path: root/75349-0.txt

*** 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 ***