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diff --git a/old/7pwhw10.txt b/old/7pwhw10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6a6bfa3 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7pwhw10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9761 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Henry Kirke White +by Henry Kirke White + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Poetical Works of Henry Kirke White + With a Memoir by Sir Harris Nicolas + +Author: Henry Kirke White + +Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7149] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on March 17, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETICAL WORKS *** + + + + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Tiffany Vergon, Charles Aldarondo, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + +THE POETICAL WORKS OF +HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +WITH A MEMOIR +BY SIR HARRIS NICOLAS. + +TO +PETER SMITH, ESQ. +THIS VOLUME +IS INSCRIBED +IN TESTIMONY OF ESTEEM AND FRIENDSHIP. + + + + + +CONTENTS. + +Memoir of Henry Kirke White + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + +Clifton Grove +Time +Childhood; Part I + Part II +The Christiad +Lines written on a Survey of the Heavens +Lines supposed to be spoken by a Lover at the Grave of his + Mistress +My Study +Description of a Summer's Eve +Lines--"Go to the raging sea, and say, 'Be still!'" +Written in the Prospect of Death +Verses--"When pride and envy, and the scorn" +Fragment--"Oh! thou most fatal of Pandora's train" + "Loud rage the winds without.--The wintry cloud" +To a Friend in Distress +Christmas Day +Nelsoni Mors +Epigram on Robert Bloomfield +Elegy occasioned by the Death of Mr. Gill, who was drowned in the + River Trent, while bathing +Inscription for a Monument to the Memory of Cowper +"I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad" +Solitude +"If far from me the Fates remove" +"Fanny! upon thy breast I may not lie!" +Fragments--"Saw'st thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and + paused:" + "The pious man" + "Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray" + "There was a little bird upon that pile;" + "O pale art thou, my lamp, and faint" + "O give me music--for my soul doth faint" + "And must thou go, and must we part" + "Ah! who can say, however fair his view," + "Hush'd is the lyre--the hand that swept" + "When high romance o'er every wood and stream" + "Once more, and yet once more," +Fragment of an Eccentric Drama +To a Friend +Lines on reading the Poems of Warton +Fragment--"The western gale," +Commencement of a Poem on Despair +The Eve of Death +Thanatos +Athanatos +Music +On being confined to School one pleasant Morning in Spring +To Contemplation +My own Character +Lines written in Wilford Churchyard +Verses--"Thou base repiner at another's joy," +Lines--"Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far" +The Prostitute + +ODES. + +To my Lyre +To an early Primrose +Ode addressed to H. Fuseli, Esq. R. A. +To the Earl of Carlisle, K. G. +To Contemplation +To the Genius of Romance +To Midnight +To Thought +Genius +Fragment of an Ode to the Moon +To the Muse +To Love +On Whit-Monday +To the Wind, at Midnight +To the Harvest Moon +To the Herb Rosemary +To the Morning +On Disappointment +On the Death of Dermody the Poet + +SONNETS. + +To the River Trent +Sonnet--"Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild," +Sonnet supposed to have been addressed by a Female Lunatic to a + Lady +Sonnet supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody in a + Storm +The Winter Traveller +Sonnet--"Ye whose aspirings court the muse of lays," +Recantatory, in Reply to the foregoing elegant Admonition +On hearing the Sounds of an Aolian Harp +Sonnet--"What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat?" +To Capel Lofft, Esq. +To the Moon +Written at the Grave of a Friend +To Misfortune +Sonnet--"As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care," +To April +Sonnet--"Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies," +To a Taper +To my Mother +Sonnet--"Yes, 't will be over soon. This sickly dream" +To Consumption +Sonnet--"Thy judgments, Lord, are just;" +Sonnet--"When I sit musing on the chequer'd part" +Sonnet--"Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile" +Sonnet--"Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts" + +BALLADS, SONGS, AND HYMNS. + +Gondoline +A Ballad--"Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds," +The Lullaby of a Female Convict to her Child, the Night previous + to Execution +The Savoyard's Return +A Pastoral Song +Melody--"Yes, once more that dying strain" +Additional Stanza to a Song by Waller +The Wandering Boy +Canzonet--"Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee'" +Song--"Softly, softly blow, ye breezes," +The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song to the Night +The Wonderful Juggler +Hymn--"Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake" +A Hymn for Family Worship +The Star of Bethlehem +Hymn--"O Lord, my God, in mercy turn" + +TRIBUTARY VERSES. + +Eulogy on Henry Kirke White, by Lord Byron +Sonnet on Henry Kirke White, by Capel Lofft +Sonnet occasioned by the Second of H. K. White, by the same +Written in the Homer of Mr. H. K. White, by the same +To the Memory of H. K. White, by the Rev. W. B. Collyer, A.M. +Sonnet to H. K. White, on his Poems, by Arthur Owen, Esq. +Sonnet, on seeing another written to H. K. White, by the same +Reflections on Reading the Life of the late H. K. White, by + William Holloway +On the Death of Henry Kirke White, by T. Park +Lines on the Death of Henry Kirke White, by the Rev. J. Plumptre +To Henry Kirke White, by H. Welker +Verses occasioned by the Death of H. K. White, by Josiah Conder +On Reading H. K. White's Poem on Solitude, by the same +Ode on the late Henry Kirke White, by Juvenis +Sonnet in Memory of Henry Kirke White, by J. G. +Lines on the Death of Henry Kirke White +Sonnet to H. K. White, on his Poems, by G. L. C. +To the Memory of Henry Kirke White, by a Lady +Stanzas supposed to have been written at the Grave of Henry Kirke + White, by a Lady + + + + + + +MEMOIR OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY SIR HARRIS NICOLAS. + + + Thine, Henry, is a deathless name on earth, + Thine amaranthine wreaths, new pluck'd in Heaven! + By what aspiring child of mortal birth + Could more be ask'd, to whom might more be given + TOWNSEND. + +It has been said that the contrasts of light and shade are as +necessary to biography as to painting, and that the character +which is radiant with genius and virtue requires to be relieved +by more common and opposite qualities. Though this may be true +as a principle, there are many exceptions; and the life of Henry +Kirke White, whose merits were unalloyed by a single vice, is one +of the most memorable. The history of his short and melancholy +career, by Mr. Southey, is extremely popular; and when it is +remembered that its author is one of the most distinguished of +living writers, that as a biographer he is unrivalled, and that +he had access to all the materials which exist, it would be as +vain to expect from the present Memoir any new facts, as it would +be absurd to hope that it will be more worthy of attention than +the imperishable monument which his generous friend has erected +to his memory. + +There is, however, nothing inconsistent with this admission, in +presuming that a Life of the Poet might be written almost as +interesting as the one alluded to, and without the writer assuming +to himself any unusual sagacity. As Mr. Southey's narrative is +prefixed to a collection of all Kirke White's remains, in prose as +well as in verse, his letters are inserted as part of his works, +instead of extracts from them being introduced into the Memoir. +This volume will, on the contrary, be confined to his Poems; and +such parts of his letters as describe his situation and feelings +at particular periods will be introduced into the account of his +life. Indeed, so frequent are the allusions to himself in those +letters as well as in his poems, that he may be almost considered +an autobiographer; and the writer who substitutes his own cold and +lifeless sketch for the glowing and animated portrait which these +memorials of genius afford, must either be deficient in skill, or +be under the dominion of overweening vanity. + +Few who have risen to eminence were, on the paternal side at +least, of humbler origin than Henry Kirke White. His father, John +White, was a butcher at Nottingham; but his mother, who bore the +illustrious name of Neville, is said to have belonged to a +respectable family in Staffordshire. He was born at Nottingham on +the 21st of March, 1785; and in his earliest years indications +were observed of the genius for which he was afterwards +distinguished. In his poem "Childhood," he has graphically +described the little school where, between the age of three and +five, he + + "enter'd, though with toil and pain, + The low vestibule of learning's fane." + +The venerable dame by whom he was + + "inured to alphabetic toils," + +and whose worth he gratefully commemorates, had the discernment +to perceive her charge's talents, and even foretold his future +celebrity: + + "And, as she gave my diligence its praise, + Talk'd of the honour of my future days." + +If he did not deceive himself, it was at this period that his +imagination became susceptible of poetic associations. Speaking +of the eagerness with which he left the usual sports of children +to listen to tales of imaginary woe, and of the effect which they +produced, he says, + + "Beloved moment! then 't was first I caught + The first foundation of romantic thought; + Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, + Then first that Poesy charm'd mine infant ear. + Soon stored with much of legendary lore, + The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more; + Far from the scene of gaiety and noise, + Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, + I hied me to the thick o'erarching shade, + And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid; + While at my feet the rippling runnel ran, + The days of wild romance antique I'd scan; + Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, + To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there." + +The peculiar disposition of his mind, having thus early displayed +itself, every day added to its force. Study and abstraction were his +greatest pleasures, and a love of reading became his predominant +passion. "I could fancy," said his eldest sister, "I see him in his +little chair with a large book upon his knee, and my mother calling, +'Henry, my love, come to dinner,' which was repeated so often +without being regarded, that she was obliged to change the tone of +her voice before she could rouse him." + +At the age of six he was placed under the care of the Rev. John +Blanchard, who kept the best school in Nottingham, where he learnt +writing, arithmetic, and French; and he continued there for +several years. During that time two facts are related of him which +prove the precocity of his talents. When about seven, he was +accustomed to go secretly into his father's kitchen and teach the +servant to read and write; and he composed a tale of a Swiss +emigrant, which he gave her, being too diffident to show it to his +mother. In his eleventh year he wrote a separate theme for each of +the twelve or fourteen boys in his class; and the excellence of +the various pieces obtained his master's applause. + +Henry was destined for his father's trade, and the efforts of his +mother to change that intention were for some time fruitless. Even +while he was at school, one day in every week, and his leisure +hours on the others, were employed in carrying meat to his father's +customers; but a dispute between his father and his master having +caused him to be removed from school, one of the ushers, from +malice or ignorance, told his mother that it was impossible to make +her son do any thing. The person who reported so unfavourably of +his abilities, little knew that he had then given ample evidence of +his talents, in some poetical satires which his treatment at school +had provoked, but which he afterwards destroyed. + +Soon after he quitted Mr. Blanchard's school he was intrusted to +Mr. Shipley, who discovered his pupil's abilities, and relieved +his friends' uneasiness on the subject. His earliest production +that has been preserved was written in his thirteenth year, "On +being confined to School one pleasant Morning in Spring," in which +a schoolboy's love of liberty, and his envy of the freedom of a +neighbouring wren, are expressed with plaintive simplicity. + +About this time a slight improvement took place in his situation. +His mother, to whom he was indebted for all the happiness of his +childhood, opened a day school, and, as it abstracted her from the +groveling cares of a butcher's shop, his home was made much more +comfortable; and, instead of being confined to his father's +business, he was placed in a stocking loom, with the view of +bringing him up to the trade of a hosier, the poverty of his +family still precluding the hope of a profession. + +It may easily be believed that this occupation ill agreed with the +aspirations of his mind. From his mother he had few secrets, and in +her ear he breathed his disgust and unhappiness. "He could not bear," +he said, "the idea of spending some years of his life in shining +and folding up stockings;" he wanted "something to occupy his brain, +and he should be wretched if he continued longer at this trade, or +indeed in any thing, except one of the learned professions." For a +year these remonstrances were ineffectual; but no persuasions, even +when urged with maternal tenderness, could reconcile him to his lot. +He sought for consolation with the Muses, and wrote an "Address to +Contemplation," in which he describes his feelings: + + "Why along + The dusky track of commerce should I toil, + When, with an easy competence content, + I can alone be happy; where, with thee, + I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, + And loose the wings of fancy! Thus alone + Can I partake of happiness on earth; + And to be happy here is man's chief end, + For to be happy he must needs be good." + +There are few obstacles that perseverance will not overcome; and +penury and a parent's obstinacy were both surmounted by Kirke +White's importunity. Finding it useless to chain him longer to the +hosier's loom, he was placed in the office of Messrs. Coldham and +Enfield, Town Clerk and attorneys of Nottingham, some time in May, +1799, when he was in his fifteenth year; but as a premium could +not be given with him, it was agreed that he should serve two +years before he was articled. A few months after he entered upon +his new employment, he began a correspondence with his brother, +Mr. Neville White, who was then a medical student in London; and +in a letter, dated in September, 1799, he thus spoke of his +situation and prospects: + +"It is now nearly four months since I entered into Mr. Coldham's +office; and it is with pleasure I can assure you, that I never yet +found any thing disagreeable, but, on the contrary, every thing I +do seems a pleasure to me, and for a very obvious reason,--it is a +business which I like--a business which I chose before all others; +and I have two good-tempered, easy masters, but who will, +nevertheless, see that their business is done in a neat and proper +manner."--"A man that understands the law is sure to have business; +and in case I have no thoughts, in case, that is, that I do not +aspire to hold the honourable place of a barrister, I shall feel +sure of gaining a genteel livelihood at the business to which I am +articled." + +At the suggestion of his employers, he devoted the greater part of +his leisure to Latin; and, though he was but slightly assisted, he +was able in ten months to read Horace with tolerable facility, and +had made some progress in Greek. Having but little time for these +pursuits, he accustomed himself to decline the Greek nouns and +verbs during his walks to and from the office, and he thereby +acquired a habit of studying while walking, that never deserted +him. The account which Mr. Southey has given of his application, +and of the success that attended it, is astonishing. Though living +with his family, he nearly estranged himself from their society. +At meals, and during the evenings, a book was constantly in his +hands; and as he refused to sup with them, to prevent any loss of +time, his meal was sent to him in his little apartment. Law, +Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, chemistry, +astronomy, electricity, drawing, music, and mechanics, by turns +engaged his attention; and though his acquirements in some of +those studies were very superficial, his proficiency in many of +them was far from contemptible. His papers on law evince so much +industry, that had that subject alone occupied his leisure hours, +his diligence would have been commendable. He was a tolerable +Italian scholar, and in the classics he afterwards attained +reputation; but of the sciences and of Spanish and Portuguese, his +knowledge was not, it may be inferred, very great. His ear for +music was good, and his passionate attachment to it is placed +beyond a doubt by his verses on its effects: + + "With her in pensive mood I long to roam + At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, + And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam, + In calm Seclusion's hermit-walks recline:" + +But he checked his ardour, lest it might interfere with more +essential studies: and his musical attainments were limited to +playing pleasingly on the piano, composing the bass to the air +at the same time. + +Ambition was one of the most powerful feelings of his nature, and +it is rare indeed, when it is not the companion of great talents. +It developed itself first in spurning trade; and no sooner did he +find himself likely to become an attorney, than he aspired to the +bar. But his earliest and strongest passion was for literary +distinction; and he was scarcely removed from the trammels of +school, before he sought admission into a literary society, in his +native town. His extreme youth rendered him objectionable; but, +after repeated refusals, he at last succeeded. In the association +there were six professors, and being, on the first vacancy, +appointed to the chair of literature, he soon justified the +choice. Taking "genius" as his theme, he addressed the assembly in +an extemporaneous lecture of two hours and three-quarters duration, +with so much success, that the audience unanimously voted him +their thanks, declaring that "the society had never heard a better +lecture delivered from the chair which he so much honoured." To +judge properly of this circumstance, it would be necessary to +know of whom the society was composed; but with so flattering a +testimony to his abilities, the sanguine boy naturally placed a +high estimate on them. + +The establishment of a Magazine called the Monthly Preceptor, +which proposed prize themes for young persons, afforded Kirke +White an opportunity of trying his literary powers. In a letter +written in June, 1800, to his brother, speaking of that work he +says, "I am noticed as worthy of commendation, and as affording +an encouraging prospect of future excellence. You will laugh. I +have also turned poet, and have translated an Ode of Horace into +English verse." His productions gained him several of the prizes; +and he soon afterwards became a contributor to the Monthly Mirror, +his compositions in which attracted the attention of Mr. Hill, the +proprietor of the work, and of Mr. Capel Lofft, a gentleman who +distinguished himself by his patronage of Bloomfield. + +Though on entering an attorney's office the bar was the object of +his hopes, a constitutional deafness soon convinced him that he +was not adapted for the duties of an advocate; and his thoughts, +from conscientious motives, became directed to the Church. + +When about fifteen, his mind was agitated by doubt and anxiety on +the most important of all subjects; and the chaos of opinions +which extensive and miscellaneous reading so often produces on +ardent and imaginative temperaments, is well described in his +little poem entitled, "My own Character," wherein he represents +himself as a prey to the most opposite impressions, and as being +in a miserable state of incertitude: + + "First I premise it's my honest conviction, + That my breast is the chaos of all contradiction, + Religious--deistic--now loyal and warm, + Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform; + * * * * * + Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay, + To all points of the compass I veer in a day." + +In this sketch there is evidently much truth; and it affords a +striking idea of a plastic and active mind, on which every thing +makes an impression, where one idea follows another in such rapid +succession, that the former is not so entirely removed, but that +some remains of it are amalgamated with its successor. A youth +whose intellect is thus tossed in a whirlpool of conflicting +speculations, resembles a goodly ship newly launched, which, until +properly steadied by ballast, reels from side to side, the sport +of every undulation of the waters. + +About this time young White's religious feelings were strongly +affected by the conversion of his friend, Mr. Almond, whose +opinions were previously as unsettled as his own. To escape the +raillery with which he expected White would assail him on learning +the change in his sentiments, Almond avoided his society; and when +his friend offered to defend his opinions, if Henry would allow +the divine originality of the Bible, he exclaimed, "Good God! you +surely regard me in a worse light than I deserve." The discussion +that followed, and the perusal of Scott's "Force of Truth," which +Almond placed in his hands, induced him to direct his attention +seriously to the subject; but an affecting incident soon afterwards +showed how deeply he was then influenced by religious considerations. +On the evening before Mr. Almond left Nottingham for Cambridge, he +was requested by White to accompany him to his apartment. The moment +they entered, Henry burst into tears, declaring that his anguish of +mind was insupportable; and he entreated Almond to kneel and pray +for him. Their tears and supplications were cordially mingled, and +when they were about to separate, White said, "What must I do? You +are the only friend to whom I can apply in this agonizing state, +and you are about to leave me. My literary associates are all +inclined to deism. I have no one with whom I can communicate." + +It is instructive to learn to what circumstance such a person as +Kirke White was indebted for the knowledge "which causes not to +err." This information occurs in a letter from him to a Mr. Booth, +in August, 1801; and it also fixes the date of the happy change +that influenced every thought and every action of his future life, +which gave the energy of virtue to his exertions, soothed the +asperities of a temper naturally impetuous and irritable, and +enabled him, at a period when manhood is full of hope and promise, +to view the approaches of death with the calmness of a philosopher, +and the resignation of a saint. + +After thanking Mr. Booth for the present of Jones's work on the +Trinity, he thus describes his religious impressions previous to +its perusal, and the effect it produced: + +"Religious polemics, indeed, have seldom formed a part of my +studies; though whenever I happened accidentally to turn my +thoughts to the subject of the Protestant doctrine of the Godhead, +and compared it with Arian and Socinian, many doubts interfered, +and I even began to think that the more nicely the subject was +investigated, the more perplexed it would appear, and was on the +point of forming a resolution to go to heaven in my own way, +without meddling or involving myself in the inextricable labyrinth +of controversial dispute, when I received and perused this +excellent treatise, which finally cleared up the mists which my +ignorance had conjured around me, and clearly pointed out the real +truth." + +From the moment he became convinced of the truths of Christianity, +all the enthusiasm of his nature was kindled. The ministry only, +was deemed worthy of his ambition; and he devoted his thoughts to +the sacred office with a zeal that justified a hope of the richest +fruits. In a letter to his friend, Mr. Almond, in November, 1803, +he says, + +"My dear friend, I cannot adequately express what I owe to you on +the score of religion. I told Mr. Robinson you were the first +instrument of my being brought to think deeply on religious +subjects; and I feel more and more every day, that if it had not +been for you, I might, most probably, have been now buried in apathy +and unconcern. Though I am in a great measure blessed,--I mean +blessed with faith, now pretty steadfast, and heavy convictions, +I am far from being happy. My sins have been of a dark hue, and +manifold: I have made Fame my God, and Ambition my shrine. I have +placed all my hopes on the things of this world. I have knelt to +Dagon; I have worshipped the evil creations of my own proud heart, +and God had well nigh turned his countenance from me in wrath; +perhaps one step further, and he might have shut me for ever from +his rest. I now turn my eyes to Jesus, my Saviour, my atonement, +with hope and confidence: he will not repulse the imploring +penitent; his arms are open to all, they are open even to me; and +in return for such a mercy, what can I do less than dedicate my +whole life to his service? My thoughts would fain recur at +intervals to my former delights; but I am now on my guard to +restrain and keep them in. I know now where they ought to +concentre, and with the blessing of God, they shall there all tend. + +"My next publication of poems will be solely religious. I shall +not destroy those of a different nature, which now lie before me; +but they will, most probably, sleep in my desk, until, in the good +time of my great Lord and Master, I shall receive my passport from +this world of vanity. I am now bent on a higher errand than that +of the attainment of poetical fame; poetry, in future, will be my +relaxation, not my employment.--Adieu to literary ambition! 'You +do not aspire to be prime minister,' said Mr. Robinson; 'you covet +a far higher character--to be the humblest among those who +minister to their Maker.'" + +To the arguments of his friends on the impolicy of quitting a +profession to which he had given so much of his time, and on the +obstacles to the attainment of his wishes, he was impenetrable. +His employers generously offered to cancel his articles as soon as +he could show that his resources were likely to support him at the +University. Friends arose as they became necessary, and more than +one or two persons exerted themselves to promote his views; but +his principal reliance was on the sale of a little volume of +Poems, which, at the suggestion of Mr. Capel Lofft, he prepared +for the press. + +The history of an author's first book is always interesting, and +Kirke White's was attended with unusual incidents. A novice in +literature often imagines that it is important his work should be +dedicated to some person of rank; and the Countess of Derby was +applied to, who declined, on the ground that she never accepted a +compliment of that nature. He then addressed the Duchess of +Devonshire; and a letter, with the manuscript, was left at her +house. The difficulty of obtaining access to her Grace proved so +great, that more than one letter to his brother was written on the +subject, in which he indignantly says, "I am cured of patronage +hunting; as for begging patronage, I am tired to the soul of it, +and shall give it up." Permission to inscribe the book to the +Duchess was at length granted: the book came out in 1803; and a +copy was transmitted to her, of which, however, no notice whatever +was taken. + +On the publication of the volume, a copy was sent to each Review, +with a letter deprecatory of the severity of criticism, an act as +ill judged as it was useless, since all that a young writer could +properly say was to be found in the preface, in which he stated +that his inducement to publish was, "the facilitation through its +means of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, have been +the principal objects of his ambition, and the increase of the +capacity to pursue these inclinations, which may one day place him +in an honourable station in the scale of society." + +His feelings received a severe wound from the notice of his Poems +in the Monthly Review, the writer of which, not satisfied with saying +that the production did not "justify any sanguine expectations," +selected four of the worst lines in support of his opinion, and +showed himself insensible of the numerous beauties scattered +through the various pieces. Writing to a friend soon afterwards, +he thus spoke of himself; and more mental wretchedness has seldom +been described: + +"I am at present under afflictions and contentions of spirit, +heavier than I have yet ever experienced. I think, at times, I am +mad, and destitute of religion; my pride is not yet subdued: the +unfavourable review (in the 'Monthly') of my unhappy work, has cut +deeper than you could have thought; not in a literary point of +view, but as it affects my respectability. It represents me actually +as a beggar, going about gathering money to put myself at college, +when my book is worthless; and this with every appearance of candour. +They have been sadly misinformed respecting me: this review goes +before me wherever I turn my steps; it haunts me incessantly, and +I am persuaded it is an instrument in the hand of Satan to drive me +to distraction. I must leave Nottingham. If the answer of the Elland +Society be unfavourable, I purpose writing to the Marquis of +Wellesley, to offer myself as a student at the academy he has +instituted at Fort William, in Bengal, and at the proper age to take +orders there. The missionaries at that place have done wonders +already; and I should, I hope, be a valuable labourer in the +vineyard. If the Marquis take no notice of my application, or do +not accede to my proposal, I shall place myself in some other way +of making a meet preparation for the holy office, either in the +Calvinistic Academy, or in one of the Scotch Universities, where I +shall be able to live at scarcely any expense." + +The criticism just adverted to was as unfeeling as unjust; and but +for the generous conduct of a distinguished living poet, whose +benevolence of heart is equal to his genius, it might have entirely +crushed his hopes. Disgusted at the injustice of this criticism, +Mr. Southey instantly wrote to White, expressing his opinion of the +merits of his book, and giving him the encouragement and advice +which none was ever more ready or more able to bestow. Thus, an act +of cruel folly proved in its consequences the most beneficial of +the Poet's life. His spirits were invigorated by this considerate +kindness, and his feelings were expressed in glowing terms: + +"I dare not say all I feel respecting your opinion of my little +volume. The extreme acrimony with which the Monthly Review (of all +others the most important) treated me, threw me into a state of +stupefaction. I regarded all that had passed as a dream, and I +thought I had been deluding myself into an idea of possessing +poetic genius, when, in fact, I had only the longing, without the +_afflatus._ I mustered resolution enough, however, to write +spiritedly to them: their answer, in the ensuing number, was a +tacit acknowledgment that they had been somewhat too unsparing in +their correction. It was a poor attempt to salve over a wound +wantonly and most ungenerously inflicted. Still I was damped, +because I knew the work was very respectable; and therefore could +not, I concluded, give a criticism grossly deficient in equity, +the more especially, as I knew of no sort of inducement to +extraordinary severity. Your letter, however, has revived me, and +I do again venture to hope that I may still produce something +which will survive me. With regard to your advice and offers of +assistance, I will not attempt, because I am unable, to thank you +for them. To-morrow morning I depart for Cambridge; and I have +considerable hopes that, as I do not enter into the University +with any sinister or interested views, but sincerely desire to +perform the duties of an affectionate and vigilant pastor, and +become more useful to mankind; I therefore have hopes, I say, that +I shall find means of support in the University. If I do not, I +shall certainly act in pursuance of your recommendations; and +shall, without hesitation, avail myself of your offers of service, +and of your directions. In a short time this will be determined; +and when it is, I shall take the liberty of writing to you at +Keswick, to make you acquainted with the result. I have only one +objection to publishing by subscription, and I confess it has +weight with me; it is, that, in this step, I shall seem to be +acting upon the advice so unfeelingly and contumeliously given by +the Monthly Reviewers, who say what is equal to this, that had I +gotten a subscription for my poems before their merit was known, I +might have succeeded; provided, it seems, I had made a particular +statement of my case; like a beggar who stands with his hat in one +hand, and a full account of his cruel treatment on the coast of +Barbary in the other, and so gives you his penny sheet for your +sixpence, by way of half purchase, half charity. I have materials +for another volume; but they were written principally while +Clifton Grove was in the press, or soon after, and do not now at +all satisfy me. Indeed, of late, I have been obliged to desist, +almost entirely, from converse with the dames of Helicon. The +drudgery of an attorney's office, and the necessity of preparing +myself, in case I should succeed in getting to college, in what +little leisure I could boast, left no room for the flights of the +imagination." + +As soon as there were reasonable hopes of an adequate support +being obtained for him at Cambridge, he went to the village of +Wilford, for a month, to recruit his health, on which intense +application had made great inroads. Near this place were Clifton +Woods, the subject of one of his Poems, and which had long been +his favourite resort. Here he fully indulged in that love of the +beauties of nature, which forms a leading trait in the Poetic +character: and on this occasion he gave full reins to those +reveries of the imagination, of the delight of which a Poet only +is sensible. His lines on Wilford Church Yard show the melancholy +tone of his mind; and those Verses, as well as his "Ode to +Disappointment," of which no praise would be too extravagant, +appear to have been written, on learning from his mother, before +he left Wilford, that the efforts made to place him at Cambridge +had failed. It was evidently to this circumstance, which for the +time blighted his aspirations, that he alluded, when he says he +was, + + "From Hope's summit hurl'd." + +His remark to his mother on this occasion evinced, nevertheless, +great energy of mind. His complaints were confined to verse, for +the disappointment had no other effect upon his conduct than to +induce him to apply to his studies with unprecedented vigour, +that, since he was to revert to the law as a profession, he might +not be, as he observed, "a _mediocre_ attorney." He read regularly +from five in the morning until some time after midnight, and +occasionally passed whole nights without lying down; and the +entreaties, even when accompanied by the tears of his mother, +that he would not thus destroy his health, did not induce him to +relax his zeal. + +Symptoms of consumption, the disease to which he ultimately became +a victim, and which he designates, in one of his many allusions to +it, as + + "The most fatal of Pandora's train," + +began now to excite the anxiety of his family. Illness was, however, +forgotten in the realization of the hope dearest to his heart. The +exertions of his friends proved successful at a time when all +expectations had vanished; and by their united efforts it was +resolved that he should become a sizer of St. John's College, +Cambridge, his brother Neville, his mother, and a benevolent +individual, whose name is not mentioned, having agreed to contribute +to support him. It appears, that if he had not succeeded in that +object, he intended to have joined the society of orthodox dissenters, +for which purpose he underwent an examination. Though his attainments +and character proved satisfactory on that occasion, his volume of +Poems rose in judgment against him, and nothing but the approbation +Mr. Southey had expressed of them prevented his work from being +considered a disqualification for the ministry. His feelings on +the prospect of entering the Church are described with great force +in his letter, dated in April, 1804. + +"Most fervently do I return thanks to God for this providential +opening: it has breathed new animation into me, and my breast +expands with the prospect of becoming the minister of Christ where +I most desired it; but where I almost feared all probability of +success was nearly at an end. Indeed, I had begun to turn my +thoughts to the dissenters, as people of whom I was destined, not +by choice, but necessity, to become the pastor. Still, although I +knew I should be happy anywhere, so that I were a profitable +labourer in the vineyard, I did, by no means, feel that calm, that +indescribable satisfaction which I do when I look toward that +Church, which I think in the main formed on the apostolic model, +and from which I am decidedly of opinion there is no positive +grounds for dissent. I return thanks to God for keeping me so long + in suspense, for I know it has been beneficial to my soul, and I +feel a considerable trust that the way is now about to be made +clear, and that my doubts and fears on this head will, in due +time, be removed." + +Being advised to degrade for a year, and to place himself with a +private tutor, he went to the Rev. Mr. Grainger of Winteringham, +in Lincolnshire, in the autumn of 1804. While under that gentleman's +care he studied with such intense fervour, that fears were excited +not for his health only, but for his intellect; and a second severe +attack of illness was the consequence. Poetry was now laid aside, +and as he himself told a friend in February, 1805, + +"My poor neglected Muse has lain absolutely unnoticed by me for +the last four months, during which period I have been digging in +the mines of Scapula for Greek roots, and instead of drinking with +eager delight the beauties of Virgil have been culling and drying +his phrases for future use."--"I fear my good genius, who was +wont to visit me with nightly visions in woods and brakes and by +the river's marge, is now dying of a fen ague, and I shall thus +probably emerge from my retreat not a hair-brained son of +imagination, but a sedate black-lettered book worm, with a head +like an etymologicon magnum." + +To Mr. Capel Lofft, in the September following, after stating that +all his time was employed in preparing himself for orders, his +estimate of the necessary qualifications being, very high, he +observed: + +"I often, however, cast a look of fond regret to the darling +occupations of my younger hours, and the tears rush into my eyes, +as I fancy I see the few wild flowers of poetic genius, with which +I have been blessed, withering with neglect. Poetry has been to me +something more than amusement; it has been a cheering companion +when I have had no other to fly to, and a delightful solace when +consolation has been in some measure needful. I cannot, therefore, +discard so old and faithful a friend without deep regret, +especially when I reflect that, stung by my ingratitude, he may +desert me for ever!" + +But the old fire was, he adds, rekindled by looking over some of +his pieces which Mr. Lofft wished to print; and he transmitted to +that gentleman a short Poem, expressive of his sorrow at taking +leave of his favourite pursuit. The following passages could only +have arisen from a love of Poetry, which it was not in the power +of severer studies to extinguish: + + Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased + To hover o'er the many voiced strings + Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still + Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, + And with recalled images of bliss + Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw, + Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand + O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased, + It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth + Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek; + Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy! + The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, + Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, + Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month, + Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, + Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress! + I cannot burst thy bonds! + +In October, 1805, Kirke White became a resident member of St. +John's College, Cambridge; and such was the use he had made of his +time at Winteringham, that he was distinguished for his classical +knowledge. But he had dearly purchased his superiority. His +constitution was much shattered when he went to Mr. Grainger, and +every day brought with it new proofs that his career had nearly +reached its bounds. The only chance of prolonging his life was to +seek a milder climate, and to abandon study entirely. As in all +great minds, Fame was, however, dearer to him than existence. He +felt that every thing connected with his future prospects was at +stake; and he adhered to a course of rigorous application until +nature gave way. During his first term he became a candidate for +one of the University scholarships; but the increased exertion he +underwent was attended by results that obliged him to retire from +the contest. At this moment the general college examination +approached, and thinking that if he failed his hopes would be +blasted for ever, he taxed his energies to the uttermost, during +the fortnight which intervened, to meet the trial. His illness, +however, speedily returned; and, with tears in his eyes, he +informed his tutor, Mr. Catton, that he could not go into the Hall +to be examined. That gentleman, whose kindness to the Poet +entitles his name to respect, urged him to support himself during +the six days of the examination. Powerful stimulants were +administered, and he was pronounced the first man of his year. The +triumph, complete and exhilarating as it was, too closely +resembled that of the generous steed, who, in distancing his +competitors, reaches the goal, and dies; and his own ideas of the +sacrifices with which such an honour must be attended were very +poetical. He said to an intimate friend, almost the last time he +saw him, that were he to paint a picture of Fame crowning a +distinguished under graduate after the senate house examination, +he would represent her as concealing a death's head under a mask +of beauty. + +Soon after this event, Kirke White went to London, and on +Christmas Eve he wrote to his mother from town, stating that his +health had been rather affected by study, that he came to London +for amusement, and that his tutor had, in the kindest manner, +relieved his mind from pecuniary cares, and cheered him with the +assurance that his talents would be rewarded by his College. But +it is from his letters to his friend that the real state to which +excitement and labour had reduced him, is to be learnt, because, +to allay the fears of his relations, he represented himself to +them, as being much better than he actually was: + +London, Christmas, 1805. + +"I wrote you a letter, which now lies in my drawer at St. John's; +but in such a weak state of body, and in so desponding and +comfortless a tone of mind, that I knew it would give you pain, +and therefore I chose not to send it. I have indeed been ill; but +thanks to God, I am recovered. My nerves were miserably shattered +by over application, and the absence of all that could amuse, and +the presence of many things which weighed heavy upon my spirits. +When I found myself too ill to read, and too desponding to endure +my own reflections, I discovered that it is really a miserable +thing to be destitute of the soothing and supporting hand when +nature most needs it. I wandered up and down from one man's room +to another, and from one College to another, imploring society, a +little conversation, and a little relief of the burden which +pressed upon my spirits; and I am sorry to say, that those who, +when I was cheerful and lively, sought my society with avidity, +now, when I actually needed conversation, were too busy to grant +it. Our College examination was then approaching, and I perceived +with anguish that I had read for the university scholarship until +I had barely time to get up our private subjects, and that as I +was now too ill to read, all hope of getting through the +examination with decent respectability was at an end. This was an +additional grief. I went to our tutor, with tears in my eyes, and +told him I must absent myself from the examination,--a step which +would have precluded me from a station amongst the prize-men until +the second year. He earnestly entreated me to run the risk. My +surgeon gave me strong stimulants and supporting medicines during +the examination week; and I passed, I believe, one of the most +respectable examinations amongst them. As soon as ever it was +over, I left Cambridge, by the advice of my surgeon and tutor, +and I feel myself now pretty strong. I have given up the thought +of sitting for the University scholarship, in consequence of my +illness, as the course of my reading was effectually broken. In +this place I have been much amused, and have been received with an +attention in the literary circles which I neither expected nor +deserved. But this does not affect me as it once would have done: +my views are widely altered; and I hope that I shall in time learn +to lay my whole heart at the foot of the cross." + +Early in January following he returned to Cambridge, and +imprudently resumed his old habits of study, according to the +following plan: "Rise at half-past five; devotions and walk till +seven; chapel and breakfast till eight; study and lectures till +one; four and a half clear reading; walk, &c. and dinner, and +Wollaston, and chapel to six; six to nine reading, three hours; +nine to ten devotions; bed at ten." With him, however, exercise +was but slight relaxation, as his intellectual faculties were kept +on the stretch during his walks, and he is known to have committed +to memory a whole tragedy of Euripides in this manner, and as they +were not less exerted in his devotions, his mind must have been +intensely occupied for twelve or fourteen hours a day, at a moment +when perfect quiet and rest were indispensable. Within a very few +weeks he paid a heavy penalty for his indiscretion. To his friend, +Mr. Haddock, he wrote on the 17th of February, 1806: + +"Do not think I am reading hard; I believe it is all over with +that. I have had a recurrence of my old complaint within this last +four or five days, which has half unnerved me for every thing. The +state of my health is really miserable; I am well and lively in +the morning, and overwhelmed with nervous horrors in the evening. +I do not know how to proceed with regard to my studies:--a very +slight overstretch of the mind in the daytime occasions me not +only a sleepless night, but a night of gloom and horror. The +systole and diastole of my heart seem to be playing at ball--the +stake, my life. I can only say the game is not yet decided:--I +allude to the violence of the palpitation. I am going to mount the +Gog-magog hills this morning, in quest of a good night's sleep. +The Gog-magog hills for my body, and the Bible for my mind, are my +only medicines. I am sorry to say, that neither are quite +adequate. Cui, igitur; dandum est vitio? Mihi prorsus. I hope, as +the summer comes, my spirits (which have been with the swallows, a +winter's journey) will come with it. When my spirits are restored, +my health will be restored:--the 'fons mali' lies there. Give me +serenity and equability of mind, and all will be well." + +He, however, rallied again; but he seems to have been aware that +his end was not far distant, for in March he told his brother that +though his stay at Cambridge, in the long vacation, was important, +he intended to go to Nottingham for his health, and more +particularly for his mother's sake; adding, "I shall be glad to +moor all my family in the harbour of religious trust, and in the +calm seas of religious peace. These concerns are apt at times to +escape me; but they now press much upon my heart, and I think it +is my first duty to see that my family are safe in the most +important of all affairs." + +In April, however, he drew a pleasing picture of his future life, +in which his filial and paternal tenderness are conspicuous; but +he soon afterwards went to Nottingham; and in a letter to his +friend Mr. Leeson, written from that town, on the 7th of April, +he gave a very melancholy account of himself: + +"It seems determined upon, by my mother, that I cannot be spared, +since the time of my stay is so very short, and my health so very +uncertain. The people here can scarcely be persuaded that any +thing ails me; so well do I look; but occasional depressions, +especially after any thing has occurred to occasion uneasiness, +still harass me. My mind is of a very peculiar cast. I began to +think too early; and the indulgence of certain trains of thought, +and too free an exercise of the imagination, have superinduced a +morbid kind of sensibility; which is to the mind what excessive +irritability is to the body. Some circumstances occurred on my +arrival at Nottingham, which gave me just cause for inquietude +and anxiety; the consequences were insomnia, and a relapse into +causeless dejections. It is my business now to curb these +irrational and immoderate affections, and, by accustoming myself +to sober thought and cool reasoning, to restrain these freaks and +vagaries of the fancy, and redundancies of [Greek: melancholia]. +When I am well, I cannot help entertaining a sort of contempt for +the weakness of mind which marks my indispositions. Titus when +well, and Titus when ill, are two distinct persons. The man, when +in health, despises the man, when ill, for his weakness, and the +latter envies the former for his felicity." + +As his health declined his prospects seemed to brighten. He was +again pronounced first at the great College examination; he was +one of the three best theme writers, whose merits were so nearly +equal that the examiners could not decide between them; and he +was a prize-man both in the mathematical and logical or general +examination, and in Latin composition. His College offered him a +private tutor at its expense, and Mr. Catton obtained exhibitions +for him to the value of sixty-six pounds per annum, by which he +was enabled to give up the pecuniary assistance he had received +from his friends. But even at this moment, when the world promised +so much, his situation was truly deplorable. The highest honours +of the University were supposed to be within his grasp, and the +conviction that such was the general opinion, goaded him on to the +most strenuous exertions when he was incapable of the slightest. +This struggle between his mental and physical powers, was not, +however, of long duration. In July he was seized with an attack +that threatened his life, and which he thus described in a letter +to Mr. Maddock: + +"Last Saturday morning I rose early, and got up some rather +abstruse problems in mechanics for my tutor, spent an hour with +him, between eight and nine got my breakfast, and read the Greek +History (at breakfast) till ten, then sat down to decipher some +logarithm tables. I think I had not done any thing at them, when +I lost myself. At a quarter past eleven my laundress found me +bleeding in four different places in my face and head, and +insensible. I got up and staggered about the room, and she, being +frightened, ran away, and told my gyp to fetch a surgeon. Before +he came I was sallying out with my flannel gown on, and my +academical gown over it; he made me put on my coat, and then I +went to Mr. Farish's: he opened a vein, and my recollection +returned. My own idea was, that I had fallen out of bed, and so I +told Mr. Farish at first; but I afterwards remembered that I had +been to Mr. Fiske, and breakfasted. Mr. Catton has insisted on my +consulting Sir Isaac Pennington, and the consequence is, that I +am to go through a course of blistering, &c. which, after the +bleeding, will leave me weak enough. + +"I am, however, very well, except as regards the doctors, and +yesterday I drove into the country to Saffron Walden, in a gig. +My tongue is in a bad condition, from a bite which I gave it +either in my fall, or in the moments of convulsion. My nose has +also come badly off. I believe I fell against my reading desk. +My other wounds are only rubs and scratches on the carpet. I am +ordered to remit my studies for a while, by the common advice both +of doctors and tutors. Dr. Pennington hopes to prevent any +recurrence of the fit. He thinks it looks towards epilepsy, of the +horrors of which malady I have a very full and precise idea; and I +only pray that God will spare me as respects my faculties, however +else it may seem good to him to afflict me. Were I my own master, +I know how I should act; but I am tied here by bands which I +cannot burst. I know that change of place is needful; but I must +not indulge in the idea. The college must not pay my tutor for +nothing. Dr. Pennington and Mr. Farish attribute the attack to a +too continued tension of the faculties. As I am much alone now, I +never get quite off study, and I think incessantly. I know nature +will not endure this. They both proposed my going home, but Mr. * * +did not hint at it, although much concerned; and, indeed, I know +home would be a bad place for me in my present situation. I look +round for a resting place, and I find none. Yet there is one, +which I have long too, too much disregarded, and thither I must +now betake myself. There are many situations worse than mine, and +I have no business to complain. If these afflictions should draw +the bonds tighter which hold me to my Redeemer, it will be well. +You may be assured that you have here a plain statement of my case +in its true colours without any palliation. I am now well again, +and have only to fear a relapse, which I shall do all I can to +prevent, by a relaxation in study. I have now written too much. + +"I am, very sincerely yours, + +"H. K. WHITE. + +"P. S. I charge you, as you value my peace, not to let my friends +hear, either directly or indirectly of my illness." + +A few weeks afterwards he again directed his mother's hopes to a +tranquil retreat for his family in his parsonage, but said nothing +of his illness; and he told Mr. Haddock, in September, + +"I am perfectly well again, and have experienced no recurrence of +the fit: my spirits, too, are better, and I read very moderately. +I hope that God will be pleased to spare his rebellious child; +this stroke has brought me nearer to Him; whom indeed have I for +my comforter but Him? I am still reading, but with moderation, as +I have been during the whole vacation, whatever you may persist +in thinking. My heart turns with more fondness towards the +consolations of religion than it did, and in some degree I have +found consolation." + +But notwithstanding these flattering expressions, he appears to +have felt that he had but a short time to live; and it was +probably about this period that he wrote his lines on the +"Prospect of Death," perhaps one of the most beautiful and +affecting compositions in our language: + + "On my bed, in wakeful restlessness, + I turn me wearisome; while all around, + All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness; + I only wake to watch the sickly taper + Which lights me to my tomb.--Yes, 'tis the hand + Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals, + Slow sapping the warm current of existence + My moments now are few--the sand of life + Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little, + And the last fleeting particle will fall, + Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. + Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate + While meditate we may. + * * * * * + I hoped I should not leave + The earth without a vestige; Fate decrees + It shall be otherwise, and I submit. + Henceforth, O world, no more of thy desires! + No more of Hope! the wanton vagrant Hope; + I abjure all. Now other cares engross me, + And my tired soul, with emulative haste, + Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven." + +On the 22nd of September he wrote to Mr. Charlesworth, and his +letter indicates the possession of higher spirits and more +sanguine hopes, than almost any other in his correspondence. +About the end of that month he went to London, on a visit to his +brother Neville, but returned to College within a few weeks, in a +state that precluded all chance of prolonging his existence; but +still he did not cease to hope, or rather sought to delude his +brother into the belief that he should recover; for in a letter +addressed to him, which was found in his pocket after his decease, +dated Saturday, 11th of October, he says, + +"I am safely arrived, and in College, but my illness has increased +upon me much. The cough continues, and is attended with a good +deal of fever. I am under the care of Mr. Parish, and entertain +very little apprehension about the cough; but my over-exertions +in town have reduced me to a state of much debility; and, until +the cough be gone, I cannot be permitted to take any strengthening +medicines. This places me in an awkward predicament; but I think +I perceive a degree of expectoration this morning, which will soon +relieve me, and then I shall mend apace. Under these circumstances +I must not expect to see you here at present; when I am a little +recovered, it will be a pleasant relaxation to me. Our lectures +began on Friday, but I do not attend them until I am better. I +have not written to my mother, nor shall I while I remain unwell. +You will tell her, as a reason, that our lectures began on Friday. +I know she will be uneasy if she do not hear from me, and still +more so, if I tell her I am ill. + +"I cannot write more at present than that I am + +"Your truly affectionate Brother, + +"H. K. WHITE." + +A friend acquainted his brother with his situation, who hastened +to him; but when he arrived he was delirious, and though reason +returned for a few moments, as if to bless him with the +consciousness that the same fond relative, to whose attachment +he owed so much, was present at his last hour, he sunk into a +stupor, and on Sunday, the 19th of October, 1806, he breathed +his last. + +Thus died, in his twenty-second year, Henry Kirke White, whose +genius and virtues justified the brightest hopes, and whose +fitness for Heaven does not bring the consolation for his untimely +fate which perhaps it ought. It is impossible to refrain from +anticipating what his talents might have produced, had his +existence been extended; and though it is extremely doubtful if he +were capable of worldly happiness, there is a selfishness in our +nature which makes us grieve when those who are likely to increase +our intellectual pleasures are hurried to the grave. + +In whatever light the character of this unhappy youth be +contemplated, it is full of instruction. His talents were unusually +precocious, and their variety was as astonishing as their extent. +Besides the Poetical pieces in this volume, and his scholastic +attainments, his ability was manifested in various other ways. +His style was remarkable for its clearness and elegance, and his +correspondence and prose pieces show extensive information. To +great genius and capacity, he united the rarest and more important +gifts of sound judgment and common sense. It is usually the +misfortune of genius to invest ordinary objects with a meretricious +colouring, that perverts their forms and purposes, to make its +possessor imagine that it exempts him from attending to those +strict rules of moral conduct to which others are bound to adhere, +and to render him neglectful of the sacred assurance that "to whom +much is given from him will much be required." Nature, in Kirke +White's case, appears, on the contrary, to have determined that +she would, in one instance at least, prove that high intellectual +attainments are strictly compatible with every social and moral +virtue. At a very early period of his life, religion became the +predominant feeling of his mind, and she imparted her sober and +chastened effects to all his thoughts and actions. The cherished +object of every member of his family, he repaid their affection by +the most anxious solicitude for their welfare, offering his advice +on spiritual affairs with impressive earnestness, and indicating, +in every letter of his voluminous correspondence, the greatest +consideration for their feelings and happiness. For the last six +years he deemed himself marked out for the service of his Maker, +not like the member of a convent, whose duties consist only in +prayer, but in the exercise of that philanthropy and practical +benevolence which ought to adorn every parish priest. To qualify +himself properly for the holy office, he subjected his mind to the +severest discipline; and his letters display a rational piety, and +an enlightened view of religious obligations, that confer much +greater honour upon his name, than his Poetical pieces, whether as +proofs of talent, or of the qualities of his heart. + +Such was Henry Kirke White as he appeared to others; but there are +minuter traits of character which no observer can catch, and which +the possessor must himself delineate. Though early impressed with +melancholy, it was not of a misanthropic nature; and while despair +and disappointment were preying on his heart, he was all sweetness +and docility to others. A consciousness of the possession of +abilities, and of being capable of better things than those which +he seemed destined to perform, gives to some of his productions the +appearance of discontent, and of having overrated his pretensions. +He was, like many youthful Poets, too fond of complaining of +fortune, of supposing himself neglected, and of comparing his +humble lot with those situations for which he believed himself +qualified; but these were the lucubrations of his earliest years, +before he found friends to foster his talents. So far, indeed, +from having reason to lament the indifference of others to his +merits, his life affords one of the most striking examples in the +history of genius, that talents when united to moral worth, will be +rewarded by honours and fame, that obscure birth is no impediment +to advancement, and that a person of the humblest origin may, by +his own exertions, become, in the great arena of learning, an +object of envy even to those of the highest rank. It is due to him, +whose good sense was so remarkable, to point out the time in his +career to which the passages in question refer; and to add that his +correspondence, after he entered the University, expressed nothing +but satisfaction with his lot, and a desire to justify the kindness +and expectations of his patrons. Still, Kirke White was unhappy; +and, since no other cause then existed for his mental wretchedness, +it must be ascribed to a morbid temperament, induced partly by ill +health, and partly by constitutional infirmity. The uncertainty of +his early prospects, and the fear of ridicule if he expressed his +feelings, rendered him reserved, and made him confine his thoughts +to his own bosom, for he says, + + "When all was new, and life was in its spring, + I lived an unloved solitary thing; + E'en then I learn'd to bury deep from day + The piercing cares that wore my youth away;" + +and in a letter to Mr. Maddock, in September, 1804, he thus spoke +of himself: + +"Perhaps it may be that I am not formed for friendship, that I +expect more than can ever be found. Time will tutor me; I am a +singular being under a common outside: I am a profound dissembler +of my inward feelings, and necessity has taught me the art. I am +long before I can unbosom to a friend, yet, I think, I am sincere +in my friendship: you must not attribute this to any suspiciousness +of nature, but must consider that I lived seventeen years my own +confidant, my own friend, full of projects and strange thoughts, +and confiding them to no one. I am habitually reserved, and +habitually cautious in letting it be seen that I hide any thing." + +None knew better than himself that the aspirations and feelings of +which genius is the parent are often found to be inconsistent with +felicity: + + "Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, + His melancholy moan, + He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, + Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, + Pangs that his sensibility uprouse + To curse his being and his thirst for praise. + Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel + The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn; + And what o'er all does in his soul preside + Predominant, and tempers him to steel, + His high indignant pride." + +Nor was he unconscious that the toils necessary to secure literary +distinction, when endured by a shattered frame, are in the highest +degree severe. How much truth and feeling are there in the Lines +which he wrote after spending a whole night in study, an hour when +religious impressions force themselves with irresistible weight on +the exhausted mind: + + "Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, + How insignificant do all the joys, + The gaudes, and honours of the world appear! + How vain ambition!--Why has my wakeful lamp + Out watch'd the slow-paced night?--Why on the page, + The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd + The hours devoted by the world to rest, + And needful to recruit exhausted nature? + Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay + The loss of health? or can the hope of glory + Lend a new throb unto my languid heart, + Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, + Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye, + Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?" + +What a picture of mental suffering does the following passage +present, and how impressive does it become when the fate of the +author is remembered: + + "These feverish dews that on my temples hang, + This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame; + These, the dread signs of many a secret pang-- + These are the meed of him who pants for Fame!" + +Like so many other ardent students, the night was his favourite +time for reading; and, dangerous as the habit is to health, what +student will not agree in his descriptions of the pleasures that +attend it? + + "The night's my own, they cannot steal my night! + When evening lights her folding star on high, + I live and breathe; and, in the sacred hours + Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies, + Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space, + And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for heaven." + +Kirke White's poetry is popular, because it describes feelings, +passions, and associations, which all have felt, and with which +all can sympathize. It is by no means rich in metaphor, nor does +it evince great powers of imagination; but it is pathetic, +plaintive, and agreeable; and emanating directly from his own +heart, it appeals irresistibly to that of his reader. His meaning +is always clear, and the force and vigour of his expressions are +remarkable. In estimating his poetical powers, however, it should +be remembered, that nearly all his Poems were written before he +was nineteen; and that they are, in truth, but the germs of future +excellence, and ought not to be criticized as if they were the +fruits of an intellect on which time and education had bestowed +their advantages. It is, however, in his prose works, and +especially in his correspondence, that the versatility of his +talents, his acquirements, his piety, and his moral excellence +are most conspicuous. + +A question arises with respect to him which, in the history of a +young Poet, is always interesting, but which Mr. Southey has not +touched. Abundance of proof exists in his writings of the +susceptibility of his heart; but it is not stated that he ever +formed an attachment. In many of his pieces he speaks with +tenderness of a female whom he calls Fanny; and in one of them, +from which it appears that she was dead, he expresses his regard +in no equivocal manner; but there are other grounds for concluding +that his happiness was affected by disappointed affection. To his +friend Mr. Maddock, in July, 1804, he observed: + +"I shall never, never marry. It cannot, must not be. As to +affections, mine are already engaged as much as they ever will +be, and this is one reason why I believe my life will be a life +of celibacy. I love too ardently to make love innocent, and +therefore I say farewell to it." + +With this passage one of his Sonnets singularly agrees: + + When I sit musing on the chequer'd past + (A term much darken'd with untimely woes), + My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows + The tear, though half disowned; and binding fast + Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, + I say to her, she robb'd me of my rest, + When that was all my wealth. 'T is true my breast + Received from her this wearying, lingering smart; + Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; + Though wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love, + For she was most unworthy. Then I prove + Vindictive joy: and on my stern front gleams, + Throned in dark clouds, inflexible.... + The native pride of my much injured heart. + +Was the subject of this Sonnet wholly imaginary, or was there some +unfortunate story which, for sufficient reasons, his biographers +have suppressed? It is true, that in his letters, written at +a much later period, he speaks of marriage in a manner not to +be reconciled with the idea that he was then suffering from +recollections of that description; but he may, in the interval of +two years, have partially recovered from his loss. + +Kirke White was buried in the Church of All Saints, Cambridge, but +no monument was erected to him until a liberal minded American, +Mr. Francis Boott, of Boston, placed a tablet to his memory, with +a medallion, by Chantrey, with the following inscription, by +Professor Smyth, one of his numerous friends: + + "Warm'd with fond hope and learning's sacred flame, + To Granta's bowers the youthful Poet came; + Unconquer'd powers the immortal mind display'd, + But worn with anxious thought, the frame decay'd: + Pale o'er his lamp, and in his cell retired, + The martyr student faded and expired. + Oh! genius, taste, and piety sincere, + Too early lost 'midst studies too severe! + Foremost to mourn, was generous Southey seen, + He told the tale, and show'd what White had been, + Nor told in vain. For o'er the Atlantic wave + A wanderer came, and sought the Poet's grave; + On yon low stone he saw his lonely name, + And raised this fond memorial to his fame." + + + + + + +POEMS. + +_CLIFTON GROVE._ + +_DEDICATION._ + +_To Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire, the following trifling +effusions of a very youthful Muse are, by permission, dedicated +by her Grace's much obliged and grateful Servant,_ + +_HENRY KIRKE WHITE_ + +_Nottingham._ + + + + +PREFACE. + +The following attempts in Verse are laid before the Public with +extreme diffidence. The Author is very conscious that the juvenile +efforts of a youth, who has not received the polish of Academical +discipline, and who has been but sparingly blessed with +opportunities for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must +necessarily be defective in the accuracy and finished elegance +which mark the works of the man who has passed his life in the +retirement of his study, furnishing his mind with images, and at +the same time attaining the power of disposing those images to +the best advantage. + +The unpremeditated effusions of a Boy, from his thirteenth year, +employed, not in the acquisition of literary information, but in +the more active business of life, must not be expected to exhibit +any considerable portion of the correctness of a Virgil, or the +vigorous compression of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, +frequently known to bestow much, labour on their amusements; and +these poems were, most of them, written merely to beguile a +leisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals of studies of a +severer nature. + +[Greek: Pas to oicheios ergon agapao], "Every one loves his own +work," says Stagyrite; but it was no overweening affection of this +kind which induced this publication. Had the author relied on his +own judgment only, these Poems would not, in all probability, ever +have seen the light. + +Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives for this +publication? He answers--simply these: The facilitation, through +its means, of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, have +been the principal objects of his ambition; and the increase of +the capacity to pursue those inclinations which may one day place +him in an honourable station in the scale of society. + +The principal Poem in this little collection (Clifton Grove) is, +he fears, deficient in numbers and harmonious coherency of parts. +It is, however, merely to be regarded as a description of a +nocturnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompanied with such +reflections as the scene naturally suggested. It was written +twelve months ago, when the Author was in his sixteenth year:--The +Miscellanies are some of them the productions of a very early +age.--Of the Odes, that "To an early Primrose" was written at +thirteen--the others are of a later date.--The Sonnets are chiefly +irregular; they have, perhaps, no other claim to that specific +denomination, than that they consist only of fourteen lines. + +Such are the Poems towards which I entreat the lenity of the +Public. The Critic will doubtless find in them much to condemn; +he may likewise possibly discover something to commend. Let him +scan my faults with an indulgent eye, and in the work of that +correction which I invite, let him remember he is holding the iron +Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth of +seventeen; and, remembering that, may he forbear from crushing, by +too much rigour, the painted butterfly whose transient colours may +otherwise be capable of affording a moment's innocent amusement. + +H. K. WHITE. + +Nottingham. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + + + + +CLIFTON GROVE. + +A SKETCH. + + +Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, +And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. +No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke, +Which with the dawn from yonder dingle broke; +No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head, +The crows assembling seek their wind-rock'd bed; +Still'd is the village hum--the woodland sounds +Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, +And general silence reigns, save when below +The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow; +And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, +Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate; +Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale, +Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. + +Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, +Released from day and its attendant toil, +And draws his household round their evening fire, +And tells the ofttold tales that never tire; +Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise, +And manufacture taints the ambient skies, +The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom, +The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, +And rushes out, impatient to begin +The stated course of customary sin: +Now, now my solitary way I bend +Where solemn groves in awful state impend: +And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain, +Bespeak, bless'd Clifton! thy sublime domain. +Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, +I come to pass the meditative hour; +To bid awhile the strife of passion cease, +And woo the calms of solitude and peace. +And oh! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on high +Thy leafy throne where wavy poplars sigh! +Genius of woodland shades! whose mild control +Steals with resistless witchery to the soul, +Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspire +My glowing bosom with thy hallow'd fire. +And thou, too, Fancy, from thy starry sphere, +Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear, +Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, +Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. +At thy command the gale that passes by +Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. +Thou wavest thy wand, and lo! what forms appear! +On the dark cloud what giant shapes career! +The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale, +And hosts of sylphids on the moonbeams sail. +This gloomy alcove darkling to the sight, +Where meeting trees create eternal night; +Save, when from yonder stream the sunny ray, +Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day; +Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind, +Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined, +I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood; +Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food; +Or woke with song the woodland echo wild, +And at each gay response delighted smiled. +How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray +Of gay romance o'er every happy day, +Here, would I run, a visionary boy, +When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, +And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form +Sternly careering on the eddying storm; +And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul, +His voice terrific in the thunders roll. +With secret joy I view'd with vivid glare +The vollied lightnings cleave the sullen air; +And, as the warring winds around reviled, +With awful pleasure big,--I heard and smiled. +Beloved remembrance!--Memory which endears +This silent spot to my advancing years, +Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest, +In shades like these to live is to be bless'd. +While happiness evades the busy crowd, +In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. +And thou too, Inspiration, whose wild flame +Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame, +Thou here dost love to sit with upturn'd eye, +And listen to the stream that murmurs by, +The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken flight, +The mellow music of the listening night. +Congenial calms more welcome to my breast +Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre dress'd, +To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I raise, +That ye may bless my unambitious days, +Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife, +May trace with me the lowly vale of life, +And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave, +May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. +Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, +A livelier light upon my vision flows. +No more above the embracing branches meet, +No more the river gurgles at my feet, +But seen deep down the cliff's impending side, +Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide. +Dim is my upland path,--across the green +Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between +The chequer'd glooms the moon her chaste ray sheds, +Where knots of bluebells droop their graceful heads. +And beds of violets, blooming 'mid the trees, +Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze. + +Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight +Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, +And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, +And gives to him alone his bliss to know, +Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms? +Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms? +And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, +Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death? +Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings +Know what calm joy from purer sources springs; +Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, +The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, +No more his soul would pant for joys impure, +The deadly chalice would no more allure, +But the sweet potion he was wont to sip +Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. + +Fair Nature! thee, in all thy varied charms, +Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms! +Thine are the sweets which never, never sate, +Thine still remain through all the storms of fate. +Though not for me, 't was Heaven's divine command +To roll in acres of paternal land, +Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoy +Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye. + +Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss +Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss, +Who, still in abject poverty or pain, +Can count with pleasure what small joys remain: +Though were his sight convey'd from zone to zone, +He would not find one spot of ground his own, +Yet as he looks around, he cries with glee, +These bounding prospects all were made for me: +For me yon waving fields their burden bear, +For me yon labourer guides the shining share, +While happy I in idle ease recline, +And mark the glorious visions as they shine. +This is the charm, by sages often told, +Converting all it touches into gold. +Content can soothe where'er by fortune placed, +Can rear a garden in the desert waste. + +How lovely, from this hill's superior height, +Spreads the wide view before my straining sight! +O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground, +E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound, +My ken is borne; while o'er my head serene +The silver moon illumes the misty scene: +Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade, +In all the soft varieties of shade. + +Behind me, lo! the peaceful hamlet lies, +The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. +No more, where late the social faggot blazed, +The vacant peal resounds, by little raised, +But locked in silence, o'er Arion's[1] star +The slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car: +The church bell tolls, deep sounding down the glade, +The solemn hour for walking spectres made; +The simple ploughboy, wakening with the sound, +Listens aghast, and turns him startled round, +Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes, +Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise. +Now ceased the long, the monitory toll, +Returning silence stagnates in the soul; +Save when, disturbed by dreams, with wild affright, +The deep mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night: +Or where the village alehouse crowns the vale, +The creaking signpost whistles to the gale. +A little onward let me bend my way, +Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay. +That spot, oh! yet it is the very same; +That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name: +There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom, +There yet the violet sheds its first perfume, +And in the branch that rears above the rest +The robin unmolested builds its nest. +'T was here, when hope, presiding o'er my breast, +In vivid colours every prospect dress'd: +'T was here, reclining, I indulged her dreams, +And lost the hour in visionary schemes. +Here, as I press once more the ancient seat, +Why, bland deceiver! not renew the cheat! +Say, can a few short years this change achieve, +That thy illusions can no more deceive! +Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread, +And thou too, gay seducer, art thou fled? + +Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, +Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her tear, +And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way +Could throw a gleam of transitory day. +How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems; +How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams; +The dire mistake too soon is brought to light. +And all is buried in redoubled night. +Yet some can rise superior to the pain, +And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain; +While others, dead to feeling, can survey, +Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away: +But yet a few there be,--too soon o'ercast! +Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast, +And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the gloom, +To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb. +So in these shades the early primrose blows, +Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows: +So falls untimely on the desert waste, +Its blossoms withering in the northern blast. + +Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display, +Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way; +Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, +The timid hare from its accustom'd seat. +And oh! how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood, +That winds the margin of the solemn flood! +What rural objects steal upon the sight! +What rising views prolong the calm delight! + +The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, +The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, +The woody island, and the naked mead, +The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, +The rural wicket, and the rural stile, +And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. +Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, +Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. +High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, +And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. +Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise, +What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes! +Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, +The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head. +And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind, +Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. +Still every rising sound of calm delight +Stamps but the fearful silence of the night, +Save when is heard between each dreary rest, +Discordant from her solitary nest, +The owl, dull screaming to the wandering moon; +Now riding, cloud-wrapp'd, near her highest noon: +Or when the wild duck, southering, hither rides, +And plunges, sullen in the sounding tides. + +How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youth +Gave to each tale the holy force of truth, +Have I long linger'd, while the milkmaid sung +The tragic legend, till the woodland rung! +That tale, so sad! which, still to memory dear, +From its sweet source can call the sacred tear, +And (lull'd to rest stern Reason's harsh control) +Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. +These hallow'd shades,--these trees that woo the wind, +Recall its faintest features to my mind. +A hundred passing years, with march sublime, +Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, +Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, +Reclusely dwelt the far famed Clifton Maid, +The beauteous Margaret; for her each swain +Confess'd in private his peculiar pain, +In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair, +Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. +No more the Shepherd on the blooming mead +Attuned to gaiety his artless reed, +No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck +His favourite wether's unpolluted neck, +But listless, by yon bubbling stream reclined, +He mix'd his sobbings with the passing wind, +Bemoan'd his hapless love; or, boldly bent, +Far from these smiling fields a rover went, +O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam, +A self-will'd exile from his native home. + +Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain; +Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. +Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs, +The echoing vault responded to their vows, +As here deep hidden from the glare of day, +Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way. + +Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name; +'T was there the blushing maid confessed her flame. +Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie, +When evening slumber'd on the western sky. +That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare. +Each bears mementos of the fated pair. + +One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze +With the fallen honours of the mourning trees, +The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower. +And waited long beyond the appointed hour, +Yet Bateman came not;--o'er the woodland drear, +Howling portentous did the winds career; +And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods +The fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods; +The night was dark; as, now and then, the gale +Paused for a moment--Margaret listen'd pale; +But through the covert to her anxious ear +No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. +Strange fears now fill'd her breast,--she knew not why, +She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh. +She hears a noise,--'t is he,--he comes at last,-- +Alas! 't was but the gale which hurried past: +But now she hears a quickening footstep sound, +Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound; +'T is Bateman's self,--he springs into her arms, +'T is he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. +"Yet why this silence?--I have waited long, +And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among. + +And now thou'rt here my fears are fled--yet speak, +Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek? +Say, what is wrong?" Now through a parting cloud +The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud, +And Bateman's face was seen; 't was deadly white, +And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. +"Oh, speak! my love!" again the maid conjured, +"Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured?" +He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell, +Thrice from his lips the unfinished accents fell; +When thus at last reluctantly he broke +His boding silence, and the maid bespoke: +"Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance +I on these fields must cast my parting glance; +For three long years, by cruel fate's command, +I go to languish in a foreign land. +Oh, Margaret! omens dire have met my view, +Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true? +Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee, +Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, +And on the silken couch of wealth reclined, +Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?" + +"Oh! why," replies the maid, "my faith thus prove, +Canst thou! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love? +Hear me, just God! if from my traitorous heart +My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part, +If, when he hail again his native shore, +He finds his Margaret true to him no more, +May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, +Conjoin'd then drag me from my perjured bed, +And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps, +To find deserved death in yonder deeps!"[2] +Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew +A golden ring, and broke it quick in two; +One half she in her lovely bosom hides, +The other, trembling, to her love confides. +"This bind the vow," she said, "this mystic charm +No future recantation can disarm, +The right vindictive does the fates involve, +No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve." + +She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry, +The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by, +And once again the lady of the night +Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. +Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay; +But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away: +Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, +Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart. + +When to the distant land the youth was sped, +A lonely life the moody maiden led. +Still would she trace each dear, each well known walk, +Still by the moonlight to her love would talk, +And fancy, as she paced among the trees, +She heard his whispers in the dying breeze. + +Thus two years glided on in silent grief; +The third her bosom own'd the kind relief: +Absence had cool'd her love--the impoverish'd flame +Was dwindling fast, when lo! the tempter came; +He offered wealth, and all the joys of life, +And the weak maid became another's wife! +Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime, +When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime. +Sure of her constancy, elate he came, +The lovely partner of his soul to claim; +Light was his heart, as up the well known way +He bent his steps--and all his thoughts were gay. +Oh! who can paint his agonizing throes, +When on his ear the fatal news arose! +Chill'd with amazement,--senseless with the blow, +He stood a marble monument of woe; +Till call'd to all the horrors of despair, +He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair; +Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot, +And sought those scenes (by memory ne'er forgot), +Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame, +And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. +'T was night--he sought the river's lonely shore, +And traced again their former wanderings o'er. +Now on the bank in silent grief he stood, +And gazed intently on the stealing flood, +Death in his mein and madness in his eye, +He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by; +Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave-- +Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. + +Yet still he stood irresolutely bent, +Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent. +He knelt.--Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind, +And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind, +The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, +The paly moonbeam on its surface slept, +And all was peace;--he felt the general calm +O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm: +When casting far behind his streaming eye, +He saw the Grove,--in fancy saw her lie, +His Margaret, lull'd in Germain's[3] arms to rest, +And all the demon rose within his breast. +Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand, +Cast his dark eye once more upon the land, +Then, at one spring he spurn'd the yielding bank, +And in the calm deceitful current sank. + +Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound, +As in the stream he plunged, was heard around: +Then all was still--the wave was rough no more, +The river swept as sweetly as before; +The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene, +And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. + +Now, see upon the perjured fair one hang +Remorse's glooms and never ceasing pang. +Full well she knew, repentant now too late, +She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. +But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast, +The offended God prolong'd her life unbless'd. +But fast the fleeting moments roll'd away, +And near and nearer drew the dreaded day; +That day foredoom'd to give her child the light, +And hurl its mother to the shades of night. +The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife +The guiltless baby struggled into life.-- +As night drew on, around her bed a band +Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand; +In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time, +Intent to expiate her awful crime. +Their prayers were fruitless.--As the midnight came +A heavy sleep oppress'd each weary frame. +In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming load, +Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. +They slept till in the blushing eastern sky +The blooming Morning oped her dewy eye; +Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd bed, +But lo! the hapless Margaret was fled; +And never more the weeping train were doom'd +To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd. + +The neighbouring rustics told that in the night +They heard such screams as froze them with affright; +And many an infant, at its mother's breast, +Started dismay'd, from its unthinking rest. +And even now, upon the heath forlorn, +They show the path down which the fair was borne, +By the fell demons, to the yawning wave, +Her own, and murder'd lover's, mutual grave. + +Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear, +Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening ear, +That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweets +In the drear silence of these dark retreats; +And even now, with melancholy power, +Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. +'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given +To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven, +With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans +On the attendant legend of the scenes. +This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods, +And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods; +This, as the distant cataract swells around, +Gives a romantic cadence to the sound; +This, and the deepening glen, the alley green, +The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between, +The massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas, +The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees, +The lengthening vista, and the present gloom, +The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume: +These are thy charms, the joys which these impart +Bind thee, bless'd Clifton! close around my heart. + +Dear Native Grove! where'er my devious track, +To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back. +Whether in Arno's polish'd vales I stray, +Or where "Oswego's" swamps obstruct the day; +Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide, +The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side; +Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse, +Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views; +Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam, +My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home. +When Splendour offers, and when Fame incites, +I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights, +Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change, +Renounce the wish which first induced to range; +Turn to these scenes, these well known scenes once more, +Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore, +And tired with worlds, and all their busy ways, +Here waste the little remnant of my days. +But if the Fates should this last wish deny, +And doom me on some foreign shore to die; +Oh! should it please the world's supernal King, +That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing; +Or that my corse should, on some desert strand, +Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting hand; +Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb, +My sprite shall wander through this favourite gloom, +Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove, +Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove, +Sit a lorn spectre on yon well known grave, +And mix its moanings with the desert wave. + +Footnotes: + +[1] The constellation Delphinus. For authority for this appelation, see +Ovid's Fasti, B. xi. 113. + +[2] This part of the Trent is commonly called "The Clifton Deeps." + +[3] Germain is the traditionary name of her husband. + + + + +TIME, + +A POEM.[1] + + +Genius of musings, who, the midnight hour +Wasting in woods or haunted forests wild, +Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower, +Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance; +Or when the vollied lightnings cleave the air, +And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm, +Sitt'st in some lonely watchtower, where thy lamp, +Faint blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far, +And, 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved, +Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace +The vast effect to its superior source,-- +Spirit, attend my lowly benison! +For now I strike to themes of import high +The solitary lyre; and, borne by thee +Above this narrow cell, I celebrate +The mysteries of Time! + + Him who, august, +Was e'er these worlds were fashion'd,--ere the sun +Sprang from the east, or Lucifer display'd +His glowing cresset in the arch of morn, +Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. +Yea, He had been for an eternity! +Had swept unvarying from eternity +The harp of desolation--ere his tones, +At God's command, assumed a milder strain, +And startled on his watch, in the vast deep, +Chaos's sluggish sentry, and evoked +From the dark void the smiling universe. + +Chain'd to the groveling frailties of the flesh, +Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross, +Cannot survey, with fix'd and steady eye, +The dim uncertain gulf, which now the muse, +Adventurous, would explore; but dizzy grown, +He topples down the abyss.--If he would scan +The fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpse +Of its unfathomable depths, that so +His mind may turn with double joy to God, +His only certainty and resting place; +He must put off awhile this mortal vest, +And learn to follow, without giddiness, +To heights where all is vision, and surprise, +And vague conjecture.--He must waste by night +The studious taper, far from all resort +Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat; +High on the beetling promontory's crest, +Or in the caves of the vast wilderness, +Where, compass'd round with Nature's wildest shapes, +He may be driven to centre all his thoughts +In the great Architect, who lives confess'd +In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes. + +So has divine Philosophy, with voice +Mild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave, +Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes, +Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy, +His faint, neglected song--intent to snatch +Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous steep +Of poesy, a bloom of such a hue, +So sober, as may not unseemly suit +With Truth's severer brow; and one withal +So hardy as shall brave the passing wind +Of many winters,--rearing its meek head +In loveliness, when he who gathered it +Is number'd with the generations gone. +Yet not to me hath God's good providence +Given studious leisure,[2] or unbroken thought, +Such as he owns,--a meditative man; +Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve +Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er, +Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din: +From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd +With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day +Hath duties which require the vigorous hand +Of steadfast application, but which leave +No deep improving trace upon the mind. +But be the day another's;--let it pass! +The night's my own!--They cannot steal my night! +When evening lights her folding star on high, +I live and breathe; and in the sacred hours +Of quiet and repose my spirit flies, +Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space. +And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for Heaven. + +Hence do I love the sober-suited maid; +Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my theme, +And she shall aid me now to magnify +The night of ages,--now when the pale ray +Of starlight penetrates the studious gloom, +And, at my window seated, while mankind +Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze +Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole, +Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, +Assumes her wonted sway. + + Behold the world +Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused +From trouble and turmoil. The widow now +Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie +Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest. +The man of sorrow has forgot his woes; +The outcast that his head is shelterless, +His griefs unshared.--The mother tends no more +Her daughter's dying slumbers, but surprised +With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch, +Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, lull'd +On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapp'd, +Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shuddering nurse, +Poor victim! smiles.--Silence and deep repose +Reign o'er the nations; and the warning voice +Of Nature utters audibly within +The general moral:--tells us that repose, +Deathlike as this, but of far longer span, +Is coming on us--that the weary crowds, +Who now enjoy a temporary calm, +Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapp'd around +With grave clothes: and their aching restless heads +Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved, +Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep. + +Who needs a teacher to admonish him +That flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist? +What are our joys but dreams? and what our hopes +But goodly shadows in the summer cloud? +There's not a wind that blows but bears with it +Some rainbow promise:--Not a moment flies +But puts its sickle in the fields of life, +And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. +'T is but as yesterday since on yon stars, +Which now I view, the Chaldee shepherd[3] gazed +In his mid watch observant, and disposed +The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. +Yet in the interim what mighty shocks +Have buffeted mankind--whole nations razed-- +Cities made desolate--the polish'd sunk +To barbarism, and once barbaric states +Swaying the wand of science and of arts; +Illustrious deeds and memorable names +Blotted from record, and upon the tongue +Of gray Tradition, voluble no more. + +Where are the heroes of the ages past? +Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones +Who flourish'd in the infancy of days? +All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame +Exultant, mocking at the pride of man, +Sits grim Forgetfulness.--The warrior's arm +Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame; +Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze +Of his red eyeball.--Yesterday his name +Was mighty on the earth.--To-day--'t is what? +The meteor of the night of distant years, +That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, +Musing at midnight upon prophecies, +Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam +Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly +Closed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up +Safe in the enamel's treasures. + + Oh how weak +Is mortal man! how trifling--how confined +His scope of vision! Puff'd with confidence, +His phrase grows big with immortality, +And he, poor insect of a summer's day! +Dreams of eternal honours to his name; +Of endless glory and perennial bays. +He idly reasons of eternity, +As of the train of ages,--when, alas! +Ten thousand thousand of his centuries +Are, in comparison, a little point +Too trivial for account.--O, it is strange, +'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies; +Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, +Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, +And smile, and say, My name shall live with this +Till time shall be no more; while at his feet, +Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust +Of the fallen fabric of the other day +Preaches the solemn lesson.--He should know +That time must conquer; that the loudest blast +That ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trump +Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires. +Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom +Of the gigantic pyramid? or who +Rear'd its huge walls? Oblivion laughs, and says, +The prey is mine.--They sleep, and never more +Their names shall strike upon the ear of man, +Their memory burst its fetters. + + Where is Rome? +She lives but in the tale of other times; +Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home, +And her long colonnades, her public walks, +Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet, +Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace, +Through the rank moss reveal'd, her honour'd dust. +But not to Rome alone has fate confined +The doom of ruin; cities numberless, +Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, +And rich Phoenicia--they are blotted out, +Half razed from memory, and their very name +And being in dispute.--Has Athens fallen? +Is polish'd Greece become the savage seat +Of ignorance and sloth? and shall we dare + + * * * * * + +And empire seeks another hemisphere. +Where now is Britain?--Where her laurel'd names. +Her palaces and halls? Dash'd in the dust. +Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride, +And with one big recoil hath thrown her back +To primitive barbarity.----Again, +Through her depopulated vales, the scream +Of bloody Superstition hollow rings, +And the scared native to the tempest howls +The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts, +Her crowded ports, broods Silence; and the cry +Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash +Of distant billows, breaks alone the void; +Even as the savage sits upon the stone +That marks where stood her capitols, and hears +The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks +From the dismaying solitude.--Her bards +Sing in a language that hath perished; +And their wild harps suspended o'er their graves, +Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain. + +Meanwhile the Arts, in second infancy, +Rise in some distant clime, and then, perchance, +Some bold adventurer, fill'd with golden dreams, +Steering his bark through trackless solitudes, +Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow +Hath ever ploughed before,--espies the cliffs +Of fallen Albion.--To the land unknown +He journeys joyful; and perhaps descries +Some vestige of her ancient stateliness: +Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind +Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived +At science in that solitary nook, +Far from the civil world; and sagely sighs, +And moralizes on the state of man. + +Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt, +Moves on our being. We do live and breathe, +And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. +We have our springtime and our rottenness; +And as we fall, another race succeeds, +To perish likewise.--Meanwhile Nature smiles-- +The seasons run their round--The Sun fulfils +His annual course--and heaven and earth remain +Still changing, yet unchanged--still doom'd to feel +Endless mutation in perpetual rest. +Where are conceal'd the days which have elapsed? +Hid in the mighty cavern of the past, +They rise upon us only to appall, +By indistinct and half-glimpsed images, +Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. + +Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch, +When the rude rushing winds forget to rave, +And the pale moon, that through the casement high +Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour +Of utter silence, it is fearful then +To steer the mind, in deadly solitude. +Up the vague stream of probability; +To wind the mighty secrets of the past, +And turn the key of time!--Oh! who can strive +To comprehend the vast, the awful truth, +Of the eternity that hath gone by, +And not recoil from the dismaying sense +Of human impotence? The life of man +Is summ'd in birthdays and in sepulchres; +But the Eternal God had no beginning; +He hath no end. Time had been with him +For everlasting, ere the dredal world +Rose from the gulf in loveliness.--Like him +It knew no source, like him, 't was uncreate. +What is it then? The past Eternity! +We comprehend a future without end; +We feel it possible that even yon sun +May roll for ever: but we shrink amazed-- +We stand aghast, when we reflect that time +Knew no commencement.--That heap age on age, +And million upon million, without end, +And we shall never span the void of days +That were and are not but in retrospect. +The Past is an unfathomable depth, +Beyond the span of thought; 'tis an elapse +Which hath no mensuration, but hath been +For ever and for ever. + + Change of days +To us is sensible; and each revolve +Of the recording sun conducts us on +Further in life, and nearer to our goal. +Not so with Time,--mysterious chronicler, +He knoweth not mutation;--centuries +Are to his being as a day, and days +As centuries.--Time past, and Time to come, +Are always equal; when the world began +God had existed from eternity. + + * * * * * + + Now look on man +Myriads of ages hence.--Hath time elapsed? +Is he not standing in the selfsame place +Where once we stood?--The same eternity +Hath gone before him, and is yet to come; +His past is not of longer span than ours, +Though myriads of ages intervened; +For who can add to what has neither sum, +Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end? +Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind? +Who can unlock the secrets of the high? +In speculations of an altitude +Sublime as this, our reason stands confess'd +Foolish, and insignificant, and mean. +Who can apply the futile argument +Of finite beings to infinity? + +He might as well compress the universe +Into the hollow compass of a gourd, +Scoop'd out by human art; or bid the whale +Drink up the sea it swims in!--Can the less +Contain the greater? or the dark obscure +Infold the glories of meridian day? +What does philosophy impart to man +But undiscovered wonders?--Let her soar +Even to her proudest heights--to where she caught +The soul of Newton and of Socrates, +She but extends the scope of wild amaze +And admiration. All her lessons end +In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths. + +Lo! the unletter'd hind, who never knew +To raise his mind excursive to the heights +Of abstract contemplation, as he sits +On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, +What time the insect swarms are murmuring, +And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds +That fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky, +Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse +The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd +The goodly prospect; he beholds the God +Throned in the west, and his reposing ear +Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze +That floats through neighbouring copse or fairy brake, +Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. +Go with the cotter to his winter fire, +Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, +And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon; +Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar. +Silent, and big with thought; and hear him bless +The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds, +For his snug hearth, and all his little joys: +Hear him compare his happier lot with his +Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, +A poor night traveller, while the dismal snow +Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path, +He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, +He hears some village mastiff's distant howl, +And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light; +Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, +And clasps his shivering hands; or overpowered, +Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with sleep, +From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. +Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise +And glowing gratitude,--he turns to bless, +With honest warmth, his Maker and his God! +And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, +Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred +In want and labour, glows with nobler zeal +To laud his Maker's attributes, while he +Whom starry Science in her cradle rock'd, +And Castaly enchasten'd with his dews, +Closes his eyes upon the holy word, +And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, +Dares to declare his infidelity, +And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts? +What is philosophy, if it impart +Irreverence for the Deity, or teach +A mortal man to set his judgment up +Against his Maker's will? The Polygar, +Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him +Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys, +Is the most bless'd of men! Oh! I would walk +A weary journey, to the furthest verge +Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, +Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, +Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God, +Feeling the sense of his own littleness, +Is as a child in meek simplicity! +What is the pomp of learning? the parade +Of letters and of tongues? e'en as the mists +Of the gray morn before the rising sun, +That pass away and perish. + + Earthly things +Are but the transient pageants of an hour; +And earthly pride is like the passing flower, +That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. +'T is as the tower erected on a cloud, +Baseless and silly as the schoolboy's dream. +Ages and epochs that destroy our pride, +And then record its downfall, what are they +But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain? +Hath Heaven its ages? or doth Heaven preserve +Its stated eras? Doth the Omnipotent +Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays? +There is to God nor future nor a past; +Throned in his might, all times to him are present; +He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come; +He sees before him one eternal now. +Time moveth not!--our being 't is that moves; +And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream, +Dream of swift ages and revolving years, +Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days: +So the young sailor in the gallant bark, +Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast +Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while, +Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, +And that the land is sailing. + + Such, alas! +Are the illusions of this proteus life! +All, all is false: through every phasis still +'T is shadowy and deceitful. It assumes +The semblances of things and specious shapes; +But the lost traveller might as soon rely +On the evasive spirit of the marsh, +Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits, +O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way, +As we on its appearances. + + On earth +There is no certainty nor stable hope. +As well the weary mariner, whose bark +Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, +Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain, +And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust +To expectation of serener skies, +And linger in the very jaws of death, +Because some peevish cloud were opening, +Or the loud storm had bated in its rage; +As we look forward in this vale of tears +To permanent delight--from some slight glimpse +Of shadowy, unsubstantial happiness. + +The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond +The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep +Of mortal desolation.--He beholds +Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride +Of rampant Ruin, or the unstable waves +Of dark Vicissitude.--Even in death,-- +In that dread hour, when, with a giant pang, +Tearing the tender fibres of the heart, +The immortal spirit struggles to be free, +Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not, +For it exists beyond the narrow verge +Of the cold sepulchre. The petty joys +Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd, +And rested on the bosom of its God. +This is man's only reasonable hope; +And 't is a hope which, cherish'd in the breast, +Shall not be disappointed. Even he, +The Holy One--Almighty--who elanced +The rolling world along its airy way, +Even He will deign to smile upon the good, +And welcome him to these celestial seats, +Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign. + +Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault, +Survey the countless gems which richly stud +The night's imperial chariot;--Telescopes +Will show thee myriads more innumerous +Than the sea sand;--each of those little lamps +Is the great source of light, the central sun +Round which some other mighty sisterhood +Of planets travel, every planet stock'd +With Hying beings impotent as thee. +Now, proud man! now, where is thy greatness fled? +What art thou in the scale of universe? +Less, less than nothing!--Yet of thee the God +Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful, +As well as of the mendicant who begs +The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou +Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn +His heavenly providence! Deluded fool, +Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with death, +Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell. + +How insignificant is mortal man, +Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour! +How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit +Of infinite duration, boundless space! +God of the universe! Almighty One! +Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds, +Or with the storm, thy rugged charioteer, +Swift and impetuous as the northern blast, +Ridest from pole to pole; Thou who dost hold +The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp, +And reignest in the earthquake, when thy wrath +Goes down towards erring man, I would address +To thee my parting paan; for of Thee, +Great beyond comprehension, who thyself +Art Time and Space, sublime Infinitude, +Of Thee has been my song!--With awe I kneel +Trembling before the footstool of thy state, +My God!--my Father!--I will sing to thee +A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle, +Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades +The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre, +And give its wild strings to the desert gale. +Rise, Son of Salem! rise, and join the strain, +Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp, +And, leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul +To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing, +And halleluiah, for the Lord is great, +And full of mercy! He has thought of man; +Yea, compass'd round with countless worlds, has thought +Of us poor worms, that batten in the dews +Of morn, and perish ere the noonday sun. +Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful: +He gave the Nubian lion but to live, +To rage its hour, and perish; but on man +He lavish'd immortality and Heaven. +The eagle falls from her aerial tower, +And mingles with irrevocable dust: +But man from death springs joyful, +Springs up to life and to eternity. +Oh, that, insensate of the favouring boon, +The great exclusive privilege bestow'd +On us unworthy trifles, men should dare +To treat with slight regard the proffer'd Heaven, +And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear +In wrath, "They shall not enter in my rest." +Might I address the supplicative strain +To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou +Wouldst pity the deluded wanderers, +And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock. +Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Him, +Thy well beloved, who, upon the cross, +Bled a dread sacrifice for human sin, +And paid, with bitter agony, the debt +Of primitive transgression. + + Oh! I shrink, +My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect +That the time hastens, when, in vengeance clothed, +Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate +On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels +Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves, +And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start +At the appalling summons. Oh I how dread, +On the dark eye of miserable man, +Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom, +Will burst the effulgence of the opening Heaven; +When to the brazen trumpet's deafening roar +Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend, +Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word! +The dead shall start astonish'd from their sleep! +The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey, +The bellowing floods shall disembogue their charge +Of human victims. From the farthest nook +Of the wide world shall troop the risen souls, +From him whose bones are bleaching in the waste +Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse, +Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides, +Is wash'd on some Caribbean prominence, +To the lone tenant of some secret cell +In the Pacific's vast ... realm, +Where never plummet's sound was heard to part +The wilderness of water; they shall come +To greet the solemn advent of the Judge. + +Thou first shalt summon the elected saints +To their apportion'd Heaven! and thy Son, +At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious joy +On all his past distresses, when for them +He bore humanity's severest pangs. +Then shalt thou seize the avenging scimitar, +And, with a roar as loud and horrible +As the stern earthquake's monitory voice, +The wicked shall be driven to their abode, +Down the immitigable gulf, to wail +And gnash their teeth in endless agony. + + * * * * * + +Rear thou aloft thy standard.--Spirit, rear +Thy flag on high!--Invincible, and throned +In unparticipated might. Behold +Earth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent sway, +Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while, +Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush +Of mighty generations, as they pass +To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp +Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. +Who shall contend with Time--unvanquish'd Time, +The conqueror of conquerors, and lord +Of desolation?--Lo! the shadows fly, +The hours and days, and years and centuries, +They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall, +The young are old, the old are in their graves. +Heard'st thou that shout? It rent the vaulted skies; +It was the voice of people,--mighty crowds,-- +Again! 't is hushed--Time speaks, and all is hush'd; +In the vast multitude now reigns alone +Unruffled solitude. They all are still; +All--yea, the whole--the incalculable mass, +Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains. + +Rear thou aloft thy standard.--Spirit, rear +Thy flag on high, and glory in thy strength. +But do thou know the season yet shall come, +When from its base thine adamantine throne +Shall tumble; when thine arm shall cease to strike, +Thy voice forget its petrifying power; +When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no more. +Yea, he doth come--the mighty champion comes, +Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death wound, +Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors, +And desolate stern Desolation's lord. +Lo! where he cometh! the Messiah comes! +The King! the Comforter! the Christ!--He comes +To burst the bonds of Death, and overturn +The power of Time.--Hark! the trumpet's blast +Rings o'er the heavens! They rise, the myriads rise-- +Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chains +Of torpor,--He has ransom'd them,... + +Forgotten generations live again, +Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old, +Beyond the flood:--the righteous of their times +Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. +The sainted mother wakes, and in her lap +Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave, +And heritor with her of Heaven,--a flower, +Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain +Of native guilt, even in its early bud. +And, hark! those strains, how solemnly serene +They fall, as from the skies--at distance fall-- +Again more loud--the halleluiahs swell; +The newly risen catch the joyful sound; +They glow, they burn; and now with one accord +Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song +Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb +Who bled for mortals. + + * * * * * + +Yet there is peace for man.--Yea, there is peace +Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene; +When from the crowd, and from the city far, +Haply he may be set (in his late walk +O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs +Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone, +And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys +The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail, +And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time +Will waft him to repose, to deep repose, +Far from the unquietness of life--from noise +And tumult far--beyond the flying clouds, +Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, +Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no more. + + * * * * * + +Footnotes: + + +[1] This Poem was begun either during the publication of Clifton Grove, or +shortly afterwards, but never completed: some of the detached parts were +among his latest productions. + +[2] The Author was then in an attorney's office. + +[3] Alluding to the first astronomical observations made by the Chaldean +shepherds. + + + + +CHILDHOOD.[1] + +A POEM. + + +PART I. + +Pictured in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet +Our infant days, our infant joys, to greet; +To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, +The village churchyard, and the village green, +The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, +The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn shade, +The whitewashed cottage, where the woodbine grew, +And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew! +How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, +To view the unclouded skies of former days! + +Beloved age of innocence and smiles, +When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles. +When the gay heart, to life's sweet dayspring true, +Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. +Bless'd Childhood, hail!--Thee simply will I sing, +And from myself the artless picture bring; +These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, +Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more, +And every stump familiar to my sight +Recalls some fond idea of delight. + +This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat; +Here did I love at evening to retreat, +And muse alone, till in the vault of night, +Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light. +Here once again, remote from human noise, +I sit me down to think of former joys; +Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more, +And once again each infant walk explore, +While as each grove and lawn I recognize, +My melted soul suffuses in my eyes. + +And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort +To distant scenes, and picture, them to thought; +Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, +Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy; +Bless'd Memory, guide, with finger nicely true, +Back to my youth my retrospective view; +Recall with faithful vigour to my mind +Each face familiar, each relation kind; +And all the finer traits of them afford, +Whose general outline in my heart is stored. + +In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls +In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, +The village matron kept her little school, +Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule; +Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien; +Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean; +Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair, +Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care; +And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn, +Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. +Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, +A pair of spectacles their want supplies; +These does she guard secure, in leathern case, +From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place. + +Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain, +The low vestibule of learning's fane; +Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, +Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. +Much did I grieve on that ill fated morn +When I was first to school reluctant borne; +Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried +To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd; +And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, +To my lone corner broken-hearted crept, +And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. + +But soon inured to alphabetic toils, +Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles; +First at the form, my task for ever true, +A little favourite rapidly I grew: +And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, +Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight; +And as she gave my diligence its praise, +Talk'd of the honours of my future days. + +Oh! had the venerable matron thought +Of all the ills by talent often brought; +Could she have seen me when revolving years +Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, +Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate +Had been a lowlier, an unlettered state; +Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, +Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life. + +Where in the busy scene, by peace unbless'd, +Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest? +A lonely mariner on the stormy main, +Without a hope the calms of peace to gain; +Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore, +When shall his spirit rest to toil no more? +Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave +The sandy surface of his unwept grave. +Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, +Serenest season of perpetual calms,-- +Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease,-- +And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. +Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles, +But each new object brings attendant smiles; +When future evils never haunt the sight, +But all is pregnant with unmix'd delight; +To thee I turn from riot and from noise, +Turn to partake of more congenial joys. + +'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, +When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er, +What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were +In various postures scattering o'er the green! +Some shoot the marble, others join the chase seen, +Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race; +While others, seated on the dappled grass, +With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. +Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, +A band of soldiers oft with pride we march'd; +For banners to a tall ash we did bind +Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind; +And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, +And guns and spears we made of brittle reed; +Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown, +We storm'd some ruin'd pigsty for a town. + +Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont +To set her wheel before the cottage front, +And o'er her spectacles would often peer, +To view our gambols, and our boyish gear. +Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round, +With its beloved monotony of sound. +When tired with play, we'd set us by her side +(For out of school she never knew to chide), +And wonder at her skill--well known to fame-- +For who could match in spinning with the dame? +Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride +To strangers, still her thriftness testified; +Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth, +How't was her spinning manufactured cloth. + +Oft would we leave, though well beloved, our play +To chat at home the vacant hour away. +Many's the time I' we scamper'd in the glade, +To ask the promised ditty from the maid, +Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing, +While we around her form'd a little ring: +She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed, +Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, +Or little children murder'd as they slept; +While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept. +Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we +Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. +Poor simple wights, ah! little did we ween +The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene! +Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know +This world's a world of weeping and of woe! + +Beloved moment! then 'twas first I caught +The first foundation of romantic thought! +Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, +Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear. +Soon stored with much of legendary lore, +The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more. +Far from the scene of gaiety and noise, +Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, +I hied me to the thick overarching shade, +And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid, +While at my feet the rippling runnel ran, +The days of wild romance antique I'd scan; +Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, +To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. + + * * * * * + +PART II. + +There are who think that Childhood does not share +With age the cup, the bitter cup, of care: +Alas! they know not this unhappy truth, +That every age, and rank, is born to ruth. + +From the first dawn of reason in the mind, +Man is foredoomed the thorns of grief to find; +At every step has farther cause to know +The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with woe. + +Yet in the youthful breast, for ever caught +With some new object for romantic thought, +The impression of the moment quickly flies, +And with the morrow every sorrow dies. + +How different manhood!--then does Thought's control +Sink every pang still deeper in the soul; +Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart +Becomes a painful resident in the heart; +And care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, +Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. +Then, as each long known friend is summon'd hence, +We feel a void no joy can recompense, +And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb, +Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom. + +Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue, +No forms of future ill salute thy view, +No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep, +But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep, +And sanguine Hope, through every storm of life, +Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal strife. +Yet e'en round childhood's heart, a thoughtless shrine, +Affection's little thread will ever twine; +And though but frail may seem each tender tie, +The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. +Thus, when the long expected moment came, +When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame, +Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast, +And a still tear my silent grief express'd. + +When to the public school compelled to go, +What novel scenes did on my senses flow? +There in each breast each active power dilates, +Which 'broils whole nations, and convulses states; +Their reigns, by turns alternate, love and hate, +Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate; +And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere, +The dark deformities of man appear. +Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim, +There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame, +There mild Benevolence delights to dwell, +And sweet Contentment rests without her cell; +And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find +The good of heart, the intelligent of mind. + +'T was there, O George! with thee I learn'd to join +In Friendship's bands--in amity divine. +Oh, mournful though!--Where is thy spirit now? +As here I sit on favorite Logar's brow, +And trace below each well remember'd glade, +Where arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd. +Where art thou laid--on what untrodden shore, +Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar? +Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state, +At last repose from all the storms of fate? +Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave, +Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save; +See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend, +And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend: +Or where immeasurable wilds dismay, +Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way, +While sorrow and disease, with anguish rife, +Consume apace the ebbing springs of life. +Again I see his door against thee shut, +The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut; +I see thee, spent with toil and worn with grief, +Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief; +Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er, +Think on thy native land--and rise no more! + +Oh! that thou couldst, from thine august abode, +Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road, +That thou couldst see him, at this moment here, +Embalm thy memory with a pious tear, +And hover o'er him as he gazes round, +Where all the scenes of infant joys surround. + +Yes! yes! his spirit's near!--The whispering breeze +Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees; +And lo! his form transparent I perceive, +Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve: +He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe, +While deathly silence reigns upon the globe. + +Yet ah! whence comes this visionary scene? +'T is Fancy's wild aerial dream I ween: +By her inspired, when reason takes its flight, +What fond illusions beam upon the sight! +She waves her hand, and lo! what forms appear! +What magic sounds salute the wondering ear! +Once more o'er distant regions do we tread, +And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead; +While, present sorrows banish'd far away, +Unclouded azure gilds the placid day, +Or, in the future's cloud-encircled face, +Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace, +And draw minutely every little wile, +Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile. + +So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate, +The Royal Mary solitary sate, +And view'd the moonbeam trembling on the wave, +And heard the hollow surge her prison lave, +Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight, +For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight; +There did she form full many a scheme of joy, +Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy, +Which bright thro' Hope's deceitful optics beam'd, +And all became the surety which it seem'd; +She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm, +In every tear a melancholy charm. + +To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep, +Just yield a scanty sustenance to the sheep, +With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped, +To see the sun rise from his healthy bed; +To watch the aspect of the summer morn, +Smiling upon the golden fields of corn, +And taste, delighted, of superior joys, +Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes: +With silent admiration oft we view'd +The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd; +The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade, +Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd, +And the round orb itself, in azure throne, +Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone; +We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay, +Reviving Nature hail'd returning day; +Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping heads, +And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads, +While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight, +The birds sung pasans to the source of light: +Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise, +Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies, +And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more +Could trace him in his high aerial tour; +Though on the ear, at intervals, his song +Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along; +And we have thought how happy were our lot, +Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot, +Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve +Began in every dell her forms to weave, +We might pursue our sports from day to day, +And in each other's arms wear life away. + +At sultry noon too, when our toils were done, +We to the gloomy glen were wont to run; +There on the turf we lay, while at our feet +The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet; +And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore, +Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more; +Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept, +Sung woe unto the wicked land--and wept; +Or, fancy-led, saw Jeremiah mourn +In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn. +Then to another shore perhaps would rove, +With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove; +Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose, +Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes. + +Sweet then to us was that romantic band, +The ancient legends of our native land-- +Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair, +And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair, +By turns our thoughts engaged; and oft we talk'd +Of times when monarch superstition stalk'd, +And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome +Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom: +While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow, +The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of woe. + +While thus employed, to us how sad the bell +Which summon'd us to school! 'T was Fancy's knell, +And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear, +It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear. +Yet even then, (for oh! what chains can bind, +What powers control, the energies of mind!) +E'en then we soar'd to many a height sublime, +And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time. + +At evening too, how pleasing was our walk, +Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk, +When to the upland heights we bent our way. +To view the last beam of departing day; +How calm was all around! no playful breeze +Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees, +But all was still, save when, with drowsy song, +The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along; +And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee, +The distant church bells' mellow harmony; +The silver mirror of the lucid brook, +That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took; +The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides, +With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides; +The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight; +The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight; +All, all was pregnant with divine delight. +We loved to watch the swallow swimming high, +In the bright azure of the vaulted sky; +Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride +Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide, +And tinged with such variety of shade, +To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd. +In these what forms romantic did we trace, +While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space! +Now we espied the Thunderer in his car, +Leading the embattled seraphim to war, +Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, +In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky-- +Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height, +A ridge of glaciers in mural white, +Hugely terrific.--But those times are o'er, +And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more; +For thou art gone, and I am left below, +Alone to struggle through this world of woe. + +The scene is o'er--still seasons onward roll, +And each revolve conducts me toward the goal; +Yet all is blank, without one soft relief, +One endless continuity of grief; +And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, +Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time. + +Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant +For hoards of wealth which ye will never want: +And lost to all but gain, with ease resign +The calms of peace and happiness divine! +Far other cares be mine--Men little crave +In this short journey to the silent grave; +And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health, +I envy more than Croesus with his wealth. +Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree +Paternal acres to await on me; +She gave me more, she placed within my breast +A heart with little pleased--with little bless'd: +I look around me, where, on every side, +Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride; +And could my sight be borne to either zone, +I should not find one foot of land my own. + +But whither do I wander? shall the muse, +For golden baits, her simple theme refuse? +Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets +The fading scenes of childhood's far gone sweets, +It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, +And prattles on in desultory song. +That song must close--the gloomy mists of night +Obscure the pale stars' visionary light, +And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet, +Steals on the welkin in primaval jet. + +The song must close.--Once more my adverse lot +Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot: +Again compels to plunge in busy life, +And brave the hateful turbulence of strife. + +Scenes of my youth--ere my unwilling feet +Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat. +Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er, +My eyes are closed to ope on them no more, +Let me ejaculate, to feeling due, +One long, one last affectionate adieu. +Grant that, if ever Providence should please +To give me an old age of peace and ease, +Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days +May wear away in gradual decays: +And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play, +Unseen upon the pinions of the day, +Kind genii of my native fields benign, +Who were.... + * * * * * + + +[1] This appears to be one of the Author's earliest productions: written +when about the age of fourteen. + + + + +THE CHRISTIAD. + +A DIVINE POEM. + + +BOOK I. + +I. + + I sing the Cross!--Ye white-robed angel choirs, + Who know the chords of harmony to sweep, + Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires + Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep, + Oh, now descend! and with your harpings deep, + Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream + Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep, + Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, +And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme. + +II. + + Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled state, + Thy glittering fanes are level'd with the ground! + Fallen is thy pride!--Thine halls are desolate! + Where erst was heard the timbrels' sprightly sound, + And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round, + There breeds the wild fox lonely,--and aghast + Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, + Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast +Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste. + +III. + + It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers + Lie crumbling in the dust; for this forlorn + Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, + While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn, + That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born; + And, with most bitter persecuting ire, + Pursued his footsteps till the last day dawn + Rose on his fortunes--and thou saw'st the fire +That came to light the world, in one great flash expire. + +IV. + + Oh! for a pencil dipp'd in living light, + To paint the agonies that Jesus bore! + Oh! for the long lost harp of Jesse's might, + To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore; + While seraph hosts the lofty paan pour, + And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim! + May a frail mortal dare the theme explore? + May he to human ears his weak song frame? +Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name. + +V. + + Spirits of pity! mild crusaders, come! + Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float, + And give him eloquence who else were dumb, + And raise to feeling and to fire his note! + And thou, Urania! who dost still devote + Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine, + Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote, + Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine, +And clothe him for the fight with energy divine. + +VI. + + When from the temple's lofty summit prone, + Satan, o'ercome, fell down; and 'throned there, + The son of God confess'd in splendour shone: + Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air, + Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair, + * * * * * + Fled the stern king of Hell--and with the glare + Of gliding meteors, ominous and red, +Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head. + +VII. + + Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late + The rude Massageta adored, he bent + His northering course, while round, in dusky state + The assembling fiends their summon'd troops augment; + Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went, + While as they pass'd to regions more severe, + The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud lament + The solitary gale; and, fill'd with fear, +The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near. + +VIII. + + Where the North Pole, in moody solitude, + Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around, + There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude, + Form a gigantic hall, where never sound + Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound + The smoke-frost mutter'd: there drear Cold for aye + Thrones him,--and, fix'd on his primaval mound, + Ruin, the giant, sits; while stern Dismay +Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way. + +IX. + + In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair, + No sweet remain of life encheers the sight; + The dancing heart's blood in an instant there + Would freeze to marble.--Mingling day and night + (Sweet interchange, which makes our labours light) + Are there unknown; while in the summer skies + The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height, + Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies, +And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise. + +X. + + 'T was there, yet shuddering from the burning lake, + Satan had fix'd their next consistory, + When parting last he fondly hoped to shake + Messiah's constancy,--and thus to free + The powers of darkness from the dread decree + Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent + The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see + The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent, +Discern the colours clear of every dark event. + +XI. + + Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight, + And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall, + Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light, + Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call. + He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen fall, + Dropp'd on the echoing ice. Instant the sound + Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the hall, + Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound, +Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they surround. + +XII. + + High on a solium of the solid wave, + Prank'd with rude shapes by the fantastic frost, + He stood in silence;--now keen thoughts engrave + Dark figures on his front; and, tempest-toss'd, + He fears to say that every hope is lost. + Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute; + So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast, + Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute, +Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute. + +XIII. + + At length collected, o'er the dark Divan + The arch fiend glanced as by the Boreal blaze + Their downcast brows were seen, and thus began + His fierce harangue:--"Spirits! our better days + Are now elapsed; Moloch and Belial's praise + Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod. + Lo! the light breaks;--The astonish'd nations gaze, + For us is lifted high the avenging rod! +For, spirits! this is He,--this is the Son of God! + +XIV. + + "What then!--shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear? + Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign + Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear? + Madness! The very thought would make me fain + To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain, + And hurl them at their Maker!--Fix'd as Fate + I am his foe!--Yea, though his pride should deign + To soothe mine ire with half his regal state, +Still would I burn with fix'd unalterable hate. + +XV. + + "Now hear the issue of my cursed emprize. + When from our last sad synod I took flight, + Buoyed with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise, + To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write + His own self-condemnation; in the plight + Of aged man in the lone wilderness, + Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight; + And, leaning on my staff, seem'd much to guess +What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn recess. + +XVI. + + "Then thus in homely guise I featly framed + My lowly speech:--'Good Sir, what leads this way + Your wandering steps? must hapless chance be blamed + That you so far from haunt of mortals stray? + Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day. + Nor trace of man have seen: but how! methought + Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy ray + I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught +That he to fallen man the saving promise brought.' + +XVII. + + "'I am that man,' said Jesus, 'I am He. + But truce to questions--Canst thou point my feet + To some low hut, if haply such there be + In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet + With homely greeting, and may sit and eat; + For forty days I have tarried fasting here, + Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat, + And now I hunger; and my fainting ear +Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing near.' + +XVIII. + + "Then thus I answer'd wily:--'If, indeed, + Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek + For food from men?--Lo! on these flint stones feed, + Bid them be bread! Open thy lips and speak, + And living rills from yon parch'd rock will break' + Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye + Fix'd on my face;--the blood forsook my cheek, + I could not bear his gaze;--my mask slipp'd by; +I would have shunn'd his look, but had not power to fly. + +XIX. + + "Then he rebuked me with the holy word-- + Accursed sounds; but now my native pride + Return'd, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd, + I bore him from the mountain's woody side + Up to the summit, where extending wide + Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes, + Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were descried, + And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains, +Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculated swains. + +XX. + + "'Behold,' I cried, 'these glories! scenes divine! + Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays; + And these, O rapture! these shall all be thine, + If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise. + Hath he not given to indigence thy days? + Is not thy portion peril here and pain? + Oh! leave his temples, shun his wounding ways! + Seize the tiara! these mean weeds disdain, +Kneel, kneel, thou man of woe, and peace and splendour gain.' + +XXI. + + "'Is it not written,' sternly he replied, + 'Tempt not the Lord thy God!' Frowning he spake, + And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide, + Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake, + And caught me up aloft, till in one flake + The sidelong volley met my swift career, + And smote me earthward.--Jove himself might quake + At such a fall; my sinews crack'd, and near, +Obscure and dizzy sounds seem'd ringing in mine ear. + +XXII. + + "Senseless and stunn'd I lay; till casting round + My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe + Borne on a car of roses to the ground, + By volant angels; and as sailing slow + He sunk the hoary battlement below, + While on the tall spire slept the slant sunbeam, + Sweet on the enamour'd zephyr was the flow + Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft seem, +On star-light hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's dream. + +XXIII. + + "I saw blaspheming. Hate renew'd my strength; + I smote the ether with my iron wing, + And left the accursed scene.--Arrived at length + In these drear halls, to ye, my peers! I bring + The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king + Thrice vanquished, baffled, smitten, and dismay'd! + O shame! Is this the hero who could fling + Defiance at his Maker, while array'd, +High o'er the walls of light, rebellion's banners play'd! + +XXIV. + + "Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph long; + Hell yet shall have revenge. O glorious sight, + Prophetic visions on my fancy throng, + I see wild Agony's lean finger write + Sad figures on his forehead!--Keenly bright + Revenge's flambeau burns! Now in his eyes + Stand the hot tears,--immantled in the night, + Lo! he retires to mourn!--I hear his cries! +He faints--he falls--and lo!--'t is true, ye powers, he dies." + +XXV. + + Thus spake the chieftain,--and as if he view'd + The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced + And chest inflated, motionless he stood, + While under his uplifted shield he glanced, + With straining eyeball fix'd, like one entranced, + On viewless air;--thither the dark platoon + Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when there danced + The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon, +Darken'd the disk of the descending moon. + +XXVI. + + Silence crept stilly through the ranks.--The breeze + Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands, + When all the midnight gasping from the seas + Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands + High on the shrouds the spirit that commands + The ocean-farer's life; so stiff--so sear + Stood each dark power;--while through their numerous bands + Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fear +Now told them all was lost, now bade revenge appear. + +XXVII. + + One there was there, whose loud defying tongue + Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell + Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long + His passion mock'd, and long he strove to tell + His labouring ire; still syllable none fell + From his pale quivering lip, but died away + For very fury; from each hollow cell + Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray, +And.... + * * * * * + +XXVIII. + + "This comes," at length burst from the furious chief, + "This comes of distant counsels! Here behold + The fruits of wily cunning! the relief + Which coward policy would fain unfold, + To soothe the powers that warr'd with Heaven of old! + O wise! O potent! O sagacious snare! + And lo! our prince--the mighty and the bold, + There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air, +While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her standard there." + +XXIX. + + Here, as recovered, Satan fix'd his eye + Full on the speaker; dark it was and stern; + He wrapp'd his black vest round him gloomily, + And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts concern. + Him Moloch mark'd, and strove again to turn + His soul to rage. "Behold, behold," he cried, + "The lord of Hell, who made these legions spurn + Almighty rule--behold he lays aside +The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied." + +XXX. + + Thus ended Moloch, and his burning tongue + Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat + In slaughter. So, his native wilds among, + The famish'd tiger pants, when, near his seat, + Press'd on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet. + Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword + Had from its scabbard sprung; but toward the seat + Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord, +As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde. + + * * * * * + +"Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. I proved +this of old: who led your forces against the armies +of Jehovah? Who coped with Ithuriel and the +thunders of the Almighty? Who, when stunned +and confused ye lay on the burning lake, who first +awoke, and collected your scattered powers? Lastly, +who led you across the unfathomable abyss to this +delightful world, and established that reign here +which now totters to its base? How, therefore, +dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on Satan's +bravery? he who preys only on the defenceless--who +sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in +acts of ignoble cruelty and unequal contention. +Away with the boaster who never joins in action, +but, like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed +upon the wounded, and overwhelm the dying. True +bravery is as remote from rashness as from hesitation; +let us counsel coolly, but let us execute our +counselled purposes determinately. In power we +have learned, by that experiment which lost us +Heaven, that we are inferior to the Thunder-bearer:--In +subtlety, in subtlety alone we are his equals. +Open war is impossible. + + * * * * * + + "Thus we shall pierce our conqueror through the race + Which as himself he loves; thus if we fall, + We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace, + Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call + Of vengeance rings within me! Warriors all, + The word is vengeance, and the spur despair. + Away with coward wiles!--Death's coal-black pall + Be now our standard!--Be our torch the glare +Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air!" + + Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old, + Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves, + Was worshipp'd, God of Fire, with charms untold + And mystery. His wandering spirit roves, + Now vainly searching for the flame it loves; + And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire, + Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves + And cinnamon unheap'd the sacred pyre, +And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire. + + He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast, + And sighing--his papyrus scarf survey'd, + Woven with dark characters, then thus address'd + The troubled council. + + * * * * * + +I. + + Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme + With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung + Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem + The lyre which I in early days have strung: + And now my spirit's faint, and I have hung + The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, + On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung + With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, +Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are heard no more. + + And must the harp of Judah sleep again? + Shall I no more reanimate the lay? + Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men, + Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, + One little space prolong my mournful day! + One little lapse suspend thy last decree! + I am a youthful traveller in the way, + And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, +Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. + + * * * * * + + + + +LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS, + +IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK. + + + Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold +Your brilliant places in the sable vault +Of night's dominions!--Planets, and central orbs +Of other systems!--big as the burning sun +Which lights this nether globe,--yet to our eye +Small as the glowworm's lamp!--To you I raise +My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd, +My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts; +Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, +Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold, +And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring, +Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, +The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, +The great Creator! Him! who now sublime, +Wrapt in the solitary amplitude +Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres +Sits on his silent throne and meditates. + + The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven, +Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, +Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great," +In varied harmonies.--The glorious sounds +Roll o'er the air serene--The Aolian spheres, +Harping along their viewless boundaries, +Catch the full note, and cry, "The Lord is great," +Responding to the Seraphim. O'er all +From orb to orb, to the remotest verge +Of the created world, the sound is borne, +Till the whole universe is full of Him. + Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now +In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, +And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile +On the vain world, and all its bustling cares, +And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. + + Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height, +What even are kings, when balanced in the scale +Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! +Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works! +Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, +One look of kind benevolence?--Thou canst: +For Thou art full of universal love, +And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart +Thy beams as well to me as to the proud, +The pageant insects of a glittering hour. + +Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, +How insignificant do all the joys, +The gaudes, and honours of the world appear! +How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp +Outwatch'd the slow-paced night!--Why on the page, +The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd +The hours devoted by the world to rest, +And needful to recruit exhausted nature? +Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay +The loss of health? or can the hope of glory +Lend a new throb into my languid heart, +Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, +Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye, +Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek? + +Say, foolish one--can that unbodied fame, +For which thou barterest health and happiness, +Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave? +Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs +Of everlasting punishment condign? +Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires! +How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God! +Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth, +And oh! assist me so to live on earth, +That I may die in peace, and claim a place +In thy high dwelling.--All but this is folly, +The vain illusions of deceitful life. + + + + +LINES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER +AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS. + +OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE. + + +Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave, +And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling, +The big tear in his eye.--Mary, awake, +From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight +On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low. +Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale, +Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love, +To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul, +And cheer his breaking heart.--Come, as thou didst, +When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd, +And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne +Of the startled night!--O! then, as lone reclining, +I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm, +Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering +Didst strike my moody eye;--dead pale thou wert, +Yet passing lovely.--Thou didst smile upon me, +And oh! thy voice it rose so musical, +Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm, +That at the sound the winds forgot to rave, +And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd, +Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose, +Lock'd in the arms of silence. + + Spirit of her! +My only love! O! now again arise, +And let once more thine aery accents fall +Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm, +The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence +With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling +On the still air, the distant waterfall +Mingles its melody;--and, high above, +The pensive empress of the solemn night, +Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, +Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky. +No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll +Dare now assemble at their mystic revels. +It is a night when, from their primrose beds, +The gentle ghosts of injured innocents +Are known to rise and wander on the breeze, +Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch, +And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. +The spirit of my love might now awake, +And hold its custom'd converse. + + Mary, lo! +Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave, +And calls upon thy name. The breeze that blows +On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him +In solemn music a funereal dirge, +Wild and most sorrowful. His cheek is pale, +The worm that prey'd upon thy youthful bloom +It canker'd green on his. Now lost he stands, +The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew, +Which bathes his aching temples, gives sure omen +Of speedy dissolution. Mary, soon +Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine, +And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death. + + + + +MY STUDY. + +A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE. + + + You bid me, Ned, describe the place +Where I, one of the rhyming race, +Pursue my studies con amore, +And wanton with the muse in glory. + + Well, figure to your senses straight, +Upon the house's topmost height, +A closet just six feet by four, +With whitewash'd walls and plaster floor. +So noble large, 'tis scarcely able +To admit a single chair and table: +And (lest the muse should die with cold) +A smoky grate my fire to hold: +So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose +To melt the icedrop on one's nose; +And yet so big, it covers o'er +Full half the spacious room and more. + + A window vainly stuff'd about, +To keep November's breezes out, +So crazy, that the panes proclaim +That soon they mean to leave the frame. + + My furniture I sure may crack-- +A broken chair without a back; +A table wanting just two legs, +One end sustain'd by wooden pegs; +A desk--of that I am not fervent, +The work of, Sir, your humble servant; +(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler;) +A glass decanter and a tumbler, +From which my night-parch'd throat I lave, +Luxurious, with the limpid wave. +A chest of drawers, in antique sections, +And saw'd by me in all directions; +So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em +Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em. +To these, if you will add a store +Of oddities upon thee floor, +A pair of globes, electric balls, +Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, +And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, +Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves; +I think, dear Ned, you curious dog, +You'll have my earthly catalogue. +But stay,--I nearly had left out +My bellows destitute of snout; +And on the walls,--Good Heavens! why there +I've such a load of precious ware, +Of heads, and coins, and silver medals, +And organ works, and broken pedals; +(For I was once a-building music, +Though soon of that employ I grew sick); +And skeletons of laws which shoot +All out of one primordial root; +That you, at such a sight, would swear +Confusion's self had settled there. +There stands, just by a broken sphere, +A Cicero without an ear, +A neck, on which, by logic good, +I know for sure a head once stood; +But who it was the able master +Had moulded in the mimic planter, +Whether 't was Pope, or Coke, or Burn, +I never yet could justly learn: +But knowing well, that any head +Is made to answer for the dead, +(And sculptors first their faces frame, +And after pitch upon a name, +Nor think it aught of a misnomer +To christen Chaucer's busto Homer, +Because they both have beards, which, you know, +Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,) +For some great man, I could not tell +But Neck might answer just as well, +So perch'd it up, all in a row +With Chatham and with Cicero. + + Then all around, in just degree, +A range of portraits you may see, +Of mighty men and eke of women, +Who are no whit inferior to men. + + With these fair dames, and heroes round, +I call my garret classic ground. +For though confined, 't will well contain +The ideal flights of Madam Brain. +No dungeon's walls, no cell confined +Can cramp the energies of mind! +Thus, though my heart may seem so small, +I've friends, and 't will contain them all; +And should it e'er become so cold +That these it will no longer hold, +No more may Heaven her blessings give, +I shall not then be fit to live. + + + + +DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE. + + + Down the sultry arc of day +The burning wheels have urged their way; +And eve along the western skies +Sheds her intermingling dyes. +Down the deep, the miry lane, +Creaking comes the empty wain, +And driver on the shaft-horse sits, +Whistling now and then by fits: +And oft, with his accustom'd call, +Urging on the sluggish Ball. +The barn is still, the master's gone, +And thresher puts his jacket on, +While Dick, upon the ladder tall, +Nails the dead kite to the wall. +Here comes shepherd Jack at last, +He has penn'd the sheepcote fast, +For 't was but two nights before, +A lamb was eaten on the moor: +His empty wallet Rover carries, +Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries. +With lolling tongue he runs to try +If the horse-trough be not dry. +The milk is settled in the pans, +And supper messes in the cans; +In the hovel carts are wheel'd, +And both the colts are drove a-field; +The horses are all bedded up, +And the ewe is with the tup. +The snare for Mister Fox is set, +The leaven laid, the thatching wet, +And Bess has slink'd away to talk +With Roger in the holly walk. + + Now, on the settle all, but Bess, +Are set to eat their supper mess; +And little Tom and roguish Kate +Are swinging on the meadow gate. +Now they chat of various things, +Of taxes, ministers, and kings, +Or else tell all the village news, +How madam did the squire refuse; +How parson on his tithes was bent, +And landlord oft distrain'd for rent. +Thus do they talk, till in the sky +The pale-eyed moon is mounted high, +And from the alehouse drunken Ned +Had reel'd--then hasten all to bed. +The mistress sees that lazy Kate +The happing coal on kitchen grate +Has laid--while master goes throughout, +Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out, +The candles safe, the hearths all clear, +And nought from thieves or fire to fear; +Then both to bed together creep, +And join the general troop of sleep. + + + + +LINES, + +Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel +Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's +Poems, just published:--"It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens +the impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have +said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of +life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it." + + + Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still!" +Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will; +Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, +But tell not Misery's son that life is fair. + + Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd, +And every year with new delight hast told, +Thou, who, recumbent on the lacquer'd barge, +Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge, +Thou mayst extol life's calm untroubled sea, +The storms of misery never burst on thee. + + Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines, +Go to the shade obscure, where merit pines; +Abide with him whom Penury's charms control, +And bind the rising yearnings of his soul, +Survey his sleepless couch, and, standing there, +Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair! + Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, +And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled; +Mark his dew'd temples, and his half shut eye, +His trembling nostrils, and his deep drawn sigh, +His muttering mouth contorted with despair, +And ask if Genius could inhabit there. + + Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd, +And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd: +But now Neglect has stung him to--the core, +And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more; +Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round, +And added Grief compels him to the ground. +Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan, +The shades of death with gradual steps steal on; +And the pale mother, pining to decay, +Weeps for her boy her wretched life away. + + Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave, +Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave; +Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head +On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. +Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, +And tell us then that life is wondrous fair! + + Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd forth, +To encourage genius, and to foster worth; +On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, +'T is just that every blessing should descend; +'T is just that life to thee should only show +Her fairer side but little mix'd with woe. + + + + +WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. + + +Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils. +Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind; +Communing lonely with his sinking soul, +And musing on the dubious glooms that lie +In dim obscurity before him,--thee, +Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call +At this still midnight hour, this awful season, +When, on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, +I turn me wearisome; while all around, +All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness; +I only wake to watch the sickly taper +Which lights me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand +Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals, +Slow sapping the warm current of existence. +My moments now are few--the sand of life +Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little, +And the last fleeting particle will fall +Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. +Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate, +While meditate we may.--We have now +--But a small portion of what men call time +To hold communion; for even now the knife, +The separating knife, I feel divide +The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. +Yes, I must die--I feel that I must die; +And though to me has life been dark and dreary, +Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive, +And Disappointment still pursued her blandishments, +Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me +As I contemplate the dim gulf of death, +The shuddering void, the awful blank--futurity. +Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme +Of earthly happiness--romantic schemes, +And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard +To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps, +Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes, +And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, +Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. +Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry? +Oh! none;--another busy brood of beings +Will shoot up in the interim, and none +Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink +As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets +Of busy London:--Some short bustle's caused, +A few inquiries, and the crowds close in, +And all's forgotten.--On my grassy grave +The men of future times will careless tread, +And read my name upon the sculptured stone; +Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, +Recall my vanish'd memory. I did hope +For better things!--I hoped I should not leave +The earth without a vestige;--Fate decrees +It shall be otherwise, and I submit. +Henceforth, oh, world, no more of thy desires! +No more of hope! the wanton vagrant Hope! +I abjure all. Now other cares engross me, +And my tired soul, with emulative haste, +Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for heaven. + + + + +VERSES. + + +When pride and envy, and the scorn + Of wealth my heart with gall imbued, +I thought how pleasant were the morn + Of silence, in the solitude; +To hear the forest bee on wing; +Or by the stream, or woodland spring, +To lie and muse alone--alone, +While the tinkling waters moan, +Or such wild sounds arise, as say, +Man and noise are far away. + +Now, surely, thought I, there's enow + To fill life's dusty way; +And who will miss a poet's feet, + Or wonder where he stray: +So to the woods and wastes I'll go, + And I will build an osier bower, +And sweetly there to me shall flow + The meditative hour. + +And when the Autumn's withering hand, +Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, +I'll to the forest caverns hie: +And in the dark and stormy nights +I'll listen to the shrieking sprites, +Who, in the wintry wolds and floods, +Keep jubilee, and shred the woods; +Or, as it drifted soft and slow, +Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. + + * * * * * + + + + +FRAGMENT. + + +Oh! thou most fatal of Pandora's train, + Consumption! silent cheater of the eye; +Thou comest not robed in agonizing pain, + Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delusive dye, + But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie; +O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse, + And, while thou givest new lustre to the eye, +While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues, +E'en then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues. + +Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth, + Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloom'd; +And dropp'd a tear, for then thy cankering tooth + I knew would never stay, till all consumed, + In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd. + +But oh! what sorrow did I feel, as swift, + Insidious ravager, I saw thee fly +Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow, + Preparing swift her passage to the sky. +Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance, + The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye; +Yet soon did languid listlessness advance, +And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance. + +Even when her end was swiftly drawing near, + And dissolution hover'd o'er her head: +Even then so beauteous did her form appear, + That none who saw her but admiring said, + Sure so much beauty never could be dead. +Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye +Bent lowly down upon the languid-- + + * * * * * + + + + +FRAGMENT. + + + Loud rage the winds without.--The wintry cloud +O'er the cold northstar casts her flitting shroud; +And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale, +Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale; +Where now, shut out from every still retreat, +Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat, +Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood, +Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood? +Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance +The drifted fleeces that around him dance, +And hurries on his half-averted form, +Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm. +Him soon shall greet his snow-topp'd [cot of thatch], +Soon shall his numb'd hand tremble on the latch, +Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame +Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame; +Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud, +What merry groups of vacant faces crowd; +These hail his coming--these his meal prepare, +And boast in all that cot no lurking care. + + What though the social circle be denied, +Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside, +Loves, with fix'd eye, to watch the fluttering blaze, +While musing Memory dwells on former days; +Or Hope, bless'd spirit! smiles--and still forgiven, +Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven. +Then heap the fire--shut out the biting air, +And from its station wheel the easy chair: +Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet +To hear without the bitter tempest beat, +All, all alone--to sit, and muse, and sigh, +The pensive tenant of obscurity. + + * * * * * + + + + +TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, + +WHO, WHEN THE AUTHOR REASONED WITH HIM CALMLY, +ASKED, "IF HE DID NOT FEEL FOR HIM." + + +"Do I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel. +Yea, I do feel--most exquisitely feel; +My heart can weep, when, from my downcast eye, +I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh: +Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, +And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. +On this I act--whatever pangs surround, +'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound! +When all was new, and life was in its spring, +I lived an unloved, solitary thing; +Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day +The piercing cares that wore my youth away: +Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel; +Even then I wept I had not power to heal: +Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, +I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's doom. +Who were my friends in youth?--The midnight fire-- +The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir; +To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight, +To bless my lonely taper's friendly light; +I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn, +For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn; +The sacred source of woe I never ope, +My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope. +But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show, +Though the cold crowd the secret never know; +With them I laugh--yet, when no eye can see, +I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. +Yes, thou didst wrong me, ... I fondly thought, +In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought! +I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise, +And read the truth that in my bosom lies; +I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gone, +Thy heart and mine had mingled into one! +Yes--and they yet will mingle. Days and years +Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears: +We then shall feel that friendship has a power +To soothe affliction in her darkest hour; +Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand, +And wait the passport to a better land. + +Thine + +H.K. WHITE. + +Half past Eleven o'clock at Night. + + + + +CHRISTMAS DAY. + +1804. + + + Yet once more, and once more, awake, my Harp, +From silence and neglect--one lofty strain; +Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven, +And speaking mysteries more than words can tell, +I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high, +Would join the dirge of the departing year. + + Yet with no wintry garland from the woods, +Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear, +Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now; +Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, +And fearful joy, to celebrate the day +Of the Redeemer.--Near two thousand suns +Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse +Of generations, since the dayspring first +Beam'd from on high!--Now to the mighty mass +Of that increasing aggregate we add +One unit more. Space in comparison +How small, yet mark'd with how much misery; +Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, +Over the nations hanging her dread scourge; +The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness, +Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong, +Forcing the scanty portion from the weak, +And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears. + + So has the year been character'd with woe +In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes; +Yet 't was not thus He taught--not thus He lived, +Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer +And much thanksgiving. He, a man of woes, +Went on the way appointed,--path, though rude, +Yet borne with patience still:--He came to cheer +The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, +And on the wandering and benighted mind +To pour the light of truth. O task divine! +O more than angel teacher! He had words +To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds; +And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, +Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm, +He, pointing to the star of peace on high, +Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile +At the surrounding wreck.---- +When with deep agony his heart was rack'd, +Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, +For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd, +His persecutors--"Father, pardon them, +They know not what they do." + + Angels of Heaven, +Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross, +And did him homage, say, may mortal join +The halleluiahs of the risen God? +Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard +Amid the seraphim in light divine? +Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign, +For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith, +Low though it be and humble. Lord of life, +The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now +Fills my uprising soul.--I mount, I fly +Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs; +The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes, +And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more. + + * * * * * + + + + +NELSONI MORS. + + + Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again +One ditty more, and on the mountain ash +I will again suspend thee. I have felt +The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last, +At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, +I woke to thee the melancholy song. +Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, +I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks +Of frolic fancy to the line of truth; +Not unrepining, for my froward heart +Stills turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow +Of spring-gales past--the woods and storied haunts +Of my not songless boyhood.--Yet once more, +Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, +My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink; +The good, the brave--he must not, shall not sink +Without the meed of some melodious tear. + + Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour +No precious dews of Aganippe's well, +Or Castaly,--though from the morning cloud +I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse: +Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows, +Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent +Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears +Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe +Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm +And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd +Fast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too, +If ever I have loved, with faltering step, +To follow thee in the cold and starless night, +To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff; +And, as I heard the deep gun bursting loud +Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd +Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, +The dying soul's viaticum; if oft +Amid the carnage of the field I've sate +With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung +To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul, +With mercy and forgiveness--visitant +Of Heaven--sit thou upon my harp, +And give it feeling, which were else too cold +For argument so great, for theme so high. + + How dimly on that morn the sun arose, +'Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when-- + + * * * * * + + + + +EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. + + +Bloomfield, thy happy omen'd name +Ensures continuance to thy fame; +Both sense and truth this verdict give, +While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live! + + + + +ELEGY + +OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. GILL, WHO WAS +DROWNED IN THE RIVER TRENT, WHILE +BATHING, 9TH AUGUST, 1802. + + +He sunk, the impetuous river roll'd along, + The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath; +And rising sad the rustling sedge among, + The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death. + +Nymph of the Trent! why didst thou not appear + To snatch the victim from thy felon wave! +Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier, + And deck with waterflags his early grave. + +Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey, + Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride; +While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, + And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide. + +The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye, + The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved, +I mark them rise--I mark the general sigh! + Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved? + +On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink, + When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade; +On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink + To hold mysterious converse with thy shade. + +Of thee, as early, I, with vagrant feet, + Hail the gray-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale, +Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet, + And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale. + +And, oh! ye nymphs of Paon! who preside + O'er running rill and salutary stream. +Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide + From the rude death-shriek and the dying scream. + + + + +INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER. + + + Reader! if with no vulgar sympathy +Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth, +Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd spot. +Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made +His name familiar to thine ear, this stone +May tell thee that his virtues were above +The common portion:--that the voice, now hush'd +In death, was once serenely querulous +With pity's tones, and in the ear of woe +Spake music. Now, forgetful, at thy feet, +His tired head presses on its last long rest, +Still tenant of the tomb;--and on the cheek, +Once warm with animation's lambent flush, +Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay. +Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part; +And, these sad garments of Mortality +Put off, we trust, that to a happier land +He went a light and gladsome passenger. +Sigh'st thou for honours, reader? Call to mind +That glory's voice is impotent to pierce +The silence of the tomb! but virtue blooms +Even on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies. +So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk +With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ. + + + + +"I'M PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD." + +When twilight steals along the ground, +And all the bells are ringing round, + One, two, three, four, and five, +I at my study window sit, +And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit, + To bliss am all alive. + +But though impressions calm and sweet +Thrill round my heart a holy heat, + And I am inly glad; +The tear-drop stands in either eye, +And yet I cannot tell thee why, + I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad. + +The silvery rack that flies away, +Like mortal life or pleasure's ray, + Does that disturb my breast? +Nay, what have I, a studious man, +To do with life's unstable plan, + Or pleasure's fading vest? + +Is it that here I must not stop, +But o'er yon blue hill's woody top + Must bend my lonely way? +No, surely no! for give but me +My own fireside, and I shall be + At home where'er I stray. + +Then is it that yon steeple there, +With music sweet shall fill the air, + When thou no more canst hear? +Oh, no! oh, no! for then, forgiven, +I shall be with my God in heaven, + Released from every fear. + +Then whence it is I cannot tell, +But there is some mysterious spell + That holds me when I'm glad; +And so the tear-drop fills my eye, +When yet in truth I know not why, + Or wherefore I am sad. + + + + +SOLITUDE. + + +It is not that my lot is low, +That bids this silent tear to flow; +It is not grief that bids me moan; +It is that I am all alone. + +In woods and glens I love to roam, +When the tired hedger hies him home; +Or by the woodland pool to rest, +When pale the star looks on its breast. + +Yet when the silent evening sighs, +With hallow'd airs and symphonies, +My spirit takes another tone, +And sighs that it is all alone. + +The autumn leaf is sere and dead, +It floats upon the water's bed; +I would not be a leaf, to die +Without recording sorrow's sigh! + +The woods and winds, with sullen wail, +Tell all the same unvaried tale; +I've none to smile when I am free, +And when I sigh, to sigh with me. + +Yet in my dreams a form I view, +That thinks on me, and loves me too; +I start, and when the vision's flown, +I weep that I am all alone. + +If far from me the Fates remove +Domestic peace, connubial love, +The prattling ring, the social cheer, +Affection's voice, affection's tear, +Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart, +To me your iron aid impart! +O teach me when the nights are chill, +And my fireside is lone and still; +When to the blaze that crackles near, +I turn a tired and pensive ear, +And Nature conquering bids me sigh +For love's soft accents whispering nigh; +O teach me, on that heavenly road, +That leads to Truth's occult abode, +To wrap my soul in dreams sublime, +Till earth and care no more be mine. +Let bless'd Philosophy impart +Her soothing measures to my heart; +And while with Plato's ravish'd ears +I list the music of the spheres, +Or on the mystic symbols pore, +That hide the Chald's sublimer lore, +I shall not brood on summers gone, +Nor think that I am all alone. + +Fanny! upon thy breast I may not lie! + Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak! +Where art thou, love?--Around I turn my eye, + And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. +Was it a dream? or did my love behold + Indeed my lonely couch?--Methought the breath +Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold + And hollow, and the livery of death +Invested her pale forehead. Sainted maid! + My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, + Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave +Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. +Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore + Of better promise; and I know at last, + When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, +We two shall meet in Christ--to part no more. + + + + +FRAGMENTS.[1] + + +Saw'st thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and paused: +Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream +That skirts the woods it for a moment play'd. +Again, more light it gleam'd,--or does some sprite +Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams, +And lamp far beaming through the thicket's gloom, +As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice +Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness, +Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour? +No sprite deludes mine eyes,--the beam now glows +With steady lustre.--Can it be the moon +Who, hidden long by the invidious veil +That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods? +No moon to-night has look'd upon the sea +Of clouds beneath her, answer'd Rudiger, +She has been sleeping with Endymion. + + * * * * * + + The pious man, +In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms +Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith +Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields +Of ether, where the day is never veil'd +With intervening vapours, and looks down +Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides +The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face +To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all; +But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd, +The glaring sunbeam plays. + +Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, +Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes, + And from his tower of mist, + Night's watchman hurries down. + +There was a little bird upon that pile; +It perch'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle, +And made sweet melody. +The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear, +For other note none swell'd the air but his. +It seem'd as if the little chorister, +Sole tenant of the melancholy pile, +Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind, +Yet withal cheerful. I have heard the note +Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn, +----Much musing---- + +O pale art thou, my lamp, and faint + Thy melancholy ray: +When the still night's unclouded saint + Is walking on her way. + Through my lattice leaf embower'd, + Fair she sheds her shadowy beam, + And o'er my silent sacred room + Casts a checker'd twilight gloom; + I throw aside the learned sheet, +I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet. + Sad vestal, why art thou so fair, + Or why am I so frail? + +Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon, + And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards! +Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak + Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd; +So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud +Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far +From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave. + +O give me music--for my soul doth faint; + I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear +Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint, + That may the spirit from its cell unsphere. + +Hark how it falls! and now it steals along, + Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, +When all is still; and now it grows more strong, + As when the choral train their dirges weave, +Mellow and many-voiced; where every close, + O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows. + +Oh! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars + Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. +Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores, + And floating paans fill the buoyant wind. +Farewell! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed, +Far from its clayey cell it springs,-- + + * * * * * + +And must thou go, and must we part? + Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit; +The pang that rends in twain my heart, + Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it? + +Thy sex is fickle,--when away, + Some happier youth may win thy---- + + * * * * * + +Ah! who can say, however fair his view, + Through what sad scenes his path may lie? + Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh, +Secure his own will never need it too? + +Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, + Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye + The illusive past and dark futurity; +Soon will they know-- + + * * * * * + +Hush'd is the lyre--the hand that swept + The low and pensive wires, + Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. + +Yes--it is still--the lyre is still; + The spirit which its slumbers broke + Hath pass'd away,--and that weak hand that woke +Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. + +Yet I would press you to my lips once more, + Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy; +Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour, + Mix'd with decaying odours: for to me +Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy, + As in the wood-paths of my native-- + + * * * * * + +When high romance o'er every wood and stream + Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire, +Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering dream, + First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre. +All there was mystery then, the gust that woke + The midnight echo was a spirit's dirge, +And unseen fairies would the moon invoke + To their light morrice by the restless surge. +Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles, + Too much ... +The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, + And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. + +Once more, and yet once more, + I give unto my harp a dark woven lay; +I heard the waters roar, + I heard the flood of ages pass away. +O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell + In thine eternal cell, +Noting, gray chronicler! the silent years, + I saw thee rise,--I saw the scroll complete; + Thou spakest, and at thy feet + The universe gave way. + +Footnotes: + +[1] These Fragments were written upon the back of his mathematical papers, +during the last year of his life. + + + + +FRAGMENT OF AN ECCENTRIC DRAMA. + +WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. + + +THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. + + Ding-dong! ding-dong! + Merry, merry go the bells, + Ding-dong! ding-dong! +Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale, + "Swinging slow with sullen roar," +Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay! +Ding-dong, ding-dong calls us away. + + Round the oak, and round the elm, + Merrily foot it o'er the ground! + The sentry ghost it stands aloof, + So merrily, merrily foot it round. + Ding-dong! ding-dong! + Merry, merry go the bells, + Swelling in the nightly gale, + The sentry ghost, + It keeps its post, + And soon, and soon our sports must fail: + But let us trip the nightly ground, + While the merry, merry bells ring round. + +Hark! Hark! the deathwatch ticks! + See, see, the winding-sheet! + Our dance is done, + Our race is run, + And we must lie at the alder's feet! + Ding-dong! ding-dong! + Merry, merry go the bells, +Swinging o'er the weltering wave! + And we must seek + Our deathbeds bleak, +Where the green sod grows upon the grave. + +They vanish--The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited +in a sky-blue robe, attended by mournful music. + +Come, Melancholy, sister mine! + Cold the dews, and chill the night! +Come from thy dreary shrine! + The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, + And underneath her sickly ray + Troops of squalid spectres play, + And the dying mortals' groan + Startles the night on her dusky throne. + Come, come, sister mine! + Gliding on the pale moonshine: + We'll ride at ease + On the tainted breeze, + And oh! our sport will be divine. + +The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep glen in the +rear, habited in black, and covered with a thick veil.--She +speaks. + + Sister, from my dark abode, + Where nests the raven, sits the toad, + Hither I come, at thy command: + Sister, sister, join thy hand! + I will smooth the way for thee, + Thou shalt furnish food for me. + Come, let us speed our way + Where the troops of spectres play. +To charnel-houses, churchyards drear, +Where Death sits with a horrible leer, +A lasting grin, on a throne of bones, +And skim along the blue tombstones. + Come, let us speed away, + Lay our snares, and spread our tether! + I will smooth the way for thee, + Thou shalt furnish food for me; + And the grass shall wave + O'er many a grave, + Where youth and beauty sleep together. + + +CONSUMPTION. + + Come, let us speed our way, +Join our hands, and spread our tether! + I will furnish food for thee, + Thou shalt smooth the way for me! + And the grass shall wave + O'er many a grave, +Where youth and beauty sleep together. + +MELANCHOLY. + +Hist, sister, hist! who comes here? +Oh! I know her by that tear, +By that blue eye's languid glare, +By her skin, and by her hair: + She is mine, + And she is thine, +Now the deadliest draught prepare. + +CONSUMPTION. + +In the dismal night air dress'd, +I will creep into her breast: +Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, +And feed on the vital fire within. +Lover, do not trust her eyes,-- +When they sparkle most, she dies! +Mother, do not trust her breath,-- +Comfort she will breathe in death! +Father, do not strive to save her,-- +She is mine, and I must have her! +The coffin must be her bridal bed! +The winding-sheet must wrap her head; +The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, +For soon in the grave the maid must lie: + The worm it will riot + On heavenly diet, +When death has deflower'd her eye. + +[They vanish. +While Consumption speaks, Angelina enters.] + +ANGELINA. + +With [1] what a silent and dejected pace +Dost thou, wan Moon! upon thy way advance +In the blue welkin's vault!--Pale wanderer! +Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love, +That thus, with such a melancholy grace, +Thou dost pursue thy solitary course? +Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook +Thy widow'd breast--on which the spoiler oft +Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds +Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night, +Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round +With its thick fringe thy couch? Wan traveller, +How like thy fate to mine!--Yet I have still +One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st; +My woes will soon be buried in the grave +Of kind forgetfulness--my journey here. +Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn, +Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet +Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. +But thou, unhappy Queen! art doom'd to trace +Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night, +While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath +The leaden pinions of unshaken time; +Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue +To cheat thy steps along the weary way. +O that the sum of human happiness +Should be so trifling, and so frail withal, +That when possess'd, it is but lessened grief; +And even then there's scarce a sudden gust +That blows across the dismal waste of life, +But bears it from the view. Oh! who would shun +The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press +The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave, +And yet endure the various ills of life, +And dark vicissitudes! Soon, I hope, I feel, +And am assured, that I shall lay my dead, +My weary aching head, on its last rest, +And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod +Will flourish sweetly. And then they will weep +That one so young, and what they're pleased to call +So beautiful, should die so soon. And tell +How painful Disappointment's canker'd fang +Wither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek. +Oh, foolish ones! why, I shall sleep so sweetly, +Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves +Might envy me my rest! And as for them, +Who, on the score of former intimacy, +May thus remembrance me--they must themselves +Successive fall. + +Around the winter fire +(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals, +And shrill the skater's irons on the pool +Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs +His graceful evolutions) they not long +Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats +Of early youth, but silent, one by one, +Shall drop into their shrouds. Some, in their age, +Ripe for the sickle; others young, like me, +And falling green beneath the untimely stroke. +Thus, in short time, in the churchyard forlorn, +Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down, +And dwell with me, a happy family. +And oh! thou cruel, yet beloved youth, +Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn, +Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse +And say that I was gentle, and deserved +A better lover, and I shall forgive +All, all thy wrongs;--and then do thou forget +The hapless Margaret, and be as bless'd +As wish can make thee--Laugh, and play, and sing +With thy dear choice, and never think of me. +Yet hist, I hear a step.--In this dark wood-- + + * * * * * + +Footnotes: + +[1] With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, +How silently, and how wan a face! +_Sir P. Sidney._ + + + + +TO A FRIEND. + +WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. + + +I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian, +And many another noble Grecian, +Who wealth and palaces resigned, +In cots the joys of peace to find; +Maximian's meal of turnip-tops +(Disgusting food to dainty chops) +I've also read of, without wonder; +But such a cursed egregious blunder, +As that a man of wit and sense +Should leave his books to hoard up pence,-- +Forsake the loved Aonian maids +For all the petty tricks of trades, +I never, either now, or long since, +Have heard of such a peace of nonsense; +That one who learning's joys hath felt, +And at the Muse's altar knelt, +Should leave a life of sacred leisure +To taste the accumulating pleasure; +And, metamorphosed to an alley duck, +Grovel in loads of kindred muck. +Oh! 't is beyond my comprehension! +A courtier throwing up his pension,-- +A lawyer working without a fee,-- +A parson giving charity,-- +A truly pious methodist preacher,-- +Are not, egad, so out of nature. +Had nature made thee half a fool, +But given thee wit to keep a school, +I had not stared at thy backsliding: +But when thy wit I can confide in, +When well I know thy just pretence +To solid and exalted sense; +When well I know that on thy head +Philosophy her lights hath shed, +I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to, +I wonder what this world will come to! +Yet, whence this strain? shall I repine +That thou alone dost singly shine? +Shall I lament that thou alone, +Of men of parts, hast prudence known? + + + + +LINES + +ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. +AGE FOURTEEN. + + +Oh, Warton! to thy soothing shell, +Stretch'd remote in hermit cell, +Where the brook runs babbling by, +For ever I could listening lie; +And catching all the muses' fire, +Hold converse with the tuneful quire. + +What pleasing themes thy page adorn, +The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn, +The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime, +And Melancholy's mournful chime! +Each with unwonted graces shines +In thy ever lovely lines. + +Thy muse deserves the lasting meed; +Attuning sweet the Dorian reed, +Now the lovelorn swain complains, +And sings his sorrows to the plains; +Now the sylvan scenes appear +Through all the changes of the year; + +Or the elegiac strain +Softly sings of mental pain, +And mournful diapasons sail +On the faintly dying gale. + But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er, + On middle flight we cease to soar, +For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep, +Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep, + In strains unheard before. +Now, now the rising fire thrills high, +Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly, + And every throne explore: +The soul entranced, on mighty wings, +With all the poet's heat upsprings, + And loses earthly woes; +Till all alarm'd at the giddy height, +The Muse descends on gentler flight, + And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. + + + + +FRAGMENT. + + + The western gale, +Mild as the kisses of connubial love, +Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved, +Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade +I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat: +While rippling o'er its deep worn pebble bed, +The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet, +Dispensing coolness. On the fringed marge +Full many a floweret rears its head,--or pink, +Or gaudy daffodil. 'Tis here, at noon, +The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire, +And lave them in the fountain; here secure +From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport: +Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf, +Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly, +Invoke the god of slumber.... + * * * * * + + And, hark! how merrily, from distant tower, +Ring round the village bells! now on the gale +They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud; +Anon they die upon the pensive ear, +Melting in faintest music. They bespeak +A day of jubilee, and oft they bear, +Commix'd along the unfrequented shore, +The sound of village dance and tabor loud, +Startling the musing ear of Solitude. + + Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide, +When happy Superstition, gabbling eld! +Holds her unhurtful gambols. All the day +The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance +On the smooth shaven green, and then at eve +Commence the harmless rites and auguries; +And many a tale of ancient days goes round. + +They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells +Could hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon, +Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence, +And still the midnight tempest. Then anon +Tell of uncharnel'd spectres, seen to glide +Along the lone wood's unfrequented path, +Startling the 'nighted traveller; while the sound +Of undistinguished murmurs, heard to come +From the dark centre of the deepening glen, +Struck on his frozen ear. + + Oh, Ignorance! +Thou art fallen man's best friend! With thee he speeds +In frigid apathy along his way. +And never does the tear of agony +Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel +Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast. + + E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, +I taste of all the keener happiness +Which sense refined affords--E'en now my heart +Would fain induce me to forsake the world, +Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds, +With a small flock, and short suspended reed, +To sojourn in the woodland.--Then my thought +Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss, +That I could almost err in reason's spite, +And trespass on my judgment. + + Such is life: +The distant prospect always seems more fair, +And when attain'd, another still succeeds, +Far fairer than before,--yet compass'd round +With the same dangers, and the same dismay. +And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze, +Still discontented, chase the fairy form +Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find, +When life itself is sinking in the strife, +'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat. + + + + +COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR. + + + Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound +With winning elegance attune their song, +Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense, +And charm the soul with softest harmony: +'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen +Roving through Fancy's gay futurity; +Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, +Pleasure of days to come. Memory, too, then +Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad, +Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, +Scenes never to return.[1] +Such subjects merit poets used to raise +The attic verse harmonious; but for me +A deadlier theme demands my backward hand, +And bids me strike the strings of dissonance +With frantic energy. +'Tis wan Despair I sing, if sing I can +Of him before whose blast the voice of Song, +And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly, +Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard +At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood, +The lacerated son of Angola +Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind; +And, when the awful silence of the night +Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart, +He speaks in every conscience-prompted word +Half utter'd, half suppressed. +'Tis him I sing--Despair--terrific name, +Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord +Of timorous terror--discord in the sound: +For to a theme revolting as is this, +Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, +Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound +Of lyre Aolian, or the martial bugle, +Calling the hero to the field of glory, +And firing him with deeds of high emprise +And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine +Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard +Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror. + + Hence, then, soft maids, +And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers +By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream: +For aid like yours I seek not; 'tis for powers +Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine! +'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends. + + Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, +Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light, +And all the myriads of the burning concave: +Souls of the damned:--Hither, oh! come and join +The infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing! +He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang +Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair! +Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power; +Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks, +Till the loud paan ring through hell's high vault, +And the remotest spirits of the deep +Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. + +Footnotes: + +[1] Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of +Memory. + + + + +THE EVE OF DEATH. + +IRREGULAR. + + +Silence of death--portentous calm, + Those airy forms that yonder fly +Denote that your void foreruns a storm, + That the hour of fate is nigh. +I see, I see, on the dim mist borne, + The Spirit of battles rear his crest! +I see, I see, that ere the morn, + His spear will forsake its hated rest, +And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked breast. + +O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep, + No softly ruffling zephyrs fly; +But nature sleeps a deathless sleep, + For the hour of battle is nigh. +Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, + But a creeping stillness reigns around; +Except when the raven, with ominous croak, + On the ear does unwelcomely sound. +I know, I know what this silence means; + I know what the raven saith-- +Strike, oh, ye bards! the melancholy harp, + For this is the eve of death. + +Behold, how along the twilight air + The shades of our fathers glide! +There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair, + And Colma with gray side. +No gale around its coolness flings, + Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees; +And hark! how the harp's unvisited strings + Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze! +'Tis done! the sun he has set in blood! + He will never set more to the brave; +Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death, + For to-morrow he hies to the grave. + + + + +THANATOS. + + +Oh! who would cherish life, + And cling unto this heavy clog of clay, + Love this rude world of strife, +Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day; + And where, 'neath outward smiles, + Conceal'd the snake lies feeding on its prey, + Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way, + And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles! + Hateful it is to me, +Its riotous railings and revengeful strife; + I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts +Dinning the ear;--away--away with life! + And welcome, oh! thou silent maid, + Who in some foggy vault art laid, + +Where never daylight's dazzling ray +Comes to disturb thy dismal sway; +And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, +In such forgetful slumbers deep, +That all thy senses stupefied +Are to marble petrified. +Sleepy Death, I welcome thee! +Sweet are thy calms to misery. +Poppies I will ask no more, +Nor the fatal hellebore; +Death is the best, the only cure, +His are slumbers ever sure. +Lay me in the Gothic tomb, +In whose solemn fretted gloom +I may lie in mouldering state, +With all the grandeur of the great: +Over me, magnificent, +Carve a stately monument; +Then thereon my statue lay, +With hands in attitude to pray, +And angels serve to hold my head, +Weeping o'er the father dead. +Duly too at close of day, +Let the pealing organ play; +And while the harmonious thunders roll, +Chant a vesper to my soul: +Thus how sweet my sleep will be, +Shut out from thoughtful misery! + + + + +ATHANATOS. + + + Away with Death--away +With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, + Impervious to the day, +Where nature sinks into inanity. + How can the soul desire + Such hateful nothingness to crave, + And yield with joy the vital fire + To moulder in the grave! + Yet mortal life is sad, + Eternal storms molest its sullen sky; + And sorrows ever rife + Drain the sacred fountain dry-- + Away with mortal life! +But, hail the calm reality, +The seraph Immortality! +Hail the heavenly bowers of peace, +Where all the storms of passion cease. +Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er, +The wearied spirit weeps no more; +But wears the eternal smile of joy, +Tasting bliss without alloy. +Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, +Where no passing tempest lowers; +But the azure heavens display +The everlasting smile of day; +Where the choral seraph choir +Strike to praise the harmonious lyre; +And the spirit sinks to ease, +Lull'd by distant symphonies. +Oh! to think of meeting there +The friends whose graves received our tear, +The daughter loved, the wife adored, +To our widow'd arms restored; +And all the joys which death did sever, +Given to us again for ever! +Who would cling to wretched life, +And hug the poison'd thorn of strife; +Who would not long from earth to fly, +A sluggish senseless lump to lie, +When the glorious prospect lies +Full before his raptured eyes? + + + + +MUSIC + +WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FOURTEEN AND +FIFTEEN, WITH A FEW SUBSEQUENT +VERBAL ALTERATIONS. + + +Music, all powerful o'er the human mind, + Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, +Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclined, + And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm. + +At her command the various passions lie; + She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace; +Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstasy, + And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease. + +Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire + With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise; +Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire + Urge on the warrior gray with length of days. + +Far better she, when, with her soothing lyre, + She charms the falchion from the savage grasp, +And melting into pity vengeful ire, + Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp. + +With her in pensive mood I long to roam, + At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, +And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam, + In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline. + +Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise, + Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd, +With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies, + And pleased attention claims the passive mind. + +Soft through the dell the dying strains retire, + Then burst majestic in the varied swell; +Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre, + Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell. + +Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give, + That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul, +With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live + For ever 'neath your undefiled control. + +Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent, + To cheer the soul when tired with human strife, +To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent, + And soften down the rugged road of life. + + + + +ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE +PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING. + +WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. + + + The morning sun's enchanting rays +Now call forth every songster's praise; +Now the lark, with upward flight, +Gaily ushers in the light; +While wildly warbling from each tree, +The birds sing songs to Liberty. + + But for me no songster sings, +For me no joyous lark upsprings; +For I, confined in gloomy school, +Must own the pedant's iron rule, +And far from sylvan shades and bowers, +In durance vile must pass the hours; +There con the scholiast's dreary lines, +Where no bright ray of genius shines, +And close to rugged learning cling, +While laughs around the jocund spring. +How gladly would my soul forego +All that arithmeticians know, +Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach, +Or all that industry can reach, +To taste each morn of all the joys +That with the laughing sun arise; +And unconstrain'd to rove along +The bushy brakes and glens among; +And woo the muse's gentle power +In unfrequented rural bower: +But, ah! such heaven-approaching joys +Will never greet my longing eyes; +Still will they cheat in vision fine, +Yet never but in fancy shine. + +Oh, that I were the little wren +That shrilly chirps from yonder glen! +Oh, far away I then would rove +To some secluded bushy grove; +There hop and sing with careless glee. +Hop and sing at liberty; +And, till death should stop my lays, +Far from men would spend my days. + + + + +TO CONTEMPLATION. + + +Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys, +The soother of my cares, inspiring peace; +And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave, +And blame and censure me, that I don't tie +My every thought down to the desk, and spend +The morning of my life in adding figures +With accurate monotony: that so +The good things of the world may be my lot, +And I might taste the blessedness of wealth: +But, oh! I was not made for money getting; +For me no much respected plum awaits. +Nor civic honour, envied. For as still +I tried to cast with school dexterity +The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts +Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt, +Which fond remembrance cherished, and the pen +Dropp'd from my senseless fingers as I pictured, +In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent +I erewhile wander'd with my early friends +In social intercourse. And then I'd think +How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide, +One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe; +They were set down with sober steadiness, +Each to his occupation. I alone, +A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries, +Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering +With every wind to every point of the compass. +Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge +In fits of close abstraction; yea, amid +The busy bustling crowds could meditate, +And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away +Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. +Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youth +I woo'd thy heavenly influence! I would walk +A weary way when all my toils were done, +To lay myself at night in some lone wood, +And hear the sweet song of the nightingale. +Oh, those were times of happiness, and still +To memory doubly dear; for growing years +Had not then taught me man was made to mourn; +And a short hour of solitary pleasure, +Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense +For all the hateful bustles of the day. +My opening mind was ductile then, and plastic, +And soon the marks of care were worn away, +While I was sway'd by every novel impulse, +Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. +But it has now assumed its character; +Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone, +Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend. +Yet still, O Contemplation! I do love +To indulge thy solemn musings; still the same +With thee alone I know to melt and weep, +In thee alone delighting. Why along +The dusky tract of commerce should I toil, +When, with an easy competence content, +I can alone be happy; where with thee +I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, +And loose the wings of Fancy? Thus alone +Can I partake the happiness on earth; +And to be happy here is a man's chief end, +For to be happy he must needs be good. + + + + +MY OWN CHARACTER. + +ADDRESSED (DURING ILLNESS) TO A LADY. + + + Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf, +To give you a sketch--ay, a sketch of myself. +'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess, +And one it would puzzle a painter to dress; +But, however, here goes, and as sure as a gun, +I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun; +For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her, +She wont be a cynical father confessor. + + Come, come, 'twill not do! put that curling brow down; +You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown. +Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction, +That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction; +Religious--deistic--now loyal and warm; +Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform: +This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus; +Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus; +Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle; +Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle; +Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay, +To all points of the compass I veer in a day. + + I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child, +But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild; +As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute; +Then as for politeness--oh! dear--I'm a brute! +I show no respect where I never can feel it; +And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it. +And so in the suite, by these laudable ends, +I've a great many foes, and a very few friends. + + And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel +That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd of steel. +It can love (can it not?)--it can hate, I am sure; +And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be poor. +For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds; +If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds; +And though far from faultless, or even so-so, +I think it may pass as our worldly things go. + + Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss; +Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss! +I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say, +But in process of time I may get the wrong way. +I'm a general lover, if that's commendation, +And yet can't withstand you know whose fascination. +But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices, +In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices; +So as for the good, why, if I possess it, +I am not yet learned enough to express it. + + You yourself must examine the lovelier side, +And after your every art you have tried, +Whatever my faults, I may venture to say, +Hypocrisy never will come in your way. +I am upright, I hope; I'm downright, I'm clear! +And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere; +And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast, +'Tis now when I swear----. + + + + +LINES WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCHYARD. + +ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. + + + Here would I wish to sleep. This is the spot +Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in. +Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, +Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred. +It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun, +From his meridian height, endeavours vainly +To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr +Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, +And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook +Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray +Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd. + + Come, I will sit me down and meditate, +For I am wearied with my summer's walk; +And here I may repose in silent ease; +And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, +My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find +The haven of its rest--beneath this sod +Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. + + I would not have my corpse cemented down +With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm +Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie +Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown, +Swath'd down with osiers, just as sleep the cotters. +Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave; +But there at eve may some congenial soul +Duly resort, and shed a pious tear, +The good man's benison--no more I ask. +And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look down +From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit, +Upon this little dim-discover'd spot, +The earth,) then will I cast a glance below +On him who thus my ashes shall embalm; +And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer, +Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine +In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe, +But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies. + + Yet 't was a silly thought, as if the body, +Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, +Could taste the sweets of summer scenery, +And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze! +Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, +And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond +His narrow verge of being, and provide +A decent residence for its clayey shell, +Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay +His body in the city burial-place, +To be thrown up again by some rude sexton, +And yield its narrow house another tenant, +Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust, +Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, +Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness? +No, I will lay me in the village ground; +There are the dead respected. The poor hind, +Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invade +The silent resting place of death. I've seen +The labourer, returning from his toil, +Here stay his steps, and call his children round, +And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes, +And, in his rustic manner, moralize. +I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken, +With head uncover'd, his respectful manner, +And all the honours which he paid the grave, +And thought on cities, where e'en cemeteries, +Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality, +Are not protected from the drunken insolence +Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. +Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close! +Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones +May lie--or in the city's crowded bounds, +Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, +Or left a prey on some deserted shore +To the rapacious cormorant,--yet still, +(For why should sober reason cast away +A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spirit +Shall wing its way to these my native regions, +And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think +Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew +In solemn rumination; and will smile +With joy that I have got my long'd release. + + + + +VERSES. + + +Thou base repiner at another's joy, + Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, +Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, + And find on meaner climes a fitter throne. + Away, away, it shall not be, + Thou shalt not dare defile our plains; + The truly generous heart disdains + Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he +Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity. + +Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed-- + Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, +Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed, + Thy happy victim will emerge to light; +When o'er his head in silence that reposes + Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear; +Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses, + Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe; +Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all +Will curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall. + + * * * * * + +Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure: + Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey? +Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor, + Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. +See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting, + O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp; +While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting, + Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. +Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd? + Does jocund Health in Thought's still mansion live? +Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest, + That short quick sigh--their sad responses give. + +And canst thou rob a poet of his song; + Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise? +Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long; + Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays +While yet he lives--for to his merits just, + Though future ages join his fame to raise, +Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust? + + * * * * * + + + + +LINES. + + +Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far +From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy! +And many a flower, which in the passing time +My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill +Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. +Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased +To hover o'er the many-voiced strings +Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still +Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, +And with recalled images of bliss +Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw, +Once more would throw a quick and hurried hand +O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased-- +It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth +Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek; +Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy! +The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, +Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, +Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month. +Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, +Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress! +I cannot burst thy bonds. It is but lift +Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault, +Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm, +And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, +And I could follow thee, on thy night's work, +Up to the regions of thrice chasten'd fire, +Or, in the caverns of the ocean flood, +Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. +Yet other duties call me, and mine ear +Must turn away from the high minstrelsy +Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly +Must turn away; there are severer strains +(And surely they are sweet as ever smote +The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil +Released and disembodied), there are strains +Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, +Through the probation of revolving years, +And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, +Have purged and purified. To these my soul +Aspireth; and to this sublimer end +I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep +With patient expectation. Yea, sometimes +Foretaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimes +Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait, +And minister strange music, which doth seem +Now near, now distant, now on high, now low, +Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete, +And full fruition filling all the soul. +Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe +The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude +Of toil; and but that my fond heart +Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone, +When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake, +I lay a listless muser, prizing, far +Above all other lore, the poet's theme; +But for such recollections I could brace +My stubborn spirit for the arduous path +Of science unregretting; eye afar +Philosophy upon her steepest height, +And with bold step and resolute attempt +Pursue her to the innermost recess, +Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. + + + + +THE PROSTITUTE. + +DACTYLICS. + + +Woman of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot, +Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger, +Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart; + +Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery, +Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away, +While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings. + +Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite; +Spurned by the beings who lured thee from innocence; +Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence; + +Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled; +Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness; +Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage! + +Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here; +Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death; +None after thee inquires with solicitude; + +Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down, +Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind, +Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes. + +Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering, +And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave. +Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid. + +Once wert thou happy--thou wert once innocent; +But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness, +Then he abandoned thee unto thine infamy. + +Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down: +But if a wretch like him sleeps in security, +God of the red right arm! where is thy thunder-bolt? + + + + +ODES. + + + + +TO MY LYRE. + + +Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild + Has served to charm the weary hour, +And many a lonely night has 'guiled, +When even pain has own'd, and smiled, + Its fascinating power. + +Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowd + Will little heed thy simple tones; +Them mightier minstrels harping loud +Engross,--and thou and I must shroud + Where dark oblivion 'thrones. + +No hand, they diapason o'er, + Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime; +For me, no academic lore +Has taught the solemn strain to pour, + Or build the polish'd rhyme. + +Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar; + Thou know'st to charm the woodland train; +The rustic swains believe thy power + Can hush the wild winds when they roar, +And still the billowy main. + +These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, + I, still unknown, may live with thee, +And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep +Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, + Beneath the alder tree. + +This little dirge will please me more + Than the full requiem's swelling peal; +I'd rather than that crowds should sigh +For me, that from some kindred eye + The trickling tear should steal. + +Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, + Perhaps from me debarr'd; +And dear to me the classic zone, +Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, + Adorns the accepted bard. + +And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell + Where Cam or Isis winds along, +Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, +I yet might call the ear of taste + To listen to my song. + +Oh! then, my little friend, thy style + I'd change to happier lays, +Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile, +And through the long, the fretted aisle + Should swell the note of praise. + + + + +TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. + + +Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! +Whose modest form, so delicately fine, + Was nursed in whirling storms, + And cradled in the winds. + +Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway, +And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, + Thee on this bank he threw + To mark his victory. + +In this low vale, the promise of the year, +Serene thou openest to the nipping gale, + Unnoticed and alone, + Thy tender elegance. + +So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms +Of chill adversity, in some lone walk + Of life she rears her head, + Obscure and unobserved; + +While every bleaching breeze that on her blows +Chastens her spotless purity of breast, + And hardens her to bear + Serene the ills of life. + + + + +ODE ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A. + +ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS DESIGNS. + + +Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow, + When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, + Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light +That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; +And listen to the distant death-shriek long + From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, + Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, +While the weird sisters weave the horrid song: + Or, when along the liquid sky + Serenely chant the orbs on high, + Dost love to sit in musing trance, + And mark the northern meteor's dance + (While far below the fitful oar + Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore), + And list the music of the breeze, + That sweeps by fits the bending seas; + And often bears with sudden swell + The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, + By the spirits sung, who keep + Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, + And guide the wakeful helmsman's eye + To Helice in northern sky; + And there upon the rock reclined + With mighty visions fill'st the mind, + Such as bound in magic spell + Him[1] who grasp'd the gates of Hell, +And, bursting Pluto's dark domain, +Held to the day the terrors of his reign. + +Genius of Horror and romantic awe, + Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, + Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, +Can force the inmost soul to own its law; + Who shall now, sublimest spirit, + Who shall now thy wand inherit, + From him[2] thy darling child who best + Thy shuddering images expressed? + Sullen of soul, and stern, and proud, + His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd, + And now he lays his aching head +In the dark mansion of the silent dead. + +Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain + Buried beneath the unfathomable deep; + And oh! for ever must its efforts sleep, +May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain? + Oh, yes, 'tis his! Thy other son! + He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, + Fuesslin waves thy wand,--again they rise, + Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes. +Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep + Where round his head the vollied lightnings flung, + And the loud winds that round his pillow rung +Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep. + + Or on the highest top of Teneriffe +Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look + Where far below the weather-beaten skiff +On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. +Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear + The death-sob, and, disdaining rest, +Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast, +And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. + Then, Superstition, at thy call, + She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, + And set before his awe-struck sight + The savage feast and spectred fight; + And summoned from his mountain tomb + The ghastly warrior son of gloom, + His fabled runic rhymes to sing, + While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing; + Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees, + Laid on the stormy Hebrides, + Which on the mists of evening gleam, + Or crowd the foaming desert stream; + Lastly her storied hand she waves, + And lays him in Florentian caves; + There milder fables, lovelier themes, + Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams, + There pity's lute arrests his ear, + And draws the half reluctant tear; + And now at noon of night he roves + Along the embowering moonlight groves, + And as from many a cavern'd dell + The hollow wind is heard to swell, + He thinks some troubled spirit sighs, + And as upon the turf he lies, + Where sleeps the silent beam of night, + He sees below the gliding sprite, + And hears in Fancy's organs sound + Aerial music warbling round. + + Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole, + And breathes her polish o'er his soul; + Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat, + The wondrous work is now complete. + + The Poet dreams:--The shadow flies, + And fainting fast its image dies. + But lo! the Painter's magic force + Arrests the phantom's fleeting course; + It lives--it lives--the canvas glows, + And tenfold vigour o'er it flows. +The Bard beholds the work achieved, + And as he sees the shadow rise + Sublime before his wondering eyes, +Starts at the image his own mind conceived. + + +Footnotes: + +[1] Dante. + +[2] Ibid. + + + + +TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G. + + +I. 1. + +Retired, remote from human noise, + An humble Poet dwelt serene; +His lot was lowly, yet his joys + Were manifold, I ween. +He laid him by the brawling brook + At eventide to ruminate, + He watch'd the swallow skimming round, + And mused, in reverie profound, +On wayward man's unhappy state, +And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of ancient date. + +II. 1. + +"Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried, + "There was a time, when genius claim'd + Respect from even towering pride, + Nor hung her head ashamed: + But now to wealth alone we bow, + The titled and the rich alone + Are honour'd, while meek merit pines, + On penury's wretched couch reclines, +Unheeded in his dying moan, +As, overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown. + +III. 1. + +"Yet was the muse not always seen + In poverty's dejected mien, + Not always did repining rue, + And misery her steps pursue. +Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced + By the sweet honours of poetic bays, + When Sidney sung his melting song, + When Sheffield join'd the harmonious throng, + And Lyttelton attuned to love his lays. + Those days are gone--alas, for ever gone! + No more our nobles love to grace + Their brows with anadems, by genius won, + But arrogantly deem the muse as base; +How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race!" + +I. 2. + + Thus sang the minstrel:--still at eve + The upland's woody shades among + In broken measures did he grieve, + With solitary song. + And still his shame was aye the same, + Neglect had stung him to the core; + And he with pensive joy did love + To seek the still congenial grove, + And muse on all his sorrows o'er, +And vow that he would join the abjured world no more. + +II. 2. + + But human vows, how frail they be! + Fame brought Carlisle unto his view, + And all amazed, he thought to see + The Augustan age anew. + Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose, + No more he ponders on the woes + Which erst he felt that forward goes, + Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, +And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. + +III. 2. + + Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore + With ills which in the world he bore, + Again on futile hope to rest, + An unsubstantial prop at best, +And not to know one swallow makes no summer! + Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, + Which flash'd across the hemisphere, + Illumining the darkness there, + Was but a single solitary beam, + While all around remained in custom'd night. + Still leaden ignorance reigns serene, + In the false court's delusive height, + And only one Carlisle is seen +To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light. + + + + +TO CONTEMPLATION. + + + Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell +In some retired Lapponian cell, +Where, far from noise and riot rude, +Besides sequester'd solitude. +Come, and o'er my longing soul +Throw thy dark and russet stole, +And open to my duteous eyes +The volume of thy mysteries. + + I will meet thee on the hill, +Where, with printless footsteps still, +The morning in her buskin gray +Springs upon her eastern way; +While the frolic zephyrs stir, +Playing with the gossamer, +And, on ruder pinions borne, +Shake the dewdrops from the thorn. +There, as o'er the fields we pass, +Brushing with hasty feet the grass, +We will startle from her nest +The lively lark with speckled breast, +And hear the floating clouds among +Her gale-transported matin song, +Or on the upland stile, embower'd +With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd, +Will sauntering sit, and listen still +To the herdsman's oaten quill, +Wafted from the plain below; +Or the heifer's frequent low; +Or the milkmaid in the grove, +Singing of one that died for love. +Or when the noontide heats oppress, +We will seek the dark recess, +Where, in the embower'd translucent stream, +The cattle shun the sultry beam, +And o'er us on the marge reclined, +The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, +While echo, from her ancient oak, +Shall answer to the woodman's stroke; +Or the little peasant's song, +Wandering lone the glens among, +His artless lip with berries dyed, +And feet through ragged shoes descried. + + But oh! when evening's virgin queen +Sits on her fringed throne serene, +And mingling whispers rising near +Steal on the still reposing ear; +While distant brooks decaying round, +Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, +And the zephyr flitting by +Whispers mystic harmony, +We will seek the woody lane, +By the hamlet, on the plain, +Where the weary rustic nigh +Shall whistle his wild melody, +And the croaking wicket oft +Shall echo from the neighbouring croft; +And as we trace the green path lone, +With moss and rank weeds overgrown, +We will muse on penbive lore? +Till the full soul, brimming o'er, +Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear, +Embodied in a quivering tear. +Or else, serenely silent, sit +By the brawling rivulet, +Which on its calm unruffled breast +Rears the old mossy arch impressed, +That clasps its secret stream of glass, +Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, +The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, +Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, +We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid +The rich vermilion slowly fade; +Or catch, faint twinkling from afar +The first glimpse of the eastern star; +Fair vesper, mildest lamp of light, +That heralds in imperial night: +Meanwhile, upon our wondering ear, +Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, +The distant sounds of pastoral lute, +Invoking soft the sober suit +Of dimmest darkness--fitting well +With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, +(So erst did music's silver tone +Wake slumbering chaos on his throne). +And haply then, with sudden swell, +Shall roar the distant curfew bell, +While in the castle's mouldering tower +The hooting owl is heard to pour +Her melancholy song, and scare +Dull silence brooding in the air. +Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car +Black-suited night drives on from far, +And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, +Arrests the waxing darkness drear, +And summons to her silent call, +Sweeping, in their airy pall, +The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance, +To join her moonshine morris-dance; +While around the mystic ring +The shadowy shapes elastic spring, +Then with a passing shriek they fly, +Wrapt in mists, along the sky, +And oft are by the shepherd seen +In his lone night-watch on the green. + + Then, hermit, let us turn our feet +To the low abbey's still retreat, +Embower'd in the distant glen, +Far from the haunts of busy men, +Where as we sit upon the tomb, +The glowworm's light may gild the gloom, +And show to fancy's saddest eye +Where some lost hero's ashes lie. +And oh, as through the mouldering arch, +With ivy fill'd and weeping larch, +The night gale whispers sadly clear, +Speaking dear things to fancy's ear, +We'll hold communion with the shade +Of some deep wailing, ruin'd maid-- +Or call the ghost of Spenser down, +To tell of woe and fortune's frown; +And bid us cast the eye of hope +Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. +Or if these joys, to us denied, +To linger by the forest's side; +Or in the meadow, or the wood, +Or by the lone, romantic flood; +Let us in the busy town, +When sleep's dull streams the people drown, +Far from drowsy pillows flee, +And turn the church's massy key; +Then, as through the painted glass +The moon's faint beams obscurely pass, +And darkly on the trophied wall +Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall, +Let us, while the faint winds wail +Through the long reluctant aisle, +As we pace with reverence meet, +Count the echoings of our feet, +While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, +Distinct responds the voice of death. +If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend +Thus on my footsteps to attend, +To thee my lonely lamp shall burn +By fallen Genius' sainted urn, +As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, +And sagely spell of ancient lore, +Till I can rightly guess of all +That Plato could to memory call, +And scan the formless views of things; +Or, with old Egypt's fetter'd kings, +Arrange the mystic trains that shine +In night's high philosophic mine; +And to thy name shall e'er belong +The honours of undying song. + + + + +TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE. + + +Oh! thou who, in my early youth, +When fancy wore the garb of truth, +Wert wont to win my infant feet +To some retired, deep fabled seat, +Where, by the brooklet's secret tide, +The midnight ghost was known to glide; +Or lay me in some lonely glade, +In native Sherwood's forest shade, +Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, +Was wont his sylvan courts to hold; +And there, as musing deep I lay, +Would steal my little soul away, +And all my pictures represent, +Of siege and solemn tournament; +Or bear me to the magic scene, +Where, clad in greaves and gabardine, +The warrior knight of chivalry +Made many a fierce enchanter flee; +And bore the high-born dame away, +Long held the fell magician's prey. +Or oft would tell the shuddering tale +Of murders, and of goblins pale, +Haunting the guilty baron's side +(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed), +Which o'er the vaulted corridor +On stormy nights was heard to roar, +By old domestic, waken'd wide +By the angry winds that chide: +Or else the mystic tale would tell +Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell. + + * * * * * + + + + +TO MIDNIGHT. + + +Season of general rest, whose solemn still +Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, + But speaks to philosophic souls delight; +Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, +My candle waning melancholy by, + I sit and taste the holy calm of night. + +Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, +And gilds the misty shadows of the vales, + Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame; +To her, while all around in sleep recline, +Wakeful I raise my orisons divine, + And sing the gentle honours of her name; + +While Fancy lone o'er me, her votary, bends, +To lift my soul her fairy visions sends, + And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, +And Superstition's gentle terrors come,-- +See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom! + See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng! + +Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, +My flageolet--and as I pensive play, + The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: +The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, +Hears them aghast,--(while still the dull owl pours + Her hollow screams each dreary pause between). + +Till in the lonely tower he spies the light, +Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, + Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep, +And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene, +Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, + And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep. + + + + +TO THOUGHT. + +WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. + + + Hence, away, vindictive thought; + Thy pictures are of pain; + The visions through thy dark eye caught, + They with no gentle charms are fraught, + So pr'y thee back again. + I would not weep, + I wish to sleep, +Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep? + + Why dost o'er bed and couch recline? + Is this thy new delight? + Pale visitant, it is not thine + To keep thy sentry through the mine, + The dark vault of the night: + 'Tis thine to die, + While o'er the eye +The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly. + + Go thou, and bide with him who guides + His bark through lonely seas; + And as reclining on his helm, + Sadly he marks the starry realm, + To him thou mayst bring ease: + But thou to me + Art misery, +So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my pillow flee. + + And, memory, pray what art thou? + Art thou of pleasure born? + Does bliss untainted from thee flow? + The rose that gems thy pensive brow, + Is it without a thorn? + With all thy smiles, + And witching wiles, +Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles. + + The drowsy night-watch has forgot + To call the solemn hour; + Lull'd by the winds, he slumbers deep, + While I in vain, capricious sleep, + Invoke thy tardy power; + And restless lie, + With unclosed eye, +And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. + + + + +GENIUS. + +AN ODE. + + +I. 1. + +Many there be, who, through the vale of life, + With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go, +While jarring discord's inharmonious strife + Awakes them not to woe. + By them unheeded, carking care, + Green-eyed grief and dull despair; +Smoothly they pursue their way, + With even tenor and with equal breath, +Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, + Then sink in peace to death. + +II. 1. + +But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour, + And weeping woe, and disappointment keen, +Repining penury, and sorrow sour, + And self-consuming spleen. + And these are Genius' favourites: these + Know the thought-throned mind to please, +And from her fleshy seat to draw + To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, +Disdaining all but 'wildering rapture's law, + The captivated soul. + +III. 1. + +Genius, from thy starry throne, +High above the burning zone, +In radiant robe of light array'd, +Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, + His melancholy moan. +He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, + Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, +Pangs that his sensibility uprouse + To curse his being and his thirst for praise. +Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel + The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn, +And what o'er all does in his soul preside + Predominant, and tempers him to steel, + His high indignant pride. + +I. 2. + +Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life. + That Genius visits not your lowly shed; +For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife + Distract his hapless head! + For him awaits no balmy sleep, + He wakes all night, and wakes to weep; +Or by his lonely lamp he sits + At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps, +In feverish study, and in moody fits + His mournful vigils keeps. + +II. 2. + +And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil? + For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath? +'T is for neglect and penury he doth toil, + 'Tis for untimely death. + Lo! where dejected pale he lies, + Despair depicted in his eyes, +He feels the vital flame decrease, + He sees the grave wide yawning for its prey, +Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, + And cheer the expiring ray. + +III. 2. + + By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, + By gentle Otway's magic name, + By him, the youth, who smiled at death, + And rashly dared to stop his vital breath, + Will I thy pangs proclaim; + For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, + Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, + And far resounding Fame. + What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, + And to thy posthumous merit bend them low; + Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe, + And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw, +Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly + Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain, +And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky, + A melancholy train. + + Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await, + Mocking thy derided state; + Thee chill Adversity will still attend, + Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend + And leaves thee all forlorn; + While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs, + And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides, +And while the cup of affluence he quaffs + With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides, +Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, +To gain the meed of praise when he is mouldering in his grave. + + + + +FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON. + + +Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of night, + A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild, +Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light, + Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled. + Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, + Nocturnal study's still retreat, + It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, + And through my lofty casement weaves, + Dim through the vine's encircling leaves, + An intermingled beam. + +These feverish dews that on my temples hang, + This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame; +These the dread signs of many a secret pang, + These are the meed of him who pants for fame! +Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul; + Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high; +My lamp expires;--beneath thy mild control +These restless dreams are ever wont to fly. + +Come, kindred mourner, in my breast +Soothe these discordant tones to rest, + And breathe the soul of peace; +Mild visitor, I feel thee here, +It is not pain that brings this tear, + For thou hast bid it cease. +Oh! many, a year has pass'd away +Since I, beneath thy fairy ray, + Attuned my infant reed; +When wilt thou, Time, those days restore, +Those happy moments now no more-- + + * * * * * + +When on the lake's damp marge I lay, + And mark'd the northern meteor's dance, +Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there + To inspirate my trance. + Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign +Your magic sweets on me to shed, +In vain your powers are now essay'd + To chase superior pain. + +And art thou fled, thou welcome orb! + So swiftly pleasure flies, +So to mankind, in darkness lost, + The beam of ardour dies. +Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done, +And now, encurtain'd in the main, + Thou sinkest into rest; +But I, in vain, on thorny bed +Shall woo the god of soft repose-- + + * * * * * + + + + +TO THE MUSE. + +WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. + + + Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy train +Chill poverty and misery are seen, + Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane +Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. + Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel +So keenly all the scorns--the jeers of life? +Why not endow them to endure the strife + With apathy's invulnerable steel, + Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal? + + Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, +That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, + That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, +Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb? + What is the charm which leads thy victims on +To persevere in paths that lead to woe? +What can induce them in that route to go, + In which innumerous before have gone, + And died in misery poor and woe-begone? + + Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; +I, who have drunk from thine ethereal rill, + And tasted all the pleasures that abound +Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill? + I, through whose soul the Muse's strains aye thrill! +Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied; + And though our annals fearful stories tell, +How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, +Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. + + + + +TO LOVE. + + +Why should I blush to own I love? +'Tis Love that rules the realms above. +Why should I blush to say to all, +That Virtue holds my heart in thrall? + +Why should I seek the thickest shade, +Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd? +Why the stern brow deceitful move, +When I am languishing with love? + +Is it weakness thus to dwell +On passion that I dare not tell? +Such weakness I would ever prove; +'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet to love. + + + + +ON WHIT-MONDAY. + + +Hark! how the merry bells ring jocund round, +And now they die upon the veering breeze + Anon they thunder loud + Full on the musing ear. + +Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore +Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak + A day of jubilee, + An ancient holiday. + +And lo! the rural revels are begun, +And gaily echoing to the laughing sky, + On the smooth shaven green + Resounds the voice of Mirth. + +Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate, +That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they + Who now are in their graves + Kept up the Whitsun dance. + +And that another hour, and they must fall +Like those who went before, and sleep as still + Beneath the silent sod, + A cold and cheerless sleep. + +Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare +The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign + To smile upon us here, + A transient visitor? + +Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, +And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy; + In time the bell will toll + That warns ye to your graves. + +I to the woodland solitude will bend +My lonesome way--where Mirth's obstreperous shout + Shall not intrude to break + The meditative hour. + +There will I ponder on the state of man, +Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate + This day of jubilee + To sad reflection's shrine; + +And I will cast my fond eye far beyond +This world of care, to where the steeple loud + Shall rock above the sod, + Where I shall sleep in peace. + + + + +TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT. + + +Not unfamiliar to mine ear, +Blasts of the night! ye howl as now + My shuddering casement loud + With fitful force ye beat. + +Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, +The howling sweep, the sudden rush; + And when the passing gale + Pour'd deep the hollow dirge. + + * * * * * + + + + +TO THE HARVEST MOON. + + Cum ruit imbriferum ver: +Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum +Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent. +Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. +VIRGIL. + + + Moon of Harvest, herald mild + Of plenty rustic labour's child, + Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam, + As soft it trembles o'er the stream, + And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide, + Where Innocence and Peace reside! +'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, +Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song. + + Moon of Harvest, I do love + O'er the uplands now to rove, + While thy modest ray serene + Gilds the wide surrounding scene; + And to watch thee riding high + In the blue vault of the sky, +Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray, +But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. + + Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon! + Now the night is at her noon, + 'Neath thy sway to musing lie, + While around the zephyrs sigh, + Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat, + Ripen'd by the summer's heat; + Picturing all the rustic's joy + When boundless plenty greets his eye, + And thinking soon, + Oh, modest Moon! + How many a female eye will roam + Along the road, + To see the load, + The last dear load of harvest home. + + Storms and tempests, floods and rains, + Stern despoilers of the plains, + Hence, away, the season flee, + Foes to light-heart jollity: + May no winds careering high + Drive the clouds along the sky, +But may all nature smile with aspect boon, +When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh Harvest Moon! + + 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, + The husbandman, with deep-seal'd eyes: + He dreams of crowded barns, and round + The yard he hears the flail resound; + Oh! may no hurricane destroy + His visionary views of joy! +God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, +And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare. + + Sons of luxury, to you + Leave I sleep's dull power to woo; + Press ye still the downy bed, + While feverish dreams surround your head; + I will seek the woodland glade, + Penetrate the thickest shade, + Wrapp'd in contemplation's dreams, + Musing high on holy themes, + While on the gale + Shall softly sail +The nightingale's enchanting tune, + And oft my eyes + Shall grateful rise +To thee, the modest Harvest Moon! + + + + +TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.[1] + + +Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom + On January's front severe, + And o'er the wintry desert drear +To waft thy waste perfume! +Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, +And I will bind thee round my brow; + And as I twine the mournful wreath, +I'll weave a melancholy song; +And sweet the strain shall be, and long, + The melody of death. + +Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell + With the pale corse in lonely tomb, + And throw across the desert gloom +A sweet decaying smell. +Come, press my lips, and lie with me +Beneath the lowly alder tree, + And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, +And not a care shall dare intrude +To break the marble solitude, + So peaceful and so deep. + +And hark! the wind god, as he flies, + Moans hollow in the forest trees, + And sailing on the gusty breeze, +Mysterious music dies. +Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, +It warns me to the lonely shrine, + The cold turf altar of the dead: + My grave shall be in yon lone spot, + Where as I lie, by all forgot, +A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. + +Footnotes: + +[1] The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in +the coffins of the dead. + + + + +TO THE MORNING. + +WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. + + + Beams of the daybreak faint! I hail + Your dubious hues, as on the robe + Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, + I mark your traces pale. + Tired with the taper's sickly light, + And with the wearying, number'd night, + I hail the streaks of morn divine: + And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths + That round my rural casement twine; + The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes, +It fans my feverish brow,--it calms the mental strife, +And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life. + + The lark has her gay song begun, + She leaves her grassy nest, + And soars till the unrisen sun + Gleams on her speckled breast. + + Now let me leave my restless bed, + And o'er the spangled uplands tread; + Now through the custom'd wood walk wend; + By many a green lane lies my way, + Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, + Till on the mountain's summit gray, +I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. + + Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale + It breathes into my breast! + My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, + Is with new colours dress'd. + + Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease! + Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze, + Invigorate my frame: + I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, + With thee the distant clime will trace + Beyond those clouds of flame. + + Above, below, what charms unfold + In all the varied view! + Before me all is burnish'd gold, + Behind the twilight's hue. + The mists which on old Night await, + Far to the west they hold their state, + They shun the clear blue face of Morn; + Along the fine cerulean sky + The fleecy clouds successive fly, +While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn. + + And hark! the thatcher has begun + His whistle on the eaves, + And oft the hedger's bill is heard + Among the rustling leaves. + The slow team creaks upon the road, + The noisy whip resounds, + The driver's voice, his carol blithe, + The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe + Mix with the morning's sounds. + + Who would not rather take his seat + Beneath these clumps of trees, + The early dawn of day to greet, + And catch the healthy breeze, + Than on the silken couch of Sloth + Luxurious to lie; + Who would not from life's dreary waste + Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, + An interval of joy! + + To him who simply thus recounts + The morning's pleasures o'er, + Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close + To ope on him no more. + Yet Morning! unrepining still, + He'll greet thy beams awhile; + And surely thou, when o'er his grave + Solemn the whispering willows wave, + Wilt sweetly on him smile: + And the pale glowworm's pensive light +Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night. + + + + +ON DISAPPOINTMENT. + + + Come, Disappointment, come! + Not in thy terrors clad: + Come, in thy meekest, saddest guise; + Thy chastening rod but terrifies + The restless and the bad. + But I recline + Beneath thy shrine, +And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine. + + Though Fancy flies away + Before thy hollow tread, + Yet Meditation, in her cell, + Hears with faint eye the lingering knell + That tells her hopes are dead; + And though the tear + By chance appear, +Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. + + Come, Disappointment, come! + Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, + Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, + For thou severe wert sent from heaven + To wean me from the world; + To turn my eye + From vanity, +And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. + + What is this passing scene? + A peevish April day! + A little sun--a little rain, + And then night sweeps along the plain. + And all things fade away. + Man (soon discuss'd) + Yields up his trust, +And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. + + Oh, what is Beauty's power? + It flourishes and dies; + Will the cold earth its silence break, + To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek + Beneath its surface lies? + Mute, mute is all + O'er Beauty's fall; +Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. + + The most beloved on earth + Not long survives to-day; + So music past is obsolete, + And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, + But now 'tis gone away. + Thus does the shade + In memory fade, +When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. + + Then since this world is vain, + And volatile, and fleet, + Why should I lay up earthly joys, + Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, + And cares and sorrows eat? + Why fly from ill + With anxious skill, +When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still. + + Come, Disappointment, come! + Thou art not stern to me; + Sad Monitress! I own thy sway, + A votary sad in early day, + I bend my knee to thee. + From sun to sun + My race will run, +I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done! + +On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the +freshness of his disappointment. + +I dream no more--the vision flies away, +And Disappointment.... +There fell my hopes--I lost my all in this, +My cherish'd all of visionary bliss. +Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below; +Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe. +Plunge me in glooms.... + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY THE POET. + + +Child of Misfortune! Offspring of the Muse! + Mark like the meteor's gleam his mad career; + With hollow cheeks and haggard eye, + Behold he shrieking passes by: + I see, I see him near: + That hollow scream, that deepening groan; + It rings upon mine ear. + +Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth, + Who clasp the syren pleasure to your breast, + Behold the wreck of genius here, + And drop, oh drop the silent tear + For Dermody at rest: + His fate is yours, then from your loins + Tear quick the silken vest. + +Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eye, + Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil; + How ghastly did it seem; + And then his dying scream: + Oh God! I hear it still: + It sounds upon my fainting sense, + It strikes with deathly chill. + +Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death; + Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed, + Or pitying friends around him stand: + Or didst thou see a mother's hand + Support his languid head: + Oh none of these--no friend o'er him + The balm of pity shed. + +Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth, + Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low; + Now come around who pant for fame, + And learn from hence, a poet's name + Is purchased but by woe: + And when ambition prompts to rise, + Oh think of him below. + +For me, poor moralizer, I will run, + Dejected, to some solitary state: + The muse has set her seal on me, + She set her seal on Dermody, + It is the seal of fate: + In some lone spot my bones may lie, + Secure from human hate. + +Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear, + Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head: + May peace her banners o'er him wave; + For me in my deserted grave + No friend a tear shall shed: + Yet may the lily and the rose + Bloom on my grassy bed. + + + + +SONNETS. + + + + +SONNET TO THE RIVER TRENT. + +WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. + + +Once more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge + A pensive invalid, reduced and pale, +From the close sick-room newly set at large, + Woos to his wan worn cheek the pleasant gale. +O! to his ear how musical the tale + Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! +And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, + How wildly novel on his senses float! +It was on this that many a sleepless night, + As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, +And at his casement heard, with wild affright, + The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, +On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, +Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir. + + + + +SONNET. + + +Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, + Where far from cities I may spend my days; +And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, + May pity man's pursuits and shun his ways. +While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, + List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, +Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, + I shall not want the world's delusive joys; +But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, + Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; +And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, + I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, +And lay me down to rest where the wild wave +Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. + + + + +SONNET.[1] + +SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMALE LUNATIC TO A LADY. + + +Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe, + And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; +Oh! may thy bosom never, never know + The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung. +I had a mother once--a brother too-- + (Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:) +I had a lover once, and kind and true, + But mother, brother, lover, all are fled! +Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye? + Oh! gentle lady--not for me thus weep, +The green sod soon upon my breast will lie, + And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep. +Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom-- + My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb. + +Footnotes: + +[1] This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, "occasioned by +seeing a young female Lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in +the Monthly Mirror. + + + + +SONNET. + +Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody in +Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's service. + + +Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds + Successive fly, and the loud piping wind +Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds, + While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined, +Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies + His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad, + Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad, +And the half strangled tear bedews his eyes; + I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn, +View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, +Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, + For not for me shall wife or children mourn, +And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell, +Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell. + + + + + +SONNET. THE WINTER TRAVELLER. + + +God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far; + The wind is bitter keen,--the snow o'erlays + The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways, +And darkness will involve thee. No kind star +To-night will guide thee, Traveller,--and the war + Of winds and elements on thy head will break, + And in thy agonizing ear the shriek +Of spirits howling on their stormy car +Will often ring appalling--I portend + A dismal night--and on my wakeful bed + Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head, +And him who rides where winds and waves contend, + And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide + His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. + + + + +SONNET. + +BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. + + +This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this volume, and +was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomered +Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs +leave to return his thanks to the much respected writer, for +the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the +good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions. + +Ye whose aspirings court the muse of lays, +"Severest of those orders which belong, + Distinct and separate, to Delphic song," +Why shun the sonnet's undulating maze? +And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days, + Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the throng +The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys + Of its full harmony:--they fear to wrong +The sonnet, by adorning with a name + Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet, + Yet not in magic texture taught to meet +Of that so varied and peculiar frame. +O think! to vindicate its genuine praise +Those it beseems, whose lyre a favouring impulse sways. + + + + +SONNET. + +RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANT +ADMONITION. + + +Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapp'd in night, + Rides on the raven pennons of the storm, + Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, +Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight; +Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight, + Disdain the plaintive sonnet's little form, + And scorn to its wild cadence to conform, +The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. +But me, far lowest of the sylvan train, + Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade + With wildest song;--me, much behoves thy aid +Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, +And give it power to please, as soft it flows +Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close. + + + + +SONNET ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN AOLIAN HARP. + + +So ravishingly soft upon the tide + Of the infuriate gust, it did career, + It might have soothed its rugged charioteer, +And sunk him to a zephyr; then it died, +Melting in melody;--and I descried, + Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear + Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear +Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied: +Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell, + Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds, + By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds +Such as, 'tis said, at night are known to swell +By startled shepherd on the lonely heath, +Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death? + + + + +SONNET. + + +What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat? + Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands. + And thou dost bear within thine awful hands +The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet. +Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, + Thou guidest the northern storm at night's dead noon, + Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon, +Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. +In the drear silence of the polar span + Dost thou repose? or in the solitude +Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan + Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood? +Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace, +Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. + + + + +SONNET TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. + + +Lofft, unto thee one tributary song + The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring; +She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng, + And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. +Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth, + Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, +Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth, + And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child: +Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal, + Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, + Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre, +And show thy labours for the public weal, + Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, + But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme. + + + + +SONNET TO THE MOON. + +WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. + + +Sublime, emerging from the misty verge + Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail, + As, sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale +Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. +Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight, + And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, +Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night, + With double joy my homage do I pay. + When clouds disguise the glories of the day, +And stern November sheds her boisterous blight, + How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray +Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height, + And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring + The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring. + + + + +SONNET WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND. + + +Fast from the west the fading day-streaks fly, + And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway, +Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie, + And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. +Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd +The maid of musings by yon moaning wave; +And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which, now renew'd, + Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave! +The busy world pursues its boisterous way, + The noise of revelry still echoes round, +Yet I am sad while all beside is gay; + Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. +Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease, +And 'neath the greensward sleep the sleep of peace. + + + + +SONNET TO MISFORTUNE. + + +Misfortune, I am young, my chin is bare, + And I have wonder'd much when men have told. +How youth was free from sorrow and from care, + That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old. +Sure dost not like me!--Shrivel'd hag of hate, + My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long; + I am not either, beldame, over strong; +Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, +For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. +Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate; +I am yet young, and do not like thy face; +And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, +I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, +--Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age. + + + + +SONNET. + + +As thus oppressed with many a heavy care + (Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet + To the dark woodland, longing much to greet +The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there; +Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, + Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil, + I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. +And as, amid the leaves, the evening air +Whispers still melody,--I think ere long, + When I no more can hear, these woods will speak; + And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, +And mournful phantasies upon me throng, +And I do ponder, with most strange delight, +On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night. + + + + +SONNET TO APRIL. + + +Emblem of life! see changeful April sail + In varying vest along the shadowy skies, + Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise, +Anon recalling winter's stormy gale, +And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail; + Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes, + While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes, +Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail. +So, to us, sojourners in life's low vale, + The smiles of fortune flatter to deceive, + While still the fates the web of misery weave. +So Hope exultant spreads her aery sail, +And from the present gloom the soul conveys +To distant summers and far happier days. + + + + +SONNET. + + +Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies, + At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear, + Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear, +As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies; +When he, who now invokes you, low is laid, + His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed; +Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head, + And chant a dirge to his reposing shade! +For he was wont to love your madrigals; + And often by the haunted stream, that laves + The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves, +Would sit and listen to the dying falls, +Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, +And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstasy. + + + + +SONNET TO A TAPER. + + +'Tis midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits, + And all is silence--in the hour of sleep; +Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, + In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. +I wake alone to listen and to weep, + To watch my taper, thy pale beacon burn; +And, as still Memory does her vigils keep, + To think of days that never can return. +By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, + My eye surveys the solitary gloom; +And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread, + Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. +Like thee I wane;--like thine my life's last ray +Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away. + + + + +SONNET TO MY MOTHER. + + +And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think + That we, thy children, when old age shall shed + Its blanching honours on thy weary head, +Could from our best of duties ever shrink? +Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink + Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, + To pine in solitude thy life away, +Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. +Banish the thought!--where'er our steps may roam, + O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree, + Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, +And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home; +While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage, +And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. + + + + +SONNET. + + +Yes, 'twill be over soon.--This sickly dream + Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; +And death my wearied spirit will redeem + From this wild region of unvaried pain. +Yon brook will glide as softly as before, + Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow. +Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar + When Henry's name is heard no more below. +I sigh when all my youthful friends caress, + They laugh in health, and future evils brave; +Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, + While I am mouldering in the silent grave. +God of the just, Thou gavest the bitter cup; +I bow to thy behest, and drink it up. + + + + +SONNET TO CONSUMPTION. + + +Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head. + Consumption, lay thine hand!--let me decay + Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, +And softly go to slumber with the dead. + And if 'tis true what holy men have said, + That strains angelic oft foretell the day +Of death to those good men who fall thy prey, +O let the aerial music round my bed, +Dissolving sad in dying symphony, + Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear; +That I may bid my weeping friends good-by + Ere I depart upon my journey drear: +And, smiling faintly on the painful past, +Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. + + + + +SONNET. + +TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX. + + +Thy judgments, Lord, are just; thou lovest to wear + The face of pity and of love divine; +But mine is guilt--thou must not, canst not spare, + While heaven is true, and equity is thine. +Yes, oh my God!--such crimes as mine, so dread, + Leave but the choice of punishment to thee; +Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, + And even thy mercy dares not plead for me! +Thy will be done, since 'tis thy glory's due, + Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; +Smite--it is time--though endless death ensue, + I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. +But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, +That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood? + + + + +SONNET. + + +When I sit musing on the chequer'd past + (A term much darken'd with untimely woes), + My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows +The tear, though half disown'd; and binding fast +Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, + I say to her she robb'd me of my rest, + When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast +Received from her this wearying, lingering smart; +Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; + Though wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love, + For she was most unworthy.--Then I prove +Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams, +Throned in dark clouds, inflexible.... +The native pride of my much injured heart. + + + + +SONNET. + + +Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile, + Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring; +But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile, + Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. +Is it for me to strike the Idalian string-- + Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, +While in my ears the howls of furies ring, + And melancholy waste the vital fire? +Away with thoughts like these--To some lone cave + Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the wave, +Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear, + I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse + Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse, +And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear. + + + + +SONNET. + + +Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts-- + Bleak blows the blast--now howls--then faintly dies-- +And oft upon its awful wings it wafts + The dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries. +Now, when athwart the gloom gaunt Horror stalks, + And midnight hags their damned vigils hold, +The pensive poet 'mid the wild waste walks, + And ponders on the ills life's paths unfold. +Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes, + Insensible to every outward ill; +Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes, + And oft big tears adown his worn cheeks trill. +Ah! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore, +Which gnaws his heart, and bids him hope no more. + + + + +BALLADS, SONGS, AND HYMNS. + + + + +GONDOLINE + +A BALLAD. + + +The night it was still, and the moon it shone + Serenely on the sea, +And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock + They murmur'd pleasantly, + +When Gondoline roam'd along the shore, + A maiden full fair to the sight; +Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, + And turn'd it to deadly white. + +Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear + It fill'd her faint blue eye, +As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, + Her Bertrand's dying sigh. + +Her Bertrand was the bravest youth + Of all our good king's men, +And he was gone to the Holy Land + To fight the Saracen. + +And many a month had pass'd away, + And many a rolling year, +But nothing the maid from Palestine + Could of her lover hear. + +Full oft she vainly tried to pierce + The ocean's misty face; +Full oft she thought her lover's bark + She on the wave could trace. + +And every night she placed a light + In the high rock's lonely tower, +To guide her lover to the land, + Should the murky tempest lower. + +But now despair had seized her breast, + And sunken in her eye; +"Oh tell me but if Bertrand live, + And I in peace will die." + +She wander'd o'er the lonely shore, + The curlew scream'd above, +She heard the scream with a sickening heart, + Much boding on her love. + +Yet still she kept her lonely way, + And this was all her cry. +"Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live, + And I in peace shall die." + +And now she came to a horrible rift + All in the rock's hard side, +A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread + The cavern yawning wide. + +And pendant from its dismal top + The deadly nightshade hung; +The hemlock and the aconite + Across the mouth was flung. + +And all within was dark and drear, + And all without was calm; +Yet Gondoline enter'd, her soul upheld + By some deep-working charm. + +And as she enter'd the cavern wide, + The moonbeam gleamed pale, +And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, + It clung by its slimy tail. + +Her foot it slipp'd, and she stood aghast, + She trod on a bloated toad; +Yet, still upheld by the secret charm, + She kept upon her road. + +And now upon her frozen ear + Mysterious sounds arose; +So, on the mountain's piny top + The blustering north wind blows. + +Then furious peals of laughter loud + Were heard with thundering sound, +Till they died away in soft decay, + Low whispering o'er the ground. + +Yet still the maiden onward went, + The charm yet onward led, +Though each big glaring ball of sight + Seem'd bursting from her head. + +But now a pale blue light she saw, + It from a distance came; +She follow'd, till upon her sight + Burst full a flood of flame. + +She stood appall'd; yet still the charm + Upheld her sinking soul; +Yet each bent knee the other smote, + And each wild eye did roll. + +And such a sight as she saw there + No mortal saw before, +And such a sight as she saw there + No mortal shall see more. + +A burning cauldron stood in the midst, + The flame was fierce and high, +And all the cave so wide and long + Was plainly seen thereby. + +And round about the cauldron stout + Twelve withered witches stood; +Their waists were bound with living snakes, + And their hair was stiff with blood. + +Their hands were gory too; and red + And fiercely flamed their eyes: +And they were muttering indistinct + Their hellish mysteries. + +And suddenly they join'd their hands, + And utter'd a joyous cry, +And round about the cauldron stout + They danced right merrily. + +And now they stopp'd; and each prepared + To tell what she had done, +Since last the lady of the night + Her waning course had run. + +Behind a rock stood Gondoline, + Thick weeds her face did veil, +And she lean'd fearful forwarder, + To hear the dreadful tale. + +The first arose: She said she'd seen + Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd, +She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve, + And a jovial storm had brew'd. + +She'd called around the winged winds, + And raised a devilish rout; +And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard + Full fifteen leagues about. + +She said there was a little bark + Upon the roaring wave, +And there was a woman there who'd been + To see her husband's grave. + +And she had got a child in her arms, + It was her only child, +And oft its little infant pranks + Her heavy heart beguiled. + +And there was too in that same bark + A father and his son: +The lad was sickly, and the sire + Was old and woe-begone. + +And when the tempest waxed strong, + And the bark could no more it 'bide, +She said it was jovial fun to hear + How the poor devils cried. + +The mother clasp'd her orphan child + Unto her breast and wept; +And sweetly folded in her arms + The careless baby slept. + +And she told how, in the shape of the wind, + As manfully it roar'd, +She twisted her hand in the infant's hair, + And threw it overboard. + +And to have seen the mother's pangs, + 'Twas a glorious sight to see; +The crew could scarcely hold her down + From jumping in the sea. + +The hag held a lock of her hair in her hand, + And it was soft and fair: +It must have been a lovely child, + To have had such lovely hair. + +And she said the father in his arms + He held his sickly son, +And his dying throes they fast arose, + His pains were nearly done. + +And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands, + And his face grew deadly blue; +And the father he tore his thin gray hair, + And kiss'd the livid hue. + +And then she told how she bored a hole + In the bark, and it fill'd away: +And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear, + And some did vow and pray. + +The man and woman they soon were dead, + The sailors their strength did urge; +But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet, + And the winds sung their funeral dirge. + +She threw the infant's hair in the fire, + The red flame flamed high, +And round about the cauldron stout + They danced right merrily. + +The second begun: She said she had done + The task that Queen Hecate had set her, +And that the devil, the father of evil, + Had never accomplished a better. + +She said, there was an aged woman, + And she had a daughter fair, +Whose evil habits fill'd her heart + With misery and care. + +The daughter had a paramour, + A wicked man was he, +And oft the woman him against + Did murmur grievously. + +And the hag had work'd the daughter up + To murder her old mother, +That then she might seize on all her goods, + And wanton with her lover. + +And one night as the old woman + Was sick and ill in bed. +And pondering solely on the life + Her wicked daughter led, + +She heard her footstep on the floor, + And she raised her pallid head, +And she saw her daughter, with a knife, + Approaching to her bed. + +And said, My child, I'm very ill, + I have not long to live, +Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die + Thy sins I may forgive. + +And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, + And she lifted the sharp bright knife, +And the mother saw her fell intent, + And hard she begg'd for life. + +But prayers would nothing her avail, + And she scream'd aloud with fear, +But the house was lone, and the piercing screams + Could reach no human ear + +And though that she was sick, and old, + She struggled hard, and fought; +The murderess cut three fingers through + Ere she could reach her throat. + +And the hag she held her fingers up, + The skin was mangled sore, +And they all agreed a nobler deed + Was never done before. + +And she threw the fingers in the fire, + The red flame flamed high, +And round about the cauldron stout + They danced right merrily. + +The third arose: She said she'd been + To holy Palestine; +And seen more blood in one short day + Than they had all seen in nine. + +Now Gondoline, with fearful steps, + Drew nearer to the flame, +For much she dreaded now to hear + Her hapless lover's name. + +The hag related then the sports + Of that eventful day, +When on the well contested field + Full fifteen thousand lay. + +She said that she in human gore + Above the knees did wade, +And that no tongue could truly tell + The tricks she there had play'd. + +There was a gallant featured youth, + Who like a hero fought; +He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, + And every danger sought. + +And in a vassal's garb disguised, + Unto the knight she sues, +And tells him she from Britain comes, + And brings unwelcome news. + +That three days ere she had embark'd + His love had given her hand +Unto a wealthy Thane:--and thought + Him dead in Holy Land. + +And to have seen how he did writhe + When this her tale she told, +It would have made a wizard's blood + Within his heart run cold. + +Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, + And sought the battle's bed; +And soon all mangled o'er with wounds + He on the cold turf bled. + +And from his smoking corse she tore + His head, half clove in two. +She ceased, and from beneath her garb + The bloody trophy drew. + +The eyes were starting from their socks, + The mouth it ghastly grinn'd, +And there was a gash across the brow, + The scalp was nearly skinn'd. + +'Twas Bertrand's head! With a terrible scream + The maiden gave a spring +And from her fearful hiding-place + She fell into the ring. + +The lights they fled--the cauldron sunk, + Deep thunders shook the dome, +And hollow peals of laughter came + Resounding through the gloom. + +Insensible the maiden lay + Upon the hellish ground, +And still mysterious sounds were heard + At intervals around. + +She woke--she half arose--and wild + She cast a horrid glare, +The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, + And all was stillness there. + +And through an awning in the rock + The moon it sweetly shone, +And show'd a river in the cave + Which dismally did moan. + +The stream was black, it sounded deep + As it rush'd the rocks between, +It offer'd well, for madness fired + The breast of Gondoline. + +She plunged in, the torrent moan'd + With its accustom'd sound, +And hollow peals of laughter loud + Again rebellow'd round. + +The maid was seen no more.--But oft + Her ghost is known to glide, +At midnight's silent, solemn hour, + Along the ocean's side. + + + + +A BALLAD. + +Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, + Ye pelting rains, a little rest; +Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, + That wring with grief my aching breast. + +Oh! cruel was my faithless love, + To triumph o'er an artless maid; +Oh! cruel was my faithless love, + To leave the breast by him betray'd. + +When exiled from my native home, + He should have wiped the bitter tear; +Nor left me faint and lone to roam, + A heart-sick weary wanderer here. + +My child moans sadly in my arms, + The winds they will not let it sleep: +Ah, little knows the hapless babe + What makes its wretched mother weep! + +Now lie thee still, my infant dear, + I cannot bear thy sobs to see, +Harsh is thy father, little one, + And never will he shelter thee. + +Oh, that I were but in my grave, + And winds were piping o'er me loud, +And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, + Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud! + + + + +THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD THE NIGHT PREVIOUS +TO EXECUTION. + + +Sleep, baby mine,[1] enkerchieft on my bosom, + Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; +Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother + To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. + +Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining? + Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; +Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, + And I would fain compose my aching head. + +Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping, + When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be? +Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping + In her low grave of shame and infamy? + +Sleep, baby mine--Tomorrow I must leave thee, + And I would snatch an interval of rest: +Sleep these last moments ere the laws bereave thee, + For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. + +Footnotes: + +[1] Sir Philip Sidney has a poem, beginning, "Sleep, baby mine." + + + + +THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. + + +Oh! yonder is the well known spot, + My dear, my long lost native home! +Oh, welcome is yon little cot, + Where I shall rest, no more to roam! +Oh! I have travell'd far and wide, + O'er many a distant foreign land; +Each place, each province I have tried. + And sung and danced my saraband. + But all their charms could not prevail + To steal my heart from yonder vale. + +Of distant climes the false report + It lured me from my native land; +It bade me rove--my sole support + My cymbals and my saraband. +The woody dell, the hanging rock, + The chamois skipping o'er the heights; +The plain adorn'd with many a flock, + And, oh! a thousand more delights, + That grace yon dear beloved retreat, + Have backward won my weary feet. + +Now safe return'd, with wandering tired, + No more my little home I'll leave; +And many a tale of what I've seen + Shall while away the winter's eve. +Oh! I have wandered far and wide, + O'er many a distant foreign land; +Each place, each province I have tried, + And sung and danced my saraband; + But all their charms could not prevail + To steal my heart from yonder vale. + + + + +A PASTORAL SONG. + +Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns, + Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies; +Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, + And watch the early lark arise; + While nature, clad in vesture gay, + Hails the loved return of day. + +Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade + Upon the moor, shall seek the vale; +And then, secure beneath the shade, + We'll listen to the throstle's tale; + And watch the silver clouds above, + As o'er the azure vault they rove. + +Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute, + That with its tones, so softly sweet, +In cadence with my mellow flute, + We may beguile the noontide heat; + While near the mellow bee shall join, + To raise a harmony divine. + +And then at eve, when silence reigns, + Except when heard the beetle's hum, +We'll leave the sober tinted plains, + To these sweet heights again we'll come; + And thou to thy soft lute shalt play + A solemn vesper to departing day. + + + + +MELODY. + + +Yes, once more that dying strain, + Anna, touch thy lute for me; +Sweet, when pity's tones complain, + Doubly sweet is melody. + +While the Virtues thus enweave + Mildly soft the thrilling song, +Winter's long and lonesome eve + Glides unfelt, unseen, along. + +Thus when life hath stolen away, + And the wintry night is near, +Thus shall virtue's friendly ray + Age's closing evening, cheer. + + + + +SONG. + +BY WALLER. + + +A Lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to the Author, and +when he returned them to her, she discovered an additional +stanza written by him at the bottom of the song here copied. + + Go, lovely rose! +Tell her, that wastes her time on me, + That now she knows, +When I resemble her to thee, +How sweet and fair she seems to be. + + Tell her that's young, +And shuns to have her graces spied, + That hadst thou sprung +In deserts, where no men abide, +Thou must have uncommended died. + + Small is the worth +Of beauty from the light retired, + Bid her come forth, +Suffer herself to be desired, +And not blush so to be admired. + + Then die, that she +The common fate of all things rare + May read in thee; +How small a part of time they share, +That are so wondrous sweet and fair. + + [Yet, though thou fade, +From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; + And teach the maid +That Goodness Time's rude hand defies, +That Virtue lives when Beauty dies. + H. K. WHITE.] + + + + +THE WANDERING BOY. + +A SONG. + + +When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, +And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; +When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, +Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy. + +The winter is cold, and I have no vest, +And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast; +No father, no mother, no kindred have I, +For I am a parentless Wandering Boy. + +Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, +A mother who granted each infant desire; +Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale, +Where the ringdove would warble its sorrowful tale. + +But my father and mother were summoned away, +And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey; +I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, +And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy. + +The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, +And no one will list to my innocent tale; +I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, +And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy. + + + + +CANZONET. + + +Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee, + Cold the rain beats on thy breast: +Why should Horror's voice astound thee? + Death can bid the wretched rest! + All under the tree + Thy bed may be, +And thou mayst slumber peacefully. + +Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee, + Now thy cheeks are pale and deep: +Love has been a felon to thee, + Yet, poor maiden, do not weep: + There's rest for thee + All under the tree, +Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. + + + + +SONG. + +WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. + + +Softly, softly blow, ye breezes, + Gently o'er my Edwy fly! +Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly; + Softly, zephyrs, pass him by! + My love is asleep, + He lies by the deep, +All along where the salt waves sigh. + +I have cover'd him with rushes, + Water-flags, and branches dry. +Edwy, long have been thy slumbers; + Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye! + My love is asleep, + He lies by the deep, +All along where the salt waves sigh. + +Still he sleeps; he will not waken, + Fastly closed is his eye; +Paler is his cheek, and chiller + Than the icy moon on high. + Alas! he is dead, + He has chose his death-bed +All along where the salt waves sigh. + +Is it, is it so, my Edwy? + Will thy slumbers never fly? +Couldst thou think I would survive thee? + No, my love, thou bid'st me die. + Thou bid'st me seek + Thy death-bed bleak +All along where the salt waves sigh. + +I will gently kiss thy cold lips, + On thy breast I'll lay my head, +And the winds shall sing our death dirge, + And our shroud the waters spread; + The moon will smile sweet, + And the wild wave will beat, +Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed. + + + + +THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT. + + +Thou, spirit of the spangled night! +I woo thee from the watchtower high, +Where thou dost sit to guide the bark + Of lonely mariner. + +The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, +The distant main is moaning low; +Come, let us sit and weave a song-- + A melancholy song! + +Sweet is the scented gale of morn, +And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, +But sweeter far the solemn calm + That marks thy mournful reign. + +I've pass'd here many a lonely year, +And never human voice have heard; +I've pass'd here many a lonely year, + A solitary man. + +And I have linger'd in the shade, +From sultry noon's hot beams; and I +Have knelt before my wicker door, + To sing my evening song. + +And I have hail'd the gray morn high, +On the blue mountain's misty brow, +And tried to tune my little reed + To hymns of harmony. + +But never could I tune my reed, +At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, +As when upon the ocean shore + I hail'd thy star-beam mild. + +The dayspring brings not joy to me, +The moon it whispers not of peace; +But oh! when darkness robes the heavens, + My woes are mix'd with joy. + +And then I talk, and often think +Aerial voices answer me; +And oh! I am not then alone-- + A solitary man. + +And when the blustering winter winds +Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, +I lay me on my lonely mat, + And pleasant are my dreams. + +And fancy gives me back my wife; +And fancy gives me back my child; +She gives me back my little home, + And all its placid joys. + +Then hateful is the morning hour, +That calls me from the dream of bliss, +To find myself still lone, and hear + The same dull sounds again. + +The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, +The whispering of the boding trees, +The brook's eternal flow, and oft + The condor's hollow scream. + + + + +THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER. + +A SONG. + + +Come all ye true hearts, who, Old England to save, +Now shoulder the musket, or plough the rough wave, +I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow, +Who has ruin'd Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello. + Derry down, down, high derry down. + +This juggler is little, and ugly, and black, +But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back; +'Tis certain, all fear of the devil he scorns; +Some say they are cousins; we know he wears horns. + Derry down. + +At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he? +He hopp'd o'er an army, he skipped o'er the sea; +And he jump'd from the desk of a village attorney +To the throne of the Bourbons--a pretty long journey. + Derry down. + +He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball, +And his cup is so fashion'd it catches them all; +The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declare +His skill at the long bow has made them both stare. + Derry down. + +He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain; +And Germany too knows his legerdemain; +So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights, +He's coming to London to put us to rights. + Derry down. + +To encourage his puppets to venture this trip, +He has built them such boats as can conquer a ship; +With a gun of good metal, that shoots out so far, +It can silence the broadsides of three men of war. + Derry down. + +This new Katterfelto, his show to complete, +Means his boats should all sink as they pass by our fleet; +Then, as under the ocean their course they steer right on, +They can pepper their foes from the bed of old Triton. + Derry down. + +If this project should fail, he has others in store; +Wooden horses, for instance, may bring them safe o'er; +Or the genius of France (as the Moniteur tells) +May order balloons, or provide diving-bells. + Derry down. + +When Philip of Spain fitted out his Armada, +Britain saw his designs, and could meet her invader; +But how to greet Bonny she never will know, +If he comes in the style of a fish or a crow. + Derry down. + +Now if our rude tars will so crowd up the seas, +That his boats have not room to go down when they please, +Can't he wait till the channel is quite frozen over, +And a stout pair of skates will transport him to Dover. + Derry down. + +How welcome he'll be it were needless to say; +Neither he nor his puppets shall e'er go away; +I am sure at his heels we shall constantly stick, +Till we know he has play'd off his very last trick. + Derry down, down, high derry down. + + + + +HYMN. + +In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure the +splendours of the Deity. + + +Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake, +Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake; +We sing the Saviour of our race, +The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place. + +When God's right arm is bared for war, +And thunders clothe his cloudy car, +Where, where, oh, where shall man retire, +To escape the horrors of his ire? + +'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly, +While the dread tempest passes by; +God sees his Well-beloved's face, +And spares us in our hiding-place. + +Thus while we dwell in this low scene, +The Lamb is our unfailing screen; +To him, though guilty, still we run, +And God still spares us for his Son. + +While yet we sojourn here below, +Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow; +Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, +We deeply need a hiding-place. + +Yet, courage--days and years will glide, +And we shall lay these clods aside, +Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood, +And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood. + +Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed, +We through the Lamb shall be decreed; +Shall meet the Father face to face, +And need no more a hiding-place.[1] + +Footnotes: + +[1] The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously, by the +Author, one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, +and singing as he was used to do on such occasions. + + + + +A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. + +O Lord, another day is flown, + And we, a lonely band, +Are met once more before thy throne, + To bless thy fostering hand. + +And wilt thou bend a listening ear, + To praises low as ours? +Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear + The song which meekness pours. + +And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign, + As we before thee pray; +For thou didst bless the infant train, + And we are less than they. + +O let thy grace perform its part, + And let contention cease; +And shed abroad in every heart + Thine everlasting peace! + +Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine, + A flock by Jesus led; +The Sun of Holiness shall shine + In glory on our head. + +And thou wilt turn our wandering feet, + And thou wilt bless our way; +Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet + The dawn of lasting day. + + + + +THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. + + +When marshal'd on the nightly plain, + The glittering host bestud the sky; +One star alone, of all the train, + Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. + +Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, + From every host, from every gem; +But one alone the Saviour speaks, + It is the Star of Bethlehem. + +Once on the raging seas I rode, + The storm was loud,--the night was dark, +The ocean yawn'd--and rudely blow'd + The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. + +Deep horror then my vitals froze, + Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; +When suddenly a star arose, + It was the Star of Bethlehem. + +It was my guide, my light, my all, + It bade my dark forebodings cease; +And through the storm and dangers' thrall + It led me to the port of peace. + +Now safely moor'd--my peril's o'er, + I'll sing, first in night's diadem, +For ever, and for evermore, + The Star!--The Star of Bethlehem! + + + + +A HYMN. + +O Lord, my God, in mercy turn, +In mercy hear a sinner mourn! +To thee I call, to thee I cry, +O leave me, leave me not to die! + +I strove against thee, Lord, I know, +I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law; +The hour is past--the day's gone by, +And I am left alone to die. + +O pleasures past, what are ye now +But thorns about my bleeding brow! +Spectres that hover round my brain, +And aggravate and mock my pain. + +For pleasure I have given my soul; +Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll! +Now, Vengeance, smile--and with a blow +Lay the rebellious ingrate low. + +Yet, Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling, +I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing; +I'll clasp the cross, and holding there, +Even me, oh bliss!--his wrath may spare. + + + + +TRIBUTARY VERSES. + + + + +EULOGY ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE, BY +LORD BYRON. + +FROM THE ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. + + +Unhappy White![1] while life was in its spring, +And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, +The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair +Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. +Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, +When science self destroy'd her favourite son! +Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, +She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. +'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, +And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low. +So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, +No more through rolling clouds to soar again, +View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, +And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart. +Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, +He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel; +While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest +Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. + +Footnotes: + +[1] Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence +of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured +a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself +destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must +impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was +allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions +he was destined to assume. + + + + +SONNET ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY CAPEL LOFFT. + + +Master so early of the various lyre + Energic, pure, sublime!--Thus art thou gone? + In its bright dawn of fame that spirit flown, +Which breathed such sweetness, tenderness, and fire! +Wert thou but shown to win us to admire, + And veil in death thy splendour?--But unknown + Their destination who least time have shone, +And brightest beamed.--When these the Eternal Sire, +--Righteous, and wise, and good are all his ways-- + Eclipses as their sun begins to rise, +Can mortal judge, for their diminish'd days, + What blest equivalent in changeless skies, +What sacred glory waits them?--His the praise; + Gracious, whate'er he gives, whate'er denies. + +24th Oct. 1806. + + + + +SONNET OCCASIONED BY THE SECOND OF +HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY CAPEL LOFFT. + + +Yes, fled already is thy vital fire, + And the fair promise of thy early bloom + Lost, in youth's morn extinct; sunk in the tomb; +Mute in the grave sleeps thy enchanted lyre! +And is it vainly that our souls aspire? + Falsely does the presaging heart presume + That we shall live beyond life's cares and gloom; +Grasps it eternity with high desire, +But to imagine bliss, feel woe, and die; + Leaving survivors to worse pangs than death? + Not such the sanction of the Eternal Mind. +The harmonious order of the starry sky, + And awful revelation's angel breath, + Assure these hopes their full effect shall find. + +25th December, 1806. + + + + +WRITTEN IN THE HOMER OF +MR. H. K. WHITE. + +PRESENTED TO ME BY HIS BROTHER, J. NEVILLE WHITE. + +BY CAPEL LOFFT. + + +Bard of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame! + While on these awful leaves my fond eyes rest, + On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late press'd, +I pause; and gaze regretful on thy name. +By neither chance nor envy, time nor flame, + Be it from this its mansion dispossessed! + But thee, Eternity, clasps to her breast, +And in celestial splendour thrones thy claim. + +No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace + An imitative radiance:[1] thy pure lyre, +Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace, + And beams and breathes in empyreal fire: +The Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone +Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own. + +Bury, 11th Jan. 1807. + +Footnotes: + +[1] Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded with a glory. + + + + +TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. + +BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, A. M. + + +O Lost too soon! accept the tear + A stranger to thy memory pays! +Dear to the muse, to science dear, + In the young morning of thy days! + +All the wild notes that pity loved + Awoke, responsive still to thee, +While o'er the lyre thy fingers roved + In softest, sweetest harmony. + +The chords that in the human heart + Compassion touches as her own, +Bore in thy symphonies a part-- + With them in perfect unison. + +Amidst accumulated woes + That premature afflictions bring, +Submission's sacred hymn arose, + Warbled from every mournful string. + +When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread, + And deeper every moment grew; +When rudely round thy youthful head + The chilling blasts of sickness blew; + +Religion heard no 'plainings loud, + The sigh in secret stole from thee; +And pity, from the "dropping cloud," + Shed tears of holy sympathy. + +Cold is that heart in which were met + More virtues than could ever die; +The morning star of hope is set-- + The sun adorns another sky. + +O partial grief! to mourn the day + So suddenly o'erclouded here, +To rise with unextinguish'd ray-- + To shine in a superior sphere! + +Oft Genius early quits this sod, + Impatient of a robe of clay, +Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod, + And smiles, and soars, and steals away! + +But more than genius urged thy flight, + And mark'd the way, dear youth! for thee: +Henry sprang up to worlds of light +On wings of immortality! + +Blackheath Hill, 24th June, 1808. + + + + +SONNET TO HENRY KIRKE WHITE, ON HIS +POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED. + +BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. + + +Hail! gifted youth, whose passion-breathing lay + Portrays a mind attuned to noblest themes, + A mind, which, wrapt in Fancy's high-wrought dreams, +To nature's veriest bounds its daring way +Can wing: what charms throughout thy pages shine, + To win with fairy thrill the melting soul! + For though along impassion'd grandeur roll, +Yet in full power simplicity is thine. +Proceed, sweet bard! and the heaven-granted fire + Of pity, glowing in thy feeling breast, + May nought destroy, may nought thy soul divest +Of joy--of rapture in the living lyre, + Thou tunest so magically: but may fame + Each passing year add honours to thy name. + +Richmond, Sept. 1803. + + + + +SONNET, + +ON SEEING ANOTHER WRITTEN TO H. K. WHITE, IN SEPTEMBER, +1803, INSERTED IN HIS "REMAINS." + +BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. + + + Ah! once again the long left wires among, + Truants the Muse to weave her requiem song; +With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay +Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to stray +O'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower; + To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view +And courtship of the world: hail'd was the hour + That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew, +Poor Henry's budding beauties--to a clime + Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray + Forced their young vigour into transient day, +And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them! and shall time +Trample these orphan blossoms?--No! they breathe +Still lovelier charms--for Southey culls the wreath! + +Oxford, Dec. 17, 1807. + + + + +REFLECTIONS ON READING THE LIFE OF +THE LATE HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, +AUTHOR OF THE "PEASANT'S FATE." + + +Darling of science and the muse, +How shall a son of song refuse + To shed a tear for thee? +To us, so soon, for ever lost, +What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd + By Heaven's supreme decree? + +How could a parent, love-beguiled, +In life's fair prime resign a child + So duteous, good, and kind? +The warblers of the soothing strain +Must string the elegiac lyre in vain + To soothe the wounded mind! + +Yet, Fancy, hovering round the tomb, +Half envies, while she mourns thy doom, + Dear poet, saint, and sage! +Who into one short span, at best, +The wisdom of an age compress'd, + A patriarch's lengthen'd age! + +To him a genius sanctified, +And purged from literary pride, + A sacred boon was given: +Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre +Celestial raptures could inspire, + And lift the soul to Heaven. + +'Twas not the laurel earth bestows, +'Twas not the praise from man that flows, + With classic toil he sought: +He sought the crown that martyrs wear, +When rescued from a world of care; + Their spirit too he caught. + +Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay, +Who idly range in Folly's way, + And learn the worth of time: +Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, +How to redeem this pearl at last, + Atoning for your crime. + +This flower, that droop'd in one cold clime +Transplanted from the soil of time + To immortality, +In full perfection there shall bloom; +And those who now lament his doom + Must bow to God's decree. + +London, 27th Feb. 1808. + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY T. PARK. + + +Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell, + Impassion'd minstrel! when its pitying wail +Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell + Untimely, wither'd by the northern gale.[1] +Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime! + Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse blast, +Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desert clime, + But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'ercast, +To see thee languish into quick decay. + Yet was not thy departing immature; +For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away, + And pure in spirit, as the bless'd are pure; +Pure as the dewdrop, freed from earthly leaven, +That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven! + +Footnotes: + +[1] See Clifton Grove. + + + + +LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. HENRY +KIRKE WHITE. + +BY THE REV. J. PLUMPTRE. + + +Such talents and such piety combined, +With such unfeign'd humility of mind, +Bespoke him fair to tread the way to fame, +And live an honour to the Christian name. +But Heaven was pleased to stop his fleeting hour, +And blight the fragrance of the opening flower. +We mourn--but not for him, removed from pain; +Our loss, we trust, is his eternal gain: +With him we'll strive to win the Saviour's love, +And hope to join him with the blest above. + +October 24th, 1806. + + + + +TO MR. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY H. WELKER. + + +Hark! 'tis some sprite who sweeps a funeral knell, + For Dermody no more.--That fitful tone +From Eolus' wild harp alone can swell, + Or Chatterton assumes the lyre unknown. + +No; list again! 'tis Bateman's fatal sigh + Swells with the breeze, and dies upon the stream: +'Tis Margaret mourns, as swift she rushes by, + Roused by the demons from adulterous dream. + +O! say, sweet youth! what genius fires thy soul? + The same which tuned the frantic nervous strain +To the wild harp of Collins?--By the pole, + Or 'mid the seraphim and heavenly train, +Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold, +To sing Hell's flaming gulf, or Heaven high arch'd with gold? + + + + +VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF +HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY JOSIAH CONDER. + + + What is this world at best, + Though deck'd in vernal bloom, +By hope and youthful fancy dress'd, +What, but a ceaseless toil for rest, + A passage to the tomb? + If flowrets strew + The avenue, +Though fair, alas! how fading, and how few! + + And every hour comes arm'd + By sorrow, or by woe: +Conceal'd beneath its little wings, +A scythe the soft-shod pilferer brings, + To lay some comfort low: + Some tie to unbind, + By love entwined, +Some silken bond that holds the captive mind. + + And every month displays + The ravages of time: +Faded the flowers!--The spring is past! +The scattered leaves, the wintry blast, + Warn to a milder clime: + The songsters flee + The leafless tree, +And bear to happier realms their melody. + + Henry! the world no more + Can claim thee for her own! +In purer skies thy radiance beams! +Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes + Before the eternal throne: + Yet, spirit dear, + Forgive the tear +Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger here. + + Although a stranger, I + In friendship's train would weep: +Lost to the world, alas! so young, +And must thy lyre, in silence hung, + On the dark cypress sleep? + The poet, all + Their friend may call; +And Nature's self attends his funeral. + + Although with feeble wing + Thy flight I would pursue, +With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride, +Alike our object, hopes, and guide, + One heaven alike in view; + True, it was thine + To tower, to shine; +But I may make thy milder virtues mine. + + If Jesus own my name + (Though, fame pronounced it never), +Sweet spirit, not with thee alone, +But all whose absence here I moan, +Circling with harps the golden throne, + I shall unite for ever. + At death then why + Tremble or sigh? +Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die? + +Dec. 5, 1807. + + + + +ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S +POEM ON SOLITUDE. + +BY JOSIAH CONDER. + + +But art thou thus indeed "alone?" +Quite unbefriended--all unknown? +And hast thou then his name forgot +Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot? + +Is not his voice in evening's gale? +Beams not with him the "star" so pale? +Is there a leaf can fade and die +Unnoticed by his watchful eye? + +Each fluttering hope--each anxious fear-- +Each lonely sigh--each silent tear-- +To thine Almighty Friend are known; +And say'st thou, thou art "all alone?" + + + + +ODE ON THE LATE H. KIRKE WHITE. + +BY JUVENIS. + + +And is the minstrel's voyage o'er? + And is the star of genius fled? +And will his magic harp no more, + Mute in the mansions of the dead, +Its strains seraphic pour? + +A pilgrim in this world of woe, + Condemn'd, alas! awhile to stray, +Where bristly thorns, where briers grow, + He bade, to cheer the gloomy way, +Its heavenly music flow. + +And oft he bade, by fame inspired, + Its wild notes seek the ethereal plain, +Till angels, by its music fired, + Have, listening, caught the ecstatic strain, +Have wonder'd, and admired. + +But now secure on happier shores, + With choirs of sainted souls he sings; +His harp the Omnipotent adores, + And from its sweet, its silver strings +Celestial music pours. + +And though on earth, no more he'll weave + The lay that's fraught with magic fire, +Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve + His now exalted heavenly lyre +In sounds Aolian grieve. + +B. Stoke. + + + + +SONNET IN MEMORY OF HENRY +KIRKE WHITE. + +BY J. G. + + +"'Tis now the dead of night," and I will go +To where the brook soft murmuring glides along +In the still wood; yet does the plaintive song +Of Philomela through the welkin flow; +And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw + Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, + Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree strong, +And intermingle with the streams my woe! +Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze; + No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom; +Cold, chilling dewdrops trickle down the trees, + And every flower withholds its rich perfume: +'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground +Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound! + + + + +LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRY +KIRKE WHITE. + +LATE OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. + + + Sorrows are mine--then let me joys evade. +And seek for sympathies in this lone shade. +The glooms of death fall heavy on my heart, +And, between life and me, a truce impart. +Genius has vanish'd in its opening bloom, +And youth and beauty wither in the tomb! + Thought, ever prompt to lend the inquiring eye, +Pursues thy spirit through futurity. +Does thy aspiring mind new powers essay, +Or in suspended being wait the day, +When earth shall fall before the awful train +Of Heaven and Virtue's everlasting reign? + May goodness, which thy heart did once enthrone, +Emit one ray to meliorate my own! +And for thy sake, when time affliction calm, +Science shall please, and poesie shall charm. + I turn my steps whence issued all my woes, +Where the dull courts monastic glooms impose; +Thence fled a spirit whose unbounded scope +Surpass'd the fond creations e'en of hope. + Along this path thy living step has fled, +Along this path they bore thee to the dead. +All that this languid eye can now survey +Witnessed the vigour of thy fleeting day: +And witness'd all, as speaks this anguish'd tear, +The solemn progress of thy early bier. + Sacred the walls that took thy parting breath, +Own'd thee in life, encompass'd thee in death! + Oh! I can feel as felt the sorrowing friend +Who o'er thy corse in agony did bend; +Dead as thyself to all the world inspires, +Paid the last rites mortality requires; +Closed the dim eye that beam'd with mind before, +Composed the icy limbs to move no more! + Some power the picture from my memory tear, +Or feeling will rush onward to despair. + Immortal hopes! come, lend your blest relief, +And raise the soul bow'd down with mortal grief; +Teach it to look for comfort in the skies: +Earth cannot give what Heaven's high will denies. + +Cambridge, Nov. 1806. + + + + +SONNET + +ADDRESSED TO H. K. WHITE, ON HIS POEMS +LATELY PUBLISHED. + +BY G. L. C. + + +Henry! I greet thine entrance into life! +Sure presage that the myrmidons of fate, +The fool's unmeaning laugh, the critic's hate, +Will dire assail thee; and the envious strife +Of bookish schoolmen, beings over rife, +Whose pia-mater studious is fill'd +With unconnected matter, half distill'd +From letter'd page, shall bare for thee the knife, +Beneath whose edge the poet ofttimes sinks: +But fear not! for thy modest work contains +The germ of worth; thy wild poetic strains, +How sweet to him, untutor'd bard, who thinks +Thy verse "has power to please, as soft it flows +Through the smooth murmurs of the frequent close." + +1803. + + + + +TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY A LADY. + + +If worth, if genius, to the world are dear, +To Henry's shade devote no common tear; +His worth on no precarious tenure hung. +From genuine piety his virtues sprung; +If pure benevolence, if steady sense, +Can to the feeling heart delight dispense: +If all the highest efforts of the mind, +Exalted, noble, elegant, refined, +Call for fond sympathy's heart-felt regret, +Ye sons of genius, pay the mournful debt: +His friends can truly speak how large his claim, +And "Life was only wanting to his fame." +Art thou, indeed, dear youth, for ever fled? +So quickly number'd with the silent dead? +Too sure I read it in the downcast eye, +Hear it in mourning friendship's stifled sigh. +Ah! could esteem or admiration save +So dear an object from the untimely grave, +This transcript faint had not essay'd to tell +The loss of one beloved, revered so well; +Vainly I try, even eloquence were weak, +The silent sorrow that I feel to speak. +No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer, +And bind my spirit to this lower sphere; +Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh, +And bid new fire relume my languid eye: +No more the pencil's mimic art command, +And with kind pity guide my trembling hand; +Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard, +To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard. +Vain all the pleasures thou canst not inspire, +And "in my breast the imperfect joys expire." +I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my shrine, +And little dream'd I should have wept o'er thine: +In fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre +With virtue's energies each bosom fire; +I saw admiring nations press around, +Eager to catch the animating sound: +And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night, +To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight, +Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade, +And each graced honour to thy memory paid. +Such was the fate hope pictured to my view-- +But who, alas! e'er found hope's visions true? +And, ah! a dark presage, when last we met, +Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret; +When thou thy portrait from the minstrel drew, +The living Edwin starting on my view-- +Silent, I ask'd of Heaven a lengthen'd date; +His genius thine, but not like thine his fate. +Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure revealed, +The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd. +Too strong the portion of celestial flame +For its weak tenement the fragile frame; +Too soon for us it sought its native sky, +And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye, +Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight, +Leaving behind long tracks of lucid light: +So shall thy bright example fire each youth +With love of virtue, piety, and truth. +Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn, +And bid her sons revere thy favour'd urn. +When thy loved flower "spring's victory makes known," +The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone: +Around thy urn the rosemary well spread, +Whose "tender fragrance,"--emblem of the dead-- +Shall "teach the maid, whose bloom no longer lives," +That "virtue every perish'd grace survives." +Farewell! sweet Moralist; heart-sickening grief +Tells me in duty's path to seek relief, +With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise, +And seek hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies. +Yet still on thee shall fond remembrance dwell, +And to the world thy worth delight to tell; +Though well I feel unworthy thee the lays +That to thy memory weeping friendship pays. + + + + +STANZAS, + +SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE +OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY A LADY. + + +Ye gentlest gales! oh, hither waft, + On airy undulating sweeps, +Your frequent sighs so passing soft, + Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps! +He breathed the purest tenderest sigh, +The sigh of sensibility. + +And thou shalt lie, his favourite flower, + Pale primrose, on his grave reclined; +Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour, + And of his pure, his spotless mind! +Like thee he sprung in lowly vale; +And felt, like thee, the trying gale. + +Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude, + O thou, the fragrant rosemary, +Where he, "in marble solitude, + So peaceful and so deep" doth lie! +His harp prophetic sung to thee +In notes of sweetest minstrelsy. + +Ye falling dews, Oh! ever leave + Your crystal drops these flowers to steep: +At earliest morn, at latest eve, + Oh let them for their poet weep! +For tears bedew'd his gentle eye, +The tears of heavenly sympathy. + +Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams; + for he was wont to pace the glade, +To watch in pale uncertain gleams, + The crimson-zoned horizon fade-- +Thy last, they setting radiance pour, +Where he is set to rise no more. + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Henry Kirke White +by Henry Kirke White + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETICAL WORKS *** + +This file should be named 7pwhw10.txt or 7pwhw10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7pwhw11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7pwhw10a.txt + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Tiffany Vergon, Charles Aldarondo, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Poetical Works of Henry Kirke White + With a Memoir by Sir Harris Nicolas + +Author: Henry Kirke White + +Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7149] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on March 17, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-Latin-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETICAL WORKS *** + + + + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Tiffany Vergon, Charles Aldarondo, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + +THE POETICAL WORKS OF +HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +WITH A MEMOIR +BY SIR HARRIS NICOLAS. + +TO +PETER SMITH, ESQ. +THIS VOLUME +IS INSCRIBED +IN TESTIMONY OF ESTEEM AND FRIENDSHIP. + + + + + +CONTENTS. + +Memoir of Henry Kirke White + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + +Clifton Grove +Time +Childhood; Part I + Part II +The Christiad +Lines written on a Survey of the Heavens +Lines supposed to be spoken by a Lover at the Grave of his + Mistress +My Study +Description of a Summer's Eve +Lines--"Go to the raging sea, and say, 'Be still!'" +Written in the Prospect of Death +Verses--"When pride and envy, and the scorn" +Fragment--"Oh! thou most fatal of Pandora's train" + "Loud rage the winds without.--The wintry cloud" +To a Friend in Distress +Christmas Day +Nelsoni Mors +Epigram on Robert Bloomfield +Elegy occasioned by the Death of Mr. Gill, who was drowned in the + River Trent, while bathing +Inscription for a Monument to the Memory of Cowper +"I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad" +Solitude +"If far from me the Fates remove" +"Fanny! upon thy breast I may not lie!" +Fragments--"Saw'st thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and + paused:" + "The pious man" + "Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray" + "There was a little bird upon that pile;" + "O pale art thou, my lamp, and faint" + "O give me music--for my soul doth faint" + "And must thou go, and must we part" + "Ah! who can say, however fair his view," + "Hush'd is the lyre--the hand that swept" + "When high romance o'er every wood and stream" + "Once more, and yet once more," +Fragment of an Eccentric Drama +To a Friend +Lines on reading the Poems of Warton +Fragment--"The western gale," +Commencement of a Poem on Despair +The Eve of Death +Thanatos +Athanatos +Music +On being confined to School one pleasant Morning in Spring +To Contemplation +My own Character +Lines written in Wilford Churchyard +Verses--"Thou base repiner at another's joy," +Lines--"Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far" +The Prostitute + +ODES. + +To my Lyre +To an early Primrose +Ode addressed to H. Fuseli, Esq. R. A. +To the Earl of Carlisle, K. G. +To Contemplation +To the Genius of Romance +To Midnight +To Thought +Genius +Fragment of an Ode to the Moon +To the Muse +To Love +On Whit-Monday +To the Wind, at Midnight +To the Harvest Moon +To the Herb Rosemary +To the Morning +On Disappointment +On the Death of Dermody the Poet + +SONNETS. + +To the River Trent +Sonnet--"Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild," +Sonnet supposed to have been addressed by a Female Lunatic to a + Lady +Sonnet supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody in a + Storm +The Winter Traveller +Sonnet--"Ye whose aspirings court the muse of lays," +Recantatory, in Reply to the foregoing elegant Admonition +On hearing the Sounds of an Æolian Harp +Sonnet--"What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat?" +To Capel Lofft, Esq. +To the Moon +Written at the Grave of a Friend +To Misfortune +Sonnet--"As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care," +To April +Sonnet--"Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies," +To a Taper +To my Mother +Sonnet--"Yes, 't will be over soon. This sickly dream" +To Consumption +Sonnet--"Thy judgments, Lord, are just;" +Sonnet--"When I sit musing on the chequer'd part" +Sonnet--"Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile" +Sonnet--"Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts" + +BALLADS, SONGS, AND HYMNS. + +Gondoline +A Ballad--"Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds," +The Lullaby of a Female Convict to her Child, the Night previous + to Execution +The Savoyard's Return +A Pastoral Song +Melody--"Yes, once more that dying strain" +Additional Stanza to a Song by Waller +The Wandering Boy +Canzonet--"Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee'" +Song--"Softly, softly blow, ye breezes," +The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song to the Night +The Wonderful Juggler +Hymn--"Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake" +A Hymn for Family Worship +The Star of Bethlehem +Hymn--"O Lord, my God, in mercy turn" + +TRIBUTARY VERSES. + +Eulogy on Henry Kirke White, by Lord Byron +Sonnet on Henry Kirke White, by Capel Lofft +Sonnet occasioned by the Second of H. K. White, by the same +Written in the Homer of Mr. H. K. White, by the same +To the Memory of H. K. White, by the Rev. W. B. Collyer, A.M. +Sonnet to H. K. White, on his Poems, by Arthur Owen, Esq. +Sonnet, on seeing another written to H. K. White, by the same +Reflections on Reading the Life of the late H. K. White, by + William Holloway +On the Death of Henry Kirke White, by T. Park +Lines on the Death of Henry Kirke White, by the Rev. J. Plumptre +To Henry Kirke White, by H. Welker +Verses occasioned by the Death of H. K. White, by Josiah Conder +On Reading H. K. White's Poem on Solitude, by the same +Ode on the late Henry Kirke White, by Juvenis +Sonnet in Memory of Henry Kirke White, by J. G. +Lines on the Death of Henry Kirke White +Sonnet to H. K. White, on his Poems, by G. L. C. +To the Memory of Henry Kirke White, by a Lady +Stanzas supposed to have been written at the Grave of Henry Kirke + White, by a Lady + + + + + + +MEMOIR OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY SIR HARRIS NICOLAS. + + + Thine, Henry, is a deathless name on earth, + Thine amaranthine wreaths, new pluck'd in Heaven! + By what aspiring child of mortal birth + Could more be ask'd, to whom might more be given + TOWNSEND. + +It has been said that the contrasts of light and shade are as +necessary to biography as to painting, and that the character +which is radiant with genius and virtue requires to be relieved +by more common and opposite qualities. Though this may be true +as a principle, there are many exceptions; and the life of Henry +Kirke White, whose merits were unalloyed by a single vice, is one +of the most memorable. The history of his short and melancholy +career, by Mr. Southey, is extremely popular; and when it is +remembered that its author is one of the most distinguished of +living writers, that as a biographer he is unrivalled, and that +he had access to all the materials which exist, it would be as +vain to expect from the present Memoir any new facts, as it would +be absurd to hope that it will be more worthy of attention than +the imperishable monument which his generous friend has erected +to his memory. + +There is, however, nothing inconsistent with this admission, in +presuming that a Life of the Poet might be written almost as +interesting as the one alluded to, and without the writer assuming +to himself any unusual sagacity. As Mr. Southey's narrative is +prefixed to a collection of all Kirke White's remains, in prose as +well as in verse, his letters are inserted as part of his works, +instead of extracts from them being introduced into the Memoir. +This volume will, on the contrary, be confined to his Poems; and +such parts of his letters as describe his situation and feelings +at particular periods will be introduced into the account of his +life. Indeed, so frequent are the allusions to himself in those +letters as well as in his poems, that he may be almost considered +an autobiographer; and the writer who substitutes his own cold and +lifeless sketch for the glowing and animated portrait which these +memorials of genius afford, must either be deficient in skill, or +be under the dominion of overweening vanity. + +Few who have risen to eminence were, on the paternal side at +least, of humbler origin than Henry Kirke White. His father, John +White, was a butcher at Nottingham; but his mother, who bore the +illustrious name of Neville, is said to have belonged to a +respectable family in Staffordshire. He was born at Nottingham on +the 21st of March, 1785; and in his earliest years indications +were observed of the genius for which he was afterwards +distinguished. In his poem "Childhood," he has graphically +described the little school where, between the age of three and +five, he + + "enter'd, though with toil and pain, + The low vestibule of learning's fane." + +The venerable dame by whom he was + + "inured to alphabetic toils," + +and whose worth he gratefully commemorates, had the discernment +to perceive her charge's talents, and even foretold his future +celebrity: + + "And, as she gave my diligence its praise, + Talk'd of the honour of my future days." + +If he did not deceive himself, it was at this period that his +imagination became susceptible of poetic associations. Speaking +of the eagerness with which he left the usual sports of children +to listen to tales of imaginary woe, and of the effect which they +produced, he says, + + "Beloved moment! then 't was first I caught + The first foundation of romantic thought; + Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, + Then first that Poesy charm'd mine infant ear. + Soon stored with much of legendary lore, + The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more; + Far from the scene of gaiety and noise, + Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, + I hied me to the thick o'erarching shade, + And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid; + While at my feet the rippling runnel ran, + The days of wild romance antique I'd scan; + Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, + To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there." + +The peculiar disposition of his mind, having thus early displayed +itself, every day added to its force. Study and abstraction were his +greatest pleasures, and a love of reading became his predominant +passion. "I could fancy," said his eldest sister, "I see him in his +little chair with a large book upon his knee, and my mother calling, +'Henry, my love, come to dinner,' which was repeated so often +without being regarded, that she was obliged to change the tone of +her voice before she could rouse him." + +At the age of six he was placed under the care of the Rev. John +Blanchard, who kept the best school in Nottingham, where he learnt +writing, arithmetic, and French; and he continued there for +several years. During that time two facts are related of him which +prove the precocity of his talents. When about seven, he was +accustomed to go secretly into his father's kitchen and teach the +servant to read and write; and he composed a tale of a Swiss +emigrant, which he gave her, being too diffident to show it to his +mother. In his eleventh year he wrote a separate theme for each of +the twelve or fourteen boys in his class; and the excellence of +the various pieces obtained his master's applause. + +Henry was destined for his father's trade, and the efforts of his +mother to change that intention were for some time fruitless. Even +while he was at school, one day in every week, and his leisure +hours on the others, were employed in carrying meat to his father's +customers; but a dispute between his father and his master having +caused him to be removed from school, one of the ushers, from +malice or ignorance, told his mother that it was impossible to make +her son do any thing. The person who reported so unfavourably of +his abilities, little knew that he had then given ample evidence of +his talents, in some poetical satires which his treatment at school +had provoked, but which he afterwards destroyed. + +Soon after he quitted Mr. Blanchard's school he was intrusted to +Mr. Shipley, who discovered his pupil's abilities, and relieved +his friends' uneasiness on the subject. His earliest production +that has been preserved was written in his thirteenth year, "On +being confined to School one pleasant Morning in Spring," in which +a schoolboy's love of liberty, and his envy of the freedom of a +neighbouring wren, are expressed with plaintive simplicity. + +About this time a slight improvement took place in his situation. +His mother, to whom he was indebted for all the happiness of his +childhood, opened a day school, and, as it abstracted her from the +groveling cares of a butcher's shop, his home was made much more +comfortable; and, instead of being confined to his father's +business, he was placed in a stocking loom, with the view of +bringing him up to the trade of a hosier, the poverty of his +family still precluding the hope of a profession. + +It may easily be believed that this occupation ill agreed with the +aspirations of his mind. From his mother he had few secrets, and in +her ear he breathed his disgust and unhappiness. "He could not bear," +he said, "the idea of spending some years of his life in shining +and folding up stockings;" he wanted "something to occupy his brain, +and he should be wretched if he continued longer at this trade, or +indeed in any thing, except one of the learned professions." For a +year these remonstrances were ineffectual; but no persuasions, even +when urged with maternal tenderness, could reconcile him to his lot. +He sought for consolation with the Muses, and wrote an "Address to +Contemplation," in which he describes his feelings: + + "Why along + The dusky track of commerce should I toil, + When, with an easy competence content, + I can alone be happy; where, with thee, + I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, + And loose the wings of fancy! Thus alone + Can I partake of happiness on earth; + And to be happy here is man's chief end, + For to be happy he must needs be good." + +There are few obstacles that perseverance will not overcome; and +penury and a parent's obstinacy were both surmounted by Kirke +White's importunity. Finding it useless to chain him longer to the +hosier's loom, he was placed in the office of Messrs. Coldham and +Enfield, Town Clerk and attorneys of Nottingham, some time in May, +1799, when he was in his fifteenth year; but as a premium could +not be given with him, it was agreed that he should serve two +years before he was articled. A few months after he entered upon +his new employment, he began a correspondence with his brother, +Mr. Neville White, who was then a medical student in London; and +in a letter, dated in September, 1799, he thus spoke of his +situation and prospects: + +"It is now nearly four months since I entered into Mr. Coldham's +office; and it is with pleasure I can assure you, that I never yet +found any thing disagreeable, but, on the contrary, every thing I +do seems a pleasure to me, and for a very obvious reason,--it is a +business which I like--a business which I chose before all others; +and I have two good-tempered, easy masters, but who will, +nevertheless, see that their business is done in a neat and proper +manner."--"A man that understands the law is sure to have business; +and in case I have no thoughts, in case, that is, that I do not +aspire to hold the honourable place of a barrister, I shall feel +sure of gaining a genteel livelihood at the business to which I am +articled." + +At the suggestion of his employers, he devoted the greater part of +his leisure to Latin; and, though he was but slightly assisted, he +was able in ten months to read Horace with tolerable facility, and +had made some progress in Greek. Having but little time for these +pursuits, he accustomed himself to decline the Greek nouns and +verbs during his walks to and from the office, and he thereby +acquired a habit of studying while walking, that never deserted +him. The account which Mr. Southey has given of his application, +and of the success that attended it, is astonishing. Though living +with his family, he nearly estranged himself from their society. +At meals, and during the evenings, a book was constantly in his +hands; and as he refused to sup with them, to prevent any loss of +time, his meal was sent to him in his little apartment. Law, +Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, chemistry, +astronomy, electricity, drawing, music, and mechanics, by turns +engaged his attention; and though his acquirements in some of +those studies were very superficial, his proficiency in many of +them was far from contemptible. His papers on law evince so much +industry, that had that subject alone occupied his leisure hours, +his diligence would have been commendable. He was a tolerable +Italian scholar, and in the classics he afterwards attained +reputation; but of the sciences and of Spanish and Portuguese, his +knowledge was not, it may be inferred, very great. His ear for +music was good, and his passionate attachment to it is placed +beyond a doubt by his verses on its effects: + + "With her in pensive mood I long to roam + At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, + And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam, + In calm Seclusion's hermit-walks recline:" + +But he checked his ardour, lest it might interfere with more +essential studies: and his musical attainments were limited to +playing pleasingly on the piano, composing the bass to the air +at the same time. + +Ambition was one of the most powerful feelings of his nature, and +it is rare indeed, when it is not the companion of great talents. +It developed itself first in spurning trade; and no sooner did he +find himself likely to become an attorney, than he aspired to the +bar. But his earliest and strongest passion was for literary +distinction; and he was scarcely removed from the trammels of +school, before he sought admission into a literary society, in his +native town. His extreme youth rendered him objectionable; but, +after repeated refusals, he at last succeeded. In the association +there were six professors, and being, on the first vacancy, +appointed to the chair of literature, he soon justified the +choice. Taking "genius" as his theme, he addressed the assembly in +an extemporaneous lecture of two hours and three-quarters duration, +with so much success, that the audience unanimously voted him +their thanks, declaring that "the society had never heard a better +lecture delivered from the chair which he so much honoured." To +judge properly of this circumstance, it would be necessary to +know of whom the society was composed; but with so flattering a +testimony to his abilities, the sanguine boy naturally placed a +high estimate on them. + +The establishment of a Magazine called the Monthly Preceptor, +which proposed prize themes for young persons, afforded Kirke +White an opportunity of trying his literary powers. In a letter +written in June, 1800, to his brother, speaking of that work he +says, "I am noticed as worthy of commendation, and as affording +an encouraging prospect of future excellence. You will laugh. I +have also turned poet, and have translated an Ode of Horace into +English verse." His productions gained him several of the prizes; +and he soon afterwards became a contributor to the Monthly Mirror, +his compositions in which attracted the attention of Mr. Hill, the +proprietor of the work, and of Mr. Capel Lofft, a gentleman who +distinguished himself by his patronage of Bloomfield. + +Though on entering an attorney's office the bar was the object of +his hopes, a constitutional deafness soon convinced him that he +was not adapted for the duties of an advocate; and his thoughts, +from conscientious motives, became directed to the Church. + +When about fifteen, his mind was agitated by doubt and anxiety on +the most important of all subjects; and the chaos of opinions +which extensive and miscellaneous reading so often produces on +ardent and imaginative temperaments, is well described in his +little poem entitled, "My own Character," wherein he represents +himself as a prey to the most opposite impressions, and as being +in a miserable state of incertitude: + + "First I premise it's my honest conviction, + That my breast is the chaos of all contradiction, + Religious--deistic--now loyal and warm, + Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform; + * * * * * + Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay, + To all points of the compass I veer in a day." + +In this sketch there is evidently much truth; and it affords a +striking idea of a plastic and active mind, on which every thing +makes an impression, where one idea follows another in such rapid +succession, that the former is not so entirely removed, but that +some remains of it are amalgamated with its successor. A youth +whose intellect is thus tossed in a whirlpool of conflicting +speculations, resembles a goodly ship newly launched, which, until +properly steadied by ballast, reels from side to side, the sport +of every undulation of the waters. + +About this time young White's religious feelings were strongly +affected by the conversion of his friend, Mr. Almond, whose +opinions were previously as unsettled as his own. To escape the +raillery with which he expected White would assail him on learning +the change in his sentiments, Almond avoided his society; and when +his friend offered to defend his opinions, if Henry would allow +the divine originality of the Bible, he exclaimed, "Good God! you +surely regard me in a worse light than I deserve." The discussion +that followed, and the perusal of Scott's "Force of Truth," which +Almond placed in his hands, induced him to direct his attention +seriously to the subject; but an affecting incident soon afterwards +showed how deeply he was then influenced by religious considerations. +On the evening before Mr. Almond left Nottingham for Cambridge, he +was requested by White to accompany him to his apartment. The moment +they entered, Henry burst into tears, declaring that his anguish of +mind was insupportable; and he entreated Almond to kneel and pray +for him. Their tears and supplications were cordially mingled, and +when they were about to separate, White said, "What must I do? You +are the only friend to whom I can apply in this agonizing state, +and you are about to leave me. My literary associates are all +inclined to deism. I have no one with whom I can communicate." + +It is instructive to learn to what circumstance such a person as +Kirke White was indebted for the knowledge "which causes not to +err." This information occurs in a letter from him to a Mr. Booth, +in August, 1801; and it also fixes the date of the happy change +that influenced every thought and every action of his future life, +which gave the energy of virtue to his exertions, soothed the +asperities of a temper naturally impetuous and irritable, and +enabled him, at a period when manhood is full of hope and promise, +to view the approaches of death with the calmness of a philosopher, +and the resignation of a saint. + +After thanking Mr. Booth for the present of Jones's work on the +Trinity, he thus describes his religious impressions previous to +its perusal, and the effect it produced: + +"Religious polemics, indeed, have seldom formed a part of my +studies; though whenever I happened accidentally to turn my +thoughts to the subject of the Protestant doctrine of the Godhead, +and compared it with Arian and Socinian, many doubts interfered, +and I even began to think that the more nicely the subject was +investigated, the more perplexed it would appear, and was on the +point of forming a resolution to go to heaven in my own way, +without meddling or involving myself in the inextricable labyrinth +of controversial dispute, when I received and perused this +excellent treatise, which finally cleared up the mists which my +ignorance had conjured around me, and clearly pointed out the real +truth." + +From the moment he became convinced of the truths of Christianity, +all the enthusiasm of his nature was kindled. The ministry only, +was deemed worthy of his ambition; and he devoted his thoughts to +the sacred office with a zeal that justified a hope of the richest +fruits. In a letter to his friend, Mr. Almond, in November, 1803, +he says, + +"My dear friend, I cannot adequately express what I owe to you on +the score of religion. I told Mr. Robinson you were the first +instrument of my being brought to think deeply on religious +subjects; and I feel more and more every day, that if it had not +been for you, I might, most probably, have been now buried in apathy +and unconcern. Though I am in a great measure blessed,--I mean +blessed with faith, now pretty steadfast, and heavy convictions, +I am far from being happy. My sins have been of a dark hue, and +manifold: I have made Fame my God, and Ambition my shrine. I have +placed all my hopes on the things of this world. I have knelt to +Dagon; I have worshipped the evil creations of my own proud heart, +and God had well nigh turned his countenance from me in wrath; +perhaps one step further, and he might have shut me for ever from +his rest. I now turn my eyes to Jesus, my Saviour, my atonement, +with hope and confidence: he will not repulse the imploring +penitent; his arms are open to all, they are open even to me; and +in return for such a mercy, what can I do less than dedicate my +whole life to his service? My thoughts would fain recur at +intervals to my former delights; but I am now on my guard to +restrain and keep them in. I know now where they ought to +concentre, and with the blessing of God, they shall there all tend. + +"My next publication of poems will be solely religious. I shall +not destroy those of a different nature, which now lie before me; +but they will, most probably, sleep in my desk, until, in the good +time of my great Lord and Master, I shall receive my passport from +this world of vanity. I am now bent on a higher errand than that +of the attainment of poetical fame; poetry, in future, will be my +relaxation, not my employment.--Adieu to literary ambition! 'You +do not aspire to be prime minister,' said Mr. Robinson; 'you covet +a far higher character--to be the humblest among those who +minister to their Maker.'" + +To the arguments of his friends on the impolicy of quitting a +profession to which he had given so much of his time, and on the +obstacles to the attainment of his wishes, he was impenetrable. +His employers generously offered to cancel his articles as soon as +he could show that his resources were likely to support him at the +University. Friends arose as they became necessary, and more than +one or two persons exerted themselves to promote his views; but +his principal reliance was on the sale of a little volume of +Poems, which, at the suggestion of Mr. Capel Lofft, he prepared +for the press. + +The history of an author's first book is always interesting, and +Kirke White's was attended with unusual incidents. A novice in +literature often imagines that it is important his work should be +dedicated to some person of rank; and the Countess of Derby was +applied to, who declined, on the ground that she never accepted a +compliment of that nature. He then addressed the Duchess of +Devonshire; and a letter, with the manuscript, was left at her +house. The difficulty of obtaining access to her Grace proved so +great, that more than one letter to his brother was written on the +subject, in which he indignantly says, "I am cured of patronage +hunting; as for begging patronage, I am tired to the soul of it, +and shall give it up." Permission to inscribe the book to the +Duchess was at length granted: the book came out in 1803; and a +copy was transmitted to her, of which, however, no notice whatever +was taken. + +On the publication of the volume, a copy was sent to each Review, +with a letter deprecatory of the severity of criticism, an act as +ill judged as it was useless, since all that a young writer could +properly say was to be found in the preface, in which he stated +that his inducement to publish was, "the facilitation through its +means of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, have been +the principal objects of his ambition, and the increase of the +capacity to pursue these inclinations, which may one day place him +in an honourable station in the scale of society." + +His feelings received a severe wound from the notice of his Poems +in the Monthly Review, the writer of which, not satisfied with saying +that the production did not "justify any sanguine expectations," +selected four of the worst lines in support of his opinion, and +showed himself insensible of the numerous beauties scattered +through the various pieces. Writing to a friend soon afterwards, +he thus spoke of himself; and more mental wretchedness has seldom +been described: + +"I am at present under afflictions and contentions of spirit, +heavier than I have yet ever experienced. I think, at times, I am +mad, and destitute of religion; my pride is not yet subdued: the +unfavourable review (in the 'Monthly') of my unhappy work, has cut +deeper than you could have thought; not in a literary point of +view, but as it affects my respectability. It represents me actually +as a beggar, going about gathering money to put myself at college, +when my book is worthless; and this with every appearance of candour. +They have been sadly misinformed respecting me: this review goes +before me wherever I turn my steps; it haunts me incessantly, and +I am persuaded it is an instrument in the hand of Satan to drive me +to distraction. I must leave Nottingham. If the answer of the Elland +Society be unfavourable, I purpose writing to the Marquis of +Wellesley, to offer myself as a student at the academy he has +instituted at Fort William, in Bengal, and at the proper age to take +orders there. The missionaries at that place have done wonders +already; and I should, I hope, be a valuable labourer in the +vineyard. If the Marquis take no notice of my application, or do +not accede to my proposal, I shall place myself in some other way +of making a meet preparation for the holy office, either in the +Calvinistic Academy, or in one of the Scotch Universities, where I +shall be able to live at scarcely any expense." + +The criticism just adverted to was as unfeeling as unjust; and but +for the generous conduct of a distinguished living poet, whose +benevolence of heart is equal to his genius, it might have entirely +crushed his hopes. Disgusted at the injustice of this criticism, +Mr. Southey instantly wrote to White, expressing his opinion of the +merits of his book, and giving him the encouragement and advice +which none was ever more ready or more able to bestow. Thus, an act +of cruel folly proved in its consequences the most beneficial of +the Poet's life. His spirits were invigorated by this considerate +kindness, and his feelings were expressed in glowing terms: + +"I dare not say all I feel respecting your opinion of my little +volume. The extreme acrimony with which the Monthly Review (of all +others the most important) treated me, threw me into a state of +stupefaction. I regarded all that had passed as a dream, and I +thought I had been deluding myself into an idea of possessing +poetic genius, when, in fact, I had only the longing, without the +_afflatus._ I mustered resolution enough, however, to write +spiritedly to them: their answer, in the ensuing number, was a +tacit acknowledgment that they had been somewhat too unsparing in +their correction. It was a poor attempt to salve over a wound +wantonly and most ungenerously inflicted. Still I was damped, +because I knew the work was very respectable; and therefore could +not, I concluded, give a criticism grossly deficient in equity, +the more especially, as I knew of no sort of inducement to +extraordinary severity. Your letter, however, has revived me, and +I do again venture to hope that I may still produce something +which will survive me. With regard to your advice and offers of +assistance, I will not attempt, because I am unable, to thank you +for them. To-morrow morning I depart for Cambridge; and I have +considerable hopes that, as I do not enter into the University +with any sinister or interested views, but sincerely desire to +perform the duties of an affectionate and vigilant pastor, and +become more useful to mankind; I therefore have hopes, I say, that +I shall find means of support in the University. If I do not, I +shall certainly act in pursuance of your recommendations; and +shall, without hesitation, avail myself of your offers of service, +and of your directions. In a short time this will be determined; +and when it is, I shall take the liberty of writing to you at +Keswick, to make you acquainted with the result. I have only one +objection to publishing by subscription, and I confess it has +weight with me; it is, that, in this step, I shall seem to be +acting upon the advice so unfeelingly and contumeliously given by +the Monthly Reviewers, who say what is equal to this, that had I +gotten a subscription for my poems before their merit was known, I +might have succeeded; provided, it seems, I had made a particular +statement of my case; like a beggar who stands with his hat in one +hand, and a full account of his cruel treatment on the coast of +Barbary in the other, and so gives you his penny sheet for your +sixpence, by way of half purchase, half charity. I have materials +for another volume; but they were written principally while +Clifton Grove was in the press, or soon after, and do not now at +all satisfy me. Indeed, of late, I have been obliged to desist, +almost entirely, from converse with the dames of Helicon. The +drudgery of an attorney's office, and the necessity of preparing +myself, in case I should succeed in getting to college, in what +little leisure I could boast, left no room for the flights of the +imagination." + +As soon as there were reasonable hopes of an adequate support +being obtained for him at Cambridge, he went to the village of +Wilford, for a month, to recruit his health, on which intense +application had made great inroads. Near this place were Clifton +Woods, the subject of one of his Poems, and which had long been +his favourite resort. Here he fully indulged in that love of the +beauties of nature, which forms a leading trait in the Poetic +character: and on this occasion he gave full reins to those +reveries of the imagination, of the delight of which a Poet only +is sensible. His lines on Wilford Church Yard show the melancholy +tone of his mind; and those Verses, as well as his "Ode to +Disappointment," of which no praise would be too extravagant, +appear to have been written, on learning from his mother, before +he left Wilford, that the efforts made to place him at Cambridge +had failed. It was evidently to this circumstance, which for the +time blighted his aspirations, that he alluded, when he says he +was, + + "From Hope's summit hurl'd." + +His remark to his mother on this occasion evinced, nevertheless, +great energy of mind. His complaints were confined to verse, for +the disappointment had no other effect upon his conduct than to +induce him to apply to his studies with unprecedented vigour, +that, since he was to revert to the law as a profession, he might +not be, as he observed, "a _mediocre_ attorney." He read regularly +from five in the morning until some time after midnight, and +occasionally passed whole nights without lying down; and the +entreaties, even when accompanied by the tears of his mother, +that he would not thus destroy his health, did not induce him to +relax his zeal. + +Symptoms of consumption, the disease to which he ultimately became +a victim, and which he designates, in one of his many allusions to +it, as + + "The most fatal of Pandora's train," + +began now to excite the anxiety of his family. Illness was, however, +forgotten in the realization of the hope dearest to his heart. The +exertions of his friends proved successful at a time when all +expectations had vanished; and by their united efforts it was +resolved that he should become a sizer of St. John's College, +Cambridge, his brother Neville, his mother, and a benevolent +individual, whose name is not mentioned, having agreed to contribute +to support him. It appears, that if he had not succeeded in that +object, he intended to have joined the society of orthodox dissenters, +for which purpose he underwent an examination. Though his attainments +and character proved satisfactory on that occasion, his volume of +Poems rose in judgment against him, and nothing but the approbation +Mr. Southey had expressed of them prevented his work from being +considered a disqualification for the ministry. His feelings on +the prospect of entering the Church are described with great force +in his letter, dated in April, 1804. + +"Most fervently do I return thanks to God for this providential +opening: it has breathed new animation into me, and my breast +expands with the prospect of becoming the minister of Christ where +I most desired it; but where I almost feared all probability of +success was nearly at an end. Indeed, I had begun to turn my +thoughts to the dissenters, as people of whom I was destined, not +by choice, but necessity, to become the pastor. Still, although I +knew I should be happy anywhere, so that I were a profitable +labourer in the vineyard, I did, by no means, feel that calm, that +indescribable satisfaction which I do when I look toward that +Church, which I think in the main formed on the apostolic model, +and from which I am decidedly of opinion there is no positive +grounds for dissent. I return thanks to God for keeping me so long + in suspense, for I know it has been beneficial to my soul, and I +feel a considerable trust that the way is now about to be made +clear, and that my doubts and fears on this head will, in due +time, be removed." + +Being advised to degrade for a year, and to place himself with a +private tutor, he went to the Rev. Mr. Grainger of Winteringham, +in Lincolnshire, in the autumn of 1804. While under that gentleman's +care he studied with such intense fervour, that fears were excited +not for his health only, but for his intellect; and a second severe +attack of illness was the consequence. Poetry was now laid aside, +and as he himself told a friend in February, 1805, + +"My poor neglected Muse has lain absolutely unnoticed by me for +the last four months, during which period I have been digging in +the mines of Scapula for Greek roots, and instead of drinking with +eager delight the beauties of Virgil have been culling and drying +his phrases for future use."--"I fear my good genius, who was +wont to visit me with nightly visions in woods and brakes and by +the river's marge, is now dying of a fen ague, and I shall thus +probably emerge from my retreat not a hair-brained son of +imagination, but a sedate black-lettered book worm, with a head +like an etymologicon magnum." + +To Mr. Capel Lofft, in the September following, after stating that +all his time was employed in preparing himself for orders, his +estimate of the necessary qualifications being, very high, he +observed: + +"I often, however, cast a look of fond regret to the darling +occupations of my younger hours, and the tears rush into my eyes, +as I fancy I see the few wild flowers of poetic genius, with which +I have been blessed, withering with neglect. Poetry has been to me +something more than amusement; it has been a cheering companion +when I have had no other to fly to, and a delightful solace when +consolation has been in some measure needful. I cannot, therefore, +discard so old and faithful a friend without deep regret, +especially when I reflect that, stung by my ingratitude, he may +desert me for ever!" + +But the old fire was, he adds, rekindled by looking over some of +his pieces which Mr. Lofft wished to print; and he transmitted to +that gentleman a short Poem, expressive of his sorrow at taking +leave of his favourite pursuit. The following passages could only +have arisen from a love of Poetry, which it was not in the power +of severer studies to extinguish: + + Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased + To hover o'er the many voiced strings + Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still + Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, + And with recalled images of bliss + Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw, + Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand + O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased, + It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth + Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek; + Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy! + The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, + Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, + Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month, + Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, + Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress! + I cannot burst thy bonds! + +In October, 1805, Kirke White became a resident member of St. +John's College, Cambridge; and such was the use he had made of his +time at Winteringham, that he was distinguished for his classical +knowledge. But he had dearly purchased his superiority. His +constitution was much shattered when he went to Mr. Grainger, and +every day brought with it new proofs that his career had nearly +reached its bounds. The only chance of prolonging his life was to +seek a milder climate, and to abandon study entirely. As in all +great minds, Fame was, however, dearer to him than existence. He +felt that every thing connected with his future prospects was at +stake; and he adhered to a course of rigorous application until +nature gave way. During his first term he became a candidate for +one of the University scholarships; but the increased exertion he +underwent was attended by results that obliged him to retire from +the contest. At this moment the general college examination +approached, and thinking that if he failed his hopes would be +blasted for ever, he taxed his energies to the uttermost, during +the fortnight which intervened, to meet the trial. His illness, +however, speedily returned; and, with tears in his eyes, he +informed his tutor, Mr. Catton, that he could not go into the Hall +to be examined. That gentleman, whose kindness to the Poet +entitles his name to respect, urged him to support himself during +the six days of the examination. Powerful stimulants were +administered, and he was pronounced the first man of his year. The +triumph, complete and exhilarating as it was, too closely +resembled that of the generous steed, who, in distancing his +competitors, reaches the goal, and dies; and his own ideas of the +sacrifices with which such an honour must be attended were very +poetical. He said to an intimate friend, almost the last time he +saw him, that were he to paint a picture of Fame crowning a +distinguished under graduate after the senate house examination, +he would represent her as concealing a death's head under a mask +of beauty. + +Soon after this event, Kirke White went to London, and on +Christmas Eve he wrote to his mother from town, stating that his +health had been rather affected by study, that he came to London +for amusement, and that his tutor had, in the kindest manner, +relieved his mind from pecuniary cares, and cheered him with the +assurance that his talents would be rewarded by his College. But +it is from his letters to his friend that the real state to which +excitement and labour had reduced him, is to be learnt, because, +to allay the fears of his relations, he represented himself to +them, as being much better than he actually was: + +London, Christmas, 1805. + +"I wrote you a letter, which now lies in my drawer at St. John's; +but in such a weak state of body, and in so desponding and +comfortless a tone of mind, that I knew it would give you pain, +and therefore I chose not to send it. I have indeed been ill; but +thanks to God, I am recovered. My nerves were miserably shattered +by over application, and the absence of all that could amuse, and +the presence of many things which weighed heavy upon my spirits. +When I found myself too ill to read, and too desponding to endure +my own reflections, I discovered that it is really a miserable +thing to be destitute of the soothing and supporting hand when +nature most needs it. I wandered up and down from one man's room +to another, and from one College to another, imploring society, a +little conversation, and a little relief of the burden which +pressed upon my spirits; and I am sorry to say, that those who, +when I was cheerful and lively, sought my society with avidity, +now, when I actually needed conversation, were too busy to grant +it. Our College examination was then approaching, and I perceived +with anguish that I had read for the university scholarship until +I had barely time to get up our private subjects, and that as I +was now too ill to read, all hope of getting through the +examination with decent respectability was at an end. This was an +additional grief. I went to our tutor, with tears in my eyes, and +told him I must absent myself from the examination,--a step which +would have precluded me from a station amongst the prize-men until +the second year. He earnestly entreated me to run the risk. My +surgeon gave me strong stimulants and supporting medicines during +the examination week; and I passed, I believe, one of the most +respectable examinations amongst them. As soon as ever it was +over, I left Cambridge, by the advice of my surgeon and tutor, +and I feel myself now pretty strong. I have given up the thought +of sitting for the University scholarship, in consequence of my +illness, as the course of my reading was effectually broken. In +this place I have been much amused, and have been received with an +attention in the literary circles which I neither expected nor +deserved. But this does not affect me as it once would have done: +my views are widely altered; and I hope that I shall in time learn +to lay my whole heart at the foot of the cross." + +Early in January following he returned to Cambridge, and +imprudently resumed his old habits of study, according to the +following plan: "Rise at half-past five; devotions and walk till +seven; chapel and breakfast till eight; study and lectures till +one; four and a half clear reading; walk, &c. and dinner, and +Wollaston, and chapel to six; six to nine reading, three hours; +nine to ten devotions; bed at ten." With him, however, exercise +was but slight relaxation, as his intellectual faculties were kept +on the stretch during his walks, and he is known to have committed +to memory a whole tragedy of Euripides in this manner, and as they +were not less exerted in his devotions, his mind must have been +intensely occupied for twelve or fourteen hours a day, at a moment +when perfect quiet and rest were indispensable. Within a very few +weeks he paid a heavy penalty for his indiscretion. To his friend, +Mr. Haddock, he wrote on the 17th of February, 1806: + +"Do not think I am reading hard; I believe it is all over with +that. I have had a recurrence of my old complaint within this last +four or five days, which has half unnerved me for every thing. The +state of my health is really miserable; I am well and lively in +the morning, and overwhelmed with nervous horrors in the evening. +I do not know how to proceed with regard to my studies:--a very +slight overstretch of the mind in the daytime occasions me not +only a sleepless night, but a night of gloom and horror. The +systole and diastole of my heart seem to be playing at ball--the +stake, my life. I can only say the game is not yet decided:--I +allude to the violence of the palpitation. I am going to mount the +Gog-magog hills this morning, in quest of a good night's sleep. +The Gog-magog hills for my body, and the Bible for my mind, are my +only medicines. I am sorry to say, that neither are quite +adequate. Cui, igitur; dandum est vitio? Mihi prorsus. I hope, as +the summer comes, my spirits (which have been with the swallows, a +winter's journey) will come with it. When my spirits are restored, +my health will be restored:--the 'fons mali' lies there. Give me +serenity and equability of mind, and all will be well." + +He, however, rallied again; but he seems to have been aware that +his end was not far distant, for in March he told his brother that +though his stay at Cambridge, in the long vacation, was important, +he intended to go to Nottingham for his health, and more +particularly for his mother's sake; adding, "I shall be glad to +moor all my family in the harbour of religious trust, and in the +calm seas of religious peace. These concerns are apt at times to +escape me; but they now press much upon my heart, and I think it +is my first duty to see that my family are safe in the most +important of all affairs." + +In April, however, he drew a pleasing picture of his future life, +in which his filial and paternal tenderness are conspicuous; but +he soon afterwards went to Nottingham; and in a letter to his +friend Mr. Leeson, written from that town, on the 7th of April, +he gave a very melancholy account of himself: + +"It seems determined upon, by my mother, that I cannot be spared, +since the time of my stay is so very short, and my health so very +uncertain. The people here can scarcely be persuaded that any +thing ails me; so well do I look; but occasional depressions, +especially after any thing has occurred to occasion uneasiness, +still harass me. My mind is of a very peculiar cast. I began to +think too early; and the indulgence of certain trains of thought, +and too free an exercise of the imagination, have superinduced a +morbid kind of sensibility; which is to the mind what excessive +irritability is to the body. Some circumstances occurred on my +arrival at Nottingham, which gave me just cause for inquietude +and anxiety; the consequences were insomnia, and a relapse into +causeless dejections. It is my business now to curb these +irrational and immoderate affections, and, by accustoming myself +to sober thought and cool reasoning, to restrain these freaks and +vagaries of the fancy, and redundancies of [Greek: melancholia]. +When I am well, I cannot help entertaining a sort of contempt for +the weakness of mind which marks my indispositions. Titus when +well, and Titus when ill, are two distinct persons. The man, when +in health, despises the man, when ill, for his weakness, and the +latter envies the former for his felicity." + +As his health declined his prospects seemed to brighten. He was +again pronounced first at the great College examination; he was +one of the three best theme writers, whose merits were so nearly +equal that the examiners could not decide between them; and he +was a prize-man both in the mathematical and logical or general +examination, and in Latin composition. His College offered him a +private tutor at its expense, and Mr. Catton obtained exhibitions +for him to the value of sixty-six pounds per annum, by which he +was enabled to give up the pecuniary assistance he had received +from his friends. But even at this moment, when the world promised +so much, his situation was truly deplorable. The highest honours +of the University were supposed to be within his grasp, and the +conviction that such was the general opinion, goaded him on to the +most strenuous exertions when he was incapable of the slightest. +This struggle between his mental and physical powers, was not, +however, of long duration. In July he was seized with an attack +that threatened his life, and which he thus described in a letter +to Mr. Maddock: + +"Last Saturday morning I rose early, and got up some rather +abstruse problems in mechanics for my tutor, spent an hour with +him, between eight and nine got my breakfast, and read the Greek +History (at breakfast) till ten, then sat down to decipher some +logarithm tables. I think I had not done any thing at them, when +I lost myself. At a quarter past eleven my laundress found me +bleeding in four different places in my face and head, and +insensible. I got up and staggered about the room, and she, being +frightened, ran away, and told my gyp to fetch a surgeon. Before +he came I was sallying out with my flannel gown on, and my +academical gown over it; he made me put on my coat, and then I +went to Mr. Farish's: he opened a vein, and my recollection +returned. My own idea was, that I had fallen out of bed, and so I +told Mr. Farish at first; but I afterwards remembered that I had +been to Mr. Fiske, and breakfasted. Mr. Catton has insisted on my +consulting Sir Isaac Pennington, and the consequence is, that I +am to go through a course of blistering, &c. which, after the +bleeding, will leave me weak enough. + +"I am, however, very well, except as regards the doctors, and +yesterday I drove into the country to Saffron Walden, in a gig. +My tongue is in a bad condition, from a bite which I gave it +either in my fall, or in the moments of convulsion. My nose has +also come badly off. I believe I fell against my reading desk. +My other wounds are only rubs and scratches on the carpet. I am +ordered to remit my studies for a while, by the common advice both +of doctors and tutors. Dr. Pennington hopes to prevent any +recurrence of the fit. He thinks it looks towards epilepsy, of the +horrors of which malady I have a very full and precise idea; and I +only pray that God will spare me as respects my faculties, however +else it may seem good to him to afflict me. Were I my own master, +I know how I should act; but I am tied here by bands which I +cannot burst. I know that change of place is needful; but I must +not indulge in the idea. The college must not pay my tutor for +nothing. Dr. Pennington and Mr. Farish attribute the attack to a +too continued tension of the faculties. As I am much alone now, I +never get quite off study, and I think incessantly. I know nature +will not endure this. They both proposed my going home, but Mr. * * +did not hint at it, although much concerned; and, indeed, I know +home would be a bad place for me in my present situation. I look +round for a resting place, and I find none. Yet there is one, +which I have long too, too much disregarded, and thither I must +now betake myself. There are many situations worse than mine, and +I have no business to complain. If these afflictions should draw +the bonds tighter which hold me to my Redeemer, it will be well. +You may be assured that you have here a plain statement of my case +in its true colours without any palliation. I am now well again, +and have only to fear a relapse, which I shall do all I can to +prevent, by a relaxation in study. I have now written too much. + +"I am, very sincerely yours, + +"H. K. WHITE. + +"P. S. I charge you, as you value my peace, not to let my friends +hear, either directly or indirectly of my illness." + +A few weeks afterwards he again directed his mother's hopes to a +tranquil retreat for his family in his parsonage, but said nothing +of his illness; and he told Mr. Haddock, in September, + +"I am perfectly well again, and have experienced no recurrence of +the fit: my spirits, too, are better, and I read very moderately. +I hope that God will be pleased to spare his rebellious child; +this stroke has brought me nearer to Him; whom indeed have I for +my comforter but Him? I am still reading, but with moderation, as +I have been during the whole vacation, whatever you may persist +in thinking. My heart turns with more fondness towards the +consolations of religion than it did, and in some degree I have +found consolation." + +But notwithstanding these flattering expressions, he appears to +have felt that he had but a short time to live; and it was +probably about this period that he wrote his lines on the +"Prospect of Death," perhaps one of the most beautiful and +affecting compositions in our language: + + "On my bed, in wakeful restlessness, + I turn me wearisome; while all around, + All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness; + I only wake to watch the sickly taper + Which lights me to my tomb.--Yes, 'tis the hand + Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals, + Slow sapping the warm current of existence + My moments now are few--the sand of life + Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little, + And the last fleeting particle will fall, + Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. + Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate + While meditate we may. + * * * * * + I hoped I should not leave + The earth without a vestige; Fate decrees + It shall be otherwise, and I submit. + Henceforth, O world, no more of thy desires! + No more of Hope! the wanton vagrant Hope; + I abjure all. Now other cares engross me, + And my tired soul, with emulative haste, + Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven." + +On the 22nd of September he wrote to Mr. Charlesworth, and his +letter indicates the possession of higher spirits and more +sanguine hopes, than almost any other in his correspondence. +About the end of that month he went to London, on a visit to his +brother Neville, but returned to College within a few weeks, in a +state that precluded all chance of prolonging his existence; but +still he did not cease to hope, or rather sought to delude his +brother into the belief that he should recover; for in a letter +addressed to him, which was found in his pocket after his decease, +dated Saturday, 11th of October, he says, + +"I am safely arrived, and in College, but my illness has increased +upon me much. The cough continues, and is attended with a good +deal of fever. I am under the care of Mr. Parish, and entertain +very little apprehension about the cough; but my over-exertions +in town have reduced me to a state of much debility; and, until +the cough be gone, I cannot be permitted to take any strengthening +medicines. This places me in an awkward predicament; but I think +I perceive a degree of expectoration this morning, which will soon +relieve me, and then I shall mend apace. Under these circumstances +I must not expect to see you here at present; when I am a little +recovered, it will be a pleasant relaxation to me. Our lectures +began on Friday, but I do not attend them until I am better. I +have not written to my mother, nor shall I while I remain unwell. +You will tell her, as a reason, that our lectures began on Friday. +I know she will be uneasy if she do not hear from me, and still +more so, if I tell her I am ill. + +"I cannot write more at present than that I am + +"Your truly affectionate Brother, + +"H. K. WHITE." + +A friend acquainted his brother with his situation, who hastened +to him; but when he arrived he was delirious, and though reason +returned for a few moments, as if to bless him with the +consciousness that the same fond relative, to whose attachment +he owed so much, was present at his last hour, he sunk into a +stupor, and on Sunday, the 19th of October, 1806, he breathed +his last. + +Thus died, in his twenty-second year, Henry Kirke White, whose +genius and virtues justified the brightest hopes, and whose +fitness for Heaven does not bring the consolation for his untimely +fate which perhaps it ought. It is impossible to refrain from +anticipating what his talents might have produced, had his +existence been extended; and though it is extremely doubtful if he +were capable of worldly happiness, there is a selfishness in our +nature which makes us grieve when those who are likely to increase +our intellectual pleasures are hurried to the grave. + +In whatever light the character of this unhappy youth be +contemplated, it is full of instruction. His talents were unusually +precocious, and their variety was as astonishing as their extent. +Besides the Poetical pieces in this volume, and his scholastic +attainments, his ability was manifested in various other ways. +His style was remarkable for its clearness and elegance, and his +correspondence and prose pieces show extensive information. To +great genius and capacity, he united the rarest and more important +gifts of sound judgment and common sense. It is usually the +misfortune of genius to invest ordinary objects with a meretricious +colouring, that perverts their forms and purposes, to make its +possessor imagine that it exempts him from attending to those +strict rules of moral conduct to which others are bound to adhere, +and to render him neglectful of the sacred assurance that "to whom +much is given from him will much be required." Nature, in Kirke +White's case, appears, on the contrary, to have determined that +she would, in one instance at least, prove that high intellectual +attainments are strictly compatible with every social and moral +virtue. At a very early period of his life, religion became the +predominant feeling of his mind, and she imparted her sober and +chastened effects to all his thoughts and actions. The cherished +object of every member of his family, he repaid their affection by +the most anxious solicitude for their welfare, offering his advice +on spiritual affairs with impressive earnestness, and indicating, +in every letter of his voluminous correspondence, the greatest +consideration for their feelings and happiness. For the last six +years he deemed himself marked out for the service of his Maker, +not like the member of a convent, whose duties consist only in +prayer, but in the exercise of that philanthropy and practical +benevolence which ought to adorn every parish priest. To qualify +himself properly for the holy office, he subjected his mind to the +severest discipline; and his letters display a rational piety, and +an enlightened view of religious obligations, that confer much +greater honour upon his name, than his Poetical pieces, whether as +proofs of talent, or of the qualities of his heart. + +Such was Henry Kirke White as he appeared to others; but there are +minuter traits of character which no observer can catch, and which +the possessor must himself delineate. Though early impressed with +melancholy, it was not of a misanthropic nature; and while despair +and disappointment were preying on his heart, he was all sweetness +and docility to others. A consciousness of the possession of +abilities, and of being capable of better things than those which +he seemed destined to perform, gives to some of his productions the +appearance of discontent, and of having overrated his pretensions. +He was, like many youthful Poets, too fond of complaining of +fortune, of supposing himself neglected, and of comparing his +humble lot with those situations for which he believed himself +qualified; but these were the lucubrations of his earliest years, +before he found friends to foster his talents. So far, indeed, +from having reason to lament the indifference of others to his +merits, his life affords one of the most striking examples in the +history of genius, that talents when united to moral worth, will be +rewarded by honours and fame, that obscure birth is no impediment +to advancement, and that a person of the humblest origin may, by +his own exertions, become, in the great arena of learning, an +object of envy even to those of the highest rank. It is due to him, +whose good sense was so remarkable, to point out the time in his +career to which the passages in question refer; and to add that his +correspondence, after he entered the University, expressed nothing +but satisfaction with his lot, and a desire to justify the kindness +and expectations of his patrons. Still, Kirke White was unhappy; +and, since no other cause then existed for his mental wretchedness, +it must be ascribed to a morbid temperament, induced partly by ill +health, and partly by constitutional infirmity. The uncertainty of +his early prospects, and the fear of ridicule if he expressed his +feelings, rendered him reserved, and made him confine his thoughts +to his own bosom, for he says, + + "When all was new, and life was in its spring, + I lived an unloved solitary thing; + E'en then I learn'd to bury deep from day + The piercing cares that wore my youth away;" + +and in a letter to Mr. Maddock, in September, 1804, he thus spoke +of himself: + +"Perhaps it may be that I am not formed for friendship, that I +expect more than can ever be found. Time will tutor me; I am a +singular being under a common outside: I am a profound dissembler +of my inward feelings, and necessity has taught me the art. I am +long before I can unbosom to a friend, yet, I think, I am sincere +in my friendship: you must not attribute this to any suspiciousness +of nature, but must consider that I lived seventeen years my own +confidant, my own friend, full of projects and strange thoughts, +and confiding them to no one. I am habitually reserved, and +habitually cautious in letting it be seen that I hide any thing." + +None knew better than himself that the aspirations and feelings of +which genius is the parent are often found to be inconsistent with +felicity: + + "Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, + His melancholy moan, + He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, + Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, + Pangs that his sensibility uprouse + To curse his being and his thirst for praise. + Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel + The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn; + And what o'er all does in his soul preside + Predominant, and tempers him to steel, + His high indignant pride." + +Nor was he unconscious that the toils necessary to secure literary +distinction, when endured by a shattered frame, are in the highest +degree severe. How much truth and feeling are there in the Lines +which he wrote after spending a whole night in study, an hour when +religious impressions force themselves with irresistible weight on +the exhausted mind: + + "Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, + How insignificant do all the joys, + The gaudes, and honours of the world appear! + How vain ambition!--Why has my wakeful lamp + Out watch'd the slow-paced night?--Why on the page, + The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd + The hours devoted by the world to rest, + And needful to recruit exhausted nature? + Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay + The loss of health? or can the hope of glory + Lend a new throb unto my languid heart, + Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, + Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye, + Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?" + +What a picture of mental suffering does the following passage +present, and how impressive does it become when the fate of the +author is remembered: + + "These feverish dews that on my temples hang, + This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame; + These, the dread signs of many a secret pang-- + These are the meed of him who pants for Fame!" + +Like so many other ardent students, the night was his favourite +time for reading; and, dangerous as the habit is to health, what +student will not agree in his descriptions of the pleasures that +attend it? + + "The night's my own, they cannot steal my night! + When evening lights her folding star on high, + I live and breathe; and, in the sacred hours + Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies, + Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space, + And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for heaven." + +Kirke White's poetry is popular, because it describes feelings, +passions, and associations, which all have felt, and with which +all can sympathize. It is by no means rich in metaphor, nor does +it evince great powers of imagination; but it is pathetic, +plaintive, and agreeable; and emanating directly from his own +heart, it appeals irresistibly to that of his reader. His meaning +is always clear, and the force and vigour of his expressions are +remarkable. In estimating his poetical powers, however, it should +be remembered, that nearly all his Poems were written before he +was nineteen; and that they are, in truth, but the germs of future +excellence, and ought not to be criticized as if they were the +fruits of an intellect on which time and education had bestowed +their advantages. It is, however, in his prose works, and +especially in his correspondence, that the versatility of his +talents, his acquirements, his piety, and his moral excellence +are most conspicuous. + +A question arises with respect to him which, in the history of a +young Poet, is always interesting, but which Mr. Southey has not +touched. Abundance of proof exists in his writings of the +susceptibility of his heart; but it is not stated that he ever +formed an attachment. In many of his pieces he speaks with +tenderness of a female whom he calls Fanny; and in one of them, +from which it appears that she was dead, he expresses his regard +in no equivocal manner; but there are other grounds for concluding +that his happiness was affected by disappointed affection. To his +friend Mr. Maddock, in July, 1804, he observed: + +"I shall never, never marry. It cannot, must not be. As to +affections, mine are already engaged as much as they ever will +be, and this is one reason why I believe my life will be a life +of celibacy. I love too ardently to make love innocent, and +therefore I say farewell to it." + +With this passage one of his Sonnets singularly agrees: + + When I sit musing on the chequer'd past + (A term much darken'd with untimely woes), + My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows + The tear, though half disowned; and binding fast + Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, + I say to her, she robb'd me of my rest, + When that was all my wealth. 'T is true my breast + Received from her this wearying, lingering smart; + Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; + Though wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love, + For she was most unworthy. Then I prove + Vindictive joy: and on my stern front gleams, + Throned in dark clouds, inflexible.... + The native pride of my much injured heart. + +Was the subject of this Sonnet wholly imaginary, or was there some +unfortunate story which, for sufficient reasons, his biographers +have suppressed? It is true, that in his letters, written at +a much later period, he speaks of marriage in a manner not to +be reconciled with the idea that he was then suffering from +recollections of that description; but he may, in the interval of +two years, have partially recovered from his loss. + +Kirke White was buried in the Church of All Saints, Cambridge, but +no monument was erected to him until a liberal minded American, +Mr. Francis Boott, of Boston, placed a tablet to his memory, with +a medallion, by Chantrey, with the following inscription, by +Professor Smyth, one of his numerous friends: + + "Warm'd with fond hope and learning's sacred flame, + To Granta's bowers the youthful Poet came; + Unconquer'd powers the immortal mind display'd, + But worn with anxious thought, the frame decay'd: + Pale o'er his lamp, and in his cell retired, + The martyr student faded and expired. + Oh! genius, taste, and piety sincere, + Too early lost 'midst studies too severe! + Foremost to mourn, was generous Southey seen, + He told the tale, and show'd what White had been, + Nor told in vain. For o'er the Atlantic wave + A wanderer came, and sought the Poet's grave; + On yon low stone he saw his lonely name, + And raised this fond memorial to his fame." + + + + + + +POEMS. + +_CLIFTON GROVE._ + +_DEDICATION._ + +_To Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire, the following trifling +effusions of a very youthful Muse are, by permission, dedicated +by her Grace's much obliged and grateful Servant,_ + +_HENRY KIRKE WHITE_ + +_Nottingham._ + + + + +PREFACE. + +The following attempts in Verse are laid before the Public with +extreme diffidence. The Author is very conscious that the juvenile +efforts of a youth, who has not received the polish of Academical +discipline, and who has been but sparingly blessed with +opportunities for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must +necessarily be defective in the accuracy and finished elegance +which mark the works of the man who has passed his life in the +retirement of his study, furnishing his mind with images, and at +the same time attaining the power of disposing those images to +the best advantage. + +The unpremeditated effusions of a Boy, from his thirteenth year, +employed, not in the acquisition of literary information, but in +the more active business of life, must not be expected to exhibit +any considerable portion of the correctness of a Virgil, or the +vigorous compression of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, +frequently known to bestow much, labour on their amusements; and +these poems were, most of them, written merely to beguile a +leisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals of studies of a +severer nature. + +[Greek: Pas to oicheios ergon agapao], "Every one loves his own +work," says Stagyrite; but it was no overweening affection of this +kind which induced this publication. Had the author relied on his +own judgment only, these Poems would not, in all probability, ever +have seen the light. + +Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives for this +publication? He answers--simply these: The facilitation, through +its means, of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, have +been the principal objects of his ambition; and the increase of +the capacity to pursue those inclinations which may one day place +him in an honourable station in the scale of society. + +The principal Poem in this little collection (Clifton Grove) is, +he fears, deficient in numbers and harmonious coherency of parts. +It is, however, merely to be regarded as a description of a +nocturnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompanied with such +reflections as the scene naturally suggested. It was written +twelve months ago, when the Author was in his sixteenth year:--The +Miscellanies are some of them the productions of a very early +age.--Of the Odes, that "To an early Primrose" was written at +thirteen--the others are of a later date.--The Sonnets are chiefly +irregular; they have, perhaps, no other claim to that specific +denomination, than that they consist only of fourteen lines. + +Such are the Poems towards which I entreat the lenity of the +Public. The Critic will doubtless find in them much to condemn; +he may likewise possibly discover something to commend. Let him +scan my faults with an indulgent eye, and in the work of that +correction which I invite, let him remember he is holding the iron +Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth of +seventeen; and, remembering that, may he forbear from crushing, by +too much rigour, the painted butterfly whose transient colours may +otherwise be capable of affording a moment's innocent amusement. + +H. K. WHITE. + +Nottingham. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + + + + +CLIFTON GROVE. + +A SKETCH. + + +Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, +And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. +No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke, +Which with the dawn from yonder dingle broke; +No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head, +The crows assembling seek their wind-rock'd bed; +Still'd is the village hum--the woodland sounds +Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, +And general silence reigns, save when below +The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow; +And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, +Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate; +Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale, +Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. + +Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, +Released from day and its attendant toil, +And draws his household round their evening fire, +And tells the ofttold tales that never tire; +Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise, +And manufacture taints the ambient skies, +The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom, +The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, +And rushes out, impatient to begin +The stated course of customary sin: +Now, now my solitary way I bend +Where solemn groves in awful state impend: +And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain, +Bespeak, bless'd Clifton! thy sublime domain. +Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, +I come to pass the meditative hour; +To bid awhile the strife of passion cease, +And woo the calms of solitude and peace. +And oh! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on high +Thy leafy throne where wavy poplars sigh! +Genius of woodland shades! whose mild control +Steals with resistless witchery to the soul, +Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspire +My glowing bosom with thy hallow'd fire. +And thou, too, Fancy, from thy starry sphere, +Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear, +Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, +Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. +At thy command the gale that passes by +Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. +Thou wavest thy wand, and lo! what forms appear! +On the dark cloud what giant shapes career! +The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale, +And hosts of sylphids on the moonbeams sail. +This gloomy alcove darkling to the sight, +Where meeting trees create eternal night; +Save, when from yonder stream the sunny ray, +Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day; +Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind, +Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined, +I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood; +Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food; +Or woke with song the woodland echo wild, +And at each gay response delighted smiled. +How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray +Of gay romance o'er every happy day, +Here, would I run, a visionary boy, +When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, +And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form +Sternly careering on the eddying storm; +And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul, +His voice terrific in the thunders roll. +With secret joy I view'd with vivid glare +The vollied lightnings cleave the sullen air; +And, as the warring winds around reviled, +With awful pleasure big,--I heard and smiled. +Beloved remembrance!--Memory which endears +This silent spot to my advancing years, +Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest, +In shades like these to live is to be bless'd. +While happiness evades the busy crowd, +In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. +And thou too, Inspiration, whose wild flame +Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame, +Thou here dost love to sit with upturn'd eye, +And listen to the stream that murmurs by, +The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken flight, +The mellow music of the listening night. +Congenial calms more welcome to my breast +Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre dress'd, +To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I raise, +That ye may bless my unambitious days, +Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife, +May trace with me the lowly vale of life, +And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave, +May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. +Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, +A livelier light upon my vision flows. +No more above the embracing branches meet, +No more the river gurgles at my feet, +But seen deep down the cliff's impending side, +Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide. +Dim is my upland path,--across the green +Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between +The chequer'd glooms the moon her chaste ray sheds, +Where knots of bluebells droop their graceful heads. +And beds of violets, blooming 'mid the trees, +Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze. + +Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight +Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, +And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, +And gives to him alone his bliss to know, +Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms? +Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms? +And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, +Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death? +Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings +Know what calm joy from purer sources springs; +Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, +The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, +No more his soul would pant for joys impure, +The deadly chalice would no more allure, +But the sweet potion he was wont to sip +Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. + +Fair Nature! thee, in all thy varied charms, +Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms! +Thine are the sweets which never, never sate, +Thine still remain through all the storms of fate. +Though not for me, 't was Heaven's divine command +To roll in acres of paternal land, +Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoy +Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye. + +Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss +Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss, +Who, still in abject poverty or pain, +Can count with pleasure what small joys remain: +Though were his sight convey'd from zone to zone, +He would not find one spot of ground his own, +Yet as he looks around, he cries with glee, +These bounding prospects all were made for me: +For me yon waving fields their burden bear, +For me yon labourer guides the shining share, +While happy I in idle ease recline, +And mark the glorious visions as they shine. +This is the charm, by sages often told, +Converting all it touches into gold. +Content can soothe where'er by fortune placed, +Can rear a garden in the desert waste. + +How lovely, from this hill's superior height, +Spreads the wide view before my straining sight! +O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground, +E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound, +My ken is borne; while o'er my head serene +The silver moon illumes the misty scene: +Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade, +In all the soft varieties of shade. + +Behind me, lo! the peaceful hamlet lies, +The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. +No more, where late the social faggot blazed, +The vacant peal resounds, by little raised, +But locked in silence, o'er Arion's[1] star +The slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car: +The church bell tolls, deep sounding down the glade, +The solemn hour for walking spectres made; +The simple ploughboy, wakening with the sound, +Listens aghast, and turns him startled round, +Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes, +Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise. +Now ceased the long, the monitory toll, +Returning silence stagnates in the soul; +Save when, disturbed by dreams, with wild affright, +The deep mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night: +Or where the village alehouse crowns the vale, +The creaking signpost whistles to the gale. +A little onward let me bend my way, +Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay. +That spot, oh! yet it is the very same; +That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name: +There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom, +There yet the violet sheds its first perfume, +And in the branch that rears above the rest +The robin unmolested builds its nest. +'T was here, when hope, presiding o'er my breast, +In vivid colours every prospect dress'd: +'T was here, reclining, I indulged her dreams, +And lost the hour in visionary schemes. +Here, as I press once more the ancient seat, +Why, bland deceiver! not renew the cheat! +Say, can a few short years this change achieve, +That thy illusions can no more deceive! +Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread, +And thou too, gay seducer, art thou fled? + +Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, +Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her tear, +And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way +Could throw a gleam of transitory day. +How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems; +How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams; +The dire mistake too soon is brought to light. +And all is buried in redoubled night. +Yet some can rise superior to the pain, +And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain; +While others, dead to feeling, can survey, +Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away: +But yet a few there be,--too soon o'ercast! +Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast, +And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the gloom, +To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb. +So in these shades the early primrose blows, +Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows: +So falls untimely on the desert waste, +Its blossoms withering in the northern blast. + +Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display, +Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way; +Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, +The timid hare from its accustom'd seat. +And oh! how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood, +That winds the margin of the solemn flood! +What rural objects steal upon the sight! +What rising views prolong the calm delight! + +The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, +The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, +The woody island, and the naked mead, +The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, +The rural wicket, and the rural stile, +And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. +Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, +Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. +High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, +And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. +Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise, +What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes! +Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, +The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head. +And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind, +Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. +Still every rising sound of calm delight +Stamps but the fearful silence of the night, +Save when is heard between each dreary rest, +Discordant from her solitary nest, +The owl, dull screaming to the wandering moon; +Now riding, cloud-wrapp'd, near her highest noon: +Or when the wild duck, southering, hither rides, +And plunges, sullen in the sounding tides. + +How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youth +Gave to each tale the holy force of truth, +Have I long linger'd, while the milkmaid sung +The tragic legend, till the woodland rung! +That tale, so sad! which, still to memory dear, +From its sweet source can call the sacred tear, +And (lull'd to rest stern Reason's harsh control) +Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. +These hallow'd shades,--these trees that woo the wind, +Recall its faintest features to my mind. +A hundred passing years, with march sublime, +Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, +Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, +Reclusely dwelt the far famed Clifton Maid, +The beauteous Margaret; for her each swain +Confess'd in private his peculiar pain, +In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair, +Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. +No more the Shepherd on the blooming mead +Attuned to gaiety his artless reed, +No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck +His favourite wether's unpolluted neck, +But listless, by yon bubbling stream reclined, +He mix'd his sobbings with the passing wind, +Bemoan'd his hapless love; or, boldly bent, +Far from these smiling fields a rover went, +O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam, +A self-will'd exile from his native home. + +Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain; +Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. +Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs, +The echoing vault responded to their vows, +As here deep hidden from the glare of day, +Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way. + +Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name; +'T was there the blushing maid confessed her flame. +Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie, +When evening slumber'd on the western sky. +That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare. +Each bears mementos of the fated pair. + +One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze +With the fallen honours of the mourning trees, +The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower. +And waited long beyond the appointed hour, +Yet Bateman came not;--o'er the woodland drear, +Howling portentous did the winds career; +And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods +The fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods; +The night was dark; as, now and then, the gale +Paused for a moment--Margaret listen'd pale; +But through the covert to her anxious ear +No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. +Strange fears now fill'd her breast,--she knew not why, +She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh. +She hears a noise,--'t is he,--he comes at last,-- +Alas! 't was but the gale which hurried past: +But now she hears a quickening footstep sound, +Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound; +'T is Bateman's self,--he springs into her arms, +'T is he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. +"Yet why this silence?--I have waited long, +And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among. + +And now thou'rt here my fears are fled--yet speak, +Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek? +Say, what is wrong?" Now through a parting cloud +The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud, +And Bateman's face was seen; 't was deadly white, +And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. +"Oh, speak! my love!" again the maid conjured, +"Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured?" +He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell, +Thrice from his lips the unfinished accents fell; +When thus at last reluctantly he broke +His boding silence, and the maid bespoke: +"Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance +I on these fields must cast my parting glance; +For three long years, by cruel fate's command, +I go to languish in a foreign land. +Oh, Margaret! omens dire have met my view, +Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true? +Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee, +Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, +And on the silken couch of wealth reclined, +Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?" + +"Oh! why," replies the maid, "my faith thus prove, +Canst thou! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love? +Hear me, just God! if from my traitorous heart +My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part, +If, when he hail again his native shore, +He finds his Margaret true to him no more, +May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, +Conjoin'd then drag me from my perjured bed, +And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps, +To find deserved death in yonder deeps!"[2] +Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew +A golden ring, and broke it quick in two; +One half she in her lovely bosom hides, +The other, trembling, to her love confides. +"This bind the vow," she said, "this mystic charm +No future recantation can disarm, +The right vindictive does the fates involve, +No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve." + +She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry, +The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by, +And once again the lady of the night +Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. +Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay; +But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away: +Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, +Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart. + +When to the distant land the youth was sped, +A lonely life the moody maiden led. +Still would she trace each dear, each well known walk, +Still by the moonlight to her love would talk, +And fancy, as she paced among the trees, +She heard his whispers in the dying breeze. + +Thus two years glided on in silent grief; +The third her bosom own'd the kind relief: +Absence had cool'd her love--the impoverish'd flame +Was dwindling fast, when lo! the tempter came; +He offered wealth, and all the joys of life, +And the weak maid became another's wife! +Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime, +When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime. +Sure of her constancy, elate he came, +The lovely partner of his soul to claim; +Light was his heart, as up the well known way +He bent his steps--and all his thoughts were gay. +Oh! who can paint his agonizing throes, +When on his ear the fatal news arose! +Chill'd with amazement,--senseless with the blow, +He stood a marble monument of woe; +Till call'd to all the horrors of despair, +He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair; +Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot, +And sought those scenes (by memory ne'er forgot), +Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame, +And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. +'T was night--he sought the river's lonely shore, +And traced again their former wanderings o'er. +Now on the bank in silent grief he stood, +And gazed intently on the stealing flood, +Death in his mein and madness in his eye, +He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by; +Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave-- +Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. + +Yet still he stood irresolutely bent, +Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent. +He knelt.--Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind, +And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind, +The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, +The paly moonbeam on its surface slept, +And all was peace;--he felt the general calm +O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm: +When casting far behind his streaming eye, +He saw the Grove,--in fancy saw her lie, +His Margaret, lull'd in Germain's[3] arms to rest, +And all the demon rose within his breast. +Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand, +Cast his dark eye once more upon the land, +Then, at one spring he spurn'd the yielding bank, +And in the calm deceitful current sank. + +Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound, +As in the stream he plunged, was heard around: +Then all was still--the wave was rough no more, +The river swept as sweetly as before; +The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene, +And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. + +Now, see upon the perjured fair one hang +Remorse's glooms and never ceasing pang. +Full well she knew, repentant now too late, +She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. +But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast, +The offended God prolong'd her life unbless'd. +But fast the fleeting moments roll'd away, +And near and nearer drew the dreaded day; +That day foredoom'd to give her child the light, +And hurl its mother to the shades of night. +The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife +The guiltless baby struggled into life.-- +As night drew on, around her bed a band +Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand; +In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time, +Intent to expiate her awful crime. +Their prayers were fruitless.--As the midnight came +A heavy sleep oppress'd each weary frame. +In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming load, +Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. +They slept till in the blushing eastern sky +The blooming Morning oped her dewy eye; +Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd bed, +But lo! the hapless Margaret was fled; +And never more the weeping train were doom'd +To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd. + +The neighbouring rustics told that in the night +They heard such screams as froze them with affright; +And many an infant, at its mother's breast, +Started dismay'd, from its unthinking rest. +And even now, upon the heath forlorn, +They show the path down which the fair was borne, +By the fell demons, to the yawning wave, +Her own, and murder'd lover's, mutual grave. + +Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear, +Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening ear, +That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweets +In the drear silence of these dark retreats; +And even now, with melancholy power, +Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. +'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given +To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven, +With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans +On the attendant legend of the scenes. +This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods, +And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods; +This, as the distant cataract swells around, +Gives a romantic cadence to the sound; +This, and the deepening glen, the alley green, +The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between, +The massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas, +The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees, +The lengthening vista, and the present gloom, +The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume: +These are thy charms, the joys which these impart +Bind thee, bless'd Clifton! close around my heart. + +Dear Native Grove! where'er my devious track, +To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back. +Whether in Arno's polish'd vales I stray, +Or where "Oswego's" swamps obstruct the day; +Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide, +The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side; +Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse, +Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views; +Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam, +My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home. +When Splendour offers, and when Fame incites, +I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights, +Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change, +Renounce the wish which first induced to range; +Turn to these scenes, these well known scenes once more, +Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore, +And tired with worlds, and all their busy ways, +Here waste the little remnant of my days. +But if the Fates should this last wish deny, +And doom me on some foreign shore to die; +Oh! should it please the world's supernal King, +That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing; +Or that my corse should, on some desert strand, +Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting hand; +Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb, +My sprite shall wander through this favourite gloom, +Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove, +Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove, +Sit a lorn spectre on yon well known grave, +And mix its moanings with the desert wave. + +Footnotes: + +[1] The constellation Delphinus. For authority for this appelation, see +Ovid's Fasti, B. xi. 113. + +[2] This part of the Trent is commonly called "The Clifton Deeps." + +[3] Germain is the traditionary name of her husband. + + + + +TIME, + +A POEM.[1] + + +Genius of musings, who, the midnight hour +Wasting in woods or haunted forests wild, +Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower, +Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance; +Or when the vollied lightnings cleave the air, +And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm, +Sitt'st in some lonely watchtower, where thy lamp, +Faint blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far, +And, 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved, +Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace +The vast effect to its superior source,-- +Spirit, attend my lowly benison! +For now I strike to themes of import high +The solitary lyre; and, borne by thee +Above this narrow cell, I celebrate +The mysteries of Time! + + Him who, august, +Was e'er these worlds were fashion'd,--ere the sun +Sprang from the east, or Lucifer display'd +His glowing cresset in the arch of morn, +Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. +Yea, He had been for an eternity! +Had swept unvarying from eternity +The harp of desolation--ere his tones, +At God's command, assumed a milder strain, +And startled on his watch, in the vast deep, +Chaos's sluggish sentry, and evoked +From the dark void the smiling universe. + +Chain'd to the groveling frailties of the flesh, +Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross, +Cannot survey, with fix'd and steady eye, +The dim uncertain gulf, which now the muse, +Adventurous, would explore; but dizzy grown, +He topples down the abyss.--If he would scan +The fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpse +Of its unfathomable depths, that so +His mind may turn with double joy to God, +His only certainty and resting place; +He must put off awhile this mortal vest, +And learn to follow, without giddiness, +To heights where all is vision, and surprise, +And vague conjecture.--He must waste by night +The studious taper, far from all resort +Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat; +High on the beetling promontory's crest, +Or in the caves of the vast wilderness, +Where, compass'd round with Nature's wildest shapes, +He may be driven to centre all his thoughts +In the great Architect, who lives confess'd +In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes. + +So has divine Philosophy, with voice +Mild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave, +Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes, +Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy, +His faint, neglected song--intent to snatch +Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous steep +Of poesy, a bloom of such a hue, +So sober, as may not unseemly suit +With Truth's severer brow; and one withal +So hardy as shall brave the passing wind +Of many winters,--rearing its meek head +In loveliness, when he who gathered it +Is number'd with the generations gone. +Yet not to me hath God's good providence +Given studious leisure,[2] or unbroken thought, +Such as he owns,--a meditative man; +Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve +Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er, +Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din: +From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd +With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day +Hath duties which require the vigorous hand +Of steadfast application, but which leave +No deep improving trace upon the mind. +But be the day another's;--let it pass! +The night's my own!--They cannot steal my night! +When evening lights her folding star on high, +I live and breathe; and in the sacred hours +Of quiet and repose my spirit flies, +Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space. +And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for Heaven. + +Hence do I love the sober-suited maid; +Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my theme, +And she shall aid me now to magnify +The night of ages,--now when the pale ray +Of starlight penetrates the studious gloom, +And, at my window seated, while mankind +Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze +Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole, +Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, +Assumes her wonted sway. + + Behold the world +Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused +From trouble and turmoil. The widow now +Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie +Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest. +The man of sorrow has forgot his woes; +The outcast that his head is shelterless, +His griefs unshared.--The mother tends no more +Her daughter's dying slumbers, but surprised +With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch, +Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, lull'd +On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapp'd, +Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shuddering nurse, +Poor victim! smiles.--Silence and deep repose +Reign o'er the nations; and the warning voice +Of Nature utters audibly within +The general moral:--tells us that repose, +Deathlike as this, but of far longer span, +Is coming on us--that the weary crowds, +Who now enjoy a temporary calm, +Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapp'd around +With grave clothes: and their aching restless heads +Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved, +Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep. + +Who needs a teacher to admonish him +That flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist? +What are our joys but dreams? and what our hopes +But goodly shadows in the summer cloud? +There's not a wind that blows but bears with it +Some rainbow promise:--Not a moment flies +But puts its sickle in the fields of life, +And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. +'T is but as yesterday since on yon stars, +Which now I view, the Chaldee shepherd[3] gazed +In his mid watch observant, and disposed +The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. +Yet in the interim what mighty shocks +Have buffeted mankind--whole nations razed-- +Cities made desolate--the polish'd sunk +To barbarism, and once barbaric states +Swaying the wand of science and of arts; +Illustrious deeds and memorable names +Blotted from record, and upon the tongue +Of gray Tradition, voluble no more. + +Where are the heroes of the ages past? +Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones +Who flourish'd in the infancy of days? +All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame +Exultant, mocking at the pride of man, +Sits grim Forgetfulness.--The warrior's arm +Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame; +Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze +Of his red eyeball.--Yesterday his name +Was mighty on the earth.--To-day--'t is what? +The meteor of the night of distant years, +That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, +Musing at midnight upon prophecies, +Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam +Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly +Closed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up +Safe in the enamel's treasures. + + Oh how weak +Is mortal man! how trifling--how confined +His scope of vision! Puff'd with confidence, +His phrase grows big with immortality, +And he, poor insect of a summer's day! +Dreams of eternal honours to his name; +Of endless glory and perennial bays. +He idly reasons of eternity, +As of the train of ages,--when, alas! +Ten thousand thousand of his centuries +Are, in comparison, a little point +Too trivial for account.--O, it is strange, +'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies; +Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, +Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, +And smile, and say, My name shall live with this +Till time shall be no more; while at his feet, +Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust +Of the fallen fabric of the other day +Preaches the solemn lesson.--He should know +That time must conquer; that the loudest blast +That ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trump +Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires. +Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom +Of the gigantic pyramid? or who +Rear'd its huge walls? Oblivion laughs, and says, +The prey is mine.--They sleep, and never more +Their names shall strike upon the ear of man, +Their memory burst its fetters. + + Where is Rome? +She lives but in the tale of other times; +Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home, +And her long colonnades, her public walks, +Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet, +Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace, +Through the rank moss reveal'd, her honour'd dust. +But not to Rome alone has fate confined +The doom of ruin; cities numberless, +Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, +And rich Phoenicia--they are blotted out, +Half razed from memory, and their very name +And being in dispute.--Has Athens fallen? +Is polish'd Greece become the savage seat +Of ignorance and sloth? and shall we dare + + * * * * * + +And empire seeks another hemisphere. +Where now is Britain?--Where her laurel'd names. +Her palaces and halls? Dash'd in the dust. +Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride, +And with one big recoil hath thrown her back +To primitive barbarity.----Again, +Through her depopulated vales, the scream +Of bloody Superstition hollow rings, +And the scared native to the tempest howls +The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts, +Her crowded ports, broods Silence; and the cry +Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash +Of distant billows, breaks alone the void; +Even as the savage sits upon the stone +That marks where stood her capitols, and hears +The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks +From the dismaying solitude.--Her bards +Sing in a language that hath perished; +And their wild harps suspended o'er their graves, +Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain. + +Meanwhile the Arts, in second infancy, +Rise in some distant clime, and then, perchance, +Some bold adventurer, fill'd with golden dreams, +Steering his bark through trackless solitudes, +Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow +Hath ever ploughed before,--espies the cliffs +Of fallen Albion.--To the land unknown +He journeys joyful; and perhaps descries +Some vestige of her ancient stateliness: +Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind +Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived +At science in that solitary nook, +Far from the civil world; and sagely sighs, +And moralizes on the state of man. + +Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt, +Moves on our being. We do live and breathe, +And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. +We have our springtime and our rottenness; +And as we fall, another race succeeds, +To perish likewise.--Meanwhile Nature smiles-- +The seasons run their round--The Sun fulfils +His annual course--and heaven and earth remain +Still changing, yet unchanged--still doom'd to feel +Endless mutation in perpetual rest. +Where are conceal'd the days which have elapsed? +Hid in the mighty cavern of the past, +They rise upon us only to appall, +By indistinct and half-glimpsed images, +Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. + +Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch, +When the rude rushing winds forget to rave, +And the pale moon, that through the casement high +Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour +Of utter silence, it is fearful then +To steer the mind, in deadly solitude. +Up the vague stream of probability; +To wind the mighty secrets of the past, +And turn the key of time!--Oh! who can strive +To comprehend the vast, the awful truth, +Of the eternity that hath gone by, +And not recoil from the dismaying sense +Of human impotence? The life of man +Is summ'd in birthdays and in sepulchres; +But the Eternal God had no beginning; +He hath no end. Time had been with him +For everlasting, ere the dredal world +Rose from the gulf in loveliness.--Like him +It knew no source, like him, 't was uncreate. +What is it then? The past Eternity! +We comprehend a future without end; +We feel it possible that even yon sun +May roll for ever: but we shrink amazed-- +We stand aghast, when we reflect that time +Knew no commencement.--That heap age on age, +And million upon million, without end, +And we shall never span the void of days +That were and are not but in retrospect. +The Past is an unfathomable depth, +Beyond the span of thought; 'tis an elapse +Which hath no mensuration, but hath been +For ever and for ever. + + Change of days +To us is sensible; and each revolve +Of the recording sun conducts us on +Further in life, and nearer to our goal. +Not so with Time,--mysterious chronicler, +He knoweth not mutation;--centuries +Are to his being as a day, and days +As centuries.--Time past, and Time to come, +Are always equal; when the world began +God had existed from eternity. + + * * * * * + + Now look on man +Myriads of ages hence.--Hath time elapsed? +Is he not standing in the selfsame place +Where once we stood?--The same eternity +Hath gone before him, and is yet to come; +His past is not of longer span than ours, +Though myriads of ages intervened; +For who can add to what has neither sum, +Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end? +Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind? +Who can unlock the secrets of the high? +In speculations of an altitude +Sublime as this, our reason stands confess'd +Foolish, and insignificant, and mean. +Who can apply the futile argument +Of finite beings to infinity? + +He might as well compress the universe +Into the hollow compass of a gourd, +Scoop'd out by human art; or bid the whale +Drink up the sea it swims in!--Can the less +Contain the greater? or the dark obscure +Infold the glories of meridian day? +What does philosophy impart to man +But undiscovered wonders?--Let her soar +Even to her proudest heights--to where she caught +The soul of Newton and of Socrates, +She but extends the scope of wild amaze +And admiration. All her lessons end +In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths. + +Lo! the unletter'd hind, who never knew +To raise his mind excursive to the heights +Of abstract contemplation, as he sits +On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, +What time the insect swarms are murmuring, +And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds +That fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky, +Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse +The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd +The goodly prospect; he beholds the God +Throned in the west, and his reposing ear +Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze +That floats through neighbouring copse or fairy brake, +Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. +Go with the cotter to his winter fire, +Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, +And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon; +Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar. +Silent, and big with thought; and hear him bless +The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds, +For his snug hearth, and all his little joys: +Hear him compare his happier lot with his +Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, +A poor night traveller, while the dismal snow +Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path, +He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, +He hears some village mastiff's distant howl, +And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light; +Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, +And clasps his shivering hands; or overpowered, +Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with sleep, +From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. +Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise +And glowing gratitude,--he turns to bless, +With honest warmth, his Maker and his God! +And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, +Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred +In want and labour, glows with nobler zeal +To laud his Maker's attributes, while he +Whom starry Science in her cradle rock'd, +And Castaly enchasten'd with his dews, +Closes his eyes upon the holy word, +And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, +Dares to declare his infidelity, +And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts? +What is philosophy, if it impart +Irreverence for the Deity, or teach +A mortal man to set his judgment up +Against his Maker's will? The Polygar, +Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him +Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys, +Is the most bless'd of men! Oh! I would walk +A weary journey, to the furthest verge +Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, +Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, +Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God, +Feeling the sense of his own littleness, +Is as a child in meek simplicity! +What is the pomp of learning? the parade +Of letters and of tongues? e'en as the mists +Of the gray morn before the rising sun, +That pass away and perish. + + Earthly things +Are but the transient pageants of an hour; +And earthly pride is like the passing flower, +That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. +'T is as the tower erected on a cloud, +Baseless and silly as the schoolboy's dream. +Ages and epochs that destroy our pride, +And then record its downfall, what are they +But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain? +Hath Heaven its ages? or doth Heaven preserve +Its stated eras? Doth the Omnipotent +Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays? +There is to God nor future nor a past; +Throned in his might, all times to him are present; +He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come; +He sees before him one eternal now. +Time moveth not!--our being 't is that moves; +And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream, +Dream of swift ages and revolving years, +Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days: +So the young sailor in the gallant bark, +Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast +Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while, +Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, +And that the land is sailing. + + Such, alas! +Are the illusions of this proteus life! +All, all is false: through every phasis still +'T is shadowy and deceitful. It assumes +The semblances of things and specious shapes; +But the lost traveller might as soon rely +On the evasive spirit of the marsh, +Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits, +O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way, +As we on its appearances. + + On earth +There is no certainty nor stable hope. +As well the weary mariner, whose bark +Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, +Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain, +And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust +To expectation of serener skies, +And linger in the very jaws of death, +Because some peevish cloud were opening, +Or the loud storm had bated in its rage; +As we look forward in this vale of tears +To permanent delight--from some slight glimpse +Of shadowy, unsubstantial happiness. + +The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond +The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep +Of mortal desolation.--He beholds +Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride +Of rampant Ruin, or the unstable waves +Of dark Vicissitude.--Even in death,-- +In that dread hour, when, with a giant pang, +Tearing the tender fibres of the heart, +The immortal spirit struggles to be free, +Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not, +For it exists beyond the narrow verge +Of the cold sepulchre. The petty joys +Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd, +And rested on the bosom of its God. +This is man's only reasonable hope; +And 't is a hope which, cherish'd in the breast, +Shall not be disappointed. Even he, +The Holy One--Almighty--who elanced +The rolling world along its airy way, +Even He will deign to smile upon the good, +And welcome him to these celestial seats, +Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign. + +Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault, +Survey the countless gems which richly stud +The night's imperial chariot;--Telescopes +Will show thee myriads more innumerous +Than the sea sand;--each of those little lamps +Is the great source of light, the central sun +Round which some other mighty sisterhood +Of planets travel, every planet stock'd +With Hying beings impotent as thee. +Now, proud man! now, where is thy greatness fled? +What art thou in the scale of universe? +Less, less than nothing!--Yet of thee the God +Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful, +As well as of the mendicant who begs +The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou +Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn +His heavenly providence! Deluded fool, +Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with death, +Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell. + +How insignificant is mortal man, +Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour! +How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit +Of infinite duration, boundless space! +God of the universe! Almighty One! +Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds, +Or with the storm, thy rugged charioteer, +Swift and impetuous as the northern blast, +Ridest from pole to pole; Thou who dost hold +The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp, +And reignest in the earthquake, when thy wrath +Goes down towards erring man, I would address +To thee my parting pæan; for of Thee, +Great beyond comprehension, who thyself +Art Time and Space, sublime Infinitude, +Of Thee has been my song!--With awe I kneel +Trembling before the footstool of thy state, +My God!--my Father!--I will sing to thee +A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle, +Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades +The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre, +And give its wild strings to the desert gale. +Rise, Son of Salem! rise, and join the strain, +Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp, +And, leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul +To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing, +And halleluiah, for the Lord is great, +And full of mercy! He has thought of man; +Yea, compass'd round with countless worlds, has thought +Of us poor worms, that batten in the dews +Of morn, and perish ere the noonday sun. +Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful: +He gave the Nubian lion but to live, +To rage its hour, and perish; but on man +He lavish'd immortality and Heaven. +The eagle falls from her aërial tower, +And mingles with irrevocable dust: +But man from death springs joyful, +Springs up to life and to eternity. +Oh, that, insensate of the favouring boon, +The great exclusive privilege bestow'd +On us unworthy trifles, men should dare +To treat with slight regard the proffer'd Heaven, +And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear +In wrath, "They shall not enter in my rest." +Might I address the supplicative strain +To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou +Wouldst pity the deluded wanderers, +And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock. +Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Him, +Thy well beloved, who, upon the cross, +Bled a dread sacrifice for human sin, +And paid, with bitter agony, the debt +Of primitive transgression. + + Oh! I shrink, +My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect +That the time hastens, when, in vengeance clothed, +Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate +On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels +Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves, +And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start +At the appalling summons. Oh I how dread, +On the dark eye of miserable man, +Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom, +Will burst the effulgence of the opening Heaven; +When to the brazen trumpet's deafening roar +Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend, +Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word! +The dead shall start astonish'd from their sleep! +The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey, +The bellowing floods shall disembogue their charge +Of human victims. From the farthest nook +Of the wide world shall troop the risen souls, +From him whose bones are bleaching in the waste +Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse, +Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides, +Is wash'd on some Caribbean prominence, +To the lone tenant of some secret cell +In the Pacific's vast ... realm, +Where never plummet's sound was heard to part +The wilderness of water; they shall come +To greet the solemn advent of the Judge. + +Thou first shalt summon the elected saints +To their apportion'd Heaven! and thy Son, +At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious joy +On all his past distresses, when for them +He bore humanity's severest pangs. +Then shalt thou seize the avenging scimitar, +And, with a roar as loud and horrible +As the stern earthquake's monitory voice, +The wicked shall be driven to their abode, +Down the immitigable gulf, to wail +And gnash their teeth in endless agony. + + * * * * * + +Rear thou aloft thy standard.--Spirit, rear +Thy flag on high!--Invincible, and throned +In unparticipated might. Behold +Earth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent sway, +Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while, +Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush +Of mighty generations, as they pass +To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp +Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. +Who shall contend with Time--unvanquish'd Time, +The conqueror of conquerors, and lord +Of desolation?--Lo! the shadows fly, +The hours and days, and years and centuries, +They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall, +The young are old, the old are in their graves. +Heard'st thou that shout? It rent the vaulted skies; +It was the voice of people,--mighty crowds,-- +Again! 't is hushed--Time speaks, and all is hush'd; +In the vast multitude now reigns alone +Unruffled solitude. They all are still; +All--yea, the whole--the incalculable mass, +Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains. + +Rear thou aloft thy standard.--Spirit, rear +Thy flag on high, and glory in thy strength. +But do thou know the season yet shall come, +When from its base thine adamantine throne +Shall tumble; when thine arm shall cease to strike, +Thy voice forget its petrifying power; +When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no more. +Yea, he doth come--the mighty champion comes, +Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death wound, +Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors, +And desolate stern Desolation's lord. +Lo! where he cometh! the Messiah comes! +The King! the Comforter! the Christ!--He comes +To burst the bonds of Death, and overturn +The power of Time.--Hark! the trumpet's blast +Rings o'er the heavens! They rise, the myriads rise-- +Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chains +Of torpor,--He has ransom'd them,... + +Forgotten generations live again, +Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old, +Beyond the flood:--the righteous of their times +Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. +The sainted mother wakes, and in her lap +Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave, +And heritor with her of Heaven,--a flower, +Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain +Of native guilt, even in its early bud. +And, hark! those strains, how solemnly serene +They fall, as from the skies--at distance fall-- +Again more loud--the halleluiahs swell; +The newly risen catch the joyful sound; +They glow, they burn; and now with one accord +Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song +Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb +Who bled for mortals. + + * * * * * + +Yet there is peace for man.--Yea, there is peace +Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene; +When from the crowd, and from the city far, +Haply he may be set (in his late walk +O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs +Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone, +And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys +The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail, +And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time +Will waft him to repose, to deep repose, +Far from the unquietness of life--from noise +And tumult far--beyond the flying clouds, +Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, +Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no more. + + * * * * * + +Footnotes: + + +[1] This Poem was begun either during the publication of Clifton Grove, or +shortly afterwards, but never completed: some of the detached parts were +among his latest productions. + +[2] The Author was then in an attorney's office. + +[3] Alluding to the first astronomical observations made by the Chaldean +shepherds. + + + + +CHILDHOOD.[1] + +A POEM. + + +PART I. + +Pictured in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet +Our infant days, our infant joys, to greet; +To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, +The village churchyard, and the village green, +The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, +The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn shade, +The whitewashed cottage, where the woodbine grew, +And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew! +How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, +To view the unclouded skies of former days! + +Beloved age of innocence and smiles, +When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles. +When the gay heart, to life's sweet dayspring true, +Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. +Bless'd Childhood, hail!--Thee simply will I sing, +And from myself the artless picture bring; +These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, +Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more, +And every stump familiar to my sight +Recalls some fond idea of delight. + +This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat; +Here did I love at evening to retreat, +And muse alone, till in the vault of night, +Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light. +Here once again, remote from human noise, +I sit me down to think of former joys; +Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more, +And once again each infant walk explore, +While as each grove and lawn I recognize, +My melted soul suffuses in my eyes. + +And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort +To distant scenes, and picture, them to thought; +Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, +Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy; +Bless'd Memory, guide, with finger nicely true, +Back to my youth my retrospective view; +Recall with faithful vigour to my mind +Each face familiar, each relation kind; +And all the finer traits of them afford, +Whose general outline in my heart is stored. + +In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls +In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, +The village matron kept her little school, +Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule; +Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien; +Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean; +Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair, +Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care; +And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn, +Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. +Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, +A pair of spectacles their want supplies; +These does she guard secure, in leathern case, +From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place. + +Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain, +The low vestibule of learning's fane; +Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, +Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. +Much did I grieve on that ill fated morn +When I was first to school reluctant borne; +Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried +To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd; +And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, +To my lone corner broken-hearted crept, +And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. + +But soon inured to alphabetic toils, +Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles; +First at the form, my task for ever true, +A little favourite rapidly I grew: +And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, +Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight; +And as she gave my diligence its praise, +Talk'd of the honours of my future days. + +Oh! had the venerable matron thought +Of all the ills by talent often brought; +Could she have seen me when revolving years +Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, +Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate +Had been a lowlier, an unlettered state; +Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, +Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life. + +Where in the busy scene, by peace unbless'd, +Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest? +A lonely mariner on the stormy main, +Without a hope the calms of peace to gain; +Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore, +When shall his spirit rest to toil no more? +Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave +The sandy surface of his unwept grave. +Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, +Serenest season of perpetual calms,-- +Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease,-- +And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. +Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles, +But each new object brings attendant smiles; +When future evils never haunt the sight, +But all is pregnant with unmix'd delight; +To thee I turn from riot and from noise, +Turn to partake of more congenial joys. + +'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, +When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er, +What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were +In various postures scattering o'er the green! +Some shoot the marble, others join the chase seen, +Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race; +While others, seated on the dappled grass, +With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. +Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, +A band of soldiers oft with pride we march'd; +For banners to a tall ash we did bind +Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind; +And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, +And guns and spears we made of brittle reed; +Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown, +We storm'd some ruin'd pigsty for a town. + +Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont +To set her wheel before the cottage front, +And o'er her spectacles would often peer, +To view our gambols, and our boyish gear. +Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round, +With its beloved monotony of sound. +When tired with play, we'd set us by her side +(For out of school she never knew to chide), +And wonder at her skill--well known to fame-- +For who could match in spinning with the dame? +Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride +To strangers, still her thriftness testified; +Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth, +How't was her spinning manufactured cloth. + +Oft would we leave, though well beloved, our play +To chat at home the vacant hour away. +Many's the time I' we scamper'd in the glade, +To ask the promised ditty from the maid, +Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing, +While we around her form'd a little ring: +She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed, +Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, +Or little children murder'd as they slept; +While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept. +Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we +Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. +Poor simple wights, ah! little did we ween +The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene! +Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know +This world's a world of weeping and of woe! + +Beloved moment! then 'twas first I caught +The first foundation of romantic thought! +Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, +Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear. +Soon stored with much of legendary lore, +The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more. +Far from the scene of gaiety and noise, +Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, +I hied me to the thick overarching shade, +And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid, +While at my feet the rippling runnel ran, +The days of wild romance antique I'd scan; +Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, +To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. + + * * * * * + +PART II. + +There are who think that Childhood does not share +With age the cup, the bitter cup, of care: +Alas! they know not this unhappy truth, +That every age, and rank, is born to ruth. + +From the first dawn of reason in the mind, +Man is foredoomed the thorns of grief to find; +At every step has farther cause to know +The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with woe. + +Yet in the youthful breast, for ever caught +With some new object for romantic thought, +The impression of the moment quickly flies, +And with the morrow every sorrow dies. + +How different manhood!--then does Thought's control +Sink every pang still deeper in the soul; +Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart +Becomes a painful resident in the heart; +And care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, +Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. +Then, as each long known friend is summon'd hence, +We feel a void no joy can recompense, +And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb, +Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom. + +Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue, +No forms of future ill salute thy view, +No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep, +But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep, +And sanguine Hope, through every storm of life, +Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal strife. +Yet e'en round childhood's heart, a thoughtless shrine, +Affection's little thread will ever twine; +And though but frail may seem each tender tie, +The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. +Thus, when the long expected moment came, +When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame, +Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast, +And a still tear my silent grief express'd. + +When to the public school compelled to go, +What novel scenes did on my senses flow? +There in each breast each active power dilates, +Which 'broils whole nations, and convulses states; +Their reigns, by turns alternate, love and hate, +Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate; +And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere, +The dark deformities of man appear. +Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim, +There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame, +There mild Benevolence delights to dwell, +And sweet Contentment rests without her cell; +And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find +The good of heart, the intelligent of mind. + +'T was there, O George! with thee I learn'd to join +In Friendship's bands--in amity divine. +Oh, mournful though!--Where is thy spirit now? +As here I sit on favorite Logar's brow, +And trace below each well remember'd glade, +Where arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd. +Where art thou laid--on what untrodden shore, +Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar? +Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state, +At last repose from all the storms of fate? +Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave, +Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save; +See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend, +And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend: +Or where immeasurable wilds dismay, +Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way, +While sorrow and disease, with anguish rife, +Consume apace the ebbing springs of life. +Again I see his door against thee shut, +The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut; +I see thee, spent with toil and worn with grief, +Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief; +Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er, +Think on thy native land--and rise no more! + +Oh! that thou couldst, from thine august abode, +Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road, +That thou couldst see him, at this moment here, +Embalm thy memory with a pious tear, +And hover o'er him as he gazes round, +Where all the scenes of infant joys surround. + +Yes! yes! his spirit's near!--The whispering breeze +Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees; +And lo! his form transparent I perceive, +Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve: +He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe, +While deathly silence reigns upon the globe. + +Yet ah! whence comes this visionary scene? +'T is Fancy's wild aërial dream I ween: +By her inspired, when reason takes its flight, +What fond illusions beam upon the sight! +She waves her hand, and lo! what forms appear! +What magic sounds salute the wondering ear! +Once more o'er distant regions do we tread, +And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead; +While, present sorrows banish'd far away, +Unclouded azure gilds the placid day, +Or, in the future's cloud-encircled face, +Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace, +And draw minutely every little wile, +Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile. + +So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate, +The Royal Mary solitary sate, +And view'd the moonbeam trembling on the wave, +And heard the hollow surge her prison lave, +Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight, +For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight; +There did she form full many a scheme of joy, +Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy, +Which bright thro' Hope's deceitful optics beam'd, +And all became the surety which it seem'd; +She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm, +In every tear a melancholy charm. + +To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep, +Just yield a scanty sustenance to the sheep, +With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped, +To see the sun rise from his healthy bed; +To watch the aspect of the summer morn, +Smiling upon the golden fields of corn, +And taste, delighted, of superior joys, +Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes: +With silent admiration oft we view'd +The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd; +The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade, +Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd, +And the round orb itself, in azure throne, +Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone; +We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay, +Reviving Nature hail'd returning day; +Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping heads, +And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads, +While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight, +The birds sung pasans to the source of light: +Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise, +Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies, +And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more +Could trace him in his high aërial tour; +Though on the ear, at intervals, his song +Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along; +And we have thought how happy were our lot, +Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot, +Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve +Began in every dell her forms to weave, +We might pursue our sports from day to day, +And in each other's arms wear life away. + +At sultry noon too, when our toils were done, +We to the gloomy glen were wont to run; +There on the turf we lay, while at our feet +The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet; +And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore, +Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more; +Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept, +Sung woe unto the wicked land--and wept; +Or, fancy-led, saw Jeremiah mourn +In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn. +Then to another shore perhaps would rove, +With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove; +Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose, +Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes. + +Sweet then to us was that romantic band, +The ancient legends of our native land-- +Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair, +And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair, +By turns our thoughts engaged; and oft we talk'd +Of times when monarch superstition stalk'd, +And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome +Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom: +While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow, +The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of woe. + +While thus employed, to us how sad the bell +Which summon'd us to school! 'T was Fancy's knell, +And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear, +It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear. +Yet even then, (for oh! what chains can bind, +What powers control, the energies of mind!) +E'en then we soar'd to many a height sublime, +And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time. + +At evening too, how pleasing was our walk, +Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk, +When to the upland heights we bent our way. +To view the last beam of departing day; +How calm was all around! no playful breeze +Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees, +But all was still, save when, with drowsy song, +The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along; +And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee, +The distant church bells' mellow harmony; +The silver mirror of the lucid brook, +That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took; +The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides, +With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides; +The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight; +The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight; +All, all was pregnant with divine delight. +We loved to watch the swallow swimming high, +In the bright azure of the vaulted sky; +Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride +Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide, +And tinged with such variety of shade, +To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd. +In these what forms romantic did we trace, +While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space! +Now we espied the Thunderer in his car, +Leading the embattled seraphim to war, +Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, +In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky-- +Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height, +A ridge of glaciers in mural white, +Hugely terrific.--But those times are o'er, +And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more; +For thou art gone, and I am left below, +Alone to struggle through this world of woe. + +The scene is o'er--still seasons onward roll, +And each revolve conducts me toward the goal; +Yet all is blank, without one soft relief, +One endless continuity of grief; +And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, +Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time. + +Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant +For hoards of wealth which ye will never want: +And lost to all but gain, with ease resign +The calms of peace and happiness divine! +Far other cares be mine--Men little crave +In this short journey to the silent grave; +And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health, +I envy more than Croesus with his wealth. +Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree +Paternal acres to await on me; +She gave me more, she placed within my breast +A heart with little pleased--with little bless'd: +I look around me, where, on every side, +Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride; +And could my sight be borne to either zone, +I should not find one foot of land my own. + +But whither do I wander? shall the muse, +For golden baits, her simple theme refuse? +Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets +The fading scenes of childhood's far gone sweets, +It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, +And prattles on in desultory song. +That song must close--the gloomy mists of night +Obscure the pale stars' visionary light, +And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet, +Steals on the welkin in primæval jet. + +The song must close.--Once more my adverse lot +Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot: +Again compels to plunge in busy life, +And brave the hateful turbulence of strife. + +Scenes of my youth--ere my unwilling feet +Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat. +Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er, +My eyes are closed to ope on them no more, +Let me ejaculate, to feeling due, +One long, one last affectionate adieu. +Grant that, if ever Providence should please +To give me an old age of peace and ease, +Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days +May wear away in gradual decays: +And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play, +Unseen upon the pinions of the day, +Kind genii of my native fields benign, +Who were.... + * * * * * + + +[1] This appears to be one of the Author's earliest productions: written +when about the age of fourteen. + + + + +THE CHRISTIAD. + +A DIVINE POEM. + + +BOOK I. + +I. + + I sing the Cross!--Ye white-robed angel choirs, + Who know the chords of harmony to sweep, + Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires + Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep, + Oh, now descend! and with your harpings deep, + Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream + Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep, + Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, +And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme. + +II. + + Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled state, + Thy glittering fanes are level'd with the ground! + Fallen is thy pride!--Thine halls are desolate! + Where erst was heard the timbrels' sprightly sound, + And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round, + There breeds the wild fox lonely,--and aghast + Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, + Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast +Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste. + +III. + + It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers + Lie crumbling in the dust; for this forlorn + Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, + While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn, + That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born; + And, with most bitter persecuting ire, + Pursued his footsteps till the last day dawn + Rose on his fortunes--and thou saw'st the fire +That came to light the world, in one great flash expire. + +IV. + + Oh! for a pencil dipp'd in living light, + To paint the agonies that Jesus bore! + Oh! for the long lost harp of Jesse's might, + To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore; + While seraph hosts the lofty pæan pour, + And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim! + May a frail mortal dare the theme explore? + May he to human ears his weak song frame? +Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name. + +V. + + Spirits of pity! mild crusaders, come! + Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float, + And give him eloquence who else were dumb, + And raise to feeling and to fire his note! + And thou, Urania! who dost still devote + Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine, + Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote, + Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine, +And clothe him for the fight with energy divine. + +VI. + + When from the temple's lofty summit prone, + Satan, o'ercome, fell down; and 'throned there, + The son of God confess'd in splendour shone: + Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air, + Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair, + * * * * * + Fled the stern king of Hell--and with the glare + Of gliding meteors, ominous and red, +Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head. + +VII. + + Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late + The rude Massagetæ adored, he bent + His northering course, while round, in dusky state + The assembling fiends their summon'd troops augment; + Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went, + While as they pass'd to regions more severe, + The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud lament + The solitary gale; and, fill'd with fear, +The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near. + +VIII. + + Where the North Pole, in moody solitude, + Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around, + There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude, + Form a gigantic hall, where never sound + Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound + The smoke-frost mutter'd: there drear Cold for aye + Thrones him,--and, fix'd on his primæval mound, + Ruin, the giant, sits; while stern Dismay +Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way. + +IX. + + In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair, + No sweet remain of life encheers the sight; + The dancing heart's blood in an instant there + Would freeze to marble.--Mingling day and night + (Sweet interchange, which makes our labours light) + Are there unknown; while in the summer skies + The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height, + Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies, +And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise. + +X. + + 'T was there, yet shuddering from the burning lake, + Satan had fix'd their next consistory, + When parting last he fondly hoped to shake + Messiah's constancy,--and thus to free + The powers of darkness from the dread decree + Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent + The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see + The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent, +Discern the colours clear of every dark event. + +XI. + + Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight, + And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall, + Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light, + Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call. + He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen fall, + Dropp'd on the echoing ice. Instant the sound + Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the hall, + Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound, +Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they surround. + +XII. + + High on a solium of the solid wave, + Prank'd with rude shapes by the fantastic frost, + He stood in silence;--now keen thoughts engrave + Dark figures on his front; and, tempest-toss'd, + He fears to say that every hope is lost. + Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute; + So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast, + Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute, +Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute. + +XIII. + + At length collected, o'er the dark Divan + The arch fiend glanced as by the Boreal blaze + Their downcast brows were seen, and thus began + His fierce harangue:--"Spirits! our better days + Are now elapsed; Moloch and Belial's praise + Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod. + Lo! the light breaks;--The astonish'd nations gaze, + For us is lifted high the avenging rod! +For, spirits! this is He,--this is the Son of God! + +XIV. + + "What then!--shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear? + Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign + Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear? + Madness! The very thought would make me fain + To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain, + And hurl them at their Maker!--Fix'd as Fate + I am his foe!--Yea, though his pride should deign + To soothe mine ire with half his regal state, +Still would I burn with fix'd unalterable hate. + +XV. + + "Now hear the issue of my cursed emprize. + When from our last sad synod I took flight, + Buoyed with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise, + To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write + His own self-condemnation; in the plight + Of aged man in the lone wilderness, + Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight; + And, leaning on my staff, seem'd much to guess +What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn recess. + +XVI. + + "Then thus in homely guise I featly framed + My lowly speech:--'Good Sir, what leads this way + Your wandering steps? must hapless chance be blamed + That you so far from haunt of mortals stray? + Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day. + Nor trace of man have seen: but how! methought + Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy ray + I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught +That he to fallen man the saving promise brought.' + +XVII. + + "'I am that man,' said Jesus, 'I am He. + But truce to questions--Canst thou point my feet + To some low hut, if haply such there be + In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet + With homely greeting, and may sit and eat; + For forty days I have tarried fasting here, + Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat, + And now I hunger; and my fainting ear +Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing near.' + +XVIII. + + "Then thus I answer'd wily:--'If, indeed, + Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek + For food from men?--Lo! on these flint stones feed, + Bid them be bread! Open thy lips and speak, + And living rills from yon parch'd rock will break' + Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye + Fix'd on my face;--the blood forsook my cheek, + I could not bear his gaze;--my mask slipp'd by; +I would have shunn'd his look, but had not power to fly. + +XIX. + + "Then he rebuked me with the holy word-- + Accursed sounds; but now my native pride + Return'd, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd, + I bore him from the mountain's woody side + Up to the summit, where extending wide + Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes, + Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were descried, + And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains, +Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculated swains. + +XX. + + "'Behold,' I cried, 'these glories! scenes divine! + Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays; + And these, O rapture! these shall all be thine, + If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise. + Hath he not given to indigence thy days? + Is not thy portion peril here and pain? + Oh! leave his temples, shun his wounding ways! + Seize the tiara! these mean weeds disdain, +Kneel, kneel, thou man of woe, and peace and splendour gain.' + +XXI. + + "'Is it not written,' sternly he replied, + 'Tempt not the Lord thy God!' Frowning he spake, + And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide, + Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake, + And caught me up aloft, till in one flake + The sidelong volley met my swift career, + And smote me earthward.--Jove himself might quake + At such a fall; my sinews crack'd, and near, +Obscure and dizzy sounds seem'd ringing in mine ear. + +XXII. + + "Senseless and stunn'd I lay; till casting round + My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe + Borne on a car of roses to the ground, + By volant angels; and as sailing slow + He sunk the hoary battlement below, + While on the tall spire slept the slant sunbeam, + Sweet on the enamour'd zephyr was the flow + Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft seem, +On star-light hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's dream. + +XXIII. + + "I saw blaspheming. Hate renew'd my strength; + I smote the ether with my iron wing, + And left the accursed scene.--Arrived at length + In these drear halls, to ye, my peers! I bring + The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king + Thrice vanquished, baffled, smitten, and dismay'd! + O shame! Is this the hero who could fling + Defiance at his Maker, while array'd, +High o'er the walls of light, rebellion's banners play'd! + +XXIV. + + "Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph long; + Hell yet shall have revenge. O glorious sight, + Prophetic visions on my fancy throng, + I see wild Agony's lean finger write + Sad figures on his forehead!--Keenly bright + Revenge's flambeau burns! Now in his eyes + Stand the hot tears,--immantled in the night, + Lo! he retires to mourn!--I hear his cries! +He faints--he falls--and lo!--'t is true, ye powers, he dies." + +XXV. + + Thus spake the chieftain,--and as if he view'd + The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced + And chest inflated, motionless he stood, + While under his uplifted shield he glanced, + With straining eyeball fix'd, like one entranced, + On viewless air;--thither the dark platoon + Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when there danced + The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon, +Darken'd the disk of the descending moon. + +XXVI. + + Silence crept stilly through the ranks.--The breeze + Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands, + When all the midnight gasping from the seas + Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands + High on the shrouds the spirit that commands + The ocean-farer's life; so stiff--so sear + Stood each dark power;--while through their numerous bands + Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fear +Now told them all was lost, now bade revenge appear. + +XXVII. + + One there was there, whose loud defying tongue + Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell + Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long + His passion mock'd, and long he strove to tell + His labouring ire; still syllable none fell + From his pale quivering lip, but died away + For very fury; from each hollow cell + Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray, +And.... + * * * * * + +XXVIII. + + "This comes," at length burst from the furious chief, + "This comes of distant counsels! Here behold + The fruits of wily cunning! the relief + Which coward policy would fain unfold, + To soothe the powers that warr'd with Heaven of old! + O wise! O potent! O sagacious snare! + And lo! our prince--the mighty and the bold, + There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air, +While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her standard there." + +XXIX. + + Here, as recovered, Satan fix'd his eye + Full on the speaker; dark it was and stern; + He wrapp'd his black vest round him gloomily, + And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts concern. + Him Moloch mark'd, and strove again to turn + His soul to rage. "Behold, behold," he cried, + "The lord of Hell, who made these legions spurn + Almighty rule--behold he lays aside +The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied." + +XXX. + + Thus ended Moloch, and his burning tongue + Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat + In slaughter. So, his native wilds among, + The famish'd tiger pants, when, near his seat, + Press'd on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet. + Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword + Had from its scabbard sprung; but toward the seat + Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord, +As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde. + + * * * * * + +"Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. I proved +this of old: who led your forces against the armies +of Jehovah? Who coped with Ithuriel and the +thunders of the Almighty? Who, when stunned +and confused ye lay on the burning lake, who first +awoke, and collected your scattered powers? Lastly, +who led you across the unfathomable abyss to this +delightful world, and established that reign here +which now totters to its base? How, therefore, +dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on Satan's +bravery? he who preys only on the defenceless--who +sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in +acts of ignoble cruelty and unequal contention. +Away with the boaster who never joins in action, +but, like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed +upon the wounded, and overwhelm the dying. True +bravery is as remote from rashness as from hesitation; +let us counsel coolly, but let us execute our +counselled purposes determinately. In power we +have learned, by that experiment which lost us +Heaven, that we are inferior to the Thunder-bearer:--In +subtlety, in subtlety alone we are his equals. +Open war is impossible. + + * * * * * + + "Thus we shall pierce our conqueror through the race + Which as himself he loves; thus if we fall, + We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace, + Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call + Of vengeance rings within me! Warriors all, + The word is vengeance, and the spur despair. + Away with coward wiles!--Death's coal-black pall + Be now our standard!--Be our torch the glare +Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air!" + + Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old, + Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves, + Was worshipp'd, God of Fire, with charms untold + And mystery. His wandering spirit roves, + Now vainly searching for the flame it loves; + And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire, + Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves + And cinnamon unheap'd the sacred pyre, +And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire. + + He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast, + And sighing--his papyrus scarf survey'd, + Woven with dark characters, then thus address'd + The troubled council. + + * * * * * + +I. + + Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme + With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung + Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem + The lyre which I in early days have strung: + And now my spirit's faint, and I have hung + The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, + On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung + With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, +Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are heard no more. + + And must the harp of Judah sleep again? + Shall I no more reanimate the lay? + Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men, + Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, + One little space prolong my mournful day! + One little lapse suspend thy last decree! + I am a youthful traveller in the way, + And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, +Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. + + * * * * * + + + + +LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS, + +IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK. + + + Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold +Your brilliant places in the sable vault +Of night's dominions!--Planets, and central orbs +Of other systems!--big as the burning sun +Which lights this nether globe,--yet to our eye +Small as the glowworm's lamp!--To you I raise +My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd, +My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts; +Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, +Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold, +And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring, +Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, +The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, +The great Creator! Him! who now sublime, +Wrapt in the solitary amplitude +Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres +Sits on his silent throne and meditates. + + The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven, +Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, +Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great," +In varied harmonies.--The glorious sounds +Roll o'er the air serene--The Æolian spheres, +Harping along their viewless boundaries, +Catch the full note, and cry, "The Lord is great," +Responding to the Seraphim. O'er all +From orb to orb, to the remotest verge +Of the created world, the sound is borne, +Till the whole universe is full of Him. + Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now +In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, +And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile +On the vain world, and all its bustling cares, +And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. + + Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height, +What even are kings, when balanced in the scale +Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! +Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works! +Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, +One look of kind benevolence?--Thou canst: +For Thou art full of universal love, +And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart +Thy beams as well to me as to the proud, +The pageant insects of a glittering hour. + +Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, +How insignificant do all the joys, +The gaudes, and honours of the world appear! +How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp +Outwatch'd the slow-paced night!--Why on the page, +The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd +The hours devoted by the world to rest, +And needful to recruit exhausted nature? +Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay +The loss of health? or can the hope of glory +Lend a new throb into my languid heart, +Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, +Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye, +Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek? + +Say, foolish one--can that unbodied fame, +For which thou barterest health and happiness, +Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave? +Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs +Of everlasting punishment condign? +Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires! +How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God! +Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth, +And oh! assist me so to live on earth, +That I may die in peace, and claim a place +In thy high dwelling.--All but this is folly, +The vain illusions of deceitful life. + + + + +LINES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER +AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS. + +OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE. + + +Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave, +And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling, +The big tear in his eye.--Mary, awake, +From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight +On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low. +Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale, +Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love, +To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul, +And cheer his breaking heart.--Come, as thou didst, +When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd, +And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne +Of the startled night!--O! then, as lone reclining, +I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm, +Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering +Didst strike my moody eye;--dead pale thou wert, +Yet passing lovely.--Thou didst smile upon me, +And oh! thy voice it rose so musical, +Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm, +That at the sound the winds forgot to rave, +And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd, +Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose, +Lock'd in the arms of silence. + + Spirit of her! +My only love! O! now again arise, +And let once more thine aëry accents fall +Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm, +The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence +With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling +On the still air, the distant waterfall +Mingles its melody;--and, high above, +The pensive empress of the solemn night, +Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, +Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky. +No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll +Dare now assemble at their mystic revels. +It is a night when, from their primrose beds, +The gentle ghosts of injured innocents +Are known to rise and wander on the breeze, +Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch, +And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. +The spirit of my love might now awake, +And hold its custom'd converse. + + Mary, lo! +Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave, +And calls upon thy name. The breeze that blows +On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him +In solemn music a funereal dirge, +Wild and most sorrowful. His cheek is pale, +The worm that prey'd upon thy youthful bloom +It canker'd green on his. Now lost he stands, +The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew, +Which bathes his aching temples, gives sure omen +Of speedy dissolution. Mary, soon +Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine, +And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death. + + + + +MY STUDY. + +A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE. + + + You bid me, Ned, describe the place +Where I, one of the rhyming race, +Pursue my studies con amore, +And wanton with the muse in glory. + + Well, figure to your senses straight, +Upon the house's topmost height, +A closet just six feet by four, +With whitewash'd walls and plaster floor. +So noble large, 'tis scarcely able +To admit a single chair and table: +And (lest the muse should die with cold) +A smoky grate my fire to hold: +So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose +To melt the icedrop on one's nose; +And yet so big, it covers o'er +Full half the spacious room and more. + + A window vainly stuff'd about, +To keep November's breezes out, +So crazy, that the panes proclaim +That soon they mean to leave the frame. + + My furniture I sure may crack-- +A broken chair without a back; +A table wanting just two legs, +One end sustain'd by wooden pegs; +A desk--of that I am not fervent, +The work of, Sir, your humble servant; +(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler;) +A glass decanter and a tumbler, +From which my night-parch'd throat I lave, +Luxurious, with the limpid wave. +A chest of drawers, in antique sections, +And saw'd by me in all directions; +So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em +Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em. +To these, if you will add a store +Of oddities upon thee floor, +A pair of globes, electric balls, +Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, +And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, +Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves; +I think, dear Ned, you curious dog, +You'll have my earthly catalogue. +But stay,--I nearly had left out +My bellows destitute of snout; +And on the walls,--Good Heavens! why there +I've such a load of precious ware, +Of heads, and coins, and silver medals, +And organ works, and broken pedals; +(For I was once a-building music, +Though soon of that employ I grew sick); +And skeletons of laws which shoot +All out of one primordial root; +That you, at such a sight, would swear +Confusion's self had settled there. +There stands, just by a broken sphere, +A Cicero without an ear, +A neck, on which, by logic good, +I know for sure a head once stood; +But who it was the able master +Had moulded in the mimic planter, +Whether 't was Pope, or Coke, or Burn, +I never yet could justly learn: +But knowing well, that any head +Is made to answer for the dead, +(And sculptors first their faces frame, +And after pitch upon a name, +Nor think it aught of a misnomer +To christen Chaucer's busto Homer, +Because they both have beards, which, you know, +Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,) +For some great man, I could not tell +But Neck might answer just as well, +So perch'd it up, all in a row +With Chatham and with Cicero. + + Then all around, in just degree, +A range of portraits you may see, +Of mighty men and eke of women, +Who are no whit inferior to men. + + With these fair dames, and heroes round, +I call my garret classic ground. +For though confined, 't will well contain +The ideal flights of Madam Brain. +No dungeon's walls, no cell confined +Can cramp the energies of mind! +Thus, though my heart may seem so small, +I've friends, and 't will contain them all; +And should it e'er become so cold +That these it will no longer hold, +No more may Heaven her blessings give, +I shall not then be fit to live. + + + + +DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE. + + + Down the sultry arc of day +The burning wheels have urged their way; +And eve along the western skies +Sheds her intermingling dyes. +Down the deep, the miry lane, +Creaking comes the empty wain, +And driver on the shaft-horse sits, +Whistling now and then by fits: +And oft, with his accustom'd call, +Urging on the sluggish Ball. +The barn is still, the master's gone, +And thresher puts his jacket on, +While Dick, upon the ladder tall, +Nails the dead kite to the wall. +Here comes shepherd Jack at last, +He has penn'd the sheepcote fast, +For 't was but two nights before, +A lamb was eaten on the moor: +His empty wallet Rover carries, +Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries. +With lolling tongue he runs to try +If the horse-trough be not dry. +The milk is settled in the pans, +And supper messes in the cans; +In the hovel carts are wheel'd, +And both the colts are drove a-field; +The horses are all bedded up, +And the ewe is with the tup. +The snare for Mister Fox is set, +The leaven laid, the thatching wet, +And Bess has slink'd away to talk +With Roger in the holly walk. + + Now, on the settle all, but Bess, +Are set to eat their supper mess; +And little Tom and roguish Kate +Are swinging on the meadow gate. +Now they chat of various things, +Of taxes, ministers, and kings, +Or else tell all the village news, +How madam did the squire refuse; +How parson on his tithes was bent, +And landlord oft distrain'd for rent. +Thus do they talk, till in the sky +The pale-eyed moon is mounted high, +And from the alehouse drunken Ned +Had reel'd--then hasten all to bed. +The mistress sees that lazy Kate +The happing coal on kitchen grate +Has laid--while master goes throughout, +Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out, +The candles safe, the hearths all clear, +And nought from thieves or fire to fear; +Then both to bed together creep, +And join the general troop of sleep. + + + + +LINES, + +Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel +Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's +Poems, just published:--"It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens +the impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have +said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of +life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it." + + + Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still!" +Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will; +Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, +But tell not Misery's son that life is fair. + + Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd, +And every year with new delight hast told, +Thou, who, recumbent on the lacquer'd barge, +Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge, +Thou mayst extol life's calm untroubled sea, +The storms of misery never burst on thee. + + Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines, +Go to the shade obscure, where merit pines; +Abide with him whom Penury's charms control, +And bind the rising yearnings of his soul, +Survey his sleepless couch, and, standing there, +Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair! + Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, +And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled; +Mark his dew'd temples, and his half shut eye, +His trembling nostrils, and his deep drawn sigh, +His muttering mouth contorted with despair, +And ask if Genius could inhabit there. + + Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd, +And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd: +But now Neglect has stung him to--the core, +And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more; +Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round, +And added Grief compels him to the ground. +Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan, +The shades of death with gradual steps steal on; +And the pale mother, pining to decay, +Weeps for her boy her wretched life away. + + Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave, +Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave; +Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head +On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. +Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, +And tell us then that life is wondrous fair! + + Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd forth, +To encourage genius, and to foster worth; +On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, +'T is just that every blessing should descend; +'T is just that life to thee should only show +Her fairer side but little mix'd with woe. + + + + +WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. + + +Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils. +Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind; +Communing lonely with his sinking soul, +And musing on the dubious glooms that lie +In dim obscurity before him,--thee, +Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call +At this still midnight hour, this awful season, +When, on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, +I turn me wearisome; while all around, +All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness; +I only wake to watch the sickly taper +Which lights me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand +Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals, +Slow sapping the warm current of existence. +My moments now are few--the sand of life +Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little, +And the last fleeting particle will fall +Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. +Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate, +While meditate we may.--We have now +--But a small portion of what men call time +To hold communion; for even now the knife, +The separating knife, I feel divide +The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. +Yes, I must die--I feel that I must die; +And though to me has life been dark and dreary, +Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive, +And Disappointment still pursued her blandishments, +Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me +As I contemplate the dim gulf of death, +The shuddering void, the awful blank--futurity. +Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme +Of earthly happiness--romantic schemes, +And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard +To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps, +Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes, +And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, +Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. +Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry? +Oh! none;--another busy brood of beings +Will shoot up in the interim, and none +Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink +As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets +Of busy London:--Some short bustle's caused, +A few inquiries, and the crowds close in, +And all's forgotten.--On my grassy grave +The men of future times will careless tread, +And read my name upon the sculptured stone; +Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, +Recall my vanish'd memory. I did hope +For better things!--I hoped I should not leave +The earth without a vestige;--Fate decrees +It shall be otherwise, and I submit. +Henceforth, oh, world, no more of thy desires! +No more of hope! the wanton vagrant Hope! +I abjure all. Now other cares engross me, +And my tired soul, with emulative haste, +Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for heaven. + + + + +VERSES. + + +When pride and envy, and the scorn + Of wealth my heart with gall imbued, +I thought how pleasant were the morn + Of silence, in the solitude; +To hear the forest bee on wing; +Or by the stream, or woodland spring, +To lie and muse alone--alone, +While the tinkling waters moan, +Or such wild sounds arise, as say, +Man and noise are far away. + +Now, surely, thought I, there's enow + To fill life's dusty way; +And who will miss a poet's feet, + Or wonder where he stray: +So to the woods and wastes I'll go, + And I will build an osier bower, +And sweetly there to me shall flow + The meditative hour. + +And when the Autumn's withering hand, +Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, +I'll to the forest caverns hie: +And in the dark and stormy nights +I'll listen to the shrieking sprites, +Who, in the wintry wolds and floods, +Keep jubilee, and shred the woods; +Or, as it drifted soft and slow, +Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. + + * * * * * + + + + +FRAGMENT. + + +Oh! thou most fatal of Pandora's train, + Consumption! silent cheater of the eye; +Thou comest not robed in agonizing pain, + Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delusive dye, + But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie; +O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse, + And, while thou givest new lustre to the eye, +While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues, +E'en then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues. + +Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth, + Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloom'd; +And dropp'd a tear, for then thy cankering tooth + I knew would never stay, till all consumed, + In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd. + +But oh! what sorrow did I feel, as swift, + Insidious ravager, I saw thee fly +Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow, + Preparing swift her passage to the sky. +Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance, + The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye; +Yet soon did languid listlessness advance, +And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance. + +Even when her end was swiftly drawing near, + And dissolution hover'd o'er her head: +Even then so beauteous did her form appear, + That none who saw her but admiring said, + Sure so much beauty never could be dead. +Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye +Bent lowly down upon the languid-- + + * * * * * + + + + +FRAGMENT. + + + Loud rage the winds without.--The wintry cloud +O'er the cold northstar casts her flitting shroud; +And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale, +Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale; +Where now, shut out from every still retreat, +Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat, +Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood, +Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood? +Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance +The drifted fleeces that around him dance, +And hurries on his half-averted form, +Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm. +Him soon shall greet his snow-topp'd [cot of thatch], +Soon shall his numb'd hand tremble on the latch, +Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame +Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame; +Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud, +What merry groups of vacant faces crowd; +These hail his coming--these his meal prepare, +And boast in all that cot no lurking care. + + What though the social circle be denied, +Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside, +Loves, with fix'd eye, to watch the fluttering blaze, +While musing Memory dwells on former days; +Or Hope, bless'd spirit! smiles--and still forgiven, +Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven. +Then heap the fire--shut out the biting air, +And from its station wheel the easy chair: +Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet +To hear without the bitter tempest beat, +All, all alone--to sit, and muse, and sigh, +The pensive tenant of obscurity. + + * * * * * + + + + +TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, + +WHO, WHEN THE AUTHOR REASONED WITH HIM CALMLY, +ASKED, "IF HE DID NOT FEEL FOR HIM." + + +"Do I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel. +Yea, I do feel--most exquisitely feel; +My heart can weep, when, from my downcast eye, +I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh: +Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, +And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. +On this I act--whatever pangs surround, +'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound! +When all was new, and life was in its spring, +I lived an unloved, solitary thing; +Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day +The piercing cares that wore my youth away: +Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel; +Even then I wept I had not power to heal: +Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, +I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's doom. +Who were my friends in youth?--The midnight fire-- +The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir; +To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight, +To bless my lonely taper's friendly light; +I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn, +For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn; +The sacred source of woe I never ope, +My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope. +But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show, +Though the cold crowd the secret never know; +With them I laugh--yet, when no eye can see, +I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. +Yes, thou didst wrong me, ... I fondly thought, +In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought! +I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise, +And read the truth that in my bosom lies; +I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gone, +Thy heart and mine had mingled into one! +Yes--and they yet will mingle. Days and years +Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears: +We then shall feel that friendship has a power +To soothe affliction in her darkest hour; +Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand, +And wait the passport to a better land. + +Thine + +H.K. WHITE. + +Half past Eleven o'clock at Night. + + + + +CHRISTMAS DAY. + +1804. + + + Yet once more, and once more, awake, my Harp, +From silence and neglect--one lofty strain; +Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven, +And speaking mysteries more than words can tell, +I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high, +Would join the dirge of the departing year. + + Yet with no wintry garland from the woods, +Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear, +Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now; +Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, +And fearful joy, to celebrate the day +Of the Redeemer.--Near two thousand suns +Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse +Of generations, since the dayspring first +Beam'd from on high!--Now to the mighty mass +Of that increasing aggregate we add +One unit more. Space in comparison +How small, yet mark'd with how much misery; +Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, +Over the nations hanging her dread scourge; +The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness, +Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong, +Forcing the scanty portion from the weak, +And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears. + + So has the year been character'd with woe +In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes; +Yet 't was not thus He taught--not thus He lived, +Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer +And much thanksgiving. He, a man of woes, +Went on the way appointed,--path, though rude, +Yet borne with patience still:--He came to cheer +The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, +And on the wandering and benighted mind +To pour the light of truth. O task divine! +O more than angel teacher! He had words +To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds; +And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, +Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm, +He, pointing to the star of peace on high, +Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile +At the surrounding wreck.---- +When with deep agony his heart was rack'd, +Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, +For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd, +His persecutors--"Father, pardon them, +They know not what they do." + + Angels of Heaven, +Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross, +And did him homage, say, may mortal join +The halleluiahs of the risen God? +Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard +Amid the seraphim in light divine? +Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign, +For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith, +Low though it be and humble. Lord of life, +The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now +Fills my uprising soul.--I mount, I fly +Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs; +The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes, +And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more. + + * * * * * + + + + +NELSONI MORS. + + + Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again +One ditty more, and on the mountain ash +I will again suspend thee. I have felt +The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last, +At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, +I woke to thee the melancholy song. +Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, +I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks +Of frolic fancy to the line of truth; +Not unrepining, for my froward heart +Stills turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow +Of spring-gales past--the woods and storied haunts +Of my not songless boyhood.--Yet once more, +Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, +My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink; +The good, the brave--he must not, shall not sink +Without the meed of some melodious tear. + + Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour +No precious dews of Aganippe's well, +Or Castaly,--though from the morning cloud +I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse: +Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows, +Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent +Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears +Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe +Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm +And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd +Fast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too, +If ever I have loved, with faltering step, +To follow thee in the cold and starless night, +To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff; +And, as I heard the deep gun bursting loud +Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd +Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, +The dying soul's viaticum; if oft +Amid the carnage of the field I've sate +With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung +To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul, +With mercy and forgiveness--visitant +Of Heaven--sit thou upon my harp, +And give it feeling, which were else too cold +For argument so great, for theme so high. + + How dimly on that morn the sun arose, +'Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when-- + + * * * * * + + + + +EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. + + +Bloomfield, thy happy omen'd name +Ensures continuance to thy fame; +Both sense and truth this verdict give, +While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live! + + + + +ELEGY + +OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. GILL, WHO WAS +DROWNED IN THE RIVER TRENT, WHILE +BATHING, 9TH AUGUST, 1802. + + +He sunk, the impetuous river roll'd along, + The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath; +And rising sad the rustling sedge among, + The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death. + +Nymph of the Trent! why didst thou not appear + To snatch the victim from thy felon wave! +Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier, + And deck with waterflags his early grave. + +Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey, + Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride; +While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, + And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide. + +The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye, + The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved, +I mark them rise--I mark the general sigh! + Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved? + +On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink, + When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade; +On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink + To hold mysterious converse with thy shade. + +Of thee, as early, I, with vagrant feet, + Hail the gray-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale, +Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet, + And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale. + +And, oh! ye nymphs of Pæon! who preside + O'er running rill and salutary stream. +Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide + From the rude death-shriek and the dying scream. + + + + +INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER. + + + Reader! if with no vulgar sympathy +Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth, +Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd spot. +Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made +His name familiar to thine ear, this stone +May tell thee that his virtues were above +The common portion:--that the voice, now hush'd +In death, was once serenely querulous +With pity's tones, and in the ear of woe +Spake music. Now, forgetful, at thy feet, +His tired head presses on its last long rest, +Still tenant of the tomb;--and on the cheek, +Once warm with animation's lambent flush, +Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay. +Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part; +And, these sad garments of Mortality +Put off, we trust, that to a happier land +He went a light and gladsome passenger. +Sigh'st thou for honours, reader? Call to mind +That glory's voice is impotent to pierce +The silence of the tomb! but virtue blooms +Even on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies. +So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk +With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ. + + + + +"I'M PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD." + +When twilight steals along the ground, +And all the bells are ringing round, + One, two, three, four, and five, +I at my study window sit, +And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit, + To bliss am all alive. + +But though impressions calm and sweet +Thrill round my heart a holy heat, + And I am inly glad; +The tear-drop stands in either eye, +And yet I cannot tell thee why, + I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad. + +The silvery rack that flies away, +Like mortal life or pleasure's ray, + Does that disturb my breast? +Nay, what have I, a studious man, +To do with life's unstable plan, + Or pleasure's fading vest? + +Is it that here I must not stop, +But o'er yon blue hill's woody top + Must bend my lonely way? +No, surely no! for give but me +My own fireside, and I shall be + At home where'er I stray. + +Then is it that yon steeple there, +With music sweet shall fill the air, + When thou no more canst hear? +Oh, no! oh, no! for then, forgiven, +I shall be with my God in heaven, + Released from every fear. + +Then whence it is I cannot tell, +But there is some mysterious spell + That holds me when I'm glad; +And so the tear-drop fills my eye, +When yet in truth I know not why, + Or wherefore I am sad. + + + + +SOLITUDE. + + +It is not that my lot is low, +That bids this silent tear to flow; +It is not grief that bids me moan; +It is that I am all alone. + +In woods and glens I love to roam, +When the tired hedger hies him home; +Or by the woodland pool to rest, +When pale the star looks on its breast. + +Yet when the silent evening sighs, +With hallow'd airs and symphonies, +My spirit takes another tone, +And sighs that it is all alone. + +The autumn leaf is sere and dead, +It floats upon the water's bed; +I would not be a leaf, to die +Without recording sorrow's sigh! + +The woods and winds, with sullen wail, +Tell all the same unvaried tale; +I've none to smile when I am free, +And when I sigh, to sigh with me. + +Yet in my dreams a form I view, +That thinks on me, and loves me too; +I start, and when the vision's flown, +I weep that I am all alone. + +If far from me the Fates remove +Domestic peace, connubial love, +The prattling ring, the social cheer, +Affection's voice, affection's tear, +Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart, +To me your iron aid impart! +O teach me when the nights are chill, +And my fireside is lone and still; +When to the blaze that crackles near, +I turn a tired and pensive ear, +And Nature conquering bids me sigh +For love's soft accents whispering nigh; +O teach me, on that heavenly road, +That leads to Truth's occult abode, +To wrap my soul in dreams sublime, +Till earth and care no more be mine. +Let bless'd Philosophy impart +Her soothing measures to my heart; +And while with Plato's ravish'd ears +I list the music of the spheres, +Or on the mystic symbols pore, +That hide the Chald's sublimer lore, +I shall not brood on summers gone, +Nor think that I am all alone. + +Fanny! upon thy breast I may not lie! + Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak! +Where art thou, love?--Around I turn my eye, + And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. +Was it a dream? or did my love behold + Indeed my lonely couch?--Methought the breath +Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold + And hollow, and the livery of death +Invested her pale forehead. Sainted maid! + My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, + Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave +Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. +Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore + Of better promise; and I know at last, + When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, +We two shall meet in Christ--to part no more. + + + + +FRAGMENTS.[1] + + +Saw'st thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and paused: +Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream +That skirts the woods it for a moment play'd. +Again, more light it gleam'd,--or does some sprite +Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams, +And lamp far beaming through the thicket's gloom, +As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice +Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness, +Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour? +No sprite deludes mine eyes,--the beam now glows +With steady lustre.--Can it be the moon +Who, hidden long by the invidious veil +That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods? +No moon to-night has look'd upon the sea +Of clouds beneath her, answer'd Rudiger, +She has been sleeping with Endymion. + + * * * * * + + The pious man, +In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms +Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith +Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields +Of ether, where the day is never veil'd +With intervening vapours, and looks down +Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides +The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face +To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all; +But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd, +The glaring sunbeam plays. + +Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, +Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes, + And from his tower of mist, + Night's watchman hurries down. + +There was a little bird upon that pile; +It perch'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle, +And made sweet melody. +The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear, +For other note none swell'd the air but his. +It seem'd as if the little chorister, +Sole tenant of the melancholy pile, +Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind, +Yet withal cheerful. I have heard the note +Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn, +----Much musing---- + +O pale art thou, my lamp, and faint + Thy melancholy ray: +When the still night's unclouded saint + Is walking on her way. + Through my lattice leaf embower'd, + Fair she sheds her shadowy beam, + And o'er my silent sacred room + Casts a checker'd twilight gloom; + I throw aside the learned sheet, +I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet. + Sad vestal, why art thou so fair, + Or why am I so frail? + +Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon, + And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards! +Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak + Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd; +So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud +Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far +From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave. + +O give me music--for my soul doth faint; + I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear +Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint, + That may the spirit from its cell unsphere. + +Hark how it falls! and now it steals along, + Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, +When all is still; and now it grows more strong, + As when the choral train their dirges weave, +Mellow and many-voiced; where every close, + O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows. + +Oh! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars + Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. +Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores, + And floating pæans fill the buoyant wind. +Farewell! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed, +Far from its clayey cell it springs,-- + + * * * * * + +And must thou go, and must we part? + Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit; +The pang that rends in twain my heart, + Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it? + +Thy sex is fickle,--when away, + Some happier youth may win thy---- + + * * * * * + +Ah! who can say, however fair his view, + Through what sad scenes his path may lie? + Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh, +Secure his own will never need it too? + +Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, + Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye + The illusive past and dark futurity; +Soon will they know-- + + * * * * * + +Hush'd is the lyre--the hand that swept + The low and pensive wires, + Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. + +Yes--it is still--the lyre is still; + The spirit which its slumbers broke + Hath pass'd away,--and that weak hand that woke +Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. + +Yet I would press you to my lips once more, + Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy; +Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour, + Mix'd with decaying odours: for to me +Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy, + As in the wood-paths of my native-- + + * * * * * + +When high romance o'er every wood and stream + Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire, +Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering dream, + First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre. +All there was mystery then, the gust that woke + The midnight echo was a spirit's dirge, +And unseen fairies would the moon invoke + To their light morrice by the restless surge. +Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles, + Too much ... +The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, + And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. + +Once more, and yet once more, + I give unto my harp a dark woven lay; +I heard the waters roar, + I heard the flood of ages pass away. +O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell + In thine eternal cell, +Noting, gray chronicler! the silent years, + I saw thee rise,--I saw the scroll complete; + Thou spakest, and at thy feet + The universe gave way. + +Footnotes: + +[1] These Fragments were written upon the back of his mathematical papers, +during the last year of his life. + + + + +FRAGMENT OF AN ECCENTRIC DRAMA. + +WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. + + +THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. + + Ding-dong! ding-dong! + Merry, merry go the bells, + Ding-dong! ding-dong! +Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale, + "Swinging slow with sullen roar," +Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay! +Ding-dong, ding-dong calls us away. + + Round the oak, and round the elm, + Merrily foot it o'er the ground! + The sentry ghost it stands aloof, + So merrily, merrily foot it round. + Ding-dong! ding-dong! + Merry, merry go the bells, + Swelling in the nightly gale, + The sentry ghost, + It keeps its post, + And soon, and soon our sports must fail: + But let us trip the nightly ground, + While the merry, merry bells ring round. + +Hark! Hark! the deathwatch ticks! + See, see, the winding-sheet! + Our dance is done, + Our race is run, + And we must lie at the alder's feet! + Ding-dong! ding-dong! + Merry, merry go the bells, +Swinging o'er the weltering wave! + And we must seek + Our deathbeds bleak, +Where the green sod grows upon the grave. + +They vanish--The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited +in a sky-blue robe, attended by mournful music. + +Come, Melancholy, sister mine! + Cold the dews, and chill the night! +Come from thy dreary shrine! + The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, + And underneath her sickly ray + Troops of squalid spectres play, + And the dying mortals' groan + Startles the night on her dusky throne. + Come, come, sister mine! + Gliding on the pale moonshine: + We'll ride at ease + On the tainted breeze, + And oh! our sport will be divine. + +The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep glen in the +rear, habited in black, and covered with a thick veil.--She +speaks. + + Sister, from my dark abode, + Where nests the raven, sits the toad, + Hither I come, at thy command: + Sister, sister, join thy hand! + I will smooth the way for thee, + Thou shalt furnish food for me. + Come, let us speed our way + Where the troops of spectres play. +To charnel-houses, churchyards drear, +Where Death sits with a horrible leer, +A lasting grin, on a throne of bones, +And skim along the blue tombstones. + Come, let us speed away, + Lay our snares, and spread our tether! + I will smooth the way for thee, + Thou shalt furnish food for me; + And the grass shall wave + O'er many a grave, + Where youth and beauty sleep together. + + +CONSUMPTION. + + Come, let us speed our way, +Join our hands, and spread our tether! + I will furnish food for thee, + Thou shalt smooth the way for me! + And the grass shall wave + O'er many a grave, +Where youth and beauty sleep together. + +MELANCHOLY. + +Hist, sister, hist! who comes here? +Oh! I know her by that tear, +By that blue eye's languid glare, +By her skin, and by her hair: + She is mine, + And she is thine, +Now the deadliest draught prepare. + +CONSUMPTION. + +In the dismal night air dress'd, +I will creep into her breast: +Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, +And feed on the vital fire within. +Lover, do not trust her eyes,-- +When they sparkle most, she dies! +Mother, do not trust her breath,-- +Comfort she will breathe in death! +Father, do not strive to save her,-- +She is mine, and I must have her! +The coffin must be her bridal bed! +The winding-sheet must wrap her head; +The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, +For soon in the grave the maid must lie: + The worm it will riot + On heavenly diet, +When death has deflower'd her eye. + +[They vanish. +While Consumption speaks, Angelina enters.] + +ANGELINA. + +With [1] what a silent and dejected pace +Dost thou, wan Moon! upon thy way advance +In the blue welkin's vault!--Pale wanderer! +Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love, +That thus, with such a melancholy grace, +Thou dost pursue thy solitary course? +Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook +Thy widow'd breast--on which the spoiler oft +Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds +Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night, +Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round +With its thick fringe thy couch? Wan traveller, +How like thy fate to mine!--Yet I have still +One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st; +My woes will soon be buried in the grave +Of kind forgetfulness--my journey here. +Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn, +Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet +Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. +But thou, unhappy Queen! art doom'd to trace +Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night, +While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath +The leaden pinions of unshaken time; +Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue +To cheat thy steps along the weary way. +O that the sum of human happiness +Should be so trifling, and so frail withal, +That when possess'd, it is but lessened grief; +And even then there's scarce a sudden gust +That blows across the dismal waste of life, +But bears it from the view. Oh! who would shun +The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press +The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave, +And yet endure the various ills of life, +And dark vicissitudes! Soon, I hope, I feel, +And am assured, that I shall lay my dead, +My weary aching head, on its last rest, +And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod +Will flourish sweetly. And then they will weep +That one so young, and what they're pleased to call +So beautiful, should die so soon. And tell +How painful Disappointment's canker'd fang +Wither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek. +Oh, foolish ones! why, I shall sleep so sweetly, +Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves +Might envy me my rest! And as for them, +Who, on the score of former intimacy, +May thus remembrance me--they must themselves +Successive fall. + +Around the winter fire +(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals, +And shrill the skater's irons on the pool +Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs +His graceful evolutions) they not long +Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats +Of early youth, but silent, one by one, +Shall drop into their shrouds. Some, in their age, +Ripe for the sickle; others young, like me, +And falling green beneath the untimely stroke. +Thus, in short time, in the churchyard forlorn, +Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down, +And dwell with me, a happy family. +And oh! thou cruel, yet beloved youth, +Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn, +Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse +And say that I was gentle, and deserved +A better lover, and I shall forgive +All, all thy wrongs;--and then do thou forget +The hapless Margaret, and be as bless'd +As wish can make thee--Laugh, and play, and sing +With thy dear choice, and never think of me. +Yet hist, I hear a step.--In this dark wood-- + + * * * * * + +Footnotes: + +[1] With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, +How silently, and how wan a face! +_Sir P. Sidney._ + + + + +TO A FRIEND. + +WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. + + +I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian, +And many another noble Grecian, +Who wealth and palaces resigned, +In cots the joys of peace to find; +Maximian's meal of turnip-tops +(Disgusting food to dainty chops) +I've also read of, without wonder; +But such a cursed egregious blunder, +As that a man of wit and sense +Should leave his books to hoard up pence,-- +Forsake the loved Aonian maids +For all the petty tricks of trades, +I never, either now, or long since, +Have heard of such a peace of nonsense; +That one who learning's joys hath felt, +And at the Muse's altar knelt, +Should leave a life of sacred leisure +To taste the accumulating pleasure; +And, metamorphosed to an alley duck, +Grovel in loads of kindred muck. +Oh! 't is beyond my comprehension! +A courtier throwing up his pension,-- +A lawyer working without a fee,-- +A parson giving charity,-- +A truly pious methodist preacher,-- +Are not, egad, so out of nature. +Had nature made thee half a fool, +But given thee wit to keep a school, +I had not stared at thy backsliding: +But when thy wit I can confide in, +When well I know thy just pretence +To solid and exalted sense; +When well I know that on thy head +Philosophy her lights hath shed, +I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to, +I wonder what this world will come to! +Yet, whence this strain? shall I repine +That thou alone dost singly shine? +Shall I lament that thou alone, +Of men of parts, hast prudence known? + + + + +LINES + +ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. +AGE FOURTEEN. + + +Oh, Warton! to thy soothing shell, +Stretch'd remote in hermit cell, +Where the brook runs babbling by, +For ever I could listening lie; +And catching all the muses' fire, +Hold converse with the tuneful quire. + +What pleasing themes thy page adorn, +The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn, +The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime, +And Melancholy's mournful chime! +Each with unwonted graces shines +In thy ever lovely lines. + +Thy muse deserves the lasting meed; +Attuning sweet the Dorian reed, +Now the lovelorn swain complains, +And sings his sorrows to the plains; +Now the sylvan scenes appear +Through all the changes of the year; + +Or the elegiac strain +Softly sings of mental pain, +And mournful diapasons sail +On the faintly dying gale. + But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er, + On middle flight we cease to soar, +For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep, +Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep, + In strains unheard before. +Now, now the rising fire thrills high, +Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly, + And every throne explore: +The soul entranced, on mighty wings, +With all the poet's heat upsprings, + And loses earthly woes; +Till all alarm'd at the giddy height, +The Muse descends on gentler flight, + And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. + + + + +FRAGMENT. + + + The western gale, +Mild as the kisses of connubial love, +Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved, +Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade +I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat: +While rippling o'er its deep worn pebble bed, +The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet, +Dispensing coolness. On the fringed marge +Full many a floweret rears its head,--or pink, +Or gaudy daffodil. 'Tis here, at noon, +The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire, +And lave them in the fountain; here secure +From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport: +Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf, +Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly, +Invoke the god of slumber.... + * * * * * + + And, hark! how merrily, from distant tower, +Ring round the village bells! now on the gale +They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud; +Anon they die upon the pensive ear, +Melting in faintest music. They bespeak +A day of jubilee, and oft they bear, +Commix'd along the unfrequented shore, +The sound of village dance and tabor loud, +Startling the musing ear of Solitude. + + Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide, +When happy Superstition, gabbling eld! +Holds her unhurtful gambols. All the day +The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance +On the smooth shaven green, and then at eve +Commence the harmless rites and auguries; +And many a tale of ancient days goes round. + +They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells +Could hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon, +Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence, +And still the midnight tempest. Then anon +Tell of uncharnel'd spectres, seen to glide +Along the lone wood's unfrequented path, +Startling the 'nighted traveller; while the sound +Of undistinguished murmurs, heard to come +From the dark centre of the deepening glen, +Struck on his frozen ear. + + Oh, Ignorance! +Thou art fallen man's best friend! With thee he speeds +In frigid apathy along his way. +And never does the tear of agony +Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel +Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast. + + E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, +I taste of all the keener happiness +Which sense refined affords--E'en now my heart +Would fain induce me to forsake the world, +Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds, +With a small flock, and short suspended reed, +To sojourn in the woodland.--Then my thought +Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss, +That I could almost err in reason's spite, +And trespass on my judgment. + + Such is life: +The distant prospect always seems more fair, +And when attain'd, another still succeeds, +Far fairer than before,--yet compass'd round +With the same dangers, and the same dismay. +And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze, +Still discontented, chase the fairy form +Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find, +When life itself is sinking in the strife, +'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat. + + + + +COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR. + + + Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound +With winning elegance attune their song, +Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense, +And charm the soul with softest harmony: +'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen +Roving through Fancy's gay futurity; +Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, +Pleasure of days to come. Memory, too, then +Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad, +Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, +Scenes never to return.[1] +Such subjects merit poets used to raise +The attic verse harmonious; but for me +A deadlier theme demands my backward hand, +And bids me strike the strings of dissonance +With frantic energy. +'Tis wan Despair I sing, if sing I can +Of him before whose blast the voice of Song, +And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly, +Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard +At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood, +The lacerated son of Angola +Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind; +And, when the awful silence of the night +Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart, +He speaks in every conscience-prompted word +Half utter'd, half suppressed. +'Tis him I sing--Despair--terrific name, +Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord +Of timorous terror--discord in the sound: +For to a theme revolting as is this, +Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, +Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound +Of lyre Æolian, or the martial bugle, +Calling the hero to the field of glory, +And firing him with deeds of high emprise +And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine +Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard +Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror. + + Hence, then, soft maids, +And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers +By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream: +For aid like yours I seek not; 'tis for powers +Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine! +'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends. + + Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, +Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light, +And all the myriads of the burning concave: +Souls of the damned:--Hither, oh! come and join +The infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing! +He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang +Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair! +Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power; +Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks, +Till the loud pæan ring through hell's high vault, +And the remotest spirits of the deep +Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. + +Footnotes: + +[1] Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of +Memory. + + + + +THE EVE OF DEATH. + +IRREGULAR. + + +Silence of death--portentous calm, + Those airy forms that yonder fly +Denote that your void foreruns a storm, + That the hour of fate is nigh. +I see, I see, on the dim mist borne, + The Spirit of battles rear his crest! +I see, I see, that ere the morn, + His spear will forsake its hated rest, +And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked breast. + +O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep, + No softly ruffling zephyrs fly; +But nature sleeps a deathless sleep, + For the hour of battle is nigh. +Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, + But a creeping stillness reigns around; +Except when the raven, with ominous croak, + On the ear does unwelcomely sound. +I know, I know what this silence means; + I know what the raven saith-- +Strike, oh, ye bards! the melancholy harp, + For this is the eve of death. + +Behold, how along the twilight air + The shades of our fathers glide! +There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair, + And Colma with gray side. +No gale around its coolness flings, + Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees; +And hark! how the harp's unvisited strings + Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze! +'Tis done! the sun he has set in blood! + He will never set more to the brave; +Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death, + For to-morrow he hies to the grave. + + + + +THANATOS. + + +Oh! who would cherish life, + And cling unto this heavy clog of clay, + Love this rude world of strife, +Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day; + And where, 'neath outward smiles, + Conceal'd the snake lies feeding on its prey, + Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way, + And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles! + Hateful it is to me, +Its riotous railings and revengeful strife; + I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts +Dinning the ear;--away--away with life! + And welcome, oh! thou silent maid, + Who in some foggy vault art laid, + +Where never daylight's dazzling ray +Comes to disturb thy dismal sway; +And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, +In such forgetful slumbers deep, +That all thy senses stupefied +Are to marble petrified. +Sleepy Death, I welcome thee! +Sweet are thy calms to misery. +Poppies I will ask no more, +Nor the fatal hellebore; +Death is the best, the only cure, +His are slumbers ever sure. +Lay me in the Gothic tomb, +In whose solemn fretted gloom +I may lie in mouldering state, +With all the grandeur of the great: +Over me, magnificent, +Carve a stately monument; +Then thereon my statue lay, +With hands in attitude to pray, +And angels serve to hold my head, +Weeping o'er the father dead. +Duly too at close of day, +Let the pealing organ play; +And while the harmonious thunders roll, +Chant a vesper to my soul: +Thus how sweet my sleep will be, +Shut out from thoughtful misery! + + + + +ATHANATOS. + + + Away with Death--away +With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, + Impervious to the day, +Where nature sinks into inanity. + How can the soul desire + Such hateful nothingness to crave, + And yield with joy the vital fire + To moulder in the grave! + Yet mortal life is sad, + Eternal storms molest its sullen sky; + And sorrows ever rife + Drain the sacred fountain dry-- + Away with mortal life! +But, hail the calm reality, +The seraph Immortality! +Hail the heavenly bowers of peace, +Where all the storms of passion cease. +Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er, +The wearied spirit weeps no more; +But wears the eternal smile of joy, +Tasting bliss without alloy. +Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, +Where no passing tempest lowers; +But the azure heavens display +The everlasting smile of day; +Where the choral seraph choir +Strike to praise the harmonious lyre; +And the spirit sinks to ease, +Lull'd by distant symphonies. +Oh! to think of meeting there +The friends whose graves received our tear, +The daughter loved, the wife adored, +To our widow'd arms restored; +And all the joys which death did sever, +Given to us again for ever! +Who would cling to wretched life, +And hug the poison'd thorn of strife; +Who would not long from earth to fly, +A sluggish senseless lump to lie, +When the glorious prospect lies +Full before his raptured eyes? + + + + +MUSIC + +WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FOURTEEN AND +FIFTEEN, WITH A FEW SUBSEQUENT +VERBAL ALTERATIONS. + + +Music, all powerful o'er the human mind, + Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, +Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclined, + And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm. + +At her command the various passions lie; + She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace; +Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstasy, + And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease. + +Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire + With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise; +Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire + Urge on the warrior gray with length of days. + +Far better she, when, with her soothing lyre, + She charms the falchion from the savage grasp, +And melting into pity vengeful ire, + Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp. + +With her in pensive mood I long to roam, + At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, +And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam, + In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline. + +Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise, + Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd, +With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies, + And pleased attention claims the passive mind. + +Soft through the dell the dying strains retire, + Then burst majestic in the varied swell; +Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre, + Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell. + +Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give, + That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul, +With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live + For ever 'neath your undefiled control. + +Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent, + To cheer the soul when tired with human strife, +To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent, + And soften down the rugged road of life. + + + + +ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE +PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING. + +WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. + + + The morning sun's enchanting rays +Now call forth every songster's praise; +Now the lark, with upward flight, +Gaily ushers in the light; +While wildly warbling from each tree, +The birds sing songs to Liberty. + + But for me no songster sings, +For me no joyous lark upsprings; +For I, confined in gloomy school, +Must own the pedant's iron rule, +And far from sylvan shades and bowers, +In durance vile must pass the hours; +There con the scholiast's dreary lines, +Where no bright ray of genius shines, +And close to rugged learning cling, +While laughs around the jocund spring. +How gladly would my soul forego +All that arithmeticians know, +Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach, +Or all that industry can reach, +To taste each morn of all the joys +That with the laughing sun arise; +And unconstrain'd to rove along +The bushy brakes and glens among; +And woo the muse's gentle power +In unfrequented rural bower: +But, ah! such heaven-approaching joys +Will never greet my longing eyes; +Still will they cheat in vision fine, +Yet never but in fancy shine. + +Oh, that I were the little wren +That shrilly chirps from yonder glen! +Oh, far away I then would rove +To some secluded bushy grove; +There hop and sing with careless glee. +Hop and sing at liberty; +And, till death should stop my lays, +Far from men would spend my days. + + + + +TO CONTEMPLATION. + + +Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys, +The soother of my cares, inspiring peace; +And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave, +And blame and censure me, that I don't tie +My every thought down to the desk, and spend +The morning of my life in adding figures +With accurate monotony: that so +The good things of the world may be my lot, +And I might taste the blessedness of wealth: +But, oh! I was not made for money getting; +For me no much respected plum awaits. +Nor civic honour, envied. For as still +I tried to cast with school dexterity +The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts +Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt, +Which fond remembrance cherished, and the pen +Dropp'd from my senseless fingers as I pictured, +In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent +I erewhile wander'd with my early friends +In social intercourse. And then I'd think +How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide, +One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe; +They were set down with sober steadiness, +Each to his occupation. I alone, +A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries, +Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering +With every wind to every point of the compass. +Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge +In fits of close abstraction; yea, amid +The busy bustling crowds could meditate, +And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away +Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. +Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youth +I woo'd thy heavenly influence! I would walk +A weary way when all my toils were done, +To lay myself at night in some lone wood, +And hear the sweet song of the nightingale. +Oh, those were times of happiness, and still +To memory doubly dear; for growing years +Had not then taught me man was made to mourn; +And a short hour of solitary pleasure, +Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense +For all the hateful bustles of the day. +My opening mind was ductile then, and plastic, +And soon the marks of care were worn away, +While I was sway'd by every novel impulse, +Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. +But it has now assumed its character; +Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone, +Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend. +Yet still, O Contemplation! I do love +To indulge thy solemn musings; still the same +With thee alone I know to melt and weep, +In thee alone delighting. Why along +The dusky tract of commerce should I toil, +When, with an easy competence content, +I can alone be happy; where with thee +I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, +And loose the wings of Fancy? Thus alone +Can I partake the happiness on earth; +And to be happy here is a man's chief end, +For to be happy he must needs be good. + + + + +MY OWN CHARACTER. + +ADDRESSED (DURING ILLNESS) TO A LADY. + + + Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf, +To give you a sketch--ay, a sketch of myself. +'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess, +And one it would puzzle a painter to dress; +But, however, here goes, and as sure as a gun, +I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun; +For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her, +She wont be a cynical father confessor. + + Come, come, 'twill not do! put that curling brow down; +You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown. +Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction, +That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction; +Religious--deistic--now loyal and warm; +Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform: +This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus; +Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus; +Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle; +Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle; +Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay, +To all points of the compass I veer in a day. + + I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child, +But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild; +As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute; +Then as for politeness--oh! dear--I'm a brute! +I show no respect where I never can feel it; +And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it. +And so in the suite, by these laudable ends, +I've a great many foes, and a very few friends. + + And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel +That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd of steel. +It can love (can it not?)--it can hate, I am sure; +And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be poor. +For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds; +If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds; +And though far from faultless, or even so-so, +I think it may pass as our worldly things go. + + Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss; +Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss! +I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say, +But in process of time I may get the wrong way. +I'm a general lover, if that's commendation, +And yet can't withstand you know whose fascination. +But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices, +In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices; +So as for the good, why, if I possess it, +I am not yet learned enough to express it. + + You yourself must examine the lovelier side, +And after your every art you have tried, +Whatever my faults, I may venture to say, +Hypocrisy never will come in your way. +I am upright, I hope; I'm downright, I'm clear! +And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere; +And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast, +'Tis now when I swear----. + + + + +LINES WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCHYARD. + +ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. + + + Here would I wish to sleep. This is the spot +Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in. +Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, +Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred. +It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun, +From his meridian height, endeavours vainly +To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr +Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, +And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook +Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray +Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd. + + Come, I will sit me down and meditate, +For I am wearied with my summer's walk; +And here I may repose in silent ease; +And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, +My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find +The haven of its rest--beneath this sod +Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. + + I would not have my corpse cemented down +With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm +Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie +Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown, +Swath'd down with osiers, just as sleep the cotters. +Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave; +But there at eve may some congenial soul +Duly resort, and shed a pious tear, +The good man's benison--no more I ask. +And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look down +From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit, +Upon this little dim-discover'd spot, +The earth,) then will I cast a glance below +On him who thus my ashes shall embalm; +And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer, +Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine +In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe, +But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies. + + Yet 't was a silly thought, as if the body, +Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, +Could taste the sweets of summer scenery, +And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze! +Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, +And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond +His narrow verge of being, and provide +A decent residence for its clayey shell, +Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay +His body in the city burial-place, +To be thrown up again by some rude sexton, +And yield its narrow house another tenant, +Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust, +Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, +Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness? +No, I will lay me in the village ground; +There are the dead respected. The poor hind, +Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invade +The silent resting place of death. I've seen +The labourer, returning from his toil, +Here stay his steps, and call his children round, +And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes, +And, in his rustic manner, moralize. +I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken, +With head uncover'd, his respectful manner, +And all the honours which he paid the grave, +And thought on cities, where e'en cemeteries, +Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality, +Are not protected from the drunken insolence +Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. +Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close! +Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones +May lie--or in the city's crowded bounds, +Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, +Or left a prey on some deserted shore +To the rapacious cormorant,--yet still, +(For why should sober reason cast away +A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spirit +Shall wing its way to these my native regions, +And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think +Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew +In solemn rumination; and will smile +With joy that I have got my long'd release. + + + + +VERSES. + + +Thou base repiner at another's joy, + Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, +Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, + And find on meaner climes a fitter throne. + Away, away, it shall not be, + Thou shalt not dare defile our plains; + The truly generous heart disdains + Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he +Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity. + +Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed-- + Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, +Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed, + Thy happy victim will emerge to light; +When o'er his head in silence that reposes + Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear; +Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses, + Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe; +Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all +Will curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall. + + * * * * * + +Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure: + Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey? +Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor, + Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. +See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting, + O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp; +While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting, + Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. +Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd? + Does jocund Health in Thought's still mansion live? +Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest, + That short quick sigh--their sad responses give. + +And canst thou rob a poet of his song; + Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise? +Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long; + Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays +While yet he lives--for to his merits just, + Though future ages join his fame to raise, +Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust? + + * * * * * + + + + +LINES. + + +Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far +From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy! +And many a flower, which in the passing time +My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill +Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. +Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased +To hover o'er the many-voiced strings +Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still +Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, +And with recalled images of bliss +Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw, +Once more would throw a quick and hurried hand +O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased-- +It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth +Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek; +Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy! +The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, +Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, +Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month. +Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, +Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress! +I cannot burst thy bonds. It is but lift +Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault, +Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm, +And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, +And I could follow thee, on thy night's work, +Up to the regions of thrice chasten'd fire, +Or, in the caverns of the ocean flood, +Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. +Yet other duties call me, and mine ear +Must turn away from the high minstrelsy +Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly +Must turn away; there are severer strains +(And surely they are sweet as ever smote +The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil +Released and disembodied), there are strains +Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, +Through the probation of revolving years, +And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, +Have purged and purified. To these my soul +Aspireth; and to this sublimer end +I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep +With patient expectation. Yea, sometimes +Foretaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimes +Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait, +And minister strange music, which doth seem +Now near, now distant, now on high, now low, +Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete, +And full fruition filling all the soul. +Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe +The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude +Of toil; and but that my fond heart +Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone, +When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake, +I lay a listless muser, prizing, far +Above all other lore, the poet's theme; +But for such recollections I could brace +My stubborn spirit for the arduous path +Of science unregretting; eye afar +Philosophy upon her steepest height, +And with bold step and resolute attempt +Pursue her to the innermost recess, +Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. + + + + +THE PROSTITUTE. + +DACTYLICS. + + +Woman of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot, +Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger, +Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart; + +Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery, +Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away, +While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings. + +Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite; +Spurned by the beings who lured thee from innocence; +Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence; + +Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled; +Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness; +Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage! + +Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here; +Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death; +None after thee inquires with solicitude; + +Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down, +Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind, +Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes. + +Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering, +And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave. +Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid. + +Once wert thou happy--thou wert once innocent; +But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness, +Then he abandoned thee unto thine infamy. + +Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down: +But if a wretch like him sleeps in security, +God of the red right arm! where is thy thunder-bolt? + + + + +ODES. + + + + +TO MY LYRE. + + +Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild + Has served to charm the weary hour, +And many a lonely night has 'guiled, +When even pain has own'd, and smiled, + Its fascinating power. + +Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowd + Will little heed thy simple tones; +Them mightier minstrels harping loud +Engross,--and thou and I must shroud + Where dark oblivion 'thrones. + +No hand, they diapason o'er, + Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime; +For me, no academic lore +Has taught the solemn strain to pour, + Or build the polish'd rhyme. + +Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar; + Thou know'st to charm the woodland train; +The rustic swains believe thy power + Can hush the wild winds when they roar, +And still the billowy main. + +These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, + I, still unknown, may live with thee, +And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep +Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, + Beneath the alder tree. + +This little dirge will please me more + Than the full requiem's swelling peal; +I'd rather than that crowds should sigh +For me, that from some kindred eye + The trickling tear should steal. + +Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, + Perhaps from me debarr'd; +And dear to me the classic zone, +Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, + Adorns the accepted bard. + +And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell + Where Cam or Isis winds along, +Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, +I yet might call the ear of taste + To listen to my song. + +Oh! then, my little friend, thy style + I'd change to happier lays, +Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile, +And through the long, the fretted aisle + Should swell the note of praise. + + + + +TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. + + +Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! +Whose modest form, so delicately fine, + Was nursed in whirling storms, + And cradled in the winds. + +Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway, +And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, + Thee on this bank he threw + To mark his victory. + +In this low vale, the promise of the year, +Serene thou openest to the nipping gale, + Unnoticed and alone, + Thy tender elegance. + +So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms +Of chill adversity, in some lone walk + Of life she rears her head, + Obscure and unobserved; + +While every bleaching breeze that on her blows +Chastens her spotless purity of breast, + And hardens her to bear + Serene the ills of life. + + + + +ODE ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A. + +ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS DESIGNS. + + +Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow, + When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, + Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light +That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; +And listen to the distant death-shriek long + From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, + Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, +While the weird sisters weave the horrid song: + Or, when along the liquid sky + Serenely chant the orbs on high, + Dost love to sit in musing trance, + And mark the northern meteor's dance + (While far below the fitful oar + Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore), + And list the music of the breeze, + That sweeps by fits the bending seas; + And often bears with sudden swell + The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, + By the spirits sung, who keep + Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, + And guide the wakeful helmsman's eye + To Helice in northern sky; + And there upon the rock reclined + With mighty visions fill'st the mind, + Such as bound in magic spell + Him[1] who grasp'd the gates of Hell, +And, bursting Pluto's dark domain, +Held to the day the terrors of his reign. + +Genius of Horror and romantic awe, + Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, + Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, +Can force the inmost soul to own its law; + Who shall now, sublimest spirit, + Who shall now thy wand inherit, + From him[2] thy darling child who best + Thy shuddering images expressed? + Sullen of soul, and stern, and proud, + His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd, + And now he lays his aching head +In the dark mansion of the silent dead. + +Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain + Buried beneath the unfathomable deep; + And oh! for ever must its efforts sleep, +May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain? + Oh, yes, 'tis his! Thy other son! + He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, + Fuesslin waves thy wand,--again they rise, + Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes. +Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep + Where round his head the vollied lightnings flung, + And the loud winds that round his pillow rung +Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep. + + Or on the highest top of Teneriffe +Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look + Where far below the weather-beaten skiff +On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. +Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear + The death-sob, and, disdaining rest, +Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast, +And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. + Then, Superstition, at thy call, + She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, + And set before his awe-struck sight + The savage feast and spectred fight; + And summoned from his mountain tomb + The ghastly warrior son of gloom, + His fabled runic rhymes to sing, + While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing; + Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees, + Laid on the stormy Hebrides, + Which on the mists of evening gleam, + Or crowd the foaming desert stream; + Lastly her storied hand she waves, + And lays him in Florentian caves; + There milder fables, lovelier themes, + Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams, + There pity's lute arrests his ear, + And draws the half reluctant tear; + And now at noon of night he roves + Along the embowering moonlight groves, + And as from many a cavern'd dell + The hollow wind is heard to swell, + He thinks some troubled spirit sighs, + And as upon the turf he lies, + Where sleeps the silent beam of night, + He sees below the gliding sprite, + And hears in Fancy's organs sound + Aërial music warbling round. + + Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole, + And breathes her polish o'er his soul; + Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat, + The wondrous work is now complete. + + The Poet dreams:--The shadow flies, + And fainting fast its image dies. + But lo! the Painter's magic force + Arrests the phantom's fleeting course; + It lives--it lives--the canvas glows, + And tenfold vigour o'er it flows. +The Bard beholds the work achieved, + And as he sees the shadow rise + Sublime before his wondering eyes, +Starts at the image his own mind conceived. + + +Footnotes: + +[1] Dante. + +[2] Ibid. + + + + +TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G. + + +I. 1. + +Retired, remote from human noise, + An humble Poet dwelt serene; +His lot was lowly, yet his joys + Were manifold, I ween. +He laid him by the brawling brook + At eventide to ruminate, + He watch'd the swallow skimming round, + And mused, in reverie profound, +On wayward man's unhappy state, +And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of ancient date. + +II. 1. + +"Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried, + "There was a time, when genius claim'd + Respect from even towering pride, + Nor hung her head ashamed: + But now to wealth alone we bow, + The titled and the rich alone + Are honour'd, while meek merit pines, + On penury's wretched couch reclines, +Unheeded in his dying moan, +As, overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown. + +III. 1. + +"Yet was the muse not always seen + In poverty's dejected mien, + Not always did repining rue, + And misery her steps pursue. +Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced + By the sweet honours of poetic bays, + When Sidney sung his melting song, + When Sheffield join'd the harmonious throng, + And Lyttelton attuned to love his lays. + Those days are gone--alas, for ever gone! + No more our nobles love to grace + Their brows with anadems, by genius won, + But arrogantly deem the muse as base; +How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race!" + +I. 2. + + Thus sang the minstrel:--still at eve + The upland's woody shades among + In broken measures did he grieve, + With solitary song. + And still his shame was aye the same, + Neglect had stung him to the core; + And he with pensive joy did love + To seek the still congenial grove, + And muse on all his sorrows o'er, +And vow that he would join the abjured world no more. + +II. 2. + + But human vows, how frail they be! + Fame brought Carlisle unto his view, + And all amazed, he thought to see + The Augustan age anew. + Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose, + No more he ponders on the woes + Which erst he felt that forward goes, + Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, +And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. + +III. 2. + + Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore + With ills which in the world he bore, + Again on futile hope to rest, + An unsubstantial prop at best, +And not to know one swallow makes no summer! + Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, + Which flash'd across the hemisphere, + Illumining the darkness there, + Was but a single solitary beam, + While all around remained in custom'd night. + Still leaden ignorance reigns serene, + In the false court's delusive height, + And only one Carlisle is seen +To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light. + + + + +TO CONTEMPLATION. + + + Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell +In some retired Lapponian cell, +Where, far from noise and riot rude, +Besides sequester'd solitude. +Come, and o'er my longing soul +Throw thy dark and russet stole, +And open to my duteous eyes +The volume of thy mysteries. + + I will meet thee on the hill, +Where, with printless footsteps still, +The morning in her buskin gray +Springs upon her eastern way; +While the frolic zephyrs stir, +Playing with the gossamer, +And, on ruder pinions borne, +Shake the dewdrops from the thorn. +There, as o'er the fields we pass, +Brushing with hasty feet the grass, +We will startle from her nest +The lively lark with speckled breast, +And hear the floating clouds among +Her gale-transported matin song, +Or on the upland stile, embower'd +With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd, +Will sauntering sit, and listen still +To the herdsman's oaten quill, +Wafted from the plain below; +Or the heifer's frequent low; +Or the milkmaid in the grove, +Singing of one that died for love. +Or when the noontide heats oppress, +We will seek the dark recess, +Where, in the embower'd translucent stream, +The cattle shun the sultry beam, +And o'er us on the marge reclined, +The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, +While echo, from her ancient oak, +Shall answer to the woodman's stroke; +Or the little peasant's song, +Wandering lone the glens among, +His artless lip with berries dyed, +And feet through ragged shoes descried. + + But oh! when evening's virgin queen +Sits on her fringed throne serene, +And mingling whispers rising near +Steal on the still reposing ear; +While distant brooks decaying round, +Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, +And the zephyr flitting by +Whispers mystic harmony, +We will seek the woody lane, +By the hamlet, on the plain, +Where the weary rustic nigh +Shall whistle his wild melody, +And the croaking wicket oft +Shall echo from the neighbouring croft; +And as we trace the green path lone, +With moss and rank weeds overgrown, +We will muse on penbive lore? +Till the full soul, brimming o'er, +Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear, +Embodied in a quivering tear. +Or else, serenely silent, sit +By the brawling rivulet, +Which on its calm unruffled breast +Rears the old mossy arch impressed, +That clasps its secret stream of glass, +Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, +The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, +Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, +We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid +The rich vermilion slowly fade; +Or catch, faint twinkling from afar +The first glimpse of the eastern star; +Fair vesper, mildest lamp of light, +That heralds in imperial night: +Meanwhile, upon our wondering ear, +Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, +The distant sounds of pastoral lute, +Invoking soft the sober suit +Of dimmest darkness--fitting well +With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, +(So erst did music's silver tone +Wake slumbering chaos on his throne). +And haply then, with sudden swell, +Shall roar the distant curfew bell, +While in the castle's mouldering tower +The hooting owl is heard to pour +Her melancholy song, and scare +Dull silence brooding in the air. +Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car +Black-suited night drives on from far, +And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, +Arrests the waxing darkness drear, +And summons to her silent call, +Sweeping, in their airy pall, +The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance, +To join her moonshine morris-dance; +While around the mystic ring +The shadowy shapes elastic spring, +Then with a passing shriek they fly, +Wrapt in mists, along the sky, +And oft are by the shepherd seen +In his lone night-watch on the green. + + Then, hermit, let us turn our feet +To the low abbey's still retreat, +Embower'd in the distant glen, +Far from the haunts of busy men, +Where as we sit upon the tomb, +The glowworm's light may gild the gloom, +And show to fancy's saddest eye +Where some lost hero's ashes lie. +And oh, as through the mouldering arch, +With ivy fill'd and weeping larch, +The night gale whispers sadly clear, +Speaking dear things to fancy's ear, +We'll hold communion with the shade +Of some deep wailing, ruin'd maid-- +Or call the ghost of Spenser down, +To tell of woe and fortune's frown; +And bid us cast the eye of hope +Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. +Or if these joys, to us denied, +To linger by the forest's side; +Or in the meadow, or the wood, +Or by the lone, romantic flood; +Let us in the busy town, +When sleep's dull streams the people drown, +Far from drowsy pillows flee, +And turn the church's massy key; +Then, as through the painted glass +The moon's faint beams obscurely pass, +And darkly on the trophied wall +Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall, +Let us, while the faint winds wail +Through the long reluctant aisle, +As we pace with reverence meet, +Count the echoings of our feet, +While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, +Distinct responds the voice of death. +If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend +Thus on my footsteps to attend, +To thee my lonely lamp shall burn +By fallen Genius' sainted urn, +As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, +And sagely spell of ancient lore, +Till I can rightly guess of all +That Plato could to memory call, +And scan the formless views of things; +Or, with old Egypt's fetter'd kings, +Arrange the mystic trains that shine +In night's high philosophic mine; +And to thy name shall e'er belong +The honours of undying song. + + + + +TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE. + + +Oh! thou who, in my early youth, +When fancy wore the garb of truth, +Wert wont to win my infant feet +To some retired, deep fabled seat, +Where, by the brooklet's secret tide, +The midnight ghost was known to glide; +Or lay me in some lonely glade, +In native Sherwood's forest shade, +Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, +Was wont his sylvan courts to hold; +And there, as musing deep I lay, +Would steal my little soul away, +And all my pictures represent, +Of siege and solemn tournament; +Or bear me to the magic scene, +Where, clad in greaves and gabardine, +The warrior knight of chivalry +Made many a fierce enchanter flee; +And bore the high-born dame away, +Long held the fell magician's prey. +Or oft would tell the shuddering tale +Of murders, and of goblins pale, +Haunting the guilty baron's side +(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed), +Which o'er the vaulted corridor +On stormy nights was heard to roar, +By old domestic, waken'd wide +By the angry winds that chide: +Or else the mystic tale would tell +Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell. + + * * * * * + + + + +TO MIDNIGHT. + + +Season of general rest, whose solemn still +Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, + But speaks to philosophic souls delight; +Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, +My candle waning melancholy by, + I sit and taste the holy calm of night. + +Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, +And gilds the misty shadows of the vales, + Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame; +To her, while all around in sleep recline, +Wakeful I raise my orisons divine, + And sing the gentle honours of her name; + +While Fancy lone o'er me, her votary, bends, +To lift my soul her fairy visions sends, + And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, +And Superstition's gentle terrors come,-- +See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom! + See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng! + +Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, +My flageolet--and as I pensive play, + The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: +The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, +Hears them aghast,--(while still the dull owl pours + Her hollow screams each dreary pause between). + +Till in the lonely tower he spies the light, +Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, + Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep, +And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene, +Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, + And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep. + + + + +TO THOUGHT. + +WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. + + + Hence, away, vindictive thought; + Thy pictures are of pain; + The visions through thy dark eye caught, + They with no gentle charms are fraught, + So pr'y thee back again. + I would not weep, + I wish to sleep, +Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep? + + Why dost o'er bed and couch recline? + Is this thy new delight? + Pale visitant, it is not thine + To keep thy sentry through the mine, + The dark vault of the night: + 'Tis thine to die, + While o'er the eye +The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly. + + Go thou, and bide with him who guides + His bark through lonely seas; + And as reclining on his helm, + Sadly he marks the starry realm, + To him thou mayst bring ease: + But thou to me + Art misery, +So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my pillow flee. + + And, memory, pray what art thou? + Art thou of pleasure born? + Does bliss untainted from thee flow? + The rose that gems thy pensive brow, + Is it without a thorn? + With all thy smiles, + And witching wiles, +Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles. + + The drowsy night-watch has forgot + To call the solemn hour; + Lull'd by the winds, he slumbers deep, + While I in vain, capricious sleep, + Invoke thy tardy power; + And restless lie, + With unclosed eye, +And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. + + + + +GENIUS. + +AN ODE. + + +I. 1. + +Many there be, who, through the vale of life, + With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go, +While jarring discord's inharmonious strife + Awakes them not to woe. + By them unheeded, carking care, + Green-eyed grief and dull despair; +Smoothly they pursue their way, + With even tenor and with equal breath, +Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, + Then sink in peace to death. + +II. 1. + +But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour, + And weeping woe, and disappointment keen, +Repining penury, and sorrow sour, + And self-consuming spleen. + And these are Genius' favourites: these + Know the thought-throned mind to please, +And from her fleshy seat to draw + To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, +Disdaining all but 'wildering rapture's law, + The captivated soul. + +III. 1. + +Genius, from thy starry throne, +High above the burning zone, +In radiant robe of light array'd, +Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, + His melancholy moan. +He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, + Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, +Pangs that his sensibility uprouse + To curse his being and his thirst for praise. +Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel + The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn, +And what o'er all does in his soul preside + Predominant, and tempers him to steel, + His high indignant pride. + +I. 2. + +Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life. + That Genius visits not your lowly shed; +For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife + Distract his hapless head! + For him awaits no balmy sleep, + He wakes all night, and wakes to weep; +Or by his lonely lamp he sits + At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps, +In feverish study, and in moody fits + His mournful vigils keeps. + +II. 2. + +And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil? + For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath? +'T is for neglect and penury he doth toil, + 'Tis for untimely death. + Lo! where dejected pale he lies, + Despair depicted in his eyes, +He feels the vital flame decrease, + He sees the grave wide yawning for its prey, +Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, + And cheer the expiring ray. + +III. 2. + + By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, + By gentle Otway's magic name, + By him, the youth, who smiled at death, + And rashly dared to stop his vital breath, + Will I thy pangs proclaim; + For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, + Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, + And far resounding Fame. + What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, + And to thy posthumous merit bend them low; + Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe, + And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw, +Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly + Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain, +And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky, + A melancholy train. + + Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await, + Mocking thy derided state; + Thee chill Adversity will still attend, + Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend + And leaves thee all forlorn; + While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs, + And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides, +And while the cup of affluence he quaffs + With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides, +Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, +To gain the meed of praise when he is mouldering in his grave. + + + + +FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON. + + +Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of night, + A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild, +Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light, + Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled. + Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, + Nocturnal study's still retreat, + It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, + And through my lofty casement weaves, + Dim through the vine's encircling leaves, + An intermingled beam. + +These feverish dews that on my temples hang, + This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame; +These the dread signs of many a secret pang, + These are the meed of him who pants for fame! +Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul; + Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high; +My lamp expires;--beneath thy mild control +These restless dreams are ever wont to fly. + +Come, kindred mourner, in my breast +Soothe these discordant tones to rest, + And breathe the soul of peace; +Mild visitor, I feel thee here, +It is not pain that brings this tear, + For thou hast bid it cease. +Oh! many, a year has pass'd away +Since I, beneath thy fairy ray, + Attuned my infant reed; +When wilt thou, Time, those days restore, +Those happy moments now no more-- + + * * * * * + +When on the lake's damp marge I lay, + And mark'd the northern meteor's dance, +Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there + To inspirate my trance. + Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign +Your magic sweets on me to shed, +In vain your powers are now essay'd + To chase superior pain. + +And art thou fled, thou welcome orb! + So swiftly pleasure flies, +So to mankind, in darkness lost, + The beam of ardour dies. +Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done, +And now, encurtain'd in the main, + Thou sinkest into rest; +But I, in vain, on thorny bed +Shall woo the god of soft repose-- + + * * * * * + + + + +TO THE MUSE. + +WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. + + + Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy train +Chill poverty and misery are seen, + Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane +Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. + Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel +So keenly all the scorns--the jeers of life? +Why not endow them to endure the strife + With apathy's invulnerable steel, + Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal? + + Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, +That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, + That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, +Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb? + What is the charm which leads thy victims on +To persevere in paths that lead to woe? +What can induce them in that route to go, + In which innumerous before have gone, + And died in misery poor and woe-begone? + + Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; +I, who have drunk from thine ethereal rill, + And tasted all the pleasures that abound +Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill? + I, through whose soul the Muse's strains aye thrill! +Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied; + And though our annals fearful stories tell, +How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, +Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. + + + + +TO LOVE. + + +Why should I blush to own I love? +'Tis Love that rules the realms above. +Why should I blush to say to all, +That Virtue holds my heart in thrall? + +Why should I seek the thickest shade, +Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd? +Why the stern brow deceitful move, +When I am languishing with love? + +Is it weakness thus to dwell +On passion that I dare not tell? +Such weakness I would ever prove; +'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet to love. + + + + +ON WHIT-MONDAY. + + +Hark! how the merry bells ring jocund round, +And now they die upon the veering breeze + Anon they thunder loud + Full on the musing ear. + +Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore +Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak + A day of jubilee, + An ancient holiday. + +And lo! the rural revels are begun, +And gaily echoing to the laughing sky, + On the smooth shaven green + Resounds the voice of Mirth. + +Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate, +That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they + Who now are in their graves + Kept up the Whitsun dance. + +And that another hour, and they must fall +Like those who went before, and sleep as still + Beneath the silent sod, + A cold and cheerless sleep. + +Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare +The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign + To smile upon us here, + A transient visitor? + +Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, +And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy; + In time the bell will toll + That warns ye to your graves. + +I to the woodland solitude will bend +My lonesome way--where Mirth's obstreperous shout + Shall not intrude to break + The meditative hour. + +There will I ponder on the state of man, +Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate + This day of jubilee + To sad reflection's shrine; + +And I will cast my fond eye far beyond +This world of care, to where the steeple loud + Shall rock above the sod, + Where I shall sleep in peace. + + + + +TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT. + + +Not unfamiliar to mine ear, +Blasts of the night! ye howl as now + My shuddering casement loud + With fitful force ye beat. + +Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, +The howling sweep, the sudden rush; + And when the passing gale + Pour'd deep the hollow dirge. + + * * * * * + + + + +TO THE HARVEST MOON. + + Cum ruit imbriferum ver: +Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum +Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent. +Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. +VIRGIL. + + + Moon of Harvest, herald mild + Of plenty rustic labour's child, + Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam, + As soft it trembles o'er the stream, + And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide, + Where Innocence and Peace reside! +'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, +Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song. + + Moon of Harvest, I do love + O'er the uplands now to rove, + While thy modest ray serene + Gilds the wide surrounding scene; + And to watch thee riding high + In the blue vault of the sky, +Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray, +But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. + + Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon! + Now the night is at her noon, + 'Neath thy sway to musing lie, + While around the zephyrs sigh, + Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat, + Ripen'd by the summer's heat; + Picturing all the rustic's joy + When boundless plenty greets his eye, + And thinking soon, + Oh, modest Moon! + How many a female eye will roam + Along the road, + To see the load, + The last dear load of harvest home. + + Storms and tempests, floods and rains, + Stern despoilers of the plains, + Hence, away, the season flee, + Foes to light-heart jollity: + May no winds careering high + Drive the clouds along the sky, +But may all nature smile with aspect boon, +When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh Harvest Moon! + + 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, + The husbandman, with deep-seal'd eyes: + He dreams of crowded barns, and round + The yard he hears the flail resound; + Oh! may no hurricane destroy + His visionary views of joy! +God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, +And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare. + + Sons of luxury, to you + Leave I sleep's dull power to woo; + Press ye still the downy bed, + While feverish dreams surround your head; + I will seek the woodland glade, + Penetrate the thickest shade, + Wrapp'd in contemplation's dreams, + Musing high on holy themes, + While on the gale + Shall softly sail +The nightingale's enchanting tune, + And oft my eyes + Shall grateful rise +To thee, the modest Harvest Moon! + + + + +TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.[1] + + +Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom + On January's front severe, + And o'er the wintry desert drear +To waft thy waste perfume! +Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, +And I will bind thee round my brow; + And as I twine the mournful wreath, +I'll weave a melancholy song; +And sweet the strain shall be, and long, + The melody of death. + +Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell + With the pale corse in lonely tomb, + And throw across the desert gloom +A sweet decaying smell. +Come, press my lips, and lie with me +Beneath the lowly alder tree, + And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, +And not a care shall dare intrude +To break the marble solitude, + So peaceful and so deep. + +And hark! the wind god, as he flies, + Moans hollow in the forest trees, + And sailing on the gusty breeze, +Mysterious music dies. +Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, +It warns me to the lonely shrine, + The cold turf altar of the dead: + My grave shall be in yon lone spot, + Where as I lie, by all forgot, +A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. + +Footnotes: + +[1] The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in +the coffins of the dead. + + + + +TO THE MORNING. + +WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. + + + Beams of the daybreak faint! I hail + Your dubious hues, as on the robe + Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, + I mark your traces pale. + Tired with the taper's sickly light, + And with the wearying, number'd night, + I hail the streaks of morn divine: + And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths + That round my rural casement twine; + The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes, +It fans my feverish brow,--it calms the mental strife, +And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life. + + The lark has her gay song begun, + She leaves her grassy nest, + And soars till the unrisen sun + Gleams on her speckled breast. + + Now let me leave my restless bed, + And o'er the spangled uplands tread; + Now through the custom'd wood walk wend; + By many a green lane lies my way, + Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, + Till on the mountain's summit gray, +I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. + + Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale + It breathes into my breast! + My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, + Is with new colours dress'd. + + Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease! + Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze, + Invigorate my frame: + I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, + With thee the distant clime will trace + Beyond those clouds of flame. + + Above, below, what charms unfold + In all the varied view! + Before me all is burnish'd gold, + Behind the twilight's hue. + The mists which on old Night await, + Far to the west they hold their state, + They shun the clear blue face of Morn; + Along the fine cerulean sky + The fleecy clouds successive fly, +While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn. + + And hark! the thatcher has begun + His whistle on the eaves, + And oft the hedger's bill is heard + Among the rustling leaves. + The slow team creaks upon the road, + The noisy whip resounds, + The driver's voice, his carol blithe, + The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe + Mix with the morning's sounds. + + Who would not rather take his seat + Beneath these clumps of trees, + The early dawn of day to greet, + And catch the healthy breeze, + Than on the silken couch of Sloth + Luxurious to lie; + Who would not from life's dreary waste + Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, + An interval of joy! + + To him who simply thus recounts + The morning's pleasures o'er, + Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close + To ope on him no more. + Yet Morning! unrepining still, + He'll greet thy beams awhile; + And surely thou, when o'er his grave + Solemn the whispering willows wave, + Wilt sweetly on him smile: + And the pale glowworm's pensive light +Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night. + + + + +ON DISAPPOINTMENT. + + + Come, Disappointment, come! + Not in thy terrors clad: + Come, in thy meekest, saddest guise; + Thy chastening rod but terrifies + The restless and the bad. + But I recline + Beneath thy shrine, +And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine. + + Though Fancy flies away + Before thy hollow tread, + Yet Meditation, in her cell, + Hears with faint eye the lingering knell + That tells her hopes are dead; + And though the tear + By chance appear, +Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. + + Come, Disappointment, come! + Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, + Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, + For thou severe wert sent from heaven + To wean me from the world; + To turn my eye + From vanity, +And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. + + What is this passing scene? + A peevish April day! + A little sun--a little rain, + And then night sweeps along the plain. + And all things fade away. + Man (soon discuss'd) + Yields up his trust, +And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. + + Oh, what is Beauty's power? + It flourishes and dies; + Will the cold earth its silence break, + To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek + Beneath its surface lies? + Mute, mute is all + O'er Beauty's fall; +Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. + + The most beloved on earth + Not long survives to-day; + So music past is obsolete, + And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, + But now 'tis gone away. + Thus does the shade + In memory fade, +When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. + + Then since this world is vain, + And volatile, and fleet, + Why should I lay up earthly joys, + Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, + And cares and sorrows eat? + Why fly from ill + With anxious skill, +When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still. + + Come, Disappointment, come! + Thou art not stern to me; + Sad Monitress! I own thy sway, + A votary sad in early day, + I bend my knee to thee. + From sun to sun + My race will run, +I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done! + +On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the +freshness of his disappointment. + +I dream no more--the vision flies away, +And Disappointment.... +There fell my hopes--I lost my all in this, +My cherish'd all of visionary bliss. +Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below; +Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe. +Plunge me in glooms.... + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY THE POET. + + +Child of Misfortune! Offspring of the Muse! + Mark like the meteor's gleam his mad career; + With hollow cheeks and haggard eye, + Behold he shrieking passes by: + I see, I see him near: + That hollow scream, that deepening groan; + It rings upon mine ear. + +Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth, + Who clasp the syren pleasure to your breast, + Behold the wreck of genius here, + And drop, oh drop the silent tear + For Dermody at rest: + His fate is yours, then from your loins + Tear quick the silken vest. + +Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eye, + Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil; + How ghastly did it seem; + And then his dying scream: + Oh God! I hear it still: + It sounds upon my fainting sense, + It strikes with deathly chill. + +Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death; + Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed, + Or pitying friends around him stand: + Or didst thou see a mother's hand + Support his languid head: + Oh none of these--no friend o'er him + The balm of pity shed. + +Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth, + Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low; + Now come around who pant for fame, + And learn from hence, a poet's name + Is purchased but by woe: + And when ambition prompts to rise, + Oh think of him below. + +For me, poor moralizer, I will run, + Dejected, to some solitary state: + The muse has set her seal on me, + She set her seal on Dermody, + It is the seal of fate: + In some lone spot my bones may lie, + Secure from human hate. + +Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear, + Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head: + May peace her banners o'er him wave; + For me in my deserted grave + No friend a tear shall shed: + Yet may the lily and the rose + Bloom on my grassy bed. + + + + +SONNETS. + + + + +SONNET TO THE RIVER TRENT. + +WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. + + +Once more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge + A pensive invalid, reduced and pale, +From the close sick-room newly set at large, + Woos to his wan worn cheek the pleasant gale. +O! to his ear how musical the tale + Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! +And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, + How wildly novel on his senses float! +It was on this that many a sleepless night, + As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, +And at his casement heard, with wild affright, + The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, +On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, +Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir. + + + + +SONNET. + + +Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, + Where far from cities I may spend my days; +And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, + May pity man's pursuits and shun his ways. +While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, + List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, +Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, + I shall not want the world's delusive joys; +But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, + Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; +And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, + I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, +And lay me down to rest where the wild wave +Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. + + + + +SONNET.[1] + +SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMALE LUNATIC TO A LADY. + + +Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe, + And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; +Oh! may thy bosom never, never know + The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung. +I had a mother once--a brother too-- + (Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:) +I had a lover once, and kind and true, + But mother, brother, lover, all are fled! +Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye? + Oh! gentle lady--not for me thus weep, +The green sod soon upon my breast will lie, + And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep. +Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom-- + My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb. + +Footnotes: + +[1] This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, "occasioned by +seeing a young female Lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in +the Monthly Mirror. + + + + +SONNET. + +Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody in +Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's service. + + +Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds + Successive fly, and the loud piping wind +Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds, + While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined, +Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies + His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad, + Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad, +And the half strangled tear bedews his eyes; + I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn, +View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, +Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, + For not for me shall wife or children mourn, +And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell, +Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell. + + + + + +SONNET. THE WINTER TRAVELLER. + + +God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far; + The wind is bitter keen,--the snow o'erlays + The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways, +And darkness will involve thee. No kind star +To-night will guide thee, Traveller,--and the war + Of winds and elements on thy head will break, + And in thy agonizing ear the shriek +Of spirits howling on their stormy car +Will often ring appalling--I portend + A dismal night--and on my wakeful bed + Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head, +And him who rides where winds and waves contend, + And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide + His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. + + + + +SONNET. + +BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. + + +This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this volume, and +was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomered +Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs +leave to return his thanks to the much respected writer, for +the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the +good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions. + +Ye whose aspirings court the muse of lays, +"Severest of those orders which belong, + Distinct and separate, to Delphic song," +Why shun the sonnet's undulating maze? +And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days, + Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the throng +The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys + Of its full harmony:--they fear to wrong +The sonnet, by adorning with a name + Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet, + Yet not in magic texture taught to meet +Of that so varied and peculiar frame. +O think! to vindicate its genuine praise +Those it beseems, whose lyre a favouring impulse sways. + + + + +SONNET. + +RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANT +ADMONITION. + + +Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapp'd in night, + Rides on the raven pennons of the storm, + Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, +Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight; +Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight, + Disdain the plaintive sonnet's little form, + And scorn to its wild cadence to conform, +The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. +But me, far lowest of the sylvan train, + Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade + With wildest song;--me, much behoves thy aid +Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, +And give it power to please, as soft it flows +Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close. + + + + +SONNET ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN ÆOLIAN HARP. + + +So ravishingly soft upon the tide + Of the infuriate gust, it did career, + It might have soothed its rugged charioteer, +And sunk him to a zephyr; then it died, +Melting in melody;--and I descried, + Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear + Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear +Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied: +Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell, + Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds, + By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds +Such as, 'tis said, at night are known to swell +By startled shepherd on the lonely heath, +Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death? + + + + +SONNET. + + +What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat? + Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands. + And thou dost bear within thine awful hands +The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet. +Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, + Thou guidest the northern storm at night's dead noon, + Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon, +Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. +In the drear silence of the polar span + Dost thou repose? or in the solitude +Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan + Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood? +Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace, +Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. + + + + +SONNET TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. + + +Lofft, unto thee one tributary song + The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring; +She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng, + And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. +Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth, + Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, +Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth, + And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child: +Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal, + Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, + Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre, +And show thy labours for the public weal, + Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, + But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme. + + + + +SONNET TO THE MOON. + +WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. + + +Sublime, emerging from the misty verge + Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail, + As, sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale +Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. +Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight, + And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, +Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night, + With double joy my homage do I pay. + When clouds disguise the glories of the day, +And stern November sheds her boisterous blight, + How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray +Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height, + And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring + The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring. + + + + +SONNET WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND. + + +Fast from the west the fading day-streaks fly, + And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway, +Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie, + And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. +Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd +The maid of musings by yon moaning wave; +And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which, now renew'd, + Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave! +The busy world pursues its boisterous way, + The noise of revelry still echoes round, +Yet I am sad while all beside is gay; + Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. +Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease, +And 'neath the greensward sleep the sleep of peace. + + + + +SONNET TO MISFORTUNE. + + +Misfortune, I am young, my chin is bare, + And I have wonder'd much when men have told. +How youth was free from sorrow and from care, + That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old. +Sure dost not like me!--Shrivel'd hag of hate, + My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long; + I am not either, beldame, over strong; +Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, +For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. +Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate; +I am yet young, and do not like thy face; +And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, +I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, +--Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age. + + + + +SONNET. + + +As thus oppressed with many a heavy care + (Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet + To the dark woodland, longing much to greet +The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there; +Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, + Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil, + I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. +And as, amid the leaves, the evening air +Whispers still melody,--I think ere long, + When I no more can hear, these woods will speak; + And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, +And mournful phantasies upon me throng, +And I do ponder, with most strange delight, +On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night. + + + + +SONNET TO APRIL. + + +Emblem of life! see changeful April sail + In varying vest along the shadowy skies, + Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise, +Anon recalling winter's stormy gale, +And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail; + Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes, + While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes, +Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail. +So, to us, sojourners in life's low vale, + The smiles of fortune flatter to deceive, + While still the fates the web of misery weave. +So Hope exultant spreads her aëry sail, +And from the present gloom the soul conveys +To distant summers and far happier days. + + + + +SONNET. + + +Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies, + At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear, + Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear, +As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies; +When he, who now invokes you, low is laid, + His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed; +Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head, + And chant a dirge to his reposing shade! +For he was wont to love your madrigals; + And often by the haunted stream, that laves + The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves, +Would sit and listen to the dying falls, +Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, +And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstasy. + + + + +SONNET TO A TAPER. + + +'Tis midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits, + And all is silence--in the hour of sleep; +Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, + In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. +I wake alone to listen and to weep, + To watch my taper, thy pale beacon burn; +And, as still Memory does her vigils keep, + To think of days that never can return. +By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, + My eye surveys the solitary gloom; +And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread, + Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. +Like thee I wane;--like thine my life's last ray +Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away. + + + + +SONNET TO MY MOTHER. + + +And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think + That we, thy children, when old age shall shed + Its blanching honours on thy weary head, +Could from our best of duties ever shrink? +Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink + Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, + To pine in solitude thy life away, +Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. +Banish the thought!--where'er our steps may roam, + O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree, + Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, +And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home; +While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage, +And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. + + + + +SONNET. + + +Yes, 'twill be over soon.--This sickly dream + Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; +And death my wearied spirit will redeem + From this wild region of unvaried pain. +Yon brook will glide as softly as before, + Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow. +Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar + When Henry's name is heard no more below. +I sigh when all my youthful friends caress, + They laugh in health, and future evils brave; +Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, + While I am mouldering in the silent grave. +God of the just, Thou gavest the bitter cup; +I bow to thy behest, and drink it up. + + + + +SONNET TO CONSUMPTION. + + +Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head. + Consumption, lay thine hand!--let me decay + Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, +And softly go to slumber with the dead. + And if 'tis true what holy men have said, + That strains angelic oft foretell the day +Of death to those good men who fall thy prey, +O let the aërial music round my bed, +Dissolving sad in dying symphony, + Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear; +That I may bid my weeping friends good-by + Ere I depart upon my journey drear: +And, smiling faintly on the painful past, +Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. + + + + +SONNET. + +TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX. + + +Thy judgments, Lord, are just; thou lovest to wear + The face of pity and of love divine; +But mine is guilt--thou must not, canst not spare, + While heaven is true, and equity is thine. +Yes, oh my God!--such crimes as mine, so dread, + Leave but the choice of punishment to thee; +Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, + And even thy mercy dares not plead for me! +Thy will be done, since 'tis thy glory's due, + Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; +Smite--it is time--though endless death ensue, + I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. +But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, +That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood? + + + + +SONNET. + + +When I sit musing on the chequer'd past + (A term much darken'd with untimely woes), + My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows +The tear, though half disown'd; and binding fast +Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, + I say to her she robb'd me of my rest, + When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast +Received from her this wearying, lingering smart; +Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; + Though wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love, + For she was most unworthy.--Then I prove +Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams, +Throned in dark clouds, inflexible.... +The native pride of my much injured heart. + + + + +SONNET. + + +Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile, + Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring; +But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile, + Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. +Is it for me to strike the Idalian string-- + Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, +While in my ears the howls of furies ring, + And melancholy waste the vital fire? +Away with thoughts like these--To some lone cave + Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the wave, +Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear, + I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse + Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse, +And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear. + + + + +SONNET. + + +Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts-- + Bleak blows the blast--now howls--then faintly dies-- +And oft upon its awful wings it wafts + The dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries. +Now, when athwart the gloom gaunt Horror stalks, + And midnight hags their damned vigils hold, +The pensive poet 'mid the wild waste walks, + And ponders on the ills life's paths unfold. +Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes, + Insensible to every outward ill; +Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes, + And oft big tears adown his worn cheeks trill. +Ah! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore, +Which gnaws his heart, and bids him hope no more. + + + + +BALLADS, SONGS, AND HYMNS. + + + + +GONDOLINE + +A BALLAD. + + +The night it was still, and the moon it shone + Serenely on the sea, +And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock + They murmur'd pleasantly, + +When Gondoline roam'd along the shore, + A maiden full fair to the sight; +Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, + And turn'd it to deadly white. + +Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear + It fill'd her faint blue eye, +As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, + Her Bertrand's dying sigh. + +Her Bertrand was the bravest youth + Of all our good king's men, +And he was gone to the Holy Land + To fight the Saracen. + +And many a month had pass'd away, + And many a rolling year, +But nothing the maid from Palestine + Could of her lover hear. + +Full oft she vainly tried to pierce + The ocean's misty face; +Full oft she thought her lover's bark + She on the wave could trace. + +And every night she placed a light + In the high rock's lonely tower, +To guide her lover to the land, + Should the murky tempest lower. + +But now despair had seized her breast, + And sunken in her eye; +"Oh tell me but if Bertrand live, + And I in peace will die." + +She wander'd o'er the lonely shore, + The curlew scream'd above, +She heard the scream with a sickening heart, + Much boding on her love. + +Yet still she kept her lonely way, + And this was all her cry. +"Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live, + And I in peace shall die." + +And now she came to a horrible rift + All in the rock's hard side, +A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread + The cavern yawning wide. + +And pendant from its dismal top + The deadly nightshade hung; +The hemlock and the aconite + Across the mouth was flung. + +And all within was dark and drear, + And all without was calm; +Yet Gondoline enter'd, her soul upheld + By some deep-working charm. + +And as she enter'd the cavern wide, + The moonbeam gleamed pale, +And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, + It clung by its slimy tail. + +Her foot it slipp'd, and she stood aghast, + She trod on a bloated toad; +Yet, still upheld by the secret charm, + She kept upon her road. + +And now upon her frozen ear + Mysterious sounds arose; +So, on the mountain's piny top + The blustering north wind blows. + +Then furious peals of laughter loud + Were heard with thundering sound, +Till they died away in soft decay, + Low whispering o'er the ground. + +Yet still the maiden onward went, + The charm yet onward led, +Though each big glaring ball of sight + Seem'd bursting from her head. + +But now a pale blue light she saw, + It from a distance came; +She follow'd, till upon her sight + Burst full a flood of flame. + +She stood appall'd; yet still the charm + Upheld her sinking soul; +Yet each bent knee the other smote, + And each wild eye did roll. + +And such a sight as she saw there + No mortal saw before, +And such a sight as she saw there + No mortal shall see more. + +A burning cauldron stood in the midst, + The flame was fierce and high, +And all the cave so wide and long + Was plainly seen thereby. + +And round about the cauldron stout + Twelve withered witches stood; +Their waists were bound with living snakes, + And their hair was stiff with blood. + +Their hands were gory too; and red + And fiercely flamed their eyes: +And they were muttering indistinct + Their hellish mysteries. + +And suddenly they join'd their hands, + And utter'd a joyous cry, +And round about the cauldron stout + They danced right merrily. + +And now they stopp'd; and each prepared + To tell what she had done, +Since last the lady of the night + Her waning course had run. + +Behind a rock stood Gondoline, + Thick weeds her face did veil, +And she lean'd fearful forwarder, + To hear the dreadful tale. + +The first arose: She said she'd seen + Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd, +She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve, + And a jovial storm had brew'd. + +She'd called around the winged winds, + And raised a devilish rout; +And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard + Full fifteen leagues about. + +She said there was a little bark + Upon the roaring wave, +And there was a woman there who'd been + To see her husband's grave. + +And she had got a child in her arms, + It was her only child, +And oft its little infant pranks + Her heavy heart beguiled. + +And there was too in that same bark + A father and his son: +The lad was sickly, and the sire + Was old and woe-begone. + +And when the tempest waxed strong, + And the bark could no more it 'bide, +She said it was jovial fun to hear + How the poor devils cried. + +The mother clasp'd her orphan child + Unto her breast and wept; +And sweetly folded in her arms + The careless baby slept. + +And she told how, in the shape of the wind, + As manfully it roar'd, +She twisted her hand in the infant's hair, + And threw it overboard. + +And to have seen the mother's pangs, + 'Twas a glorious sight to see; +The crew could scarcely hold her down + From jumping in the sea. + +The hag held a lock of her hair in her hand, + And it was soft and fair: +It must have been a lovely child, + To have had such lovely hair. + +And she said the father in his arms + He held his sickly son, +And his dying throes they fast arose, + His pains were nearly done. + +And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands, + And his face grew deadly blue; +And the father he tore his thin gray hair, + And kiss'd the livid hue. + +And then she told how she bored a hole + In the bark, and it fill'd away: +And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear, + And some did vow and pray. + +The man and woman they soon were dead, + The sailors their strength did urge; +But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet, + And the winds sung their funeral dirge. + +She threw the infant's hair in the fire, + The red flame flamed high, +And round about the cauldron stout + They danced right merrily. + +The second begun: She said she had done + The task that Queen Hecate had set her, +And that the devil, the father of evil, + Had never accomplished a better. + +She said, there was an aged woman, + And she had a daughter fair, +Whose evil habits fill'd her heart + With misery and care. + +The daughter had a paramour, + A wicked man was he, +And oft the woman him against + Did murmur grievously. + +And the hag had work'd the daughter up + To murder her old mother, +That then she might seize on all her goods, + And wanton with her lover. + +And one night as the old woman + Was sick and ill in bed. +And pondering solely on the life + Her wicked daughter led, + +She heard her footstep on the floor, + And she raised her pallid head, +And she saw her daughter, with a knife, + Approaching to her bed. + +And said, My child, I'm very ill, + I have not long to live, +Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die + Thy sins I may forgive. + +And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, + And she lifted the sharp bright knife, +And the mother saw her fell intent, + And hard she begg'd for life. + +But prayers would nothing her avail, + And she scream'd aloud with fear, +But the house was lone, and the piercing screams + Could reach no human ear + +And though that she was sick, and old, + She struggled hard, and fought; +The murderess cut three fingers through + Ere she could reach her throat. + +And the hag she held her fingers up, + The skin was mangled sore, +And they all agreed a nobler deed + Was never done before. + +And she threw the fingers in the fire, + The red flame flamed high, +And round about the cauldron stout + They danced right merrily. + +The third arose: She said she'd been + To holy Palestine; +And seen more blood in one short day + Than they had all seen in nine. + +Now Gondoline, with fearful steps, + Drew nearer to the flame, +For much she dreaded now to hear + Her hapless lover's name. + +The hag related then the sports + Of that eventful day, +When on the well contested field + Full fifteen thousand lay. + +She said that she in human gore + Above the knees did wade, +And that no tongue could truly tell + The tricks she there had play'd. + +There was a gallant featured youth, + Who like a hero fought; +He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, + And every danger sought. + +And in a vassal's garb disguised, + Unto the knight she sues, +And tells him she from Britain comes, + And brings unwelcome news. + +That three days ere she had embark'd + His love had given her hand +Unto a wealthy Thane:--and thought + Him dead in Holy Land. + +And to have seen how he did writhe + When this her tale she told, +It would have made a wizard's blood + Within his heart run cold. + +Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, + And sought the battle's bed; +And soon all mangled o'er with wounds + He on the cold turf bled. + +And from his smoking corse she tore + His head, half clove in two. +She ceased, and from beneath her garb + The bloody trophy drew. + +The eyes were starting from their socks, + The mouth it ghastly grinn'd, +And there was a gash across the brow, + The scalp was nearly skinn'd. + +'Twas Bertrand's head! With a terrible scream + The maiden gave a spring +And from her fearful hiding-place + She fell into the ring. + +The lights they fled--the cauldron sunk, + Deep thunders shook the dome, +And hollow peals of laughter came + Resounding through the gloom. + +Insensible the maiden lay + Upon the hellish ground, +And still mysterious sounds were heard + At intervals around. + +She woke--she half arose--and wild + She cast a horrid glare, +The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, + And all was stillness there. + +And through an awning in the rock + The moon it sweetly shone, +And show'd a river in the cave + Which dismally did moan. + +The stream was black, it sounded deep + As it rush'd the rocks between, +It offer'd well, for madness fired + The breast of Gondoline. + +She plunged in, the torrent moan'd + With its accustom'd sound, +And hollow peals of laughter loud + Again rebellow'd round. + +The maid was seen no more.--But oft + Her ghost is known to glide, +At midnight's silent, solemn hour, + Along the ocean's side. + + + + +A BALLAD. + +Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, + Ye pelting rains, a little rest; +Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, + That wring with grief my aching breast. + +Oh! cruel was my faithless love, + To triumph o'er an artless maid; +Oh! cruel was my faithless love, + To leave the breast by him betray'd. + +When exiled from my native home, + He should have wiped the bitter tear; +Nor left me faint and lone to roam, + A heart-sick weary wanderer here. + +My child moans sadly in my arms, + The winds they will not let it sleep: +Ah, little knows the hapless babe + What makes its wretched mother weep! + +Now lie thee still, my infant dear, + I cannot bear thy sobs to see, +Harsh is thy father, little one, + And never will he shelter thee. + +Oh, that I were but in my grave, + And winds were piping o'er me loud, +And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, + Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud! + + + + +THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD THE NIGHT PREVIOUS +TO EXECUTION. + + +Sleep, baby mine,[1] enkerchieft on my bosom, + Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; +Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother + To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. + +Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining? + Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; +Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, + And I would fain compose my aching head. + +Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping, + When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be? +Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping + In her low grave of shame and infamy? + +Sleep, baby mine--Tomorrow I must leave thee, + And I would snatch an interval of rest: +Sleep these last moments ere the laws bereave thee, + For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. + +Footnotes: + +[1] Sir Philip Sidney has a poem, beginning, "Sleep, baby mine." + + + + +THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. + + +Oh! yonder is the well known spot, + My dear, my long lost native home! +Oh, welcome is yon little cot, + Where I shall rest, no more to roam! +Oh! I have travell'd far and wide, + O'er many a distant foreign land; +Each place, each province I have tried. + And sung and danced my saraband. + But all their charms could not prevail + To steal my heart from yonder vale. + +Of distant climes the false report + It lured me from my native land; +It bade me rove--my sole support + My cymbals and my saraband. +The woody dell, the hanging rock, + The chamois skipping o'er the heights; +The plain adorn'd with many a flock, + And, oh! a thousand more delights, + That grace yon dear beloved retreat, + Have backward won my weary feet. + +Now safe return'd, with wandering tired, + No more my little home I'll leave; +And many a tale of what I've seen + Shall while away the winter's eve. +Oh! I have wandered far and wide, + O'er many a distant foreign land; +Each place, each province I have tried, + And sung and danced my saraband; + But all their charms could not prevail + To steal my heart from yonder vale. + + + + +A PASTORAL SONG. + +Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns, + Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies; +Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, + And watch the early lark arise; + While nature, clad in vesture gay, + Hails the loved return of day. + +Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade + Upon the moor, shall seek the vale; +And then, secure beneath the shade, + We'll listen to the throstle's tale; + And watch the silver clouds above, + As o'er the azure vault they rove. + +Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute, + That with its tones, so softly sweet, +In cadence with my mellow flute, + We may beguile the noontide heat; + While near the mellow bee shall join, + To raise a harmony divine. + +And then at eve, when silence reigns, + Except when heard the beetle's hum, +We'll leave the sober tinted plains, + To these sweet heights again we'll come; + And thou to thy soft lute shalt play + A solemn vesper to departing day. + + + + +MELODY. + + +Yes, once more that dying strain, + Anna, touch thy lute for me; +Sweet, when pity's tones complain, + Doubly sweet is melody. + +While the Virtues thus enweave + Mildly soft the thrilling song, +Winter's long and lonesome eve + Glides unfelt, unseen, along. + +Thus when life hath stolen away, + And the wintry night is near, +Thus shall virtue's friendly ray + Age's closing evening, cheer. + + + + +SONG. + +BY WALLER. + + +A Lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to the Author, and +when he returned them to her, she discovered an additional +stanza written by him at the bottom of the song here copied. + + Go, lovely rose! +Tell her, that wastes her time on me, + That now she knows, +When I resemble her to thee, +How sweet and fair she seems to be. + + Tell her that's young, +And shuns to have her graces spied, + That hadst thou sprung +In deserts, where no men abide, +Thou must have uncommended died. + + Small is the worth +Of beauty from the light retired, + Bid her come forth, +Suffer herself to be desired, +And not blush so to be admired. + + Then die, that she +The common fate of all things rare + May read in thee; +How small a part of time they share, +That are so wondrous sweet and fair. + + [Yet, though thou fade, +From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; + And teach the maid +That Goodness Time's rude hand defies, +That Virtue lives when Beauty dies. + H. K. WHITE.] + + + + +THE WANDERING BOY. + +A SONG. + + +When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, +And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; +When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, +Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy. + +The winter is cold, and I have no vest, +And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast; +No father, no mother, no kindred have I, +For I am a parentless Wandering Boy. + +Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, +A mother who granted each infant desire; +Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale, +Where the ringdove would warble its sorrowful tale. + +But my father and mother were summoned away, +And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey; +I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, +And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy. + +The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, +And no one will list to my innocent tale; +I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, +And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy. + + + + +CANZONET. + + +Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee, + Cold the rain beats on thy breast: +Why should Horror's voice astound thee? + Death can bid the wretched rest! + All under the tree + Thy bed may be, +And thou mayst slumber peacefully. + +Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee, + Now thy cheeks are pale and deep: +Love has been a felon to thee, + Yet, poor maiden, do not weep: + There's rest for thee + All under the tree, +Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. + + + + +SONG. + +WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. + + +Softly, softly blow, ye breezes, + Gently o'er my Edwy fly! +Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly; + Softly, zephyrs, pass him by! + My love is asleep, + He lies by the deep, +All along where the salt waves sigh. + +I have cover'd him with rushes, + Water-flags, and branches dry. +Edwy, long have been thy slumbers; + Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye! + My love is asleep, + He lies by the deep, +All along where the salt waves sigh. + +Still he sleeps; he will not waken, + Fastly closed is his eye; +Paler is his cheek, and chiller + Than the icy moon on high. + Alas! he is dead, + He has chose his death-bed +All along where the salt waves sigh. + +Is it, is it so, my Edwy? + Will thy slumbers never fly? +Couldst thou think I would survive thee? + No, my love, thou bid'st me die. + Thou bid'st me seek + Thy death-bed bleak +All along where the salt waves sigh. + +I will gently kiss thy cold lips, + On thy breast I'll lay my head, +And the winds shall sing our death dirge, + And our shroud the waters spread; + The moon will smile sweet, + And the wild wave will beat, +Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed. + + + + +THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT. + + +Thou, spirit of the spangled night! +I woo thee from the watchtower high, +Where thou dost sit to guide the bark + Of lonely mariner. + +The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, +The distant main is moaning low; +Come, let us sit and weave a song-- + A melancholy song! + +Sweet is the scented gale of morn, +And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, +But sweeter far the solemn calm + That marks thy mournful reign. + +I've pass'd here many a lonely year, +And never human voice have heard; +I've pass'd here many a lonely year, + A solitary man. + +And I have linger'd in the shade, +From sultry noon's hot beams; and I +Have knelt before my wicker door, + To sing my evening song. + +And I have hail'd the gray morn high, +On the blue mountain's misty brow, +And tried to tune my little reed + To hymns of harmony. + +But never could I tune my reed, +At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, +As when upon the ocean shore + I hail'd thy star-beam mild. + +The dayspring brings not joy to me, +The moon it whispers not of peace; +But oh! when darkness robes the heavens, + My woes are mix'd with joy. + +And then I talk, and often think +Aërial voices answer me; +And oh! I am not then alone-- + A solitary man. + +And when the blustering winter winds +Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, +I lay me on my lonely mat, + And pleasant are my dreams. + +And fancy gives me back my wife; +And fancy gives me back my child; +She gives me back my little home, + And all its placid joys. + +Then hateful is the morning hour, +That calls me from the dream of bliss, +To find myself still lone, and hear + The same dull sounds again. + +The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, +The whispering of the boding trees, +The brook's eternal flow, and oft + The condor's hollow scream. + + + + +THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER. + +A SONG. + + +Come all ye true hearts, who, Old England to save, +Now shoulder the musket, or plough the rough wave, +I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow, +Who has ruin'd Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello. + Derry down, down, high derry down. + +This juggler is little, and ugly, and black, +But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back; +'Tis certain, all fear of the devil he scorns; +Some say they are cousins; we know he wears horns. + Derry down. + +At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he? +He hopp'd o'er an army, he skipped o'er the sea; +And he jump'd from the desk of a village attorney +To the throne of the Bourbons--a pretty long journey. + Derry down. + +He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball, +And his cup is so fashion'd it catches them all; +The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declare +His skill at the long bow has made them both stare. + Derry down. + +He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain; +And Germany too knows his legerdemain; +So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights, +He's coming to London to put us to rights. + Derry down. + +To encourage his puppets to venture this trip, +He has built them such boats as can conquer a ship; +With a gun of good metal, that shoots out so far, +It can silence the broadsides of three men of war. + Derry down. + +This new Katterfelto, his show to complete, +Means his boats should all sink as they pass by our fleet; +Then, as under the ocean their course they steer right on, +They can pepper their foes from the bed of old Triton. + Derry down. + +If this project should fail, he has others in store; +Wooden horses, for instance, may bring them safe o'er; +Or the genius of France (as the Moniteur tells) +May order balloons, or provide diving-bells. + Derry down. + +When Philip of Spain fitted out his Armada, +Britain saw his designs, and could meet her invader; +But how to greet Bonny she never will know, +If he comes in the style of a fish or a crow. + Derry down. + +Now if our rude tars will so crowd up the seas, +That his boats have not room to go down when they please, +Can't he wait till the channel is quite frozen over, +And a stout pair of skates will transport him to Dover. + Derry down. + +How welcome he'll be it were needless to say; +Neither he nor his puppets shall e'er go away; +I am sure at his heels we shall constantly stick, +Till we know he has play'd off his very last trick. + Derry down, down, high derry down. + + + + +HYMN. + +In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure the +splendours of the Deity. + + +Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake, +Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake; +We sing the Saviour of our race, +The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place. + +When God's right arm is bared for war, +And thunders clothe his cloudy car, +Where, where, oh, where shall man retire, +To escape the horrors of his ire? + +'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly, +While the dread tempest passes by; +God sees his Well-beloved's face, +And spares us in our hiding-place. + +Thus while we dwell in this low scene, +The Lamb is our unfailing screen; +To him, though guilty, still we run, +And God still spares us for his Son. + +While yet we sojourn here below, +Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow; +Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, +We deeply need a hiding-place. + +Yet, courage--days and years will glide, +And we shall lay these clods aside, +Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood, +And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood. + +Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed, +We through the Lamb shall be decreed; +Shall meet the Father face to face, +And need no more a hiding-place.[1] + +Footnotes: + +[1] The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously, by the +Author, one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, +and singing as he was used to do on such occasions. + + + + +A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. + +O Lord, another day is flown, + And we, a lonely band, +Are met once more before thy throne, + To bless thy fostering hand. + +And wilt thou bend a listening ear, + To praises low as ours? +Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear + The song which meekness pours. + +And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign, + As we before thee pray; +For thou didst bless the infant train, + And we are less than they. + +O let thy grace perform its part, + And let contention cease; +And shed abroad in every heart + Thine everlasting peace! + +Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine, + A flock by Jesus led; +The Sun of Holiness shall shine + In glory on our head. + +And thou wilt turn our wandering feet, + And thou wilt bless our way; +Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet + The dawn of lasting day. + + + + +THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. + + +When marshal'd on the nightly plain, + The glittering host bestud the sky; +One star alone, of all the train, + Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. + +Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, + From every host, from every gem; +But one alone the Saviour speaks, + It is the Star of Bethlehem. + +Once on the raging seas I rode, + The storm was loud,--the night was dark, +The ocean yawn'd--and rudely blow'd + The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. + +Deep horror then my vitals froze, + Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; +When suddenly a star arose, + It was the Star of Bethlehem. + +It was my guide, my light, my all, + It bade my dark forebodings cease; +And through the storm and dangers' thrall + It led me to the port of peace. + +Now safely moor'd--my peril's o'er, + I'll sing, first in night's diadem, +For ever, and for evermore, + The Star!--The Star of Bethlehem! + + + + +A HYMN. + +O Lord, my God, in mercy turn, +In mercy hear a sinner mourn! +To thee I call, to thee I cry, +O leave me, leave me not to die! + +I strove against thee, Lord, I know, +I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law; +The hour is past--the day's gone by, +And I am left alone to die. + +O pleasures past, what are ye now +But thorns about my bleeding brow! +Spectres that hover round my brain, +And aggravate and mock my pain. + +For pleasure I have given my soul; +Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll! +Now, Vengeance, smile--and with a blow +Lay the rebellious ingrate low. + +Yet, Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling, +I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing; +I'll clasp the cross, and holding there, +Even me, oh bliss!--his wrath may spare. + + + + +TRIBUTARY VERSES. + + + + +EULOGY ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE, BY +LORD BYRON. + +FROM THE ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. + + +Unhappy White![1] while life was in its spring, +And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, +The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair +Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. +Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, +When science self destroy'd her favourite son! +Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, +She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. +'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, +And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low. +So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, +No more through rolling clouds to soar again, +View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, +And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart. +Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, +He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel; +While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest +Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. + +Footnotes: + +[1] Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence +of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured +a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself +destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must +impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was +allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions +he was destined to assume. + + + + +SONNET ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY CAPEL LOFFT. + + +Master so early of the various lyre + Energic, pure, sublime!--Thus art thou gone? + In its bright dawn of fame that spirit flown, +Which breathed such sweetness, tenderness, and fire! +Wert thou but shown to win us to admire, + And veil in death thy splendour?--But unknown + Their destination who least time have shone, +And brightest beamed.--When these the Eternal Sire, +--Righteous, and wise, and good are all his ways-- + Eclipses as their sun begins to rise, +Can mortal judge, for their diminish'd days, + What blest equivalent in changeless skies, +What sacred glory waits them?--His the praise; + Gracious, whate'er he gives, whate'er denies. + +24th Oct. 1806. + + + + +SONNET OCCASIONED BY THE SECOND OF +HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY CAPEL LOFFT. + + +Yes, fled already is thy vital fire, + And the fair promise of thy early bloom + Lost, in youth's morn extinct; sunk in the tomb; +Mute in the grave sleeps thy enchanted lyre! +And is it vainly that our souls aspire? + Falsely does the presaging heart presume + That we shall live beyond life's cares and gloom; +Grasps it eternity with high desire, +But to imagine bliss, feel woe, and die; + Leaving survivors to worse pangs than death? + Not such the sanction of the Eternal Mind. +The harmonious order of the starry sky, + And awful revelation's angel breath, + Assure these hopes their full effect shall find. + +25th December, 1806. + + + + +WRITTEN IN THE HOMER OF +MR. H. K. WHITE. + +PRESENTED TO ME BY HIS BROTHER, J. NEVILLE WHITE. + +BY CAPEL LOFFT. + + +Bard of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame! + While on these awful leaves my fond eyes rest, + On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late press'd, +I pause; and gaze regretful on thy name. +By neither chance nor envy, time nor flame, + Be it from this its mansion dispossessed! + But thee, Eternity, clasps to her breast, +And in celestial splendour thrones thy claim. + +No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace + An imitative radiance:[1] thy pure lyre, +Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace, + And beams and breathes in empyreal fire: +The Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone +Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own. + +Bury, 11th Jan. 1807. + +Footnotes: + +[1] Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded with a glory. + + + + +TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. + +BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, A. M. + + +O Lost too soon! accept the tear + A stranger to thy memory pays! +Dear to the muse, to science dear, + In the young morning of thy days! + +All the wild notes that pity loved + Awoke, responsive still to thee, +While o'er the lyre thy fingers roved + In softest, sweetest harmony. + +The chords that in the human heart + Compassion touches as her own, +Bore in thy symphonies a part-- + With them in perfect unison. + +Amidst accumulated woes + That premature afflictions bring, +Submission's sacred hymn arose, + Warbled from every mournful string. + +When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread, + And deeper every moment grew; +When rudely round thy youthful head + The chilling blasts of sickness blew; + +Religion heard no 'plainings loud, + The sigh in secret stole from thee; +And pity, from the "dropping cloud," + Shed tears of holy sympathy. + +Cold is that heart in which were met + More virtues than could ever die; +The morning star of hope is set-- + The sun adorns another sky. + +O partial grief! to mourn the day + So suddenly o'erclouded here, +To rise with unextinguish'd ray-- + To shine in a superior sphere! + +Oft Genius early quits this sod, + Impatient of a robe of clay, +Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod, + And smiles, and soars, and steals away! + +But more than genius urged thy flight, + And mark'd the way, dear youth! for thee: +Henry sprang up to worlds of light +On wings of immortality! + +Blackheath Hill, 24th June, 1808. + + + + +SONNET TO HENRY KIRKE WHITE, ON HIS +POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED. + +BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. + + +Hail! gifted youth, whose passion-breathing lay + Portrays a mind attuned to noblest themes, + A mind, which, wrapt in Fancy's high-wrought dreams, +To nature's veriest bounds its daring way +Can wing: what charms throughout thy pages shine, + To win with fairy thrill the melting soul! + For though along impassion'd grandeur roll, +Yet in full power simplicity is thine. +Proceed, sweet bard! and the heaven-granted fire + Of pity, glowing in thy feeling breast, + May nought destroy, may nought thy soul divest +Of joy--of rapture in the living lyre, + Thou tunest so magically: but may fame + Each passing year add honours to thy name. + +Richmond, Sept. 1803. + + + + +SONNET, + +ON SEEING ANOTHER WRITTEN TO H. K. WHITE, IN SEPTEMBER, +1803, INSERTED IN HIS "REMAINS." + +BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. + + + Ah! once again the long left wires among, + Truants the Muse to weave her requiem song; +With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay +Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to stray +O'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower; + To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view +And courtship of the world: hail'd was the hour + That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew, +Poor Henry's budding beauties--to a clime + Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray + Forced their young vigour into transient day, +And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them! and shall time +Trample these orphan blossoms?--No! they breathe +Still lovelier charms--for Southey culls the wreath! + +Oxford, Dec. 17, 1807. + + + + +REFLECTIONS ON READING THE LIFE OF +THE LATE HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, +AUTHOR OF THE "PEASANT'S FATE." + + +Darling of science and the muse, +How shall a son of song refuse + To shed a tear for thee? +To us, so soon, for ever lost, +What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd + By Heaven's supreme decree? + +How could a parent, love-beguiled, +In life's fair prime resign a child + So duteous, good, and kind? +The warblers of the soothing strain +Must string the elegiac lyre in vain + To soothe the wounded mind! + +Yet, Fancy, hovering round the tomb, +Half envies, while she mourns thy doom, + Dear poet, saint, and sage! +Who into one short span, at best, +The wisdom of an age compress'd, + A patriarch's lengthen'd age! + +To him a genius sanctified, +And purged from literary pride, + A sacred boon was given: +Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre +Celestial raptures could inspire, + And lift the soul to Heaven. + +'Twas not the laurel earth bestows, +'Twas not the praise from man that flows, + With classic toil he sought: +He sought the crown that martyrs wear, +When rescued from a world of care; + Their spirit too he caught. + +Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay, +Who idly range in Folly's way, + And learn the worth of time: +Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, +How to redeem this pearl at last, + Atoning for your crime. + +This flower, that droop'd in one cold clime +Transplanted from the soil of time + To immortality, +In full perfection there shall bloom; +And those who now lament his doom + Must bow to God's decree. + +London, 27th Feb. 1808. + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY T. PARK. + + +Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell, + Impassion'd minstrel! when its pitying wail +Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell + Untimely, wither'd by the northern gale.[1] +Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime! + Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse blast, +Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desert clime, + But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'ercast, +To see thee languish into quick decay. + Yet was not thy departing immature; +For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away, + And pure in spirit, as the bless'd are pure; +Pure as the dewdrop, freed from earthly leaven, +That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven! + +Footnotes: + +[1] See Clifton Grove. + + + + +LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. HENRY +KIRKE WHITE. + +BY THE REV. J. PLUMPTRE. + + +Such talents and such piety combined, +With such unfeign'd humility of mind, +Bespoke him fair to tread the way to fame, +And live an honour to the Christian name. +But Heaven was pleased to stop his fleeting hour, +And blight the fragrance of the opening flower. +We mourn--but not for him, removed from pain; +Our loss, we trust, is his eternal gain: +With him we'll strive to win the Saviour's love, +And hope to join him with the blest above. + +October 24th, 1806. + + + + +TO MR. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY H. WELKER. + + +Hark! 'tis some sprite who sweeps a funeral knell, + For Dermody no more.--That fitful tone +From Eolus' wild harp alone can swell, + Or Chatterton assumes the lyre unknown. + +No; list again! 'tis Bateman's fatal sigh + Swells with the breeze, and dies upon the stream: +'Tis Margaret mourns, as swift she rushes by, + Roused by the demons from adulterous dream. + +O! say, sweet youth! what genius fires thy soul? + The same which tuned the frantic nervous strain +To the wild harp of Collins?--By the pole, + Or 'mid the seraphim and heavenly train, +Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold, +To sing Hell's flaming gulf, or Heaven high arch'd with gold? + + + + +VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF +HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY JOSIAH CONDER. + + + What is this world at best, + Though deck'd in vernal bloom, +By hope and youthful fancy dress'd, +What, but a ceaseless toil for rest, + A passage to the tomb? + If flowrets strew + The avenue, +Though fair, alas! how fading, and how few! + + And every hour comes arm'd + By sorrow, or by woe: +Conceal'd beneath its little wings, +A scythe the soft-shod pilferer brings, + To lay some comfort low: + Some tie to unbind, + By love entwined, +Some silken bond that holds the captive mind. + + And every month displays + The ravages of time: +Faded the flowers!--The spring is past! +The scattered leaves, the wintry blast, + Warn to a milder clime: + The songsters flee + The leafless tree, +And bear to happier realms their melody. + + Henry! the world no more + Can claim thee for her own! +In purer skies thy radiance beams! +Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes + Before the eternal throne: + Yet, spirit dear, + Forgive the tear +Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger here. + + Although a stranger, I + In friendship's train would weep: +Lost to the world, alas! so young, +And must thy lyre, in silence hung, + On the dark cypress sleep? + The poet, all + Their friend may call; +And Nature's self attends his funeral. + + Although with feeble wing + Thy flight I would pursue, +With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride, +Alike our object, hopes, and guide, + One heaven alike in view; + True, it was thine + To tower, to shine; +But I may make thy milder virtues mine. + + If Jesus own my name + (Though, fame pronounced it never), +Sweet spirit, not with thee alone, +But all whose absence here I moan, +Circling with harps the golden throne, + I shall unite for ever. + At death then why + Tremble or sigh? +Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die? + +Dec. 5, 1807. + + + + +ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S +POEM ON SOLITUDE. + +BY JOSIAH CONDER. + + +But art thou thus indeed "alone?" +Quite unbefriended--all unknown? +And hast thou then his name forgot +Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot? + +Is not his voice in evening's gale? +Beams not with him the "star" so pale? +Is there a leaf can fade and die +Unnoticed by his watchful eye? + +Each fluttering hope--each anxious fear-- +Each lonely sigh--each silent tear-- +To thine Almighty Friend are known; +And say'st thou, thou art "all alone?" + + + + +ODE ON THE LATE H. KIRKE WHITE. + +BY JUVENIS. + + +And is the minstrel's voyage o'er? + And is the star of genius fled? +And will his magic harp no more, + Mute in the mansions of the dead, +Its strains seraphic pour? + +A pilgrim in this world of woe, + Condemn'd, alas! awhile to stray, +Where bristly thorns, where briers grow, + He bade, to cheer the gloomy way, +Its heavenly music flow. + +And oft he bade, by fame inspired, + Its wild notes seek the ethereal plain, +Till angels, by its music fired, + Have, listening, caught the ecstatic strain, +Have wonder'd, and admired. + +But now secure on happier shores, + With choirs of sainted souls he sings; +His harp the Omnipotent adores, + And from its sweet, its silver strings +Celestial music pours. + +And though on earth, no more he'll weave + The lay that's fraught with magic fire, +Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve + His now exalted heavenly lyre +In sounds Æolian grieve. + +B. Stoke. + + + + +SONNET IN MEMORY OF HENRY +KIRKE WHITE. + +BY J. G. + + +"'Tis now the dead of night," and I will go +To where the brook soft murmuring glides along +In the still wood; yet does the plaintive song +Of Philomela through the welkin flow; +And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw + Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, + Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree strong, +And intermingle with the streams my woe! +Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze; + No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom; +Cold, chilling dewdrops trickle down the trees, + And every flower withholds its rich perfume: +'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground +Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound! + + + + +LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRY +KIRKE WHITE. + +LATE OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. + + + Sorrows are mine--then let me joys evade. +And seek for sympathies in this lone shade. +The glooms of death fall heavy on my heart, +And, between life and me, a truce impart. +Genius has vanish'd in its opening bloom, +And youth and beauty wither in the tomb! + Thought, ever prompt to lend the inquiring eye, +Pursues thy spirit through futurity. +Does thy aspiring mind new powers essay, +Or in suspended being wait the day, +When earth shall fall before the awful train +Of Heaven and Virtue's everlasting reign? + May goodness, which thy heart did once enthrone, +Emit one ray to meliorate my own! +And for thy sake, when time affliction calm, +Science shall please, and poesie shall charm. + I turn my steps whence issued all my woes, +Where the dull courts monastic glooms impose; +Thence fled a spirit whose unbounded scope +Surpass'd the fond creations e'en of hope. + Along this path thy living step has fled, +Along this path they bore thee to the dead. +All that this languid eye can now survey +Witnessed the vigour of thy fleeting day: +And witness'd all, as speaks this anguish'd tear, +The solemn progress of thy early bier. + Sacred the walls that took thy parting breath, +Own'd thee in life, encompass'd thee in death! + Oh! I can feel as felt the sorrowing friend +Who o'er thy corse in agony did bend; +Dead as thyself to all the world inspires, +Paid the last rites mortality requires; +Closed the dim eye that beam'd with mind before, +Composed the icy limbs to move no more! + Some power the picture from my memory tear, +Or feeling will rush onward to despair. + Immortal hopes! come, lend your blest relief, +And raise the soul bow'd down with mortal grief; +Teach it to look for comfort in the skies: +Earth cannot give what Heaven's high will denies. + +Cambridge, Nov. 1806. + + + + +SONNET + +ADDRESSED TO H. K. WHITE, ON HIS POEMS +LATELY PUBLISHED. + +BY G. L. C. + + +Henry! I greet thine entrance into life! +Sure presage that the myrmidons of fate, +The fool's unmeaning laugh, the critic's hate, +Will dire assail thee; and the envious strife +Of bookish schoolmen, beings over rife, +Whose pia-mater studious is fill'd +With unconnected matter, half distill'd +From letter'd page, shall bare for thee the knife, +Beneath whose edge the poet ofttimes sinks: +But fear not! for thy modest work contains +The germ of worth; thy wild poetic strains, +How sweet to him, untutor'd bard, who thinks +Thy verse "has power to please, as soft it flows +Through the smooth murmurs of the frequent close." + +1803. + + + + +TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY A LADY. + + +If worth, if genius, to the world are dear, +To Henry's shade devote no common tear; +His worth on no precarious tenure hung. +From genuine piety his virtues sprung; +If pure benevolence, if steady sense, +Can to the feeling heart delight dispense: +If all the highest efforts of the mind, +Exalted, noble, elegant, refined, +Call for fond sympathy's heart-felt regret, +Ye sons of genius, pay the mournful debt: +His friends can truly speak how large his claim, +And "Life was only wanting to his fame." +Art thou, indeed, dear youth, for ever fled? +So quickly number'd with the silent dead? +Too sure I read it in the downcast eye, +Hear it in mourning friendship's stifled sigh. +Ah! could esteem or admiration save +So dear an object from the untimely grave, +This transcript faint had not essay'd to tell +The loss of one beloved, revered so well; +Vainly I try, even eloquence were weak, +The silent sorrow that I feel to speak. +No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer, +And bind my spirit to this lower sphere; +Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh, +And bid new fire relume my languid eye: +No more the pencil's mimic art command, +And with kind pity guide my trembling hand; +Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard, +To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard. +Vain all the pleasures thou canst not inspire, +And "in my breast the imperfect joys expire." +I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my shrine, +And little dream'd I should have wept o'er thine: +In fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre +With virtue's energies each bosom fire; +I saw admiring nations press around, +Eager to catch the animating sound: +And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night, +To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight, +Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade, +And each graced honour to thy memory paid. +Such was the fate hope pictured to my view-- +But who, alas! e'er found hope's visions true? +And, ah! a dark presage, when last we met, +Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret; +When thou thy portrait from the minstrel drew, +The living Edwin starting on my view-- +Silent, I ask'd of Heaven a lengthen'd date; +His genius thine, but not like thine his fate. +Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure revealed, +The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd. +Too strong the portion of celestial flame +For its weak tenement the fragile frame; +Too soon for us it sought its native sky, +And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye, +Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight, +Leaving behind long tracks of lucid light: +So shall thy bright example fire each youth +With love of virtue, piety, and truth. +Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn, +And bid her sons revere thy favour'd urn. +When thy loved flower "spring's victory makes known," +The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone: +Around thy urn the rosemary well spread, +Whose "tender fragrance,"--emblem of the dead-- +Shall "teach the maid, whose bloom no longer lives," +That "virtue every perish'd grace survives." +Farewell! sweet Moralist; heart-sickening grief +Tells me in duty's path to seek relief, +With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise, +And seek hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies. +Yet still on thee shall fond remembrance dwell, +And to the world thy worth delight to tell; +Though well I feel unworthy thee the lays +That to thy memory weeping friendship pays. + + + + +STANZAS, + +SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE +OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. + +BY A LADY. + + +Ye gentlest gales! oh, hither waft, + On airy undulating sweeps, +Your frequent sighs so passing soft, + Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps! +He breathed the purest tenderest sigh, +The sigh of sensibility. + +And thou shalt lie, his favourite flower, + Pale primrose, on his grave reclined; +Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour, + And of his pure, his spotless mind! +Like thee he sprung in lowly vale; +And felt, like thee, the trying gale. + +Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude, + O thou, the fragrant rosemary, +Where he, "in marble solitude, + So peaceful and so deep" doth lie! +His harp prophetic sung to thee +In notes of sweetest minstrelsy. + +Ye falling dews, Oh! ever leave + Your crystal drops these flowers to steep: +At earliest morn, at latest eve, + Oh let them for their poet weep! +For tears bedew'd his gentle eye, +The tears of heavenly sympathy. + +Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams; + for he was wont to pace the glade, +To watch in pale uncertain gleams, + The crimson-zoned horizon fade-- +Thy last, they setting radiance pour, +Where he is set to rise no more. + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Henry Kirke White +by Henry Kirke White + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETICAL WORKS *** + +This file should be named 8pwhw10.txt or 8pwhw10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8pwhw11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8pwhw10a.txt + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Tiffany Vergon, Charles Aldarondo, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/8pwhw10.zip b/old/8pwhw10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fdcbb8b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8pwhw10.zip diff --git a/old/8pwhw10h.htm b/old/8pwhw10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0c97770 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8pwhw10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9636 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= +"text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> +<title>Poetical Works</title> +<style type="text/css"> +<!-- + .smallcaps {font-variant: small-caps; } + a {text-decoration: none; } + a.fnref {font-size: smaller; vertical-align: top; } + ul.toc {list-style-type: none; } +--> +</style> +</head> + +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Henry Kirke White +by Henry Kirke White + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Poetical Works of Henry Kirke White + With a Memoir by Sir Harris Nicolas + +Author: Henry Kirke White + +Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7149] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on March 17, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-Latin-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETICAL WORKS *** + + + + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Tiffany Vergon, Charles Aldarondo, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>THE POETICAL WORKS OF<br> +HENRY KIRKE WHITE.</h1> + +<p>WITH A MEMOIR<br> +BY SIR HARRIS NICOLAS.</p> + +<p>TO<br> +PETER SMITH, ESQ.<br> +THIS VOLUME<br> +IS INSCRIBED<br> +IN TESTIMONY OF ESTEEM AND FRIENDSHIP.</p> + +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> + +<p class="smallcaps"><a href="#memoir">Memoir of Henry Kirke +White</a></p> + +<h3><a href="#misc">MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.</a></h3> + +<ul class="toc"> +<li><a href="#misc01">Clifton Grove</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc02">Time</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc03">Childhood; Part I</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc04"> Part II</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc05">The Christiad</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc06">Lines written on a Survey of the +Heavens</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc07">Lines supposed to be spoken by a Lover at +the Grave of his Mistress</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc08">My Study</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc09">Description of a Summer's Eve</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc10">Lines—"Go to the raging sea, and say, +'Be still!'"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc11">Written in the Prospect of Death</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc12">Verses—"When pride and envy, and the +scorn"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc13">Fragment—"Oh! thou most fatal of +Pandora's train"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc14"> "Loud rage the winds without.—The +wintry cloud"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc15">To a Friend in Distress</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc16">Christmas Day</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc17">Nelsoni Mors</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc18">Epigram on Robert Bloomfield</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc19">Elegy occasioned by the Death of Mr. Gill, +who was drowned in the River Trent, while bathing</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc20">Inscription for a Monument to the Memory of +Cowper</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc21">"I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc22">Solitude</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc23">"If far from me the Fates remove"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc24">"Fanny! upon thy breast I may not +lie!"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc25">Fragments—"Saw'st thou that light? +exclaim'd the youth, and paused:"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc26"> "The pious man"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc27"> "Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in +gray"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc28"> "There was a little bird upon that +pile;"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc29"> "O pale art thou, my lamp, and +faint"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc30"> "O give me music—for my soul doth +faint"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc31"> "And must thou go, and must we +part"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc32"> "Ah! who can say, however fair his +view,"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc33"> "Hush'd is the lyre—the hand that +swept"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc34"> "When high romance o'er every wood and +stream"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc35"> "Once more, and yet once +more,"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc36">Fragment of an Eccentric Drama</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc37">To a Friend</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc38">Lines on reading the Poems of +Warton</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc39">Fragment—"The western gale,"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc40">Commencement of a Poem on Despair</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc41">The Eve of Death</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc42">Thanatos</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc43">Athanatos</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc44">Music</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc45">On being confined to School one pleasant +Morning in Spring</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc46">To Contemplation</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc47">My own Character</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc48">Lines written in Wilford +Churchyard</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc49">Verses—"Thou base repiner at +another's joy,"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc50">Lines—"Yes, my stray steps have +wander'd, wander'd far"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#misc51">The Prostitute</a></li> +</ul> + +<h3><a href="#odes">ODES.</a></h3> + +<ul class="toc"> +<li><a href="#ode01">To my Lyre</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode02">To an early Primrose</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode03">Ode addressed to H. Fuseli, Esq. R. +A.</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode04">To the Earl of Carlisle, K. G.</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode05">To Contemplation</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode06">To the Genius of Romance</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode07">To Midnight</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode08">To Thought</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode09">Genius</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode10">Fragment of an Ode to the Moon</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode11">To the Muse</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode12">To Love</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode13">On Whit-Monday</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode14">To the Wind, at Midnight</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode15">To the Harvest Moon</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode16">To the Herb Rosemary</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode17">To the Morning</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode18">On Disappointment</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ode19">On the Death of Dermody the Poet</a></li> +</ul> + +<h3><a href="#sonnets">SONNETS.</a></h3> + +<ul class="toc"> +<li><a href="#sonnet01">To the River Trent</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet02">Sonnet—"Give me a cottage on some +Cambrian wild,"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet03">Sonnet supposed to have been addressed by +a Female Lunatic to a Lady</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet04">Sonnet supposed to be written by the +unhappy Poet Dermody in a Storm</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet05">The Winter Traveller</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet06">Sonnet—"Ye whose aspirings court +the muse of lays,"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet07">Recantatory, in Reply to the foregoing +elegant Admonition</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet08">On hearing the Sounds of an Æolian +Harp</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet09">Sonnet—"What art thou, Mighty One! +and where thy seat?"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet10">To Capel Lofft, Esq.</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet11">To the Moon</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet12">Written at the Grave of a Friend</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet13">To Misfortune</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet14">Sonnet—"As thus oppress'd with many +a heavy care,"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet15">To April</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet16">Sonnet—"Ye unseen spirits, whose +wild melodies,"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet17">To a Taper</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet18">To my Mother</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet19">Sonnet—"Yes, 't will be over soon. +This sickly dream"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet10">To Consumption</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet11">Sonnet—"Thy judgments, Lord, are +just;"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet12">Sonnet—"When I sit musing on the +chequer'd part"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet13">Sonnet—"Sweet to the gay of heart +is Summer's smile"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#sonnet14">Sonnet—"Quick o'er the wintry waste +dart fiery shafts"</a></li> +</ul> + +<h3><a href="#ballads">BALLADS, SONGS, AND HYMNS.</a></h3> + +<ul class="toc"> +<li><a href="#ballad01">Gondoline</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad02">A Ballad—"Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye +bitter winds,"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad03">The Lullaby of a Female Convict to her +Child, the Night previous to Execution</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad04">The Savoyard's Return</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad05">A Pastoral Song</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad06">Melody—"Yes, once more that dying +strain"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad07">Additional Stanza to a Song by +Waller</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad08">The Wandering Boy</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad09">Canzonet—"Maiden! wrap thy mantle +round thee'"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad10">Song—"Softly, softly blow, ye +breezes,"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad11">The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song to the +Night</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad12">The Wonderful Juggler</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad13">Hymn—"Awake, sweet harp of Judah, +wake"</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad14">A Hymn for Family Worship</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad15">The Star of Bethlehem</a></li> + +<li><a href="#ballad16">Hymn—"O Lord, my God, in mercy +turn"</a></li> +</ul> + +<h3><a href="#tributes">TRIBUTARY VERSES.</a></h3> + +<ul class="toc"> +<li><a href="#trib01">Eulogy on Henry Kirke White, by Lord +Byron</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib02">Sonnet on Henry Kirke White, by Capel +Lofft</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib03">Sonnet occasioned by the Second of H. K. +White, by the same</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib04">Written in the Homer of Mr. H. K. White, by +the same</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib05">To the Memory of H. K. White, by the Rev. +W. B. Collyer, A.M.</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib06">Sonnet to H. K. White, on his Poems, by +Arthur Owen, Esq.</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib07">Sonnet, on seeing another written to H. K. +White, by the same</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib08">Reflections on Reading the Life of the late +H. K. White, by William Holloway</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib09">On the Death of Henry Kirke White, by T. +Park</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib10">Lines on the Death of Henry Kirke White, by +the Rev. J. Plumptre</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib11">To Henry Kirke White, by H. Welker</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib12">Verses occasioned by the Death of H. K. +White, by Josiah Conder</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib13">On Reading H. K. White's Poem on Solitude, +by the same</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib14">Ode on the late Henry Kirke White, by +Juvenis</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib15">Sonnet in Memory of Henry Kirke White, by +J. G.</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib16">Lines on the Death of Henry Kirke +White</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib17">Sonnet to H. K. White, on his Poems, by G. +L. C.</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib18">To the Memory of Henry Kirke White, by a +Lady</a></li> + +<li><a href="#trib19">Stanzas supposed to have been written at +the Grave of Henry Kirke White, by a Lady</a></li> +</ul> + +<hr> +<a name="memoir"></a> + +<h2>MEMOIR OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.</h2> + +<p>BY SIR HARRIS NICOLAS.</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>Thine, <span class="smallcaps">Henry</span>, is a deathless +name on earth,<br> +Thine amaranthine wreaths, new pluck'd in Heaven!<br> +By what aspiring child of mortal birth<br> +Could more be ask'd, to whom might more be given<br> +TOWNSEND.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>It has been said that the contrasts of light and shade are as +necessary to biography as to painting, and that the character +which is radiant with genius and virtue requires to be relieved +by more common and opposite qualities. Though this may be true as +a principle, there are many exceptions; and the life of <span +class="smallcaps">Henry Kirke White</span>, whose merits were +unalloyed by a single vice, is one of the most memorable. The +history of his short and melancholy career, by Mr. Southey, is +extremely popular; and when it is remembered that its author is +one of the most distinguished of living writers, that as a +biographer he is unrivalled, and that he had access to all the +materials which exist, it would be as vain to expect from the +present Memoir any new facts, as it would be absurd to hope that +it will be more worthy of attention than the imperishable +monument which his generous friend has erected to his memory.</p> + +<p>There is, however, nothing inconsistent with this admission, +in presuming that a Life of the Poet might be written almost as +interesting as the one alluded to, and without the writer +assuming to himself any unusual sagacity. As Mr. Southey's +narrative is prefixed to a collection of all Kirke White's +remains, in prose as well as in verse, his letters are inserted +as part of his works, instead of extracts from them being +introduced into the Memoir. This volume will, on the contrary, be +confined to his Poems; and such parts of his letters as describe +his situation and feelings at particular periods will be +introduced into the account of his life. Indeed, so frequent are +the allusions to himself in those letters as well as in his +poems, that he may be almost considered an autobiographer; and +the writer who substitutes his own cold and lifeless sketch for +the glowing and animated portrait which these memorials of genius +afford, must either be deficient in skill, or be under the +dominion of overweening vanity.</p> + +<p>Few who have risen to eminence were, on the paternal side at +least, of humbler origin than <span class="smallcaps">Henry Kirke +White</span>. His father, John White, was a butcher at +Nottingham; but his mother, who bore the illustrious name of +Neville, is said to have belonged to a respectable family in +Staffordshire. He was born at Nottingham on the 21st of March, +1785; and in his earliest years indications were observed of the +genius for which he was afterwards distinguished. In his poem +"Childhood," he has graphically described the little school +where, between the age of three and five, he</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> "enter'd, though with toil and pain,<br> +The low vestibule of learning's fane."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>The venerable dame by whom he was</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"inured to alphabetic toils,"</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>and whose worth he gratefully commemorates, had the +discernment to perceive her charge's talents, and even foretold +his future celebrity:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"And, as she gave my diligence its praise,<br> +Talk'd of the honour of my future days."</p> + +<br> +<br> +</blockquote> + +<p>If he did not deceive himself, it was at this period that his +imagination became susceptible of poetic associations. Speaking +of the eagerness with which he left the usual sports of children +to listen to tales of imaginary woe, and of the effect which they +produced, he says,</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"Beloved moment! then 't was first I caught<br> +The first foundation of romantic thought;<br> +Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear,<br> +Then first that Poesy charm'd mine infant ear.<br> +Soon stored with much of legendary lore,<br> +The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more;<br> +Far from the scene of gaiety and noise,<br> +Far, far from turbulent and empty joys,<br> +I hied me to the thick o'erarching shade,<br> +And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid;<br> +While at my feet the rippling runnel ran,<br> +The days of wild romance antique I'd scan;<br> +Soar on the wings of fancy through the air,<br> +To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there."<br> +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>The peculiar disposition of his mind, having thus early +displayed itself, every day added to its force. Study and +abstraction were his greatest pleasures, and a love of reading +became his predominant passion. "I could fancy," said his eldest +sister, "I see him in his little chair with a large book upon his +knee, and my mother calling, 'Henry, my love, come to dinner,' +which was repeated so often without being regarded, that she was +obliged to change the tone of her voice before she could rouse +him."</p> + +<p>At the age of six he was placed under the care of the Rev. +John Blanchard, who kept the best school in Nottingham, where he +learnt writing, arithmetic, and French; and he continued there +for several years. During that time two facts are related of him +which prove the precocity of his talents. When about seven, he +was accustomed to go secretly into his father's kitchen and teach +the servant to read and write; and he composed a tale of a Swiss +emigrant, which he gave her, being too diffident to show it to +his mother. In his eleventh year he wrote a separate theme for +each of the twelve or fourteen boys in his class; and the +excellence of the various pieces obtained his master's +applause.</p> + +<p>Henry was destined for his father's trade, and the efforts of +his mother to change that intention were for some time fruitless. +Even while he was at school, one day in every week, and his +leisure hours on the others, were employed in carrying meat to +his father's customers; but a dispute between his father and his +master having caused him to be removed from school, one of the +ushers, from malice or ignorance, told his mother that it was +impossible to make her son do any thing. The person who reported +so unfavourably of his abilities, little knew that he had then +given ample evidence of his talents, in some poetical satires +which his treatment at school had provoked, but which he +afterwards destroyed.</p> + +<p>Soon after he quitted Mr. Blanchard's school he was intrusted +to Mr. Shipley, who discovered his pupil's abilities, and +relieved his friends' uneasiness on the subject. His earliest +production that has been preserved was written in his thirteenth +year, "On being confined to School one pleasant Morning in +Spring," in which a schoolboy's love of liberty, and his envy of +the freedom of a neighbouring wren, are expressed with plaintive +simplicity.</p> + +<p>About this time a slight improvement took place in his +situation. His mother, to whom he was indebted for all the +happiness of his childhood, opened a day school, and, as it +abstracted her from the groveling cares of a butcher's shop, his +home was made much more comfortable; and, instead of being +confined to his father's business, he was placed in a stocking +loom, with the view of bringing him up to the trade of a hosier, +the poverty of his family still precluding the hope of a +profession.</p> + +<p>It may easily be believed that this occupation ill agreed with +the aspirations of his mind. From his mother he had few secrets, +and in her ear he breathed his disgust and unhappiness. "He could +not bear," he said, "the idea of spending some years of his life +in shining and folding up stockings;" he wanted "something to +occupy his brain, and he should be wretched if he continued +longer at this trade, or indeed in any thing, except one of the +learned professions." For a year these remonstrances were +ineffectual; but no persuasions, even when urged with maternal +tenderness, could reconcile him to his lot. He sought for +consolation with the Muses, and wrote an "Address to +Contemplation," in which he describes his feelings:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> "Why along<br> +The dusky track of commerce should I toil,<br> +When, with an easy competence content,<br> +I can alone be happy; where, with thee,<br> +I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature,<br> +And loose the wings of fancy! Thus alone<br> +Can I partake of happiness on earth;<br> +And to be happy here is man's chief end,<br> +For to be happy he must needs be good."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>There are few obstacles that perseverance will not overcome; +and penury and a parent's obstinacy were both surmounted by Kirke +White's importunity. Finding it useless to chain him longer to +the hosier's loom, he was placed in the office of Messrs. Coldham +and Enfield, Town Clerk and attorneys of Nottingham, some time in +May, 1799, when he was in his fifteenth year; but as a premium +could not be given with him, it was agreed that he should serve +two years before he was articled. A few months after he entered +upon his new employment, he began a correspondence with his +brother, Mr. Neville White, who was then a medical student in +London; and in a letter, dated in September, 1799, he thus spoke +of his situation and prospects:</p> + +<p>"It is now nearly four months since I entered into Mr. +Coldham's office; and it is with pleasure I can assure you, that +I never yet found any thing disagreeable, but, on the contrary, +every thing I do seems a pleasure to me, and for a very obvious +reason,—it is a business which I like—a business +which I chose before all others; and I have two good-tempered, +easy masters, but who will, nevertheless, see that their business +is done in a neat and proper manner."—"A man that +understands the law is sure to have business; and in case I have +no thoughts, in case, that is, that I do not aspire to hold the +honourable place of a barrister, I shall feel sure of gaining a +genteel livelihood at the business to which I am articled."</p> + +<p>At the suggestion of his employers, he devoted the greater +part of his leisure to Latin; and, though he was but slightly +assisted, he was able in ten months to read Horace with tolerable +facility, and had made some progress in Greek. Having but little +time for these pursuits, he accustomed himself to decline the +Greek nouns and verbs during his walks to and from the office, +and he thereby acquired a habit of studying while walking, that +never deserted him. The account which Mr. Southey has given of +his application, and of the success that attended it, is +astonishing. Though living with his family, he nearly estranged +himself from their society. At meals, and during the evenings, a +book was constantly in his hands; and as he refused to sup with +them, to prevent any loss of time, his meal was sent to him in +his little apartment. Law, Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, and +Portuguese, chemistry, astronomy, electricity, drawing, music, +and mechanics, by turns engaged his attention; and though his +acquirements in some of those studies were very superficial, his +proficiency in many of them was far from contemptible. His papers +on law evince so much industry, that had that subject alone +occupied his leisure hours, his diligence would have been +commendable. He was a tolerable Italian scholar, and in the +classics he afterwards attained reputation; but of the sciences +and of Spanish and Portuguese, his knowledge was not, it may be +inferred, very great. His ear for music was good, and his +passionate attachment to it is placed beyond a doubt by his +verses on its effects:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"With her in pensive mood I long to roam<br> +At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline,<br> +And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam,<br> +In calm Seclusion's hermit-walks recline:"</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>But he checked his ardour, lest it might interfere with more +essential studies: and his musical attainments were limited to +playing pleasingly on the piano, composing the bass to the air at +the same time.</p> + +<p>Ambition was one of the most powerful feelings of his nature, +and it is rare indeed, when it is not the companion of great +talents. It developed itself first in spurning trade; and no +sooner did he find himself likely to become an attorney, than he +aspired to the bar. But his earliest and strongest passion was +for literary distinction; and he was scarcely removed from the +trammels of school, before he sought admission into a literary +society, in his native town. His extreme youth rendered him +objectionable; but, after repeated refusals, he at last +succeeded. In the association there were six professors, and +being, on the first vacancy, appointed to the chair of +literature, he soon justified the choice. Taking "genius" as his +theme, he addressed the assembly in an extemporaneous lecture of +two hours and three-quarters duration, with so much success, that +the audience unanimously voted him their thanks, declaring that +"the society had never heard a better lecture delivered from the +chair which he so much honoured." To judge properly of this +circumstance, it would be necessary to know of whom the society +was composed; but with so flattering a testimony to his +abilities, the sanguine boy naturally placed a high estimate on +them.</p> + +<p>The establishment of a Magazine called the Monthly Preceptor, +which proposed prize themes for young persons, afforded Kirke +White an opportunity of trying his literary powers. In a letter +written in June, 1800, to his brother, speaking of that work he +says, "I am noticed as worthy of commendation, and as affording +an encouraging prospect of future excellence. You will laugh. I +have also turned poet, and have translated an Ode of Horace into +English verse." His productions gained him several of the prizes; +and he soon afterwards became a contributor to the Monthly +Mirror, his compositions in which attracted the attention of Mr. +Hill, the proprietor of the work, and of Mr. Capel Lofft, a +gentleman who distinguished himself by his patronage of +Bloomfield.</p> + +<p>Though on entering an attorney's office the bar was the object +of his hopes, a constitutional deafness soon convinced him that +he was not adapted for the duties of an advocate; and his +thoughts, from conscientious motives, became directed to the +Church.</p> + +<p>When about fifteen, his mind was agitated by doubt and anxiety +on the most important of all subjects; and the chaos of opinions +which extensive and miscellaneous reading so often produces on +ardent and imaginative temperaments, is well described in his +little poem entitled, "My own Character," wherein he represents +himself as a prey to the most opposite impressions, and as being +in a miserable state of incertitude:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> "First I premise it's my honest conviction,<br> +That my breast is the chaos of all contradiction,<br> +Religious—deistic—now loyal and warm,<br> +Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform;<br> + * * * * *<br> +Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay,<br> +To all points of the compass I veer in a day."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>In this sketch there is evidently much truth; and it affords a +striking idea of a plastic and active mind, on which every thing +makes an impression, where one idea follows another in such rapid +succession, that the former is not so entirely removed, but that +some remains of it are amalgamated with its successor. A youth +whose intellect is thus tossed in a whirlpool of conflicting +speculations, resembles a goodly ship newly launched, which, +until properly steadied by ballast, reels from side to side, the +sport of every undulation of the waters.</p> + +<p>About this time young White's religious feelings were strongly +affected by the conversion of his friend, Mr. Almond, whose +opinions were previously as unsettled as his own. To escape the +raillery with which he expected White would assail him on +learning the change in his sentiments, Almond avoided his +society; and when his friend offered to defend his opinions, if +Henry would allow the divine originality of the Bible, he +exclaimed, "Good God! you surely regard me in a worse light than +I deserve." The discussion that followed, and the perusal of +Scott's "Force of Truth," which Almond placed in his hands, +induced him to direct his attention seriously to the subject; but +an affecting incident soon afterwards showed how deeply he was +then influenced by religious considerations. On the evening +before Mr. Almond left Nottingham for Cambridge, he was requested +by White to accompany him to his apartment. The moment they +entered, Henry burst into tears, declaring that his anguish of +mind was insupportable; and he entreated Almond to kneel and pray +for him. Their tears and supplications were cordially mingled, +and when they were about to separate, White said, "What must I +do? You are the only friend to whom I can apply in this agonizing +state, and you are about to leave me. My literary associates are +all inclined to deism. I have no one with whom I can +communicate."</p> + +<p>It is instructive to learn to what circumstance such a person +as Kirke White was indebted for the knowledge "which causes not +to err." This information occurs in a letter from him to a Mr. +Booth, in August, 1801; and it also fixes the date of the happy +change that influenced every thought and every action of his +future life, which gave the energy of virtue to his exertions, +soothed the asperities of a temper naturally impetuous and +irritable, and enabled him, at a period when manhood is full of +hope and promise, to view the approaches of death with the +calmness of a philosopher, and the resignation of a saint.</p> + +<p>After thanking Mr. Booth for the present of Jones's work on +the Trinity, he thus describes his religious impressions previous +to its perusal, and the effect it produced:</p> + +<p>"Religious polemics, indeed, have seldom formed a part of my +studies; though whenever I happened accidentally to turn my +thoughts to the subject of the Protestant doctrine of the +Godhead, and compared it with Arian and Socinian, many doubts +interfered, and I even began to think that the more nicely the +subject was investigated, the more perplexed it would appear, and +was on the point of forming a resolution to go to heaven in my +own way, without meddling or involving myself in the inextricable +labyrinth of controversial dispute, when I received and perused +this excellent treatise, which finally cleared up the mists which +my ignorance had conjured around me, and clearly pointed out the +real truth."</p> + +<p>From the moment he became convinced of the truths of +Christianity, all the enthusiasm of his nature was kindled. The +ministry only, was deemed worthy of his ambition; and he devoted +his thoughts to the sacred office with a zeal that justified a +hope of the richest fruits. In a letter to his friend, Mr. +Almond, in November, 1803, he says,</p> + +<p>"My dear friend, I cannot adequately express what I owe to you +on the score of religion. I told Mr. Robinson you were the first +instrument of my being brought to think deeply on religious +subjects; and I feel more and more every day, that if it had not +been for you, I might, most probably, have been now buried in +apathy and unconcern. Though I am in a great measure +blessed,—I mean blessed with faith, now pretty steadfast, +and heavy convictions, I am far from being happy. My sins have +been of a dark hue, and manifold: I have made Fame my God, and +Ambition my shrine. I have placed all my hopes on the things of +this world. I have knelt to Dagon; I have worshipped the evil +creations of my own proud heart, and God had well nigh turned his +countenance from me in wrath; perhaps one step further, and he +might have shut me for ever from his rest. I now turn my eyes to +Jesus, my Saviour, my atonement, with hope and confidence: he +will not repulse the imploring penitent; his arms are open to +all, they are open even to me; and in return for such a mercy, +what can I do less than dedicate my whole life to his service? My +thoughts would fain recur at intervals to my former delights; but +I am now on my guard to restrain and keep them in. I know now +where they ought to concentre, and with the blessing of God, they +shall there all tend.</p> + +<p>"My next publication of poems will be solely religious. I +shall not destroy those of a different nature, which now lie +before me; but they will, most probably, sleep in my desk, until, +in the good time of my great Lord and Master, I shall receive my +passport from this world of vanity. I am now bent on a higher +errand than that of the attainment of poetical fame; poetry, in +future, will be my relaxation, not my employment.—Adieu to +literary ambition! 'You do not aspire to be prime minister,' said +Mr. Robinson; 'you covet a far higher character —to be the +humblest among those who minister to their Maker.'"</p> + +<p>To the arguments of his friends on the impolicy of quitting a +profession to which he had given so much of his time, and on the +obstacles to the attainment of his wishes, he was impenetrable. +His employers generously offered to cancel his articles as soon +as he could show that his resources were likely to support him at +the University. Friends arose as they became necessary, and more +than one or two persons exerted themselves to promote his views; +but his principal reliance was on the sale of a little volume of +Poems, which, at the suggestion of Mr. Capel Lofft, he prepared +for the press.</p> + +<p>The history of an author's first book is always interesting, +and Kirke White's was attended with unusual incidents. A novice +in literature often imagines that it is important his work should +be dedicated to some person of rank; and the Countess of Derby +was applied to, who declined, on the ground that she never +accepted a compliment of that nature. He then addressed the +Duchess of Devonshire; and a letter, with the manuscript, was +left at her house. The difficulty of obtaining access to her +Grace proved so great, that more than one letter to his brother +was written on the subject, in which he indignantly says, "I am +cured of patronage hunting; as for begging patronage, I am tired +to the soul of it, and shall give it up." Permission to inscribe +the book to the Duchess was at length granted: the book came out +in 1803; and a copy was transmitted to her, of which, however, no +notice whatever was taken.</p> + +<p>On the publication of the volume, a copy was sent to each +Review, with a letter deprecatory of the severity of criticism, +an act as ill judged as it was useless, since all that a young +writer could properly say was to be found in the preface, in +which he stated that his inducement to publish was, "the +facilitation through its means of those studies which, from his +earliest infancy, have been the principal objects of his +ambition, and the increase of the capacity to pursue these +inclinations, which may one day place him in an honourable +station in the scale of society."</p> + +<p>His feelings received a severe wound from the notice of his +Poems in the Monthly Review, the writer of which, not satisfied +with saying that the production did not "justify any sanguine +expectations," selected four of the worst lines in support of his +opinion, and showed himself insensible of the numerous beauties +scattered through the various pieces. Writing to a friend soon +afterwards, he thus spoke of himself; and more mental +wretchedness has seldom been described:</p> + +<p>"I am at present under afflictions and contentions of spirit, +heavier than I have yet ever experienced. I think, at times, I am +mad, and destitute of religion; my pride is not yet subdued: the +unfavourable review (in the 'Monthly') of my unhappy work, has +cut deeper than you could have thought; not in a literary point +of view, but as it affects my respectability. It represents me +actually as a beggar, going about gathering money to put myself +at college, when my book is worthless; and this with every +appearance of candour. They have been sadly misinformed +respecting me: this review goes before me wherever I turn my +steps; it haunts me incessantly, and I am persuaded it is an +instrument in the hand of Satan to drive me to distraction. I +must leave Nottingham. If the answer of the Elland Society be +unfavourable, I purpose writing to the Marquis of Wellesley, to +offer myself as a student at the academy he has instituted at +Fort William, in Bengal, and at the proper age to take orders +there. The missionaries at that place have done wonders already; +and I should, I hope, be a valuable labourer in the vineyard. If +the Marquis take no notice of my application, or do not accede to +my proposal, I shall place myself in some other way of making a +meet preparation for the holy office, either in the Calvinistic +Academy, or in one of the Scotch Universities, where I shall be +able to live at scarcely any expense."</p> + +<p>The criticism just adverted to was as unfeeling as unjust; and +but for the generous conduct of a distinguished living poet, +whose benevolence of heart is equal to his genius, it might have +entirely crushed his hopes. Disgusted at the injustice of this +criticism, Mr. Southey instantly wrote to White, expressing his +opinion of the merits of his book, and giving him the +encouragement and advice which none was ever more ready or more +able to bestow. Thus, an act of cruel folly proved in its +consequences the most beneficial of the Poet's life. His spirits +were invigorated by this considerate kindness, and his feelings +were expressed in glowing terms:</p> + +<p>"I dare not say all I feel respecting your opinion of my +little volume. The extreme acrimony with which the Monthly Review +(of all others the most important) treated me, threw me into a +state of stupefaction. I regarded all that had passed as a dream, +and I thought I had been deluding myself into an idea of +possessing poetic genius, when, in fact, I had only the longing, +without the <i>afflatus.</i> I mustered resolution enough, +however, to write spiritedly to them: their answer, in the +ensuing number, was a tacit acknowledgment that they had been +somewhat too unsparing in their correction. It was a poor attempt +to salve over a wound wantonly and most ungenerously inflicted. +Still I was damped, because I knew the work was very respectable; +and therefore could not, I concluded, give a criticism grossly +deficient in equity, the more especially, as I knew of no sort of +inducement to extraordinary severity. Your letter, however, has +revived me, and I do again venture to hope that I may still +produce something which will survive me. With regard to your +advice and offers of assistance, I will not attempt, because I am +unable, to thank you for them. To-morrow morning I depart for +Cambridge; and I have considerable hopes that, as I do not enter +into the University with any sinister or interested views, but +sincerely desire to perform the duties of an affectionate and +vigilant pastor, and become more useful to mankind; I therefore +have hopes, I say, that I shall find means of support in the +University. If I do not, I shall certainly act in pursuance of +your recommendations; and shall, without hesitation, avail myself +of your offers of service, and of your directions. In a short +time this will be determined; and when it is, I shall take the +liberty of writing to you at Keswick, to make you acquainted with +the result. I have only one objection to publishing by +subscription, and I confess it has weight with me; it is, that, +in this step, I shall seem to be acting upon the advice so +unfeelingly and contumeliously given by the Monthly Reviewers, +who say what is equal to this, that had I gotten a subscription +for my poems before their merit was known, I might have +succeeded; provided, it seems, I had made a particular statement +of my case; like a beggar who stands with his hat in one hand, +and a full account of his cruel treatment on the coast of Barbary +in the other, and so gives you his penny sheet for your sixpence, +by way of half purchase, half charity. I have materials for +another volume; but they were written principally while Clifton +Grove was in the press, or soon after, and do not now at all +satisfy me. Indeed, of late, I have been obliged to desist, +almost entirely, from converse with the dames of Helicon. The +drudgery of an attorney's office, and the necessity of preparing +myself, in case I should succeed in getting to college, in what +little leisure I could boast, left no room for the flights of the +imagination."</p> + +<p>As soon as there were reasonable hopes of an adequate support +being obtained for him at Cambridge, he went to the village of +Wilford, for a month, to recruit his health, on which intense +application had made great inroads. Near this place were Clifton +Woods, the subject of one of his Poems, and which had long been +his favourite resort. Here he fully indulged in that love of the +beauties of nature, which forms a leading trait in the Poetic +character: and on this occasion he gave full reins to those +reveries of the imagination, of the delight of which a Poet only +is sensible. His lines on Wilford Church Yard show the melancholy +tone of his mind; and those Verses, as well as his "Ode to +Disappointment," of which no praise would be too extravagant, +appear to have been written, on learning from his mother, before +he left Wilford, that the efforts made to place him at Cambridge +had failed. It was evidently to this circumstance, which for the +time blighted his aspirations, that he alluded, when he says he +was,</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"From Hope's summit hurl'd."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>His remark to his mother on this occasion evinced, +nevertheless, great energy of mind. His complaints were confined +to verse, for the disappointment had no other effect upon his +conduct than to induce him to apply to his studies with +unprecedented vigour, that, since he was to revert to the law as +a profession, he might not be, as he observed, "a <i>mediocre</i> +attorney." He read regularly from five in the morning until some +time after midnight, and occasionally passed whole nights without +lying down; and the entreaties, even when accompanied by the +tears of his mother, that he would not thus destroy his health, +did not induce him to relax his zeal.</p> + +<p>Symptoms of consumption, the disease to which he ultimately +became a victim, and which he designates, in one of his many +allusions to it, as</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"The most fatal of Pandora's train,"</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>began now to excite the anxiety of his family. Illness was, +however, forgotten in the realization of the hope dearest to his +heart. The exertions of his friends proved successful at a time +when all expectations had vanished; and by their united efforts +it was resolved that he should become a sizer of St. John's +College, Cambridge, his brother Neville, his mother, and a +benevolent individual, whose name is not mentioned, having agreed +to contribute to support him. It appears, that if he had not +succeeded in that object, he intended to have joined the society +of orthodox dissenters, for which purpose he underwent an +examination. Though his attainments and character proved +satisfactory on that occasion, his volume of Poems rose in +judgment against him, and nothing but the approbation Mr. Southey +had expressed of them prevented his work from being considered a +disqualification for the ministry. His feelings on the prospect +of entering the Church are described with great force in his +letter, dated in April, 1804.</p> + +<p>"Most fervently do I return thanks to God for this +providential opening: it has breathed new animation into me, and +my breast expands with the prospect of becoming the minister of +Christ where I most desired it; but where I almost feared all +probability of success was nearly at an end. Indeed, I had begun +to turn my thoughts to the dissenters, as people of whom I was +destined, not by choice, but necessity, to become the pastor. +Still, although I knew I should be happy anywhere, so that I were +a profitable labourer in the vineyard, I did, by no means, feel +that calm, that indescribable satisfaction which I do when I look +toward that Church, which I think in the main formed on the +apostolic model, and from which I am decidedly of opinion there +is no positive grounds for dissent. I return thanks to God for +keeping me so long in suspense, for I know it has been beneficial +to my soul, and I feel a considerable trust that the way is now +about to be made clear, and that my doubts and fears on this head +will, in due time, be removed."</p> + +<p>Being advised to degrade for a year, and to place himself with +a private tutor, he went to the Rev. Mr. Grainger of +Winteringham, in Lincolnshire, in the autumn of 1804. While under +that gentleman's care he studied with such intense fervour, that +fears were excited not for his health only, but for his +intellect; and a second severe attack of illness was the +consequence. Poetry was now laid aside, and as he himself told a +friend in February, 1805,</p> + +<p>"My poor neglected Muse has lain absolutely unnoticed by me +for the last four months, during which period I have been digging +in the mines of Scapula for Greek roots, and instead of drinking +with eager delight the beauties of Virgil have been culling and +drying his phrases for future use."— "I fear my good +genius, who was wont to visit me with nightly visions in woods +and brakes and by the river's marge, is now dying of a fen ague, +and I shall thus probably emerge from my retreat not a +hair-brained son of imagination, but a sedate black-lettered book +worm, with a head like an etymologicon magnum."</p> + +<p>To Mr. Capel Lofft, in the September following, after stating +that all his time was employed in preparing himself for orders, +his estimate of the necessary qualifications being, very high, he +observed:</p> + +<p>"I often, however, cast a look of fond regret to the darling +occupations of my younger hours, and the tears rush into my eyes, +as I fancy I see the few wild flowers of poetic genius, with +which I have been blessed, withering with neglect. Poetry has +been to me something more than amusement; it has been a cheering +companion when I have had no other to fly to, and a delightful +solace when consolation has been in some measure needful. I +cannot, therefore, discard so old and faithful a friend without +deep regret, especially when I reflect that, stung by my +ingratitude, he may desert me for ever!"</p> + +<p>But the old fire was, he adds, rekindled by looking over some +of his pieces which Mr. Lofft wished to print; and he transmitted +to that gentleman a short Poem, expressive of his sorrow at +taking leave of his favourite pursuit. The following passages +could only have arisen from a love of Poetry, which it was not in +the power of severer studies to extinguish:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased<br> +To hover o'er the many voiced strings<br> +Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still<br> +Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell,<br> +And with recalled images of bliss<br> +Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw,<br> +Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand<br> +O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased,<br> +It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth<br> +Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek;<br> +Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy!<br> +The summer and the spring, the wind and rain,<br> +Sunshine and storm, with various interchange,<br> +Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month,<br> +Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired,<br> +Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress!<br> +I cannot burst thy bonds!</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>In October, 1805, Kirke White became a resident member of St. +John's College, Cambridge; and such was the use he had made of +his time at Winteringham, that he was distinguished for his +classical knowledge. But he had dearly purchased his superiority. +His constitution was much shattered when he went to Mr. Grainger, +and every day brought with it new proofs that his career had +nearly reached its bounds. The only chance of prolonging his life +was to seek a milder climate, and to abandon study entirely. As +in all great minds, Fame was, however, dearer to him than +existence. He felt that every thing connected with his future +prospects was at stake; and he adhered to a course of rigorous +application until nature gave way. During his first term he +became a candidate for one of the University scholarships; but +the increased exertion he underwent was attended by results that +obliged him to retire from the contest. At this moment the +general college examination approached, and thinking that if he +failed his hopes would be blasted for ever, he taxed his energies +to the uttermost, during the fortnight which intervened, to meet +the trial. His illness, however, speedily returned; and, with +tears in his eyes, he informed his tutor, Mr. Catton, that he +could not go into the Hall to be examined. That gentleman, whose +kindness to the Poet entitles his name to respect, urged him to +support himself during the six days of the examination. Powerful +stimulants were administered, and he was pronounced the first man +of his year. The triumph, complete and exhilarating as it was, +too closely resembled that of the generous steed, who, in +distancing his competitors, reaches the goal, and dies; and his +own ideas of the sacrifices with which such an honour must be +attended were very poetical. He said to an intimate friend, +almost the last time he saw him, that were he to paint a picture +of Fame crowning a distinguished under graduate after the senate +house examination, he would represent her as concealing a death's +head under a mask of beauty.</p> + +<p>Soon after this event, Kirke White went to London, and on +Christmas Eve he wrote to his mother from town, stating that his +health had been rather affected by study, that he came to London +for amusement, and that his tutor had, in the kindest manner, +relieved his mind from pecuniary cares, and cheered him with the +assurance that his talents would be rewarded by his College. But +it is from his letters to his friend that the real state to which +excitement and labour had reduced him, is to be learnt, because, +to allay the fears of his relations, he represented himself to +them, as being much better than he actually was:</p> + +<p>London, Christmas, 1805.</p> + +<p>"I wrote you a letter, which now lies in my drawer at St. +John's; but in such a weak state of body, and in so desponding +and comfortless a tone of mind, that I knew it would give you +pain, and therefore I chose not to send it. I have indeed been +ill; but thanks to God, I am recovered. My nerves were miserably +shattered by over application, and the absence of all that could +amuse, and the presence of many things which weighed heavy upon +my spirits. When I found myself too ill to read, and too +desponding to endure my own reflections, I discovered that it is +really a miserable thing to be destitute of the soothing and +supporting hand when nature most needs it. I wandered up and down +from one man's room to another, and from one College to another, +imploring society, a little conversation, and a little relief of +the burden which pressed upon my spirits; and I am sorry to say, +that those who, when I was cheerful and lively, sought my society +with avidity, now, when I actually needed conversation, were too +busy to grant it. Our College examination was then approaching, +and I perceived with anguish that I had read for the university +scholarship until I had barely time to get up our private +subjects, and that as I was now too ill to read, all hope of +getting through the examination with decent respectability was at +an end. This was an additional grief. I went to our tutor, with +tears in my eyes, and told him I must absent myself from the +examination,—a step which would have precluded me from a +station amongst the prize-men until the second year. He earnestly +entreated me to run the risk. My surgeon gave me strong +stimulants and supporting medicines during the examination week; +and I passed, I believe, one of the most respectable examinations +amongst them. As soon as ever it was over, I left Cambridge, by +the advice of my surgeon and tutor, and I feel myself now pretty +strong. I have given up the thought of sitting for the University +scholarship, in consequence of my illness, as the course of my +reading was effectually broken. In this place I have been much +amused, and have been received with an attention in the literary +circles which I neither expected nor deserved. But this does not +affect me as it once would have done: my views are widely +altered; and I hope that I shall in time learn to lay my whole +heart at the foot of the cross."</p> + +<p>Early in January following he returned to Cambridge, and +imprudently resumed his old habits of study, according to the +following plan: "Rise at half-past five; devotions and walk till +seven; chapel and breakfast till eight; study and lectures till +one; four and a half clear reading; walk, &c. and dinner, and +Wollaston, and chapel to six; six to nine reading, three hours; +nine to ten devotions; bed at ten." With him, however, exercise +was but slight relaxation, as his intellectual faculties were +kept on the stretch during his walks, and he is known to have +committed to memory a whole tragedy of Euripides in this manner, +and as they were not less exerted in his devotions, his mind must +have been intensely occupied for twelve or fourteen hours a day, +at a moment when perfect quiet and rest were indispensable. +Within a very few weeks he paid a heavy penalty for his +indiscretion. To his friend, Mr. Haddock, he wrote on the 17th of +February, 1806:</p> + +"Do not think I am reading hard; I believe it is all over with +that. I have had a recurrence of my old complaint within this +last four or five days, which has half unnerved me for every +thing. The state of my health is really miserable; I am well and +lively in the morning, and overwhelmed with nervous horrors in +the evening. I do not know how to proceed with regard to my +studies:—a very slight overstretch of the mind in the +daytime occasions me not only a sleepless night, but a night of +gloom and horror. The systole and diastole of my heart seem to be +playing at ball—the stake, my life. I can only say the game +is not yet decided:—I allude to the violence of the +palpitation. I am going to mount the Gog-magog hills this +morning, in quest of a good night's sleep. The Gog-magog hills +for my body, and the Bible for my mind, are my only medicines. I +am sorry to say, that neither are quite adequate. Cui, igitur; +dandum est vitio? Mihi prorsus. I hope, as the summer comes, my +spirits (which have been with the swallows, a winter's journey) +will come with it. When my spirits are restored, my health will +be restored:—the 'fons mali' lies there. Give me serenity +and equability of mind, and all will be well."<br> +<br> + + +<p>He, however, rallied again; but he seems to have been aware +that his end was not far distant, for in March he told his +brother that though his stay at Cambridge, in the long vacation, +was important, he intended to go to Nottingham for his health, +and more particularly for his mother's sake; adding, "I shall be +glad to moor all my family in the harbour of religious trust, and +in the calm seas of religious peace. These concerns are apt at +times to escape me; but they now press much upon my heart, and I +think it is my first duty to see that my family are safe in the +most important of all affairs."</p> + +<p>In April, however, he drew a pleasing picture of his future +life, in which his filial and paternal tenderness are +conspicuous; but he soon afterwards went to Nottingham; and in a +letter to his friend Mr. Leeson, written from that town, on the +7th of April, he gave a very melancholy account of himself:</p> + +<p>"It seems determined upon, by my mother, that I cannot be +spared, since the time of my stay is so very short, and my health +so very uncertain. The people here can scarcely be persuaded that +any thing ails me; so well do I look; but occasional depressions, +especially after any thing has occurred to occasion uneasiness, +still harass me. My mind is of a very peculiar cast. I began to +think too early; and the indulgence of certain trains of thought, +and too free an exercise of the imagination, have superinduced a +morbid kind of sensibility; which is to the mind what excessive +irritability is to the body. Some circumstances occurred on my +arrival at Nottingham, which gave me just cause for inquietude +and anxiety; the consequences were insomnia, and a relapse into +causeless dejections. It is my business now to curb these +irrational and immoderate affections, and, by accustoming myself +to sober thought and cool reasoning, to restrain these freaks and +vagaries of the fancy, and redundancies of [unknown symbols]. +When I am well, I cannot help entertaining a sort of contempt for +the weakness of mind which marks my indispositions. Titus when +well, and Titus when ill, are two distinct persons. The man, when +in health, despises the man, when ill, for his weakness, and the +latter envies the former for his felicity."</p> + +<p>As his health declined his prospects seemed to brighten. He +was again pronounced first at the great College examination; he +was one of the three best theme writers, whose merits were so +nearly equal that the examiners could not decide between them; +and he was a prize-man both in the mathematical and logical or +general examination, and in Latin composition. His College +offered him a private tutor at its expense, and Mr. Catton +obtained exhibitions for him to the value of sixty-six pounds per +annum, by which he was enabled to give up the pecuniary +assistance he had received from his friends. But even at this +moment, when the world promised so much, his situation was truly +deplorable. The highest honours of the University were supposed +to be within his grasp, and the conviction that such was the +general opinion, goaded him on to the most strenuous exertions +when he was incapable of the slightest. This struggle between his +mental and physical powers, was not, however, of long duration. +In July he was seized with an attack that threatened his life, +and which he thus described in a letter to Mr. Maddock:</p> + +<p>"Last Saturday morning I rose early, and got up some rather +abstruse problems in mechanics for my tutor, spent an hour with +him, between eight and nine got my breakfast, and read the Greek +History (at breakfast) till ten, then sat down to decipher some +logarithm tables. I think I had not done any thing at them, when +I lost myself. At a quarter past eleven my laundress found me +bleeding in four different places in my face and head, and +insensible. I got up and staggered about the room, and she, being +frightened, ran away, and told my gyp to fetch a surgeon. Before +he came I was sallying out with my flannel gown on, and my +academical gown over it; he made me put on my coat, and then I +went to Mr. Farish's: he opened a vein, and my recollection +returned. My own idea was, that I had fallen out of bed, and so I +told Mr. Farish at first; but I afterwards remembered that I had +been to Mr. Fiske, and breakfasted. Mr. Catton has insisted on my +consulting Sir Isaac Pennington, and the consequence is, that I +am to go through a course of blistering, &c. which, after the +bleeding, will leave me weak enough.</p> + +<p>"I am, however, very well, except as regards the doctors, and +yesterday I drove into the country to Saffron Walden, in a gig. +My tongue is in a bad condition, from a bite which I gave it +either in my fall, or in the moments of convulsion. My nose has +also come badly off. I believe I fell against my reading desk. My +other wounds are only rubs and scratches on the carpet. I am +ordered to remit my studies for a while, by the common advice +both of doctors and tutors. Dr. Pennington hopes to prevent any +recurrence of the fit. He thinks it looks towards epilepsy, of +the horrors of which malady I have a very full and precise idea; +and I only pray that God will spare me as respects my faculties, +however else it may seem good to him to afflict me. Were I my own +master, I know how I should act; but I am tied here by bands +which I cannot burst. I know that change of place is needful; but +I must not indulge in the idea. The college must not pay my tutor +for nothing. Dr. Pennington and Mr. Farish attribute the attack +to a too continued tension of the faculties. As I am much alone +now, I never get quite off study, and I think incessantly. I know +nature will not endure this. They both proposed my going home, +but Mr. * * did not hint at it, although much concerned; and, +indeed, I know home would be a bad place for me in my present +situation. I look round for a resting place, and I find none. Yet +there is one, which I have long too, too much disregarded, and +thither I must now betake myself. There are many situations worse +than mine, and I have no business to complain. If these +afflictions should draw the bonds tighter which hold me to my +Redeemer, it will be well. You may be assured that you have here +a plain statement of my case in its true colours without any +palliation. I am now well again, and have only to fear a relapse, +which I shall do all I can to prevent, by a relaxation in study. +I have now written too much.</p> + +<p>"I am, very sincerely yours,</p> + +<p>"H. K. WHITE.</p> + +<p>"P. S. I charge you, as you value my peace, not to let my +friends hear, either directly or indirectly of my illness."</p> + +<p>A few weeks afterwards he again directed his mother's hopes to +a tranquil retreat for his family in his parsonage, but said +nothing of his illness; and he told Mr. Haddock, in +September,</p> + +<p>"I am perfectly well again, and have experienced no recurrence +of the fit: my spirits, too, are better, and I read very +moderately. I hope that God will be pleased to spare his +rebellious child; this stroke has brought me nearer to Him; whom +indeed have I for my comforter but Him? I am still reading, but +with moderation, as I have been during the whole vacation, +whatever you may persist in thinking. My heart turns with more +fondness towards the consolations of religion than it did, and in +some degree I have found consolation."</p> + +<p>But notwithstanding these flattering expressions, he appears +to have felt that he had but a short time to live; and it was +probably about this period that he wrote his lines on the +"Prospect of Death," perhaps one of the most beautiful and +affecting compositions in our language:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> "On my bed, in wakeful restlessness,<br> +I turn me wearisome; while all around,<br> +All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;<br> +I only wake to watch the sickly taper<br> +Which lights me to my tomb.—Yes, 'tis the hand<br> +Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,<br> +Slow sapping the warm current of existence<br> +My moments now are few—the sand of life<br> +Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little,<br> +And the last fleeting particle will fall,<br> +Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.<br> +Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate<br> +While meditate we may.<br> + * * * * *<br> + I hoped I should not leave<br> +The earth without a vestige; Fate decrees<br> +It shall be otherwise, and I submit.<br> +Henceforth, O world, no more of thy desires!<br> +No more of Hope! the wanton vagrant Hope;<br> +I abjure all. Now other cares engross me,<br> +And my tired soul, with emulative haste,<br> +Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>On the 22nd of September he wrote to Mr. Charlesworth, and his +letter indicates the possession of higher spirits and more +sanguine hopes, than almost any other in his correspondence. +About the end of that month he went to London, on a visit to his +brother Neville, but returned to College within a few weeks, in a +state that precluded all chance of prolonging his existence; but +still he did not cease to hope, or rather sought to delude his +brother into the belief that he should recover; for in a letter +addressed to him, which was found in his pocket after his +decease, dated Saturday, 11th of October, he says,</p> + +<p>"I am safely arrived, and in College, but my illness has +increased upon me much. The cough continues, and is attended with +a good deal of fever. I am under the care of Mr. Parish, and +entertain very little apprehension about the cough; but my +over-exertions in town have reduced me to a state of much +debility; and, until the cough be gone, I cannot be permitted to +take any strengthening medicines. This places me in an awkward +predicament; but I think I perceive a degree of expectoration +this morning, which will soon relieve me, and then I shall mend +apace. Under these circumstances I must not expect to see you +here at present; when I am a little recovered, it will be a +pleasant relaxation to me. Our lectures began on Friday, but I do +not attend them until I am better. I have not written to my +mother, nor shall I while I remain unwell. You will tell her, as +a reason, that our lectures began on Friday. I know she will be +uneasy if she do not hear from me, and still more so, if I tell +her I am ill.</p> + +<p>"I cannot write more at present than that I am</p> + +<p>"Your truly affectionate Brother,</p> + +<p>"H. K. WHITE."</p> + +<p>A friend acquainted his brother with his situation, who +hastened to him; but when he arrived he was delirious, and though +reason returned for a few moments, as if to bless him with the +consciousness that the same fond relative, to whose attachment he +owed so much, was present at his last hour, he sunk into a +stupor, and on Sunday, the 19th of October, 1806, he breathed his +last.</p> + +<br> +<br> +Thus died, in his twenty-second year, Henry Kirke White, whose +genius and virtues justified the brightest hopes, and whose +fitness for Heaven does not bring the consolation for his +untimely fate which perhaps it ought. It is impossible to refrain +from anticipating what his talents might have produced, had his +existence been extended; and though it is extremely doubtful if +he were capable of worldly happiness, there is a selfishness in +our nature which makes us grieve when those who are likely to +increase our intellectual pleasures are hurried to the grave.<br> +<br> + + +<p>In whatever light the character of this unhappy youth be +contemplated, it is full of instruction. His talents were +unusually precocious, and their variety was as astonishing as +their extent. Besides the Poetical pieces in this volume, and his +scholastic attainments, his ability was manifested in various +other ways. His style was remarkable for its clearness and +elegance, and his correspondence and prose pieces show extensive +information. To great genius and capacity, he united the rarest +and more important gifts of sound judgment and common sense. It +is usually the misfortune of genius to invest ordinary objects +with a meretricious colouring, that perverts their forms and +purposes, to make its possessor imagine that it exempts him from +attending to those strict rules of moral conduct to which others +are bound to adhere, and to render him neglectful of the sacred +assurance that "to whom much is given from him will much be +required." Nature, in Kirke White's case, appears, on the +contrary, to have determined that she would, in one instance at +least, prove that high intellectual attainments are strictly +compatible with every social and moral virtue. At a very early +period of his life, religion became the predominant feeling of +his mind, and she imparted her sober and chastened effects to all +his thoughts and actions. The cherished object of every member of +his family, he repaid their affection by the most anxious +solicitude for their welfare, offering his advice on spiritual +affairs with impressive earnestness, and indicating, in every +letter of his voluminous correspondence, the greatest +consideration for their feelings and happiness. For the last six +years he deemed himself marked out for the service of his Maker, +not like the member of a convent, whose duties consist only in +prayer, but in the exercise of that philanthropy and practical +benevolence which ought to adorn every parish priest. To qualify +himself properly for the holy office, he subjected his mind to +the severest discipline; and his letters display a rational +piety, and an enlightened view of religious obligations, that +confer much greater honour upon his name, than his Poetical +pieces, whether as proofs of talent, or of the qualities of his +heart.</p> + +<p>Such was Henry Kirke White as he appeared to others; but there +are minuter traits of character which no observer can catch, and +which the possessor must himself delineate. Though early +impressed with melancholy, it was not of a misanthropic nature; +and while despair and disappointment were preying on his heart, +he was all sweetness and docility to others. A consciousness of +the possession of abilities, and of being capable of better +things than those which he seemed destined to perform, gives to +some of his productions the appearance of discontent, and of +having overrated his pretensions. He was, like many youthful +Poets, too fond of complaining of fortune, of supposing himself +neglected, and of comparing his humble lot with those situations +for which he believed himself qualified; but these were the +lucubrations of his earliest years, before he found friends to +foster his talents. So far, indeed, from having reason to lament +the indifference of others to his merits, his life affords one of +the most striking examples in the history of genius, that talents +when united to moral worth, will be rewarded by honours and fame, +that obscure birth is no impediment to advancement, and that a +person of the humblest origin may, by his own exertions, become, +in the great arena of learning, an object of envy even to those +of the highest rank. It is due to him, whose good sense was so +remarkable, to point out the time in his career to which the +passages in question refer; and to add that his correspondence, +after he entered the University, expressed nothing but +satisfaction with his lot, and a desire to justify the kindness +and expectations of his patrons. Still, Kirke White was unhappy; +and, since no other cause then existed for his mental +wretchedness, it must be ascribed to a morbid temperament, +induced partly by ill health, and partly by constitutional +infirmity. The uncertainty of his early prospects, and the fear +of ridicule if he expressed his feelings, rendered him reserved, +and made him confine his thoughts to his own bosom, for he +says,</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"When all was new, and life was in its spring,<br> +I lived an unloved solitary thing;<br> +E'en then I learn'd to bury deep from day<br> +The piercing cares that wore my youth away;"</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>and in a letter to Mr. Maddock, in September, 1804, he thus +spoke of himself:</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it may be that I am not formed for friendship, that I +expect more than can ever be found. Time will tutor me; I am a +singular being under a common outside: I am a profound dissembler +of my inward feelings, and necessity has taught me the art. I am +long before I can unbosom to a friend, yet, I think, I am sincere +in my friendship: you must not attribute this to any +suspiciousness of nature, but must consider that I lived +seventeen years my own confidant, my own friend, full of projects +and strange thoughts, and confiding them to no one. I am +habitually reserved, and habitually cautious in letting it be +seen that I hide any thing."</p> + +<p>None knew better than himself that the aspirations and +feelings of which genius is the parent are often found to be +inconsistent with felicity:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,<br> + His melancholy moan,<br> +He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,<br> + Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days,<br> +Pangs that his sensibility uprouse<br> + To curse his being and his thirst for praise.<br> +Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel<br> + The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn;<br> +And what o'er all does in his soul preside<br> + Predominant, and tempers him to steel,<br> + His high indignant pride."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Nor was he unconscious that the toils necessary to secure +literary distinction, when endured by a shattered frame, are in +the highest degree severe. How much truth and feeling are there +in the Lines which he wrote after spending a whole night in +study, an hour when religious impressions force themselves with +irresistible weight on the exhausted mind:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,<br> +How insignificant do all the joys,<br> +The gaudes, and honours of the world appear!<br> +How vain ambition!—Why has my wakeful lamp<br> +Out watch'd the slow-paced night?—Why on the page,<br> +The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd<br> +The hours devoted by the world to rest,<br> +And needful to recruit exhausted nature?<br> +Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay<br> +The loss of health? or can the hope of glory<br> +Lend a new throb unto my languid heart,<br> +Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,<br> +Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye,<br> +Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?"</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>What a picture of mental suffering does the following passage +present, and how impressive does it become when the fate of the +author is remembered:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"These feverish dews that on my temples hang,<br> +This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame;<br> +These, the dread signs of many a secret pang—<br> +These are the meed of him who pants for Fame!"</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Like so many other ardent students, the night was his +favourite time for reading; and, dangerous as the habit is to +health, what student will not agree in his descriptions of the +pleasures that attend it?</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"The night's my own, they cannot steal my night!<br> +When evening lights her folding star on high,<br> +I live and breathe; and, in the sacred hours<br> +Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies,<br> +Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space,<br> +And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for heaven."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Kirke White's poetry is popular, because it describes +feelings, passions, and associations, which all have felt, and +with which all can sympathize. It is by no means rich in +metaphor, nor does it evince great powers of imagination; but it +is pathetic, plaintive, and agreeable; and emanating directly +from his own heart, it appeals irresistibly to that of his +reader. His meaning is always clear, and the force and vigour of +his expressions are remarkable. In estimating his poetical +powers, however, it should be remembered, that nearly all his +Poems were written before he was nineteen; and that they are, in +truth, but the germs of future excellence, and ought not to be +criticized as if they were the fruits of an intellect on which +time and education had bestowed their advantages. It is, however, +in his prose works, and especially in his correspondence, that +the versatility of his talents, his acquirements, his piety, and +his moral excellence are most conspicuous.</p> + +<p>A question arises with respect to him which, in the history of +a young Poet, is always interesting, but which Mr. Southey has +not touched. Abundance of proof exists in his writings of the +susceptibility of his heart; but it is not stated that he ever +formed an attachment. In many of his pieces he speaks with +tenderness of a female whom he calls Fanny; and in one of them, +from which it appears that she was dead, he expresses his regard +in no equivocal manner; but there are other grounds for +concluding that his happiness was affected by disappointed +affection. To his friend Mr. Maddock, in July, 1804, he +observed:</p> + +<p>"I shall never, never marry. It cannot, must not be. As to +affections, mine are already engaged as much as they ever will +be, and this is one reason why I believe my life will be a life +of celibacy. I love too ardently to make love innocent, and +therefore I say farewell to it."</p> + +<p>With this passage one of his Sonnets singularly agrees:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>When I sit musing on the chequer'd past<br> + (A term much darken'd with untimely woes),<br> + My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows<br> +The tear, though half disowned; and binding fast<br> +Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,<br> + I say to her, she robb'd me of my rest,<br> + When that was all my wealth. 'T is true my breast<br> +Received from her this wearying, lingering smart;<br> +Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart;<br> + Though wrong'd, I love her—yet in anger love,<br> + For she was most unworthy. Then I prove<br> +Vindictive joy: and on my stern front gleams,<br> +Throned in dark clouds, inflexible....<br> +The native pride of my much injured heart.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Was the subject of this Sonnet wholly imaginary, or was there +some unfortunate story which, for sufficient reasons, his +biographers have suppressed? It is true, that in his letters, +written at a much later period, he speaks of marriage in a manner +not to be reconciled with the idea that he was then suffering +from recollections of that description; but he may, in the +interval of two years, have partially recovered from his +loss.</p> + +<p>Kirke White was buried in the Church of All Saints, Cambridge, +but no monument was erected to him until a liberal minded +American, Mr. Francis Boott, of Boston, placed a tablet to his +memory, with a medallion, by Chantrey, with the following +inscription, by Professor Smyth, one of his numerous friends:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"Warm'd with fond hope and learning's sacred flame,<br> +To Granta's bowers the youthful Poet came;<br> +Unconquer'd powers the immortal mind display'd,<br> +But worn with anxious thought, the frame decay'd:<br> +Pale o'er his lamp, and in his cell retired,<br> +The martyr student faded and expired.<br> +Oh! genius, taste, and piety sincere,<br> +Too early lost 'midst studies too severe!<br> +Foremost to mourn, was generous Southey seen,<br> +He told the tale, and show'd what White had been,<br> +Nor told in vain. For o'er the Atlantic wave<br> +A wanderer came, and sought the Poet's grave;<br> +On yon low stone he saw his lonely name,<br> +And raised this fond memorial to his fame."</p> +</blockquote> + +<hr> +<h1>POEMS.</h1> + +<p><i>CLIFTON GROVE.</i></p> + +<p><i>DEDICATION.</i></p> + +<p><i>To Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire, the following +trifling effusions of a very youthful Muse are, by permission, +dedicated by her Grace's much obliged and grateful +Servant,</i></p> + +<p><i>HENRY KIRKE WHITE</i></p> + +<p><i>Nottingham.</i></p> + +<h2>PREFACE.</h2> + +<p>The following attempts in Verse are laid before the Public +with extreme diffidence. The Author is very conscious that the +juvenile efforts of a youth, who has not received the polish of +Academical discipline, and who has been but sparingly blessed +with opportunities for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, +must necessarily be defective in the accuracy and finished +elegance which mark the works of the man who has passed his life +in the retirement of his study, furnishing his mind with images, +and at the same time attaining the power of disposing those +images to the best advantage.</p> + +<p>The unpremeditated effusions of a Boy, from his thirteenth +year, employed, not in the acquisition of literary information, +but in the more active business of life, must not be expected to +exhibit any considerable portion of the correctness of a Virgil, +or the vigorous compression of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, +frequently known to bestow much, labour on their amusements; and +these poems were, most of them, written merely to beguile a +leisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals of studies of a +severer nature.</p> + +<p>[---- Greek ---] Every one loves his own work," says +Stagyrite; but it was no overweening affection of this kind which +induced this publication. Had the author relied on his own +judgment only, these Poems would not, in all probability, ever +have seen the light.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives for this +publication? He answers—simply these: The facilitation, +through its means, of those studies which, from his earliest +infancy, have been the principal objects of his ambition; and the +increase of the capacity to pursue those inclinations which may +one day place him in an honourable station in the scale of +society.</p> + +<p>The principal Poem in this little collection (Clifton Grove) +is, he fears, deficient in numbers and harmonious coherency of +parts. It is, however, merely to be regarded as a description of +a nocturnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompanied with +such reflections as the scene naturally suggested. It was written +twelve months ago, when the Author was in his sixteenth +year:—The Miscellanies are some of them the productions of +a very early age.—Of the Odes, that "To an early Primrose" +was written at thirteen—the others are of a later +date.—The Sonnets are chiefly irregular; they have, +perhaps, no other claim to that specific denomination, than that +they consist only of fourteen lines.</p> + +<p>Such are the Poems towards which I entreat the lenity of the +Public. The Critic will doubtless find in them much to condemn; +he may likewise possibly discover something to commend. Let him +scan my faults with an indulgent eye, and in the work of that +correction which I invite, let him remember he is holding the +iron Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth +of seventeen; and, remembering that, may he forbear from +crushing, by too much rigour, the painted butterfly whose +transient colours may otherwise be capable of affording a +moment's innocent amusement.</p> + +<p>H. K. WHITE.</p> + +<p>Nottingham.</p> + +<a name="misc"></a> + +<h2>MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.</h2> + +<h3><a name="misc01"></a>CLIFTON GROVE.</h3> + +<p>A SKETCH.</p> + +<p>Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light,<br> +And day's last vestige takes its silent flight.<br> +No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke,<br> +Which with the dawn from yonder dingle broke;<br> +No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head,<br> +The crows assembling seek their wind-rock'd bed;<br> +Still'd is the village hum—the woodland sounds<br> +Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds,<br> +And general silence reigns, save when below<br> +The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow;<br> +And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late,<br> +Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate;<br> +Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale,<br> +Breathes its wild music on the downy gale.</p> + +<p>Now, when the rustic wears the social smile,<br> +Released from day and its attendant toil,<br> +And draws his household round their evening fire,<br> +And tells the ofttold tales that never tire;<br> +Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise,<br> +And manufacture taints the ambient skies,<br> +The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom,<br> +The air-pent hold, the pestilential room,<br> +And rushes out, impatient to begin<br> +The stated course of customary sin:<br> +Now, now my solitary way I bend<br> +Where solemn groves in awful state impend:<br> +And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain,<br> +Bespeak, bless'd Clifton! thy sublime domain.<br> +Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower,<br> +I come to pass the meditative hour;<br> +To bid awhile the strife of passion cease,<br> +And woo the calms of solitude and peace.<br> +And oh! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on high<br> +Thy leafy throne where wavy poplars sigh!<br> +Genius of woodland shades! whose mild control<br> +Steals with resistless witchery to the soul,<br> +Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspire<br> +My glowing bosom with thy hallow'd fire.<br> +And thou, too, Fancy, from thy starry sphere,<br> +Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear,<br> +Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight,<br> +Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight.<br> +At thy command the gale that passes by<br> +Bears in its whispers mystic harmony.<br> +Thou wavest thy wand, and lo! what forms appear!<br> +On the dark cloud what giant shapes career!<br> +The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale,<br> +And hosts of sylphids on the moonbeams sail.<br> +This gloomy alcove darkling to the sight,<br> +Where meeting trees create eternal night;<br> +Save, when from yonder stream the sunny ray,<br> +Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day;<br> +Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind,<br> +Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined,<br> +I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood;<br> +Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food;<br> +Or woke with song the woodland echo wild,<br> +And at each gay response delighted smiled.<br> +How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray<br> +Of gay romance o'er every happy day,<br> +Here, would I run, a visionary boy,<br> +When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky,<br> +And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form<br> +Sternly careering on the eddying storm;<br> +And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul,<br> +His voice terrific in the thunders roll.<br> +With secret joy I view'd with vivid glare<br> +The vollied lightnings cleave the sullen air;<br> +And, as the warring winds around reviled,<br> +With awful pleasure big,—I heard and smiled.<br> +Beloved remembrance!—Memory which endears<br> +This silent spot to my advancing years,<br> +Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest,<br> +In shades like these to live is to be bless'd.<br> +While happiness evades the busy crowd,<br> +In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud.<br> +And thou too, Inspiration, whose wild flame<br> +Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame,<br> +Thou here dost love to sit with upturn'd eye,<br> +And listen to the stream that murmurs by,<br> +The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken flight,<br> +The mellow music of the listening night.<br> +Congenial calms more welcome to my breast<br> +Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre dress'd,<br> +To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I raise,<br> +That ye may bless my unambitious days,<br> +Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife,<br> +May trace with me the lowly vale of life,<br> +And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave,<br> +May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave.<br> +Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows,<br> +A livelier light upon my vision flows.<br> +No more above the embracing branches meet,<br> +No more the river gurgles at my feet,<br> +But seen deep down the cliff's impending side,<br> +Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide.<br> +Dim is my upland path,—across the green<br> +Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between<br> +The chequer'd glooms the moon her chaste ray sheds,<br> +Where knots of bluebells droop their graceful heads.<br> +And beds of violets, blooming 'mid the trees,<br> +Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze.</p> + +<p>Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight<br> +Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight,<br> +And Nature bids for him her treasures flow,<br> +And gives to him alone his bliss to know,<br> +Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms?<br> +Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms?<br> +And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath,<br> +Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death?<br> +Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings<br> +Know what calm joy from purer sources springs;<br> +Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife,<br> +The harmless pleasures of a harmless life,<br> +No more his soul would pant for joys impure,<br> +The deadly chalice would no more allure,<br> +But the sweet potion he was wont to sip<br> +Would turn to poison on his conscious lip.</p> + +<p>Fair Nature! thee, in all thy varied charms,<br> +Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms!<br> +Thine are the sweets which never, never sate,<br> +Thine still remain through all the storms of fate.<br> +Though not for me, 't was Heaven's divine command<br> +To roll in acres of paternal land,<br> +Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoy<br> +Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye.</p> + +<p>Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss<br> +Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss,<br> +Who, still in abject poverty or pain,<br> +Can count with pleasure what small joys remain:<br> +Though were his sight convey'd from zone to zone,<br> +He would not find one spot of ground his own,<br> +Yet as he looks around, he cries with glee,<br> +These bounding prospects all were made for me:<br> +For me yon waving fields their burden bear,<br> +For me yon labourer guides the shining share,<br> +While happy I in idle ease recline,<br> +And mark the glorious visions as they shine.<br> +This is the charm, by sages often told,<br> +Converting all it touches into gold.<br> +Content can soothe where'er by fortune placed,<br> +Can rear a garden in the desert waste.</p> + +<p>How lovely, from this hill's superior height,<br> +Spreads the wide view before my straining sight!<br> +O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground,<br> +E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound,<br> +My ken is borne; while o'er my head serene<br> +The silver moon illumes the misty scene:<br> +Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade,<br> +In all the soft varieties of shade.</p> + +<p>Behind me, lo! the peaceful hamlet lies,<br> +The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes.<br> +No more, where late the social faggot blazed,<br> +The vacant peal resounds, by little raised,<br> +But locked in silence, o'er Arion's<a class="fnref" href= +"#fn001">1</a> star<br> +The slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car:<br> +The church bell tolls, deep sounding down the glade,<br> +The solemn hour for walking spectres made;<br> +The simple ploughboy, wakening with the sound,<br> +Listens aghast, and turns him startled round,<br> +Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes,<br> +Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise.<br> +Now ceased the long, the monitory toll,<br> +Returning silence stagnates in the soul;<br> +Save when, disturbed by dreams, with wild affright,<br> +The deep mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night:<br> +Or where the village alehouse crowns the vale,<br> +The creaking signpost whistles to the gale.<br> +A little onward let me bend my way,<br> +Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay.<br> +That spot, oh! yet it is the very same;<br> +That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name:<br> +There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom,<br> +There yet the violet sheds its first perfume,<br> +And in the branch that rears above the rest<br> +The robin unmolested builds its nest.<br> +'T was here, when hope, presiding o'er my breast,<br> +In vivid colours every prospect dress'd:<br> +'T was here, reclining, I indulged her dreams,<br> +And lost the hour in visionary schemes.<br> +Here, as I press once more the ancient seat,<br> +Why, bland deceiver! not renew the cheat!<br> +Say, can a few short years this change achieve,<br> +That thy illusions can no more deceive!<br> +Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread,<br> +And thou too, gay seducer, art thou fled?</p> + +<p>Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe,<br> +Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her tear,<br> +And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way<br> +Could throw a gleam of transitory day.<br> +How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems;<br> +How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams;<br> +The dire mistake too soon is brought to light.<br> +And all is buried in redoubled night.<br> +Yet some can rise superior to the pain,<br> +And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain;<br> +While others, dead to feeling, can survey,<br> +Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away:<br> +But yet a few there be,—too soon o'ercast!<br> +Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast,<br> +And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the gloom,<br> +To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb.<br> +So in these shades the early primrose blows,<br> +Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows:<br> +So falls untimely on the desert waste,<br> +Its blossoms withering in the northern blast.</p> + +<p>Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display,<br> +Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way;<br> +Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat,<br> +The timid hare from its accustom'd seat.<br> +And oh! how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood,<br> +That winds the margin of the solemn flood!<br> +What rural objects steal upon the sight!<br> +What rising views prolong the calm delight!</p> + +<p>The brooklet branching from the silver Trent,<br> +The whispering birch by every zephyr bent,<br> +The woody island, and the naked mead,<br> +The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed,<br> +The rural wicket, and the rural stile,<br> +And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile.<br> +Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes,<br> +Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise.<br> +High up the cliff the varied groves ascend,<br> +And mournful larches o'er the wave impend.<br> +Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise,<br> +What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes!<br> +Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed,<br> +The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head.<br> +And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind,<br> +Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind.<br> +Still every rising sound of calm delight<br> +Stamps but the fearful silence of the night,<br> +Save when is heard between each dreary rest,<br> +Discordant from her solitary nest,<br> +The owl, dull screaming to the wandering moon;<br> +Now riding, cloud-wrapp'd, near her highest noon:<br> +Or when the wild duck, southering, hither rides,<br> +And plunges, sullen in the sounding tides.</p> + +<p>How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youth<br> +Gave to each tale the holy force of truth,<br> +Have I long linger'd, while the milkmaid sung<br> +The tragic legend, till the woodland rung!<br> +That tale, so sad! which, still to memory dear,<br> +From its sweet source can call the sacred tear,<br> +And (lull'd to rest stern Reason's harsh control)<br> +Steal its soft magic to the passive soul.<br> +These hallow'd shades,—these trees that woo the wind,<br> +Recall its faintest features to my mind.<br> +A hundred passing years, with march sublime,<br> +Have swept beneath the silent wing of time,<br> +Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade,<br> +Reclusely dwelt the far famed Clifton Maid,<br> +The beauteous Margaret; for her each swain<br> +Confess'd in private his peculiar pain,<br> +In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair,<br> +Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair.<br> +No more the Shepherd on the blooming mead<br> +Attuned to gaiety his artless reed,<br> +No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck<br> +His favourite wether's unpolluted neck,<br> +But listless, by yon bubbling stream reclined,<br> +He mix'd his sobbings with the passing wind,<br> +Bemoan'd his hapless love; or, boldly bent,<br> +Far from these smiling fields a rover went,<br> +O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam,<br> +A self-will'd exile from his native home.</p> + +<p>Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain;<br> +Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain.<br> +Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs,<br> +The echoing vault responded to their vows,<br> +As here deep hidden from the glare of day,<br> +Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way.</p> + +<p>Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name;<br> +'T was there the blushing maid confessed her flame.<br> +Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie,<br> +When evening slumber'd on the western sky.<br> +That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare.<br> +Each bears mementos of the fated pair.</p> + +<p>One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze<br> +With the fallen honours of the mourning trees,<br> +The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower.<br> +And waited long beyond the appointed hour,<br> +Yet Bateman came not;—o'er the woodland drear,<br> +Howling portentous did the winds career;<br> +And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods<br> +The fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods;<br> +The night was dark; as, now and then, the gale<br> +Paused for a moment—Margaret listen'd pale;<br> +But through the covert to her anxious ear<br> +No rustling footstep spoke her lover near.<br> +Strange fears now fill'd her breast,—she knew not why,<br> +She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh.<br> +She hears a noise,—'t is he,—he comes at +last,—<br> +Alas! 't was but the gale which hurried past:<br> +But now she hears a quickening footstep sound,<br> +Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound;<br> +'T is Bateman's self,—he springs into her arms,<br> +'T is he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms.<br> +"Yet why this silence?—I have waited long,<br> +And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among.</p> + +<p>And now thou'rt here my fears are fled—yet speak,<br> +Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek?<br> +Say, what is wrong?" Now through a parting cloud<br> +The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud,<br> +And Bateman's face was seen; 't was deadly white,<br> +And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight.<br> +"Oh, speak! my love!" again the maid conjured,<br> +"Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured?"<br> +He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell,<br> +Thrice from his lips the unfinished accents fell;<br> +When thus at last reluctantly he broke<br> +His boding silence, and the maid bespoke:<br> +"Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance<br> +I on these fields must cast my parting glance;<br> +For three long years, by cruel fate's command,<br> +I go to languish in a foreign land.<br> +Oh, Margaret! omens dire have met my view,<br> +Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true?<br> +Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee,<br> +Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me,<br> +And on the silken couch of wealth reclined,<br> +Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! why," replies the maid, "my faith thus prove,<br> +Canst thou! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love?<br> +Hear me, just God! if from my traitorous heart<br> +My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part,<br> +If, when he hail again his native shore,<br> +He finds his Margaret true to him no more,<br> +May fiends of hell, and every power of dread,<br> +Conjoin'd then drag me from my perjured bed,<br> +And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps,<br> +To find deserved death in yonder deeps!"<a class="fnref" href= +"#fn002">2</a><br> +Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew<br> +A golden ring, and broke it quick in two;<br> +One half she in her lovely bosom hides,<br> +The other, trembling, to her love confides.<br> +"This bind the vow," she said, "this mystic charm<br> +No future recantation can disarm,<br> +The right vindictive does the fates involve,<br> +No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve."</p> + +<p>She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry,<br> +The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by,<br> +And once again the lady of the night<br> +Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light.<br> +Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay;<br> +But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away:<br> +Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart,<br> +Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart.</p> + +<p>When to the distant land the youth was sped,<br> +A lonely life the moody maiden led.<br> +Still would she trace each dear, each well known walk,<br> +Still by the moonlight to her love would talk,<br> +And fancy, as she paced among the trees,<br> +She heard his whispers in the dying breeze.</p> + +<p>Thus two years glided on in silent grief;<br> +The third her bosom own'd the kind relief:<br> +Absence had cool'd her love—the impoverish'd flame<br> +Was dwindling fast, when lo! the tempter came;<br> +He offered wealth, and all the joys of life,<br> +And the weak maid became another's wife!<br> +Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime,<br> +When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime.<br> +Sure of her constancy, elate he came,<br> +The lovely partner of his soul to claim;<br> +Light was his heart, as up the well known way<br> +He bent his steps—and all his thoughts were gay.<br> +Oh! who can paint his agonizing throes,<br> +When on his ear the fatal news arose!<br> +Chill'd with amazement,—senseless with the blow,<br> +He stood a marble monument of woe;<br> +Till call'd to all the horrors of despair,<br> +He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair;<br> +Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot,<br> +And sought those scenes (by memory ne'er forgot),<br> +Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame,<br> +And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame.<br> +'T was night—he sought the river's lonely shore,<br> +And traced again their former wanderings o'er.<br> +Now on the bank in silent grief he stood,<br> +And gazed intently on the stealing flood,<br> +Death in his mein and madness in his eye,<br> +He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by;<br> +Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave—<br> +Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave.</p> + +<p>Yet still he stood irresolutely bent,<br> +Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent.<br> +He knelt.—Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind,<br> +And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind,<br> +The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept,<br> +The paly moonbeam on its surface slept,<br> +And all was peace;—he felt the general calm<br> +O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm:<br> +When casting far behind his streaming eye,<br> +He saw the Grove,—in fancy saw her lie,<br> +His Margaret, lull'd in Germain's<a class="fnref" href= +"#fn003">3</a> arms to rest,<br> +And all the demon rose within his breast.<br> +Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand,<br> +Cast his dark eye once more upon the land,<br> +Then, at one spring he spurn'd the yielding bank,<br> +And in the calm deceitful current sank.</p> + +<p>Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound,<br> +As in the stream he plunged, was heard around:<br> +Then all was still—the wave was rough no more,<br> +The river swept as sweetly as before;<br> +The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene,<br> +And peace returning brooded o'er the scene.</p> + +<p>Now, see upon the perjured fair one hang<br> +Remorse's glooms and never ceasing pang.<br> +Full well she knew, repentant now too late,<br> +She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate.<br> +But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast,<br> +The offended God prolong'd her life unbless'd.<br> +But fast the fleeting moments roll'd away,<br> +And near and nearer drew the dreaded day;<br> +That day foredoom'd to give her child the light,<br> +And hurl its mother to the shades of night.<br> +The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife<br> +The guiltless baby struggled into life.—<br> +As night drew on, around her bed a band<br> +Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand;<br> +In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time,<br> +Intent to expiate her awful crime.<br> +Their prayers were fruitless.—As the midnight came<br> +A heavy sleep oppress'd each weary frame.<br> +In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming load,<br> +Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode.<br> +They slept till in the blushing eastern sky<br> +The blooming Morning oped her dewy eye;<br> +Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd bed,<br> +But lo! the hapless Margaret was fled;<br> +And never more the weeping train were doom'd<br> +To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd.</p> + +<p>The neighbouring rustics told that in the night<br> +They heard such screams as froze them with affright;<br> +And many an infant, at its mother's breast,<br> +Started dismay'd, from its unthinking rest.<br> +And even now, upon the heath forlorn,<br> +They show the path down which the fair was borne,<br> +By the fell demons, to the yawning wave,<br> +Her own, and murder'd lover's, mutual grave.</p> + +<p>Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear,<br> +Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening ear,<br> +That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweets<br> +In the drear silence of these dark retreats;<br> +And even now, with melancholy power,<br> +Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour.<br> +'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given<br> +To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven,<br> +With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans<br> +On the attendant legend of the scenes.<br> +This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods,<br> +And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods;<br> +This, as the distant cataract swells around,<br> +Gives a romantic cadence to the sound;<br> +This, and the deepening glen, the alley green,<br> +The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between,<br> +The massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas,<br> +The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees,<br> +The lengthening vista, and the present gloom,<br> +The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume:<br> +These are thy charms, the joys which these impart<br> +Bind thee, bless'd Clifton! close around my heart.</p> + +<p>Dear Native Grove! where'er my devious track,<br> +To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back.<br> +Whether in Arno's polish'd vales I stray,<br> +Or where "Oswego's" swamps obstruct the day;<br> +Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide,<br> +The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side;<br> +Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse,<br> +Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views;<br> +Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam,<br> +My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home.<br> +When Splendour offers, and when Fame incites,<br> +I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights,<br> +Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change,<br> +Renounce the wish which first induced to range;<br> +Turn to these scenes, these well known scenes once more,<br> +Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore,<br> +And tired with worlds, and all their busy ways,<br> +Here waste the little remnant of my days.<br> +But if the Fates should this last wish deny,<br> +And doom me on some foreign shore to die;<br> +Oh! should it please the world's supernal King,<br> +That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing;<br> +Or that my corse should, on some desert strand,<br> +Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting hand;<br> +Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb,<br> +My sprite shall wander through this favourite gloom,<br> +Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove,<br> +Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove,<br> +Sit a lorn spectre on yon well known grave,<br> +And mix its moanings with the desert wave.</p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn001">1</a> The constellation +Delphinus. For authority for this appelation, see Ovid's Fasti, +B. xi. 113.<br> +<a class="fnref" name="fn002">2</a> This part of the Trent is +commonly called "The Clifton Deeps."<br> +<a class="fnref" name="fn003">3</a> Germain is the traditionary +name of her husband.<br> +</p> + +<h3><a name="misc02"></a>TIME,</h3> + +<p>A POEM.<a class="fnref" href="#fn004">1</a></p> + +<p>Genius of musings, who, the midnight hour<br> +Wasting in woods or haunted forests wild,<br> +Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower,<br> +Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance;<br> +Or when the vollied lightnings cleave the air,<br> +And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm,<br> +Sitt'st in some lonely watchtower, where thy lamp,<br> +Faint blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far,<br> +And, 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved,<br> +Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace<br> +The vast effect to its superior source,—<br> +Spirit, attend my lowly benison!<br> +For now I strike to themes of import high<br> +The solitary lyre; and, borne by thee<br> +Above this narrow cell, I celebrate<br> +The mysteries of Time!</p> + +<p> Him who, august,<br> +Was e'er these worlds were fashion'd,—ere the sun<br> +Sprang from the east, or Lucifer display'd<br> +His glowing cresset in the arch of morn,<br> +Or Vesper gilded the serener eve.<br> +Yea, He had been for an eternity!<br> +Had swept unvarying from eternity<br> +The harp of desolation—ere his tones,<br> +At God's command, assumed a milder strain,<br> +And startled on his watch, in the vast deep,<br> +Chaos's sluggish sentry, and evoked<br> +From the dark void the smiling universe.</p> + +<p>Chain'd to the groveling frailties of the flesh,<br> +Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross,<br> +Cannot survey, with fix'd and steady eye,<br> +The dim uncertain gulf, which now the muse,<br> +Adventurous, would explore; but dizzy grown,<br> +He topples down the abyss.—If he would scan<br> +The fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpse<br> +Of its unfathomable depths, that so<br> +His mind may turn with double joy to God,<br> +His only certainty and resting place;<br> +He must put off awhile this mortal vest,<br> +And learn to follow, without giddiness,<br> +To heights where all is vision, and surprise,<br> +And vague conjecture.—He must waste by night<br> +The studious taper, far from all resort<br> +Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat;<br> +High on the beetling promontory's crest,<br> +Or in the caves of the vast wilderness,<br> +Where, compass'd round with Nature's wildest shapes,<br> +He may be driven to centre all his thoughts<br> +In the great Architect, who lives confess'd<br> +In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes.</p> + +<p>So has divine Philosophy, with voice<br> +Mild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave,<br> +Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes,<br> +Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy,<br> +His faint, neglected song—intent to snatch<br> +Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous steep<br> +Of poesy, a bloom of such a hue,<br> +So sober, as may not unseemly suit<br> +With Truth's severer brow; and one withal<br> +So hardy as shall brave the passing wind<br> +Of many winters,—rearing its meek head<br> +In loveliness, when he who gathered it<br> +Is number'd with the generations gone.<br> +Yet not to me hath God's good providence<br> +Given studious leisure,<a class="fnref" href="#fn005">2</a> or +unbroken thought,<br> +Such as he owns,—a meditative man;<br> +Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve<br> +Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er,<br> +Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din:<br> +From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd<br> +With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day<br> +Hath duties which require the vigorous hand<br> +Of steadfast application, but which leave<br> +No deep improving trace upon the mind.<br> +But be the day another's;—let it pass!<br> +The night's my own!—They cannot steal my night!<br> +When evening lights her folding star on high,<br> +I live and breathe; and in the sacred hours<br> +Of quiet and repose my spirit flies,<br> +Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space.<br> +And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for Heaven.</p> + +<p>Hence do I love the sober-suited maid;<br> +Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my theme,<br> +And she shall aid me now to magnify<br> +The night of ages,—now when the pale ray<br> +Of starlight penetrates the studious gloom,<br> +And, at my window seated, while mankind<br> +Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze<br> +Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole,<br> +Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine,<br> +Assumes her wonted sway.</p> + +<p> Behold the world<br> +Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused<br> +From trouble and turmoil. The widow now<br> +Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie<br> +Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest.<br> +The man of sorrow has forgot his woes;<br> +The outcast that his head is shelterless,<br> +His griefs unshared.—The mother tends no more<br> +Her daughter's dying slumbers, but surprised<br> +With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch,<br> +Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, lull'd<br> +On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapp'd,<br> +Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shuddering nurse,<br> +Poor victim! smiles.—Silence and deep repose<br> +Reign o'er the nations; and the warning voice<br> +Of Nature utters audibly within<br> +The general moral:—tells us that repose,<br> +Deathlike as this, but of far longer span,<br> +Is coming on us—that the weary crowds,<br> +Who now enjoy a temporary calm,<br> +Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapp'd around<br> +With grave clothes: and their aching restless heads<br> +Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved,<br> +Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep.</p> + +<p>Who needs a teacher to admonish him<br> +That flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist?<br> +What are our joys but dreams? and what our hopes<br> +But goodly shadows in the summer cloud?<br> +There's not a wind that blows but bears with it<br> +Some rainbow promise:—Not a moment flies<br> +But puts its sickle in the fields of life,<br> +And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares.<br> +'T is but as yesterday since on yon stars,<br> +Which now I view, the Chaldee shepherd<a class="fnref" href= +"#fn006">3</a> gazed<br> +In his mid watch observant, and disposed<br> +The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape.<br> +Yet in the interim what mighty shocks<br> +Have buffeted mankind—whole nations razed—<br> +Cities made desolate—the polish'd sunk<br> +To barbarism, and once barbaric states<br> +Swaying the wand of science and of arts;<br> +Illustrious deeds and memorable names<br> +Blotted from record, and upon the tongue<br> +Of gray Tradition, voluble no more.</p> + +<p>Where are the heroes of the ages past?<br> +Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones<br> +Who flourish'd in the infancy of days?<br> +All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame<br> +Exultant, mocking at the pride of man,<br> +Sits grim Forgetfulness.—The warrior's arm<br> +Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame;<br> +Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze<br> +Of his red eyeball.—Yesterday his name<br> +Was mighty on the earth.—To-day—'t is what?<br> +The meteor of the night of distant years,<br> +That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld,<br> +Musing at midnight upon prophecies,<br> +Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam<br> +Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly<br> +Closed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up<br> +Safe in the enamel's treasures.</p> + +<p> Oh how weak<br> +Is mortal man! how trifling—how confined<br> +His scope of vision! Puff'd with confidence,<br> +His phrase grows big with immortality,<br> +And he, poor insect of a summer's day!<br> +Dreams of eternal honours to his name;<br> +Of endless glory and perennial bays.<br> +He idly reasons of eternity,<br> +As of the train of ages,—when, alas!<br> +Ten thousand thousand of his centuries<br> +Are, in comparison, a little point<br> +Too trivial for account.—O, it is strange,<br> +'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies;<br> +Behold him proudly view some pompous pile,<br> +Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies,<br> +And smile, and say, My name shall live with this<br> +Till time shall be no more; while at his feet,<br> +Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust<br> +Of the fallen fabric of the other day<br> +Preaches the solemn lesson.—He should know<br> +That time must conquer; that the loudest blast<br> +That ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trump<br> +Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires.<br> +Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom<br> +Of the gigantic pyramid? or who<br> +Rear'd its huge walls? Oblivion laughs, and says,<br> +The prey is mine.—They sleep, and never more<br> +Their names shall strike upon the ear of man,<br> +Their memory burst its fetters.</p> + +<p> Where is Rome?<br> +She lives but in the tale of other times;<br> +Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home,<br> +And her long colonnades, her public walks,<br> +Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet,<br> +Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace,<br> +Through the rank moss reveal'd, her honour'd dust.<br> +But not to Rome alone has fate confined<br> +The doom of ruin; cities numberless,<br> +Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy,<br> +And rich Phoenicia—they are blotted out,<br> +Half razed from memory, and their very name<br> +And being in dispute.—Has Athens fallen?<br> +Is polish'd Greece become the savage seat<br> +Of ignorance and sloth? and shall we dare</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p>And empire seeks another hemisphere.<br> +Where now is Britain?—Where her laurel'd names.<br> +Her palaces and halls? Dash'd in the dust.<br> +Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride,<br> +And with one big recoil hath thrown her back<br> +To primitive barbarity.——Again,<br> +Through her depopulated vales, the scream<br> +Of bloody Superstition hollow rings,<br> +And the scared native to the tempest howls<br> +The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts,<br> +Her crowded ports, broods Silence; and the cry<br> +Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash<br> +Of distant billows, breaks alone the void;<br> +Even as the savage sits upon the stone<br> +That marks where stood her capitols, and hears<br> +The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks<br> +From the dismaying solitude.—Her bards<br> +Sing in a language that hath perished;<br> +And their wild harps suspended o'er their graves,<br> +Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile the Arts, in second infancy,<br> +Rise in some distant clime, and then, perchance,<br> +Some bold adventurer, fill'd with golden dreams,<br> +Steering his bark through trackless solitudes,<br> +Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow<br> +Hath ever ploughed before,—espies the cliffs<br> +Of fallen Albion.—To the land unknown<br> +He journeys joyful; and perhaps descries<br> +Some vestige of her ancient stateliness:<br> +Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind<br> +Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived<br> +At science in that solitary nook,<br> +Far from the civil world; and sagely sighs,<br> +And moralizes on the state of man.</p> + +<p>Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt,<br> +Moves on our being. We do live and breathe,<br> +And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not.<br> +We have our springtime and our rottenness;<br> +And as we fall, another race succeeds,<br> +To perish likewise.—Meanwhile Nature smiles—<br> +The seasons run their round—The Sun fulfils<br> +His annual course—and heaven and earth remain<br> +Still changing, yet unchanged—still doom'd to feel<br> +Endless mutation in perpetual rest.<br> +Where are conceal'd the days which have elapsed?<br> +Hid in the mighty cavern of the past,<br> +They rise upon us only to appall,<br> +By indistinct and half-glimpsed images,<br> +Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote.</p> + +<p>Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch,<br> +When the rude rushing winds forget to rave,<br> +And the pale moon, that through the casement high<br> +Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour<br> +Of utter silence, it is fearful then<br> +To steer the mind, in deadly solitude.<br> +Up the vague stream of probability;<br> +To wind the mighty secrets of the past,<br> +And turn the key of time!—Oh! who can strive<br> +To comprehend the vast, the awful truth,<br> +Of the eternity that hath gone by,<br> +And not recoil from the dismaying sense<br> +Of human impotence? The life of man<br> +Is summ'd in birthdays and in sepulchres;<br> +But the Eternal God had no beginning;<br> +He hath no end. Time had been with him<br> +For everlasting, ere the dredal world<br> +Rose from the gulf in loveliness.—Like him<br> +It knew no source, like him, 't was uncreate.<br> +What is it then? The past Eternity!<br> +We comprehend a future without end;<br> +We feel it possible that even yon sun<br> +May roll for ever: but we shrink amazed—<br> +We stand aghast, when we reflect that time<br> +Knew no commencement.—That heap age on age,<br> +And million upon million, without end,<br> +And we shall never span the void of days<br> +That were and are not but in retrospect.<br> +The Past is an unfathomable depth,<br> +Beyond the span of thought; 'tis an elapse<br> +Which hath no mensuration, but hath been<br> +For ever and for ever.</p> + +<p> Change of days<br> +To us is sensible; and each revolve<br> +Of the recording sun conducts us on<br> +Further in life, and nearer to our goal.<br> +Not so with Time,—mysterious chronicler,<br> +He knoweth not mutation;—centuries<br> +Are to his being as a day, and days<br> +As centuries.—Time past, and Time to come,<br> +Are always equal; when the world began<br> +God had existed from eternity.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p> Now look on man<br> +Myriads of ages hence.—Hath time elapsed?<br> +Is he not standing in the selfsame place<br> +Where once we stood?—The same eternity<br> +Hath gone before him, and is yet to come;<br> +His past is not of longer span than ours,<br> +Though myriads of ages intervened;<br> +For who can add to what has neither sum,<br> +Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end?<br> +Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind?<br> +Who can unlock the secrets of the high?<br> +In speculations of an altitude<br> +Sublime as this, our reason stands confess'd<br> +Foolish, and insignificant, and mean.<br> +Who can apply the futile argument<br> +Of finite beings to infinity?</p> + +<p>He might as well compress the universe<br> +Into the hollow compass of a gourd,<br> +Scoop'd out by human art; or bid the whale<br> +Drink up the sea it swims in!—Can the less<br> +Contain the greater? or the dark obscure<br> +Infold the glories of meridian day?<br> +What does philosophy impart to man<br> +But undiscovered wonders?—Let her soar<br> +Even to her proudest heights—to where she caught<br> +The soul of Newton and of Socrates,<br> +She but extends the scope of wild amaze<br> +And admiration. All her lessons end<br> +In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths.</p> + +<p>Lo! the unletter'd hind, who never knew<br> +To raise his mind excursive to the heights<br> +Of abstract contemplation, as he sits<br> +On the green hillock by the hedge-row side,<br> +What time the insect swarms are murmuring,<br> +And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds<br> +That fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky,<br> +Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse<br> +The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd<br> +The goodly prospect; he beholds the God<br> +Throned in the west, and his reposing ear<br> +Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze<br> +That floats through neighbouring copse or fairy brake,<br> +Or lingers playful on the haunted stream.<br> +Go with the cotter to his winter fire,<br> +Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill,<br> +And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon;<br> +Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar.<br> +Silent, and big with thought; and hear him bless<br> +The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds,<br> +For his snug hearth, and all his little joys:<br> +Hear him compare his happier lot with his<br> +Who bends his way across the wintry wolds,<br> +A poor night traveller, while the dismal snow<br> +Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path,<br> +He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast,<br> +He hears some village mastiff's distant howl,<br> +And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light;<br> +Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes,<br> +And clasps his shivering hands; or overpowered,<br> +Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with sleep,<br> +From which the hapless wretch shall never wake.<br> +Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise<br> +And glowing gratitude,—he turns to bless,<br> +With honest warmth, his Maker and his God!<br> +And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind,<br> +Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred<br> +In want and labour, glows with nobler zeal<br> +To laud his Maker's attributes, while he<br> +Whom starry Science in her cradle rock'd,<br> +And Castaly enchasten'd with his dews,<br> +Closes his eyes upon the holy word,<br> +And, blind to all but arrogance and pride,<br> +Dares to declare his infidelity,<br> +And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts?<br> +What is philosophy, if it impart<br> +Irreverence for the Deity, or teach<br> +A mortal man to set his judgment up<br> +Against his Maker's will? The Polygar,<br> +Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him<br> +Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys,<br> +Is the most bless'd of men! Oh! I would walk<br> +A weary journey, to the furthest verge<br> +Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand,<br> +Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art,<br> +Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God,<br> +Feeling the sense of his own littleness,<br> +Is as a child in meek simplicity!<br> +What is the pomp of learning? the parade<br> +Of letters and of tongues? e'en as the mists<br> +Of the gray morn before the rising sun,<br> +That pass away and perish.</p> + +<p> Earthly things<br> +Are but the transient pageants of an hour;<br> +And earthly pride is like the passing flower,<br> +That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die.<br> +'T is as the tower erected on a cloud,<br> +Baseless and silly as the schoolboy's dream.<br> +Ages and epochs that destroy our pride,<br> +And then record its downfall, what are they<br> +But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain?<br> +Hath Heaven its ages? or doth Heaven preserve<br> +Its stated eras? Doth the Omnipotent<br> +Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays?<br> +There is to God nor future nor a past;<br> +Throned in his might, all times to him are present;<br> +He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come;<br> +He sees before him one eternal now.<br> +Time moveth not!—our being 't is that moves;<br> +And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream,<br> +Dream of swift ages and revolving years,<br> +Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days:<br> +So the young sailor in the gallant bark,<br> +Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast<br> +Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while,<br> +Struck with amaze, that he is motionless,<br> +And that the land is sailing.</p> + +<p> Such, alas!<br> +Are the illusions of this proteus life!<br> +All, all is false: through every phasis still<br> +'T is shadowy and deceitful. It assumes<br> +The semblances of things and specious shapes;<br> +But the lost traveller might as soon rely<br> +On the evasive spirit of the marsh,<br> +Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits,<br> +O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way,<br> +As we on its appearances.</p> + +<p> On earth<br> +There is no certainty nor stable hope.<br> +As well the weary mariner, whose bark<br> +Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus,<br> +Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain,<br> +And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust<br> +To expectation of serener skies,<br> +And linger in the very jaws of death,<br> +Because some peevish cloud were opening,<br> +Or the loud storm had bated in its rage;<br> +As we look forward in this vale of tears<br> +To permanent delight—from some slight glimpse<br> +Of shadowy, unsubstantial happiness.</p> + +<p>The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond<br> +The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep<br> +Of mortal desolation.—He beholds<br> +Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride<br> +Of rampant Ruin, or the unstable waves<br> +Of dark Vicissitude.—Even in death,—<br> +In that dread hour, when, with a giant pang,<br> +Tearing the tender fibres of the heart,<br> +The immortal spirit struggles to be free,<br> +Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not,<br> +For it exists beyond the narrow verge<br> +Of the cold sepulchre. The petty joys<br> +Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd,<br> +And rested on the bosom of its God.<br> +This is man's only reasonable hope;<br> +And 't is a hope which, cherish'd in the breast,<br> +Shall not be disappointed. Even he,<br> +The Holy One—Almighty—who elanced<br> +The rolling world along its airy way,<br> +Even He will deign to smile upon the good,<br> +And welcome him to these celestial seats,<br> +Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign.</p> + +<p>Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault,<br> +Survey the countless gems which richly stud<br> +The night's imperial chariot;—Telescopes<br> +Will show thee myriads more innumerous<br> +Than the sea sand;—each of those little lamps<br> +Is the great source of light, the central sun<br> +Round which some other mighty sisterhood<br> +Of planets travel, every planet stock'd<br> +With Hying beings impotent as thee.<br> +Now, proud man! now, where is thy greatness fled?<br> +What art thou in the scale of universe?<br> +Less, less than nothing!—Yet of thee the God<br> +Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful,<br> +As well as of the mendicant who begs<br> +The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou<br> +Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn<br> +His heavenly providence! Deluded fool,<br> +Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with death,<br> +Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell.</p> + +<p>How insignificant is mortal man,<br> +Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour!<br> +How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit<br> +Of infinite duration, boundless space!<br> +God of the universe! Almighty One!<br> +Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds,<br> +Or with the storm, thy rugged charioteer,<br> +Swift and impetuous as the northern blast,<br> +Ridest from pole to pole; Thou who dost hold<br> +The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp,<br> +And reignest in the earthquake, when thy wrath<br> +Goes down towards erring man, I would address<br> +To thee my parting pæan; for of Thee,<br> +Great beyond comprehension, who thyself<br> +Art Time and Space, sublime Infinitude,<br> +Of Thee has been my song!—With awe I kneel<br> +Trembling before the footstool of thy state,<br> +My God!—my Father!—I will sing to thee<br> +A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle,<br> +Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades<br> +The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre,<br> +And give its wild strings to the desert gale.<br> +Rise, Son of Salem! rise, and join the strain,<br> +Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp,<br> +And, leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul<br> +To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing,<br> +And halleluiah, for the Lord is great,<br> +And full of mercy! He has thought of man;<br> +Yea, compass'd round with countless worlds, has thought<br> +Of us poor worms, that batten in the dews<br> +Of morn, and perish ere the noonday sun.<br> +Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful:<br> +He gave the Nubian lion but to live,<br> +To rage its hour, and perish; but on man<br> +He lavish'd immortality and Heaven.<br> +The eagle falls from her aërial tower,<br> +And mingles with irrevocable dust:<br> +But man from death springs joyful,<br> +Springs up to life and to eternity.<br> +Oh, that, insensate of the favouring boon,<br> +The great exclusive privilege bestow'd<br> +On us unworthy trifles, men should dare<br> +To treat with slight regard the proffer'd Heaven,<br> +And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear<br> +In wrath, "They shall not enter in my rest."<br> +Might I address the supplicative strain<br> +To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou<br> +Wouldst pity the deluded wanderers,<br> +And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock.<br> +Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Him,<br> +Thy well beloved, who, upon the cross,<br> +Bled a dread sacrifice for human sin,<br> +And paid, with bitter agony, the debt<br> +Of primitive transgression.</p> + +<p> Oh! I shrink,<br> +My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect<br> +That the time hastens, when, in vengeance clothed,<br> +Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate<br> +On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels<br> +Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves,<br> +And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start<br> +At the appalling summons. Oh I how dread,<br> +On the dark eye of miserable man,<br> +Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom,<br> +Will burst the effulgence of the opening Heaven;<br> +When to the brazen trumpet's deafening roar<br> +Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend,<br> +Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word!<br> +The dead shall start astonish'd from their sleep!<br> +The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey,<br> +The bellowing floods shall disembogue their charge<br> +Of human victims. From the farthest nook<br> +Of the wide world shall troop the risen souls,<br> +From him whose bones are bleaching in the waste<br> +Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse,<br> +Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides,<br> +Is wash'd on some Caribbean prominence,<br> +To the lone tenant of some secret cell<br> +In the Pacific's vast ... realm,<br> +Where never plummet's sound was heard to part<br> +The wilderness of water; they shall come<br> +To greet the solemn advent of the Judge.</p> + +<p>Thou first shalt summon the elected saints<br> +To their apportion'd Heaven! and thy Son,<br> +At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious joy<br> +On all his past distresses, when for them<br> +He bore humanity's severest pangs.<br> +Then shalt thou seize the avenging scimitar,<br> +And, with a roar as loud and horrible<br> +As the stern earthquake's monitory voice,<br> +The wicked shall be driven to their abode,<br> +Down the immitigable gulf, to wail<br> +And gnash their teeth in endless agony.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p>Rear thou aloft thy standard.—Spirit, rear<br> +Thy flag on high!—Invincible, and throned<br> +In unparticipated might. Behold<br> +Earth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent sway,<br> +Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while,<br> +Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush<br> +Of mighty generations, as they pass<br> +To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp<br> +Thy signet on them, and they rise no more.<br> +Who shall contend with Time—unvanquish'd Time,<br> +The conqueror of conquerors, and lord<br> +Of desolation?—Lo! the shadows fly,<br> +The hours and days, and years and centuries,<br> +They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall,<br> +The young are old, the old are in their graves.<br> +Heard'st thou that shout? It rent the vaulted skies;<br> +It was the voice of people,—mighty crowds,—<br> +Again! 't is hushed—Time speaks, and all is hush'd;<br> +In the vast multitude now reigns alone<br> +Unruffled solitude. They all are still;<br> +All—yea, the whole—the incalculable mass,<br> +Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains.</p> + +<p>Rear thou aloft thy standard.—Spirit, rear<br> +Thy flag on high, and glory in thy strength.<br> +But do thou know the season yet shall come,<br> +When from its base thine adamantine throne<br> +Shall tumble; when thine arm shall cease to strike,<br> +Thy voice forget its petrifying power;<br> +When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no more.<br> +Yea, he doth come—the mighty champion comes,<br> +Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death wound, Shall crush +the conqueror of conquerors,<br> +And desolate stern Desolation's lord.<br> +Lo! where he cometh! the Messiah comes!<br> +The King! the Comforter! the Christ!—He comes<br> +To burst the bonds of Death, and overturn<br> +The power of Time.—Hark! the trumpet's blast<br> +Rings o'er the heavens! They rise, the myriads rise—<br> +Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chains<br> +Of torpor,—He has ransom'd them,...</p> + +<p>Forgotten generations live again,<br> +Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old,<br> +Beyond the flood:—the righteous of their times<br> +Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy.<br> +The sainted mother wakes, and in her lap<br> +Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave,<br> +And heritor with her of Heaven,—a flower,<br> +Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain<br> +Of native guilt, even in its early bud.<br> +And, hark! those strains, how solemnly serene<br> +They fall, as from the skies—at distance fall—<br> +Again more loud—the halleluiahs swell;<br> +The newly risen catch the joyful sound;<br> +They glow, they burn; and now with one accord<br> +Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song<br> +Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb<br> +Who bled for mortals.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p>Yet there is peace for man.—Yea, there is peace<br> +Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene;<br> +When from the crowd, and from the city far,<br> +Haply he may be set (in his late walk<br> +O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs<br> +Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone,<br> +And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys<br> +The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail,<br> +And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time<br> +Will waft him to repose, to deep repose,<br> +Far from the unquietness of life—from noise<br> +And tumult far—beyond the flying clouds,<br> +Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene,<br> +Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no more.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn004">1</a> This Poem was begun either +during the publication of Clifton Grove, or shortly afterwards, +but never completed: some of the detached parts were among his +latest productions.<br> +<a class="fnref" name="fn005">2</a> The Author was then in an +attorney's office.<br> +<a class="fnref" name="fn006">3</a> Alluding to the first +astronomical observations made by the Chaldean shepherds.<br> +</p> + +<h3><a name="misc03"></a>CHILDHOOD.<a class="fnref" href= +"#fn007">1</a></h3> + +<p>A POEM.</p> + +<p>PART I.</p> + +<p>Pictured in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet<br> +Our infant days, our infant joys, to greet;<br> +To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene,<br> +The village churchyard, and the village green,<br> +The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade,<br> +The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn shade,<br> +The whitewashed cottage, where the woodbine grew,<br> +And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew!<br> +How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze,<br> +To view the unclouded skies of former days!</p> + +<p>Beloved age of innocence and smiles,<br> +When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles.<br> +When the gay heart, to life's sweet dayspring true,<br> +Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.<br> +Bless'd Childhood, hail!—Thee simply will I sing,<br> +And from myself the artless picture bring;<br> +These long-lost scenes to me the past restore,<br> +Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more,<br> +And every stump familiar to my sight<br> +Recalls some fond idea of delight.</p> + +<p>This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat;<br> +Here did I love at evening to retreat,<br> +And muse alone, till in the vault of night,<br> +Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light.<br> +Here once again, remote from human noise,<br> +I sit me down to think of former joys;<br> +Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more,<br> +And once again each infant walk explore,<br> +While as each grove and lawn I recognize,<br> +My melted soul suffuses in my eyes.</p> + +<p>And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort<br> +To distant scenes, and picture, them to thought;<br> +Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye,<br> +Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy;<br> +Bless'd Memory, guide, with finger nicely true,<br> +Back to my youth my retrospective view;<br> +Recall with faithful vigour to my mind<br> +Each face familiar, each relation kind;<br> +And all the finer traits of them afford,<br> +Whose general outline in my heart is stored.</p> + +<p>In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls<br> +In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls,<br> +The village matron kept her little school,<br> +Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule;<br> +Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien;<br> +Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean;<br> +Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair,<br> +Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care;<br> +And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn,<br> +Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn.<br> +Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes,<br> +A pair of spectacles their want supplies;<br> +These does she guard secure, in leathern case,<br> +From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.</p> + +<p>Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain,<br> +The low vestibule of learning's fane;<br> +Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way,<br> +Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display.<br> +Much did I grieve on that ill fated morn<br> +When I was first to school reluctant borne;<br> +Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried<br> +To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd;<br> +And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept,<br> +To my lone corner broken-hearted crept,<br> +And thought of tender home, where anger never kept.</p> + +<p>But soon inured to alphabetic toils,<br> +Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles;<br> +First at the form, my task for ever true,<br> +A little favourite rapidly I grew:<br> +And oft she stroked my head with fond delight,<br> +Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight;<br> +And as she gave my diligence its praise,<br> +Talk'd of the honours of my future days.</p> + +<p>Oh! had the venerable matron thought<br> +Of all the ills by talent often brought;<br> +Could she have seen me when revolving years<br> +Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears,<br> +Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate<br> +Had been a lowlier, an unlettered state;<br> +Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife,<br> +Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life.</p> + +<p>Where in the busy scene, by peace unbless'd,<br> +Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest?<br> +A lonely mariner on the stormy main,<br> +Without a hope the calms of peace to gain;<br> +Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore,<br> +When shall his spirit rest to toil no more?<br> +Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave<br> +The sandy surface of his unwept grave.<br> +Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms,<br> +Serenest season of perpetual calms,—<br> +Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease,—<br> +And joy to think with thee I tasted peace.<br> +Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles,<br> +But each new object brings attendant smiles;<br> +When future evils never haunt the sight,<br> +But all is pregnant with unmix'd delight;<br> +To thee I turn from riot and from noise,<br> +Turn to partake of more congenial joys.</p> + +<p>'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor,<br> +When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er,<br> +What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were<br> +In various postures scattering o'er the green!<br> +Some shoot the marble, others join the chase seen,<br> +Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race;<br> +While others, seated on the dappled grass,<br> +With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass.<br> +Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd,<br> +A band of soldiers oft with pride we march'd;<br> +For banners to a tall ash we did bind<br> +Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind;<br> +And for our warlike arms we sought the mead,<br> +And guns and spears we made of brittle reed;<br> +Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown,<br> +We storm'd some ruin'd pigsty for a town.</p> + +<p>Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont<br> +To set her wheel before the cottage front,<br> +And o'er her spectacles would often peer,<br> +To view our gambols, and our boyish gear.<br> +Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round,<br> +With its beloved monotony of sound.<br> +When tired with play, we'd set us by her side<br> +(For out of school she never knew to chide),<br> +And wonder at her skill—well known to fame—<br> +For who could match in spinning with the dame?<br> +Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride<br> +To strangers, still her thriftness testified;<br> +Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth,<br> +How't was her spinning manufactured cloth.</p> + +<p>Oft would we leave, though well beloved, our play<br> +To chat at home the vacant hour away.<br> +Many's the time I' we scamper'd in the glade,<br> +To ask the promised ditty from the maid,<br> +Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing,<br> +While we around her form'd a little ring:<br> +She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed,<br> +Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed,<br> +Or little children murder'd as they slept;<br> +While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept.<br> +Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we<br> +Such hearts of stone there in the world could be.<br> +Poor simple wights, ah! little did we ween<br> +The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene!<br> +Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know<br> +This world's a world of weeping and of woe!</p> + +<p>Beloved moment! then 'twas first I caught<br> +The first foundation of romantic thought!<br> +Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear,<br> +Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear.<br> +Soon stored with much of legendary lore,<br> +The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more.<br> +Far from the scene of gaiety and noise,<br> +Far, far from turbulent and empty joys,<br> +I hied me to the thick overarching shade,<br> +And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid,<br> +While at my feet the rippling runnel ran,<br> +The days of wild romance antique I'd scan;<br> +Soar on the wings of fancy through the air,<br> +To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p><a name="misc04"></a>PART II.</p> + +<p>There are who think that Childhood does not share<br> +With age the cup, the bitter cup, of care:<br> +Alas! they know not this unhappy truth,<br> +That every age, and rank, is born to ruth.</p> + +<p>From the first dawn of reason in the mind,<br> +Man is foredoomed the thorns of grief to find;<br> +At every step has farther cause to know<br> +The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with woe.</p> + +<p>Yet in the youthful breast, for ever caught<br> +With some new object for romantic thought,<br> +The impression of the moment quickly flies,<br> +And with the morrow every sorrow dies.</p> + +<p>How different manhood!—then does Thought's control<br> +Sink every pang still deeper in the soul;<br> +Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart<br> +Becomes a painful resident in the heart;<br> +And care, whom not the gayest can outbrave,<br> +Pursues its feeble victim to the grave.<br> +Then, as each long known friend is summon'd hence,<br> +We feel a void no joy can recompense,<br> +And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb,<br> +Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom.</p> + +<p>Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue,<br> +No forms of future ill salute thy view,<br> +No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep,<br> +But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep,<br> +And sanguine Hope, through every storm of life,<br> +Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal strife.<br> +Yet e'en round childhood's heart, a thoughtless shrine,<br> +Affection's little thread will ever twine;<br> +And though but frail may seem each tender tie,<br> +The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh.<br> +Thus, when the long expected moment came,<br> +When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame,<br> +Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast,<br> +And a still tear my silent grief express'd.</p> + +<p>When to the public school compelled to go,<br> +What novel scenes did on my senses flow?<br> +There in each breast each active power dilates,<br> +Which 'broils whole nations, and convulses states;<br> +Their reigns, by turns alternate, love and hate,<br> +Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate;<br> +And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere,<br> +The dark deformities of man appear.<br> +Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim,<br> +There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame,<br> +There mild Benevolence delights to dwell,<br> +And sweet Contentment rests without her cell;<br> +And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find<br> +The good of heart, the intelligent of mind.</p> + +<p>'T was there, O George! with thee I learn'd to join<br> +In Friendship's bands—in amity divine.<br> +Oh, mournful though!—Where is thy spirit now?<br> +As here I sit on favorite Logar's brow,<br> +And trace below each well remember'd glade,<br> +Where arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd.<br> +Where art thou laid—on what untrodden shore,<br> +Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar?<br> +Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state,<br> +At last repose from all the storms of fate?<br> +Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave,<br> +Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save;<br> +See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend,<br> +And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend:<br> +Or where immeasurable wilds dismay,<br> +Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way,<br> +While sorrow and disease, with anguish rife,<br> +Consume apace the ebbing springs of life.<br> +Again I see his door against thee shut,<br> +The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut;<br> +I see thee, spent with toil and worn with grief,<br> +Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief;<br> +Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er,<br> +Think on thy native land—and rise no more!</p> + +<p>Oh! that thou couldst, from thine august abode,<br> +Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road,<br> +That thou couldst see him, at this moment here,<br> +Embalm thy memory with a pious tear,<br> +And hover o'er him as he gazes round,<br> +Where all the scenes of infant joys surround.</p> + +<p>Yes! yes! his spirit's near!—The whispering breeze<br> +Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees;<br> +And lo! his form transparent I perceive,<br> +Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve:<br> +He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe,<br> +While deathly silence reigns upon the globe.</p> + +<p>Yet ah! whence comes this visionary scene?<br> +'T is Fancy's wild aërial dream I ween:<br> +By her inspired, when reason takes its flight,<br> +What fond illusions beam upon the sight!<br> +She waves her hand, and lo! what forms appear!<br> +What magic sounds salute the wondering ear!<br> +Once more o'er distant regions do we tread,<br> +And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead;<br> +While, present sorrows banish'd far away,<br> +Unclouded azure gilds the placid day,<br> +Or, in the future's cloud-encircled face,<br> +Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace,<br> +And draw minutely every little wile,<br> +Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile.</p> + +<p>So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate,<br> +The Royal Mary solitary sate,<br> +And view'd the moonbeam trembling on the wave,<br> +And heard the hollow surge her prison lave,<br> +Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight,<br> +For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight;<br> +There did she form full many a scheme of joy,<br> +Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy,<br> +Which bright thro' Hope's deceitful optics beam'd,<br> +And all became the surety which it seem'd;<br> +She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm,<br> +In every tear a melancholy charm.</p> + +<p>To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep,<br> +Just yield a scanty sustenance to the sheep,<br> +With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped,<br> +To see the sun rise from his healthy bed;<br> +To watch the aspect of the summer morn,<br> +Smiling upon the golden fields of corn,<br> +And taste, delighted, of superior joys,<br> +Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes:<br> +With silent admiration oft we view'd<br> +The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd;<br> +The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade,<br> +Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd,<br> +And the round orb itself, in azure throne,<br> +Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone;<br> +We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay,<br> +Reviving Nature hail'd returning day;<br> +Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping heads,<br> +And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads,<br> +While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight,<br> +The birds sung pasans to the source of light:<br> +Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise,<br> +Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies,<br> +And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more<br> +Could trace him in his high aërial tour;<br> +Though on the ear, at intervals, his song<br> +Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along;<br> +And we have thought how happy were our lot,<br> +Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot,<br> +Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve<br> +Began in every dell her forms to weave,<br> +We might pursue our sports from day to day,<br> +And in each other's arms wear life away.</p> + +<p>At sultry noon too, when our toils were done,<br> +We to the gloomy glen were wont to run;<br> +There on the turf we lay, while at our feet<br> +The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet;<br> +And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore,<br> +Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more;<br> +Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept,<br> +Sung woe unto the wicked land—and wept;<br> +Or, fancy-led, saw Jeremiah mourn<br> +In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn.<br> +Then to another shore perhaps would rove,<br> +With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove;<br> +Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose,<br> +Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes.</p> + +<p>Sweet then to us was that romantic band,<br> +The ancient legends of our native land—<br> +Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair,<br> +And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair,<br> +By turns our thoughts engaged; and oft we talk'd<br> +Of times when monarch superstition stalk'd,<br> +And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome<br> +Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom:<br> +While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow,<br> +The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of woe.</p> + +<p>While thus employed, to us how sad the bell<br> +Which summon'd us to school! 'T was Fancy's knell,<br> +And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear,<br> +It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear.<br> +Yet even then, (for oh! what chains can bind,<br> +What powers control, the energies of mind!)<br> +E'en then we soar'd to many a height sublime,<br> +And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time.</p> + +<p>At evening too, how pleasing was our walk,<br> +Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk,<br> +When to the upland heights we bent our way.<br> +To view the last beam of departing day;<br> +How calm was all around! no playful breeze<br> +Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees,<br> +But all was still, save when, with drowsy song,<br> +The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along;<br> +And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee,<br> +The distant church bells' mellow harmony;<br> +The silver mirror of the lucid brook,<br> +That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took;<br> +The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides,<br> +With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides;<br> +The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight;<br> +The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight;<br> +All, all was pregnant with divine delight.<br> +We loved to watch the swallow swimming high,<br> +In the bright azure of the vaulted sky;<br> +Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride<br> +Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide,<br> +And tinged with such variety of shade,<br> +To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd.<br> +In these what forms romantic did we trace,<br> +While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space!<br> +Now we espied the Thunderer in his car,<br> +Leading the embattled seraphim to war,<br> +Then stately towers descried, sublimely high,<br> +In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky—<br> +Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height,<br> +A ridge of glaciers in mural white,<br> +Hugely terrific.—But those times are o'er,<br> +And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more;<br> +For thou art gone, and I am left below,<br> +Alone to struggle through this world of woe.</p> + +<p>The scene is o'er—still seasons onward roll,<br> +And each revolve conducts me toward the goal;<br> +Yet all is blank, without one soft relief,<br> +One endless continuity of grief;<br> +And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime,<br> +Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time.</p> + +<p>Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant<br> +For hoards of wealth which ye will never want:<br> +And lost to all but gain, with ease resign<br> +The calms of peace and happiness divine!<br> +Far other cares be mine—Men little crave<br> +In this short journey to the silent grave;<br> +And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health,<br> +I envy more than Croesus with his wealth.<br> +Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree<br> +Paternal acres to await on me;<br> +She gave me more, she placed within my breast<br> +A heart with little pleased—with little bless'd:<br> +I look around me, where, on every side,<br> +Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride;<br> +And could my sight be borne to either zone,<br> +I should not find one foot of land my own.</p> + +<p>But whither do I wander? shall the muse,<br> +For golden baits, her simple theme refuse?<br> +Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets<br> +The fading scenes of childhood's far gone sweets,<br> +It catches all the infant's wandering tongue,<br> +And prattles on in desultory song.<br> +That song must close—the gloomy mists of night<br> +Obscure the pale stars' visionary light,<br> +And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet,<br> +Steals on the welkin in primæval jet.</p> + +<p>The song must close.—Once more my adverse lot<br> +Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot:<br> +Again compels to plunge in busy life,<br> +And brave the hateful turbulence of strife.</p> + +<p>Scenes of my youth—ere my unwilling feet<br> +Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat.<br> +Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er,<br> +My eyes are closed to ope on them no more,<br> +Let me ejaculate, to feeling due,<br> +One long, one last affectionate adieu.<br> +Grant that, if ever Providence should please<br> +To give me an old age of peace and ease,<br> +Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days<br> +May wear away in gradual decays:<br> +And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play,<br> +Unseen upon the pinions of the day,<br> +Kind genii of my native fields benign,<br> +Who were....</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn007">1</a> This appears to be one of +the Author's earliest productions: written when about the age of +fourteen.<br> +</p> + +<h3><a name="misc05"></a>THE CHRISTIAD.</h3> + +<p>A DIVINE POEM.</p> + +<p>BOOK I.</p> + +<p>I.</p> + +<p> I sing the Cross!—Ye white-robed angel choirs,<br> + Who know the chords of harmony to sweep,<br> + Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires<br> + Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep,<br> + Oh, now descend! and with your harpings deep,<br> + Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream<br> + Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep,<br> + Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream,<br> +And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme.</p> + +<p>II.</p> + +<p> Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled state,<br> + Thy glittering fanes are level'd with the ground!<br> + Fallen is thy pride!—Thine halls are desolate!<br> + Where erst was heard the timbrels' sprightly sound,<br> + And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round,<br> + There breeds the wild fox lonely,—and aghast<br> + Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound,<br> + Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast<br> +Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste.</p> + +<p>III.</p> + +<p> It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers<br> + Lie crumbling in the dust; for this forlorn<br> + Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers,<br> + While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn,<br> + That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born;<br> + And, with most bitter persecuting ire,<br> + Pursued his footsteps till the last day dawn<br> + Rose on his fortunes—and thou saw'st the fire<br> +That came to light the world, in one great flash expire.</p> + +<p>IV.</p> + +<p> Oh! for a pencil dipp'd in living light,<br> + To paint the agonies that Jesus bore!<br> + Oh! for the long lost harp of Jesse's might,<br> + To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore;<br> + While seraph hosts the lofty pæan pour,<br> + And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim!<br> + May a frail mortal dare the theme explore?<br> + May he to human ears his weak song frame?<br> +Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name.</p> + +<p>V.</p> + +<p> Spirits of pity! mild crusaders, come!<br> + Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float,<br> + And give him eloquence who else were dumb,<br> + And raise to feeling and to fire his note!<br> + And thou, Urania! who dost still devote<br> + Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine,<br> + Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote,<br> + Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine,<br> +And clothe him for the fight with energy divine.</p> + +<p>VI.</p> + +<p> When from the temple's lofty summit prone,<br> + Satan, o'ercome, fell down; and 'throned there,<br> + The son of God confess'd in splendour shone:<br> + Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air,<br> + Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair,<br> + * * * * *<br> + Fled the stern king of Hell—and with the glare<br> + Of gliding meteors, ominous and red,<br> +Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head.</p> + +<p>VII.</p> + +<p> Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late<br> + The rude Massagetæ adored, he bent<br> + His northering course, while round, in dusky state<br> + The assembling fiends their summon'd troops augment;<br> + Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went,<br> + While as they pass'd to regions more severe,<br> + The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud lament<br> + The solitary gale; and, fill'd with fear,<br> +The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near.</p> + +<p>VIII.</p> + +<p> Where the North Pole, in moody solitude,<br> + Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around,<br> + There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude,<br> + Form a gigantic hall, where never sound<br> + Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound<br> + The smoke-frost mutter'd: there drear Cold for aye<br> + Thrones him,—and, fix'd on his primæval +mound,<br> + Ruin, the giant, sits; while stern Dismay<br> +Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way.</p> + +<p>IX.</p> + +<p> In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair,<br> + No sweet remain of life encheers the sight;<br> + The dancing heart's blood in an instant there<br> + Would freeze to marble.—Mingling day and night<br> + (Sweet interchange, which makes our labours light)<br> + Are there unknown; while in the summer skies<br> + The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height,<br> + Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies,<br> +And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise.</p> + +<p>X.</p> + +<p> 'T was there, yet shuddering from the burning lake,<br> + Satan had fix'd their next consistory,<br> + When parting last he fondly hoped to shake<br> + Messiah's constancy,—and thus to free<br> + The powers of darkness from the dread decree<br> + Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent<br> + The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see<br> + The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent,<br> +Discern the colours clear of every dark event.</p> + +<p>XI.</p> + +<p> Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight,<br> + And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall,<br> + Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light,<br> + Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call.<br> + He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen fall,<br> + Dropp'd on the echoing ice. Instant the sound<br> + Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the hall,<br> + Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound,<br> +Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they surround.</p> + +<p>XII.</p> + +<p> High on a solium of the solid wave,<br> + Prank'd with rude shapes by the fantastic frost,<br> + He stood in silence;—now keen thoughts engrave<br> + Dark figures on his front; and, tempest-toss'd,<br> + He fears to say that every hope is lost.<br> + Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute;<br> + So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast,<br> + Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute,<br> +Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute.</p> + +<p>XIII.</p> + +<p> At length collected, o'er the dark Divan<br> + The arch fiend glanced as by the Boreal blaze<br> + Their downcast brows were seen, and thus began<br> + His fierce harangue:—"Spirits! our better days<br> + Are now elapsed; Moloch and Belial's praise<br> + Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod.<br> + Lo! the light breaks;—The astonish'd nations gaze,<br> + For us is lifted high the avenging rod!<br> +For, spirits! this is He,—this is the Son of God!</p> + +<p>XIV.</p> + +<p> "What then!—shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear?<br> + Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign<br> + Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear?<br> + Madness! The very thought would make me fain<br> + To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain,<br> + And hurl them at their Maker!—Fix'd as Fate<br> + I am his foe!—Yea, though his pride should deign<br> + To soothe mine ire with half his regal state,<br> +Still would I burn with fix'd unalterable hate.</p> + +<p>XV.</p> + +<p> "Now hear the issue of my cursed emprize.<br> + When from our last sad synod I took flight,<br> + Buoyed with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise,<br> + To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write<br> + His own self-condemnation; in the plight<br> + Of aged man in the lone wilderness,<br> + Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight;<br> + And, leaning on my staff, seem'd much to guess<br> +What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn recess.</p> + +<p>XVI.</p> + +<p> "Then thus in homely guise I featly framed<br> + My lowly speech:—'Good Sir, what leads this way<br> + Your wandering steps? must hapless chance be blamed<br> + That you so far from haunt of mortals stray?<br> + Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day.<br> + Nor trace of man have seen: but how! methought<br> + Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy ray<br> + I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught<br> +That he to fallen man the saving promise brought.'</p> + +<p>XVII.</p> + +<p> "'I am that man,' said Jesus, 'I am He.<br> +<br> + But truce to questions—Canst thou point my feet<br> + To some low hut, if haply such there be<br> + In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet<br> + With homely greeting, and may sit and eat;<br> + For forty days I have tarried fasting here,<br> + Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat,<br> + And now I hunger; and my fainting ear<br> +Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing near.'</p> + +<p>XVIII.</p> + +<p> "Then thus I answer'd wily:—'If, indeed,<br> + Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek<br> + For food from men?—Lo! on these flint stones feed,<br> + Bid them be bread! Open thy lips and speak,<br> + And living rills from yon parch'd rock will break'<br> + Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye<br> + Fix'd on my face;—the blood forsook my cheek,<br> + I could not bear his gaze;—my mask slipp'd by;<br> +I would have shunn'd his look, but had not power to fly.</p> + +<p>XIX.</p> + +<p> "Then he rebuked me with the holy word—<br> + Accursed sounds; but now my native pride<br> + Return'd, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd,<br> + I bore him from the mountain's woody side<br> + Up to the summit, where extending wide<br> + Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes,<br> + Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were descried,<br> + And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains,<br> +Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculated swains.</p> + +<p>XX.</p> + +<p> "'Behold,' I cried, 'these glories! scenes divine!<br> + Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays;<br> + And these, O rapture! these shall all be thine,<br> + If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise.<br> + Hath he not given to indigence thy days?<br> + Is not thy portion peril here and pain?<br> + Oh! leave his temples, shun his wounding ways!<br> + Seize the tiara! these mean weeds disdain,<br> +Kneel, kneel, thou man of woe, and peace and splendour gain.'</p> + +<p>XXI.</p> + +<p> "'Is it not written,' sternly he replied,<br> + 'Tempt not the Lord thy God!' Frowning he spake,<br> + And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide,<br> + Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake,<br> + And caught me up aloft, till in one flake<br> + The sidelong volley met my swift career,<br> + And smote me earthward.—Jove himself might quake<br> + At such a fall; my sinews crack'd, and near,<br> +Obscure and dizzy sounds seem'd ringing in mine ear.</p> + +<p>XXII.</p> + +<p> "Senseless and stunn'd I lay; till casting round<br> + My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe<br> + Borne on a car of roses to the ground,<br> + By volant angels; and as sailing slow<br> + He sunk the hoary battlement below,<br> + While on the tall spire slept the slant sunbeam,<br> + Sweet on the enamour'd zephyr was the flow<br> + Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft seem,<br> +On star-light hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's dream.</p> + +<p>XXIII.</p> + +<p> "I saw blaspheming. Hate renew'd my strength;<br> + I smote the ether with my iron wing,<br> + And left the accursed scene.—Arrived at length<br> + In these drear halls, to ye, my peers! I bring<br> + The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king<br> + Thrice vanquished, baffled, smitten, and dismay'd!<br> + O shame! Is this the hero who could fling<br> + Defiance at his Maker, while array'd,<br> +High o'er the walls of light, rebellion's banners play'd!</p> + +<p>XXIV.</p> + +<p> "Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph long;<br> + Hell yet shall have revenge. O glorious sight,<br> + Prophetic visions on my fancy throng,<br> + I see wild Agony's lean finger write<br> + Sad figures on his forehead!—Keenly bright<br> + Revenge's flambeau burns! Now in his eyes<br> + Stand the hot tears,—immantled in the night,<br> + Lo! he retires to mourn!—I hear his cries!<br> +He faints—he falls—and lo!—'t is true, ye +powers, he dies."</p> + +<p>XXV.</p> + +<p> Thus spake the chieftain,—and as if he view'd<br> + The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced<br> + And chest inflated, motionless he stood,<br> + While under his uplifted shield he glanced,<br> + With straining eyeball fix'd, like one entranced,<br> + On viewless air;—thither the dark platoon<br> + Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when there danced<br> + The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon,<br> +Darken'd the disk of the descending moon.</p> + +<p>XXVI.</p> + +<p> Silence crept stilly through the ranks.—The breeze<br> + Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands,<br> + When all the midnight gasping from the seas<br> + Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands<br> + High on the shrouds the spirit that commands<br> + The ocean-farer's life; so stiff—so sear<br> + Stood each dark power;—while through their numerous +bands<br> + Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fear<br> +Now told them all was lost, now bade revenge appear.</p> + +<p>XXVII.</p> + +<p> One there was there, whose loud defying tongue<br> + Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell<br> + Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long<br> + His passion mock'd, and long he strove to tell<br> + His labouring ire; still syllable none fell<br> + From his pale quivering lip, but died away<br> + For very fury; from each hollow cell<br> + Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray,<br> +And....<br> + * * * * *</p> + +<p>XXVIII.</p> + +<p> "This comes," at length burst from the furious chief,<br> + "This comes of distant counsels! Here behold<br> + The fruits of wily cunning! the relief<br> + Which coward policy would fain unfold,<br> + To soothe the powers that warr'd with Heaven of old!<br> + O wise! O potent! O sagacious snare!<br> + And lo! our prince—the mighty and the bold,<br> + There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air,<br> +While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her standard +there."</p> + +<p>XXIX.</p> + +<p> Here, as recovered, Satan fix'd his eye<br> + Full on the speaker; dark it was and stern;<br> + He wrapp'd his black vest round him gloomily,<br> + And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts concern.<br> + Him Moloch mark'd, and strove again to turn<br> + His soul to rage. "Behold, behold," he cried,<br> + "The lord of Hell, who made these legions spurn<br> + Almighty rule—behold he lays aside<br> +The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied."</p> + +<p>XXX.</p> + +<p> Thus ended Moloch, and his burning tongue<br> + Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat<br> + In slaughter. So, his native wilds among,<br> + The famish'd tiger pants, when, near his seat,<br> + Press'd on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet.<br> + Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword<br> + Had from its scabbard sprung; but toward the seat<br> + Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord,<br> +As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p>"Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. I proved this of old: who +led your forces against the armies of Jehovah? Who coped with +Ithuriel and the thunders of the Almighty? Who, when stunned and +confused ye lay on the burning lake, who first awoke, and +collected your scattered powers? Lastly, who led you across the +unfathomable abyss to this delightful world, and established that +reign here which now totters to its base? How, therefore, dares +yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on Satan's bravery? he who +preys only on the defenceless—who sucks the blood of +infants, and delights only in acts of ignoble cruelty and unequal +contention. Away with the boaster who never joins in action, but, +like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed upon the +wounded, and overwhelm the dying. True bravery is as remote from +rashness as from hesitation; let us counsel coolly, but let us +execute our counselled purposes determinately. In power we have +learned, by that experiment which lost us Heaven, that we are +inferior to the Thunder-bearer:—In subtlety, in subtlety +alone we are his equals. Open war is impossible.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p> "Thus we shall pierce our conqueror through the race<br> + Which as himself he loves; thus if we fall,<br> + We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace,<br> + Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call<br> + Of vengeance rings within me! Warriors all,<br> + The word is vengeance, and the spur despair.<br> + Away with coward wiles!—Death's coal-black pall<br> + Be now our standard!—Be our torch the glare<br> +Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air!"</p> + +<p> Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old,<br> + Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves,<br> + Was worshipp'd, God of Fire, with charms untold<br> + And mystery. His wandering spirit roves,<br> + Now vainly searching for the flame it loves;<br> + And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire,<br> + Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves<br> + And cinnamon unheap'd the sacred pyre,<br> +And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire.</p> + +<p> He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast,<br> + And sighing—his papyrus scarf survey'd,<br> + Woven with dark characters, then thus address'd<br> + The troubled council.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p>I.</p> + +<p> Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme<br> + With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung<br> + Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem<br> + The lyre which I in early days have strung:<br> + And now my spirit's faint, and I have hung<br> + The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,<br> + On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung<br> + With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er,<br> +Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are heard no more.</p> + +<p> And must the harp of Judah sleep again?<br> + Shall I no more reanimate the lay?<br> + Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men,<br> + Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,<br> + One little space prolong my mournful day!<br> + One little lapse suspend thy last decree!<br> + I am a youthful traveller in the way,<br> + And this slight boon would consecrate to thee,<br> +Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<h3><a name="misc06"></a>LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE +HEAVENS,</h3> + +<p>IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK.</p> + +<p> Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold<br> +Your brilliant places in the sable vault<br> +Of night's dominions!—Planets, and central orbs<br> +Of other systems!—big as the burning sun<br> +Which lights this nether globe,—yet to our eye<br> +Small as the glowworm's lamp!—To you I raise<br> +My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd,<br> +My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts;<br> +Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind,<br> +Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold,<br> +And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring,<br> +Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him,<br> +The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze,<br> +The great Creator! Him! who now sublime,<br> +Wrapt in the solitary amplitude<br> +Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres<br> +Sits on his silent throne and meditates.</p> + +<p> The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven,<br> +Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime,<br> +Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great,"<br> +In varied harmonies.—The glorious sounds<br> +Roll o'er the air serene—The Æolian spheres,<br> +Harping along their viewless boundaries,<br> +Catch the full note, and cry, "The Lord is great,"<br> +Responding to the Seraphim. O'er all<br> +From orb to orb, to the remotest verge<br> +Of the created world, the sound is borne,<br> +Till the whole universe is full of Him.</p> + +<p> Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now<br> +In fancy strikes upon my listening ear,<br> +And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile<br> +On the vain world, and all its bustling cares,<br> +And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.</p> + +<p> Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height,<br> +What even are kings, when balanced in the scale<br> +Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God!<br> +Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works!<br> +Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm,<br> +One look of kind benevolence?—Thou canst:<br> +For Thou art full of universal love,<br> +And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart<br> +Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,<br> +The pageant insects of a glittering hour.</p> + +<p>Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,<br> +How insignificant do all the joys,<br> +The gaudes, and honours of the world appear!<br> +How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp<br> +Outwatch'd the slow-paced night!—Why on the page,<br> +The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd<br> +The hours devoted by the world to rest,<br> +And needful to recruit exhausted nature?<br> +Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay<br> +The loss of health? or can the hope of glory<br> +Lend a new throb into my languid heart,<br> +Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,<br> +Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye,<br> +Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?</p> + +<p>Say, foolish one—can that unbodied fame,<br> +For which thou barterest health and happiness,<br> +Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave?<br> +Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs<br> +Of everlasting punishment condign?<br> +Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires!<br> +How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God!<br> +Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth,<br> +And oh! assist me so to live on earth,<br> +That I may die in peace, and claim a place<br> +In thy high dwelling.—All but this is folly,<br> +The vain illusions of deceitful life.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc07"></a>LINES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER +AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS.</h3> + +<p>OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE.</p> + +<p>Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,<br> +And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,<br> +The big tear in his eye.—Mary, awake,<br> +From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight<br> +On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low.<br> +Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale,<br> +Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love,<br> +To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul,<br> +And cheer his breaking heart.—Come, as thou didst,<br> +When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd,<br> +And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne<br> +Of the startled night!—O! then, as lone reclining,<br> +I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm,<br> +Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering<br> +Didst strike my moody eye;—dead pale thou wert,<br> +Yet passing lovely.—Thou didst smile upon me,<br> +And oh! thy voice it rose so musical,<br> +Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm,<br> +That at the sound the winds forgot to rave,<br> +And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd,<br> +Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose,<br> +Lock'd in the arms of silence.</p> + +<p> Spirit of her!<br> +My only love! O! now again arise,<br> +And let once more thine aëry accents fall<br> +Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm,<br> +The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence<br> +With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling<br> +On the still air, the distant waterfall<br> +Mingles its melody;—and, high above,<br> +The pensive empress of the solemn night,<br> +Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds,<br> +Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky.<br> +No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll<br> +Dare now assemble at their mystic revels.<br> +It is a night when, from their primrose beds,<br> +The gentle ghosts of injured innocents<br> +Are known to rise and wander on the breeze,<br> +Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch,<br> +And strike grim terror to his guilty soul.<br> +The spirit of my love might now awake,<br> +And hold its custom'd converse.</p> + +<p> Mary, lo!<br> +Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave,<br> +And calls upon thy name. The breeze that blows<br> +On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him<br> +In solemn music a funereal dirge,<br> +Wild and most sorrowful. His cheek is pale,<br> +The worm that prey'd upon thy youthful bloom<br> +It canker'd green on his. Now lost he stands,<br> +The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew,<br> +Which bathes his aching temples, gives sure omen<br> +Of speedy dissolution. Mary, soon<br> +Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine,<br> +And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc08"></a>MY STUDY.</h3> + +<p>A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE.</p> + +<p> You bid me, Ned, describe the place<br> +Where I, one of the rhyming race,<br> +Pursue my studies con amore,<br> +And wanton with the muse in glory.</p> + +<p> Well, figure to your senses straight,<br> +Upon the house's topmost height,<br> +A closet just six feet by four,<br> +With whitewash'd walls and plaster floor.<br> +So noble large, 'tis scarcely able<br> +To admit a single chair and table:<br> +And (lest the muse should die with cold)<br> +A smoky grate my fire to hold:<br> +So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose<br> +To melt the icedrop on one's nose;<br> +And yet so big, it covers o'er<br> +Full half the spacious room and more.</p> + +<p> A window vainly stuff'd about,<br> +To keep November's breezes out,<br> +So crazy, that the panes proclaim<br> +That soon they mean to leave the frame.</p> + +<p> My furniture I sure may crack—<br> +A broken chair without a back;<br> +A table wanting just two legs,<br> +One end sustain'd by wooden pegs;<br> +A desk—of that I am not fervent,<br> +The work of, Sir, your humble servant;<br> +(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler;)<br> +A glass decanter and a tumbler,<br> +From which my night-parch'd throat I lave,<br> +Luxurious, with the limpid wave.<br> +A chest of drawers, in antique sections,<br> +And saw'd by me in all directions;<br> +So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em<br> +Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.<br> +To these, if you will add a store<br> +Of oddities upon thee floor,<br> +A pair of globes, electric balls,<br> +Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls,<br> +And crowds of books, on rotten shelves,<br> +Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves;<br> +I think, dear Ned, you curious dog,<br> +You'll have my earthly catalogue.<br> +But stay,—I nearly had left out<br> +My bellows destitute of snout;<br> +And on the walls,—Good Heavens! why there<br> +I've such a load of precious ware,<br> +Of heads, and coins, and silver medals,<br> +And organ works, and broken pedals;<br> +(For I was once a-building music,<br> +Though soon of that employ I grew sick);<br> +And skeletons of laws which shoot<br> +All out of one primordial root;<br> +That you, at such a sight, would swear<br> +Confusion's self had settled there.<br> +There stands, just by a broken sphere,<br> +A Cicero without an ear,<br> +A neck, on which, by logic good,<br> +I know for sure a head once stood;<br> +But who it was the able master<br> +Had moulded in the mimic planter,<br> +Whether 't was Pope, or Coke, or Burn,<br> +I never yet could justly learn:<br> +But knowing well, that any head<br> +Is made to answer for the dead,<br> +(And sculptors first their faces frame,<br> +And after pitch upon a name,<br> +Nor think it aught of a misnomer<br> +To christen Chaucer's busto Homer,<br> +Because they both have beards, which, you know,<br> +Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,)<br> +For some great man, I could not tell<br> +But Neck might answer just as well,<br> +So perch'd it up, all in a row<br> +With Chatham and with Cicero.</p> + +<p> Then all around, in just degree,<br> +A range of portraits you may see,<br> +Of mighty men and eke of women,<br> +Who are no whit inferior to men.</p> + +<p> With these fair dames, and heroes round,<br> +I call my garret classic ground.<br> +For though confined, 't will well contain<br> +The ideal flights of Madam Brain.<br> +No dungeon's walls, no cell confined<br> +Can cramp the energies of mind!<br> +Thus, though my heart may seem so small,<br> +I've friends, and 't will contain them all;<br> +And should it e'er become so cold<br> +That these it will no longer hold,<br> +No more may Heaven her blessings give,<br> +I shall not then be fit to live.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc09"></a>DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE.</h3> + +<p> Down the sultry arc of day<br> +The burning wheels have urged their way;<br> +And eve along the western skies<br> +Sheds her intermingling dyes.<br> +Down the deep, the miry lane,<br> +Creaking comes the empty wain,<br> +And driver on the shaft-horse sits,<br> +Whistling now and then by fits:<br> +And oft, with his accustom'd call,<br> +Urging on the sluggish Ball.<br> +The barn is still, the master's gone,<br> +And thresher puts his jacket on,<br> +While Dick, upon the ladder tall,<br> +Nails the dead kite to the wall.<br> +Here comes shepherd Jack at last,<br> +He has penn'd the sheepcote fast,<br> +For 't was but two nights before,<br> +A lamb was eaten on the moor:<br> +His empty wallet Rover carries,<br> +Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries.<br> +With lolling tongue he runs to try<br> +If the horse-trough be not dry.<br> +The milk is settled in the pans,<br> +And supper messes in the cans;<br> +In the hovel carts are wheel'd,<br> +And both the colts are drove a-field;<br> +The horses are all bedded up,<br> +And the ewe is with the tup.<br> +The snare for Mister Fox is set,<br> +The leaven laid, the thatching wet,<br> +And Bess has slink'd away to talk<br> +With Roger in the holly walk.</p> + +<p> Now, on the settle all, but Bess,<br> +Are set to eat their supper mess;<br> +And little Tom and roguish Kate<br> +Are swinging on the meadow gate.<br> +Now they chat of various things,<br> +Of taxes, ministers, and kings,<br> +Or else tell all the village news,<br> +How madam did the squire refuse;<br> +How parson on his tithes was bent,<br> +And landlord oft distrain'd for rent.<br> +Thus do they talk, till in the sky<br> +The pale-eyed moon is mounted high,<br> +And from the alehouse drunken Ned<br> +Had reel'd—then hasten all to bed.<br> +The mistress sees that lazy Kate<br> +The happing coal on kitchen grate<br> +Has laid—while master goes throughout,<br> +Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out,<br> +The candles safe, the hearths all clear,<br> +And nought from thieves or fire to fear;<br> +Then both to bed together creep,<br> +And join the general troop of sleep.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc10"></a>LINES,</h3> + +<p>Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. +Capel Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathaniel +Bloomfield's Poems, just published:—"It has a mixture of +the sportive, which deepens the impression of its melancholy +close. I could have wished, as I have said in a short note, the +conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of life less offend my +taste than its sweets delight it."</p> + +<p> Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still!"<br> +Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will;<br> +Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair,<br> +But tell not Misery's son that life is fair.</p> + +<p> Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd,<br> +And every year with new delight hast told,<br> +Thou, who, recumbent on the lacquer'd barge,<br> +Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge,<br> +Thou mayst extol life's calm untroubled sea,<br> +The storms of misery never burst on thee.</p> + +<p> Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines,<br> +Go to the shade obscure, where merit pines;<br> +Abide with him whom Penury's charms control,<br> +And bind the rising yearnings of his soul,<br> +Survey his sleepless couch, and, standing there,<br> +Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair!</p> + +<p> Press thou the lonely pillow of his head,<br> +And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled;<br> +Mark his dew'd temples, and his half shut eye,<br> +His trembling nostrils, and his deep drawn sigh,<br> +His muttering mouth contorted with despair,<br> +And ask if Genius could inhabit there.</p> + +<p> Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd,<br> +And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd:<br> +But now Neglect has stung him to—the core,<br> +And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more;<br> +Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round,<br> +And added Grief compels him to the ground.<br> +Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan,<br> +The shades of death with gradual steps steal on;<br> +And the pale mother, pining to decay,<br> +Weeps for her boy her wretched life away.</p> + +<p> Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave,<br> +Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave;<br> +Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head<br> +On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed.<br> +Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there,<br> +And tell us then that life is wondrous fair!</p> + +<p> Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd +forth,<br> +To encourage genius, and to foster worth;<br> +On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend,<br> +'T is just that every blessing should descend;<br> +'T is just that life to thee should only show<br> +Her fairer side but little mix'd with woe.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc11"></a>WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.</h3> + +<p>Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils.<br> +Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind;<br> +Communing lonely with his sinking soul,<br> +And musing on the dubious glooms that lie<br> +In dim obscurity before him,—thee,<br> +Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call<br> +At this still midnight hour, this awful season,<br> +When, on my bed, in wakeful restlessness,<br> +I turn me wearisome; while all around,<br> +All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;<br> +I only wake to watch the sickly taper<br> +Which lights me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand<br> +Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals,<br> +Slow sapping the warm current of existence.<br> +My moments now are few—the sand of life<br> +Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little,<br> +And the last fleeting particle will fall<br> +Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.<br> +Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate,<br> +While meditate we may.—We have now<br> +—But a small portion of what men call time<br> +To hold communion; for even now the knife,<br> +The separating knife, I feel divide<br> +The tender bond that binds my soul to earth.<br> +Yes, I must die—I feel that I must die;<br> +And though to me has life been dark and dreary,<br> +Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive,<br> +And Disappointment still pursued her blandishments,<br> +Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me<br> +As I contemplate the dim gulf of death,<br> +The shuddering void, the awful blank—futurity.<br> +Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme<br> +Of earthly happiness—romantic schemes,<br> +And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard<br> +To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps,<br> +Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes,<br> +And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades,<br> +Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion.<br> +Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry?<br> +Oh! none;—another busy brood of beings<br> +Will shoot up in the interim, and none<br> +Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink<br> +As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets<br> +Of busy London:—Some short bustle's caused,<br> +A few inquiries, and the crowds close in,<br> +And all's forgotten.—On my grassy grave<br> +The men of future times will careless tread,<br> +And read my name upon the sculptured stone;<br> +Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears,<br> +Recall my vanish'd memory. I did hope<br> +For better things!—I hoped I should not leave<br> +The earth without a vestige;—Fate decrees<br> +It shall be otherwise, and I submit.<br> +Henceforth, oh, world, no more of thy desires!<br> +No more of hope! the wanton vagrant Hope!<br> +I abjure all. Now other cares engross me,<br> +And my tired soul, with emulative haste,<br> +Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for heaven.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc12"></a>VERSES.</h3> + +<p>When pride and envy, and the scorn<br> + Of wealth my heart with gall imbued,<br> +I thought how pleasant were the morn<br> + Of silence, in the solitude;<br> +To hear the forest bee on wing;<br> +Or by the stream, or woodland spring,<br> +To lie and muse alone—alone,<br> +While the tinkling waters moan,<br> +Or such wild sounds arise, as say,<br> +Man and noise are far away.</p> + +<p>Now, surely, thought I, there's enow<br> + To fill life's dusty way;<br> +And who will miss a poet's feet,<br> + Or wonder where he stray:<br> +So to the woods and wastes I'll go,<br> + And I will build an osier bower,<br> +And sweetly there to me shall flow<br> + The meditative hour.</p> + +<p>And when the Autumn's withering hand,<br> +Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land,<br> +I'll to the forest caverns hie:<br> +And in the dark and stormy nights<br> +I'll listen to the shrieking sprites,<br> +Who, in the wintry wolds and floods,<br> +Keep jubilee, and shred the woods;<br> +Or, as it drifted soft and slow,<br> +Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<h3><a name="misc13"></a>FRAGMENT.</h3> + +<p>Oh! thou most fatal of Pandora's train,<br> + Consumption! silent cheater of the eye;<br> +Thou comest not robed in agonizing pain,<br> + Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delusive dye,<br> + But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie;<br> +O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse,<br> + And, while thou givest new lustre to the eye,<br> +While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues,<br> +E'en then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues.</p> + +<p>Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth,<br> + Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloom'd;<br> +And dropp'd a tear, for then thy cankering tooth<br> + I knew would never stay, till all consumed,<br> + In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd.</p> + +<p>But oh! what sorrow did I feel, as swift,<br> + Insidious ravager, I saw thee fly<br> +Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow,<br> + Preparing swift her passage to the sky.<br> +Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance,<br> + The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye;<br> +Yet soon did languid listlessness advance,<br> +And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance.</p> + +<p>Even when her end was swiftly drawing near,<br> + And dissolution hover'd o'er her head:<br> +Even then so beauteous did her form appear,<br> + That none who saw her but admiring said,<br> + Sure so much beauty never could be dead.<br> +Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye<br> +Bent lowly down upon the languid—</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<h3><a name="misc14"></a>FRAGMENT.</h3> + +<p> Loud rage the winds without.—The wintry cloud<br> +O'er the cold northstar casts her flitting shroud;<br> +And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale,<br> +Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale;<br> +Where now, shut out from every still retreat,<br> +Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat,<br> +Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood,<br> +Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood?<br> +Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance<br> +The drifted fleeces that around him dance,<br> +And hurries on his half-averted form,<br> +Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm.<br> +Him soon shall greet his snow-topp'd [cot of thatch],<br> +Soon shall his numb'd hand tremble on the latch,<br> +Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame<br> +Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame;<br> +Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud,<br> +What merry groups of vacant faces crowd;<br> +These hail his coming—these his meal prepare,<br> +And boast in all that cot no lurking care.</p> + +<p> What though the social circle be denied,<br> +Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside,<br> +Loves, with fix'd eye, to watch the fluttering blaze,<br> +While musing Memory dwells on former days;<br> +Or Hope, bless'd spirit! smiles—and still forgiven,<br> +Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven.<br> +Then heap the fire—shut out the biting air,<br> +And from its station wheel the easy chair:<br> +Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet<br> +To hear without the bitter tempest beat,<br> +All, all alone—to sit, and muse, and sigh,<br> +The pensive tenant of obscurity.<br> +</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<h3><a name="misc15"></a>TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS,</h3> + +<p>WHO, WHEN THE AUTHOR REASONED WITH HIM CALMLY, ASKED, "IF HE +DID NOT FEEL FOR HIM."</p> + +<p>"Do I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel.<br> +Yea, I do feel—most exquisitely feel;<br> +My heart can weep, when, from my downcast eye,<br> +I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:<br> +Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,<br> +And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.<br> +On this I act—whatever pangs surround,<br> +'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!<br> +When all was new, and life was in its spring,<br> +I lived an unloved, solitary thing;<br> +Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day<br> +The piercing cares that wore my youth away:<br> +Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel;<br> +Even then I wept I had not power to heal:<br> +Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom,<br> +I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's +doom.<br> +Who were my friends in youth?—The midnight fire—<br> +The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir;<br> +To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight,<br> +To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;<br> +I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,<br> +For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn;<br> +The sacred source of woe I never ope,<br> +My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.<br> +But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show,<br> +Though the cold crowd the secret never know;<br> +With them I laugh—yet, when no eye can see,<br> +I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.<br> +Yes, thou didst wrong me, ... I fondly thought,<br> +In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought!<br> +I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise,<br> +And read the truth that in my bosom lies;<br> +I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gone,<br> +Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!<br> +Yes—and they yet will mingle. Days and years<br> +Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:<br> +We then shall feel that friendship has a power<br> +To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;<br> +Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,<br> +And wait the passport to a better land.</p> + +<p>Thine</p> + +<p>H.K. WHITE.</p> + +<p>Half past Eleven o'clock at Night.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc16"></a>CHRISTMAS DAY.</h3> + +<p>1804.</p> + +<p> Yet once more, and once more, awake, my Harp,<br> +From silence and neglect—one lofty strain;<br> +Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,<br> +And speaking mysteries more than words can tell,<br> +I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high,<br> +Would join the dirge of the departing year.</p> + +<p> Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,<br> +Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear,<br> +Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now;<br> +Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song,<br> +And fearful joy, to celebrate the day<br> +Of the Redeemer.—Near two thousand suns<br> +Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse<br> +Of generations, since the dayspring first<br> +Beam'd from on high!—Now to the mighty mass<br> +Of that increasing aggregate we add<br> +One unit more. Space in comparison<br> +How small, yet mark'd with how much misery;<br> +Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence,<br> +Over the nations hanging her dread scourge;<br> +The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness,<br> +Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong,<br> +Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,<br> +And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears.</p> + +<p> So has the year been character'd with woe<br> +In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes;<br> +Yet 't was not thus He taught—not thus He lived,<br> +Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer<br> +And much thanksgiving. He, a man of woes,<br> +Went on the way appointed,—path, though rude,<br> +Yet borne with patience still:—He came to cheer<br> +The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick,<br> +And on the wandering and benighted mind<br> +To pour the light of truth. O task divine!<br> +O more than angel teacher! He had words<br> +To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds;<br> +And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas,<br> +Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm,<br> +He, pointing to the star of peace on high,<br> +Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile<br> +At the surrounding wreck.——<br> +When with deep agony his heart was rack'd,<br> +Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek,<br> +For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd,<br> +His persecutors—"Father, pardon them,<br> +They know not what they do."</p> + +<p> Angels of Heaven,<br> +Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross,<br> +And did him homage, say, may mortal join<br> +The halleluiahs of the risen God?<br> +Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard<br> +Amid the seraphim in light divine?<br> +Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign,<br> +For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith,<br> +Low though it be and humble. Lord of life,<br> +The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now<br> +Fills my uprising soul.—I mount, I fly<br> +Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs;<br> +The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes,<br> +And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<h3><a name="misc17"></a>NELSONI MORS.</h3> + +<p> Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again<br> +One ditty more, and on the mountain ash<br> +I will again suspend thee. I have felt<br> +The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,<br> +At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd,<br> +I woke to thee the melancholy song.<br> +Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe,<br> +I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks<br> +Of frolic fancy to the line of truth;<br> +Not unrepining, for my froward heart<br> +Stills turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow<br> +Of spring-gales past—the woods and storied haunts<br> +Of my not songless boyhood.—Yet once more,<br> +Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones,<br> +My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink;<br> +The good, the brave—he must not, shall not sink<br> +Without the meed of some melodious tear.</p> + +<p> Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour<br> +No precious dews of Aganippe's well,<br> +Or Castaly,—though from the morning cloud<br> +I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse:<br> +Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows,<br> +Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent<br> +Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears<br> +Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe<br> +Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm<br> +And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd<br> +Fast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too,<br> +If ever I have loved, with faltering step,<br> +To follow thee in the cold and starless night,<br> +To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff;<br> +And, as I heard the deep gun bursting loud<br> +Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd<br> +Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds,<br> +The dying soul's viaticum; if oft<br> +Amid the carnage of the field I've sate<br> +With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung<br> +To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul,<br> +With mercy and forgiveness—visitant<br> +Of Heaven—sit thou upon my harp,<br> +And give it feeling, which were else too cold<br> +For argument so great, for theme so high.</p> + +<p> How dimly on that morn the sun arose,<br> +'Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when—</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<h3><a name="misc18"></a>EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.</h3> + +<p>Bloomfield, thy happy omen'd name<br> +Ensures continuance to thy fame;<br> +Both sense and truth this verdict give,<br> +While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live!</p> + +<h3><a name="misc19"></a>ELEGY</h3> + +<p>OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. GILL, WHO WAS DROWNED IN THE +RIVER TRENT, WHILE BATHING, 9TH AUGUST, 1802.</p> + +<p>He sunk, the impetuous river roll'd along,<br> + The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath;<br> +And rising sad the rustling sedge among,<br> + The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death.</p> + +Nymph of the Trent! why didst thou not appear<br> + To snatch the victim from thy felon wave!<br> +Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier,<br> + And deck with waterflags his early grave.<br> +<br> + + +<p>Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey,<br> + Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride;<br> +While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay,<br> + And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide.</p> + +<p>The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye,<br> + The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved,<br> +I mark them rise—I mark the general sigh!<br> + Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved?</p> + +<p>On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink,<br> + When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade;<br> +On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink<br> + To hold mysterious converse with thy shade.</p> + +<p>Of thee, as early, I, with vagrant feet,<br> + Hail the gray-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale,<br> +Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet,<br> + And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale.</p> + +<p>And, oh! ye nymphs of Pæon! who preside<br> + O'er running rill and salutary stream.<br> +Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide<br> + From the rude death-shriek and the dying scream.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc20"></a>INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY +OF COWPER.</h3> + +<p> Reader! if with no vulgar sympathy<br> +Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth,<br> +Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd spot.<br> +Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made<br> +His name familiar to thine ear, this stone<br> +May tell thee that his virtues were above<br> +The common portion:—that the voice, now hush'd<br> +In death, was once serenely querulous<br> +With pity's tones, and in the ear of woe<br> +Spake music. Now, forgetful, at thy feet,<br> +His tired head presses on its last long rest,<br> +Still tenant of the tomb;—and on the cheek,<br> +Once warm with animation's lambent flush,<br> +Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay.<br> +Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part;<br> +And, these sad garments of Mortality<br> +Put off, we trust, that to a happier land<br> +He went a light and gladsome passenger.<br> +Sigh'st thou for honours, reader? Call to mind<br> +That glory's voice is impotent to pierce<br> +The silence of the tomb! but virtue blooms<br> +Even on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies.<br> +So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk<br> +With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc21"></a>"I'M PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD."</h3> + +<p>When twilight steals along the ground,<br> +And all the bells are ringing round,<br> + One, two, three, four, and five,<br> +I at my study window sit,<br> +And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit,<br> + To bliss am all alive.</p> + +<p>But though impressions calm and sweet<br> +Thrill round my heart a holy heat,<br> + And I am inly glad;<br> +The tear-drop stands in either eye,<br> +And yet I cannot tell thee why,<br> + I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad.</p> + +<p>The silvery rack that flies away,<br> +Like mortal life or pleasure's ray,<br> + Does that disturb my breast?<br> +Nay, what have I, a studious man,<br> +To do with life's unstable plan,<br> + Or pleasure's fading vest?</p> + +<p>Is it that here I must not stop,<br> +But o'er yon blue hill's woody top<br> + Must bend my lonely way?<br> +No, surely no! for give but me<br> +My own fireside, and I shall be<br> + At home where'er I stray.</p> + +<p>Then is it that yon steeple there,<br> +With music sweet shall fill the air,<br> + When thou no more canst hear?<br> +Oh, no! oh, no! for then, forgiven,<br> +I shall be with my God in heaven,<br> + Released from every fear.</p> + +<p>Then whence it is I cannot tell,<br> +But there is some mysterious spell<br> + That holds me when I'm glad;<br> +And so the tear-drop fills my eye,<br> +When yet in truth I know not why,<br> + Or wherefore I am sad.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc22"></a>SOLITUDE.</h3> + +<p>It is not that my lot is low,<br> +That bids this silent tear to flow;<br> +It is not grief that bids me moan;<br> +It is that I am all alone.</p> + +<p>In woods and glens I love to roam,<br> +When the tired hedger hies him home;<br> +Or by the woodland pool to rest,<br> +When pale the star looks on its breast.</p> + +<p>Yet when the silent evening sighs,<br> +With hallow'd airs and symphonies,<br> +My spirit takes another tone,<br> +And sighs that it is all alone.</p> + +<p>The autumn leaf is sere and dead,<br> +It floats upon the water's bed;<br> +I would not be a leaf, to die<br> +Without recording sorrow's sigh!</p> + +<p>The woods and winds, with sullen wail,<br> +Tell all the same unvaried tale;<br> +I've none to smile when I am free,<br> +And when I sigh, to sigh with me.</p> + +<p>Yet in my dreams a form I view,<br> +That thinks on me, and loves me too;<br> +I start, and when the vision's flown,<br> +I weep that I am all alone.</p> + +<p><a name="misc23"></a>If far from me the Fates remove<br> +Domestic peace, connubial love,<br> +The prattling ring, the social cheer,<br> +Affection's voice, affection's tear,<br> +Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart,<br> +To me your iron aid impart!<br> +O teach me when the nights are chill,<br> +And my fireside is lone and still;<br> +When to the blaze that crackles near,<br> +I turn a tired and pensive ear,<br> +And Nature conquering bids me sigh<br> +For love's soft accents whispering nigh;<br> +O teach me, on that heavenly road,<br> +That leads to Truth's occult abode,<br> +To wrap my soul in dreams sublime,<br> +Till earth and care no more be mine.<br> +Let bless'd Philosophy impart<br> +Her soothing measures to my heart;<br> +And while with Plato's ravish'd ears<br> +I list the music of the spheres,<br> +Or on the mystic symbols pore,<br> +That hide the Chald's sublimer lore,<br> +I shall not brood on summers gone,<br> +Nor think that I am all alone.</p> + +<p><a name="misc24"></a>Fanny! upon thy breast I may not lie!<br> + Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak!<br> +Where art thou, love?—Around I turn my eye,<br> + And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek.<br> +Was it a dream? or did my love behold<br> + Indeed my lonely couch?—Methought the breath<br> +Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold<br> + And hollow, and the livery of death<br> +Invested her pale forehead. Sainted maid!<br> + My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave,<br> + Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave<br> +Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid.<br> +Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore<br> + Of better promise; and I know at last,<br> + When the long sabbath of the tomb is past,<br> +We two shall meet in Christ—to part no more.</p> + +<h3>FRAGMENTS.<a class="fnref" href="#fn008">1</a></h3> + +<p><a name="misc25"></a>Saw'st thou that light? exclaim'd the +youth, and paused:<br> +Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream<br> +That skirts the woods it for a moment play'd.<br> +Again, more light it gleam'd,—or does some sprite<br> +Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams,<br> +And lamp far beaming through the thicket's gloom,<br> +As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice<br> +Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness,<br> +Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour?<br> +No sprite deludes mine eyes,—the beam now glows<br> +With steady lustre.—Can it be the moon<br> +Who, hidden long by the invidious veil<br> +That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods?<br> +No moon to-night has look'd upon the sea<br> +Of clouds beneath her, answer'd Rudiger,<br> +She has been sleeping with Endymion.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p><a name="misc26"></a> The pious man,<br> +In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms<br> +Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith<br> +Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields<br> +Of ether, where the day is never veil'd<br> +With intervening vapours, and looks down<br> +Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides<br> +The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face<br> +To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all;<br> +But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd,<br> +The glaring sunbeam plays.</p> + +<p><a name="misc27"></a>Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in +gray,<br> +Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes,<br> + And from his tower of mist,<br> + Night's watchman hurries down.</p> + +<p><a name="misc28"></a>There was a little bird upon that +pile;<br> +It perch'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle,<br> +And made sweet melody.<br> +The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear,<br> +For other note none swell'd the air but his.<br> +It seem'd as if the little chorister,<br> +Sole tenant of the melancholy pile,<br> +Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind,<br> +Yet withal cheerful. I have heard the note<br> +Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn,<br> +——Much musing——</p> + +<p><a name="misc29"></a>O pale art thou, my lamp, and faint<br> + Thy melancholy ray:<br> +When the still night's unclouded saint<br> + Is walking on her way.<br> + Through my lattice leaf embower'd,<br> + Fair she sheds her shadowy beam,<br> + And o'er my silent sacred room<br> + Casts a checker'd twilight gloom;<br> + I throw aside the learned sheet,<br> +I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet.<br> + Sad vestal, why art thou so fair,<br> + Or why am I so frail?</p> + +<p>Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon,<br> + And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards!<br> +Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak<br> + Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd;<br> +So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud<br> +Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far<br> +From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave.</p> + +<p><a name="misc30"></a>O give me music—for my soul doth +faint;<br> + I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear<br> +Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint,<br> + That may the spirit from its cell unsphere.</p> + +<p>Hark how it falls! and now it steals along,<br> + Like distant bells upon the lake at eve,<br> +When all is still; and now it grows more strong,<br> + As when the choral train their dirges weave,<br> +Mellow and many-voiced; where every close,<br> + O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows.</p> + +<p>Oh! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars<br> + Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind.<br> +Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores,<br> + And floating pæans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell! base +earth, farewell! my soul is freed,<br> +Far from its clayey cell it springs,—</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p><a name="misc31"></a>And must thou go, and must we part?<br> + Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit;<br> +The pang that rends in twain my heart,<br> + Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it?<br> + Thy sex is fickle,—when away,<br> + Some happier youth may win thy——<br> +</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p><a name="misc32"></a>Ah! who can say, however fair his +view,<br> + Through what sad scenes his path may lie?<br> + Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh,<br> +Secure his own will never need it too?</p> + +<p>Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue,<br> + Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye<br> + The illusive past and dark futurity;<br> +Soon will they know—</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p><a name="misc33"></a>Hush'd is the lyre—the hand that +swept<br> + The low and pensive wires,<br> + Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires.</p> + +<p>Yes—it is still—the lyre is still;<br> + The spirit which its slumbers broke<br> + Hath pass'd away,—and that weak hand that woke<br> +Its forest melodies hath lost its skill.</p> + +<p>Yet I would press you to my lips once more,<br> + Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy;<br> +Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour,<br> + Mix'd with decaying odours: for to me<br> +Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy,<br> + As in the wood-paths of my native—</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p><a name="misc34"></a>When high romance o'er every wood and +stream<br> + Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire,<br> +Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering dream,<br> + First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre.<br> +All there was mystery then, the gust that woke<br> + The midnight echo was a spirit's dirge,<br> +And unseen fairies would the moon invoke<br> + To their light morrice by the restless surge.<br> +Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles,<br> + Too much ...<br> +The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles,<br> + And dark forebodings now my bosom fill.</p> + +<p><a name="misc35"></a>Once more, and yet once more,<br> + I give unto my harp a dark woven lay;<br> +I heard the waters roar,<br> + I heard the flood of ages pass away.<br> +O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell<br> + In thine eternal cell,<br> +Noting, gray chronicler! the silent years,<br> + I saw thee rise,—I saw the scroll complete;<br> + Thou spakest, and at thy feet<br> + The universe gave way.</p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn008">1</a> These Fragments were +written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the last +year of his life.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc36"></a>FRAGMENT OF AN ECCENTRIC DRAMA.</h3> + +<p>WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE.</p> + +<p>THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.</p> + +<p> Ding-dong! ding-dong!<br> + Merry, merry go the bells,<br> + Ding-dong! ding-dong!<br> +Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale,<br> + "Swinging slow with sullen roar,"<br> +Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay!<br> +Ding-dong, ding-dong calls us away.</p> + +<p> Round the oak, and round the elm,<br> + Merrily foot it o'er the ground!<br> + The sentry ghost it stands aloof,<br> + So merrily, merrily foot it round.<br> + Ding-dong! ding-dong!<br> + Merry, merry go the bells,<br> + Swelling in the nightly gale,<br> + The sentry ghost,<br> + It keeps its post,<br> + And soon, and soon our sports must fail:<br> + But let us trip the nightly ground,<br> + While the merry, merry bells ring round.</p> + +<p>Hark! Hark! the deathwatch ticks!<br> + See, see, the winding-sheet!<br> + Our dance is done,<br> + Our race is run,<br> + And we must lie at the alder's feet!<br> + Ding-dong! ding-dong!<br> + Merry, merry go the bells,<br> +Swinging o'er the weltering wave!<br> + And we must seek<br> + Our deathbeds bleak,<br> +Where the green sod grows upon the grave.</p> + +<p>They vanish—The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited +in a sky-blue robe, attended by mournful music.</p> + +<p>Come, Melancholy, sister mine!<br> + Cold the dews, and chill the night!<br> +Come from thy dreary shrine!<br> + The wan moon climbs the heavenly height,<br> + And underneath her sickly ray<br> + Troops of squalid spectres play,<br> + And the dying mortals' groan<br> + Startles the night on her dusky throne.<br> + Come, come, sister mine!<br> + Gliding on the pale moonshine:<br> + We'll ride at ease<br> + On the tainted breeze,<br> + And oh! our sport will be divine.</p> + +<p>The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep glen in the +rear, habited in black, and covered with a thick veil.—She +speaks.</p> + +<p> Sister, from my dark abode,<br> + Where nests the raven, sits the toad,<br> + Hither I come, at thy command:<br> + Sister, sister, join thy hand!<br> + I will smooth the way for thee,<br> + Thou shalt furnish food for me.<br> + Come, let us speed our way<br> + Where the troops of spectres play.<br> +To charnel-houses, churchyards drear,<br> +Where Death sits with a horrible leer,<br> +A lasting grin, on a throne of bones,<br> +And skim along the blue tombstones.<br> + Come, let us speed away,<br> + Lay our snares, and spread our tether!<br> + I will smooth the way for thee,<br> + Thou shalt furnish food for me;<br> + And the grass shall wave<br> + O'er many a grave,<br> + Where youth and beauty sleep together.</p> + +<p>CONSUMPTION.</p> + +<p> Come, let us speed our way,<br> +Join our hands, and spread our tether!<br> + I will furnish food for thee,<br> + Thou shalt smooth the way for me!<br> + And the grass shall wave<br> + O'er many a grave,<br> +Where youth and beauty sleep together.</p> + +<p>MELANCHOLY.</p> + +<p>Hist, sister, hist! who comes here?<br> +Oh! I know her by that tear,<br> +By that blue eye's languid glare,<br> +By her skin, and by her hair:<br> + She is mine,<br> + And she is thine,<br> +Now the deadliest draught prepare.</p> + +<p>CONSUMPTION.</p> + +<p>In the dismal night air dress'd,<br> +I will creep into her breast:<br> +Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin,<br> +And feed on the vital fire within.<br> +Lover, do not trust her eyes,—<br> +When they sparkle most, she dies!<br> +Mother, do not trust her breath,—<br> +Comfort she will breathe in death!<br> +Father, do not strive to save her,—<br> +She is mine, and I must have her!<br> +The coffin must be her bridal bed!<br> +The winding-sheet must wrap her head;<br> +The whispering winds must o'er her sigh,<br> +For soon in the grave the maid must lie:<br> + The worm it will riot<br> + On heavenly diet,<br> +When death has deflower'd her eye.</p> + +<p>[They vanish. While Consumption speaks, Angelina enters.]</p> + +<p>ANGELINA.</p> + +<p>With <a class="fnref" href="#fn009">1</a> what a silent and +dejected pace<br> +Dost thou, wan Moon! upon thy way advance<br> +In the blue welkin's vault!—Pale wanderer!<br> +Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love,<br> +That thus, with such a melancholy grace,<br> +Thou dost pursue thy solitary course?<br> +Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook<br> +Thy widow'd breast—on which the spoiler oft<br> +Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds<br> +Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night,<br> +Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round<br> +With its thick fringe thy couch? Wan traveller,<br> +How like thy fate to mine!—Yet I have still<br> +One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st;<br> +My woes will soon be buried in the grave<br> +Of kind forgetfulness—my journey here.<br> +Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn,<br> +Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet<br> +Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest.<br> +But thou, unhappy Queen! art doom'd to trace<br> +Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night,<br> +While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath<br> +The leaden pinions of unshaken time;<br> +Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue<br> +To cheat thy steps along the weary way.<br> +O that the sum of human happiness<br> +Should be so trifling, and so frail withal,<br> +That when possess'd, it is but lessened grief;<br> +And even then there's scarce a sudden gust<br> +That blows across the dismal waste of life,<br> +But bears it from the view. Oh! who would shun<br> +The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press<br> +The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave,<br> +And yet endure the various ills of life,<br> +And dark vicissitudes! Soon, I hope, I feel,<br> +And am assured, that I shall lay my dead,<br> +My weary aching head, on its last rest,<br> +And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod<br> +Will flourish sweetly. And then they will weep<br> +That one so young, and what they're pleased to call<br> +So beautiful, should die so soon. And tell<br> +How painful Disappointment's canker'd fang<br> +Wither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek.<br> +Oh, foolish ones! why, I shall sleep so sweetly,<br> +Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves<br> +Might envy me my rest! And as for them,<br> +Who, on the score of former intimacy,<br> +May thus remembrance me—they must themselves<br> +Successive fall.</p> + +<p>Around the winter fire<br> +(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals,<br> +And shrill the skater's irons on the pool<br> +Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs<br> +His graceful evolutions) they not long<br> +Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats<br> +Of early youth, but silent, one by one,<br> +Shall drop into their shrouds. Some, in their age,<br> +Ripe for the sickle; others young, like me,<br> +And falling green beneath the untimely stroke.<br> +Thus, in short time, in the churchyard forlorn,<br> +Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down,<br> +And dwell with me, a happy family.<br> +And oh! thou cruel, yet beloved youth,<br> +Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn,<br> +Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse<br> +And say that I was gentle, and deserved<br> +A better lover, and I shall forgive<br> +All, all thy wrongs;—and then do thou forget<br> +The hapless Margaret, and be as bless'd<br> +As wish can make thee—Laugh, and play, and sing<br> +With thy dear choice, and never think of me.<br> +Yet hist, I hear a step.—In this dark wood—</p> + + * * * * * + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn009">1</a> With how sad steps, O +Moon! thou climb'st the skies,<br> +How silently, and how wan a face!<br> +<i>Sir P. Sidney.</i></p> + +<h3><a name="misc37"></a>TO A FRIEND.</h3> + +<p>WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE.</p> + +<p>I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian,<br> +And many another noble Grecian,<br> +Who wealth and palaces resigned,<br> +In cots the joys of peace to find;<br> +Maximian's meal of turnip-tops<br> +(Disgusting food to dainty chops)<br> +I've also read of, without wonder;<br> +But such a cursed egregious blunder,<br> +As that a man of wit and sense<br> +Should leave his books to hoard up pence,—<br> +Forsake the loved Aonian maids<br> +For all the petty tricks of trades,<br> +I never, either now, or long since,<br> +Have heard of such a peace of nonsense;<br> +That one who learning's joys hath felt,<br> +And at the Muse's altar knelt,<br> +Should leave a life of sacred leisure<br> +To taste the accumulating pleasure;<br> +And, metamorphosed to an alley duck,<br> +Grovel in loads of kindred muck.<br> +Oh! 't is beyond my comprehension!<br> +A courtier throwing up his pension,—<br> +A lawyer working without a fee,—<br> +A parson giving charity,—<br> +A truly pious methodist preacher,—<br> +Are not, egad, so out of nature.<br> +Had nature made thee half a fool,<br> +But given thee wit to keep a school,<br> +I had not stared at thy backsliding:<br> +But when thy wit I can confide in,<br> +When well I know thy just pretence<br> +To solid and exalted sense;<br> +When well I know that on thy head<br> +Philosophy her lights hath shed,<br> +I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to,<br> +I wonder what this world will come to!<br> +Yet, whence this strain? shall I repine<br> +That thou alone dost singly shine?<br> +Shall I lament that thou alone,<br> +Of men of parts, hast prudence known?</p> + +<h3><a name="misc38"></a>LINES</h3> + +<p>ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. AGE FOURTEEN.</p> + +<p>Oh, Warton! to thy soothing shell,<br> +Stretch'd remote in hermit cell,<br> +Where the brook runs babbling by,<br> +For ever I could listening lie;<br> +And catching all the muses' fire,<br> +Hold converse with the tuneful quire.</p> + +<p>What pleasing themes thy page adorn,<br> +The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn,<br> +The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime,<br> +And Melancholy's mournful chime!<br> +Each with unwonted graces shines<br> +In thy ever lovely lines.</p> + +<p>Thy muse deserves the lasting meed;<br> +Attuning sweet the Dorian reed,<br> +Now the lovelorn swain complains,<br> +And sings his sorrows to the plains;<br> +Now the sylvan scenes appear<br> +Through all the changes of the year;</p> + +<p>Or the elegiac strain<br> +Softly sings of mental pain,<br> +And mournful diapasons sail<br> +On the faintly dying gale.<br> + But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er,<br> + On middle flight we cease to soar,<br> +For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep,<br> +Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep,<br> + In strains unheard before.<br> +Now, now the rising fire thrills high,<br> +Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly,<br> + And every throne explore:<br> +The soul entranced, on mighty wings,<br> +With all the poet's heat upsprings,<br> + And loses earthly woes;<br> +Till all alarm'd at the giddy height,<br> +The Muse descends on gentler flight,<br> + And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose.<br> +</p> + +<h3><a name="misc39"></a>FRAGMENT.</h3> + +<p> The western gale,<br> +Mild as the kisses of connubial love,<br> +Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved,<br> +Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade<br> +I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat:<br> +While rippling o'er its deep worn pebble bed,<br> +The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet,<br> +Dispensing coolness. On the fringed marge<br> +Full many a floweret rears its head,—or pink,<br> +Or gaudy daffodil. 'Tis here, at noon,<br> +The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire,<br> +And lave them in the fountain; here secure<br> +From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport:<br> +Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf,<br> +Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly,<br> +Invoke the god of slumber....</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p> And, hark! how merrily, from distant tower,<br> +Ring round the village bells! now on the gale<br> +They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud;<br> +Anon they die upon the pensive ear,<br> +Melting in faintest music. They bespeak<br> +A day of jubilee, and oft they bear,<br> +Commix'd along the unfrequented shore,<br> +The sound of village dance and tabor loud,<br> +Startling the musing ear of Solitude.</p> + +<p> Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide,<br> +When happy Superstition, gabbling eld!<br> +Holds her unhurtful gambols. All the day<br> +The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance<br> +On the smooth shaven green, and then at eve<br> +Commence the harmless rites and auguries;<br> +And many a tale of ancient days goes round.</p> + +<p>They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells<br> +Could hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon,<br> +Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence,<br> +And still the midnight tempest. Then anon<br> +Tell of uncharnel'd spectres, seen to glide<br> +Along the lone wood's unfrequented path,<br> +Startling the 'nighted traveller; while the sound<br> +Of undistinguished murmurs, heard to come<br> +From the dark centre of the deepening glen,<br> +Struck on his frozen ear.</p> + +<p> Oh, Ignorance!<br> +Thou art fallen man's best friend! With thee he speeds<br> +In frigid apathy along his way.<br> +And never does the tear of agony<br> +Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel<br> +Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast.</p> + +<p> E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank,<br> +I taste of all the keener happiness<br> +Which sense refined affords—E'en now my heart<br> +Would fain induce me to forsake the world,<br> +Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds,<br> +With a small flock, and short suspended reed,<br> +To sojourn in the woodland.—Then my thought<br> +Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss,<br> +That I could almost err in reason's spite,<br> +And trespass on my judgment.</p> + +<p> Such is life:<br> +The distant prospect always seems more fair,<br> +And when attain'd, another still succeeds,<br> +Far fairer than before,—yet compass'd round<br> +With the same dangers, and the same dismay.<br> +And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze,<br> +Still discontented, chase the fairy form<br> +Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find,<br> +When life itself is sinking in the strife,<br> +'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc40"></a>COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR.</h3> + +<p> Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound<br> +With winning elegance attune their song,<br> +Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense,<br> +And charm the soul with softest harmony:<br> +'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen<br> +Roving through Fancy's gay futurity;<br> +Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure,<br> +Pleasure of days to come. Memory, too, then<br> +Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad,<br> +Pensively musing on the scenes of youth,<br> +Scenes never to return.<a class="fnref" href="#fn010">1</a><br> +Such subjects merit poets used to raise<br> +The attic verse harmonious; but for me<br> +A deadlier theme demands my backward hand,<br> +And bids me strike the strings of dissonance<br> +With frantic energy.<br> +'Tis wan Despair I sing, if sing I can<br> +Of him before whose blast the voice of Song,<br> +And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly,<br> +Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard<br> +At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood,<br> +The lacerated son of Angola<br> +Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind;<br> +And, when the awful silence of the night<br> +Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart,<br> +He speaks in every conscience-prompted word<br> +Half utter'd, half suppressed.<br> +'Tis him I sing—Despair—terrific name,<br> +Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord<br> +Of timorous terror—discord in the sound:<br> +For to a theme revolting as is this,<br> +Dare not I woo the maids of harmony,<br> +Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound<br> +Of lyre Æolian, or the martial bugle,<br> +Calling the hero to the field of glory,<br> +And firing him with deeds of high emprise<br> +And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine<br> +Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard<br> +Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror.</p> + +<p> Hence, then, soft maids,<br> +And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers<br> +By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream:<br> +For aid like yours I seek not; 'tis for powers<br> +Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine!<br> +'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends.</p> + +<p> Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron,<br> +Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light,<br> +And all the myriads of the burning concave:<br> +Souls of the damned:—Hither, oh! come and join<br> +The infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing!<br> +He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang<br> +Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair!<br> +Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power;<br> +Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks,<br> +Till the loud pæan ring through hell's high vault,<br> +And the remotest spirits of the deep<br> +Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.</p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn010">1</a> Alluding to the two +pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc41"></a>THE EVE OF DEATH.</h3> + +<p>IRREGULAR.</p> + +<p>Silence of death—portentous calm,<br> + Those airy forms that yonder fly<br> +Denote that your void foreruns a storm,<br> + That the hour of fate is nigh.<br> +I see, I see, on the dim mist borne,<br> + The Spirit of battles rear his crest!<br> +I see, I see, that ere the morn,<br> + His spear will forsake its hated rest,<br> +And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked +breast.</p> + +<p>O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep,<br> + No softly ruffling zephyrs fly;<br> +But nature sleeps a deathless sleep,<br> + For the hour of battle is nigh.<br> +Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak,<br> + But a creeping stillness reigns around;<br> +Except when the raven, with ominous croak,<br> + On the ear does unwelcomely sound.<br> +I know, I know what this silence means;<br> + I know what the raven saith—<br> +Strike, oh, ye bards! the melancholy harp,<br> + For this is the eve of death.</p> + +<p>Behold, how along the twilight air<br> + The shades of our fathers glide!<br> +There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair,<br> + And Colma with gray side.<br> +No gale around its coolness flings,<br> + Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees;<br> +And hark! how the harp's unvisited strings<br> + Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze!<br> +'Tis done! the sun he has set in blood!<br> + He will never set more to the brave;<br> +Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death,<br> + For to-morrow he hies to the grave.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc42"></a>THANATOS.</h3> + +<p>Oh! who would cherish life,<br> + And cling unto this heavy clog of clay,<br> + Love this rude world of strife,<br> +Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day;<br> + And where, 'neath outward smiles,<br> + Conceal'd the snake lies feeding on its prey,<br> + Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way,<br> + And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles!<br> + Hateful it is to me,<br> +Its riotous railings and revengeful strife;<br> + I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts<br> +Dinning the ear;—away—away with life!<br> + And welcome, oh! thou silent maid,<br> + Who in some foggy vault art laid,</p> + +<p>Where never daylight's dazzling ray<br> +Comes to disturb thy dismal sway;<br> +And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep,<br> +In such forgetful slumbers deep,<br> +That all thy senses stupefied<br> +Are to marble petrified.<br> +Sleepy Death, I welcome thee!<br> +Sweet are thy calms to misery.<br> +Poppies I will ask no more,<br> +Nor the fatal hellebore;<br> +Death is the best, the only cure,<br> +His are slumbers ever sure.<br> +Lay me in the Gothic tomb,<br> +In whose solemn fretted gloom<br> +I may lie in mouldering state,<br> +With all the grandeur of the great:<br> +Over me, magnificent,<br> +Carve a stately monument;<br> +Then thereon my statue lay,<br> +With hands in attitude to pray,<br> +And angels serve to hold my head,<br> +Weeping o'er the father dead.<br> +Duly too at close of day,<br> +Let the pealing organ play;<br> +And while the harmonious thunders roll,<br> +Chant a vesper to my soul:<br> +Thus how sweet my sleep will be,<br> +Shut out from thoughtful misery!</p> + +<h3><a name="misc43"></a>ATHANATOS.</h3> + +<p> Away with Death—away<br> +With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps,<br> + Impervious to the day,<br> +Where nature sinks into inanity.<br> + How can the soul desire<br> + Such hateful nothingness to crave,<br> + And yield with joy the vital fire<br> + To moulder in the grave!<br> + Yet mortal life is sad,<br> + Eternal storms molest its sullen sky;<br> + And sorrows ever rife<br> + Drain the sacred fountain dry—<br> + Away with mortal life!<br> +But, hail the calm reality,<br> +The seraph Immortality!<br> +Hail the heavenly bowers of peace,<br> +Where all the storms of passion cease.<br> +Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er,<br> +The wearied spirit weeps no more;<br> +But wears the eternal smile of joy,<br> +Tasting bliss without alloy.<br> +Welcome, welcome, happy bowers,<br> +Where no passing tempest lowers;<br> +But the azure heavens display<br> +The everlasting smile of day;<br> +Where the choral seraph choir<br> +Strike to praise the harmonious lyre;<br> +And the spirit sinks to ease,<br> +Lull'd by distant symphonies.<br> +Oh! to think of meeting there<br> +The friends whose graves received our tear,<br> +The daughter loved, the wife adored,<br> +To our widow'd arms restored;<br> +And all the joys which death did sever,<br> +Given to us again for ever!<br> +Who would cling to wretched life,<br> +And hug the poison'd thorn of strife;<br> +Who would not long from earth to fly,<br> +A sluggish senseless lump to lie,<br> +When the glorious prospect lies<br> +Full before his raptured eyes?</p> + +<h3><a name="misc44"></a>MUSIC</h3> + +<p>WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FOURTEEN AND FIFTEEN, WITH A FEW +SUBSEQUENT VERBAL ALTERATIONS.</p> + +<p>Music, all powerful o'er the human mind,<br> + Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm,<br> +Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclined,<br> + And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm.</p> + +<p>At her command the various passions lie;<br> + She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace;<br> +Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstasy,<br> + And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease.</p> + +<p>Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire<br> + With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise;<br> +Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire<br> + Urge on the warrior gray with length of days.</p> + +<p>Far better she, when, with her soothing lyre,<br> + She charms the falchion from the savage grasp,<br> +And melting into pity vengeful ire,<br> + Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp.</p> + +<p>With her in pensive mood I long to roam,<br> + At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline,<br> +And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam,<br> + In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline.</p> + +<p>Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise,<br> + Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd,<br> +With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies,<br> + And pleased attention claims the passive mind.</p> + +<p>Soft through the dell the dying strains retire,<br> + Then burst majestic in the varied swell;<br> +Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre,<br> + Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell.</p> + +<p>Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give,<br> + That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul,<br> +With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live<br> + For ever 'neath your undefiled control.</p> + +<p>Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent,<br> + To cheer the soul when tired with human strife,<br> +To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,<br> + And soften down the rugged road of life.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc45"></a>ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE PLEASANT +MORNING IN SPRING.</h3> + +<p>WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.</p> + +<p> The morning sun's enchanting rays<br> +Now call forth every songster's praise;<br> +Now the lark, with upward flight,<br> +Gaily ushers in the light;<br> +While wildly warbling from each tree,<br> +The birds sing songs to Liberty.</p> + +<p> But for me no songster sings,<br> +For me no joyous lark upsprings;<br> +For I, confined in gloomy school,<br> +Must own the pedant's iron rule,<br> +And far from sylvan shades and bowers,<br> +In durance vile must pass the hours;<br> +There con the scholiast's dreary lines,<br> +Where no bright ray of genius shines,<br> +And close to rugged learning cling,<br> +While laughs around the jocund spring.<br> +How gladly would my soul forego<br> +All that arithmeticians know,<br> +Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach,<br> +Or all that industry can reach,<br> +To taste each morn of all the joys<br> +That with the laughing sun arise;<br> +And unconstrain'd to rove along<br> +The bushy brakes and glens among;<br> +And woo the muse's gentle power<br> +In unfrequented rural bower:<br> +But, ah! such heaven-approaching joys<br> +Will never greet my longing eyes;<br> +Still will they cheat in vision fine,<br> +Yet never but in fancy shine.</p> + +<p>Oh, that I were the little wren<br> +That shrilly chirps from yonder glen!<br> +Oh, far away I then would rove<br> +To some secluded bushy grove;<br> +There hop and sing with careless glee.<br> +Hop and sing at liberty;<br> +And, till death should stop my lays,<br> +Far from men would spend my days.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc46"></a>TO CONTEMPLATION.</h3> + +<p>Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys,<br> +The soother of my cares, inspiring peace;<br> +And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave,<br> +And blame and censure me, that I don't tie<br> +My every thought down to the desk, and spend<br> +The morning of my life in adding figures<br> +With accurate monotony: that so<br> +The good things of the world may be my lot,<br> +And I might taste the blessedness of wealth:<br> +But, oh! I was not made for money getting;<br> +For me no much respected plum awaits.<br> +Nor civic honour, envied. For as still<br> +I tried to cast with school dexterity<br> +The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts<br> +Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt,<br> +Which fond remembrance cherished, and the pen<br> +Dropp'd from my senseless fingers as I pictured,<br> +In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent<br> +I erewhile wander'd with my early friends<br> +In social intercourse. And then I'd think<br> +How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide,<br> +One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe;<br> +They were set down with sober steadiness,<br> +Each to his occupation. I alone,<br> +A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries,<br> +Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering<br> +With every wind to every point of the compass.<br> +Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge<br> +In fits of close abstraction; yea, amid<br> +The busy bustling crowds could meditate,<br> +And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away<br> +Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend.<br> +Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youth<br> +I woo'd thy heavenly influence! I would walk<br> +A weary way when all my toils were done,<br> +To lay myself at night in some lone wood,<br> +And hear the sweet song of the nightingale.<br> +Oh, those were times of happiness, and still<br> +To memory doubly dear; for growing years<br> +Had not then taught me man was made to mourn;<br> +And a short hour of solitary pleasure,<br> +Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense<br> +For all the hateful bustles of the day.<br> +My opening mind was ductile then, and plastic,<br> +And soon the marks of care were worn away,<br> +While I was sway'd by every novel impulse,<br> +Yielding to all the fancies of the hour.<br> +But it has now assumed its character;<br> +Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone,<br> +Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend.<br> +Yet still, O Contemplation! I do love<br> +To indulge thy solemn musings; still the same<br> +With thee alone I know to melt and weep,<br> +In thee alone delighting. Why along<br> +The dusky tract of commerce should I toil,<br> +When, with an easy competence content,<br> +I can alone be happy; where with thee<br> +I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature,<br> +And loose the wings of Fancy? Thus alone<br> +Can I partake the happiness on earth;<br> +And to be happy here is a man's chief end,<br> +For to be happy he must needs be good.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc47"></a>MY OWN CHARACTER.</h3> + +<p>ADDRESSED (DURING ILLNESS) TO A LADY.</p> + +<p> Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf,<br> +To give you a sketch—ay, a sketch of myself.<br> +'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess,<br> +And one it would puzzle a painter to dress;<br> +But, however, here goes, and as sure as a gun,<br> +I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun;<br> +For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her,<br> +She wont be a cynical father confessor.</p> + +<p> Come, come, 'twill not do! put that curling brow down;<br> +You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown.<br> +Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction,<br> +That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction;<br> +Religious—deistic—now loyal and warm;<br> +Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform:<br> +This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus;<br> +Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus;<br> +Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle;<br> +Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle;<br> +Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay,<br> +To all points of the compass I veer in a day.</p> + +<p> I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child,<br> +But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild;<br> +As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute;<br> +Then as for politeness—oh! dear—I'm a brute!<br> +I show no respect where I never can feel it;<br> +And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it.<br> +And so in the suite, by these laudable ends,<br> +I've a great many foes, and a very few friends.</p> + +<p> And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel<br> +That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd of steel.<br> +It can love (can it not?)—it can hate, I am sure;<br> +And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be poor.<br> +For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds;<br> +If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds;<br> +And though far from faultless, or even so-so,<br> +I think it may pass as our worldly things go.</p> + +<p> Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss;<br> +Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss!<br> +I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say,<br> +But in process of time I may get the wrong way.<br> +I'm a general lover, if that's commendation,<br> +And yet can't withstand you know whose fascination.<br> +But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices,<br> +In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices;<br> +So as for the good, why, if I possess it,<br> +I am not yet learned enough to express it.</p> + +<p> You yourself must examine the lovelier side,<br> +And after your every art you have tried,<br> +Whatever my faults, I may venture to say,<br> +Hypocrisy never will come in your way.<br> +I am upright, I hope; I'm downright, I'm clear!<br> +And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere;<br> +And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast,<br> +'Tis now when I swear——.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc48"></a>LINES WRITTEN IN WILFORD +CHURCHYARD.</h3> + +<p>ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.</p> + +<p> Here would I wish to sleep. This is the spot<br> +Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in.<br> +Tired out and wearied with the riotous world,<br> +Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred.<br> +It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,<br> +From his meridian height, endeavours vainly<br> +To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr<br> +Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,<br> +And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook<br> +Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray<br> +Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd.</p> + +<p> Come, I will sit me down and meditate,<br> +For I am wearied with my summer's walk;<br> +And here I may repose in silent ease;<br> +And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er,<br> +My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find<br> +The haven of its rest—beneath this sod<br> +Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.</p> + +<p> I would not have my corpse cemented down<br> +With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm<br> +Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie<br> +Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown,<br> +Swath'd down with osiers, just as sleep the cotters.<br> +Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave;<br> +But there at eve may some congenial soul<br> +Duly resort, and shed a pious tear,<br> +The good man's benison—no more I ask.<br> +And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look down<br> +From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit,<br> +Upon this little dim-discover'd spot,<br> +The earth,) then will I cast a glance below<br> +On him who thus my ashes shall embalm;<br> +And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer,<br> +Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine<br> +In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe,<br> +But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.</p> + +<p> Yet 't was a silly thought, as if the body,<br> +Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth,<br> +Could taste the sweets of summer scenery,<br> +And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze!<br> +Yet nature speaks within the human bosom,<br> +And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond<br> +His narrow verge of being, and provide<br> +A decent residence for its clayey shell,<br> +Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay<br> +His body in the city burial-place,<br> +To be thrown up again by some rude sexton,<br> +And yield its narrow house another tenant,<br> +Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust,<br> +Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp,<br> +Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness?<br> +No, I will lay me in the village ground;<br> +There are the dead respected. The poor hind,<br> +Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invade<br> +The silent resting place of death. I've seen<br> +The labourer, returning from his toil,<br> +Here stay his steps, and call his children round,<br> +And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes,<br> +And, in his rustic manner, moralize.<br> +I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,<br> +With head uncover'd, his respectful manner,<br> +And all the honours which he paid the grave,<br> +And thought on cities, where e'en cemeteries,<br> +Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality,<br> +Are not protected from the drunken insolence<br> +Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc.<br> +Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close!<br> +Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones<br> +May lie—or in the city's crowded bounds,<br> +Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters,<br> +Or left a prey on some deserted shore<br> +To the rapacious cormorant,—yet still,<br> +(For why should sober reason cast away<br> +A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spirit<br> +Shall wing its way to these my native regions,<br> +And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think<br> +Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew<br> +In solemn rumination; and will smile<br> +With joy that I have got my long'd release.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc49"></a>VERSES.</h3> + +<p>Thou base repiner at another's joy,<br> + Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own,<br> +Oh, far away from generous Britons fly,<br> + And find on meaner climes a fitter throne.<br> + Away, away, it shall not be,<br> + Thou shalt not dare defile our plains;<br> + The truly generous heart disdains<br> + Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he<br> +Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity.</p> + +<p>Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed—<br> + Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night,<br> +Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed,<br> + Thy happy victim will emerge to light;<br> +When o'er his head in silence that reposes<br> + Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear;<br> +Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses,<br> + Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe;<br> +Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all<br> +Will curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p>Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure:<br> + Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey?<br> +Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor,<br> + Who only boast what thou wouldst take away.<br> +See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting,<br> + O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp;<br> +While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting,<br> + Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp.<br> +Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd?<br> + Does jocund Health in Thought's still mansion live?<br> +Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest,<br> + That short quick sigh—their sad responses give.</p> + +<p>And canst thou rob a poet of his song;<br> + Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise?<br> +Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long;<br> + Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays<br> +While yet he lives—for to his merits just,<br> + Though future ages join his fame to raise,<br> +Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust?</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<h3><a name="misc50"></a>LINES.</h3> + +<p>Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far<br> +From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy!<br> +And many a flower, which in the passing time<br> +My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill<br> +Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died.<br> +Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased<br> +To hover o'er the many-voiced strings<br> +Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still<br> +Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell,<br> +And with recalled images of bliss<br> +Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw,<br> +Once more would throw a quick and hurried hand<br> +O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased—<br> +It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth<br> +Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek;<br> +Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy!<br> +The summer and the spring, the wind and rain,<br> +Sunshine and storm, with various interchange,<br> +Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month.<br> +Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired,<br> +Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress!<br> +I cannot burst thy bonds. It is but lift<br> +Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault,<br> +Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm,<br> +And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme,<br> +And I could follow thee, on thy night's work,<br> +Up to the regions of thrice chasten'd fire,<br> +Or, in the caverns of the ocean flood,<br> +Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot.<br> +Yet other duties call me, and mine ear<br> +Must turn away from the high minstrelsy<br> +Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly<br> +Must turn away; there are severer strains<br> +(And surely they are sweet as ever smote<br> +The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil<br> +Released and disembodied), there are strains<br> +Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought,<br> +Through the probation of revolving years,<br> +And mighty converse with the spirit of truth,<br> +Have purged and purified. To these my soul<br> +Aspireth; and to this sublimer end<br> +I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep<br> +With patient expectation. Yea, sometimes<br> +Foretaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimes<br> +Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait,<br> +And minister strange music, which doth seem<br> +Now near, now distant, now on high, now low,<br> +Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete,<br> +And full fruition filling all the soul.<br> +Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe<br> +The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude<br> +Of toil; and but that my fond heart<br> +Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone,<br> +When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake,<br> +I lay a listless muser, prizing, far<br> +Above all other lore, the poet's theme;<br> +But for such recollections I could brace<br> +My stubborn spirit for the arduous path<br> +Of science unregretting; eye afar<br> +Philosophy upon her steepest height,<br> +And with bold step and resolute attempt<br> +Pursue her to the innermost recess,<br> +Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth.</p> + +<h3><a name="misc51"></a>THE PROSTITUTE.</h3> + +<p>DACTYLICS.</p> + +<p>Woman of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot,<br> +Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger,<br> +Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart;</p> + +<p>Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery,<br> +Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away,<br> +While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings.</p> + +<p>Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite;<br> +Spurned by the beings who lured thee from innocence;<br> +Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence;</p> + +<p>Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled;<br> +Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness;<br> +Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage!</p> + +<p>Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here;<br> +Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death;<br> +None after thee inquires with solicitude;</p> + +<p>Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down,<br> +Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind,<br> +Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes.</p> + +<p>Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering,<br> +And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave.<br> +Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid.</p> + +<p>Once wert thou happy—thou wert once innocent;<br> +But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness,<br> +Then he abandoned thee unto thine infamy.</p> + +<p>Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down:<br> +But if a wretch like him sleeps in security,<br> +God of the red right arm! where is thy thunder-bolt?</p> + +<h2><a name="odes"></a>ODES.</h2> + +<h3><a name="ode01"></a>TO MY LYRE.</h3> + +<p>Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild<br> + Has served to charm the weary hour,<br> +And many a lonely night has 'guiled,<br> +When even pain has own'd, and smiled,<br> + Its fascinating power.</p> + +<p>Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowd<br> + Will little heed thy simple tones;<br> +Them mightier minstrels harping loud<br> +Engross,—and thou and I must shroud<br> + Where dark oblivion 'thrones.</p> + +<p>No hand, they diapason o'er,<br> + Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime;<br> +For me, no academic lore<br> +Has taught the solemn strain to pour,<br> + Or build the polish'd rhyme.</p> + +<p>Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar;<br> + Thou know'st to charm the woodland train;<br> +The rustic swains believe thy power<br> + Can hush the wild winds when they roar,<br> +And still the billowy main.</p> + +<p>These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep,<br> + I, still unknown, may live with thee,<br> +And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep<br> +Thy solemn string, where low I sleep,<br> + Beneath the alder tree.</p> + +<p>This little dirge will please me more<br> + Than the full requiem's swelling peal;<br> +I'd rather than that crowds should sigh<br> +For me, that from some kindred eye<br> + The trickling tear should steal.</p> + +<p>Yet dear to me the wreath of bay,<br> + Perhaps from me debarr'd;<br> +And dear to me the classic zone,<br> +Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne,<br> + Adorns the accepted bard.</p> + +<p>And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell<br> + Where Cam or Isis winds along,<br> +Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste,<br> +I yet might call the ear of taste<br> + To listen to my song.</p> + +<p>Oh! then, my little friend, thy style<br> + I'd change to happier lays,<br> +Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile,<br> +And through the long, the fretted aisle<br> + Should swell the note of praise.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode02"></a>TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.</h3> + +<p>Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!<br> +Whose modest form, so delicately fine,<br> + Was nursed in whirling storms,<br> + And cradled in the winds.</p> + +<p>Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway,<br> +And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,<br> + Thee on this bank he threw<br> + To mark his victory.</p> + +<p>In this low vale, the promise of the year,<br> +Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,<br> + Unnoticed and alone,<br> + Thy tender elegance.</p> + +<p>So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms<br> +Of chill adversity, in some lone walk<br> + Of life she rears her head,<br> + Obscure and unobserved;</p> + +<p>While every bleaching breeze that on her blows<br> +Chastens her spotless purity of breast,<br> + And hardens her to bear<br> + Serene the ills of life.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode03"></a>ODE ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. +A.</h3> + +<p>ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS DESIGNS.</p> + +<p>Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow,<br> + When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night,<br> + Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light<br> +That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below;<br> +And listen to the distant death-shriek long<br> + From lonely mariner foundering in the deep,<br> + Which rises slowly up the rocky steep,<br> +While the weird sisters weave the horrid song:<br> + Or, when along the liquid sky<br> + Serenely chant the orbs on high,<br> + Dost love to sit in musing trance,<br> + And mark the northern meteor's dance<br> + (While far below the fitful oar<br> + Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore),<br> + And list the music of the breeze,<br> + That sweeps by fits the bending seas;<br> + And often bears with sudden swell<br> + The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell,<br> + By the spirits sung, who keep<br> + Their night-watch on the treacherous deep,<br> + And guide the wakeful helmsman's eye<br> + To Helice in northern sky;<br> + And there upon the rock reclined<br> + With mighty visions fill'st the mind,<br> + Such as bound in magic spell<br> + Him<a class="fnref" href="#fn011">1</a> who grasp'd the gates +of Hell,<br> +And, bursting Pluto's dark domain,<br> +Held to the day the terrors of his reign.</p> + +<p>Genius of Horror and romantic awe,<br> + Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep,<br> + Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep,<br> +Can force the inmost soul to own its law;<br> + Who shall now, sublimest spirit,<br> + Who shall now thy wand inherit,<br> + From him<a class="fnref" href="#fn012">2</a> thy darling child +who best<br> + Thy shuddering images expressed?<br> + Sullen of soul, and stern, and proud,<br> + His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd,<br> + And now he lays his aching head<br> +In the dark mansion of the silent dead.</p> + +<p>Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain<br> + Buried beneath the unfathomable deep;<br> + And oh! for ever must its efforts sleep,<br> +May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain?<br> + Oh, yes, 'tis his! Thy other son!<br> + He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on,<br> + Fuesslin waves thy wand,—again they rise,<br> + Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes.<br> +Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep<br> + Where round his head the vollied lightnings flung,<br> + And the loud winds that round his pillow rung<br> +Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep.</p> + +<p> Or on the highest top of Teneriffe<br> +Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look<br> + Where far below the weather-beaten skiff<br> +On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook.<br> +Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear<br> + The death-sob, and, disdaining rest,<br> +Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast,<br> +And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear.<br> + Then, Superstition, at thy call,<br> + She bore the boy to Odin's Hall,<br> + And set before his awe-struck sight<br> + The savage feast and spectred fight;<br> + And summoned from his mountain tomb<br> + The ghastly warrior son of gloom,<br> + His fabled runic rhymes to sing,<br> + While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing;<br> + Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees,<br> + Laid on the stormy Hebrides,<br> + Which on the mists of evening gleam,<br> + Or crowd the foaming desert stream;<br> + Lastly her storied hand she waves,<br> + And lays him in Florentian caves;<br> + There milder fables, lovelier themes,<br> + Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams,<br> + There pity's lute arrests his ear,<br> + And draws the half reluctant tear;<br> + And now at noon of night he roves<br> + Along the embowering moonlight groves,<br> + And as from many a cavern'd dell<br> + The hollow wind is heard to swell,<br> + He thinks some troubled spirit sighs,<br> + And as upon the turf he lies,<br> + Where sleeps the silent beam of night,<br> + He sees below the gliding sprite,<br> + And hears in Fancy's organs sound<br> + Aërial music warbling round.</p> + +<p> Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole,<br> + And breathes her polish o'er his soul;<br> + Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat,<br> + The wondrous work is now complete.</p> + +<p> The Poet dreams:—The shadow flies,<br> + And fainting fast its image dies.<br> + But lo! the Painter's magic force<br> + Arrests the phantom's fleeting course;<br> + It lives—it lives—the canvas glows,<br> + And tenfold vigour o'er it flows.<br> +The Bard beholds the work achieved,<br> + And as he sees the shadow rise<br> + Sublime before his wondering eyes,<br> +Starts at the image his own mind conceived.</p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn011">1</a> Dante.<br> +<a class="fnref" name="fn012">2</a> Ibid.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode04"></a>TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G.</h3> + +<p>I. 1.</p> + +<p>Retired, remote from human noise,<br> + An humble Poet dwelt serene;<br> +His lot was lowly, yet his joys<br> + Were manifold, I ween.<br> +He laid him by the brawling brook<br> + At eventide to ruminate,<br> + He watch'd the swallow skimming round,<br> + And mused, in reverie profound,<br> +On wayward man's unhappy state,<br> +And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of ancient date.</p> + +<p>II. 1.</p> + +<p>"Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried,<br> + "There was a time, when genius claim'd<br> + Respect from even towering pride,<br> + Nor hung her head ashamed:<br> + But now to wealth alone we bow,<br> + The titled and the rich alone<br> + Are honour'd, while meek merit pines,<br> + On penury's wretched couch reclines,<br> +Unheeded in his dying moan,<br> +As, overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown.</p> + +<p>III. 1.</p> + +<p>"Yet was the muse not always seen<br> + In poverty's dejected mien,<br> + Not always did repining rue,<br> + And misery her steps pursue.<br> +Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced<br> + By the sweet honours of poetic bays,<br> + When Sidney sung his melting song,<br> + When Sheffield join'd the harmonious throng,<br> + And Lyttelton attuned to love his lays.<br> + Those days are gone—alas, for ever gone!<br> + No more our nobles love to grace<br> + Their brows with anadems, by genius won,<br> + But arrogantly deem the muse as base;<br> +How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race!"</p> + +<p>I. 2.</p> + +<p> Thus sang the minstrel:—still at eve<br> + The upland's woody shades among<br> + In broken measures did he grieve,<br> + With solitary song.<br> + And still his shame was aye the same,<br> + Neglect had stung him to the core;<br> + And he with pensive joy did love<br> + To seek the still congenial grove,<br> + And muse on all his sorrows o'er,<br> +And vow that he would join the abjured world no more.</p> + +<p>II. 2.</p> + +<p> But human vows, how frail they be!<br> + Fame brought Carlisle unto his view,<br> + And all amazed, he thought to see<br> + The Augustan age anew.<br> + Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose,<br> + No more he ponders on the woes<br> + Which erst he felt that forward goes,<br> + Regrets he'd sunk in impotence,<br> +And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence.</p> + +<p>III. 2.</p> + +<p> Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore<br> + With ills which in the world he bore,<br> + Again on futile hope to rest,<br> + An unsubstantial prop at best,<br> +And not to know one swallow makes no summer!<br> + Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam,<br> + Which flash'd across the hemisphere,<br> + Illumining the darkness there,<br> + Was but a single solitary beam,<br> + While all around remained in custom'd night.<br> + Still leaden ignorance reigns serene,<br> + In the false court's delusive height,<br> + And only one Carlisle is seen<br> +To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode05"></a>TO CONTEMPLATION.</h3> + +<p> Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell<br> +In some retired Lapponian cell,<br> +Where, far from noise and riot rude,<br> +Besides sequester'd solitude.<br> +Come, and o'er my longing soul<br> +Throw thy dark and russet stole,<br> +And open to my duteous eyes<br> +The volume of thy mysteries.</p> + +<p> I will meet thee on the hill,<br> +Where, with printless footsteps still,<br> +The morning in her buskin gray<br> +Springs upon her eastern way;<br> +While the frolic zephyrs stir,<br> +Playing with the gossamer,<br> +And, on ruder pinions borne,<br> +Shake the dewdrops from the thorn.<br> +There, as o'er the fields we pass,<br> +Brushing with hasty feet the grass,<br> +We will startle from her nest<br> +The lively lark with speckled breast,<br> +And hear the floating clouds among<br> +Her gale-transported matin song,<br> +Or on the upland stile, embower'd<br> +With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd,<br> +Will sauntering sit, and listen still<br> +To the herdsman's oaten quill,<br> +Wafted from the plain below;<br> +Or the heifer's frequent low;<br> +Or the milkmaid in the grove,<br> +Singing of one that died for love.<br> +Or when the noontide heats oppress,<br> +We will seek the dark recess,<br> +Where, in the embower'd translucent stream,<br> +The cattle shun the sultry beam,<br> +And o'er us on the marge reclined,<br> +The drowsy fly her horn shall wind,<br> +While echo, from her ancient oak,<br> +Shall answer to the woodman's stroke;<br> +Or the little peasant's song,<br> +Wandering lone the glens among,<br> +His artless lip with berries dyed,<br> +And feet through ragged shoes descried.</p> + +<p> But oh! when evening's virgin queen<br> +Sits on her fringed throne serene,<br> +And mingling whispers rising near<br> +Steal on the still reposing ear;<br> +While distant brooks decaying round,<br> +Augment the mix'd dissolving sound,<br> +And the zephyr flitting by<br> +Whispers mystic harmony,<br> +We will seek the woody lane,<br> +By the hamlet, on the plain,<br> +Where the weary rustic nigh<br> +Shall whistle his wild melody,<br> +And the croaking wicket oft<br> +Shall echo from the neighbouring croft;<br> +And as we trace the green path lone,<br> +With moss and rank weeds overgrown,<br> +We will muse on penbive lore?<br> +Till the full soul, brimming o'er,<br> +Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear,<br> +Embodied in a quivering tear.<br> +Or else, serenely silent, sit<br> +By the brawling rivulet,<br> +Which on its calm unruffled breast<br> +Rears the old mossy arch impressed,<br> +That clasps its secret stream of glass,<br> +Half hid in shrubs and waving grass,<br> +The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat,<br> +Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet,<br> +We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid<br> +The rich vermilion slowly fade;<br> +Or catch, faint twinkling from afar<br> +The first glimpse of the eastern star;<br> +Fair vesper, mildest lamp of light,<br> +That heralds in imperial night:<br> +Meanwhile, upon our wondering ear,<br> +Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear,<br> +The distant sounds of pastoral lute,<br> +Invoking soft the sober suit<br> +Of dimmest darkness—fitting well<br> +With love, or sorrow's pensive spell,<br> +(So erst did music's silver tone<br> +Wake slumbering chaos on his throne).<br> +And haply then, with sudden swell,<br> +Shall roar the distant curfew bell,<br> +While in the castle's mouldering tower<br> +The hooting owl is heard to pour<br> +Her melancholy song, and scare<br> +Dull silence brooding in the air.<br> +Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car<br> +Black-suited night drives on from far,<br> +And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear,<br> +Arrests the waxing darkness drear,<br> +And summons to her silent call,<br> +Sweeping, in their airy pall,<br> +The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance,<br> +To join her moonshine morris-dance;<br> +While around the mystic ring<br> +The shadowy shapes elastic spring,<br> +Then with a passing shriek they fly,<br> +Wrapt in mists, along the sky,<br> +And oft are by the shepherd seen<br> +In his lone night-watch on the green.</p> + +<p> Then, hermit, let us turn our feet<br> +To the low abbey's still retreat,<br> +Embower'd in the distant glen,<br> +Far from the haunts of busy men,<br> +Where as we sit upon the tomb,<br> +The glowworm's light may gild the gloom,<br> +And show to fancy's saddest eye<br> +Where some lost hero's ashes lie.<br> +And oh, as through the mouldering arch,<br> +With ivy fill'd and weeping larch,<br> +The night gale whispers sadly clear,<br> +Speaking dear things to fancy's ear,<br> +We'll hold communion with the shade<br> +Of some deep wailing, ruin'd maid—<br> +Or call the ghost of Spenser down,<br> +To tell of woe and fortune's frown;<br> +And bid us cast the eye of hope<br> +Beyond this bad world's narrow scope.<br> +Or if these joys, to us denied,<br> +To linger by the forest's side;<br> +Or in the meadow, or the wood,<br> +Or by the lone, romantic flood;<br> +Let us in the busy town,<br> +When sleep's dull streams the people drown,<br> +Far from drowsy pillows flee,<br> +And turn the church's massy key;<br> +Then, as through the painted glass<br> +The moon's faint beams obscurely pass,<br> +And darkly on the trophied wall<br> +Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall,<br> +Let us, while the faint winds wail<br> +Through the long reluctant aisle,<br> +As we pace with reverence meet,<br> +Count the echoings of our feet,<br> +While from the tombs, with confess'd breath,<br> +Distinct responds the voice of death.<br> +If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend<br> +Thus on my footsteps to attend,<br> +To thee my lonely lamp shall burn<br> +By fallen Genius' sainted urn,<br> +As o'er the scroll of Time I pore,<br> +And sagely spell of ancient lore,<br> +Till I can rightly guess of all<br> +That Plato could to memory call,<br> +And scan the formless views of things;<br> +Or, with old Egypt's fetter'd kings,<br> +Arrange the mystic trains that shine<br> +In night's high philosophic mine;<br> +And to thy name shall e'er belong<br> +The honours of undying song.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode06"></a>TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE.</h3> + +<p>Oh! thou who, in my early youth,<br> +When fancy wore the garb of truth,<br> +Wert wont to win my infant feet<br> +To some retired, deep fabled seat,<br> +Where, by the brooklet's secret tide,<br> +The midnight ghost was known to glide;<br> +Or lay me in some lonely glade,<br> +In native Sherwood's forest shade,<br> +Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold,<br> +Was wont his sylvan courts to hold;<br> +And there, as musing deep I lay,<br> +Would steal my little soul away,<br> +And all my pictures represent,<br> +Of siege and solemn tournament;<br> +Or bear me to the magic scene,<br> +Where, clad in greaves and gabardine,<br> +The warrior knight of chivalry<br> +Made many a fierce enchanter flee;<br> +And bore the high-born dame away,<br> +Long held the fell magician's prey.<br> +Or oft would tell the shuddering tale<br> +Of murders, and of goblins pale,<br> +Haunting the guilty baron's side<br> +(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed),<br> +Which o'er the vaulted corridor<br> +On stormy nights was heard to roar,<br> +By old domestic, waken'd wide<br> +By the angry winds that chide:<br> +Or else the mystic tale would tell<br> +Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<h3><a name="ode07"></a>TO MIDNIGHT.</h3> + +<p>Season of general rest, whose solemn still<br> +Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill,<br> + But speaks to philosophic souls delight;<br> +Thee do I hail, as at my casement high,<br> +My candle waning melancholy by,<br> + I sit and taste the holy calm of night.</p> + +<p>Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails,<br> +And gilds the misty shadows of the vales,<br> + Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame;<br> +To her, while all around in sleep recline,<br> +Wakeful I raise my orisons divine,<br> + And sing the gentle honours of her name;</p> + +<p>While Fancy lone o'er me, her votary, bends,<br> +To lift my soul her fairy visions sends,<br> + And pours upon my ear her thrilling song,<br> +And Superstition's gentle terrors come,—<br> +See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom!<br> + See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng!</p> + +<p>Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay,<br> +My flageolet—and as I pensive play,<br> + The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene:<br> +The traveller late journeying o'er the moors,<br> +Hears them aghast,—(while still the dull owl pours<br> + Her hollow screams each dreary pause between).</p> + +<p>Till in the lonely tower he spies the light,<br> +Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night,<br> + Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,<br> +And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene,<br> +Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene,<br> + And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode08"></a>TO THOUGHT.</h3> + +<p>WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.</p> + +<p> Hence, away, vindictive thought;<br> + Thy pictures are of pain;<br> + The visions through thy dark eye caught,<br> + They with no gentle charms are fraught,<br> + So pr'y thee back again.<br> + I would not weep,<br> + I wish to sleep,<br> +Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?</p> + +<p> Why dost o'er bed and couch recline?<br> + Is this thy new delight?<br> + Pale visitant, it is not thine<br> + To keep thy sentry through the mine,<br> + The dark vault of the night:<br> + 'Tis thine to die,<br> + While o'er the eye<br> +The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly.</p> + +<p> Go thou, and bide with him who guides<br> + His bark through lonely seas;<br> + And as reclining on his helm,<br> + Sadly he marks the starry realm,<br> + To him thou mayst bring ease:<br> + But thou to me<br> + Art misery,<br> +So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my pillow +flee.</p> + +<p> And, memory, pray what art thou?<br> + Art thou of pleasure born?<br> + Does bliss untainted from thee flow?<br> + The rose that gems thy pensive brow,<br> + Is it without a thorn?<br> + With all thy smiles,<br> + And witching wiles,<br> +Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles.</p> + +<p> The drowsy night-watch has forgot<br> + To call the solemn hour;<br> + Lull'd by the winds, he slumbers deep,<br> + While I in vain, capricious sleep,<br> + Invoke thy tardy power;<br> + And restless lie,<br> + With unclosed eye,<br> +And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode09"></a>GENIUS.</h3> + +<p>AN ODE.</p> + +<p>I. 1.</p> + +<p>Many there be, who, through the vale of life,<br> + With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,<br> +While jarring discord's inharmonious strife<br> + Awakes them not to woe.<br> + By them unheeded, carking care,<br> + Green-eyed grief and dull despair;<br> +Smoothly they pursue their way,<br> + With even tenor and with equal breath,<br> +Alike through cloudy and through sunny day,<br> + Then sink in peace to death.</p> + +<p>II. 1.</p> + +<p>But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour,<br> + And weeping woe, and disappointment keen,<br> +Repining penury, and sorrow sour,<br> + And self-consuming spleen.<br> + And these are Genius' favourites: these<br> + Know the thought-throned mind to please,<br> +And from her fleshy seat to draw<br> + To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll,<br> +Disdaining all but 'wildering rapture's law,<br> + The captivated soul.</p> + +<p>III. 1.</p> + +<p>Genius, from thy starry throne,<br> +High above the burning zone,<br> +In radiant robe of light array'd,<br> +Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,<br> + His melancholy moan.<br> +He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,<br> + Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days,<br> +Pangs that his sensibility uprouse<br> + To curse his being and his thirst for praise.<br> +Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel<br> + The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn,<br> +And what o'er all does in his soul preside<br> + Predominant, and tempers him to steel,<br> + His high indignant pride.</p> + +<p>I. 2.</p> + +<p>Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life.<br> + That Genius visits not your lowly shed;<br> +For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife<br> + Distract his hapless head!<br> + For him awaits no balmy sleep,<br> + He wakes all night, and wakes to weep;<br> +Or by his lonely lamp he sits<br> + At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps,<br> +In feverish study, and in moody fits<br> + His mournful vigils keeps.</p> + +<p>II. 2.</p> + +<p>And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil?<br> + For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath?<br> +'T is for neglect and penury he doth toil,<br> + 'Tis for untimely death.<br> + Lo! where dejected pale he lies,<br> + Despair depicted in his eyes,<br> +He feels the vital flame decrease,<br> + He sees the grave wide yawning for its prey,<br> +Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace,<br> + And cheer the expiring ray.</p> + +<p>III. 2.</p> + +<p> By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame,<br> + By gentle Otway's magic name,<br> + By him, the youth, who smiled at death,<br> + And rashly dared to stop his vital breath,<br> + Will I thy pangs proclaim;<br> + For still to misery closely thou'rt allied,<br> + Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side,<br> + And far resounding Fame.<br> + What though to thee the dazzled millions bow,<br> + And to thy posthumous merit bend them low;<br> + Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe,<br> + And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw,<br> +Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly<br> + Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain,<br> +And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky,<br> + A melancholy train.</p> + +<p> Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await,<br> + Mocking thy derided state;<br> + Thee chill Adversity will still attend,<br> + Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend<br> + And leaves thee all forlorn;<br> + While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs,<br> + And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides,<br> +And while the cup of affluence he quaffs<br> + With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides,<br> +Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave,<br> +To gain the meed of praise when he is mouldering in his +grave.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode10"></a>FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON.</h3> + +<p>Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of night,<br> + A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild,<br> +Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light,<br> + Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled.<br> + Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat,<br> + Nocturnal study's still retreat,<br> + It casts a mournful melancholy gleam,<br> + And through my lofty casement weaves,<br> + Dim through the vine's encircling leaves,<br> + An intermingled beam.</p> + +<p>These feverish dews that on my temples hang,<br> + This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame;<br> +These the dread signs of many a secret pang,<br> + These are the meed of him who pants for fame!<br> +Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul;<br> + Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high;<br> +My lamp expires;—beneath thy mild control<br> +These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.</p> + +<p>Come, kindred mourner, in my breast<br> +Soothe these discordant tones to rest,<br> + And breathe the soul of peace;<br> +Mild visitor, I feel thee here,<br> +It is not pain that brings this tear,<br> + For thou hast bid it cease.<br> +Oh! many, a year has pass'd away<br> +Since I, beneath thy fairy ray,<br> + Attuned my infant reed;<br> +When wilt thou, Time, those days restore,<br> +Those happy moments now no more—</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<p>When on the lake's damp marge I lay,<br> + And mark'd the northern meteor's dance,<br> +Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there<br> + To inspirate my trance.<br> + Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign<br> +Your magic sweets on me to shed,<br> +In vain your powers are now essay'd<br> + To chase superior pain.</p> + +<p>And art thou fled, thou welcome orb!<br> + So swiftly pleasure flies,<br> +So to mankind, in darkness lost,<br> + The beam of ardour dies.<br> +Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done,<br> +And now, encurtain'd in the main,<br> + Thou sinkest into rest;<br> +But I, in vain, on thorny bed<br> +Shall woo the god of soft repose—</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<h3><a name="ode11"></a>TO THE MUSE.</h3> + +<p>WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.</p> + +<p> Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy train<br> +Chill poverty and misery are seen,<br> + Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane<br> +Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene.<br> + Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel<br> +So keenly all the scorns—the jeers of life?<br> +Why not endow them to endure the strife<br> + With apathy's invulnerable steel,<br> + Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal?</p> + +<p> Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys,<br> +That lure the unwary to a wretched doom,<br> + That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise,<br> +Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb?<br> + What is the charm which leads thy victims on<br> +To persevere in paths that lead to woe?<br> +What can induce them in that route to go,<br> + In which innumerous before have gone,<br> + And died in misery poor and woe-begone?</p> + +<p> Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found;<br> +I, who have drunk from thine ethereal rill,<br> + And tasted all the pleasures that abound<br> +Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill?<br> + I, through whose soul the Muse's strains aye thrill!<br> +Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied;<br> + And though our annals fearful stories tell,<br> +How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died,<br> +Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode12"></a>TO LOVE.</h3> + +<p>Why should I blush to own I love?<br> +'Tis Love that rules the realms above.<br> +Why should I blush to say to all,<br> +That Virtue holds my heart in thrall?</p> + +<p>Why should I seek the thickest shade,<br> +Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd?<br> +Why the stern brow deceitful move,<br> +When I am languishing with love?</p> + +<p>Is it weakness thus to dwell<br> +On passion that I dare not tell?<br> +Such weakness I would ever prove;<br> +'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet to love.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode13"></a>ON WHIT-MONDAY.</h3> + +<p>Hark! how the merry bells ring jocund round,<br> +And now they die upon the veering breeze<br> + Anon they thunder loud<br> + Full on the musing ear.</p> + +<p>Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore<br> +Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak<br> + A day of jubilee,<br> + An ancient holiday.</p> + +<p>And lo! the rural revels are begun,<br> +And gaily echoing to the laughing sky,<br> + On the smooth shaven green<br> + Resounds the voice of Mirth.</p> + +<p>Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate,<br> +That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they<br> + Who now are in their graves<br> + Kept up the Whitsun dance.</p> + +<p>And that another hour, and they must fall<br> +Like those who went before, and sleep as still<br> + Beneath the silent sod,<br> + A cold and cheerless sleep.</p> + +<p>Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare<br> +The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign<br> + To smile upon us here,<br> + A transient visitor?</p> + +<p>Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power,<br> +And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy;<br> + In time the bell will toll<br> + That warns ye to your graves.</p> + +<p>I to the woodland solitude will bend<br> +My lonesome way—where Mirth's obstreperous shout<br> + Shall not intrude to break<br> + The meditative hour.</p> + +<p>There will I ponder on the state of man,<br> +Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate<br> + This day of jubilee<br> + To sad reflection's shrine;</p> + +<p>And I will cast my fond eye far beyond<br> +This world of care, to where the steeple loud<br> + Shall rock above the sod,<br> + Where I shall sleep in peace.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode14"></a>TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT.</h3> + +<p>Not unfamiliar to mine ear,<br> +Blasts of the night! ye howl as now<br> + My shuddering casement loud<br> + With fitful force ye beat.</p> + +<p>Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe,<br> +The howling sweep, the sudden rush;<br> + And when the passing gale<br> + Pour'd deep the hollow dirge.</p> + +<p> * * * * *</p> + +<h3><a name="ode15"></a>TO THE HARVEST MOON.</h3> + +<p> Cum ruit imbriferum ver:<br> +Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum<br> +Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent.<br> +Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret.<br> +VIRGIL.</p> + +<p> Moon of Harvest, herald mild<br> + Of plenty rustic labour's child,<br> + Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,<br> + As soft it trembles o'er the stream,<br> + And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide,<br> + Where Innocence and Peace reside!<br> +'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng,<br> +Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song.</p> + +<p> Moon of Harvest, I do love<br> + O'er the uplands now to rove,<br> + While thy modest ray serene<br> + Gilds the wide surrounding scene;<br> + And to watch thee riding high<br> + In the blue vault of the sky,<br> +Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray,<br> +But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.</p> + +<p> Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon!<br> + Now the night is at her noon,<br> + 'Neath thy sway to musing lie,<br> + While around the zephyrs sigh,<br> + Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat,<br> + Ripen'd by the summer's heat;<br> + Picturing all the rustic's joy<br> + When boundless plenty greets his eye,<br> + And thinking soon,<br> + Oh, modest Moon!<br> + How many a female eye will roam<br> + Along the road,<br> + To see the load,<br> + The last dear load of harvest home.</p> + +<p> Storms and tempests, floods and rains,<br> + Stern despoilers of the plains,<br> + Hence, away, the season flee,<br> + Foes to light-heart jollity:<br> + May no winds careering high<br> + Drive the clouds along the sky,<br> +But may all nature smile with aspect boon,<br> +When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh Harvest Moon!</p> + +<p> 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,<br> + The husbandman, with deep-seal'd eyes:<br> + He dreams of crowded barns, and round<br> + The yard he hears the flail resound;<br> + Oh! may no hurricane destroy<br> + His visionary views of joy!<br> +God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer,<br> +And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind +spare.</p> + +<p> Sons of luxury, to you<br> + Leave I sleep's dull power to woo;<br> + Press ye still the downy bed,<br> + While feverish dreams surround your head;<br> + I will seek the woodland glade,<br> + Penetrate the thickest shade,<br> + Wrapp'd in contemplation's dreams,<br> + Musing high on holy themes,<br> + While on the gale<br> + Shall softly sail<br> +The nightingale's enchanting tune,<br> + And oft my eyes<br> + Shall grateful rise<br> +To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!</p> + +<h3><a name="ode16"></a>TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.<a class="fnref" +href="#fn013">1</a></h3> + +<p>Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom<br> + On January's front severe,<br> + And o'er the wintry desert drear<br> +To waft thy waste perfume!<br> +Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,<br> +And I will bind thee round my brow;<br> + And as I twine the mournful wreath,<br> +I'll weave a melancholy song;<br> +And sweet the strain shall be, and long,<br> + The melody of death.</p> + +<p>Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell<br> + With the pale corse in lonely tomb,<br> + And throw across the desert gloom<br> +A sweet decaying smell.<br> +Come, press my lips, and lie with me<br> +Beneath the lowly alder tree,<br> + And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,<br> +And not a care shall dare intrude<br> +To break the marble solitude,<br> + So peaceful and so deep.</p> + +<p>And hark! the wind god, as he flies,<br> + Moans hollow in the forest trees,<br> + And sailing on the gusty breeze,<br> +Mysterious music dies.<br> +Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,<br> +It warns me to the lonely shrine,<br> + The cold turf altar of the dead:<br> + My grave shall be in yon lone spot,<br> + Where as I lie, by all forgot,<br> +A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.</p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn013">1</a> The Rosemary buds in +January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the +dead.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode17"></a>TO THE MORNING.</h3> + +<p>WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.</p> + +<p> Beams of the daybreak faint! I hail<br> + Your dubious hues, as on the robe<br> + Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe,<br> + I mark your traces pale.<br> + Tired with the taper's sickly light,<br> + And with the wearying, number'd night,<br> + I hail the streaks of morn divine:<br> + And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths<br> + That round my rural casement twine;<br> + The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes,<br> +It fans my feverish brow,—it calms the mental strife,<br> +And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life.</p> + +<p> The lark has her gay song begun,<br> + She leaves her grassy nest,<br> + And soars till the unrisen sun<br> + Gleams on her speckled breast.</p> + +<p> Now let me leave my restless bed,<br> + And o'er the spangled uplands tread;<br> + Now through the custom'd wood walk wend;<br> + By many a green lane lies my way,<br> + Where high o'er head the wild briers bend,<br> + Till on the mountain's summit gray,<br> +I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day.</p> + +<p> Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale<br> + It breathes into my breast!<br> + My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale,<br> + Is with new colours dress'd.</p> + +<p> Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease!<br> + Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze,<br> + Invigorate my frame:<br> + I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase,<br> + With thee the distant clime will trace<br> + Beyond those clouds of flame.</p> + +<p> Above, below, what charms unfold<br> + In all the varied view!<br> + Before me all is burnish'd gold,<br> + Behind the twilight's hue.<br> + The mists which on old Night await,<br> + Far to the west they hold their state,<br> + They shun the clear blue face of Morn;<br> + Along the fine cerulean sky<br> + The fleecy clouds successive fly,<br> +While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn.</p> + +<p> And hark! the thatcher has begun<br> + His whistle on the eaves,<br> + And oft the hedger's bill is heard<br> + Among the rustling leaves.<br> + The slow team creaks upon the road,<br> + The noisy whip resounds,<br> + The driver's voice, his carol blithe,<br> + The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe<br> + Mix with the morning's sounds.</p> + +<p> Who would not rather take his seat<br> + Beneath these clumps of trees,<br> + The early dawn of day to greet,<br> + And catch the healthy breeze,<br> + Than on the silken couch of Sloth<br> + Luxurious to lie;<br> + Who would not from life's dreary waste<br> + Snatch, when he could, with eager haste,<br> + An interval of joy!</p> + +<p> To him who simply thus recounts<br> + The morning's pleasures o'er,<br> + Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close<br> + To ope on him no more.<br> + Yet Morning! unrepining still,<br> + He'll greet thy beams awhile;<br> + And surely thou, when o'er his grave<br> + Solemn the whispering willows wave,<br> + Wilt sweetly on him smile:<br> + And the pale glowworm's pensive light<br> +Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night.</p> + +<h3><a name="ode18"></a>ON DISAPPOINTMENT.</h3> + +<p> Come, Disappointment, come!<br> + Not in thy terrors clad:<br> + Come, in thy meekest, saddest guise;<br> + Thy chastening rod but terrifies<br> + The restless and the bad.<br> + But I recline<br> + Beneath thy shrine,<br> +And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine.</p> + +<p> Though Fancy flies away<br> + Before thy hollow tread,<br> + Yet Meditation, in her cell,<br> + Hears with faint eye the lingering knell<br> + That tells her hopes are dead;<br> + And though the tear<br> + By chance appear,<br> +Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here.</p> + +<p> Come, Disappointment, come!<br> + Though from Hope's summit hurl'd,<br> + Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven,<br> + For thou severe wert sent from heaven<br> + To wean me from the world;<br> + To turn my eye<br> + From vanity,<br> +And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.</p> + +<p> What is this passing scene?<br> + A peevish April day!<br> + A little sun—a little rain,<br> + And then night sweeps along the plain.<br> + And all things fade away.<br> + Man (soon discuss'd)<br> + Yields up his trust,<br> +And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.</p> + +<p> Oh, what is Beauty's power?<br> + It flourishes and dies;<br> + Will the cold earth its silence break,<br> + To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek<br> + Beneath its surface lies?<br> + Mute, mute is all<br> + O'er Beauty's fall;<br> +Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.</p> + +<p> The most beloved on earth<br> + Not long survives to-day;<br> + So music past is obsolete,<br> + And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,<br> + But now 'tis gone away.<br> + Thus does the shade<br> + In memory fade,<br> +When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid.</p> + +<p> Then since this world is vain,<br> + And volatile, and fleet,<br> + Why should I lay up earthly joys,<br> + Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys,<br> + And cares and sorrows eat?<br> + Why fly from ill<br> + With anxious skill,<br> +When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be +still.</p> + +<p> Come, Disappointment, come!<br> + Thou art not stern to me;<br> + Sad Monitress! I own thy sway,<br> + A votary sad in early day,<br> + I bend my knee to thee.<br> + From sun to sun<br> + My race will run,<br> +I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done!</p> + +<p>On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the +freshness of his disappointment.</p> + +<p>I dream no more—the vision flies away,<br> +And Disappointment....<br> +There fell my hopes—I lost my all in this,<br> +My cherish'd all of visionary bliss.<br> +Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below;<br> +Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe.<br> +Plunge me in glooms....</p> + +<h3><a name="ode19"></a>ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY THE POET.</h3> + +<p>Child of Misfortune! Offspring of the Muse!<br> + Mark like the meteor's gleam his mad career;<br> + With hollow cheeks and haggard eye,<br> + Behold he shrieking passes by:<br> + I see, I see him near:<br> + That hollow scream, that deepening groan;<br> + It rings upon mine ear.</p> + +<p>Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth,<br> + Who clasp the syren pleasure to your breast,<br> + Behold the wreck of genius here,<br> + And drop, oh drop the silent tear<br> + For Dermody at rest:<br> + His fate is yours, then from your loins<br> + Tear quick the silken vest.</p> + +<p>Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eye,<br> + Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil;<br> + How ghastly did it seem;<br> + And then his dying scream:<br> + Oh God! I hear it still:<br> + It sounds upon my fainting sense,<br> + It strikes with deathly chill.</p> + +<p>Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death;<br> + Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed,<br> + Or pitying friends around him stand:<br> + Or didst thou see a mother's hand<br> + Support his languid head:<br> + Oh none of these—no friend o'er him<br> + The balm of pity shed.</p> + +<p>Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth,<br> + Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low;<br> + Now come around who pant for fame,<br> + And learn from hence, a poet's name<br> + Is purchased but by woe:<br> + And when ambition prompts to rise,<br> + Oh think of him below.</p> + +<p>For me, poor moralizer, I will run,<br> + Dejected, to some solitary state:<br> + The muse has set her seal on me,<br> + She set her seal on Dermody,<br> + It is the seal of fate:<br> + In some lone spot my bones may lie,<br> + Secure from human hate.</p> + +<p>Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear,<br> + Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head:<br> + May peace her banners o'er him wave;<br> + For me in my deserted grave<br> + No friend a tear shall shed:<br> + Yet may the lily and the rose<br> + Bloom on my grassy bed.</p> + +<h2><a name="sonnets"></a>SONNETS.</h2> + +<h3><a name="sonnet01"></a>SONNET TO THE RIVER TRENT.</h3> + +<p>WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.</p> + +<p>Once more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge<br> + A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,<br> +From the close sick-room newly set at large,<br> + Woos to his wan worn cheek the pleasant gale.<br> +O! to his ear how musical the tale<br> + Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat!<br> +And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail,<br> + How wildly novel on his senses float!<br> +It was on this that many a sleepless night,<br> + As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam,<br> +And at his casement heard, with wild affright,<br> + The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream,<br> +On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire,<br> +Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet02"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,<br> + Where far from cities I may spend my days;<br> +And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,<br> + May pity man's pursuits and shun his ways.<br> +While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,<br> + List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise,<br> +Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,<br> + I shall not want the world's delusive joys;<br> +But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,<br> + Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;<br> +And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,<br> + I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,<br> +And lay me down to rest where the wild wave<br> +Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet03"></a>SONNET.<a class="fnref" href= +"#fn014">1</a></h3> + +<p>SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMALE LUNATIC TO A +LADY.</p> + +<p>Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe,<br> + And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young;<br> +Oh! may thy bosom never, never know<br> + The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung.<br> +I had a mother once—a brother too—<br> + (Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:)<br> +I had a lover once, and kind and true,<br> + But mother, brother, lover, all are fled!<br> +Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye?<br> + Oh! gentle lady—not for me thus weep,<br> +The green sod soon upon my breast will lie,<br> + And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep.<br> +Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom—<br> + My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.</p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn014">1</a> This Quatorzain had its +rise from an elegant Sonnet, "occasioned by seeing a young female +Lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly +Mirror.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet04"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody in Storm, +while on board a Ship in his Majesty's service.</p> + +<p>Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds<br> + Successive fly, and the loud piping wind<br> +Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,<br> + While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined,<br> +Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies<br> + His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad,<br> + Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad,<br> +And the half strangled tear bedews his eyes;<br> + I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,<br> +View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep,<br> +Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep,<br> + For not for me shall wife or children mourn,<br> +And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell,<br> +Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet05"></a>SONNET. THE WINTER TRAVELLER.</h3> + +<p>God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far;<br> + The wind is bitter keen,—the snow o'erlays<br> + The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways,<br> +And darkness will involve thee. No kind star<br> +To-night will guide thee, Traveller,—and the war<br> + Of winds and elements on thy head will break,<br> + And in thy agonizing ear the shriek<br> +Of spirits howling on their stormy car<br> +Will often ring appalling—I portend<br> + A dismal night—and on my wakeful bed<br> + Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head,<br> +And him who rides where winds and waves contend,<br> + And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide<br> + His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet06"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.</p> + +<p>This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this volume, and +was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomered Sonnets, +which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to return +his thanks to the much respected writer, for the permission so +politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he +has been pleased to express of his productions.</p> + +<p>Ye whose aspirings court the muse of lays,<br> +"Severest of those orders which belong,<br> + Distinct and separate, to Delphic song,"<br> +Why shun the sonnet's undulating maze?<br> +And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days,<br> + Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the throng<br> +The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys<br> + Of its full harmony:—they fear to wrong<br> +The sonnet, by adorning with a name<br> + Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet,<br> + Yet not in magic texture taught to meet<br> +Of that so varied and peculiar frame.<br> +O think! to vindicate its genuine praise<br> +Those it beseems, whose lyre a favouring impulse sways.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet07"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANT ADMONITION.</p> + +<p>Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapp'd in night,<br> + Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,<br> + Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm,<br> +Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight;<br> +Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,<br> + Disdain the plaintive sonnet's little form,<br> + And scorn to its wild cadence to conform,<br> +The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight.<br> +But me, far lowest of the sylvan train,<br> + Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade<br> + With wildest song;—me, much behoves thy aid<br> +Of mingled melody, to grace my strain,<br> +And give it power to please, as soft it flows<br> +Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet08"></a>SONNET ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN +ÆOLIAN HARP.</h3> + +<p>So ravishingly soft upon the tide<br> + Of the infuriate gust, it did career,<br> + It might have soothed its rugged charioteer,<br> +And sunk him to a zephyr; then it died,<br> +Melting in melody;—and I descried,<br> + Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear<br> + Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear<br> +Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied:<br> +Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell,<br> + Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds,<br> + By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds<br> +Such as, 'tis said, at night are known to swell<br> +By startled shepherd on the lonely heath,<br> +Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death?</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet09"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat?<br> + Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands.<br> + And thou dost bear within thine awful hands<br> +The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet.<br> +Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind,<br> + Thou guidest the northern storm at night's dead noon,<br> + Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon,<br> +Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind.<br> +In the drear silence of the polar span<br> + Dost thou repose? or in the solitude<br> +Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan<br> + Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood?<br> +Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace,<br> +Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet10"></a>SONNET TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.</h3> + +<p>Lofft, unto thee one tributary song<br> + The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring;<br> +She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng,<br> + And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring.<br> +Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth,<br> + Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild,<br> +Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth,<br> + And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child:<br> +Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal,<br> + Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire,<br> + Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre,<br> +And show thy labours for the public weal,<br> + Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme,<br> + But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet11"></a>SONNET TO THE MOON.</h3> + +<p>WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER.</p> + +<p>Sublime, emerging from the misty verge<br> + Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail,<br> + As, sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale<br> +Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge.<br> +Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,<br> + And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way,<br> +Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night,<br> + With double joy my homage do I pay.<br> + When clouds disguise the glories of the day,<br> +And stern November sheds her boisterous blight,<br> + How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray<br> +Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height,<br> + And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring<br> + The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet12"></a>SONNET WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A +FRIEND.</h3> + +<p>Fast from the west the fading day-streaks fly,<br> + And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway,<br> +Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie,<br> + And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay.<br> +Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd<br> +The maid of musings by yon moaning wave;<br> +And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which, now renew'd,<br> + Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave!<br> +The busy world pursues its boisterous way,<br> + The noise of revelry still echoes round,<br> +Yet I am sad while all beside is gay;<br> + Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound.<br> +Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease,<br> +And 'neath the greensward sleep the sleep of peace.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet13"></a>SONNET TO MISFORTUNE.</h3> + +<p>Misfortune, I am young, my chin is bare,<br> + And I have wonder'd much when men have told.<br> +How youth was free from sorrow and from care,<br> + That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old.<br> +Sure dost not like me!—Shrivel'd hag of hate,<br> + My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long;<br> + I am not either, beldame, over strong;<br> +Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate,<br> +For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate.<br> +Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate;<br> +I am yet young, and do not like thy face;<br> +And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase,<br> +I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage,<br> +—Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet14"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>As thus oppressed with many a heavy care<br> + (Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet<br> + To the dark woodland, longing much to greet<br> +The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there;<br> +Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,<br> + Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil,<br> + I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil.<br> +And as, amid the leaves, the evening air<br> +Whispers still melody,—I think ere long,<br> + When I no more can hear, these woods will speak;<br> + And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek,<br> +And mournful phantasies upon me throng,<br> +And I do ponder, with most strange delight,<br> +On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet15"></a>SONNET TO APRIL.</h3> + +<p>Emblem of life! see changeful April sail<br> + In varying vest along the shadowy skies,<br> + Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise,<br> +Anon recalling winter's stormy gale,<br> +And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail;<br> + Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes,<br> + While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes,<br> +Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail.<br> +So, to us, sojourners in life's low vale,<br> + The smiles of fortune flatter to deceive,<br> + While still the fates the web of misery weave.<br> +So Hope exultant spreads her aëry sail,<br> +And from the present gloom the soul conveys<br> +To distant summers and far happier days.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet16"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies,<br> + At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear,<br> + Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear,<br> +As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies;<br> +When he, who now invokes you, low is laid,<br> + His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed;<br> +Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head,<br> + And chant a dirge to his reposing shade!<br> +For he was wont to love your madrigals;<br> + And often by the haunted stream, that laves<br> + The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves,<br> +Would sit and listen to the dying falls,<br> +Till the full tear would quiver in his eye,<br> +And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstasy.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet17"></a>SONNET TO A TAPER.</h3> + +<p>'Tis midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits,<br> + And all is silence—in the hour of sleep;<br> +Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits,<br> + In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep.<br> +I wake alone to listen and to weep,<br> + To watch my taper, thy pale beacon burn;<br> +And, as still Memory does her vigils keep,<br> + To think of days that never can return.<br> +By thy pale ray I raise my languid head,<br> + My eye surveys the solitary gloom;<br> +And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread,<br> + Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb.<br> +Like thee I wane;—like thine my life's last ray<br> +Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet18"></a>SONNET TO MY MOTHER.</h3> + +<p>And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think<br> + That we, thy children, when old age shall shed<br> + Its blanching honours on thy weary head,<br> +Could from our best of duties ever shrink?<br> +Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink<br> + Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,<br> + To pine in solitude thy life away,<br> +Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink.<br> +Banish the thought!—where'er our steps may roam,<br> + O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,<br> + Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,<br> +And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;<br> +While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,<br> +And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet19"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>Yes, 'twill be over soon.—This sickly dream<br> + Of life will vanish from my feverish brain;<br> +And death my wearied spirit will redeem<br> + From this wild region of unvaried pain.<br> +Yon brook will glide as softly as before,<br> + Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow.<br> +Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar<br> + When Henry's name is heard no more below.<br> +I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,<br> + They laugh in health, and future evils brave;<br> +Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,<br> + While I am mouldering in the silent grave.<br> +God of the just, Thou gavest the bitter cup;<br> +I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet20"></a>SONNET TO CONSUMPTION.</h3> + +Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head.<br> + Consumption, lay thine hand!—let me decay<br> + Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,<br> +And softly go to slumber with the dead.<br> + And if 'tis true what holy men have said,<br> + That strains angelic oft foretell the day<br> +Of death to those good men who fall thy prey,<br> +O let the aërial music round my bed,<br> +Dissolving sad in dying symphony,<br> + Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear;<br> +That I may bid my weeping friends good-by<br> + Ere I depart upon my journey drear:<br> +And, smiling faintly on the painful past,<br> +Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.<br> +<br> + + +<h3><a name="sonnet21"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX.</p> + +<p>Thy judgments, Lord, are just; thou lovest to wear<br> + The face of pity and of love divine;<br> +But mine is guilt—thou must not, canst not spare,<br> + While heaven is true, and equity is thine.<br> +Yes, oh my God!—such crimes as mine, so dread,<br> + Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;<br> +Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,<br> + And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!<br> +Thy will be done, since 'tis thy glory's due,<br> + Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;<br> +Smite—it is time—though endless death ensue,<br> + I bless the avenging hand that lays me low.<br> +But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood,<br> +That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood?</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet22"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>When I sit musing on the chequer'd past<br> + (A term much darken'd with untimely woes),<br> + My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows<br> +The tear, though half disown'd; and binding fast<br> +Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,<br> + I say to her she robb'd me of my rest,<br> + When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast<br> +Received from her this wearying, lingering smart;<br> +Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart;<br> + Though wrong'd, I love her—yet in anger love,<br> + For she was most unworthy.—Then I prove<br> +Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams,<br> +Throned in dark clouds, inflexible....<br> +The native pride of my much injured heart.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet23"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile,<br> + Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring;<br> +But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile,<br> + Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling.<br> +Is it for me to strike the Idalian string—<br> + Raise the soft music of the warbling wire,<br> +While in my ears the howls of furies ring,<br> + And melancholy waste the vital fire?<br> +Away with thoughts like these—To some lone cave<br> + Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the wave,<br> +Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear,<br> + I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse<br> + Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse,<br> +And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.</p> + +<h3><a name="sonnet24"></a>SONNET.</h3> + +<p>Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts—<br> + Bleak blows the blast—now howls—then faintly +dies—<br> +And oft upon its awful wings it wafts<br> + The dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries.<br> +Now, when athwart the gloom gaunt Horror stalks,<br> + And midnight hags their damned vigils hold,<br> +The pensive poet 'mid the wild waste walks,<br> + And ponders on the ills life's paths unfold.<br> +Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes,<br> + Insensible to every outward ill;<br> +Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes,<br> + And oft big tears adown his worn cheeks trill.<br> +Ah! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore,<br> +Which gnaws his heart, and bids him hope no more.</p> + +<h2><a name="ballads"></a>BALLADS, SONGS, AND HYMNS.</h2> + +<h3><a name="ballad01"></a>GONDOLINE</h3> + +<p>A BALLAD.</p> + +<p>The night it was still, and the moon it shone<br> + Serenely on the sea,<br> +And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock<br> + They murmur'd pleasantly,</p> + +<p>When Gondoline roam'd along the shore,<br> + A maiden full fair to the sight;<br> +Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek,<br> + And turn'd it to deadly white.</p> + +<p>Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear<br> + It fill'd her faint blue eye,<br> +As oft she heard, in fancy's ear,<br> + Her Bertrand's dying sigh.</p> + +<p>Her Bertrand was the bravest youth<br> + Of all our good king's men,<br> +And he was gone to the Holy Land<br> + To fight the Saracen.</p> + +<p>And many a month had pass'd away,<br> + And many a rolling year,<br> +But nothing the maid from Palestine<br> + Could of her lover hear.</p> + +<p>Full oft she vainly tried to pierce<br> + The ocean's misty face;<br> +Full oft she thought her lover's bark<br> + She on the wave could trace.</p> + +<p>And every night she placed a light<br> + In the high rock's lonely tower,<br> +To guide her lover to the land,<br> + Should the murky tempest lower.</p> + +<p>But now despair had seized her breast,<br> + And sunken in her eye;<br> +"Oh tell me but if Bertrand live,<br> + And I in peace will die."</p> + +<p>She wander'd o'er the lonely shore,<br> + The curlew scream'd above,<br> +She heard the scream with a sickening heart,<br> + Much boding on her love.</p> + +<p>Yet still she kept her lonely way,<br> + And this was all her cry.<br> +"Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live,<br> + And I in peace shall die."</p> + +<p>And now she came to a horrible rift<br> + All in the rock's hard side,<br> +A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread<br> + The cavern yawning wide.</p> + +<p>And pendant from its dismal top<br> + The deadly nightshade hung;<br> +The hemlock and the aconite<br> + Across the mouth was flung.</p> + +<p>And all within was dark and drear,<br> + And all without was calm;<br> +Yet Gondoline enter'd, her soul upheld<br> + By some deep-working charm.</p> + +<p>And as she enter'd the cavern wide,<br> + The moonbeam gleamed pale,<br> +And she saw a snake on the craggy rock,<br> + It clung by its slimy tail.</p> + +<p>Her foot it slipp'd, and she stood aghast,<br> + She trod on a bloated toad;<br> +Yet, still upheld by the secret charm,<br> + She kept upon her road.</p> + +<p>And now upon her frozen ear<br> + Mysterious sounds arose;<br> +So, on the mountain's piny top<br> + The blustering north wind blows.</p> + +<p>Then furious peals of laughter loud<br> + Were heard with thundering sound,<br> +Till they died away in soft decay,<br> + Low whispering o'er the ground.</p> + +<p>Yet still the maiden onward went,<br> + The charm yet onward led,<br> +Though each big glaring ball of sight<br> + Seem'd bursting from her head.</p> + +<p>But now a pale blue light she saw,<br> + It from a distance came;<br> +She follow'd, till upon her sight<br> + Burst full a flood of flame.</p> + +<p>She stood appall'd; yet still the charm<br> + Upheld her sinking soul;<br> +Yet each bent knee the other smote,<br> + And each wild eye did roll.</p> + +<p>And such a sight as she saw there<br> + No mortal saw before,<br> +And such a sight as she saw there<br> + No mortal shall see more.</p> + +<p>A burning cauldron stood in the midst,<br> + The flame was fierce and high,<br> +And all the cave so wide and long<br> + Was plainly seen thereby.</p> + +<p>And round about the cauldron stout<br> + Twelve withered witches stood;<br> +Their waists were bound with living snakes,<br> + And their hair was stiff with blood.</p> + +<p>Their hands were gory too; and red<br> + And fiercely flamed their eyes:<br> +And they were muttering indistinct<br> + Their hellish mysteries.</p> + +<p>And suddenly they join'd their hands,<br> + And utter'd a joyous cry,<br> +And round about the cauldron stout<br> + They danced right merrily.</p> + +<p>And now they stopp'd; and each prepared<br> + To tell what she had done,<br> +Since last the lady of the night<br> + Her waning course had run.</p> + +<p>Behind a rock stood Gondoline,<br> + Thick weeds her face did veil,<br> +And she lean'd fearful forwarder,<br> + To hear the dreadful tale.</p> + +<p>The first arose: She said she'd seen<br> + Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd,<br> +She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve,<br> + And a jovial storm had brew'd.</p> + +<p>She'd called around the winged winds,<br> + And raised a devilish rout;<br> +And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard<br> + Full fifteen leagues about.</p> + +<p>She said there was a little bark<br> + Upon the roaring wave,<br> +And there was a woman there who'd been<br> + To see her husband's grave.</p> + +<p>And she had got a child in her arms,<br> + It was her only child,<br> +And oft its little infant pranks<br> + Her heavy heart beguiled.</p> + +<p>And there was too in that same bark<br> + A father and his son:<br> +The lad was sickly, and the sire<br> + Was old and woe-begone.</p> + +<p>And when the tempest waxed strong,<br> + And the bark could no more it 'bide,<br> +She said it was jovial fun to hear<br> + How the poor devils cried.</p> + +<p>The mother clasp'd her orphan child<br> + Unto her breast and wept;<br> +And sweetly folded in her arms<br> + The careless baby slept.</p> + +<p>And she told how, in the shape of the wind,<br> + As manfully it roar'd,<br> +She twisted her hand in the infant's hair,<br> + And threw it overboard.</p> + +<p>And to have seen the mother's pangs,<br> + 'Twas a glorious sight to see;<br> +The crew could scarcely hold her down<br> + From jumping in the sea.</p> + +<p>The hag held a lock of her hair in her hand,<br> + And it was soft and fair:<br> +It must have been a lovely child,<br> + To have had such lovely hair.</p> + +<p>And she said the father in his arms<br> + He held his sickly son,<br> +And his dying throes they fast arose,<br> + His pains were nearly done.</p> + +<p>And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands,<br> + And his face grew deadly blue;<br> +And the father he tore his thin gray hair,<br> + And kiss'd the livid hue.</p> + +<p>And then she told how she bored a hole<br> + In the bark, and it fill'd away:<br> +And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear,<br> + And some did vow and pray.</p> + +<p>The man and woman they soon were dead,<br> + The sailors their strength did urge;<br> +But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet,<br> + And the winds sung their funeral dirge.</p> + +<p>She threw the infant's hair in the fire,<br> + The red flame flamed high,<br> +And round about the cauldron stout<br> + They danced right merrily.</p> + +<p>The second begun: She said she had done<br> + The task that Queen Hecate had set her,<br> +And that the devil, the father of evil,<br> + Had never accomplished a better.</p> + +<p>She said, there was an aged woman,<br> + And she had a daughter fair,<br> +Whose evil habits fill'd her heart<br> + With misery and care.</p> + +<p>The daughter had a paramour,<br> + A wicked man was he,<br> +And oft the woman him against<br> + Did murmur grievously.</p> + +<p>And the hag had work'd the daughter up<br> + To murder her old mother,<br> +That then she might seize on all her goods,<br> + And wanton with her lover.</p> + +<p>And one night as the old woman<br> + Was sick and ill in bed.<br> +And pondering solely on the life<br> + Her wicked daughter led,</p> + +<p>She heard her footstep on the floor,<br> + And she raised her pallid head,<br> +And she saw her daughter, with a knife,<br> + Approaching to her bed.</p> + +<p>And said, My child, I'm very ill,<br> + I have not long to live,<br> +Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die<br> + Thy sins I may forgive.</p> + +<p>And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek,<br> + And she lifted the sharp bright knife,<br> +And the mother saw her fell intent,<br> + And hard she begg'd for life.</p> + +<p>But prayers would nothing her avail,<br> + And she scream'd aloud with fear,<br> +But the house was lone, and the piercing screams<br> + Could reach no human ear</p> + +<p>And though that she was sick, and old,<br> + She struggled hard, and fought;<br> +The murderess cut three fingers through<br> + Ere she could reach her throat.</p> + +<p>And the hag she held her fingers up,<br> + The skin was mangled sore,<br> +And they all agreed a nobler deed<br> + Was never done before.</p> + +<p>And she threw the fingers in the fire,<br> + The red flame flamed high,<br> +And round about the cauldron stout<br> + They danced right merrily.</p> + +<p>The third arose: She said she'd been<br> + To holy Palestine;<br> +And seen more blood in one short day<br> + Than they had all seen in nine.</p> + +<p>Now Gondoline, with fearful steps,<br> + Drew nearer to the flame,<br> +For much she dreaded now to hear<br> + Her hapless lover's name.</p> + +<p>The hag related then the sports<br> + Of that eventful day,<br> +When on the well contested field<br> + Full fifteen thousand lay.</p> + +<p>She said that she in human gore<br> + Above the knees did wade,<br> +And that no tongue could truly tell<br> + The tricks she there had play'd.</p> + +<p>There was a gallant featured youth,<br> + Who like a hero fought;<br> +He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist,<br> + And every danger sought.</p> + +<p>And in a vassal's garb disguised,<br> + Unto the knight she sues,<br> +And tells him she from Britain comes,<br> + And brings unwelcome news.</p> + +<p>That three days ere she had embark'd<br> + His love had given her hand<br> +Unto a wealthy Thane:—and thought<br> + Him dead in Holy Land.</p> + +<p>And to have seen how he did writhe<br> + When this her tale she told,<br> +It would have made a wizard's blood<br> + Within his heart run cold.</p> + +<p>Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed,<br> + And sought the battle's bed;<br> +And soon all mangled o'er with wounds<br> + He on the cold turf bled.</p> + +<p>And from his smoking corse she tore<br> + His head, half clove in two.<br> +She ceased, and from beneath her garb<br> + The bloody trophy drew.</p> + +<p>The eyes were starting from their socks,<br> + The mouth it ghastly grinn'd,<br> +And there was a gash across the brow,<br> + The scalp was nearly skinn'd.</p> + +<p>'Twas Bertrand's head! With a terrible scream<br> + The maiden gave a spring<br> +And from her fearful hiding-place<br> + She fell into the ring.</p> + +<p>The lights they fled—the cauldron sunk,<br> + Deep thunders shook the dome,<br> +And hollow peals of laughter came<br> + Resounding through the gloom.</p> + +<p>Insensible the maiden lay<br> + Upon the hellish ground,<br> +And still mysterious sounds were heard<br> + At intervals around.</p> + +<p>She woke—she half arose—and wild<br> + She cast a horrid glare,<br> +The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled,<br> + And all was stillness there.</p> + +<p>And through an awning in the rock<br> + The moon it sweetly shone,<br> +And show'd a river in the cave<br> + Which dismally did moan.</p> + +<p>The stream was black, it sounded deep<br> + As it rush'd the rocks between,<br> +It offer'd well, for madness fired<br> + The breast of Gondoline.</p> + +<p>She plunged in, the torrent moan'd<br> + With its accustom'd sound,<br> +And hollow peals of laughter loud<br> + Again rebellow'd round.</p> + +<p>The maid was seen no more.—But oft<br> + Her ghost is known to glide,<br> +At midnight's silent, solemn hour,<br> + Along the ocean's side.</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad02"></a>A BALLAD.</h3> + +<p>Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds,<br> + Ye pelting rains, a little rest;<br> +Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,<br> + That wring with grief my aching breast.</p> + +<p>Oh! cruel was my faithless love,<br> + To triumph o'er an artless maid;<br> +Oh! cruel was my faithless love,<br> + To leave the breast by him betray'd.</p> + +<p>When exiled from my native home,<br> + He should have wiped the bitter tear;<br> +Nor left me faint and lone to roam,<br> + A heart-sick weary wanderer here.</p> + +<p>My child moans sadly in my arms,<br> + The winds they will not let it sleep:<br> +Ah, little knows the hapless babe<br> + What makes its wretched mother weep!</p> + +<p>Now lie thee still, my infant dear,<br> + I cannot bear thy sobs to see,<br> +Harsh is thy father, little one,<br> + And never will he shelter thee.</p> + +<p>Oh, that I were but in my grave,<br> + And winds were piping o'er me loud,<br> +And thou, my poor, my orphan babe,<br> + Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud!</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad03"></a>THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER +CHILD THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION.</h3> + +<p>Sleep, baby mine,<a class="fnref" href="#fn015">1</a> +enkerchieft on my bosom,<br> + Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast;<br> +Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother<br> + To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest.</p> + +<p>Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining?<br> + Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled;<br> +Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning,<br> + And I would fain compose my aching head.</p> + +<p>Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping,<br> + When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be?<br> +Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping<br> + In her low grave of shame and infamy?</p> + +<p>Sleep, baby mine—Tomorrow I must leave thee,<br> + And I would snatch an interval of rest:<br> +Sleep these last moments ere the laws bereave thee,<br> + For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast.</p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn015">1</a> Sir Philip Sidney has a +poem, beginning, "Sleep, baby mine."</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad04"></a>THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.</h3> + +<p>Oh! yonder is the well known spot,<br> + My dear, my long lost native home!<br> +Oh, welcome is yon little cot,<br> + Where I shall rest, no more to roam!<br> +Oh! I have travell'd far and wide,<br> + O'er many a distant foreign land;<br> +Each place, each province I have tried.<br> + And sung and danced my saraband.<br> + But all their charms could not prevail<br> + To steal my heart from yonder vale.</p> + +<p>Of distant climes the false report<br> + It lured me from my native land;<br> +It bade me rove—my sole support<br> + My cymbals and my saraband.<br> +The woody dell, the hanging rock,<br> + The chamois skipping o'er the heights;<br> +The plain adorn'd with many a flock,<br> + And, oh! a thousand more delights,<br> + That grace yon dear beloved retreat,<br> + Have backward won my weary feet.</p> + +<p>Now safe return'd, with wandering tired,<br> + No more my little home I'll leave;<br> +And many a tale of what I've seen<br> + Shall while away the winter's eve.<br> +Oh! I have wandered far and wide,<br> + O'er many a distant foreign land;<br> +Each place, each province I have tried,<br> + And sung and danced my saraband;<br> + But all their charms could not prevail<br> + To steal my heart from yonder vale.</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad05"></a>A PASTORAL SONG.</h3> + +<p>Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns,<br> + Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies;<br> +Come, let us seek the dewy lawns,<br> + And watch the early lark arise;<br> + While nature, clad in vesture gay,<br> + Hails the loved return of day.</p> + +<p>Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade<br> + Upon the moor, shall seek the vale;<br> +And then, secure beneath the shade,<br> + We'll listen to the throstle's tale;<br> + And watch the silver clouds above,<br> + As o'er the azure vault they rove.</p> + +<p>Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute,<br> + That with its tones, so softly sweet,<br> +In cadence with my mellow flute,<br> + We may beguile the noontide heat;<br> + While near the mellow bee shall join,<br> + To raise a harmony divine.</p> + +<p>And then at eve, when silence reigns,<br> + Except when heard the beetle's hum,<br> +We'll leave the sober tinted plains,<br> + To these sweet heights again we'll come;<br> + And thou to thy soft lute shalt play<br> + A solemn vesper to departing day.</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad06"></a>MELODY.</h3> + +<p>Yes, once more that dying strain,<br> + Anna, touch thy lute for me;<br> +Sweet, when pity's tones complain,<br> + Doubly sweet is melody.</p> + +<p>While the Virtues thus enweave<br> + Mildly soft the thrilling song,<br> +Winter's long and lonesome eve<br> + Glides unfelt, unseen, along.</p> + +<p>Thus when life hath stolen away,<br> + And the wintry night is near,<br> +Thus shall virtue's friendly ray<br> + Age's closing evening, cheer.</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad07"></a>SONG.</h3> + +<p>BY WALLER.</p> + +<p>A Lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to the Author, and +when he returned them to her, she discovered an additional stanza +written by him at the bottom of the song here copied.</p> + +<p> Go, lovely rose!<br> +Tell her, that wastes her time on me,<br> + That now she knows,<br> +When I resemble her to thee,<br> +How sweet and fair she seems to be.</p> + +<p> Tell her that's young,<br> +And shuns to have her graces spied,<br> + That hadst thou sprung<br> +In deserts, where no men abide,<br> +Thou must have uncommended died.</p> + +<p> Small is the worth<br> +Of beauty from the light retired,<br> + Bid her come forth,<br> +Suffer herself to be desired,<br> +And not blush so to be admired.</p> + +<p> Then die, that she<br> +The common fate of all things rare<br> + May read in thee;<br> +How small a part of time they share,<br> +That are so wondrous sweet and fair.</p> + +<p> [Yet, though thou fade,<br> +From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;<br> + And teach the maid<br> +That Goodness Time's rude hand defies,<br> +That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.<br> + H. K. WHITE.]</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad08"></a>THE WANDERING BOY.</h3> + +<p>A SONG.</p> + +<p>When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor,<br> +And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door;<br> +When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye,<br> +Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy.</p> + +<p>The winter is cold, and I have no vest,<br> +And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast;<br> +No father, no mother, no kindred have I,<br> +For I am a parentless Wandering Boy.</p> + +<p>Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire,<br> +A mother who granted each infant desire;<br> +Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale,<br> +Where the ringdove would warble its sorrowful tale.</p> + +<p>But my father and mother were summoned away,<br> +And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey;<br> +I fled from their rigour with many a sigh,<br> +And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy.</p> + +<p>The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale,<br> +And no one will list to my innocent tale;<br> +I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie,<br> +And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy.</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad09"></a>CANZONET.</h3> + +<p>Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee,<br> + Cold the rain beats on thy breast:<br> +Why should Horror's voice astound thee?<br> + Death can bid the wretched rest!<br> + All under the tree<br> + Thy bed may be,<br> +And thou mayst slumber peacefully.</p> + +<p>Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee,<br> + Now thy cheeks are pale and deep:<br> +Love has been a felon to thee,<br> + Yet, poor maiden, do not weep:<br> + There's rest for thee<br> + All under the tree,<br> +Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad10"></a>SONG.</h3> + +<p>WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.</p> + +<p>Softly, softly blow, ye breezes,<br> + Gently o'er my Edwy fly!<br> +Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly;<br> + Softly, zephyrs, pass him by!<br> + My love is asleep,<br> + He lies by the deep,<br> +All along where the salt waves sigh.</p> + +<p>I have cover'd him with rushes,<br> + Water-flags, and branches dry.<br> +Edwy, long have been thy slumbers;<br> + Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye!<br> + My love is asleep,<br> + He lies by the deep,<br> +All along where the salt waves sigh.</p> + +<p>Still he sleeps; he will not waken,<br> + Fastly closed is his eye;<br> +Paler is his cheek, and chiller<br> + Than the icy moon on high.<br> + Alas! he is dead,<br> + He has chose his death-bed<br> +All along where the salt waves sigh.</p> + +<p>Is it, is it so, my Edwy?<br> + Will thy slumbers never fly?<br> +Couldst thou think I would survive thee?<br> + No, my love, thou bid'st me die.<br> + Thou bid'st me seek<br> + Thy death-bed bleak<br> +All along where the salt waves sigh.</p> + +<p>I will gently kiss thy cold lips,<br> + On thy breast I'll lay my head,<br> +And the winds shall sing our death dirge,<br> + And our shroud the waters spread;<br> + The moon will smile sweet,<br> + And the wild wave will beat,<br> +Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed.</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad11"></a>THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE +NIGHT.</h3> + +<p>Thou, spirit of the spangled night!<br> +I woo thee from the watchtower high,<br> +Where thou dost sit to guide the bark<br> + Of lonely mariner.</p> + +<p>The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,<br> +The distant main is moaning low;<br> +Come, let us sit and weave a song—<br> + A melancholy song!</p> + +<p>Sweet is the scented gale of morn,<br> +And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,<br> +But sweeter far the solemn calm<br> + That marks thy mournful reign.</p> + +<p>I've pass'd here many a lonely year,<br> +And never human voice have heard;<br> +I've pass'd here many a lonely year,<br> + A solitary man.</p> + +<p>And I have linger'd in the shade,<br> +From sultry noon's hot beams; and I<br> +Have knelt before my wicker door,<br> + To sing my evening song.</p> + +<p>And I have hail'd the gray morn high,<br> +On the blue mountain's misty brow,<br> +And tried to tune my little reed<br> + To hymns of harmony.</p> + +<p>But never could I tune my reed,<br> +At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet,<br> +As when upon the ocean shore<br> + I hail'd thy star-beam mild.</p> + +<p>The dayspring brings not joy to me,<br> +The moon it whispers not of peace;<br> +But oh! when darkness robes the heavens,<br> + My woes are mix'd with joy.</p> + +<p>And then I talk, and often think<br> +Aërial voices answer me;<br> +And oh! I am not then alone—<br> + A solitary man.</p> + +<p>And when the blustering winter winds<br> +Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,<br> +I lay me on my lonely mat,<br> + And pleasant are my dreams.</p> + +<p>And fancy gives me back my wife;<br> +And fancy gives me back my child;<br> +She gives me back my little home,<br> + And all its placid joys.</p> + +<p>Then hateful is the morning hour,<br> +That calls me from the dream of bliss,<br> +To find myself still lone, and hear<br> + The same dull sounds again.</p> + +<p>The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,<br> +The whispering of the boding trees,<br> +The brook's eternal flow, and oft<br> + The condor's hollow scream.</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad12"></a>THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER.</h3> + +<p>A SONG.</p> + +<p>Come all ye true hearts, who, Old England to save,<br> +Now shoulder the musket, or plough the rough wave,<br> +I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow,<br> +Who has ruin'd Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello.<br> + Derry down, down, high derry down.</p> + +<p>This juggler is little, and ugly, and black,<br> +But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back;<br> +'Tis certain, all fear of the devil he scorns;<br> +Some say they are cousins; we know he wears horns.<br> + Derry down.</p> + +<p>At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he?<br> +He hopp'd o'er an army, he skipped o'er the sea;<br> +And he jump'd from the desk of a village attorney<br> +To the throne of the Bourbons—a pretty long journey.<br> + Derry down.</p> + +<p>He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball,<br> +And his cup is so fashion'd it catches them all;<br> +The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declare<br> +His skill at the long bow has made them both stare.<br> + Derry down.</p> + +<p>He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain;<br> +And Germany too knows his legerdemain;<br> +So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights,<br> +He's coming to London to put us to rights.<br> + Derry down.</p> + +<p>To encourage his puppets to venture this trip,<br> +He has built them such boats as can conquer a ship;<br> +With a gun of good metal, that shoots out so far,<br> +It can silence the broadsides of three men of war.<br> + Derry down.</p> + +<p>This new Katterfelto, his show to complete,<br> +Means his boats should all sink as they pass by our fleet;<br> +Then, as under the ocean their course they steer right on,<br> +They can pepper their foes from the bed of old Triton.<br> + Derry down.</p> + +<p>If this project should fail, he has others in store;<br> +Wooden horses, for instance, may bring them safe o'er;<br> +Or the genius of France (as the Moniteur tells)<br> +May order balloons, or provide diving-bells.<br> + Derry down.</p> + +<p>When Philip of Spain fitted out his Armada,<br> +Britain saw his designs, and could meet her invader;<br> +But how to greet Bonny she never will know,<br> +If he comes in the style of a fish or a crow.<br> + Derry down.</p> + +<p>Now if our rude tars will so crowd up the seas,<br> +That his boats have not room to go down when they please,<br> +Can't he wait till the channel is quite frozen over,<br> +And a stout pair of skates will transport him to Dover.<br> + Derry down.</p> + +<p>How welcome he'll be it were needless to say;<br> +Neither he nor his puppets shall e'er go away;<br> +I am sure at his heels we shall constantly stick,<br> +Till we know he has play'd off his very last trick.<br> + Derry down, down, high derry down.</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad13"></a>HYMN.</h3> + +<p>In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure the +splendours of the Deity.</p> + +<p>Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake,<br> +Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake;<br> +We sing the Saviour of our race,<br> +The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place.</p> + +<p>When God's right arm is bared for war,<br> +And thunders clothe his cloudy car,<br> +Where, where, oh, where shall man retire,<br> +To escape the horrors of his ire?</p> + +<p>'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly,<br> +While the dread tempest passes by;<br> +God sees his Well-beloved's face,<br> +And spares us in our hiding-place.</p> + +<p>Thus while we dwell in this low scene,<br> +The Lamb is our unfailing screen;<br> +To him, though guilty, still we run,<br> +And God still spares us for his Son.</p> + +<p>While yet we sojourn here below,<br> +Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;<br> +Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race,<br> +We deeply need a hiding-place.</p> + +<p>Yet, courage—days and years will glide,<br> +And we shall lay these clods aside,<br> +Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,<br> +And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood.</p> + +<p>Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,<br> +We through the Lamb shall be decreed;<br> +Shall meet the Father face to face,<br> +And need no more a hiding-place.<a class="fnref" href= +"#fn016">1</a></p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn016">1</a> The last stanza of this +hymn was added extemporaneously, by the Author, one summer +evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, and singing +as he was used to do on such occasions.</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad14"></a>A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP.</h3> + +<p>O Lord, another day is flown,<br> + And we, a lonely band,<br> +Are met once more before thy throne,<br> + To bless thy fostering hand.</p> + +<p>And wilt thou bend a listening ear,<br> + To praises low as ours?<br> +Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear<br> + The song which meekness pours.</p> + +<p>And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign,<br> + As we before thee pray;<br> +For thou didst bless the infant train,<br> + And we are less than they.</p> + +<p>O let thy grace perform its part,<br> + And let contention cease;<br> +And shed abroad in every heart<br> + Thine everlasting peace!</p> + +<p>Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine,<br> + A flock by Jesus led;<br> +The Sun of Holiness shall shine<br> + In glory on our head.</p> + +<p>And thou wilt turn our wandering feet,<br> + And thou wilt bless our way;<br> +Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet<br> + The dawn of lasting day.</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad15"></a>THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.</h3> + +<p>When marshal'd on the nightly plain,<br> + The glittering host bestud the sky;<br> +One star alone, of all the train,<br> + Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.</p> + +<p>Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,<br> + From every host, from every gem;<br> +But one alone the Saviour speaks,<br> + It is the Star of Bethlehem.</p> + +<p>Once on the raging seas I rode,<br> + The storm was loud,—the night was dark,<br> +The ocean yawn'd—and rudely blow'd<br> + The wind that toss'd my foundering bark.</p> + +<p>Deep horror then my vitals froze,<br> + Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;<br> +When suddenly a star arose,<br> + It was the Star of Bethlehem.</p> + +<p>It was my guide, my light, my all,<br> + It bade my dark forebodings cease;<br> +And through the storm and dangers' thrall<br> + It led me to the port of peace.</p> + +<p>Now safely moor'd—my peril's o'er,<br> + I'll sing, first in night's diadem,<br> +For ever, and for evermore,<br> + The Star!—The Star of Bethlehem!</p> + +<h3><a name="ballad16"></a>A HYMN.</h3> + +<p>O Lord, my God, in mercy turn,<br> +In mercy hear a sinner mourn!<br> +To thee I call, to thee I cry,<br> +O leave me, leave me not to die!</p> + +<p>I strove against thee, Lord, I know,<br> +I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law;<br> +The hour is past—the day's gone by,<br> +And I am left alone to die.</p> + +<p>O pleasures past, what are ye now<br> +But thorns about my bleeding brow!<br> +Spectres that hover round my brain,<br> +And aggravate and mock my pain.</p> + +<p>For pleasure I have given my soul;<br> +Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll!<br> +Now, Vengeance, smile—and with a blow<br> +Lay the rebellious ingrate low.</p> + +<p>Yet, Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling,<br> +I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing;<br> +I'll clasp the cross, and holding there,<br> +Even me, oh bliss!—his wrath may spare.</p> + +<h2><a name="tributes"></a>TRIBUTARY VERSES.</h2> + +<h3><a name="trib01"></a>EULOGY ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE, BY LORD +BYRON.</h3> + +<p>FROM THE ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.</p> + +<p>Unhappy White!<a class="fnref" href="#fn017">1</a> while life +was in its spring,<br> +And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing,<br> +The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair<br> +Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.<br> +Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,<br> +When science self destroy'd her favourite son!<br> +Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,<br> +She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit.<br> +'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,<br> +And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low.<br> +So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,<br> +No more through rolling clouds to soar again,<br> +View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,<br> +And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.<br> +Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel,<br> +He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel;<br> +While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest<br> +Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.<br> +</p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn017">1</a> Henry Kirke White died at +Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion +in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which +disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself +destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties +as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so +short a period was allotted to talents, which would have +dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to +assume.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib02"></a>SONNET ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE.</h3> + +<p>BY CAPEL LOFFT.</p> + +<p>Master so early of the various lyre<br> + Energic, pure, sublime!—Thus art thou gone?<br> + In its bright dawn of fame that spirit flown,<br> +Which breathed such sweetness, tenderness, and fire!<br> +Wert thou but shown to win us to admire,<br> + And veil in death thy splendour?—But unknown<br> + Their destination who least time have shone,<br> +And brightest beamed.—When these the Eternal Sire,<br> +—Righteous, and wise, and good are all his ways—<br> + Eclipses as their sun begins to rise,<br> +Can mortal judge, for their diminish'd days,<br> + What blest equivalent in changeless skies,<br> +What sacred glory waits them?—His the praise;<br> + Gracious, whate'er he gives, whate'er denies.</p> + +<p>24th Oct. 1806.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib03"></a>SONNET OCCASIONED BY THE SECOND OF HENRY +KIRKE WHITE.</h3> + +<p>BY CAPEL LOFFT.</p> + +<p>Yes, fled already is thy vital fire,<br> + And the fair promise of thy early bloom<br> + Lost, in youth's morn extinct; sunk in the tomb;<br> +Mute in the grave sleeps thy enchanted lyre!<br> +And is it vainly that our souls aspire?<br> + Falsely does the presaging heart presume<br> + That we shall live beyond life's cares and gloom;<br> +Grasps it eternity with high desire,<br> +But to imagine bliss, feel woe, and die;<br> + Leaving survivors to worse pangs than death?<br> + Not such the sanction of the Eternal Mind.<br> +The harmonious order of the starry sky,<br> + And awful revelation's angel breath,<br> + Assure these hopes their full effect shall find.</p> + +<p>25th December, 1806.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib04"></a>WRITTEN IN THE HOMER OF MR. H. K. +WHITE.</h3> + +<p>PRESENTED TO ME BY HIS BROTHER, J. NEVILLE WHITE.</p> + +<p>BY CAPEL LOFFT.</p> + +<p>Bard of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame!<br> + While on these awful leaves my fond eyes rest,<br> + On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late press'd,<br> +I pause; and gaze regretful on thy name.<br> +By neither chance nor envy, time nor flame,<br> + Be it from this its mansion dispossessed!<br> + But thee, Eternity, clasps to her breast,<br> +And in celestial splendour thrones thy claim.</p> + +<p>No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace<br> + An imitative radiance:<a class="fnref" href="#fn018">1</a> thy +pure lyre,<br> +Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace,<br> + And beams and breathes in empyreal fire:<br> +The Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone<br> +Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own.</p> + +<p>Bury, 11th Jan. 1807.</p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn018">1</a> Alluding to his pencilled +sketch of a head surrounded with a glory.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib05"></a>TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE.</h3> + +<p>BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, A. M.</p> + +<p>O Lost too soon! accept the tear<br> + A stranger to thy memory pays!<br> +Dear to the muse, to science dear,<br> + In the young morning of thy days!</p> + +<p>All the wild notes that pity loved<br> + Awoke, responsive still to thee,<br> +While o'er the lyre thy fingers roved<br> + In softest, sweetest harmony.</p> + +<p>The chords that in the human heart<br> + Compassion touches as her own,<br> +Bore in thy symphonies a part—<br> + With them in perfect unison.</p> + +<p>Amidst accumulated woes<br> + That premature afflictions bring,<br> +Submission's sacred hymn arose,<br> + Warbled from every mournful string.</p> + +<p>When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread,<br> + And deeper every moment grew;<br> +When rudely round thy youthful head<br> + The chilling blasts of sickness blew;</p> + +<p>Religion heard no 'plainings loud,<br> + The sigh in secret stole from thee;<br> +And pity, from the "dropping cloud,"<br> + Shed tears of holy sympathy.</p> + +<p>Cold is that heart in which were met<br> + More virtues than could ever die;<br> +The morning star of hope is set—<br> + The sun adorns another sky.</p> + +<p>O partial grief! to mourn the day<br> + So suddenly o'erclouded here,<br> +To rise with unextinguish'd ray—<br> + To shine in a superior sphere!</p> + +<p>Oft Genius early quits this sod,<br> + Impatient of a robe of clay,<br> +Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod,<br> + And smiles, and soars, and steals away!</p> + +<p>But more than genius urged thy flight,<br> + And mark'd the way, dear youth! for thee:<br> +Henry sprang up to worlds of light<br> +On wings of immortality!</p> + +<p>Blackheath Hill, 24th June, 1808.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib06"></a>SONNET TO HENRY KIRKE WHITE, ON HIS +POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED.</h3> + +<p>BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ.</p> + +<p>Hail! gifted youth, whose passion-breathing lay<br> + Portrays a mind attuned to noblest themes,<br> + A mind, which, wrapt in Fancy's high-wrought dreams,<br> +To nature's veriest bounds its daring way<br> +Can wing: what charms throughout thy pages shine,<br> + To win with fairy thrill the melting soul!<br> + For though along impassion'd grandeur roll,<br> +Yet in full power simplicity is thine.<br> +Proceed, sweet bard! and the heaven-granted fire<br> + Of pity, glowing in thy feeling breast,<br> + May nought destroy, may nought thy soul divest<br> +Of joy—of rapture in the living lyre,<br> + Thou tunest so magically: but may fame<br> + Each passing year add honours to thy name.</p> + +<p>Richmond, Sept. 1803.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib07"></a>SONNET,</h3> + +<p>ON SEEING ANOTHER WRITTEN TO H. K. WHITE, IN SEPTEMBER, 1803, +INSERTED IN HIS "REMAINS."</p> + +<p>BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ.</p> + +<p> Ah! once again the long left wires among,<br> + Truants the Muse to weave her requiem song;<br> +With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay<br> +Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to stray<br> +O'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower;<br> + To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view<br> +And courtship of the world: hail'd was the hour<br> + That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew,<br> +Poor Henry's budding beauties—to a clime<br> + Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray<br> + Forced their young vigour into transient day,<br> +And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them! and shall time<br> +Trample these orphan blossoms?—No! they breathe<br> +Still lovelier charms—for Southey culls the wreath!</p> + +<p>Oxford, Dec. 17, 1807.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib08"></a>REFLECTIONS ON READING THE LIFE OF THE +LATE HENRY KIRKE WHITE.</h3> + +<p>BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, AUTHOR OF THE "PEASANT'S FATE."</p> + +<p>Darling of science and the muse,<br> +How shall a son of song refuse<br> + To shed a tear for thee?<br> +To us, so soon, for ever lost,<br> +What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd<br> + By Heaven's supreme decree?</p> + +<p>How could a parent, love-beguiled,<br> +In life's fair prime resign a child<br> + So duteous, good, and kind?<br> +The warblers of the soothing strain<br> +Must string the elegiac lyre in vain<br> + To soothe the wounded mind!</p> + +<p>Yet, Fancy, hovering round the tomb,<br> +Half envies, while she mourns thy doom,<br> + Dear poet, saint, and sage!<br> +Who into one short span, at best,<br> +The wisdom of an age compress'd,<br> + A patriarch's lengthen'd age!</p> + +<p>To him a genius sanctified,<br> +And purged from literary pride,<br> + A sacred boon was given:<br> +Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre<br> +Celestial raptures could inspire,<br> + And lift the soul to Heaven.</p> + +<p>'Twas not the laurel earth bestows,<br> +'Twas not the praise from man that flows,<br> + With classic toil he sought:<br> +He sought the crown that martyrs wear,<br> +When rescued from a world of care;<br> + Their spirit too he caught.</p> + +<p>Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay,<br> +Who idly range in Folly's way,<br> + And learn the worth of time:<br> +Learn ye, whose days have run to waste,<br> +How to redeem this pearl at last,<br> + Atoning for your crime.</p> + +<p>This flower, that droop'd in one cold clime<br> +Transplanted from the soil of time<br> + To immortality,<br> +In full perfection there shall bloom;<br> +And those who now lament his doom<br> + Must bow to God's decree.</p> + +<p>London, 27th Feb. 1808.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib09"></a>ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.</h3> + +<p>BY T. PARK.</p> + +<p>Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell,<br> + Impassion'd minstrel! when its pitying wail<br> +Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell<br> + Untimely, wither'd by the northern gale.<a class="fnref" href= +"#fn019">1</a><br> +Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime!<br> + Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse blast,<br> +Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desert clime,<br> + But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'ercast,<br> +To see thee languish into quick decay.<br> + Yet was not thy departing immature;<br> +For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away,<br> + And pure in spirit, as the bless'd are pure;<br> +Pure as the dewdrop, freed from earthly leaven,<br> +That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven!</p> + +<hr width="25%" align="left"> +<p><a class="fnref" name="fn019">1</a> See Clifton Grove.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib10"></a>LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. HENRY KIRKE +WHITE.</h3> + +<p>BY THE REV. J. PLUMPTRE.</p> + +<p>Such talents and such piety combined,<br> +With such unfeign'd humility of mind,<br> +Bespoke him fair to tread the way to fame,<br> +And live an honour to the Christian name.<br> +But Heaven was pleased to stop his fleeting hour,<br> +And blight the fragrance of the opening flower.<br> +We mourn—but not for him, removed from pain;<br> +Our loss, we trust, is his eternal gain:<br> +With him we'll strive to win the Saviour's love,<br> +And hope to join him with the blest above.</p> + +<p>October 24th, 1806.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib11"></a>TO MR. HENRY KIRKE WHITE.</h3> + +<p>BY H. WELKER.</p> + +<p>Hark! 'tis some sprite who sweeps a funeral knell,<br> + For Dermody no more.—That fitful tone<br> +From Eolus' wild harp alone can swell,<br> + Or Chatterton assumes the lyre unknown.</p> + +<p>No; list again! 'tis Bateman's fatal sigh<br> + Swells with the breeze, and dies upon the stream:<br> +'Tis Margaret mourns, as swift she rushes by,<br> + Roused by the demons from adulterous dream.</p> + +<p>O! say, sweet youth! what genius fires thy soul?<br> + The same which tuned the frantic nervous strain<br> +To the wild harp of Collins?—By the pole,<br> + Or 'mid the seraphim and heavenly train,<br> +Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold,<br> +To sing Hell's flaming gulf, or Heaven high arch'd with gold?</p> + +<h3><a name="trib12"></a>VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF HENRY +KIRKE WHITE.</h3> + +<p>BY JOSIAH CONDER.</p> + +<p> What is this world at best,<br> + Though deck'd in vernal bloom,<br> +By hope and youthful fancy dress'd,<br> +What, but a ceaseless toil for rest,<br> + A passage to the tomb?<br> + If flowrets strew<br> + The avenue,<br> +Though fair, alas! how fading, and how few!</p> + +<p> And every hour comes arm'd<br> + By sorrow, or by woe:<br> +Conceal'd beneath its little wings,<br> +A scythe the soft-shod pilferer brings,<br> + To lay some comfort low:<br> + Some tie to unbind,<br> + By love entwined,<br> +Some silken bond that holds the captive mind.</p> + +<p> And every month displays<br> + The ravages of time:<br> +Faded the flowers!—The spring is past!<br> +The scattered leaves, the wintry blast,<br> + Warn to a milder clime:<br> + The songsters flee<br> + The leafless tree,<br> +And bear to happier realms their melody.</p> + +<p> Henry! the world no more<br> + Can claim thee for her own!<br> +In purer skies thy radiance beams!<br> +Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes<br> + Before the eternal throne:<br> + Yet, spirit dear,<br> + Forgive the tear<br> +Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger here.</p> + +<p> Although a stranger, I<br> + In friendship's train would weep:<br> +Lost to the world, alas! so young,<br> +And must thy lyre, in silence hung,<br> + On the dark cypress sleep?<br> + The poet, all<br> + Their friend may call;<br> +And Nature's self attends his funeral.</p> + +<p> Although with feeble wing<br> + Thy flight I would pursue,<br> +With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride,<br> +Alike our object, hopes, and guide,<br> + One heaven alike in view;<br> + True, it was thine<br> + To tower, to shine;<br> +But I may make thy milder virtues mine.</p> + +<p> If Jesus own my name<br> + (Though, fame pronounced it never),<br> +Sweet spirit, not with thee alone,<br> +But all whose absence here I moan,<br> +Circling with harps the golden throne,<br> + I shall unite for ever.<br> + At death then why<br> + Tremble or sigh?<br> +Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die?</p> + +<p>Dec. 5, 1807.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib13"></a>ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S POEM ON +SOLITUDE.</h3> + +<p>BY JOSIAH CONDER.</p> + +<p>But art thou thus indeed "alone?"<br> +Quite unbefriended—all unknown?<br> +And hast thou then his name forgot<br> +Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot?</p> + +<p>Is not his voice in evening's gale?<br> +Beams not with him the "star" so pale?<br> +Is there a leaf can fade and die<br> +Unnoticed by his watchful eye?</p> + +<p>Each fluttering hope—each anxious fear—<br> +Each lonely sigh—each silent tear—<br> +To thine Almighty Friend are known;<br> +And say'st thou, thou art "all alone?"</p> + +<h3><a name="trib14"></a>ODE ON THE LATE H. KIRKE WHITE.</h3> + +<p>BY JUVENIS.</p> + +<p>And is the minstrel's voyage o'er?<br> + And is the star of genius fled?<br> +And will his magic harp no more,<br> + Mute in the mansions of the dead,<br> +Its strains seraphic pour?</p> + +<p>A pilgrim in this world of woe,<br> + Condemn'd, alas! awhile to stray,<br> +Where bristly thorns, where briers grow,<br> + He bade, to cheer the gloomy way,<br> +Its heavenly music flow.</p> + +<p>And oft he bade, by fame inspired,<br> + Its wild notes seek the ethereal plain,<br> +Till angels, by its music fired,<br> + Have, listening, caught the ecstatic strain,<br> +Have wonder'd, and admired.</p> + +<p>But now secure on happier shores,<br> + With choirs of sainted souls he sings;<br> +His harp the Omnipotent adores,<br> + And from its sweet, its silver strings<br> +Celestial music pours.</p> + +<p>And though on earth, no more he'll weave<br> + The lay that's fraught with magic fire,<br> +Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve<br> + His now exalted heavenly lyre<br> +In sounds Æolian grieve.</p> + +<p>B. Stoke.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib15"></a>SONNET IN MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE +WHITE.</h3> + +<p>BY J. G.</p> + +<p>"'Tis now the dead of night," and I will go<br> +To where the brook soft murmuring glides along<br> +In the still wood; yet does the plaintive song<br> +Of Philomela through the welkin flow;<br> +And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw<br> + Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among,<br> + Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree strong,<br> +And intermingle with the streams my woe!<br> +Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze;<br> + No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom;<br> +Cold, chilling dewdrops trickle down the trees,<br> + And every flower withholds its rich perfume:<br> +'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground<br> +Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound!</p> + +<h3><a name="trib16"></a>LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE +WHITE.</h3> + +<p>LATE OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.</p> + +<p> Sorrows are mine—then let me joys evade.<br> +And seek for sympathies in this lone shade.<br> +The glooms of death fall heavy on my heart,<br> +And, between life and me, a truce impart.<br> +Genius has vanish'd in its opening bloom,<br> +And youth and beauty wither in the tomb!<br> + Thought, ever prompt to lend the inquiring eye,<br> +Pursues thy spirit through futurity.<br> +Does thy aspiring mind new powers essay,<br> +Or in suspended being wait the day,<br> +When earth shall fall before the awful train<br> +Of Heaven and Virtue's everlasting reign?<br> + May goodness, which thy heart did once enthrone,<br> +Emit one ray to meliorate my own!<br> +And for thy sake, when time affliction calm,<br> +Science shall please, and poesie shall charm.<br> + I turn my steps whence issued all my woes,<br> +Where the dull courts monastic glooms impose;<br> +Thence fled a spirit whose unbounded scope<br> +Surpass'd the fond creations e'en of hope.<br> + Along this path thy living step has fled,<br> +Along this path they bore thee to the dead.<br> +All that this languid eye can now survey<br> +Witnessed the vigour of thy fleeting day:<br> +And witness'd all, as speaks this anguish'd tear,<br> +The solemn progress of thy early bier.<br> + Sacred the walls that took thy parting breath,<br> +Own'd thee in life, encompass'd thee in death!<br> + Oh! I can feel as felt the sorrowing friend<br> +Who o'er thy corse in agony did bend;<br> +Dead as thyself to all the world inspires,<br> +Paid the last rites mortality requires;<br> +Closed the dim eye that beam'd with mind before,<br> +Composed the icy limbs to move no more!<br> + Some power the picture from my memory tear,<br> +Or feeling will rush onward to despair.<br> + Immortal hopes! come, lend your blest relief,<br> +And raise the soul bow'd down with mortal grief;<br> +Teach it to look for comfort in the skies:<br> +Earth cannot give what Heaven's high will denies.</p> + +<p>Cambridge, Nov. 1806.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib17"></a>SONNET</h3> + +<p>ADDRESSED TO H. K. WHITE, ON HIS POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED.</p> + +<p>BY G. L. C.</p> + +<p>Henry! I greet thine entrance into life!<br> +Sure presage that the myrmidons of fate,<br> +The fool's unmeaning laugh, the critic's hate,<br> +Will dire assail thee; and the envious strife<br> +Of bookish schoolmen, beings over rife,<br> +Whose pia-mater studious is fill'd<br> +With unconnected matter, half distill'd<br> +From letter'd page, shall bare for thee the knife,<br> +Beneath whose edge the poet ofttimes sinks:<br> +But fear not! for thy modest work contains<br> +The germ of worth; thy wild poetic strains,<br> +How sweet to him, untutor'd bard, who thinks<br> +Thy verse "has power to please, as soft it flows<br> +Through the smooth murmurs of the frequent close."</p> + +<p>1803.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib18"></a>TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.</h3> + +<p>BY A LADY.</p> + +<p>If worth, if genius, to the world are dear,<br> +To Henry's shade devote no common tear;<br> +His worth on no precarious tenure hung.<br> +From genuine piety his virtues sprung;<br> +If pure benevolence, if steady sense,<br> +Can to the feeling heart delight dispense:<br> +If all the highest efforts of the mind,<br> +Exalted, noble, elegant, refined,<br> +Call for fond sympathy's heart-felt regret,<br> +Ye sons of genius, pay the mournful debt:<br> +His friends can truly speak how large his claim,<br> +And "Life was only wanting to his fame."<br> +Art thou, indeed, dear youth, for ever fled?<br> +So quickly number'd with the silent dead?<br> +Too sure I read it in the downcast eye,<br> +Hear it in mourning friendship's stifled sigh.<br> +Ah! could esteem or admiration save<br> +So dear an object from the untimely grave,<br> +This transcript faint had not essay'd to tell<br> +The loss of one beloved, revered so well;<br> +Vainly I try, even eloquence were weak,<br> +The silent sorrow that I feel to speak.<br> +No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer,<br> +And bind my spirit to this lower sphere;<br> +Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh,<br> +And bid new fire relume my languid eye:<br> +No more the pencil's mimic art command,<br> +And with kind pity guide my trembling hand;<br> +Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard,<br> +To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard.<br> +Vain all the pleasures thou canst not inspire,<br> +And "in my breast the imperfect joys expire."<br> +I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my shrine,<br> +And little dream'd I should have wept o'er thine:<br> +In fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre<br> +With virtue's energies each bosom fire;<br> +I saw admiring nations press around,<br> +Eager to catch the animating sound:<br> +And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night,<br> +To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight,<br> +Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade,<br> +And each graced honour to thy memory paid.<br> +Such was the fate hope pictured to my view—<br> +But who, alas! e'er found hope's visions true?<br> +And, ah! a dark presage, when last we met,<br> +Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret;<br> +When thou thy portrait from the minstrel drew,<br> +The living Edwin starting on my view—<br> +Silent, I ask'd of Heaven a lengthen'd date;<br> +His genius thine, but not like thine his fate.<br> +Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure revealed,<br> +The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd.<br> +Too strong the portion of celestial flame<br> +For its weak tenement the fragile frame;<br> +Too soon for us it sought its native sky,<br> +And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye,<br> +Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight,<br> +Leaving behind long tracks of lucid light:<br> +So shall thy bright example fire each youth<br> +With love of virtue, piety, and truth.<br> +Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn,<br> +And bid her sons revere thy favour'd urn.<br> +When thy loved flower "spring's victory makes known,"<br> +The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone:<br> +Around thy urn the rosemary well spread,<br> +Whose "tender fragrance,"—emblem of the dead—<br> +Shall "teach the maid, whose bloom no longer lives,"<br> +That "virtue every perish'd grace survives."<br> +Farewell! sweet Moralist; heart-sickening grief<br> +Tells me in duty's path to seek relief,<br> +With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise,<br> +And seek hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies.<br> +Yet still on thee shall fond remembrance dwell,<br> +And to the world thy worth delight to tell;<br> +Though well I feel unworthy thee the lays<br> +That to thy memory weeping friendship pays.</p> + +<h3><a name="trib19"></a>STANZAS,</h3> + +<p>SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF HENRY KIRKE +WHITE.</p> + +<p>BY A LADY.</p> + +<p>Ye gentlest gales! oh, hither waft,<br> + On airy undulating sweeps,<br> +Your frequent sighs so passing soft,<br> + Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps!<br> +He breathed the purest tenderest sigh,<br> +The sigh of sensibility.</p> + +<p>And thou shalt lie, his favourite flower,<br> + Pale primrose, on his grave reclined;<br> +Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour,<br> + And of his pure, his spotless mind!<br> +Like thee he sprung in lowly vale;<br> +And felt, like thee, the trying gale.</p> + +<p>Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude,<br> + O thou, the fragrant rosemary,<br> +Where he, "in marble solitude,<br> + So peaceful and so deep" doth lie!<br> +His harp prophetic sung to thee<br> +In notes of sweetest minstrelsy.</p> + +<p>Ye falling dews, Oh! ever leave<br> + Your crystal drops these flowers to steep:<br> +At earliest morn, at latest eve,<br> + Oh let them for their poet weep!<br> +For tears bedew'd his gentle eye,<br> +The tears of heavenly sympathy.</p> + +<p>Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams;<br> + for he was wont to pace the glade,<br> +To watch in pale uncertain gleams,<br> + The crimson-zoned horizon fade—<br> +Thy last, they setting radiance pour,<br> +Where he is set to rise no more.</p> + +<p>THE END</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Henry Kirke White +by Henry Kirke White + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETICAL WORKS *** + +This file should be named 8pwhw10h.htm or 8pwhw10h.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8pwhw11h.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8pwhw10ha.txt + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Tiffany Vergon, Charles Aldarondo, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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