense of present comfort,—feeding thus
The incense of perpetual gratitude
Breathed from their hearts to Heaven;—nor let my own
Forget how large a debt of thankfulness
Is due to Him, who to His other gifts,
Unnumber'd and unmeasured, adds this too,—
That from my pastoral dwelling, by the banks
Of Avon, I can still, from year to year,
With the beloved co-partner of my joys
And soother of my sorrows, and with those
Dear babes who fill our happy home with smiles,
Revisit my paternal roof, and cheer
Their hearts, who gave me being, with the sound
Of children's voices, and make glad their hearth
With the blest sight of our full happiness.
Such be our task to-morrow; here to-day
We tarry with most kind, though late-found friends,
Whose venerable mansion at the foot
Of this fair hill, in all the state grotesque
Of England's olden architecture, lifts
Its chequer'd front, with timbers huge inlaid,
And fair white plaister; and with gables tall
Surmounted, from whose antique windows quaint
The eye looks through a stately avenue
Of elms, which have outlived the chance and change
Of centuries, into a verdant plain
With woods and waving corn-fields interspersed;—
Meet dwelling for a family most rich
In all that constitutes the genuine worth
Of our provincial gentry. In that house
A pleasant group of friends is gather'd now
In mirthful converse and communion bland
Of thought and feeling;—one most dear to me,
And many to each other scarce less dear;
Brothers and sisters,—some in youth's full prime,
And some in childhood's tenderest innocence,
Link'd firmly, each to each, by mutual ties
Of firm affection, and beneath the eye
Of one who wears upon her stately brow
The stamp and impress of true ladyhood,
And in her heart the wisdom and the love
Of English mothers, train'd with holiest care
To exercise of virtues such as thrive
And blossom best by England's own firesides,
And in the breath of her free atmosphere.
And one there is whom nature hath endow'd
With voice and soul of melody, than whom
The thrush and blackbird sing no richer strains,
Nor with more natural fervour gushing forth
From the heart's hidden founts;—and yet hath art
Fulfill'd in her its perfect work, nor oft
On the fastidious ear of critic fall
Notes warbled with more nice and finish'd skill
Than those which flow, unforced and uncontroll'd
From her melodious utterance. Dames there be,
By nature and fine art alike endued
With varied powers of song, potent to lull
The charmed sense, or raise the enraptured soul
To loftiest ecstasy, who yet dispel
Their strong enchantments by ill-timed caprice
And wayward affectation; marring still
Our pleasure, and the triumphs of their art,
By most preposterous vanity, which yields,
With feign'd reluctance, an ill-graced assent
To what it longs to grant, until desire,
Too long deferr'd, loses its poignancy,
And chill'd enjoyment sickens. Unlike these,
The maid of whom I speak unlocks, with free
And liberal grace, her floodgates of sweet sound,
And pours, at will, on our insatiate sense
Rich streams of never-dying melody;
Neither dissembling, with ill-acted show
Of modest self-disparagement, the worth
And richness of her gifts, nor on our choice
Obtruding them unask'd, but, with the pure
And simple kindness of a natural heart,
Imparting to our needs her special share
Of nature's dispensation,—breathing thus
An atmosphere around her of sweet mirth
And universal kindliness;—nor yet
Disdains she from the heights of sacred song,
Or the rich warblings of Italian art,
Into the lowliest regions to descend
Of homely music,—to the simple taste
Of childhood now attuning her sweet voice
In laugh-provoking ballads, and again
With some pathetic lay from Scottish land,
Which breathes the fervour of her own full heart,
Filling our eyes with tears.

All joy attend
That gentle songstress, whose remember'd strains
I trust shall haunt my sense in future years,
When the “rude shocks and buffets of the world,”
And long experience of life's daily ills,
Make Memory's stores more precious.

But I hear
Below me, in the hill's green winding paths,
The voices of my children, in wild mirth
Through intertangled boughs in search of me,
Their way exploring to this yew-tree bower
In which I sit and muse, protected well
By its dark shade from the oppressive beams
Of the meridian sun, to my weak eyes
Fraught with sharp pain and inflammation dire,
And threatening ever these asthmatic lungs,
With agony of respiration choked,
And spasms catarrhal; for, to me, the prime
And lustihood of summer ever brings
Return of fell disease,—most fell in this,—
That I no more, for ever, may enjoy
The sweetness of the year;—that what, in youth
And earlier boyhood, I so fondly loved,
Yea, and still love with all a poet's heart,—
The gorgeousness of nature at her noon,—
Must ever be associate in my thought
With sickness and dire suffering; that no more
May I behold the full magnificence
Or of the rising or the setting sun,
Nor welcome to my brow the noonday breeze,
Nor see Eve's star arise, nor greet the moon,
When, from the breathless sky, she pours her light
On the rich foliage of midsummer woods,
With full and free enjoyment, unalloy'd
By pain or apprehension;—that the toils
And sports of summer, its sweet sounds and sights,
To me must be forbidden;—ne'er again
The hay-field's fragrant breath must tempt my sense,
Nor the returning and high-laden wain,
Cheer'd by the shouts of joyous haymakers
Proclaiming harvest home, invite me too
To share their rude festivities; and when
The cloudless skies and verdant fields of June
Tempt friends and neighbours to beguile a day
In the green woods, or by the river's marge,
With mirth and music, I perforce must flee
Such festive meetings, and, close pent at home
In solitude and shade, shut out the light
Of the bright skies, and chase the pleasant breeze
From my closed windows; or o'ercloud the mirth
And mar the full enjoyment of kind friends
With the discordant and unwelcome sound
Of gasps spasmodic, with red tearful eyes
And ceaseless sternutation.

Not for this
Let me repine; small chastisement, I ween,
For disobedience great and oft renew'd
To Heaven's eternal laws: for years mis-spent,
And duties unfulfill'd;—nor let me be
Unthankful for this sharp admonishment
Of nature's imperfection; of the doom
Most righteously awarded to our race,
Forbidding us to find, in this dark earth,
That which we look for in the world to come,—
Enjoyment unalloy'd; let me confess
That 'tis most well my sensual heart, which dotes
On earthly treasures with too fond a love,
Should have that love embitter'd and so raised
To objects more sublime; and let me still
Feel grateful for the strong and vigorous health
Which, from ripe Autumn to expiring Spring,
Nerves my firm limbs; nor less for that pure warmth
Of conjugal affection, which consoles
And mitigates my sickness, making glad
The chamber of my pain with sympathy.
There is no grief, even on this sinful earth,
Without its consolation; none which faith
And patient love may not convert to bliss,
Or make at least the path to it; and if
Such be indeed our sorrows,—for our joys,
Our sweet refreshments, richly interspersed
At intervals through all the narrow road
Which leads to life eternal—for all these
What thanks shall we repay? Even now, methinks,
From this secluded harbour I look down
On a fresh joy, provided by Heaven's love
To cheer me on my way;—a new-found store
Of pleasant thoughts and sweet remembrances,
Enriching my calm years of middle age,
And rendering compensation for whate'er
Of injury or loss the flight of time
May have inflicted on me. Thus life's path,
To the affectionate and thoughtful heart,
Can never prove a desart; by its side
Fresh springs gush brightly forth from time to time,
As old ones are dried up or left behind
In our swift pilgrimage; yet few, I deem,
Numbering my years, can reckon up like store
Of youth's surviving blessings; Death as yet
Hath mercifully dealt with us and ours;
And scarce a face which, fifteen years ago,
Smiled on me in my academic prime,
Hath lost as yet the lineaments and hue
Of mortal life. A fortnight scarce hath past
Since, in the great metropolis, we met,—
I and my youthful peers of Trinity,
Now nigh our noon of life; a motley band
Of poets and ripe scholars, once renown'd
For feats of numerous verse and sparkling prose;
Now each on graver toils and cares intent
In his particular sphere; some hard beset
By life's sharp ills,—of wife or child bereft;
Some deep immersed in senatorial wiles,
Quenching the quiet spirit of the Muse
In strife political; and some there were
By bright and blooming families begirt,
Yet still retaining, amid household cares
And toils professional, the cheerful laugh
And boon companionship of earlier days;—
Sober'd, not sadden'd, by life's chance and change,
Its joys and sorrows:—one (in youth's bright morn,
My poet-friend, though high, as Heaven o'er Earth,
Towering above me in all gifts and powers
Which constitute the poet) hath foregone
His natural birth-right, and those airy dreams
Of fellowship in song, which we two framed
Erewhile on Cam's green marge,—now to stern toil
And loftiest cares devote:—for this his choice,
Itself most wise, and in submission shaped
To Providential guidance, all respect
And rich reward be his; nor let me grieve
That Heaven hath cast our several lots apart,
And will'd that diverse interests, diverse cares,
Should grow and gather round us;—but let each
Take the more earnest heed, lest absence chill
His heart's best fervour; lest he live too much
In his peculiar world, with separate hopes
And separate fears encompass'd, till the free
And open passage of congenial thought,
Which yet joins heart to heart, shall be block'd up,
And each need closer intercourse with each
To clear it of obstruction.

But be this
Even as it may;—from all that hath been lost,
And all that yet remains, our hearts may learn
Some profitable lessons. Upon earth
Decay and renovation, in close track,
Follow each other; friendships wax and wane;
Old joys give place to new ones; and while thus
Provision is still made for life's support
And bountiful refreshment,—while the heart
Is cheer'd and strengthen'd for its daily task
Of duty, by accessions many and rich
Of ever freshening solace,—still we learn
That all is here unstable; that, till death,
We must not hope to lay our weary heads
On the soft lap of permanent repose;
Nor find secure and never-failing rest
For our foot's sole. Such comfort as Heaven gives
Let us enjoy with thankfulness; but still—
Remembering that our home is not on earth,
Nor earthy the affections and the joys
Which must make glad that home,—with steadfast aim
Pursue our heavenward path, from time to time
Refresh'd, in this world's wilderness, by springs
Of worldly joyance, but still looking on,
Beyond created things, to that full bliss
Which the regenerate and triumphant soul,
After its weary conflicts, by God's power,
Through faith, unto salvation safely kept,
Shall, in His presence, endlessly enjoy.