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diff --git a/75349-0.txt b/75349-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e14dc9b --- /dev/null +++ b/75349-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,802 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75349 *** + + + + + + RAMBLES + IN + WALTHAM FOREST. + + + A + + STRANGER’S CONTRIBUTION + + TO + + THE TRIENNIAL SALE + + FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE + + =Wanstead Lying-in Charity.= + + + “Silver and gold have I none;—but such as I have, give I thee.” + ACTS, iii. 6. + + LONDON: + PRINTED BY J. L. COX, 75, GREAT QUEEN STREET, + LINCOLN’S-INN FIELDS. + + 1827. + + + + + WALTHAM FOREST. + + + Land of soft showers and far-extending vales, + And woodlands fanned by summer’s gentlest gales, + And streams, that glisten as they steal, half hid + The tangled brake and waving sedge amid; + Land!—where rich plenty with abounding flow, 5 + Bids ’neath her smile the golden meadow glow, + And from the juicy herbage—Nature’s wealth! + Draws the pure stream of sustenance and health; + Land—where, beneath Wealth’s hospitable dome, + Refinement dwells, and Science finds a home,— 10 + In whose sweet sylvan shades the classic Muse + Her richer buds upon thy green lap strews; + With thy soft breath her tuneful whisper blends, + And to the Poet’s home her brightness lends,— + Smiles at his hearth, dispels the gath’ring tear, 15 + And—dating all from Heaven—makes one _here_. + Nor fears the power of her spell will cease, + Breathed from the altar of domestic peace;[1] + Land! where my pilgrim foot in peace hath strayed, + And traced out many a fresh and grassy glade, 20 + Smiling in sunlight, whilst, like former dreams, + Dimly afar the mighty City gleams; + Where o’er its lines the dancing sunbeams play, + Gilding each roof with morning’s brilliant ray— + I hail thee!—not mine own—but still dear clime! 25 + Fair spread thy vales! and bright thy waters shine! + Thy flowers,—thy glens, and health-restoring breeze + Fraught with the song of birds, the hum of bees, + The low of kine, and voices clear and sweet, + That link us to the world in our retreat,— 30 + These, and the grateful spell—that magic zone— + Of social pleasures o’er thy beauties thrown— + Endear thy shades, and give thy forest bowers + The tranquil charm of gay and guiltless hours. + Peaceful the day rolls here! and Friendship’s tongue— 35 + That sweetest music!—breathes thy glades among, + Charming life’s harsher discords into peace; + Bidding anxiety’s sad warning cease,— + Twining with wreaths of hope a falling shrine, + Crowning with flowers the pale cold brow of Time. 40 + I love thy calm! The storm-beat pinnace, driven + Before the stern breath of the threat’ning heaven, + Lies in some little bay, whose waters sleep, + Cradled by rocks from the surrounding deep: + And thus thy gentle shades seem formed to be 45 + A quiet haven from a troubled sea. + Here Nature walks in brightness, and each star + Is as an altar, lit by her afar, + To His great name who bound the radiant sphere. + Each on its path foreknown, their song we hear 50 + Hymning along the pure and cloudless sky + The awful story of their mystery; + For the mind tracks them, as their course they take, + E’en as with tongues of men their voices spake. + Then,—Day!—with her bright chaplet’s rosy braid, 55 + In all her living hues of light arrayed, + Comes fresh o’er the green heath, and shakes the dew + From her light sandall’d foot, whose blushing hue + Seems as she trod on roses.—And, at eve, + With ling’ring steps, as weary pilgrims leave 60 + The shrine they love, calm sinks the sun’s last ray, + And dovelike silence soothes the wearied day; + And Time’s swift sand in noiseless current flows, + There is nought here to break the still repose.— + Nought of the stir—the strife—the mental war— 65 + Of that vast Babylon, scarce seen afar; + Where on the blue horizon’s distant verge, + Its cloudy breath floats like a rolling surge; + And in dim majesty its sacred dome, + As it would rise to seek a purer home, 70 + Soaring sublime above the denser sky— + A type of Time and Immortality!— + Beams through the yellow mist, and brings again + The dreams of splendour—affluence—pleasure—gain. + And better visions:—for within thy walls, 75 + London! the silent, secret blessing falls + Promised to those who, bowing not the knee + To Baal, ’mid the land’s idolatry, + The scoff of science, and the smile of pride,— + The flash of wit, and talent misapplied,— 80 + Blush not to own, to serve with humble zeal + (Impressed with self-denial’s graven seal) + The God who formed them! nor reject the hand + That beckons onward t’wards the promised land; + And, pierced for us,—sets the world’s captive free— 85 + _His_ hardest service this—“believe on me.” + Aye, there be many ’mid thy darkest cells, + City, where ev’ry vice and sorrow dwells! + Who bind the harvest in no pleasant field, + Reaping with tears the increase it may yield! 90 + Yet on the tablets of the age record— + “I and my house will humbly serve the Lord!” + Amid thy darkness bid Truth brightly shine, + Strong to redeem the evil of the time. + Vast City! from my dwelling’s quiet shade 95 + I see thee in thy cloudy pomp arrayed, + And scarce can deem thy rush of crowds so near, + Whilst nought but Nature’s voice is stirring here! + And bees, and birds, and forest glades are nigh, + To soothe the ear and tempt the gladden’d eye. 100 + Here the fawn looks from out the blossom’d brakes,— + From dewy lawns the lark’s clear hymn awakes; + The dimpling stream marks where the bright fish glide, + And the fair lily clusters o’er its tide; + The kine in scatter’d groups, with patient gaze, 105 + Shine, golden-chestnut, in the sun’s glad rays; + And the gale breathes as fresh, the sky as bright, + As if no fane of Mammon met the sight! + No city on the dimm’d horizon lay + A cloud, which but a breeze might waft away: 110 + So faint the trace of yon stupendous mart, + Where gold can buy—all!—genius—fame, and art! + And yet, fair scenes! these charms so well thine own, + Live to the many slandered or unknown; + Capricious Fancy, with fantastic choice, 115 + For distant beauties, gives her casting voice; + To the remotest shores our isle supplies + Turns the faint gaze of her long dazzled eyes; + Shuns the rich plenty of a daily feast, + What most attainable, still valued least! 120 + When from the thronged metropolis we rove + To seek the healthful gale, and bow’ry grove; + By the far Lakes, or Caledonia’s shore, + She bids our steps her mazy path explore; + In Katrine’s mirror watch the mountains sleep, 125 + And wander on Helvellyn’s mighty steep; + Or where the belting Severn rolls sublime + Her copious stream, full as the tide of time, + By rock and headland wander idly by;— + Or trace thy bowers—my own romantic Wye! 130 + Oh pardon!—no false renegade to thee, + With well pleased eye these milder shades I see;— + Their’s is the grace of Nature, deck’d by art, + But thou art ever nearest to my heart! + And I the well-remember’d past should wrong, 135 + Neglecting thee, e’en in a transient song! + Oh! who could silent pass a scene less fair, + If life had dawned, and hope had blossom’d there! + If youth’s bright flowers in gay variety + Thy soil had nursed—no matter _where_ to die, 140 + If happiness—that gift of early years! + Had marked each scene which contrast more endears; + If long-loved voices seem to haunt the place, + And forms _there_ hover, which no hand may trace; + If the dread seal of the all-silent grave, 145 + Still uneffaced by Time’s slow-rolling wave, + Had marked the lines of some one treasur’d spot + On memory’s tablet;—who that page would blot! + No;—far from my fond hand to snatch one gem + From thy soft beauty’s regal diadem: 150 + Queen of the rock! nymph of the silent shade! + Muse of the glen where my young feet have strayed; + Though now, a pilgrim, from those paths I fly, + ’Mid all the goodly scenes that greet mine eye, + Their rich variety of vale and hill— 155 + Thy smile is brightest—purest—loveliest still! + Away—thy banks I may not linger near; + Sweet stream! whose murmurs yet are on my ear;— + The scene around me, rich in autumn’s glow, + Untrack’d by path, unbroken by the plough, 160 + Where all unseen the pensive foot may roam, + Is best befitting a recluse’s home. + It is a place of trees; their sweeping boughs + Clash in the autumn’s gusts, their crowned brows + Rise upon ev’ry steep, and throng the glade 165 + With a rich mass of varied light and shade. + I love the wildness of the far spread scene: + Now lost, now caught the golden checquer’d beam, + Dancing the mossy trunks and boughs amid, + And now in depths of thicker verdure hid; 170 + Whilst the far rolling of the laden wain, + Rich in its autumn store of golden grain, + Or the faint sound of the revolving wheel + Through the low-sighing branches seems to steal + Broken and fitful, o’er the extatic song 175 + Of the free lark, his summer clouds among. + I love thee, Land! and where such beauties shine, + Ask not, in niggard phrase, if thou art mine? + That here the eye is pleased—the foot is free— + And the pulse healthful, is enough for me! 180 + Yet art thou wrong’d—the pen, that seal of fame + Whose magic impress gilds or blights a name, + Hath striken thee;[2]—a base and coward dart! + I fain would pluck the arrow from thy heart; + Erase th’ accusing blot with just applause, 185 + Nor spare a lance to skirmish in thy cause! + Oh! say not health avoids this balmy gale, + Or flies the pathway down that dewy vale! + Skim o’er the plain! thread the wide mazy heath, + Bright with her smile, and fragrant with her breath! 190 + Doubt the dry slander of the technic sage, + And, closing his, read Nature’s gentler page! + Come with me where, o’er blythe and fertile meads, + My step untired the mould’ring abbey[3] leads; + Shorn of its beams, still o’er its woods it tow’rs, 195 + A wreck, which yet recals its prouder hours. + Gaze on the sculptur’d arch, the massive aisle, + The niche where saint or martyr seemed to smile; + (Dwellers in heaven, and only called below + Our faith to strengthen, or to soothe our woe;) 200 + The plunder’d altar in its fall behold, + Once heaped with far-sought relics, gems, and gold; + Where a king knelt,[4] the penance vow to pay, + And the mailed warrior came his spoils to lay; + Where the doomed Saxon, zealous for his race, 205 + Deemed he endowed their last proud dwelling-place; + With wealth—and lands—enriched the holy shrine + Where he should sleep—the latest of his line! + Come to that vacant shrine—though—such the doom + Of greatness—here we trace not _e’en his tomb_! 210 + All that this pile so changed can now record, + Is that, bowed down before the Norman’s sword, + Here the pale mother, with vain fondness, gave + Her murder’d Harold that sad boon—a grave! + Or, turning from the deeds of other days, 215 + Towards yon deep groves direct the pensive gaze. + Come with me where, from many a foreign clime, + The varied marbles rise, the gildings shine; + To the free sky and laughing summer’s beam, + The paintings glow, the costly frescoes gleam; 220 + And, by the idle winds of heaven laid bare, + Pomp’s gaudy pageant smiles in mock’ry there. + WANSTEAD!—thou spell to stay mirth’s flowing tide, + Warning!—to daunt the regal brow of pride, + Ruin!—which sunk in premature decay, 225 + From ev’ry levell’d column seems to say: + “Thus human wisdom plans for endless time, + “Thus vice and folly mar the proud design;” + ’Tis good to wander through thy palace bowers, + And tread the site of thy once stately towers! 230 + From thy thick shades what mournful thoughts arise! + Through thy far groves the sounding axe replies; + Down sinks the pile! and ruin spreads o’er all + The silence of its dark funereal pall. + Dower of woe! a rich but fatal boon, 235 + The “gilding fretted from the toy too soon;” + Is this thy wreck, a beacon, raised to tell + How vain the wealth—the pomp—we love so well? + How _nothing_ all the splendour and the taste, + Once redolent upon this mournful waste! 240 + Turn to your humbler roofs! and bless your lot, + Ye, who can claim the bliss-ennobled cot! + If, ’neath the russet thatch and lowly dome, + Peace—and her sister virtue, make their home; + Lament not thou thy board of frugal fare, 245 + But with full heart ask heaven’s blessing there! + Thy prayer as free will come, as pure will rise, + As if through column’d roofs it sought the skies. + It is not marble—sculpture—painting—gold— + Can deck the page of life by time unrolled! 250 + And grandeur moulders—levelled with the mean, + To warn us of the reed on which we lean. + Alas! _her_ breast who owned this wide domain + Sighed for the calm of cottage homes in vain! + She dwelt within this master-piece of art 255 + With blighted visions—and a breaking heart. + Turned on its pomps a faint accusing eye, + And asked—and vainly asked—in peace to die. + Come, from this scene so desolately fair, + Where through “the Grove”[5] soft plays the summer air; 260 + And wooingly the sun with ev’ry breeze + Kisses the glad leaves of the whisp’ring trees; + Gilding their trunks, and on each dewy spray + Hanging a gem that sparkles in his ray. + There the magnolia’s snowy blossoms gleam, 265 + Amid their glossy leaves’ umbrageous screen; + There the pale orange scents the languid gales, + And starry jasmine its sweet breath exhales; + There the rich tribes of far Columbia’s plain, + In clustering bloom awake to life again; 270 + Glow the acacia’s trembling shade beneath, + Or through the crimson sumach’s palm-like leaf; + On the bright turf a gem-like radiance throw, + And glisten on the tranquil wave below. + Trace thou that bowery vista’s green alcove! 275 + Through the long avenue in silence rove— + Look through the woven boughs’ fine tracery, + On the clear, blue, and joy-inspiring sky! + Oh, lovely face of Nature!—who can view + Thy smile rejoicing, nor be happy too? 280 + What heart can thy enduring wonder scan, + And see unrolled thy wide and glorious plan; + Bask in thy glow, drink in thy living hues, + Yet the deep homage of the heart refuse, + To Him, who in such loveliness arrayed 285 + Those charms of thine, which guilt alone could fade; + And, e’er thy sin-bought doom of change began, + Saw thou wert good, and gave the boon to man! + By the green margin of that fairy lake, + List!—for the lark’s wild music is awake, 290 + And the low murmur of the ring-dove’s note + Steals musically, from her shade remote; + The willow-spray upon the calm wave sleeps, + The gilded trout from its still mirror leaps; + Bright wings are glancing the free boughs among, 295 + And bills of happy birds make one glad song! + It is the home of Taste; her wand has laid + A gentler beauty o’er the sylvan shade; + Bade the fair trees in richer masses grow, + With brighter hues the painted flowers glow; 300 + No gilding strikes, no marbles court the eye, + But, rich alone in Nature’s symmetry, + To this retreat the fabled Nymphs repair, + And deem they find their long-lost Tempe there; + Hang o’er the brink of the transparent waves, 305 + Sleep where the pendant rose its garland laves; + Or idly on the velvet margin stray, + And watch the gentle waters glide away. + Not here the pomp of Grandeur’s cumbrous state, + Here gentle Peace and polished Taste await. 310 + _His_ mind who planned this smiling solitude + With that pure feeling that directs the good; + On Nature’s brow the votive chaplet placed, + And loved the spot by her soft beauty graced; + Turned from the stately dome—the busy crowd— 315 + And to a simpler shrine in homage bowed; + With true ambition earned a purer fame, + Whilst the poor bless their benefactor’s name! + And here the gentle smile of Courtesy + Still holds the spell-bound step and gladden’d eye. 320 + Taste, which with never-sated eye explores + The changeful loveliness of distant shores; + Yet, like the bee, how far soe’er it roam, + Treasures their varied spoils to deck its home; + Taste and refinement give the rosy hours 325 + A winged speed in these delightful bowers! + Here gentle converse in soft witchery blends; + Here rank with graceful suavity descends; + Nor, with the jealousy of meanness, deems + Its splendour lessened by the smile it beams! 330 + With true nobility of mind, unknown + To pride, not _firmly_ seated on its throne, + With its warm smile the less distinguished cheers, + Exacting, claiming naught, the more endears; + And with real dignity’s resistless sway, 335 + _Deserves_ the homage that we gladly pay. + Here in the social circle gaily meet + The polished ease that makes the hours so fleet; + Wit’s harmless play, and music’s tuneful spell, + That whisper’d magic the heart knows so well! 340 + And the sweet pencil’s ever-pleasing trace, + Which makes eternal, beauty’s transient grace, + Here bids the flower in fresher bloom and hue, + On the fair page its flush of life renew; + Whilst many an alpine height and distant plain, 345 + Touched by the hand of genius, smiles again. + Here too, on walls bright with the ev’ning rays, + Thy magic wand of classic fancy plays + Angelica![6] whose pencil’s graceful line + Gives life and tint to sculpture’s chaste design; 350 + Here thine Arcadian groups and attic scenes + Seem the Elysium of a poet’s dreams, + The fair embodied forms which fancy shews, + When the pleased mind luxuriates in repose, + When bright romance the ’witching harp has strung 355 + And o’er the bard her robe of glamour flung. + But now—’tis not from fiction’s flow’ry urn + The cup I fill! To truth’s pure stream I turn; + For WANSTEAD! thy embowering shades amid, + ’Wake dearer feelings, deeper thoughts lie hid! 360 + It may be from my chosen theme I stray, + On friendship’s shrine a votive wreath to lay; + A wreath unworthy of a shrine so dear, + And placed, perhaps, with failing courage here. + For what have the soul’s treasured thoughts to do 365 + With the calm page that meets the stranger’s view? + But could I pass that spot unnoted by, + Dear to my heart, and welcome to mine eye; + And when with honoured names the lay I twine, + Refuse to gem the braid—loved friend—with thine! 370 + My friend of many years! when yet a child, + To me life’s far perspective only smiled; + When (all my paradise of being, met + In that maternal love which sooths me yet; + That cherished parent’s dear and tender care, 375 + Which then, as now, my ev’ry hope would share) + No tongue of change, and altered feelings, told, + No lip smiled proudly, and no eye glanced cold; + When with glad hand I loosed the silken sail, + And launched my bark on pleasure’s sportive gale; 380 + Fearing no coming gloom on wave or sky, + No blasts unkind my fairy pinnance nigh. + ’Twas thine to point the doom of all below, + The sentence—e’en when writ on flowers—of “_woe_;”— + That fatal word, howe’er we hide the smart, 385 + So deeply graven on the human heart; + That cull each bud! joy’s sparkling goblet fill + In vain! for there we read the legend still. + ’Twas thine who, as the child in stature grew, + Held truth’s clear mirror to my dazzled view; 390 + Warned me of fancy’s too prevailing sway, + Whispered how evanescent youth’s bright day! + And told me that the scene I deemed so fair, + Had many a thorn of trial lurking there. + Instructress! from whose lips improvement came, 395 + And study lost the rigour of its name, + Friend! still by time and circumstance untried, + Forgive the homage of a filial pride! + Forgive, if from the brief excursive lay + I pause, love’s light and willing debt to pay. 400 + My minstrel harp in vain would ask my care, + If memory’s were a chord forbidden there; + And little worth, that heartless verse, I deem, + Unconsecrate by friendship’s steady beam. + No! vain the varied wreath of tuneful song 405 + If the heart’s language speak not with the tongue! + Without true feeling, bright the page may be, + But ’tis a cold and fickle brilliancy, + The dazzling light of the sun’s glancing rays, + When on the glacier’s arrowy point it plays; 410 + Oh! fairer far that sun’s refulgent lines, + Where on the cotter’s roof its brightness shines, + Gilding the village green, the ivied tower, + Tipping with light each blade and dewy flower; + Smiling in sweet repose, his glad adieu, 415 + All nature radiant with his glowing hue. + Thus cheering, bright’ning o’er earth’s darker soil, + Affection’s sunbeam gilds our daily toil; + That arduous post we all are called to fill, + In the set battle betwixt good and ill! 420 + Vain _there_ the subtlest panoply of proof, + Take thou nor spear, nor buckler, save the truth. + What are thy vaunted saws—Philosophy! + Summed up and brought before the Christian’s eye? + What all the comeliness of human schemes 425 + For living, dying tranquilly?—what!—_dreams!_ + Impostors! swallowed by the Aaron’s rod + Of that one simple axiom—“trust in God.” + In _His_ pure worship even sorrow heals, + And the heart lightens with the pang it feels; 430 + Unlike the trifles that our minds employ, + Ending in sorrow, though begun in joy, + Religion pours a balm with ev’ry tear, + And reaps her golden harvest even here! + Give me one hour in holy converse spent, 435 + For a whole age of indolent content! + Give me the friend who guides my steps aright, + Nor fears to bring my errors to my sight: + With tenderness the heart’s fond guile unrobes, + But to the core with steady courage probes, 440 + Points, as my path, not that I _wish_ to see, + But the unbending _right_, as thou to me, + My long-loved friend! whose roof, a second home, + More welcome smiles than wealth’s most costly dome. + Full long the pilgrim’s sandall’d foot would tread, 445 + Thy wood-paths, WANSTEAD, by affection led; + But hark! yon deep and silent woods among, + Wakes the low music of the poet’s song; + The breath of his sweet lyre, on breezes borne, + Floats, where of old the hunter’s stirring horn[7] 450 + Called to the echoes, that through dell and glade + Spake in their jocund tongues, from every shade. + Whilst knight and damsel, in their vests of green, + Throng’d, gay and graceful, round their huntress-queen; + And the proud stag caught from afar the strain, 455 + Tossed his broad brow, and sought his woods again. + There now the hind, in fern-clad hollows hid, + Couches the pendant weeds and flowers amid, + Or tripping light, her velvets gemmed with dew, + With a shy wildness glances on the view, 460 + Turns her fair neck with momentary gaze, + Then plunges in the covert’s verdant maze; + There now the pheasant’s shrilly note is heard, + There in blest freedom lives each happy bird; + The partridge brings in peace her covey there, 465 + And fears no danger but the fox’s lair; + No thundering gun the startled echoes know, + And e’en the timid lev’ret dreads no foe. + Come! when the moon in silvery lustre sleeps, + And climb with me the forest’s mossy steeps; 470 + There, o’er the dewy turf, all bathed in light, + The playful hare scuds from the stranger’s sight, + Or calmly pastures on the glist’ning blade, + Whilst the lone owl hoots from his ivied shade. + ’Neath yon wide oak the deep’ning shadows dwell, 475 + And darkly glance upon the “brocket well,” + That from the twisted roots its stream distils, + Nursed in the bosom of the shelt’ring hills; + Whilst on that brow the beeches’ lofty height, + Waves in the clearness of the azure night; 480 + And in wild murmurs sigh the fresh’ning gales, + Through the deep arches of their leafy aisles. + Come to the poet’s study! no proud dome + Rich in the polish’d lore of Greece and Rome, + And painting’s wonders, sculpture’s magic grace, 485 + Which bids the rock a god’s bright features trace. + No, here, beneath the “branching elms star-proof,” + Rises in peace the low and simple roof; + Birds sing above, and flowers blossom nigh, + And the blue glimpses of the cloudless sky 490 + Through woven boughs and russet thatch look forth, + Like thoughts of heav’n amid the cares of earth! + And here pure thoughts and holiest visions come, + And find within this grot their tranquil home; + Here not the fever of excited minds 495 + Its baleful food in headlong passion finds, + To poison turns the flower’d chalice, given + To the bard’s hand by an all-bounteous heaven, + Changing that magic, that might heal the soul, + To Comus’ mocking rod and Circe’s bowl. 500 + Oh! better far! here o’er the poet’s lyre, + Hovers a ray of purer, brighter, fire; + And lips that glow with genius’ heaven-sprung flame, + Breathe back the sacred incense whence it came! + But ye! who with my lay have wandered on, 505 + That lay is spent, the pilgrim’s shrine is won. + Not now, not now, beside Castalia’s streams, + I ask a fabled muse to aid my dreams, + Or spread on poesy’s too frolic gale + The varied woof of fancy’s tissued sail, 515 + Or bid the star-led bark of fairy land, + Glide in wild music, from the lonely strand. + In Nature’s praise I frame the simple lay, + Through her delightful paths in freedom stray; + Weaving my garland, in whose braid I twine 520 + Names, that might blush to gem a wreath of mine, + Did not true fame shun the pretender’s boast, + Exacting least where it might claim the most. + Let such forgive, that on their native plain + A stranger’s lute takes up the votive strain! 525 + Not mine to wake the poet’s golden lyre, + Its thrilling chords, and soul-ennobling fire; + Or its sweet sorrow, like the ev’ning’s breath, + Or dew, upon the light and glossy leaf; + Not mine the power to weave the tuneful spell, 530 + And draw a spirit from the sounding shell; + No! to my trembling fingers give instead + The oaten stop and simple shepherd’s reed! + I have no muse but Truth;—I ask no art + To write her lessons on the gentle heart; 535 + Simple and plain in her own strength she stands, + Nor needs the weak support of human hands. + A granite column, firm and unadorned, + As if the pomp of ornament she scorned; + Truth borrows not the glare of gems or gold, 540 + Her name, a charm that needs but to be told! + And with her,—inmates of the humble cell, + Where, linked in love, the Christian graces dwell;— + That best and loveliest, whose welcome feet + The mountain tops in rays of gladness greet, 545 + As o’er the earth her noiseless step is stayed, + Healing each bitter wound that sin has made, + Comes;—like the rainbow o’er the stormy cloud! + Or pardon to the wretch in fetters bowed; + Or the sweet dash of waters on the ear, 550 + Gladd’ning the desert-pilgrim’s path of fear.— + Whilst earth rejoices, smiles the bright’ning sky + Beneath thy step—benignant Charity! + Can’st _thou_ want advocates?—Did not the voice + Which bade fall’n nature in her bonds rejoice, 555 + And, graven on her page of trial, see + “Health to the stricken!—set the pris’ner free!” + Did not that voice, which sin’s fast bondage brake, + And bade, from death’s deep rest, the slumb’rer wake, + Without _this chiefest_ all our gifts declare 560 + As tinkling metal, or as tinsel’s glare? + Is there a duty, nearer than the rest, + Whose links are twined so close about the breast? + In the fair structure of creation’s plan, + Uniting all, and binding man to man? 565 + ’Tis this!—By this to us our God has given + A portion of the privilege of heaven, + The joy of blessing!—He, who wipes the tear + From every mourner’s brow who sorrows here, + Intrusts the sceptre to his creature’s hand, 570 + “Go and do likewise!” His benign command, + In fellowship with man, his task partakes + Wherever Charity’s pure zeal awakes; + How poor soe’er the votive cup, its brim + O’erflows with wine, if poured from love to Him; 575 + And He is with us in the humblest deed + That serves mankind, _His_ smile our golden meed! + If strong, this fairest virtue’s earnest claim, + Ah—let not _here_ her cause be urged in vain! + Shall we the less her soft’ning influence feel, 580 + Because the weak are objects of our zeal? + Because the poor—the sick—the suffering, plead + Through her, to us, in this their hour of need? + Ye!—in whose softer bosoms ought to move + The tranquil whispers of a purer love; 585 + Ye!—to whose gentler fost’ring hand ’tis given + To shield the plant whose native clime is heaven; + Its tender shoots to bind with sweet control, + And for its future Eden fit the soul; + Upon whose bosom its soft form reclines, 590 + Sheltered from gathering clouds, and rending winds. + Ye!—who hang o’er these blossoms of your love, + And trust to see them perfected above, + Say—can ye gaze upon your happy home, + A mother’s hopes, and quiet pleasures own; 595 + From infancy’s soft lips that dear name hear, + Its half-formed accents blessed to your ear! + And sweet its cares implied, nor turn to those + Who bear—in poverty—a mother’s woes? + Daughter of wealth!—whose breast hath never known 600 + Want’s bitter pang, misfortune’s stifled groan; + If,—in the fountain of thy woman’s heart + Pity and sympathising love have part,— + When such a claim we proffer—pass not by + Or turn away with cold averted eye! 605 + Go—open Nature’s book, and she will tell + How potent is Compassion’s silent spell; + Making worth nobler,—loveliness more fair, + And talent brighter for the tear they spare. + Or in a richer volume, humbly read 610 + The blessing promised to one kindly deed; + Not unrequited, for the master’s sake + We give the cup, his pilgrim’s thirst to slake. + And when Benevolence, with accents bland, + Endears the largess of the ready hand, 615 + The off’ring on no barren shrine is laid, + The vow to no ungracious master paid; + But the Redeemer’s mild approving smile + Beams on the sacrifice and lights the pile. + And infancy is sacred, for it drew 620 + A blessing down—in the assembled view + Of those first gleaners in the promised land, + His true disciples’ firm united band + The Saviour stood—with brow serene and mild, + And held amid the crowd, “a little child.” 625 + And as upon his tranquil breast it lay + With dimpled lip and eye of placid ray, + Confiding, fearless, in his tender care, + Thus spake,—“Behold! the Christian’s model there! + Be as this babe in gentleness and love, 630 + For such shall form my heritage above; + And whosoe’er with pitying eye shall see + But one—the least of these—receiveth me! + And from the Father’s hand, with blessing stored, + May claim the faithful servant’s rich reward.” 635 + Go then—when charity and mercy plead + Be the heart strong to prompt the bounteous deed! + Fear not to trust its inmost whispers there, + But all its energy and fervour share; + Happy!—one bosom flower to cull at last 640 + O’er which the blight of sin hath never passed! + Happy—that from this fount of pain and woe + A stainless stream may still in brightness flow; + Happy!—in memory’s wreath one bud to set + On which the bloom of Eden lingers yet! 645 + + + + + NOTES. + + + “_Breathed from the altar of domestic peace._”—page 2. + +Footnote 1: + + Whoever has had the privilege of a visit to Fair Mead Lodge, will feel + that Essex has the honour of being the chosen residence of at least + one poet, who, in this age of independance and human perfectability, + is not too proud to “look through Nature up to Nature’s God.” + + + “_The pen,— + Hath stricken thee._”— page 9. + +Footnote 2: + + Dr. Armstrong, the physician-poet, has fulminated an alarming + denunciation against poor Essex; witness the startling allegory of the + ague in his “Art of Preserving Health.” The countenances of the + natives are fair commentaries, not to establish, but to controvert his + doctrine. That there are some marshy districts within the two hundred + and twenty-five miles of its circumference is indisputable, but it is + hard to threaten a whole country with the unacceptable visits of “the + meagre fiend Quartana,” who is represented by the Doctor as + domesticated there. + + + “_My step untired the mould’ring abbey leads._”—page 10. + +Footnote 3: + + Waltham Abbey, first founded by Tovi, standard-bearer to Canute, for + the reception of a holy cross, brought thither, say the learned, by a + miracle.—Edward the Confessor gave it to Harold, who enriched it with + amazing wealth; and, falling at the battle of Hastings, was, with his + brothers, buried in the Abbey his zeal had almost re-endowed, by their + mother Githa. His tomb of stone was some years since to be seen. + + + “_Where a king knelt, the penance vow to pay._”—page 10. + +Footnote 4: + + Henry II. having vowed to _erect_ an Abbey to the honour of God and + Saint Thomas-á-Becket, as an expiation for the crime of that prelate’s + death, seems, skilfully enough, to have construed his vow with a + prudent attention to his own interests; for he came to Waltham Abbey + on the Vigils of Pentecost, June the 3d 1177, and having procured a + charter of Pope Alexander the Third, changed the old foundation of + seculars of the Benedictine order, to an Abbey of regular canons of + the order of Saint Augustin, increasing the number to sixteen. At the + same time, it must be allowed, he enriched the church with many new + manors, re-endowed, (Stow says, rebuilt it) and promised to augment + its revenue, till it should support one hundred canons. This last + promise, the king, with his numerous avocations, _forgot_. + + + “_Where through ‘the Grove’ soft plays the summer air._”—page 13. + +Footnote 5: + + Wanstead Grove, the seat of the Hon. Mrs. Rushout, and formerly the + residence of George Bowles, Esq., a residence justly distinguished for + the public spirit and benevolence of its late, and the amenity and + elegant taste of its present owner. + + + “_Angelica! whose pencil’s graceful line._”—page 17. + +Footnote 6: + + A rich collection of Angelica Kauffman’s most exquisite pieces + commemorate the liberal patronage she received from the former + possessor of the mansion; nor are her works in a spot where they + cannot be fully enjoyed and appreciated. + + + “_Floats, where of old the hunter’s stirring horn._”—page 21. + +Footnote 7: + + Fair-Mead Lodge, the residence of Wm. Sotheby, Esq., preserves the + memory of a spot from whence Queen Elizabeth and her ladies, when + hunting in the forest, were wont to station themselves, to witness the + chase. The Queen’s Lodge, farther in the forest, occupies a high + ground amongst some fine trees. A dilapidated farmhouse is now the + only relic of the royal mansion, and the scene where Leicester “drew + his ’broidered rein” beside the palfrey of that Queen he would fain + have governed, is now a lonely rabbit-warren. The outlines of the + garden parterres and a fish-pond are still to be traced. + + + FINIS. + + + LONDON: + PRINTED BY J. L. COX, GREAT QUEEN STREET. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Line 515 should be renumbered as line 510. Subsequent lines should be + numbered accordingly, starting from 515. The original numbering was + not corrected. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75349 *** |