by John Moultrie
Beneath the chancel's hallow'd stone,
Exposed to every rustic tread,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Few words, upon the rough stone graven,
Thy name--thy birth--thy youth declare--
Thy innocence--thy hopes of Heaven--
In simplest phrase recorded there.
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,
In mockery, o'er my brother's grave.
The place is silent--rarely sound
Is heard those ancient walls around;
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet
Discoursing in the public street,
Nor hum of business dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell
From neighbouring fort or citadel,--
No sound of human toil or strife
To death's lone dwelling speaks of life;
Nor breaks the silence, still and deep,
Where thou, beneath thy burial stone,
Art laid "in that unstartled sleep
The living eye hath never known."
The lonely sexton's footstep falls
In dismal echoes on the walls,
As, slowly pacing through the aisle,
He sweeps the unholy dust away,
And cobwebs, which must not defile
Those windows on the Sabbath day;
And, passing through the central nave,
Treads lightly on my brother's grave.
But when the sweet-toned Sabbath chime,
Pouring its music on the breeze,
Proclaims the well-known holy time
Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees;
When rustic crowds devoutly meet,
And lips and hearts to God are given,
And souls enjoy oblivion sweet
Of earthly ills, in thoughts of Heaven;
What voice of calm and solemn tone
Is heard above thy burial stone?
What form, in priestly meek array,
Beside the altar kneels to pray?
What holy hands are lifted up
To bless the sacramental cup?
Full well I know that reverend form,
And if a voice could reach the dead,
Those tones would reach thee, though the worm,
My brother, makes thy heart his bed;
That Sire, who thy existence gave,
Now stands beside thy lowly grave.
It is not long since thou wert wont
Within these sacred walls to kneel;
This altar, that baptismal font,
These stones which now thy dust conceal,
The sweet tones of the Sabbath bell,
Were holiest objects to thy soul;
On these thy spirit loved to dwell,
Untainted by the world's control.
My brother, those were happy days,
When thou and I were children yet;
How fondly memory still surveys
Those scenes the heart can ne'er forget!
My soul was then, as thine is now,
Unstain'd by sin, unstung by pain;
Peace smiled on each unclouded brow--
Mine ne'er will be so calm again.
How blithely then we hail'd the ray
Which usher'd in the Sabbath day!
How lightly then our footsteps trod
Yon pathway to the house of God!
For souls, in which no dark offence
Hath sullied childhood's innocence,
Best meet the pure and hallow'd shrine,
Which guiltier bosoms own divine.
I feel not now as then I felt,
The sunshine of my heart is o'er;
The spirit now is changed which dwelt
Within me, in the days before.
But thou wert snatch'd, my brother, hence,
In all thy guileless innocence;
One Sabbath saw thee bend the knee
In reverential piety--
For childish faults forgiveness crave--
The next beam'd brightly on thy grave.
The crowd, of which thou late wert one,
Now throng'd across thy burial stone;
Rude footsteps trampled on the spot
Where thou lay'st mould'ring and forgot;
And some few gentler bosoms wept
In silence, where my brother slept.
I stood not by thy fev'rish bed,
I look'd not on thy glazing eye,
Nor gently lull'd thy aching head,
Nor view'd thy dying agony:
I felt not what my parents felt,
The doubt--the terror--the distress--
Nor vainly for my brother knelt--
My soul was spared that wretchedness,
One sentence told me, in a breath,
My brother's illness--and his death!
And days of mourning glided by,
And brought me back my gaiety;
For soon in childhood's wayward heart
Doth crush'd affection cease to smart.
Again I join'd the sportive crowd
Of boyish playmates, wild and loud;
I learnt to view with careless eye
My sable garb of misery;
No more I wept my brother's lot,
His image was almost forgot;
And ev'ry deeper shade of pain
Had vanish'd from my soul again.
The well-known morn I used to greet
With boyhood's joy at length was beaming,
And thoughts of home and raptures sweet,
In every eye but mine, were gleaming;
But I, amidst that youthful band
Of beating hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor smiled nor spoke at joy's command,
Nor felt those wonted ecstasies:
I loved my home, but trembled now
To view my father's alter'd brow;
I fear'd to meet my mother's eye,
And hear her voice of agony;
I fear'd to view my native spot,
Where he who loved it--now was not.
The pleasures of my home were fled--
My brother slumber'd with the dead.
I drew near to my father's gate--
No smiling faces met me now--
I enter'd--all was desolate--
Grief sat upon my mother's brow:
I heard her as she kiss'd me, sigh,
A tear stood in my father's eye;
My little brothers round me press'd,
In gay unthinking childhood bless'd.
Long, long that hour has pass'd, but when
Shall I forget its mournful Scene?
The Sabbath came--with mournful pace
I sought my brother's burial place--
That shrine, which when I last had view'd,
In vigour by my side he stood.
I gazed around with fearful eye--
All things reposed in sanctity.
I reach'd the chancel--nought was changed--
The altar decently arranged--
The pure white cloth above the shrine--
The consecrated bread and wine--
All was the same--I found no trace
Of sorrow in that holy place.
One hurried glance I downward gave--
My foot was on my brother's grave!
And years have pass'd and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb;
And cheerful is my mother's brow,
My father's eye has lost its gloom;
And years have pass'd, and death has laid
Another victim by thy side;
With thee he roams, an infant shade,
But not more pure than thou he died.
Blest are ye both! your ashes rest
Beside the spot ye loved the best;
And that dear home, which saw your birth,
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth.
But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel spirits wander O'er?
And who can tell what raptures high
Now bless your immortality?
My boyish days are nearly gone,
My breast is not unsullied now;
And worldly cares and woes will soon
Cut their deep furrows on my brow--
And life will take a darker hue
From ills my brother never knew.
And I have made me bosom friends,
And loved and link'd my heart with others;
But who with mine his spirit blends,
As mine was blended with my brother's?
When years of rapture glided by,
The spring of life's unclouded weather,
Our souls were knit, and thou and I,
My brother, grew in love together.
The chain is broke which bound us then--
When shall I find its like again?
1816
In many a strain of grief and joy,
My youthful spirit sung to thee;
But I am now no more a boy,
And there's a gulf 'twixt thee and me.
Time on my brow has set his seal--
I start to find myself a man,
And know that I no more shall feel
As only boyhood's spirit can.
And now I bid a long adieu
To thoughts that held my heart in thrall,
To cherish'd dreams of brightest hue,
And thee--the brightest dream of all.
My footsteps rove not where they roved,
My home is changed, and, one by one,
The "old, familiar" forms I loved
Are faded from my path--and gone.
I launch into life's stormy main,
And 'tis with tears--but not of sorrow,
That, pouring thus my patting strain,
I bid thee, as a Bride, good-morrow.
Full well thou know'st I envy not
The heart it is thy choice to share:
My soul dwells on thee, as a thought
With which no earthly wishes are.
I love thee as I love the star,
The gentle star that smiles at Even,
That melts into my heart from far,
And leads my wandering thoughts to Heaven.
'Twould break my soul's divinest dream
With meaner love to mingle thee;
'Twould dim the most unearthly beam
Thy form sheds o'er memory.
It is my joy, it is my pride
To picture thee in bliss divine;
A happy and an honour'd bride,
Blest by a fonder love than mine.
Be thou to one a holy spell,
A bliss by day--a dream by night,--
A thought on which his soul shall dwell,--
A cheering and a guiding light.
His be thy heart,--but while no other
Disturbs his image at its core,
Still think of me as of a brother,
I'd not be loved, nor love thee, more.
For thee each feeling of my breast
So holy--so serene shall be,
That when thy heart to his is prest,
'Twill be no crime to think of me.
I shall not wander forth at night,
To breathe thy name--as lovers would;
Thy form, in visions of delight,
Not oft shall break my solitude.
But when my bosom-friends are near,
And happy faces round me press,
The goblet to my lips I'll rear,
And drain it to thy happiness.
And when, at morn or midnight hour,
I commune with my God, alone,
Before the throne of Peace and Power
I'll blend thy welfare with my own.
And if, with pure and fervent sighs,
I bend before some loved one's shrine,
When gazing on her gentle eyes,
I shall not blush to think of thine.
Thou, when thou meet'st thy love's caress,
And when thy children climb thy knee,
In thy calm hour of happiness,
Then sometimes--sometimes think of me.
In pain or health--in grief or mirth,
Oh, may it to my prayer be given
That we may sometimes meet on earth,
And meet, to part no more, in Heaven.
"I went to the place of my birth, and I said--The friends of my childhood, where are they?--and an echo answered, Where are they?"
Arabic MS--from Lord Byron.
The spirit of my soul is changed,
My thoughts have ta'en a sadder hue,
Since last thy verdant lawns I ranged,
And bade them, with a tear, adieu!
And adverse fortune hath pursued
With gloomiest hatred thine and thee,
Forsaken mansion, since I stood
With them, where they no more shall be.
And they who smiled have learn'd to weep,
And they who loved are rent asunder;
Between them roars the angry deep--
Above them fate is black with thunder:
And moss and weeds grow on thy wall;
Deserted is my Father's Hall.
Oh! my young heart danced to liveliest measures,
And my ardent pulse beat high;
And boyish joys, and hopes, and pleasures,
Flash'd merrily in my eye:
And smiling faces beam'd around me,
And all was mirth and glee,
And friendship's golden fetters bound me,
When last I look'd on thee.
But the dream of bliss is for ever fled,
And the friends of my childhood are absent or dead.
Yet oft, in solitary hours,
Thine image floats across my brain,
And all thy beauteous woods and bowers
Rush on my soul again:
And I roam on the banks of thy old canal,
And I hear the roar of thy waterfall,
And well-known forms to my eyes appear,
And the voice of friends is in my ear;
And I view, by the light of the trembling moon,
The painted glass of thy old saloon,
On which, in childhood's artless days,
My wond'ring eyes were wont to gaze;
While oft; with fond and pious care,
My mother traced each semblance there,
And bade me mark the red drops flow,
In holy stains on my Saviour's brow,
And the crown of thorns that encircled his head,
And the cross that bore the Deathless Dead.
Long shall these hours my thoughts control,
So deep they sunk into my soul.
And oft I roved, with ardour young,
Through gothic arch and gallery long;
And view'd, emboss'd in panels high,
The 'scutcheons of my ancestry;
And portraits, ranged in order grave,
Of statesmen proud and warriors brave;
And dames who graced the festive sport
Of good King Charles's gallant court.
How reverend in my eyes appear'd
Each hoary head and flowing beard!
And how would fancy frame a tale
For ev'ry antique coat of mail,
And ev'ry scarf of lady bright,
Guerdon most meet for gallant knight,
Which painters' art had handed down
From distant ages of renown!
But proudest was my bosom's swell,
And most my boyish soul was fired,
When gaily would my grandame tell,
How thither, with his court, retired
From realms by civil discord rent,
And fury of the Parliament,
That Prince of heart misled, but good,
Who stain'd the scaffold with his blood;
And how, from that old gothic door,
He heard the hostile cannon roar,
And caught afar the foeman's tramp,
And view'd the smoke of the rebel camp,
And sigh'd at each cannon that threaten'd the town,
And wept for his people, though not for his crown.
How oft I gazed, with anxious care,
On good King Charles's oaken chair;
And proudly laid my humble head
On good King Charles's royal bed;
And joy'd to see the nook reveal'd,
Where good King Charles had lain conceal'd
And tasted calm and safe repose
Surrounded by a thousand foes!
It soothes me now to think on days
When grief and I were strangers yet,
And feed, in thought, a frequent gaze
On scenes the heart can ne'er forget.
The friends who made those scenes so bright
Are torn for ever from my sight;
Their halls are falling to decay,
Or own an unknown master's sway:
But still upon my pensive soul,
The feelings of my younger day,
The hour of mirth, the party gay,
In blissful visions roll.
Oh! welcome, then, was December's blast,
As it drove on the snow-storm thick and fast,
And welcome the gloom of December's sky,
For they told of approaching revelry;
And gave the signal old and sweet,
For dearest friends in one Hall to meet,
Where jest, and song, and gallant cheer,
Proclaim'd the Christmas of the year.
Oh! then was many a mirthful scene,
And many a smiling face;
And many a meeting glad was seen,
And many a warm embrace;
And oft around the blazing hearth
Flew happy sounds of joy and mirth;
And laughter loud and sprightly joke,
Shook fretted roof and wall of oak:
And gaily flow'd each prattling tongue,
And all were merry--old and young;
And souls were knit in union blest
And every bosom was at rest.
I may not view that Hall again,
I may not hear those sounds of gladness,
But their echoes linger in my brain--
A secret source of pleasing sadness.
Friends of my young and sinless years,
The long long ocean's waves divide us,
But memory still your names endears--
Still glows, whatever ills betide us.
Oh! oft on India's burning shore,
Ye will think on the home ye shall see no more,
And wish your heated limbs were laid
Beneath your own dear forest shade,
Where murmurs, in its cool retreat,
The well at which we used to meet,
When the setting sun of autumn stood
On the verge of the hill of Robin Hood,
And shed the mellow tints of even
O'er the dewy Earth and the silent Heaven.
Oh! when shall eve return again,
So sweet as those which bless'd us then?
But I must wake from this sweet dream,
Whose spells, perchance, too long have found me;
For manhood's prospects dimly gleam,
And manhood's cares are gathering round me.
I've made me new and cherish'd friends,
I've bound congenial bosoms to me;
But o'er the waves remembrance sends
A prayer for those who ne'er shall view me.
And oft I breathe a silent sigh
For hours and pleasures long gone by:
And each familiar face recall,
That smiled within that ancient Hall.
January,1819.
Whoe'er has been at Coventry must know
(Unless he's quite devoid of curiosity,)
That once a year it has a sort of show,
Conducted with much splendor and pomposity.
I'll just describe it, if I can--but no,
It would exhaust the humour of a Fawcett, I
Am a vile jester--though I once was vain
Of acting Fawcett's parts at Datchet-lane.
Ah! those were pleasant days, when you and I,
Dear Fred Golightly, trod those boards of yore;
I often grieve to think that they're past by,
As you must--on a rainy after-four:
Though, now it's fairly quash'd, you won't deny
That that same stage was frequently a bore;
It spoilt our cricket, which we're all so proud on,
Nor let us beat the Kingsmen--as we've now done.
Oh! sweet is praise to youthful poet's ear,
When gently warbled by the lips he loves:
'Tis sweet one's exercise read o'er to hear,
(Especially the week before Removes);
But sweeter far, when actors first appear,
The loud collision of applauding gloves,
The gleam of happy faces o'er them cast--
Moments of triumph not to be surpass'd!
Oh! stolen joys, far sweeter for the stealing,
Oh! doubts, and fears, and hopes of Eton all,
Ye are departed; but a lingering feeling
Of your enchantments holds my heart in thrall.
My eyes just now are fixed upon the ceiling--
I feel my cheek flush--hear my inkstand fall;
My soul is wandering through the distant groves
Of that dear schoolboy-dwelling which it loves.
But to my tale--I'm somewhat given to prating,
I can't but own it, but my theme was fine,
And all the feelings which I've been narrating
Are worth enjoying--and they've all been mine!
But I'll no longer keep the reader waiting,
So, without wasting now another line,
My Poem I'll begin, as Poets use,
With a short invocation to my Muse.
Spirit which art within me, if in truth
Thou dost exist in my soul's depths, and I
Have not mistaken the hot pulse of youth,
And wandering thoughts, for dreams of poesy,
Rise from thy lone recesses, rise and soothe
Each meaner thought to aspirations high,
Whelm me in musings of deep joy, and roll
Thy radiant visions on my kindling soul.
If, when at morn I view the bright blue Heaven,
Thoughts are around me which not all have felt;
If, in the dim and fading light of Even,
A Poet's rapture on my soul bath dwelt;
If to my wayward nature have been given
Dreams that absorb, and phantasies that melt,
Sweet tears, and wild attachments--lend thy wings,
Spirit, to bear me in my wanderings.
But these are boyish dreams.--Away, away,
Ye fond enchantments of my foolish brain;--
And yet, methinks, I would a while delay,
Ere my frail vessel tempt Life's dangerous main.
Still, dear delusions of my boyhood, stay,
Still let me pour my weak, but harmless strain!
In fancied draughts my thirst poetic slake,
And never, never from that dream awake!
This is a very pretty invocation,
Though scarce adapted to my present style;
I wrote it in a fit of inspiration,
The finest I've enjoy'd a monstrous while;
For most uncertain's my imagination,
And 'tis but seldom that my Muse will smile.
Come, reader, we'll her present humour try;
Draw up the curtain--the scene's Coventry.
It is an ancient and a gallant town,
Nor all unknown to loftier lays than mine;
It has of old seen deeds of high renown--
Its situation's not extremely fine.
Its name it wishes to be handed down,
And still in England's annals longs to shine;
And Mr. Cobbett wants to represent
This self-same Coventry in Parliament.
But at the period when my tale commences
There were no Cobbetts--'twas a barb'rous age;
The "Sovereign People" scarce were in their senses,
For Radical Reform was not the rage:
Though then Sir Francis might have found pretences
Just war against the Government to wage;
For King and Nobles thought it no great crime
To be confounded tyrants at that time.
There was of yore an Earl of Coventry,
Famous for wine and war--one Leofric;
A genuine Saxon--he'd a light blue eye,
His stature tall--his frame well-built and thick:
His flaxen locks fell down luxuriantly
On his fine shoulders--and his glance was quick.
But though he really was a handsome Earl,
He was at times a most uncommon churl.
He had fought well and often--miles around
Chieftain and vassal trembled at his name;
He held some thousand acres of good ground,
To which his weapon form'd his strongest claim:
His legal title was sometimes unsound--
And he was wedded to a matchless dame,
The fair and chaste Godiva--whom alone
He seem'd to love, of all that was his own.
Well might he love her;--in that shape of lightness
All woman's choicest beauties were combined;
Her long dark locks set off her bosom's whiteness
In its calm heavings, warm, and chaste, and kind.
Her deep blue eyes shone with peculiar brightness,
When through them flash'd the sunbeams of her mind;
When swiftly sparkled joys, or hopes, or fears,
Or sorrow bathed them in delicious tears.
Hers was the face we look on once and love,
Her voice was Music's echo--like the strain
Of our own land, heard, when afar we rove,
With a deep sense of pleasure mix'd with pain:
And those who once had heard it vainly strove
To lose its echoes lingering in the brain:
As for her figure--if you once had met it,
Believe me, Sirs, you never could forget it.
She was the idol of her native land,
The comforter and friend of its distress;
Herself, unchasten'd by Affliction's hand,
Felt for the woes of others not the less.
The serfs, who trembled at her Lord's command,
Forbore to curse him for her loveliness.
They were a pair one often meets in life,--
A churlish husband with a charming wife.
It chanced, A.D. Eight Hundred and Eighteen,
(I love to be correct in my chronology,) And all the tables which
by chance I've seen
Concur in this date. When I was in College I
Conducted once the famous Magazine,
Th' Etonian's predecessor. This apology
Will serve, I hope, among all folks discerning,
For my correctness--both in taste and learning.)
It chanced, A.D. Eight Hundred and Eighteen,
'Twas a bad season: rain, and blight, and frost
Destroy'd the harvest, while the crops were green,--
Wheat--barley--oats--and turnips, all were crost.
The ruin'd peasants grew extremely lean,
There's no computing what that year they lost:
They look'd just like so many half-starved weasels,
The sheep all died--the pigs had got the measles.
Leofric's table suffer'd: he was ever
(As Earls are sometimes) an enormous glutton;
Venison he loved, but, though a dainty liver,
He was a perfect Colleger at mutton.
He now discover'd that his table never
A decent leg or shoulder could be put on;
Dry was each wither'd joint, where fat was not,
And sometimes tasted strongly of the rot.
There was a sad deficiency in greens;
Parsnips and carrots nowhere could be found,
The very horses scorn'd to eat the beans,
The turnips were frost-bitten and unsound.
In fact the hungry peasants had no means
To pay their rents:--the Earl look'd grim and frown'd;
And wisely judged it would be saving trouble,
Like Harrow cricketers, to tax them double.
Whether this plan was likely to succeed,
Is more than I can possibly divine;
Physicians seldom think it right to bleed
A patient dying of a deep decline.
The poor petition'd in this utmost need;
Alas! they found it was in vain to whine;
The hungry Earl refused to hear a word;
(We know petitions are sometimes absurd.)
"He grieved," he said, "but 't wasn't his
look-out,
If all his serfs and vassals starved together;
The year had been a rainy one, no doubt,
But what of that?--he didn't make the weather.
They should have minded what they were about,
And not have sent such mutton--'twas like leather.
In short, unless they paid in their arrears,
He'd beat their houses down about their ears."
Then fell despair upon them:--home they went
With wild and gloomy aspects, and sat down
Each by his desolate hearth; some, weeping, leant
Their heads on their clasp'd hands; throughout the town
Went female shrieks and wailings; all content,
Domestic joy, and peace, and hope were flown;
And each look'd round upon his family,
And said that nought was left them--but to die.
One had been lately wedded,--his young bride
Gazed, as he enter'd, on his frenzied eye,
And read her fate, yet she esaay'd to hide
Her own forebodings of deep misery;
And strove to smile, and, seated by his side,
Used all her loved caresses cheeringly;
And said those sorrows soon would be forgot,
And fondly whisper'd hope--where hope was not.
And then she spoke of their long mutual love,
Their youthful vows, and lately plighted troth,--
And then she said that there was One above
Who had protected--would protect them both.
Remorse might yet the Earl's stern nature move,--
"Herself," she added, "to despair was loath."
But when she found her arts were vain, she crept
Into his bosom--hid her face-and wept.
It was a night of horror and despair!
Mothers were shrieking in distraction wild,
And Fathers, with a fix'd unconscious glare,
Gazed on the wan cheeks of each starving child!
A few were kneeling, wrapt in fervent pray'r,
And these alone, in their devotion, smiled;
While he, the author of an earldom's woe--
Slept upon fair Godiva's breast of snow.
Alas! Godiva, that a heart like thine
Should by so stern a tyrant's head be press'd!--
Short were his dreams, he woke at half-past nine,
Feeling a strange oppression at his chest;
And yet that day he'd drank five quarts of wine,
Which one would fancy would have made him rest.
Whether 'twas conscience or an indigestion
Produced this nightmare, still remains a question.
Godiva was awake--she had not slept
For sad reflections on her country's woes,
And bitter floods of anguish had she wept,
Her grief was far too burning for repose.
As down her cheeks the tears in silence crept,
At last they trickled to her husband's nose,
Who in plain terms (he seldom used to flatter)
Demanded "What the Devil was the matter."
Her tears fell faster, but she answer'd not;
In vain at first she strove her voice to find;
The courteous Saxon thought his wife had got
The tooth-ache, and grew wonderfully kind.
But when Godiva gently told him what
So much afflicted not her teeth--but mind,
He scratch'd his head, and stared like one confounded--
Never was man so perfectly astounded.
He could not form, for his part, the least notion
Of what appear'd so singular a whim,
He'd always fancied that his wife's devotion,
Thoughts, passions, wishes, centred all in him.
Much was he puzzled by this strange emotion,--
How was it possible a dame so slim,
So elegant and tasty as his wife,
Could feel for wretches quite in humble life?
It was a problem which he could not solve,
'Twas just what mathematics are to me,
A science which the longer I revolve,
The surer am I we shall ne'er agree:
And so I very prudently resolve
To give it up, and stick to poetry,
Which is, in fact, extremely pretty sport,
And I'm inclined to fancy quite my forte.
My Simpson's Euclid, you 're a cursed bore,
Although, no doubt, a treasure in your way,
And those who doat on science may explore
Your problems--with what appetite they may.
I have no head for mathematic lore,
Therefore, my Simpson's Euclid, I must say
(Though I'm desirous not to be uncivil)
I most devoutly wish you at the Devil.
But oh! the thousand joys of versifying!
One writes, and blots, and reads 'em o'er and o'er,
And, every time one reads 'em, can't help spying
A thousand beauties unobserved before;
And then one fancies all the ladies crying--
Reviewers make some rhymesters rather sore;
I for my own part am a careless dog,
And love to hear mine criticised--incog.
But poor Godiva--in her tears she lay,
'Twas a sad pity that t'was in the night,
Because, had it but happen'd in the day,
Her weeping beauty had prevail'd outright:
E'en then she charm'd her husband's rage away,
And nearly gain'd her purpose--though not quite;
For, after all her eloquent persuasion,
He tried to cheat her by a mean evasion.
"My dear," said he, "you've argued wondrous well,
I'm quite delighted with your long oration,
On all its beauties I forbear to dwell,
Enough that it hath met my approbation;
So much so, that to-morrow you may tell
Fair Coventry, it's free from all taxation,
If but these terms your approbation meet--
That you ride naked through the public street."
Godiva started--well indeed she might,
She almost doubted her own ears' veracity;
My modest pen can scarce endure to write
A speech of such unparallel'd audacity.
Leofric thought he had perplex'd her quite,
And grinn'd immensely at his own sagacity;
For which I hold him a consummate beast,
Deserving of the pillory at least.
Shame on the heartless churl!--could he repose
On that so lovely bosom, which, he knew,
For him, albeit the author of its woes,
Throbb'd with affection, warm, and chaste, and true?
And could he thus its holy charms expose
Unveil'd and blushing to the public view?
Ay, bid slaves gaze on beauties, which alone
(Though Kings had sigh'd for) he might call his own!
And yet I can't but own that modern spouses
In his opinion seem to acquiesce;
I've seen, in many fashionable houses,
The ladies waltzing in complete undress;
A custom which no sort of feeling rouses
Amongst their husbands--and I must confess,
(Being unmarried) that I see no faults in
Ladies, young, lovely, and half-naked, waltzing.
I must say I enjoy it--'t is a pleasure
Good-natured fair ones grant to amorous swains;
I like to whirl to that bewildering measure,
Which, "just like love"--or brandy, turns one's brains;
I like to view my partner's charms at leisure,
Till scarce a secret for the bride remains;
While round her waist each wanton finger strays,
And counts the whalebones in her panting stays.
Let jealous husbands (if such still there be
In this improving age) cry out "For shame!"
Let Quakers say our manners are too free,
And gouty folks quadrilles and waltzes blame;
I here protest I never will agree
In such reproaches--till I'm blind and lame.
Let maids of fifty prate of immorality,
I'm for the sexes' rational equality.
These are new doctrines: in Godiva's age
Husbands alone were privileged to kiss;
I said before, Reform was not the rage,
So that such nonsense was not then amiss;
And, though I've ransack'd many an ancient page,
I find but one case similar to this,--
That of Candaules--handed down to us
By Barry Cornwall, and Herodotus.
Oh! matrimonial love, which I so long
Have fondly painted to my fancy's eye,
In vain would I embody now in song
My young conceptions of thy purity.
Thou should'st be chaste, tho' ardent; mild, tho' strong;
Thou should'st be--hang it, it's in vain to try,--
Thou should'st be--all that in my heart's recess
I long have worshipp'd, but can ne'er express.
And thou, fair image, whatsoe'er thou art,
The loved creation of my boyish brain,
The destined partner of my cares and heart,
To share my pleasures, and to soothe my pain;
Still of my dearest visions be a part,
In many a midnight dream appear again;
Still let me clasp thee to my glowing breast,
Enjoy thy converse, and in sleep be blest
And if not all a phantom of my thought,
And thou indeed hast being, may thy young
And sinless years be happy, and may nought
That tastes of sorrow in thy path be flung:
May purest lessons thy young heart be taught,
And each expanding thought to Virtue strung;
May'st thou have some accomplishments--much
grace,
And lovely as thy spirit be--thy face.
I shall be quite enraptured if you sing,
So but your taste is pure as was the Attics';
I only beg you'll take care not to fling
Your time away in learning, mathematics;
Nor to my arms a heavy portion bring
Of chemistry--and Greek--and hydrostatics;
You may nurse pinks and tulips, if you've got any,
But be no florist, love,--nor deal in botany.
I mention this, because I know some ladies
Whose conversation is almost a bore;
But I should laud them, as the Poet's trade is,
So won't pursue this topic any more.
Return we to our tale, which, I'm afraid is
Too long in telling--but it's nearly o'er:
Godiva turn'd at last, with looks imploring,
And found her husband (like my reader) snoring.
Too well she knew to wake him would be vain;
She thought 'twas best to let him slumber on,
Or else his humour might relapse again,
And all she had effected be undone.
She lay, and communed with her heart and brain,--
Her thoughts I know not, but when morning shone
She told her husband, with a steadfast eye,
She had revolved the matter--and would try.
Her speech on this occasion I'd recorded
In my foul copy, and we all agreed
That it was most astonishingly worded,
For one who never learnt to write or read;
Yet scope for mirth it might have well afforded
To modern misses of our British breed;
And grave blue-stockings would, no dould, have said
"Godiva's heart was better than her head."
Had she at some snug boarding-school been placed
Of modern growth for female education,
She would have had a most uncommon taste,
And I might now have printed her oration.
Her native genius she would then have graced
With stores of every sort of information,
And had, at twelve years old, more general knowledge
Than boys of fifteen gain at Eton College.
She turn'd and left his Lordship sore perplex'd,
He almost question'd if he was awake,
And knew not whether to feel pleased or vex'd;
Still less, what step it would be right to take.
He "wonder'd what the Devil she'd do next
Who could so bold a resolution make:"
And felt a sort of shame that he'd consented,
And, for the first time in his life, repented.
But then he felt he never could retract,
(At least he would not--which was much the same)
And if his wife thought proper thus to act,
He couldn't help It--he was not to blame!
So that day, after breakfast, off he pack'd
A trumpeter (I quite forget his name)
To tell the people, in the market-place,
His wife's intention--and his own disgrace.
It was an idle morn in Coventry,
The people wander'd through the gloomy mart;
Labour with hope was o'er, and listlessly
Their footsteps traversed each unheeded part;
Despair was yielding fast to apathy--
They were prepared to die,--and every heart
Its weight of woe had half forgot to feel,--
When in their ears shrill rung a trumpet-peal.
There was a sudden crowding round the space
Whence the sound came-and then from man to man,
Throughout the full and spacious market-place,
A sudden, cold, electric shudder ran;
And each glanced quickly on his neighbour's face,
As if the working of his thought to scan,--
And then in every countenance were blent
Joy, love, and anger, and astonishment.
A breathless pause succeeded,--then arose
A low and gathering murmur in the crowd,
Like the far peal that breaks the dread repose
Cast by the shadow of a thunder-cloud:
And fast and far that thrilling murmur flows
On through the multitude-yet grows not loud--
Slowly it died,--and nought but trampling feet
Of crowds dispersing sounded in the street.
Noon came, yet ne'er in Coventry had reign'd
At deepest midnight silence so profound;
In the wide streets no human form remain'd,
It seem'd as Death had swallow'd all around:
It was like that enchanted city, feign'd
In Oriental Tales, where all were bound
In magic slumbers, and transform'd to stone--
A story pretty generally known.
What were Godiva's thoughts at that dread hour
In her lone chamber? Silent did she kneel,
Her deep blue eyes raised meekly to the Power
Of Heaven, in dumb, yet eloquent appeal.
Thus pray'd the gentle lady in her bower,
Till o'er her sorrows peace began to steal,
And the calm rapture of the silent skies
Had sunk into her spirit through her eyes.
The lady rose from prayer, with cheek o'erflush'd,
And eyes all radiant with celestial fire,
The anguish'd beatings of her heart were hush'd,
So calmly heavenward did her thoughts aspire.
A moment's pause-and then she deeply blush'd,
As, trembling, she unclasp'd her rich attire,
And shrinking from the sunlight, shone confest
The ripe and dazzling beauties of her breast.
And when her white and radiant limbs lay bare,
The fillet from her brow the dame unbound,
And let the traces of her raven hair
Flow down in wavy lightness to the ground,
Till half they veil'd her limbs and bosom fair,
In dark and shadowy beauty floating round,
As clouds, in the still firmament of June,
Shade the pale splendors of the midnight Moon.
But then her spirit fell when thus alone
She stood in the deep silence of her bower,
And felt that there she was beheld by none
Save One unknown, supreme, eternal Power.
She dared not raise her meek eyes, trembling one,
Again from earth; she could have wish'd that hour
Rather in view of thousands to have stood,
Than in that still and awful solitude.
Away--away, with wild and hurried pace,
Through many a long and echoing room she stole;
No voice arrests her ear, no human face
Bursts on the dreamy wildness of her soul.
All silent now is that proud dwelling-place,--
On--on she presses till she reach the goal;
The portal's pass'd--she sees her palfrey stand,
Held by a weak and weeping maiden's hand.
Away, away!--the Lady hath departed;
The freedom of the land will soon be won:
Rejoice, ye wrong'd, and spurn'd, and broken-hearted,
Rejoice!--for your deliverance is begun.
It's full five minutes since Godiva started,
She'll be among you before half-past one;
Therefore, take care, both bachelors and spouses,
All but the blind, to keep within your houses.
Godiva pass'd, but all had disappear'd,
Each in his dwelling's innermost recess:
One would have thought all mortal eyes had fear'd
To gaze upon her dazzling loveliness.
Sudden her palfrey stopp'd, and neigh'd, and rear'd,
And prick'd his ears--as if he would express
That there was something wicked in the wind;
Godiva trembled and held fast behind.
And here I also must remark that this is
With ladies very frequently the case,
And beg to hint to all Equestrian Misses,
That horses' backs are not their proper place.
A woman's forte is music--love--or kisses,
Not leaping gates, or galloping a race;
I used sometimes to ride with them of yore,
And always found them an infernal bore.
The steed grew quiet, and a piercing cry
Burst on Godiva's ear;--she started, and
Beheld a man, who, in a window high,
Shaded his dim eyes with his trembling hand.
He had been led by curiosity
To see her pass, and there had ta'en his stand;
And as he gazed ('tis thus the story's read),
His eyeballs sunk and shrivell'd in his head.
I know not, gentles, whether this be true;
If so, you'll own the punishment was just;
Poor wretch!--full dearly had he cause to rue
His prying temper, or unbridled lust.
No more could he his daily toil pursue--
He was a tinker--but his tools might rust,
He might dispose of all his stock of metal,
For ne'er, thenceforward, could he mend a kettle.
Alas! poor Peeping Tom! Godiva kept
And fed him.--Reader, now my tale is told;
I need not state how all the peasants wept,
And laugh'd, and bless'd their Countess--young and old.
That night Godiva very soundly slept--
I grieve to add she caught a trifling cold;
Leofric's heart was so extremely full,
He roasted for the populace a bull.
There stood an ancient cross at Coventry,
Pull'd down, of late, by order of the Mayor,
Because 'twas clear its downfall must be nigh,
And 'twould be too expensive to repair;
It bore two figures carved--and you might spy
Beneath them graved, in letters large and fair,
Godiva, Leofric, for love of thee,
Doth make henceforth fair Coventry toll free.
The tale's believed by all the population,
And still a sham Godiva, every year,
Is carried by the Mayor and Corporation
In grand procession--and the mob get beer.
Gentles, I've spent my fit of inspiration,
Which being over, I must leave you here;
And for Godiva--hope you'll decent think her,
Laugh at her husband, and forgive the tinker.
1820
In those fantastic days, when elves and fairies
Held high command o'er sublunary things,
And teased us mortals with as mad vagaries
As ever sprung from bard's imaginings,
Playing strange pranks in cellars and in dairies,
Riding the Nightmare o'er the breasts of kings;
Souring good beer, cow-milking, and cream-skimming,
And thumping clowns by night, and pinching women:
When madcap Oberon reign'd in all his glory,
Now holding Kinglike quarrels with his Queen;
And now with Puck upon the promontory,
Seeing such sights as since were never seen;
There lived, renown'd in Oriental story,
A mighty King--we'll call him Fadladeen,
Because his name's not mention'd by the Lady
Whose tale I borrow, Queen Scheherazadé.
Fame says he reign'd with wondrous approbation,
(Especially of courtiers and bashaws;)
In times of peace was mild in his taxation,
And made some very creditable laws;
Indeed, in their invidious situation,
Few Monarchs ever gain'd so much applause;
In private life, a truth I can't evade is,
He was a perfect devil with the Ladies.
He had a most inveterate aversion
To matrimonial fetters; and he swore,
In oaths befitting so sublime a person,
That't was unworthy of the crown he wore,
And inconsistent with the State's exertion,
To wed a number that exceeded four;
And so, to give his royal conscience ease,
He had four Wives, and sixty Mistresses.
It seems that this arrangement was ill-made,
for He had no issue, save an only son,
Whom twelve long years he had devoutly pray'd for,
To all his country's Gods;--when all was done
This single boy would have been cheaply paid for
By the oblation of his Father's throne;
For in all lands, from Araby to Aragon,
The Sun ne'er saw so wonderful a paragon.
I don't intend to give a long narration
Of his surpassing beauty, for I hate
Your cursed, detail'd, minute enumeration
Of cheeks, eyes, noses, lips, hair, shape, and gait.
It is enough that he became his station,
He look'd, and walk'd, and spoke, and drank, and ate,
As for a Hero of Romance 't is meet
To look, and walk, and speak, and drink, and eat.
You may suppose the youngster was a pet,
E'en from his cradle, a spoil'd child indeed;
The self-will'd tyrant of the Haram; yet
It seem'd no spoiling could with him succeed.
'Twas very rarely he was known to fret,
And very quickly did he learn to read;
At four years old, I've heard, he wrote some verses
To a lame, humpback'd daughter of his Nurse's.
And years pass'd swiftly o'er him, and he grew
In stature and in strength; his Tutors swore
(And I believe that it was strictly true)
His Royal Highness knew a vast deal more
Than the most erudite of all their crew;
In fact, they found it an exceeding bore,
Whether for pleasure or for pride he task'd them,
To answer half the questions that he ask'd them.
He was a great proficient in Astrology;
The best Accomptant in his sire's dominions;
Had dipp'd in Mathematics; in Theology
'Twas thought he held heretical opinions;
But this was doubtful:--in all sorts of knowledge he
Was an adept, but on the Muse's pinions
'Twas his delight to soar; when mounted on 'em, he
Cared little for political economy.
An earnest lover of the Muse was he,
And did her bidding for her own sweet sake;
Nor Fame he sigh'd for, nor aspired to be
A star among the great; but in the lake
Which flows around the dome of Poesy
He long'd the fever of his thirst to slake;
And drink the Music in his soul, which springs
From her deep, holy, lone imaginings.
No proud intents, no purposes sublime
Had he, nor care for glory not to die;
No aspirations over Fate and Time,
Nor longings after Immortality.
He was no builder of the lofty rhyme,
His own glad thoughts were all his Poesy;
He call'd his Album, in quaint terms of praise,
His "register of comfortable days."
And thus, from all his bosom's best affections,
And sweet emotions, not unmix'd with pain,
From childhood's hopes, and boyhood's recollections,
And many a roving thought that cross'd his brain,
Season'd with here and there some grave reflections,
He framed a sort of desultory strain.
Of course at Court his rhyming gain'd much credit
From all who had, and some who hadn't read it.
And thus his boyhood slid in smiles away,
And he was nigh upon his sixteenth year,
When, as it fell upon a certain day,
He had a summons straightway to appear
Before his Father; as he went, they say,
His young limbs shook with an unusual fear;
He had a strange presentiment, no doubt,
That some infernal mischief was about.
His gracious Father had it seems discern'd
(He was a Prince of infinite sagacity;)
Or it may be, by long experience learn'd,
(Which much confirm'd him in his pertinacity,)
That youthful blood with headstrong passion burn'd,
And play'd the deuce with Princes; so, to dash it, he
Forgot his own antipathies, and swore
His son should marry, and run wild no more.
He had moreover, as his subjects thought,
Some more conclusive reasons of his own;
The King of China would have dearly bought
Just then a close alliance with his Throne;
And had a most enchanting daughter, sought
By the East's proudest, yet the Maiden shone
Unmated still, and fancy-free, enshrined
In the pure brightness of her vestal mind.
She had seen fifteen summers; Youth had wrapp'd her
In its most radiant loveliness; no glance
Of her wild eyes ere shone without a capture,
E'en through her veil; and oh! to see her dance!
Why 'twould have kill'd our British beaux with rapture,
And caused a "great sensation" e'en in France.
Her voice of Music wander'd through men's ears,
And, when most mirthful, fill'd their eyes with tears.
Badoura! fair Badoura! would thy charms
Might float before my bliss-bewilder'd vision!
Would I might once enfold thee in my arms,
And fancy thou wert mine in dreams Elysian!
I think I then could laugh at Care's alarms,
And bold the bluest devils in derision;
For ever could we live (my Muse and I)
On the remembrance of that ecstacy.
I own it has not been my boyhood's lot
To fall in love so often as is common;
My early flames were speedily forgot,
Replaced but slowly; though the name of woman
Has always occupied a decent spot
In my affections, and I'm sure that no man
Can write more highly than I wrote of late
Of the enjoyments of the married state.
But, though I grieve extremely to declare it, I
Feel bound to tell what I esteem the truth;
That female beauty is, in fact, a rarity
E'en in the gay, unwrinkled cheeks of youth.
In number, as in charms, there's a disparity
Between the plain and pretty, and in sooth
I meet, at present, with few female eyes
Whose smiles remind me much of Paradise.
Yet have I dwelt, for many a pleasant week, in
A land whose women are the boast of fame;
Hail to the peerless belles around the Wrekin!
Hail to each wedded and unwedded dame!
Though really (unpoetically speaking)
With three exceptions, whom I dare not name,
I wouldn't give the value of a gooseberry
For all the beauty that I've found in S----
Oh! gentle Lady, with the dark-brown hair
Braided above thy melancholy eyes,
And pale thin cheek so delicately fair,
And voice so full of woman's sympathies;
Woe for thy beauty! the fell demon, Care,
Too soon hath made thy tender heart his prize;
Too soon those smiles, which ever and anon
Threw sunshine o'er thy loveliness, are gone.
Lonely art thou amid the fluttering crowd
That throngs the gay and gilded drawing-room;
For aye enwrapp'd and darken'd in a cloud
Of cheerless and impenetrable gloom.
The heartless glances of the gay and proud,
Which dwelt so rudely on thy beauty's bloom,
Pass thy pale cheek unheeding, and despise
The dimness of thy sorrow-speaking eyes. /p>
Yet when perchance a happier maid hath woken
The sweetness of some old-remember'd air,
Whose touching music to thy heart hath spoken
Of the old days that were so passing fair:
I've seen the spell that hangs around thee broken
By rising visions of the things that were;
And thy faint blush and gushing tears have told
That crush'd affections have not yet grown cold.
But oh! to me most lovely and most loved,
In thy calm hour of dreaming solitude;
When I have track'd thy footsteps as they roved
Through the thick mazes of the tangled wood;
Or to sweet sadness by the story moved,
By thy fair side, in mute attention, stood,
Still in thine eyes my lovesick bosom sunning--
But where the devil is my fancy running? /p>
The fair Badoura had conceived a whim in
Her lovely head, of wisdom most profound;
Her brain in wild fantastic dreams was swimming,
Such as with maidens now and then abound,
But rarely vex the pates of married women--
She fancied she might search the world around,
And find no husband in its dreary waste,
To suit her very reasonable taste.
And she had sworn by every good Divinity
That ever on Olympus had a throne,
That, should her days be lengthen'd to infinity,
No husband ever should unloose her zone,
Nor steal the jewel of her bright virginity;
That treasure should, at least, remain her own.
'Twas a strange whim, but what the stranger fact is,
She seem'd resolved to put the whim in practice.
She knelt before her sire, that gentle maid,
Like young Diana at the feet of Jove,
(As mentioned by Callimachus) and pray'd
By all her peace on earth, and hopes above,
That if she ever had his will obey'd,
If he did ever his dear daughter love,
He would permit her still to live and die
In calm, unsullied, sinless chastity.
And much she argued on the wiles of men,
Their base deceit, their gross dissimulation,
Their falsehood and their cruelty; and then
She praised the virtues of a single station:
And "if she should be married, when, oh! When
Could she enjoy such mirth and recreation,
Such joyous freedom, such unbounded spurt,
As she was used to at her father's court?"
Ah! poor Badoura! in a luckless hour
Thou com'st to urge thine innocent intreaty;
No, though thy bright and eloquent eyes should shower
A sea of tears upon thy father's feet, he
Will never yield to their persuasive pow'r!--
He had, in fact, just ratified a treaty
By which his daughter was declared the Queen
Of the young hopeful heir of Fadladeen.
For six whole months the mischief had been brewing
With such sagacious secrecy, that few
Suspected half the plans that were pursuing,
And not a soul in all the kingdom knew
That his respected Monarch had been doing
What none but Monarchs have the face to do;
And sign'd the contract which he felt would sever
His child from hope and happiness for ever.
Alas! poor Royalty! how far removed
Art thou from all the blessedness of earth!
Is't not enough that thou hast never proved
The bliss of friendship, nor enjoy'd the mirth
Of happy spirits, loving and beloved?
Is't not enough that thou must feel the dearth
Of cheering looks, and languidly repress
The hollow smiles of palace heartlessness?
Is't not enough that tranquil sleep is driven
From thy uneasy pillow?--that thy brain
Must throb for ever, and thy heart be riven
With weariness and care, and scarce retain
A dream obscure, a wandering ray of heav'n,
So closely fetter'd by the earth's dull chain?
It's not enough that Fancy's self hath left
Thy broken slumber of her joys bereft?
Oh! is not this enough? but must thou link
Thy care-worn heart to an unloving mate;
And for the bliss of chaste affection, drink
The bitter cup of carelessness or hate,
Unsolaced and unpitied?--Canst thou think
There is on earth a thing so desolate
As thou, who yieldest for thy tinsel prize
Love's self, our last faint ray from Paradise?
So felt perchance Badoura, as she knelt
Before her father with her strange petition:
Oh! in her voice what sweet persuasion dwelt!
How moving was her look of meek submission!
I don't know how her gracious father felt,
But he was far too great a politician
To let absurd, intrusive feelings glance
Through his profound and passionless countenance.
He simply answer'd, that "he quite agreed
In every single syllable she'd said;
Such notions were most amiable indeed,
And did much credit to her heart and head.
He only grieved that there was urgent need
That she should set off instantly to wed
The heir apparent of a distant State--
Her resolution had been form'd too late."
This was not what Badoura had expected,
And a distracting scene of course ensued;
The Maid declared the match must be rejected,
The King swore roundly, "d--n him if it should:
She ought to jump to be so well connected;"--
She still persisted that she never would:
He swore that she must do as she was bid,
And should be lock'd up closely till she did.
Poor girl, they shut her in a lonely tower,
(O! subject meet for melancholy verse;)
Nor would the old hard-hearted brute allow her
One poor companion, save her kind old Nurse.
'Twas a sad stretch of arbitrary power,
For the convenience of his privy purse:
(I own to me it seems extremely funny
How money matters mix with matrimony.)
In the mean time, while all the Chinese court
Was in confusion with this pleasant scene,
Another, quite as pleasant of the sort,
Was acting by the Prince and Fadladeen.
But 'twould be indecorous to report
Such angry squabbles as should ne'er have been.
The Youth, in short, was of the Lady's mind,
And like the Lady was the Youth confined.
Judge not, fair dames, too harshly of his heart,
Nor deem it quite to your attractions blind,
Insensible and dead to Cupid's dart,
And careless of the eyes of womankind,
Perhaps some luckier beauties had the start
Of poor Badoura in his wayward mind;
Perhaps some young Court-Siren's fascination
Within his breast had caused a palpitation.
Perhaps--but no--the truth must be confess'd;
No woman had dominion o'er his soul;
His eyes had wander'd o'er earth's loveliest,
And still his heart was free from their control:
Yet did he madly love, and o'er his rest
Dreams of such bright and passionate beauty stole,
As oft in slumber to the Poet's eyes
Disclose the long-lost joys of Paradise.
He was, I said, a Poet from his birth,
And fairyland around his boyhood shone;
His soul drank in the beauty of the earth
With fervent joy, but near his Father's throne
How did he feel of kindred souls the dearth!
How sigh for some beloved and loving one,
To whom he might in solitude reveal
Bliss which the hearts around him could not feel!
So he grew pensive, and at times would wander
Through lonely dell, and unfrequented wood;
And on his fate in deep abstraction ponder,
And in his more imaginative mood
Would picture to himself a dream of wonder,
A lot he would have chosen if he could;
And shadow out a creature who would be
The gentle sharer of his sympathy.
And then he search'd the tomes of old romance,
(I don't know how he got romances) there
He cull'd from many a heroine's countenance
The traits he thought most exquisitely fair;
From one he stole her eyes' o'erwhelming glance,
And from another clipp'd her auburn hair:
From this her lips, from that her blushes stole,
And from five hundred form'd one lovely whole;
And then for taste and feeling, sense and wit,
With which this dainty creature must abound;
Again he search'd all Tales that e'er were writ,
And chose the brightest models that he found;
Which blending with his dreamings, in a fit
Of joy he swore that all the world around
No living beauty could be found so bright
As that which swam in his Quixottic sight.
'Twas ever with him, this imagined form;
And as the wayward fancy stronger grew,
The bright creation shone in hues so warm,
So palpably apparent to his view,
That he grew quite enraptured, and a storm
Of such wild passion on his bosom blew,
That in his fits he deem'd the vision real,
And fell in love with this bright shape ideal.
It was a silly fancy--never mind;
It made him happy, if it made him mad:
The worst on't was he couldn't feel resign'd
To execute the orders of his Dad.
But when he was, in consequence, confined,
Wrapp'd in this vision, he was seldom sad.
The King imagined that the boy was frantic,
Though the fact was he only was romantic.
The good old Monarch loved his headstrong son,
(Though 't was a cruel measure, I must say,
A thing which no wise Father would have done,
To lock him up in that outrageous way;)
And, fearing sorely that his wits were gone,
He bled and dosed him every other day.
'Twas all in vain,--no physic could remove
His wild, ideal, solitary love.
Affairs bore now a most forlorn appearance,
Both Monarchs were confoundedly afraid,
That, spite of their parental interference,
The marriage would be grievously delay'd.
Though both had hopes, they said, "that in a year hence
They might perhaps contrive to be obey'd."
So in this state we'll leave them for the present,
And turn to prospects rather less unpleasant.
I don't know how, for many a weary line
I've prosed of courtship, wedlock, love, and fighting,
Till I've arrived at Stanza forty-nine,
And grown half-weary of the stuff I'm writing;
And yet (confound this stupid head of mine)
Ne'er thought, one single moment, of inditing
A strain of soft and eulogistic flummery,
On your approaching nuptials, Miss Montgomery.
A little while--a few short weeks--and thou
Shalt go forth gaily in thy bridal dress;
Serene, yet bearing on thy modest brow
The timid blush of virgin bashfulness.
And thou shalt pledge the irrevocable vow,
And utter (if thou canst) the fatal "Yes"
At which most ladies' lips are apt to falter,
When they come fairly to the marriage altar.
Thou hast done wisely--thy young eloquent eyes
Long might with gentle victories have shone;
Well dost thou choose, for many a fleeting prize,
The better triumph of securing one.
Well dost thou choose, for many a lover's sighs,
A husband's smile; and since we can't but own
That you were form'd for doing execution,
The more praiseworthy is your resolution.
But we shall miss, beside our quiet hearth,
The delicate form, the sunshine of thine eye,
The frankness of thy laughter-loving mirth,
Thy voice so rich in sweetest melody;
And when I seek this dearest spot of Earth,
From my world-weary rovings, I shall sigh
To meet no longer in my Father's hall
The fairest face, the lightest step of all.
I'll write a fine description in the papers
Of the proceedings of your wedding-day;
And give old maids and bachelors the vapours,
Telling how bright your looks, your dress how gay;
And then Ill praise your milliners and drapers,
Beginning somewhat in the following way:
"Married last week, at----in this Shire,
Miss H. Montgomery to T.S----, Esquire."
Fie on my giggling Muse, who can't be serious
For half a stanza on so grave a theme;
But 'tis in vain for me to be imperious,
When she's determined to rebel; I deem,
Most courteous readers, that this strain will weary us,
And I shall sadly sink in your esteem
If I pursue it longer; if you please
I'll breathe awhile, and give your Worships ease.
Yet, ere I close my Canto, I must mention
What should have been declared some stanzas back--
That 'twas not my original intention
To follow, so irregular a track;
And I must own I merit reprehension
And punishment for having been so slack
To introduce you to the sportive Dame,
From whom this wondrous story takes its name.
I must implore your pardon, and will try
(If you get through this Canto) in my next
To check the rovings of my Phantasy,
And stick a little closer to my text
"I've wandered from my theme, yet scarce know why,"
As sings a friend of mine,--for I'm perplex'd
For time; could I but polish as I would,
I'd make my Poem wonderfully good.
Mv ink is mix'd with tears of deep vexation
To know what Mr. Courtenay has decreed;
That here no more our King shall fill his station,
That Club and Punchbowl all to fate must cede!
What! can't we have another Coronation
In the Fusticular Kingdom? I, indeed,
Have half a mind--if it were not so late--
For this same Crown to be a candidate.
Ah! Gerard! Gerard! what wouldst thou be doing?
(Quoth my astonish'd Muse) is this thine high
Commiseration of the cares pursuing
The unbless'd course of wretched Royalty?
Why didst thou prate, last Canto, of the ruin
Of Royal spirits?--was it all a lie?
And did you talk in that high-sounding way
Only because you'd nothing else to say?
Gerard, I'm quite ashamed of you--take care--
I'll not be treated (trust me) in this sort;
How can you hope to breathe poetic air
In the unhealthy climate of a court?
Do you suppose you'll ever find me there?
Pray have the voters promised you support?
Poetic air, said I?--your chance is small,
Just now, of breathing any air at all.
Haven't you had an asthma all the spring?
Ar'n't you, this moment, wheezing like a kettle?
And yet, forsooth, you want to be a King;
And, though you scarce can fetch your breath, to settle
Affairs of State?--'twould be a pretty thing--
I thought you'd been a man of different metal.
Reign if you will--but when by me forsaken,
You'll find that you're confoundedly mistaken.
Sweet Muse, have patience--trust me, I ne'er meant
In earnest to petition for the throne;
Though thou dost smile but seldom, I'm content
With thy uncertain humours; but I own
'Tis a sad bore to have thy fancies pent
Within my brain--all joys of printing flown--
No praise my dear anonymous state to sweeten,
And all because some folks are leaving Eton.
But come once more, and kindly condescend
To lend thine inspiration, dearest Muse;
Look not so grave,--I ask you as a friend,
For, if you don't assist me, I shall lose
My way in long digressions without end,
And not a single reader will peruse
My tedious rhymes--I scarce could get a man to
Wade through my last interminable Canto.
I said, just now, I'd introduce my reader
To the fair Sprite who gives my Tale a name;
And since, in a few stanzas, I shall need her
For special purposes, 'twould be a shame,
Should I delay into your view to lead her;
So forth she steps, this visionary dame,
Maimouné, a mad Fairy, gay and bright
As ny elf that e'er play'd pranks by night.
She came on Earth soon after the creation,
And was akin to Oberon, 'tis said;
In Faeryland received her education,
But never yet had been induced to wed,
Though she was woo'd by half the Elfin nation--
But still a free and roving life she led;
And sought diversion for her gentle mind
Chiefly among the haunts of humankind.
There was a deep and solitary well in
The palace where the Prince was now confined,
Which served this lovely Fairy for a dwelling,
A spot just suited to a Fairy's mind;
Much like the fountain where Narcissus fell in
Love with her own fair face, and pined, and pined
To death (the passion's not at all uncommon
In Man, and very prevalent in Woman).
Beneath this fountain's fresh and bubbling water,
Unfathomably deep, the livelong day,
This wondrous Fairy, Time's most radiant daughter,
In unimaginable visions lay;
Where never earthly care or sorrow sought her,
But o'er her head did the wild waters play,
And flitting spirits of the Earth and Air,
Scatter'd sweet dreams and lulling music there.
For she was well beloved by all th' immortal
Beings that roam through Ocean, Earth, or Sky;
And oft would blessed spirits pass the portal
Of the vast Eden of Eternity
To be her slaves, and to her did resort all
Angelic thoughts, each heavenly phantasy,
That mortals may not know--all came to bless
This gentle Being's dreams of happiness.
And all around that fountain, the pure air
Breathed of her presence; every leaf was hung
With music, and each flow'r that blossom'd there
A fine and supernatural fragrance flung
On the glad sense; and thither did repair
Garlanded maids, and lovers fond and young;
And by the side of the low-murmuring stream
Would youthful Poets lay them down to dream.
And ever on that spot the rays of Morning
Fell thickest, and the Sun's meridian light
Sparkled and danced amid the waves, adorning
The crystal chamber of the sleeping Sprite.
But when proud Dian walk'd, with maiden scorn, in
The Eastern skies, and the sweet dews of Night
Lay heavy on the Earth, that Sprite arose
Fresh from the visions of the day's repose.
And then, she gaily wander'd through the world,
Where'er her fancy led her, and would stray
(The sails of her bright meteor-wings unfurl'd)
Through many a populous city, and survey
The chambers of the sleeping; oft she curl'd
The locks of young chaste maidens, as they lay,
And lit new lustre in their sleeping eyes,
And breathed upon their cheeks the bloom of Paradise.
And she would scatter o'er the Poet's brain
(As he lay smiling through swift-springing tears)
A strange and unintelligible train
Of fancies, and ring loud into his ears
A long, mysterious, and perplexing strain
Of music, or combine the joy of years
In half an hour of slumber; till he started
From such sweet visions, weeping and wild-hearted.
And, in her mirthful moments, would she seek
The bachelor's room, and spoil his lonely rest;
Or with old maids play many a wicked freak;
Or rattle loudly at the miser's chest,
Till he woke trembling; she would often wreak
Her vengeance on stern fathers who repress'd
Their children's young and innocent loves, and sold
(Like our two Kings) their happiness for gold.
I can't tell half the merry tricks she play'd
On earth, nor half the clamour and the fuss
Old women made about her.--I'm afraid
No Sprite was ever half so mischievous.
But so it happen'd that one night she stray'd
Into the Prince's chamber--(prying Puss!
I wonder what the deuce she wanted there
With a young man a-bed, so fresh and fair.)
Tranquil and happy in his sleep he lay,
For he was dreaming of that vision bright;
And o'er his flush'd cheek stole a wandering ray
Of silent but most passionate delight,
As he was gazing his soul's eyes away
On some imagined form--he was a sight
Of wondrous beauty, and Maimoune stood
Gazing upon him long in solitude.
Oh! how she long'd to peep beneath the lid
That veil'd his eyes' dark azure, and espy
The sweet imaginations that it hid
Wandering beneath its fringed canopy.
Yet would she not awake him; all she did
Was but one instant on his breast to lie,
And kiss the lips which tremulously moved
As if to meet the lips of her he loved.
Hark! a dull sound swings through the troubled air!
She hears the flapping of unholy wings--
Awhile she listens, mute, with finger fair
Raised to her delicate lips; then swiftly springs
Into the infinite sky--what meets she there?
Ha! a bad spirit in its wanderings
Darkens the face of the full moon, and mars
The pale-eyed beauty of the silent stars.
Up sprang Maimounè--winds are not so fleet--
Through the spell-troubled atmosphere,--and soon
You might behold those hostile Spirits meet
Within the circle of the full-orb'd moon.
Well knew the Fiend that battle or retreat
To him was hopeless--so he craved a boon;
That as her anger he was loath to stir,
She'd let him pass in peace--and he'd let her.
"Ho!" quoth the Fairy (and she laugh'd aloud);
"Kind Sir Rebellious, courteous terms are these:
But mine must first be thought on--Spirit proud,
Now whether thy sweet Spritehood doth it please,
That I should dash thee from thy murky cloud
Into yon deep uncomfortable seas;
Or shut those fair and dainty limbs of thine
In the dark trunk of that wind-shaken pine?
"Or wilt thou shiver in the realm of Frost,
Ten thousand years fast fetter'd to the Pole?
Or, to the centre of the deep earth toss'd,
There tumble, free from Gravity's control,
In many an antic gambol?--to thy cost
Curst Spirit, thou hast dared me--for a soul
More dark than thou, more mischievously wicked,
Roams not the earth--at least with such a thick head.
"I've some old scores to pay you off, Sir, now:--
Didn't I see you tap Tom Goddard's ale?
Didn't you pull down Pocock's barley-mow?
Didn't you nick the parson's pony's tail?
Didn't you milk John Squizzle's spotted cow?
And thump his sister with the milking pail?
Didn't I see you through the keyhole creep,
And give Miss Bab the fidgets in her sleep?
"Can you say anything in your defence?
Whate'er you will I'm ready, Sir, to hear--
What! Silent!--have you lost your little sense?
Have you no means of making it appear
That you possess a shadow of pretence
To mercy?--are you quite struck dumb with fear?
Come, I'll not wait--you stupid Spirit, speak--
What mischief have you done, this many a week?"
The Spirit trembled as he made reply:
"Most beautiful Maimouné, I confess
That I must owe, henceforth, my liberty
(Which I deserve not) to your gentleness.
Much mischief surely have I done, yet I
May, with some reason, venture to express
A hope that I've, for once, refrain'd from doing
My poor endeavour to engender ruin.
"There is a high and solitary tower
Near China's proud Metropolis, and there
As I pass'd o'er it at the midnight hour,
Suspended in the vast and moon-lit air,--
Lying in soft Sleep's poppy-breathing bower,
I saw a maiden exquisitely fair!--
You may conceive what charms must be her lot,
When I assure you that I pinch'd her not!
"She quite disarm'd me of my old propensities;
I had no thought of doing any harm
To her--I would not for the wealth of ten cities
Have thrill'd that bosom with the least alarm.
'What beauty!' I exclaim'd, 'oh! how intense it is!
How exquisite her neck--her hand--her arm!
Her lips!--oh! might I with a kiss surprise
The slumbers hanging on those shrouded eyes.'
"But I breathed o'er her a profounder sleep,
And drove away all images of fear
From her repose; then softly did I creep,
And whisper dreams of wonder in her ear.
Thus, many a night, did I my vigils keep
Beside her pillow, till she grew most dear
E'en to my nature-by her eyes I swear
The world holds not another thing so fair!"
"Now," quoth the nettled Fay, "mine own I'd wager
(Might I hold commerce with such things as thou,
And wouldst thou dare in such a strife to gage her)
That this thy beauty bears not such a brow
Of loveliness (I don't mean-to enrage her)
As a young wonder whom I saw just now:
And (what would more her female nature vex)
My brighter beauty's of the other sex.
"Nay, since you look incredulous, Sir Fiend,
I must your senses by strong proof convince;
So beg that you'll this instant condescend
To lay your sleeping Princess by my Prince
In yon lone turret--back to China wend--
Bring hither this fair paragon--and since
You dare to stake your judgment against mine,
We'll see which beauty is the more divine."
She spoke--upon the word his raven pinions
The dark-brow'd Spirit for the voyage spread,
And to the Chinese Monarch's far dominions,
Swift, straight, and fearless, through mid air he sped;
Where (still unshaken in his old opinions)
He bore Badoura, sleeping from her bed,
And lodged her safely in the Prince's tower,
Close by his side, in less than half an hour.
Had I but time I'd tell you how enchanting
She look'd, when waving in the midnight breeze,
As the strong Spirit bore her onward, panting
With haste, o'er towns, and continents, and seas.
In raiment her fair limbs were sadly wanting,
For she wore nothing but a thin chemise;
And, as the moonbeams bathed her in their light,
She seem'd some wandering meteor of the night,
Or star dropp'd from the firmament; but when
She lay still sleeping, by the Prince's side--
The fairest she of women--he of men--
Both Spirits own'd, it could not be denied
That Earth ne'er saw such beauty. Ne'er again
Will such a bridegroom sleep by such a bride,
And ne'er again, while we live--I'm afraid,
Will pranks so pleasant be by Fairies play'd.
Awhile the Fairies bent in silence o'er them,
Comparing lip with lip, and nose with nose;
And for their beauty could almost adore them;
But soon the old dispute again arose;
And to such lengths their angry passion bore them,
That they had nearly come from words to blows,
But that the evil Spirit fear'd to fight
With so confounded passionate a Sprite.
At length 'twas settled, with the full consent
Of both, that the dispute should be ref err'd
(Since neither to resign the contest meant)
To the unbiass'd judgment of a third:
And they both swore that they would be content,
When this their quarrel should be fairly heard,
With his decision. So Maimouné call'd
A Spirit whom her beauty had enthrall'd
For fifteen hundred years. The Spirit came--
A creature form'd by nature for a lover;
Blear-eyed, and bow-legg'd, hump-back'd, horn'd, and lame;
I wonder how such beauty fail'd to move her:
But she had never yet confess'd a flame,
Though she had made this dainty Knight a rover,
Since he first woo'd her, over seas and lands,
Ten times a-day, to do her mild commands.
In this behaviour did my Sprite resemble
All mortal women whom I ever knew;
Good Lord! I'm now, while writing, in a tremble,
To think of all the labour I went through
When I was courting Miss Jemima Kemble;
Never had galley-slave so much to do:
Never poor husband of a wife who chided
Could lead, in this world, such a life as I did.
Well! I'm still single!--but I can't forget
How oft I've trudged for many a dusty mile
On some ridiculous errand,--or got wet
In expectation of at least a smile;
And then, returning, found her in a pet
Because "I'd kept her waiting such a while."
And then the shawls and tippets that I carried;
The scrapes she led me into--till she married.
Up rose the Spirit thus so deeply smitten,
And most politely fell upon his knees;
(His name can't be pronounced, and scarcely written,
And so we'll call him Cupid if you please:)
His mistress told him of the plan she'd hit on,
And begg'd his judgment would the strife appease:
And Cupid grinn'd, and look'd extremely proud,
To have his taste in beauty thus allow'd.
But when he very carefully had eyed,
With spectacles on nose, the sleeping pair,
He gravely said it could not be denied--
That they were both superlatively fair.
He was extremely puzzled to decide
Which was the more so, and could not declare
To which his judgment would award the prize,
Unless he was allow'd to see their eyes.
So said, so done;--the magic spell was broken
Which hung upon the slumber-sealed eyes
Of the young Prince, and he was fairly woken
From his sweet dreams; then, oh! with what surprise
He saw the form beside him, a bright token
Of the Gods' favour, sent to realize
(As he supposed), the loveliest dreams that stole
Across the enchanted vision of his soul.
How came she there?--he knew not, and cared less,
That she was there was quite enough for him;--
Bewilder'd in her dazzling loveliness,
How did his eyes in giddy rapture swim!
As she lay by him still and motionless,
"The cup of love was running o'er the brim
Within him" (as I heard a speaker say
At a Salopian dinner yesterday.)
I can't think how he took the joke so coolly,
As if the Gods had chosen to provide
And send him, as they ought, at midnight duly,
A beautiful young lady for a bride.
He never ask'd who brought her thither. Truly,
Had I found such a treasure by my side,
Nor of the trick been previously admonish'd,
I should have felt prodigiously astonish'd.
Long did he gaze in silence and deep joy,
And thoughts came o'er him which he ne'er had known;
The dream which he had worshipp'd from a boy,
In one short instant from his brain had flown;
And a new love which knew of no alloy,
Within his bosom had built up a throne.
The lady slept, he gazed, and gazed upon her,
But harbour'd not a thought against her honour.
She slept on most amazingly--he thought
(And I'm not sure he wasn't in the right)
That she slept rather sounder than she ought,
It being, he supposed, her bridal night.
But though he deem'd it strange, he never sought
To force the slumbers from those orbs of light
He almost fear'd to view--he could not bear
To use such rudeness to a thing so fair.
Yet did he print a most bewildering kiss
On her fair cheek--another on her brow--
(I should expatiate on that moment's bliss,
But haven't time to dwell upon it now,)
They would have waken'd any living Miss,
Whose sleep was not enchanted; but somehow
This lady felt them not; or, if she did,
Sleep still weigh'd down each persevering lid.
'Twas all in vain; he found he couldn't wake her
By any gentle means; so, having sworn
That she was his, and he would ne'er forsake her--
That she should never from his arms be torn,
Even though Hell itself should yawn to take her,--
He thought it would be best to doze till morn;
And, having kiss'd her lovely cheek once more,
Soon fell asleep more soundly than before.
Forthwith, released from the strong spell that bound her
In deepest slumber, fair Badoura sprung
From her enchanted visions, and around her
A glance of momentary wonder flung.
Much did the aspect of the place confound her--
Where are the pictures round her chamber hung?
Is this her bed?--and ah!--what heavenly face
Lies on the pillow, in her Nurse's place?
She screams aloud!--is this a man beside her?
A Husband?--Gracious! is her Father mad?
She is resolved, whatever may betide her,
To fly--and yet the face is not so bad.--
She has seen worse complexions,--mouths much wider,--
In fact the fellow is a pretty lad.
She thought she'd take one peep at him, and bent
Silently o'er his face in wonderment
Upon her delicate brow the dark hair braided,
Cloudlike hung o'er the starbeams of her eyes;
Which, by that darkness soften'd and o'ershaded
Fell in a gleam of tenderest ecstacies
Upon the sleeping boy; that gleam pervaded
His cheek still glowing from his late surprise;
And touch'd his brow, which in that radiance shone
With loveliness far brighter than its own.
Thus (as 't is said,) Italian Beauty hung
Over the sleeping Milton, as at noon
Reclined he lay the forest trees among,
His thoughts to some unutterable tune
Of Heavenly Music wandering, till they sprung
Into his deep-flush'd countenance, and soon
Kindled within that gazer's breast the flame
Which Woman, who best feels it, dares not name.
But there's one trifling difference between
My Princess and the Dame who seem'd to ape her;
That Milton's Beauty chose not to be seen,
And scarce declared her passion e'en on paper:
Whereas Badoura thought it would be mean
To let so delicate a Youth escape her;
All her objections to a ring were over,
Since Fate had sent her such a handsome lover.
And she began to find it poor employment
To gaze so long upon a sleeping spouse,
And long'd for the more rational enjoyment
Of--conversation--and--exchanging vows
Of love--and--chaste caresses--ne'er to cloy meant
And so she strove the sleeper to arouse,
At first by gentle kisses, and fond taps
With her small fingers,--then by ruder slaps.
He only slept the sounder, so she tried
At last the sweet allurement of her tongue;
"Sweet Prince!--Dear Husband!--am I not thy Bride?
Am I not chaste, and beautiful, and young?
Have I not air, and shape, and grace beside?
Is not my voice the sweetest that e'er sung?
Why Husband! Husband! Husband!--Sir I Sir! Sir!
Good Lord! will nothing make this Blockhead stir?
"Now by mine eyes, fair Bridegroom, 'tis not right
To sleep so sound at such an hour as this;
Pray tell me, is it not our bridal night,
Sacred to love, and harmony, and bliss?
I've a great mind to quarrel with you quite,
Discourteous Sir--now by this rapturous kiss,
(Which I must steal, since you will not bestow,)
I never could have borne to slight you so.
"Aid me, ye Gods, this odious sleep to drive hence;
Sir, you've caroused too freely at the wine--
No, no; I now perceive the whole contrivance,
'Tis all a trick, my kind papa, of thine.
I wonder at my Nurse's base connivance;
But oh! he looks so radiantly divine,
And smiles, in slumber with a smile so sweet,
I can't believe him guilty of deceit.
"Still sleep'st thou, dearest? some malignant Demon
Hath o'er thy spirit cast his baneful spell;
Else never couldst thou in this fashion dream on,
Nor against Love and Hymen so rebel,
As not to let those eyes of beauty beam on
The gentle Lady who loves thee so well:
By Heav'n thou smil'st--I know it's all a sham;
Love grant me patience!--what a wretch I am!
"Thou lov'st me not; dost thou suspect my fame?
My parents, Sir, are noble as thine own;
My aunt Haiatelnefous was a Dame
As chaste, and coy, as ever wore a gown:
Ne'er have I felt,--till now, Love's pleasing flame;
My Father shall defend his Child's renown.
Do as you please, Sir--you shall shortly know
That I'll have vengeance if you use me so.
"By the hot tears which I am shedding o'er thee;
By my poor heart which doth so fondly ache;
By these most chaste embraces; I implore thee,
My Husband, if thou sleepest, to awake.
Oh! didst thou know how madly I adore thee,
Thou wouldst not thus persist my heart to break.
Oh! hear the plaint my wounded Spirit pours,
And heal my sorrow!--Lord, how loud he snores!"
She spoke; the tears fell fast, as she was speaking,
Yet did they yield her anguish small relief;
And (what was shocking), in her flight from Pekin,
She'd dropp'd her muslin pocket-handkerchief,
So that she couldn't stop her eyes from leaking;
Maimouné felt much pity for her grief,
And soon, in order to assuage her pain,
Sent Magic slumber to those eyes again.
By this the silver Moon had drawn her horn in,
While Cupid still more undecided grew;
And puzzled on, unmindful of the warning,
Till, while he pored and doubted, the cock grew,
And at the sound, before the breath of Morning,
Back to their haunts, the three mad Spirits flew,
Leaving, in rather an unusual place,
The Prince and Princess lying face to face.
The spells fell from their eyelids, and together
These two fond lovers from their dreams awoke,
And met each other's eyes--'twas long ere either
(Lost as they were in love and wonder) spoke.
I don't know (and it matters not a feather),
Which of the two the blissful silence broke--
'Twas a strange introduction--I'm afraid
The breakfast hour that morning was delay'd.
Of course the thing in matrimony ended;
The Kings were much astonish'd at the way
In which the Fairies had their schemes befriended,
For how it happen'd not a soul could say.
Maimouné and her Lover both attended,
In high good-humour on the wedding-day;
And brought fine gifts from Fairyland, and shed
All sorts of blessings on the Nuptial Bed.
"Now strike your sails, ye jolly Mariners,"
For I have come unto my story's end,
With a few alterations, worthy Sirs--
To make it aptly to my purpose bend.
I've used some freedom with the characters,
But hope the Reader 'll kindly condescend
To recollect my hurry--and excuse
The rambling nonsense of a heedless Muse.
I had a wondrous dream;--methought I stood
Within the threshold of an ancient house,
Which I had loved in childhood;--forms well known,
And old, familiar voices were around me,
And happy thoughts, and half-forgotten feelings,
And tearful recollections rose within me,
Bathing each sense in ecstasy. I felt
A gushing at the fountains of my spirit;
My heart dissolved--I was a child again.
Yet as I gazed on each remember'd face,
A freezing pang shot o'er me--a chill sense,
Of longing separation, and I knew
That woe was deeply blended with my dream.
I gazed upon the forms around me. One
(A matron) had methought been beautiful
In other days, but now upon her cheek
Sickness had set his seal, and wasting years
And sorrow, worst of all;--yet still her mien
Held its original sweetness. Piety,
And gentleness and charity, and faith,
Shone there, and from her soften'd eyes beam'd forth,
Serenity which was not of the earth.
And all around that venerable form
Beautiful creatures floated--cheeks of bloom,
And eyes of watery light, on her alone
Fixed with such fond and beaming earnestness,
That I might know their owners had no thought
Beyond that gentle lady's happiness.
My dream was darkened; in that ancient house
There was a deathlike silence;--one alone
Of all those young and lovely forms remain'd,
And she was traversing the silent hall,
With wild and hurried footsteps. Very pale
She look'd, and in her tremulous voice was sorrow
Mingled with dread--and yet she shed no tears.
There seem'd a settled spirit at her heart,
Triumphant o'er calamity,--a firm
And holy strength; yet ever and anon
Her lips, compressed convulsively, betrayed
The struggle of her soul with agony.
Methought one told me that o'er that old house
Disease had spread his pinions, and that she,
That gentle mother, and her youngest child,
Were fading in Death's shadowy arms. Alone
That maid, the ruling image of my dream,
Tended their feverish beds, and sleeplessly
Was comforting the agonies of each.
Oh! 'twas most piteous to see that pale form
Gliding from room to room, and when with faint
And tremulous accent either sufferer ask'd
How fared the other, forcing painful smiles,
And striving with deceitful hope to win
Each soul from half its suffering. And then
Methought the tramp of horses, and the whirl
Of chariot-wheels kept sounding in my ear;
And, one by one, familiar forms pass'd by me,
In sad succession, in that house of woe.
They were my friends in childhood, and I sighed
To see how thus with pallid looks they came
To weep upon that lady's sepulchre.
My dream pass'd darkly on. Methought I stood
With her, the ruling image of the Vision,
Beneath the waning twilight--* * *
Again my dream grew dark. We stood by night,
(I and that maiden) near the old abode,
But a new woe was on us. Doubt, and fear,
And thoughts of death, and undefined forebodings,
Hung heavy on our hearts. Then on a sudden
She had departed, and her wild farewell
Was ringing like a death-knell in my ear,
Which my heart echoed back.--I felt, that hour,
As she were gone for ever. My brain reel'd
Giddily, and dim shadows of dark thought
Throng'd through its bursting cells tumultuously.
I look'd up to the Heavens;--their face was dark
With gathering tempest, and the silent moon,
In pale and melancholy loveliness,
Peep'd dimly through the clouds, whose shadowy forms
The winds, in rapid and tumultuous flight,
Hurl'd o'er Night's blue and starry firmament.
My dream was brightened. Sounds of love and joy,
And hymeneal songs, and rustic mirth,
Mix'd with music of the village bells,
Broke gaily on my ear. From that old house
There pass'd a merry wedding rout;--the bride
Was that young maiden whom I late beheld
Pining in hopeless sickness; holy love
And chaste connubial raptures, filled her eyes,
Smiling through silent tears. And then I saw
That maid, the ruling image of my dream,
And she was leaning on a young man's arm
Whom I knew not; but in their eyes I read
That each was to the other all in all.
My Vision changed its aspect. Youth's bright hues
Had pass'd from all the faces which I lov'd,
And the calm pulses of maturity
Throughout my being throbb'd. I stood begirt
By beaming faces of time-honour'd friends,
Whose children played around us,--happy creatures,
With cheeks and eyes of brightness,--some in youth's
More ripen'd bloom, maidens with downcast looks,
And boys of gallant bearing;--peace and joy
Dwelt with us; the bright soul of other days
Stole, like an exquisite dream, into our hearts,
And childhood's scenes lay round us. And, methought,
There leaned a radiant form upon my bosom;
Dearer than all, from whose mild eyes I drank
Intoxicating bliss; all pleasant thoughts
Rose up within me, and each giddy sense
Reel'd in its own deep raptures; till, at last,
E'en with the beating of my heart, I woke.
Hast thou not wandering been
Amid those valleys green,
Which bear the light print of my lov'd one's feet;
And as thou glidedst by,
Caught her most holy sigh?
I felt, I felt its fragrance in thy kiss so sweet.
Wonderfull Spirit, whose eternal shrine
Is in great Poets' souls, whose voice doth send
High truths and dreams prophetic without end
Into the blind world from those founts divine,--
Deep adoration from such souls is thine;
But I have loved thee, Spirit, as a friend;
Woo'd thee, in pensive leisure, but to lend
Thy sweetness to this wayward heart of mine,
And charm my lone thoughts into joyousness.
And I have found that thou canst lay aside
Thy terrors, and thy glory, and thy pride;
Quit thy proud temples for a calm recess
In lowly hearts, and dream sweet hours away,
Winning from sterner thought a frequent holiday.
Now, like a shooting star, thy bark doth flee
Over the azure waters, which convey
Thee and thy soldier-husband far away
From England's shores. Soon, soon on the wide sea,
When the hoarse waves are moaning sullenly,
And absent far is Friendship's cheering ray,
Shall ye two know how mighty is the sway
Of wedded love;--how dear those fetters be
Which the free heart doth wear. Oh! we who doze
In tranquil homes, and with domestic mirth
Season the warmth of the calm evening hearth,
Can know but little of the love of those
Who, in the lonely waste of sea and skies,
Find home and comfort in each other's eyes.
The gorgeous ranks of flaming cherubim,--
The light, the rushing of unnumber'd wings,--
The choral voices of the host that sings
Unceasing anthems at the Throne of Him,
Th' Eternal, the Unknown,--to me are dim
And unattractive dreams;--my weak soul clings
To joys and hopes that flow from earthly things,
E'en when the inward eye of faith doth swim
In dreams that wander through eternity.
I cannot long for unimagined joys;
My trust is that hereafter I shall see
Forms dear to me on Earth--that many a voice
Well known in Paradise shall speak to me,
And earthly love be free from Earth's alloys.
Lady there's scarce a holier thing on earth
Than the first dream of a young poet's brain;
Therefore with reverence view this wayward strain,
And should it, haply, seem of doubtful worth,
Yet, as the premature but wondrous birth
Of a great mind, respect it, and refrain
From captious censure or cold scorn, nor stain
Thy Spirit's brightness with unseemly mirth.
Thou hast the vision and the soul divine,
Exquisite thoughts, and fancies high and proud;
And never, never, hath my spirit bow'd
In woman's presence as it bows in thine;
Nor have I found on earth a heart more fit
Than thine to feel this lay and cherish it.
So, froward maiden, thou wilt quit for ever
Thy country and her many-weather'd skies;
All old home-thoughts and early sympathies
Abjuring, and wilt strive, with vain endeavour,
To quench thine English spirit:--never, never,
Though herding with our natural enemies,
May'st thou do this; for thou art bound by ties
Which neither thou, nor time, nor fate can sever.
Therefore, although thy children must not claim
Freedom, the Briton's birth-right,--though the song
Of Milton be to them an idle name,
And Shakespeare's wisdom vain, thou wilt not wrong
Thy country with cold scorn, nor think it shame
To weep when thoughts of home into thy bosom throng.
Lady! I know three poets who know thee;
And all write sonnets, in the which they sware
That thou art most superlatively fair,
Meek, silver-voiced--and so forth. As for me,
Not having seen thee, I am fancy-free;
And, pretty lady, little do I care
Whether thou art indeed beyond compare,
A being to whom Bards must bow the knee,
Or a mere woman, with good face and shape;--
I only know that I'm so tired of hearing
The list of thy perfections, that I gape
Sometimes instead of duly sonnetteering;
And therefore am I called brute, bear, and ape,
And other names 'past mentioning or bearing.'
I look'd on the pale face which poets love,
And scann'd its sweetness with a stedfast eye;
I listen'd to the eloquent witchery
Of her low, plaintive song:--awhile she wove
Her fairy meshes round me, and did move
My soul to a wild worship. Then did I,
By the strong aid of wakeful Memory,
Whose sprites for ever at Love's bidding rove,
Summon Ione from her silent cell.
Sudden, in all the glory and the pride
Of intellectual beauty, at my side
She stood, and on my soul her bright eyes fell,
Beaming with earnest thought.--I heard one tone
Of her far voice--and straight that phantom pale was flown.
Oh! not for worlds, thou simple-soul'd Adine,
Would I be loved by thee.--Yet I confess
That thou dost wear a deeper loveliness
Than the most lovely whom these eyes have seen,
Save One--and she is of a different mien;
Wild-eyed and how wildhearted!--yet no less
Fit than thyself a poet's love to bless--
My Gloriana bright, my Faery Queen!
Thou, Lady, in thy meek, affectionate eyes,
Bearest such magic as, I well believe,
Few can resist; to me the charms they weave
Spring from thy gentle wedded sympathies:
And couldst thou less adore thy wayward mate,
Oh! I should bate thee with a poet's hate!
In heaven "are many mansions"--what if thou,
Hereafter cleansed from taint of mortal sin,
By paths untrod by me, shouldst chance to win
Some separete Paradise?--The hope which now
Soothes my bruised heart, and calms my sleepless brow,
Oh! must it perish?--when the stormy din
Of life is o'er, shall we not meet within
The halls of heaven, as once my soul did vow?
Oh! not for centuries of happy years,
Would I endure that thought!--'twere hell to know,
Beloved Friend, that all our hopes and fears,
Yearnings, and dreams of future joy and woe,
Hung upon different creeds!--With fervent tears,
I'll kneel, and pray that it may not be so!
Now, lady, that our parting is so nigh,
Fain would I think that thou, in future hours,
Amidst thine own Dunedin's queenly towers,
Or, haply, Scotland's mountain scenery,
Wilt tow'rd the South turn no unkindly eye,
No scorn to think of these poor woods of ours,
And friends who dwelt in Windsor's sylvan bowers,
And him who frames this sorry minstrelsy.
Believe me, in no false or hollow guise
Sing I to thee my parting madrigal;
For I have found thee gentle, good, and wise,
High-minded, simple-hearted--and withal
Beloved of Her whose deep, soul-beaming eyes
Hold my rapt spirit in such pleasant thrall.
Perish the coxcomb who united first
To these vain whimsies, hatch'd beyond the seas,
Old Caledonia's touching melodies;
Wedding the follies of that land accurst,
To strains whose high and soothing music nursed
Heroic hearts, or gave crush'd spirits ease,
Awakening the bright Past's remembrances
While grief's fierce tempest o'er the Present burst.
Oh! ye sweet notes, ye were not meant to lead
The measured steps of fashion: ye should tell
Of Highland glen, wild rock, and pastoral dell,
And scenes like those of which the world doth read
In that bright page, which many a wondrous deed
Of Scottish story hath embalm'd so well.
Maiden, there's many a fairer face than thine
Flitting to-night around me, many an eye
As lustrous, locks as glossy in their dye,
And haply some few shapes scarce less divine:
Yet for no other brow must I entwine
This coronal of rhymes; the time's gone by,
When, like a lover, I could sit and sigh,
And breathe despairing vows at beauty's shrine
My gaze hath now grown passionless; yet long
Have I, (poor foollish dreamer,) through the dance
Track'd thee to-night amidst this glittering throng,
Watching thy gay and artless countenance,
And form that floats so lightsomely along
With grace by nature fashion'd--not by France.
Why dost thou haunt me with thy bright wild eyes
Through the long sleepless night? when I should be
Plodding through tomes of old divinity,
And learning to be holy, pure, and wise,
And worthy to obtain that twofold prize
I pant for--Immortality and thee.
Oh! my sweet friend, I fear my phantasy
Clings to thee over fondly; in the skies
I have no hope, no purpose, no desire
With which thou minglest not; and if I lose
Thy love on earth, I fear lest I should tire
Of life's dull race too soon, and, in the dearth
Of my twice crush'd affections, cease to aspire
To the lone bliss of an immortal birth.
Are there no marriages in heaven?--then why
Is earthly love so quenchless and so strong?
Why doth the lover wish and yearn and long
For bliss that dies not in eternity?
No! no! the grave doth only purify
Love's ore from its alloy--the sordid throng
Of earth's defilements, change, and chance, and wrong
And jealous fears, and chill adversity.
My Margaret, when I think on what thou art,
How spirit-like a being, how refined
From all that chains to earth our human heart,
From all that now pollutes our human mind,
I cannot think that death will tear apart
The links thy magic round my soul bath twined.
And then, methought, the Muse, (whom I adore,)
In that wild dream was standing by my side,
Who in her radiant hand a garland bore
Of all sweet flowers which Nature's hand hath dyed
And Nature's breath perfumed:--rich gems whose worth
Decks the maternal bosom of the earth.
They say that the light of her eyes is gone,
That her voice is low, and her cheek is wan;
That her looks are sad, and strange, and wild,
Yet meek as the looks of a sinless child.
For the melting glance of her soft blue eye
Is chill'd by cold insanity;
And the beauty that her bright form wore,
Is the shrine of a living soul no more.
And her words discourse not music sent
From reason's govern'd instrument;
But, borne by her troubled fancies, stray,
Like notes of the harp which the wild winds play.
I would not look on her alter'd brow
Nor her eye, so dim and soulless now;
I would not view her pale, pale cheek,
Nor hear her, in her madness, speak;
Nor see her smile, she knows not why,
While her tears flow down unmeaningly;
Nor her vacant gaze, the piteous token
Of a brain o'er-wrought, and a young heart broken;
No--on these things I would not look
For the brightest gift in Fortune's book;
For she was join'd with the fairest things
That rose in my youth's imaginings.
And oh! how oft have I turn'd away
From a brighter eye and a cheek more gay,
That my soul might drink, to sweet excess,
The light of her pensive loveliness.
But her languid eye shall charm no more,--
Her smiles and her tears--they are nearly o'er;
For fond hopes lost, and a heart o'er-laden,
Have crush'd, in her bloom, the guiltless maiden.
The gift, dear maid, which thou hast sent
To gladden me to-day,
I'll treasure as thy monument
When thou art far away.
'Twill lighten many a dreary mood,
To think how young, how fair, how good,
How fancifully gay
Was she whose smiles once deign'd to bless
My spirit in its loneliness.
The sunshine of thine open brow
For me is nearly o'er,
And dim forebodings tell me now
That we shall meet no more:
But thou art with the vision'd things,
The dreams and dear imaginings,
The treasured thoughts of yore,
Which in my breast still swarm and play
On many a mental holiday.
Thy living presence, heartless one,
Oh! bear it far from me;
I know not what its charms had done
Had I been fancy-free:
But now e'en from thy smiles I shrink,
And oh! 'twould break my heart to think
That I was loved by thee;
For, maiden, not that angel eye
Must shake my soul's fidelity.
Farewell! and if for aye we part,
May grief ne'er cloud thy brow,
Nor Fashion make thy guileless heart
As cold--as mine is now.
Yet, trust me, wheresoe'er I rove,
I'll love thee with a brother's love,
Nor thou despise my vow;
But grant me still, in woe or weal,
Such love as gentle sisters feel.
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!--here's a hearty health to
thee!
For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm
and free;
For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace,
For the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine of thy
face;
For thy guileless looks, and speech sincere, yet sweet as speech
can be,--
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie I--here's a hearty health to
thee.
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!--though my glow of youth
is o'er,
And I, as once I felt and dream'd, must feel and dream no
more;
Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chill'd my
soul at last,
And genius with the foodful looks of youthful friendship
past;
Tho' my path is dark and lonely now, o'er this world's dreary
sea,--
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie!--here's a hearty health to
thee!
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!--tho' I feel that not for
me
Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm
and free;
Tho' thou with cold and careless looks wilt often pass me
by,
Unconscious of my swelling heart and of my wistful eye;
Tho' thou wilt bless some happier love, nor care a jot for
me,--
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to
thee.
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!--when I meet thee in the
throng
Of merry youths and maidens dancing lightsomely along,
I'll dream away an hour or twain still gazing on thy form,
As it flashes thro' the baser crowd, like lightning thro' a
storm;
And I perhaps shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of
glee,
And for once, my Scottish lassie! dance a giddy dance with
thee.
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!--I shall think of thee at
even,
When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up thro'
Heaven;
I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice in every wind that
grieves,
As it whirls from the abandon'd oak its wither'd autumn
leaves;
In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the
sea,
I shall think, my Scottish lassie--I shall often think of
thee.
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie I--in my sad and lonely
hours
The thought of thee comes o'er me like the breath of distant
flowers:
Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless mine
eye,
Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the sky,
Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossom on the
tree,
Is the thought, my Scottish lassie--is the lonely thought of
thee.
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie--tho' my muse must soon be
dumb,
(For graver thoughts and duties, with my graver years are
come)
Tho' my soul must break the bonds of earth and learn to soar on
high,
And to look on this world's follies with a calm and sober
eye;
Tho' the merry wine must cease to flow, the song be mute for
me,--
Still to thee, my Scottish lassie! I still I'll drink a health to
thee.
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie!--here's a parting health
to thee!
May thine be still a cloudless lot, tho' it be far from me:
May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy
brow,
Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as
now!
And whatsoe'er may be my fate, my dearest toast shall be
Still a health, my Scottish lassie, still a hearty health to
thee!
My muse hath long with silence dwelt,
My harp been long unstrung;
I cannot feel as I have felt,
Nor sing as I have sung.
E'en to the verge of middle age
I've brought my earthly pilgrimage,--
My heart's no longer young;
And, sooth, 'tis time, at twenty-seven,
My muse should be the bride of Heaven.
Yet, Mary, ere I cease to float
For aye on Fancy's sea,
I'll freight once more my "crescent boat,"
With fairy gifts for thee:
And thou, I trust, wilt not despise
Such scant and sorry merchandize,
Unworthy though it be
Of him, who, in his better day,
Was rich in rhyme and roundelay.
But if my lyre hath now decay'd,
'Tis not from age alone;--
Sore havoc with its strings was made,
Ere yet my youth was flown:
And haply, Mary, thou canst tell
Of one who nursed my fancy well,
And rear'd it with his own,
'Till discord fell 'twixt him and me,
And left me--what I now must be.
My heart hath found a resting place
Since then, at love's sweet shrine;
And he, now freed from grief's embrace,
Shall soon repose in thine.--
A patient fight ye both have fought,
To which shall fond and fervent thought
Look back in life's decline,
When youthful passion's reign is o'er,
And fancy's dreams delude no more.
'Twill be a joy in after years,
That I've beheld thy face;
Have seen thee in thy smiles and tears,
Thy goodness and thy grace;
That I shall know, whate'er betide,
How lovely and how loved a bride
My friend's fond arms embrace;
What beauty, worth, and talent shed
Their brightness on his nuptial bed.
And though beneath remoter skies
Our lot must now be cast;
Though different cares and sympathies
Round each must gather fast;
Though brief the computation be
Of future hours which ye and we
Together shall have past;
And feelings, now too deep for tears,
Must perish in the wear of years;--
Yet still, in feeling's late decline,
When Hope and Fancy flee,
'Twixt thee and me, 'twixt thine and mine,
A bond of love must be:
And though a month hath scantly flown
Since first our friendship's seed was sown,
I trust no time shall see
Our souls bereft of thoughts like these,
And yet more dear remembrances.
Bright, tho' brief, were thy days on earth,
For the light of genius crown'd thee;
And we blessed thee for the sinless mirth
Which thy presence pour'd around thee.
Darkly the cloud of sickness came,
And we saw thy beauty smitten;
And our weak hearts droop'd, tho' we knew thy name
In the Book of Life was written.
But oh! as we knelt by thy dying bed,
And pray'd in vain to save thee,
By thy faith in Christ we were comforted,
And the strength His Spirit gave thee.
Sadly we turn from thy resting-place
To the cold, hard world about us,
And gird our loins for the Christian race,
Which thou hast won without us.
And we raise to Heaven our tearful eyes,
And feel thou watchest o'er us,
And shin'st like a star from thine own bright skies
On the path thou hast trod before us.
And thus I won my Genevieve,
My sweet and beauteous bride.
Coleridge.
From the lone silence of my dreamless cell
A wizard voice hath call'd me:--I obey,
And fain would greet that summons with a lay
Which should outshine my brightest.--Oh! 'tis well,
That the last notes that ever this weak shell
Perchance shall utter, thus should melt away,
Hymning the name of that most gentle fay
That e'er on Poet's spirit laid a spell!
Come, my own Muse--thou Feeling, who dost rest
In my heart's inmost sanctuary; thou
Who art the soul of all my musings blest,
Dreams, wishes, hopes, affections! aid me now
To twine for Her, the brightest and the best,
A wreath which shall not shame her peerless brow.
There is a witch, whose freaks in English story,
Ballad, or ode, have never yet been sung:
Although 'tis said that poets, young and hoary,
Sages, and wizards, at her feet have flung
Rich tribute: warriors, from their dreams of glory
Drawn by her potent charms, have meekly hung
Their laurels on her threshold: lawyers wise
Have bowed before the magic of her eyes.
Within a Northern cavern, dim and vast,
This lady-witch was born: a twilight gleam
Of everlasting icicles was east,
From the arch'd roof, on the maternal dream
Wherein she was conceived; faint music past
From the earth's bosom, while each breeze and stream
Murmur'd and sigh'd delight, and every flower
Breath'd tenfold fragrance on her natal hour.
A fairy form was her's and well she wore
Its light aerial beauty; from her cave
Into the Northern vapours, thick and hoar,
When first she pass'd, a path the vapours gave
To her, as to a sunbeam; the wild roar
Of torrents paused, as o'er Loch Lomond's wave
She glided like a zephyr; each fir-grove
Grew bright in the effulgence of her love.
Amidst the Northern forests, lakes, and hills,
Her infancy was nurtured, and she grew
Remote, and unacquainted with the ills
Of the corrupted South: 'tis said, she drew
Sweet inspiration from the rocks and rills,
From the free air, and from the mountain dew
Of her wild clime, and that her wizard ken
Pierced far beyond the dreams of elves or men.
And to her beck, while yet she was a child,
A thousand strange and savage natures came;
Yea, whatsoe'er of wonderful and wild
The grim North teems with, her sweet looks could tame;
The kelpie crouched before her, when she smiled,
With claws curled in, and eyes of softened flame;
Brownie, and elf, and warlock, came to enrich
The festal pageants of this wondrous witch.
Her's was a reign of love; her mild dominion
Was o'er the heart and will of living things
Her gentle voice could bind the eagle's pinion,
Her gentle looks rob dragons of their stings:
Yet more than this--'tis the received opinion,
That the sly witch held secret communings
With dread mysterious powers, and made her eye
Familiar with the realms of phantasy;
So that the Muses, from their viewless bowers,
Would oft descend, obedient to her spells,
And crown her forehead with Pierian flowers;
With music and with light they fill'd the dells
Wherein the witch abode; and she for hours,
Would listen to their harpings, till, the cells
Of her most secret thought began to teem
With shapes unknown to woman's brightest dream.
Some say that Germany sent forth her sages
To do meet homage at the witch's feet,
Bearing that wondrous science, hid for ages;
The witch received them in her calm retreat,
Heard them discourse, and, from their mystic pages,
Drain'd secret draughts of knowledge pure and sweet,
Which the fool scoffs at:--but the witch well knew
That this same knowledge was both wise and true.
Thus childhood pass'd, but ere her young cheek shone
With the first blush of womanhood--ere yet,
Encircled in the Queen of Beauty's zone,
The perfect graces of her form had met,--
Ere her young heart had love's first rapture known,
Or love's first sorrow made her eyelids wet,
From her enchanted cell the witch went forth,
And left the fruitful vineyards of the North.
What drew her from her solitude, and why,
Quitting that mountain paradise, she came
To shiver in our frosty Southern sky--
And whether on the tempest's wings of flame,
Or on a broomstick, she thought fit to fly,
No record now informs us; but the dame,
Beyond all doubt, in after years, was found,
Playing her wicked pranks on English ground.
Beneath the shadow of a castled steep,
In which the ashes of ancestral kings,
Rocked by the roll of ages, soundly sleep,--
Hard by a forest, where, in moon-lit rings,
The fairies still those gamesome revels keep
Hallow'd by Shakspere's sweet imaginings,
The witch her dwelling fixed, and with strange power
Raised, and adorned, a bright enchanted bower;
Wherein, with potent cabalistic scrolls,
And spells contrived by necromantic lore,
And charm'd elixirs, mixed in magic bowls,
Of power to penetrate the inmost core
Of human hearts, and e'en in rudest souls
Love's quenchless flame to kindle or restore--
Framing strong lures to tempt and to betray,
The wizard-maiden dwelt for many a day.
The deep recesses of her inmost cell
Were garnish'd with strange treasures: lovers' sighs
Fill'd many a magical receptacle,
And tears were there, distill'd from rival eyes,
In crystal phials, seal'd and labell'd well;
And, mixt with these, lay quips and phantasies,
And dark enigmas brought from Faëry-land,
Which none but bards and witches understand.
And daily did the witch, by her sweet wiles,
Increase these treasured hoards; pale youths would come,
Laden with vows and raptures, miles and miles,
To do her wayward bidding; friends and home
Poets would barter for her thrilling smiles;
And studious sages burnt full many a tome
Of the old crabbed lore, that from her eye
They might imbibe love's sweet philosophy.
She had a chariot, which the muses brought her
Built by themselves, shaped like the horned star
Which gems the forehead of Latona's daughter,
And drawn by winged dreams; and in this car
Whene'er the witch was wearied with the slaughter
Of Southron hearts, she used to roam afar
Into the realms of shadowy thought, and spy
The secrets of the land of poesy.
O'er the steep mountains, on the pathless air,
Through the unfathom'd depths of the dim sea,
Did these swift dreams the magic chariot bear,
Wherein she sat unharm'd and terror-free;
In heaven and earth's veil'd regions whatsoe'er
Man's thought hath imaged, it was her's to see
With an undazzled eye;--such power the Muse
Into her favour'd children doth infuse.
The witch ne'er slept at night, but, in a trance,
Within her car lay folded; the moon's ray
Gilded her pale and tranquil countenance,
As the fleet dreams conveyed her, far away,
Through the star-spangled, limitless expanse
Of this mysterious universe; she lay,
Surveying all things, tho' it seem'd she slept,
And, as the view might move her, laugh'd or wept.
Her soul's deep eyes were open'd; in that hour
All daylight's dull realities were laid
Asleep, and in her flight was given her power
To view the phantoms of the night, which stray'd
Through human haunts; on many a young girl's bower
She gazed, still haunted by her lover's shade;
Gay dreams she saw, and fancies bright and fair,
Couch'd on young eyes which had not look'd on care.
She saw the lean and dull-eyed Night-mare feed
On the crown'd tyrant's breath; a demon foul,
The fearful rider of that shadowy steed,
From its black wings cast terror on his soul.
While, one by one, full many a ruthless deed
From the dark caverns of his conscience stole,
Making sleep hideous:--in his prison cell,
Meanwhile, the fetter'd patriot slumber'd well.
And oft she saw the thirsty Vampyre drain
The life-blood from the heart that loved him best,
And the pale Goule, with terror and with pain,
Gorge his foul meal, Death's lone and loathly guest.
But there were gentler phantoms; love's strong reign
The grave dissolves not; from their buried rest
Maidens, in bridal white, and wives arose,
To lighten many a broken heart's repose.
Throng'd by that pale and wandering company,
The midnight streets seem'd busy, as by day,
Save that no sound was heard, but silently
Each phantom glided on its lonely way:--
Meanwhile, in distant woods, the witch could see,
Threading their moon-lit mazes, elf and fay;
And many another wondrous sight was her's,
Not to be dreamt of by philosophers.
These were her midnight pranks; by day, she wander'd
In the fair bowers of old romantic lore;
And now o'er Spenser's sweet creations ponder'd,
And now o'er sweeter Shakspere's.--Hell's dread door
The Florentine unbarr'd to her; she wonder'd
And wept o'er Ariosto's countless store
Of sad and mirthful fancies; Milton gave
To her the knowledge which o'er-leaps the grave.
And, besides these, a household troop she kept,
Of poet-genii, by her spells fast bound
To work her will, and each was an adept
In his own trade; some roam'd the world around
From East to West, and never stay'd or slept,
Till they the choicest phantasies had found
And all the honey'd thoughts that might be worth
The witch's quest, in heaven, or hell, or earth:--
Which when these swift and subtle sprites had caught
In their strong toils, straight to the witch's home
(As bees their gleanings to their queen) they brought
The nectarous freight, which to a honey-comb
Of labyrinthine fancies others wrought;
And all was treasured in a magic tome,--
Some favour'd spirit's present:--but the history
Of this same present still remains a mystery.
Howe'er, 'tis certain that each page was fill'd
With sweet and witching rhymes, while, day by day,
Immortal ink the poet-genii spill'd,
To swell the precious store, and many a lay
Was weekly added, whose rich music thrill'd
All gentle hearts, and bore men's thoughts away
To a dream-paradise:--such wondrous skill
These Genii had to work the witch's will.
Yet, ere such fiery spirits could be tamed
Down to complete subjection, charms were used,
Too dreadful (save by witches) to be named,
And many a potent herb was cull'd and bruised,
And many a philtre mix'd and fetter framed,
And many a mystic page full oft perused;
For, of all sprites that roam beneath the sky,
The wildest are the sprites of poesy.
Philosophy hath grasp'd the lightning's pinions
And tamed the rebel sprites of frost and snow,
Hath ridden on the storm through air's dominions,
And chain'd the myriad forms that sleep below
Ocean's dread depths; but on her dearest minions
Philosophy herself could ne'er bestow
Power to control that wild fantastic brood,
Which the strong magic of the witch subdued.
The wars, and all the triumphs which she won
O'er these rebellious Genii, and the pains
Wherewith she tamed them, when the fight was done,
Are themes, too mighty for the puny strains
Of a poor Southern bard:--but there was one,
A stubborn genius, whom, 'tis said, her chains
Could scarcely bind; dread punishment had he,
Which must be sung in saddest poesy.
This Genius came from a fair Western land,
A wilderness of woods and streams and vales,
And rocks rough-hewn by nature's giant hand;
And (if in old traditionary tales
We may believe) on musings, lone and grand,
His soul once fed, and he had spread the sails
Of his broad wings for many a venturous flight,
Which baffled e'en the wizard-maiden's might.
But he was sadly changed;--his once proud wings,
Which used to bear him, swift as Dian's sphere,
Through thought's vast realms, in rapturous wanderings,
Hung weak and plumeless now; his leaf was sere,
Though he had seen but four-and-twenty springs;
And, on his lip, a cold habitual sneer
Had quell'd thought's outward workings:--you might trace
Anticipated years upon his face.
He look'd on beauty (though it pleased him well)
With a most calm and unimpassion'd eye,
As if he knew some antidote to quell
The poison of Love's darts:--none heard hint sigh,
Or any tale of amorous passion tell;
But he would prate, with careless courtesy,
To woman, or to witch, as might befall,--
View their enchantments--and despise them all.
'Twas rumour'd of him, that, in former years,
A crush'd and tortured victim he had been
Of that relentless power, whose anger sears
E'en super-human hearts: some anguish keen
Had dried the inward fountain of his tears,
And lent strange coldness to his heart and mien;
And 'twas this coldness taught him to defy,
As he long did, the witch's sorcery.--
Fool!--Fool!--with taunting and irreverent speech,
And sneers, and scornful gibes, he durst provoke
The spells and dread enchantments, from whose reach
He seem'd secure; with many a bitter joke,
He scoff'd at fays and witches, all and each,
Vowing, that Genii who could wear their yoke
Were mean and abject slaves--and chiefly they
Who bow'd beneath the Northern witch's sway.
For in the North, this foolish sprite averr'd,
No charms could e'er be forged, of force to bind
A noble heart;--the country, he had heard,
Was peopled by the dregs of human kind;--
A race barbarian, ignorant, absurd--
To thought profound, and genuine wisdom, blind--
As for the witch--she might have tamed his betters,
But he must still decline to wear her fetters:--
Which when the lady knew, for wrath she tore
Her raven tresses, while, from either eye,
Flash'd a bright light, such as the vapours frore
Kindle, at evening, in the Arctic sky;
She knit her brows, and clench'd her hand, and swore,
By all the nameless powers of sorcery,
That, if to magic art she had pretence,
The Genius soon should rue his insolence--
That night, the Wizard lady sat awake,
Weaving dread charms in her most secret cell,
And muttering rhymes which made all nature quake,
Wherewith she was accustom'd to compel
The strongest of her spirits to forsake
Their favourite haunts in heaven, or earth, or hell;
For, ere the morning, by their potent aid,
A spell, to bind the Genius, must be made.
Anon they came;--pale dream and solemn vision
Spread their light pinions at that awful call,
And silently and swiftly, through the Elysian
Portal, arose to her enchanted hall;
Aërial troops, in many a quaint division
Ranged by their several leaders,--each and all
Observing, in the most respectful manner,
The signals of Queen Mab's imperial banner.--
And all night long, with swift, unwearied hands,
Those patient spirits toil'd incessantly,
Obedient to the witch's dread commands:
Some brought strange herbs, some bruised them skilfully;
Some for ingredients flew to the far lands
Of fiery Ind, and spicy Araby.--
Yet, all was finish'd ere the lark awoke,
Or, through the darkness, morn's first twilight broke.
What pass'd in that impenetrable drift
Of supernatural hail, and rain, and snow,
Is yet a secret, which, that man should sift,
Fate wills not; so the world must never know
Whether the witch's demons did uplift
The Genius (some assert that it was so)
In their strong arms, and bear him swiftly forth
To some enchanted cavern in the North;--
Or whether, by their dark, infernal power,
He, on that spot, was cast into a trance,
Wherein he saw more sights, in one brief hour,
And feller, than e'er blasted waking glance;--
Or whether pangs, that did his soul devour,
Compell'd him (while, in swift and frightful dance,
Those demons yell'd around him) to obey
The witch's pleasure, boots not here to say:
But 'tis most certain, that, from that dire morn,
His looks were strangely alter'd--that his brow,
Which such a steadfast calm of late had worn,
Grew fever'd, and his eye was restless now:
And if his lip still curl'd with outward scorn,
'Twas that no mortal eye might ever know
The spell that did torment his inmost soul,--
The secret fire, which he could not controul.
O thou, whose wild, and oh! most potent verse
Did, from the Tuscan Muse, such favour win
As taught thee the dread frenzy to rehearse
Of Charlemagne's most famous paladin,--
If my deep reverence for thy strains could nurse,
In me, a power and tenderness akin
To thine, I might describe, in fitting strain,
The pranks that spoke this sprite's distracted brain;
And how, at night, from his perturbed slumber
He oft would start, and, with wild gestures, cry
That Northern imps and goblins, without number,
Were tearing him piece-meal remorselessly;
And that strange fetters did his limbs encumber,
And that strange visions danced before his eye:--
And how, ere daylight broke, he used to wander
Into lone woods, to poetise and ponder.
Sometimes, in moody and abstracted fit,
He sat for hours, and then would start, and swear
The North produced all genius and all wit,--
All that was bright, and wonderful, and fair;
And that no poesy was ever writ
Which with the Northern could at all compare;
And that----but he discover'd, in a word,
That all his former notions were absurd.
And from the boldest and most scornful sprite
That ever mock'd at necromantic power,
He grew a slave, tamed down and humbled quite
The most submissive in the witch's bower;
And did her bidding meekly, day and night,
Toiling, at her command, through sun and shower;
And ran, and flew, to please her, miles and miles,
And never ask'd for wages--save her smiles!
And his old pinions, which had droop'd so long,
(As if he had been moulting,) soon began
To reproduce their feathers, fair and strong,
Of hues unnumber'd, like an Indian fan;
So that, again, through all the realms of song
He soar'd at will, and wheresoe'er he ran
Or soar'd (as you may guess) he brought each sweet,
That he could gather, to the witch's feet.
Yet was he discontented, though subdued;
For the fair witch would never smile on him;--
Witches, in fact, it should be understood,
Like mortal maids, are sometimes ruled by whim.
Whence this most cruel witch esteem'd it good
To fill his soul e'en to the very brim,
With adoration of her charms, that so
Her cold despite might work him fiercer woe.
Therefore, not yet abandon'd she her wiles,
But rack'd his bosom still, and, when she saw
His eyes fixed on her, oft would lavish smiles
On many a peacock, whom he deem'd a daw
In pilfer'd plumes,--base rabble that defiles
A poet's pen,--fops learned in the law,--
Coxcombs, and drones, and dandies,--brainless knaves,
Who the poor Genius wish'd were in their graves.
Ye he complain'd not,--but ador'd her still,
In dumb and patient hopelessness;--such fear
Temper'd his love, such charms were wont to thrill
His sinking heart, whene'er the witch was near;
Yet oft with secret tears his eyes would fill,
And when he deem'd that no intrusive ear
O'erheard him, in wild words of rage and grief,
The fulness of his bosom found relief.
Still rail'd he not on her, but madly flew
On her chief minions, with irreverent gibes,
And stung them, with keen satire, thro' and thro',
Reviling the whole race, through all its tribes:
He laugh'd at all her lovers old and new,
And call'd them rogues, and dolts, and lying scribes
(To jeer at folks, who were esteem'd so sensible,
It must be own'd, was highly reprehensible.)
And then he vow'd by those love-beaming eyes,
It was a grievance not to be endured,
That some vain, shallow, witless imp should rise,
And of the witch's favour reign assured,--
Nay--haply make her very heart his prize,--
While he, a spirit to her tasks inured,
And gifted with high power to work her will,
Was thus cast off,--despised,--rejected still!
This could not last:--One day, the Magic Book
Fell in his way, (by chance or by design),
And, tempted thus, these artful means he took
To end his grief;--in many a mystic line
He traced (although his hand with terror shook)
His soul's most secret workings, in such fine
And subtle phrase involved, that none but She,
For whom 'twas meant, could solve the mystery.
And he petition'd (this presumptuous elf)
That, if his lady's heart was yet unwon,
He might adventure for the prize himself,
And do whate'er by prowess could be done,
To throw all rival suitors on the shelf,--
Adding, with grave audacity, that none
(Save only He) were competent to prize,
According to their worth, those soul-lit eyes.
And then he vow'd, with many a solemn oath,
That should the witch e'er deign to let him be
Her earthly guide, he then would plight his troth
To serve her with most strict fidelity,
And show her all his wonders, nothing loth;
For he possess'd Apollo's master-key,
By which are open'd, to the sons of verse,
The hidden chambers of the universe.
And that with love which none but poets feel,
And reverence such as none but poets pay,
He would watch over all her future weal,
And deem her his sole treasure, night and day;
And when Death's slumber should her eyelids seal,
And her soul flit to Paradise, away,
Still, upon earth, her sacred name should be
Link'd with his own in Immortality.
Here pause we,--for the night is on the wane.
Whether the Genius still was doom'd to grieve,
Or some kind fortune eased him of his pain,--
Is matter which, in verse, I yet may weave:--
But months must first roll by,--for such a strain
Is fitter far for some calm summer eve
Than for these merry winter nights, when we
Begin to dream of Christmas revelry.
In youth's wild fervour, ere my heart had yet
Submissive bow'd to the acknowledged sway
Of loftier duty, did I frame this lay,
Which haply 'twould be wisest to forget,
Mingled as 'tis with food for late regret,--
The unpruned blossoms of my wit's warm May;--
Rank wild-flowers, more fantastically gay
Than now beseems my sober coronet.
Yet chide not, thoughtful reader, though thine ear,
Attuned already to my graver strain,
These sportive warblings listeth not to hear,
Nor deem them altogether base and vain,
Though ill accordant they perchance appear
With the ripe produce of my heart and brain.
King Arthur, in the tenth year of his reign,
Fell sick of the blue devils:--by his court
So many a brace of dragons had been slain,--
So many giants, with their crimes, cut short,--
So many wrongs avenged, and castles ta'en,
That there began to be a lack of sport.
The realm, in fact, from Cornwall to the border,
Was in a shocking state of peace and order.
For six whole weeks, the Knights of the Round Table,
From morn to night, had nothing else to do
Than saunter from the palace to the stable,
Play with their falcons, or their ladies woo,
Polish their arms, and laugh (when they were able),
At their own languid jests: no mortal knew,
Till dinner was announced, what he'd be at;
And King and courtiers all were growing fat.
The game laws were enforced in all their rigour,
And several peasants were convicted fully
Of breaking dragon's eggs, and pulling trigger
At giants with two heads, who chose to bully
Their frighten'd children; but with all the vigour
Of the police, the court went on but dully;
It seem'd the British fair were past affronting,--
And then a frost set in, which spoil'd the hunting.
As for the ladies, they, poor souls, declared
That "they certayne for dullness shulden dye;"
The formal knights so prosed, and bow'd, and stared
With their demure, old-fashion'd courtesy;
And poor Sir Tristram, who could ill be spared
With his gay jests, and harp, and poetry,
In a late fray had got a broken head,
And was not able yet to leave his bed.
In short, Miss Edgeworth's demon, pale Ennui,
Had seiz'd on the whole court with dire aggression;
And made it stupid as a calm at sea,
Or wedlock after half a year's possession,
Or poor Lord Byron's last new tragedy,
Or octave rhyme, when stripp'd of its digression;
Or any pitch that human dulness reaches--
Save that of Mr. Hume's financial speeches.
I said the king fell sick (he kept his bed),
With the blue devils:--'tis a sore disease,
Worse than all fevers, yellow, green, or red,
The jaundice, or "that worm i' the bud" one sees
On the pale cheeks of hopeless lovers fed;
And if you wish to know the remedies
With which it should be treated, go and look
In Doctor Burton's valuable book.
'Tis a complaint that's chiefly incidental
To lovers, drunkards, scholars, kings, and bards;
To country squires with an encumber'd rental,
And gamesters apt to hold unlucky cards.
Bards bear it best;--to them it's instrumental
In spinning rhymes: there's Chauncey Townshend lards
His groaning stanzas (just to eke his strains out)
With gloom enough to blow ten Frenchmen's brains out.
The symptoms vary with the sex, condition,
Taste, temper, habits, constitution, age,
And fortune of the patient;--if a rich one,
It makes him fretful, puts him in a rage
With wife, friends, children, servants, and physician;--
If poor he's apt to quit the world's dull stage
With a sore throat;--it makes the lover sad,
The gamester gloomy, and the poet mad.
Old ladies call it "fever on the nerves,"--
A name of universal application,
Which for all sorts of peevish humours serves,
And gains for some cross people, toleration
Of such ill-bred behaviour as deserves
(To say the least), a handsome flagellation;
A Mode of treatment which I own that I,
In "nervous" cases often long to try.
Of this I'll say no more; because I hear
A better poet is just now preparing
A work upon the subject, to appear
In Mr. Knight's best type and paper, bearing
The title of "Blue Devils," and I fear
'Twould seem absurd, in one so often wearing
Their livery as myself, to act physician
To others haply in no worse condition.
I wonder whether Mr. Wordsworth's yacht,
That fine sky-cruiser, called the "Crescent Moon,"
Might upon reasonable terms be got
To hear my Muse and me, some afternoon,
"Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot,
Which men call earth;" for I'm quite out of tune--
Made hippish by eternal common-places--
And business,--and uninteresting faces.
There's nothing in the world (that is in Trinity)
To make us poets happy;--I detest
Your Hebrew, Greek, and heathenish Latinity,
And Mathematics are a bore at best;
And as I'm one who feel the full divinity
Of a fair face in woman, I protest
I'm sick of this unvaried regularity
Of whisker'd cheeks and chins of black barbarity.
'Tis a vile world--a world of dung and draymen,
And filthy streets, and noises beyond bearing;
Knife-grinders, fish-wives, ballad-singers, gay men
(Though last not least) carousing, shouting, swearing,
So as to shock both clergymen and laymen,
Haunt me o' nights; and I can't take the air in
The morning, but I'm bor'd with butcher's shops,
And markets, and prize odes,--and hay,--and hops.
In me these things breed legions of blue devils--
These, and some thoughts which will not pass away,
Of powers abused by Fancy's wayward revels,
Of many a reckless rhyme and useless lay;
While the dark future, with its hosts of evils
Muster'd in grim and menacing array,
Looks none the brighter for the thought that I
Have been the marrer of my destiny.
And that fond dream, which lured me on for ever
Through a long boyhood, saying I might earn
The poet's laurel with serene endeavour,
And write my name on an enduring urn,
Hath now departed; while ambition's fever,
Unquench'd, though aimless, hath not ceased to burn
With self-exciting fire, and thirst supplied
By longings which can ne'er be satisfied.
Here am I now, at twenty-three, inditing
Dull verses in a style which I despise,
And once abjured--just when I should be fighting
With nobler weapons for a brighter prize;
But that no longer have I hope or might in
My soul, to rush at famous destinies;
No occupation for my pen more meet
Than scribbling nonsense at so much per sheet.
"Time's past,"--I should have nurs'd the seed, and
cherish'd
The weak spring blossoms which shall bud no more,
And water'd their young roots before they perish'd,
From the rich founts of old poetic lore;
And in the beams of high devotion, nourish'd
Their growing ripeness, and laid up a store
Of thought, and kept my fancy in control,
And made the Muse, task-mistress of my soul.
I should have been more cautious in my diet,
Eaten less butchers' meat, and drunk no wine;
Not suffer'd heart or head to run such riot;
Lov'd but one maid, instead of eight or nine;
Kept all my pulses steady, cool, and quiet;
And then my poems would have been divine.
Whereas I've been so wayward and unwise
As to waste all the better sympathies.
Affections, tastes, and impulses, which should,
Under the care of Study and of Nature,
Have fed my spirit with the proper food,
And made it reach the true poetic stature.
I should have then been strong, and wise, and good,
In short, a very different sort of creature:
Yet my friends like me still (at least I think so,)
Which is the reason why I eat and drink so.
But thou, Ione, wilt thou not despise
Thy poet for this vain and heartless song?--
Wilt thou not tell him with upbraiding eyes,
That he hath done his better nature wrong,
Mingling with base and ribald phantasies
Some thoughts which to a deeper vein belong,
And idly mocking at the gifts which he,
With his first love, did consecrate to thee?
Oh! 'tis most true--too justly thou disdainest
The wretch who still (though hopeless) half aspires--
Alas! I know the heart in which thou reignest,
Should be a temple for all high desires,
Pure thoughts and noble darings;--not the vainest
And basest that ere felt poetic fires;--
And yet couldst thou but know how thou hast been
My dream, my star, my radiant Faery Queen--
How, ere that silent phantom, which I fear'd,
Had ceas'd to haunt me with its blighting eyes,
And, in my dim horizon, Hope appear'd,
My spirit turn'd to thee, and hung with sighs
On thy sweet image, in the region spher'd
Of its lost dreams and sainted memories;
And how each meaner wish I did remove,
That I might love thee with a perfect love;
Couldst thou know this--but why do I awaken
Vain thoughts and idle yearnings? am not I
By the sweet sunshine of thine eyes forsaken?
Am I not far from every social tie?
Hath not each hope of my fond soul been shaken,
Save one which wanders through eternity?
And shall I still avert a lingering glance
From the lone path in which I must advance?
Must I not waste the best years of my youth
In a cold, barren apathy, uncheer'd
By the kind looks of love and constant truth,
And beauty by her radiant smiles endear'd,
And children's voices?--and shall I forsooth,
Still madly hope my verse may be rever'd
In my land's language?--that I yet may shrine
Thy name, Ione, in a living line?
"Wisdom doth live with children round her knees,"
Says Wordsworth; and he says what's very true;
But then to nurse the children, if you please,
I must possess the children's mother too;
Indeed, without such trifling aids as these,
I'm very sure my muse could never do;
Her nature is gregarious and abhors
All cross old maids and moody bachelors.
Spirit, which art within me--or art not,
(I rather think the latter, and you know
In the year twenty, when my blood was hot,
I took the liberty to tell you so,--
At least to hint some notions which I'd got
Just then, that all your flash, and smoke, and glow,
Was quite--or very nearly--all my eye,--
A sort of barren fancy's tympany;
The passage I allude to you may find
Not far from the beginning of Godiva,)
I now request you, with a sober mind,
To tell me your intentions, and not drive a
Poor creature like myself, who's nearly blind,
On a blind errand; tell me whether I've a
Chance of succeeding in your trade, and whether
You'll aid me soon, or cut me altogether.
In fact, Miss Muse, there's been enough coquetting,
During the last six years, 'twixt you and me;
And boyish follies scarce are worth regretting;
But now I've fairly taken my degree,
And shut my Euclid up, and should be getting
Grave, for you know I'm turned of twenty-three:
A point at which you'll own its nearly time
To think of Reason more, and less of Rhyme.
I must digress no further; if I do,
I shall forget my subject--let me see,
Where was I? oh! just where the devils blue
Had seized on his Britannic Majesty;
Five days he languish'd till his illness grew
Into a deep and dull melancholy,
(I accent that last word in the old way,)
And the physicians scarce knew what to say.
The privy council in great haste assembled
On the sixth day, and held a lung debate;
The courtiers all look'd blue, the doctors trembled,
And bulletins were posted at the gate,
Telling the world it could not be dissembled
That the King's health was in a dangerous state:
Though not a soul, of all that saw or heard of 'em,
In that unlearned age, could read a word of 'em.
Anon throughout the kingdom flew a rumour
That 'twas quite sure his Majesty would die
Of this inveterate melancholic humour;
'Twas said he loathed his victuals, and put by
Bottle and bowl, and nothing could he chew more
Substantial than his favourite furmety,
(Which I can't say I like)--a dreadful tissue
Of mortal signs--and then he had no issue;
The ladies had begun to buy their mourning,
Black silks had reach'd a most unheard of price,
And all the master tailors had had warning
To raise their workmen's wages in a trice:
When lo, at eight o'clock one sunny morning,
The air was darken'd, and it thunder'd thrice;
And, as the last peal sunk, was heard the whirling
Of the dread wheels which bore the wizard Merlin.
An aged wight was he in Arthur's time,--
I should suppose five hundred, more or less;
(It's not exactly fix'd in the old rhyme,
And therefore what I say is merely guess)
Which is, in fact, a necromancer's prime,--
Those scoundrels lived on to as great excess
As fellows of King's College, who (as I
Know to my sorrow) very rarely die.
I wish I'd time to trace his generation,
Just as I find it in the old romance,
Which is replete with useful information,
From ancient lore of England and of France;
But I must hasten on with my narration,
Leaving the reader, as he will, to glance
O'er the said tale, or waste his time and wits on
That prince of puppies, Mr. Joseph Ritson.
'Tis a fine subject, and if e'er hereafter
I chance to find the talent and the time,
Perhaps I'll make the public die with laughter,
By telling the whole tale in octave rhyme;
In which I can be gay, or grave, or "daft," or
Pathetic, or sarcastic, or sublime,
Just as the maggot bites;--the reader can see
My fancy guides me, and not I my fancy.
In that great poem shall be fully shown
All Merlin's true adventures, duly dated,
And mix'd with curious matter of my own,--
His life and his opinions, well narrated,
And how he was, at last, by love o'erthrown,
By a false, cunning beauty captivated,
The Lady of the Lake, who bound him sleeping,
In a sea-cave, where still he's in her keeping;
But will return (as many people think)
Some day or other to his works in Wales,
Where you still hear his magic hammers clink
Under a rock that overhangs the vales
Of the "swift Barry;"--there his demons swink,
And strain, and pant, and lash their forked tails,
Cursing the spells which bind them to their pain,
Until their masters shall come home again.
His forte, it seems, was magic, in which none,
Who came before, or after him, have taken
So much delight, or half such mischief done--
Not Doctor Faustus--no, nor Friar Bacon;
'Tis said he could eclipse the moon and sun,
Put out the stars, stop comets, and awaken
Or lull to sleep the ocean, as he chose,
And play a hundred more such pranks as those.
What progress he had made in mathematics
Is what at present I shall not dispute on,
Because I've scarcely learnt to solve quadratics,
And am not over-perfect in my Newton;
Though I once read as far as hydrostatics,
Hoping some higher ground to set my foot on,
And twine my laurel round the wooden spoon,--
But 'twas an honour I despair'd of soon.
Nor have I ascertain'd (I own with grief)
Great Merlin's metaphysical whys and whences--
It seems that he'd a proper disbelief
In those notorious liars call'd the senses,
And (I incline to fancy) found relief,
Like Berkeley, in exposing the pretences
Of the material world--whose notions I
(As suiting my convenience) mean to try.
Oh! 'tis most soothing, when all objects seem
Wrapt in a sevenfold cloud of fear and sorrow,
To know they're nothing but a hideous dream,
From which, no doubt, we shall awake to-morrow
To sober certainty of bliss supreme--
Hence consolation for all ills I borrow,
By disbelieving, with my whole ability,
All things that wear a shade of probability.
I don't believe in matter--nor in spirit;
I don't believe that I exist, not I,--
Nor you, Sir, neither--if you choose to swear it,
I tell you, very fairly, that you lie;
If you think fit to thresh me, I can bear it,
Knowing the thumps, in fact, are all my eye;
And that all sorts of fractures, hurts, and bruises,
Are as unreal as the patient chooses.
I know I'm lord of all that I survey,--
Maker and sole proprietor; I made
The sun that cheers me with his winter ray,
The woods that cool me with their summer shade;
I made the dinner I shall eat to-day;
I made the meadows where my childhood play'd;
I made myself, and (tired of single life)
I've half a mind to make myself a wife.
And round her vision'd form, at my command,
All sweet affections, and gay hopes shall throng,--
Desire, and love, and joy, a radiant band,
Made trebly radiant in the light of song,
Lo! at her feet two beauteous children stand,
Whose looks are 'perfect Gerard,' and I long
In my fond arms, with passionate love to strain her--
And--wish the vision was a little plainer.
And oft I listen, through the livelong night,
To the low, wave-like music of her breath,
And kiss her eyelids with a wild delight,
And haply hear her, as she slumbereth,
Talk to me in her dreams--but if I write
Much longer in this style, 'twill be my death;
So we'll return to Britain, and find out
What Doctor Merlin's visit was about.
Of course he was admitted sans delay,
Though the whole Palace was in sad confusion;
Through crowds of gaping courtiers he made way
To where the King, with dressing-gown and shoes on,
Was gravely wasting, in great pomp, away;--
He bow'd, and said he "hoped 'twas no intrusion,
Though for so many months he had been absent--
But a late vision, by his sister Mab sent,
"Had told him that his Majesty was ill;
So he had come directly from Caer-Mardin,
To offer the assistance of his skill,
For (though he said it) there was nought so hard in
The power of blister, bolus, draught, or pill,
But he could cure it--and not charge a farthing.
He begg'd the Monarch would put out his tongue--
How long had this disorder on him hung?
"What was his diet?--did he sleep at night?
His pulse seem'd languid--how did he digest?
Had he retain'd his usual appetite?--
Pray did he feel a tightness at his chest?--
He thought 'twas want of exercise--he'd write
A short prescription, which to him seem'd best"--
This fragment of it's extant--the style's eligible,
And (like all Doctors' Latin) quite intelligible.
Rex, Urthurus, Diabolis Soeruleis
Ueger, ob besiberium sigantum
Decollatorum in Salenbis Juliis,
Cal. Matrimony. Quotivie capiat quantum
Cuff. Et conjugialibus aculeis
[Versus desideratur-unus tantum]
hanstu matut. Merib.et vespertine,
Rix. Pulo. Pil.-auct. M. D. Merline.
The meaning of the document is plain--
The King was dying of a quiet life,
And therefore Merlin wisely did ordain
That he should take unto himself a wife;
After which treatment, should he e'er again
Complain of any lack of noise or strife,
Merlin acknowledged a disease so tragic
Would baffle both his medicine and his magic.
I'm sadly weary of this canto--well!--
I must make haste and end it--Arthur started
At this advice, as though some sudden spell
Had seized him, and, though far from chicken-hearted,
His courage for a moment fairly fell--
'Twas the first time it ever had departed,
Though he had seen strange sights--this sudden terror
The wizard noticed, and produced a mirror.
"My liege," said he, "this wondrous glass, created
By cunning spirits of my Father's breed,
(Which for such works is justly celebrated)
Possesses such strange virtue, that you read
In it all future matters, which are fated
To be--or not to be; so in this need
I've brought it, that your Majesty may view
Some things of moment, which 'tis time you knew.
"'Tis the same glass which Lady Britomartis
Consulted, with success, some years ago,
And, I may say, has satisfied all parties--
May I request your Majesty to throw
One glance upon it? you shall see my art is
Able some strange foreknowledge to bestow--"
The King complied, and sullenly and slowly
His head upraised from that deep melancholy:
But scarce upon the mirror had his eyes
Rested, when thro' their orbs quick lightning shot,
And, with a sudden flush, the blood did rise
Into his sunken cheeks, and made them hot,
"Paining him through" with rapturous surprise;
All the blue devils were at once forgot;
And you might hear his pulses, as he gazed
On the bright phantoms in the mirror raised.
"The appearance instantaneously display'd"
(I borrow that last line from the Excursion,
And have not much improved it, I'm afraid,
By tipping it with rhyme, to fit my version)
Was of a beauteous and majestic maid,
In a fair garden taking her diversion,
Like Emily in Chaucer, when her far sight
Captured the captive Palamon and Arcite.
"'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high;"
The Earth beneath his fiery kiss was panting,
With close, quick throbs of murmurous ecstasy,
(The last two lines which seem to me enchanting,
Are copied, in great part, I can't deny,
From Coleridge, whom I scorn to be supplanting
In the world's favour) while on Arthur's soul
Sweet sounds of whispering winds and musical waters stole.
And straight, within that mirror's charmed space,
Rose a fair garden to his wondering eye;
A still, secluded, and delicious place,
With terraced walks, and trees upshooting high,
And crystal streams, that ran a pleasant race,
And fairy grottos, fashion'd curiously
With shells and glittering spars, and odorous bowers
Bright with all mingled hues of faintly-breathing flowers.
And near a spacious fountain, which was flinging
An everlasting dew into the shade
Of sun-proof branches o'er its margin clinging,
So that no flower in that sweet spot might fade,
But a fresh perfume was for ever springing,
There lay upon a bank a radiant maid;
Who, as it seem'd had thither strayed to shun
The noon-day fervour of the summer sun.
Her figure was right royal, and her mien
(As on that flowery bank reposed she lay)
Such as might well become a sceptred queen;
Around her was a band of virgins gay,
Fairer than any uncharm'd eyes have seen:
But their sweet mistress was more fair than they;
Perfect she seem'd in every limb and feature--
In short, she was a very noble creature.
The loosen'd tresses of her golden hair
Down her white neck and heaving bosom stray'd,
Which, for the summer heat, she had laid bare
To catch the breeze that o'er its billows play'd,
And fondly murmuring seem'd to nestle there;
(That thought's a little hackney'd, I'm afraid,
But I'm reserving all the strength I can to
Dress out a fairy, for my second canto.)
The dame, meanwhile, with delicate skill was braiding
Bright flowers in baskets at her elbow set,
With female tact their rainbow colours shading
Into a fresh and fragrant coronet--
In which all lovely forms and splendours fading,
In meet array and natural order, met;
While, gently peeping those bright links between,
Smiled varied leaves of light and sober green.
There shone the lily, pure as woman's mind;
And fragrant violet, bashful as her eye;
And with grave ivy was the rose combined,
Like woman's grace with wisdom blushingly;
And the proud hyacinth was there entwined
With gilly-flowers and gentle rosemary;
And its dark leaves green myrtle interwove
With smiling heart's-ease, type of woman's love.
And ever, as her glancing fingers wove
That blushing garland, at the lady's feet
A bright-eyed maiden warbled songs of love,
Which, like an echo, did her lute repeat,
In such wild sort as if the music strove
With her sweet accents which should be most sweet;
But the far song was in a foreign tongue
Which on the monarch's ear its magic burthen flung.
"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter;" in like manner, I suppose,
A foreign strain must always be preferr'd
To one whose language every hearer knows.
It seem'd, however, that the sweet sounds stirr'd
That lady's fancy, for her bosom rose
With frequent throbs, and ever and anon
In her wild passionate eyes a burning lustre shone.
I own she was not of that mien which I
Am apt to fall in love with, though her frame
Was faultless, and her spirit fine and high;
But then what Shelley calls a "vestal flame"
Deepen'd her cheek's rich crimson, and her eye
Had more of wanton fire than maiden shame,
What thought King Arthur?--Love had master'd him,
For his pulse falter'd, and his sight grew dim.
"The enchantment works," thought Merin; "this will do;
I think the image on his soul is painted;"
And then the mirror suddenly withdrew,
At which the King changed colour, reel'd, and fainted.
Cold water on his face the courtiers threw
Till he revived, and vow'd that vision sainted
(Whoe'er she was) he would adore for life,
And she, and only she, should be his wife.
"Sire," quoth the wizard, "by that wondrous science
Which raised this splendid vision, I discover
The dame to be the daughter of King Ryence,
Hight Guenever, now pining for a lover;
So, if it please your Majesty, I'll fly hence
To Dublin, where he reigns, and carry over
My mirror, in the which I'll let her see
A handsome likeness of your Majesty.
"Your Majesty must give me, if you please,
Full power to carry on the whole affair,
In which I pledge myself to bring you ease,
And satisfy your wishes to a hair.
Before next Autumn, if you fail to seize
In your impassion'd arms the willing fair,
And the full tide of wedded raptures whirl in,
My art's all nonsense, and my name's not Merlin."
I hate all dry details, so I omit
The courtship, which was formally and duly
Managed by proxy, with all Merlin's wit;
He set about it skilfully and coolly;
So that the marriage deeds were fairly writ,
Sign'd, seal'd, and witness'd, by the first of July;
And then King Arthur, with great pomp and pride,
Set out for Dublin to bring home his bride.
I own I think, from all I've ever seen
Of lovers and of love (and that's no little,)
That if each bride were courted like a Queen,
(That is, by proxy,) 'twould do every tittle
As well, and save spectators much chagrin;
Unless the happy pair could eat their victual,
Talk and behave like other Christian folk,
Whose necks are yet ungall'd by Cupid's yoke.
I speak this feelingly; because sometimes,
While busy on my last immortal poem,
And thinking less of kisses than of rhymes,
Two lovers bored me much (for which I owe 'em
A grudge,) with cooings, which to me seem'd crimes,
And little less to all who chanced to know 'em.
However, as the match has turn'd out well,
I won't reproach them with a syllable.
It was a lovely morning of July,
When brave King Arthur, laughing and light-hearted,
With a well-dress'd and gallant company,
From his good palace in Carlisle departed;
Behind him rode all England's chivalry,
Drums beat, and trumpets bray'd, and horses started,
And flowers were flung from window and balcony,
And songs yell'd out in praise of matrimony.
Forth on the road to Holyhead they pass'd,
A goodly party--Lords, and Knights, and Squires,
Ladies, who killing looks around them cast,
And Minstrels thrumming on their tuneless wires,
All in their Sunday clothes, from first to last;
Vintners, and cooks with faces like their fires,
Monks, tailors, mountebanks, and such small deer,
Jumbled like Chaucer's pilgrims, closed the rear.
I won't relate the stories that were told--
The catches that were sung, all through North Wales;
Because the whole description, if not old,
Would scarce surpass the Canterbury Tales.
To cut the matter short, they soon behold
The port of Holyhead, now white with sails,
And the King's fleet at anchor near the land,
With pennons flying, and the yards all mann'd.
The catalogue of ships--the embarkation--
The names of the commanders--and the frights
Sustain'd by ladies, with the consolation
Duly administer'd by courteous knights--
The King's sea-sickness, and the sad cessation
It caused in his contemplative delights,
With other slight disasters which befell 'em,
I leave to better bards, who've wit to tell 'em.
The morning rose in sunshine and in smiles,
As the King's galley enter'd Dublin's bay,
And joyous look'd the verdant gem of isles,
To welcome, in due form, the nuptial day;
The shore was throng'd with carriages for miles,
And crowds had come on foot a monstrous way,
To drink, in whisky-punch, to the alliance
Of Arthur with the daughter of King Ryence.
There are some points of contrast in the cases,--
Some of resemblance,--find them if you will;
Of which the principal that I can trace is
This--that King Arthur sail'd, in hopes to fill
With a young bride his heart and his embraces;
King George the Fourth, you know, was luckier still;
For his spouse left the world she'd long been
troubling,
Just as he anchor'd in the bay of Dublin.
The papers, which so loyally recorded
King George's landing on the Irish coast,
May serve for Arthur's, and are choicely worded,
Especially the Times and Morning Post.
And as no room just now can be afforded,
I must refer my readers, all or most,
Back to those honest chronicles, which tell
In prose what verse could never paint so well.
What were the feelings of the royal turtles,
When each first saw what each had loved so long--
How they were crown'd with roses and with myrtles,--
The Poet Laureates hymeneal song,--
The list of jewels, feathers, robes, and kirtles,--
The steeples which peal'd forth their glad ding-dong,--
The feast and frolics of the nuptial week,--
Are things of which I shan't presume to speak.
It is enough to state that they were wedded,
All due respect to ancient customs shown,
And, (courtship's dangerous maze once safely threaded,)
The lovers deem'd the world was now their own.
Both seem'd, for weeks, light-hearted and light-headed;
But when the honey-moon was fairly flown,
They left King Ryence and the Emerald isle,
And travell'd home in triumph to Carlisle.
What happen'd there, and how the match turn'd out--
The tournaments--the gauntlets that were flung
For ladies' smiles, by gentle knights and stout,
With much that happen'd those great folks among,
If courteous readers like what I'm about,
"My future labours may not leave unsung;"
Though neither Guenever's nor Arthur's glory,
Will form henceforth the subject of my story.
I've not, as yet, produced upon the stage
My hero, nor my heroine-but assure
The lathes that the first will quite engage
Their tender hearts,--a noble knight though poor;
And for the second, if she's not the rage,
(My gentle fairy, ma belle Tryamour)
I shall be very sorry for the men,
And won't encroach upon their time again.
Half my next canto, I make free confession,
(Was ever such a candid bard as I?)
Unless relieved by excellent digression,
May, very possibly, be rather dry;
But when I quit the court, and gain possession
Of fairy bowers and forest scenery,
(Subjects so dear to Shakspere and to me)
The reader then shall see--what he shall see.
This canto's but the porch, as Wordsworth says,
(See the Excursion) to a larger building;
The body of the work I've yet to raise,
And garnish the inside with paint and gilding:
But when the whole's complete I'll win such praise
As never yet a poet's bosom thrill'd in;
Unless blue devils, or disasters worse,
Should intervene to interrupt my verse.
But these things are in embryo;--and now,
Before I send my packet to the press,
And to the reader make my parting bow,
I'd have a gentle name my page to bless.
Shall it be thine?--oh! no, Ione, thou
Art yet a thought of too great holiness;
And of a different strain the verse must be
Which I can bear to dedicate to thee.
If aught in happier vein, with worthy pride,
Hereafter I achieve of gentle song,
If fitting utterance be not still denied
To visions which have held my soul so long
That their deep sleep will not be cast aside,
Thou art the cause, and unto thee belong
The fruits of that late harvest--at thy feet,
Sweet friend, they then shall lie-an offering wild, but meet.
I now despise myself, that I have spoken
Thy name 'midst fancies of a lighter kind,
And with wild words my soul's long silence broken:
Nor should this be, Ione, could I find
The hope to greet thee with a bolder token--
But fare thee well, until I shall have twined,
(If that may be) with power that fails me now,
A wreath which shall not shame thy peerless brow.
Or to the Genii of far distant places,
The dreams which linger yet by Severn's side?--
Or to each spot which here remembrance traces,--
The scenes of boyish pleasure, hope, and pride,--
The sports still loved, the old familiar faces,
The air whose inspiration hath not died--
To all thine old enchantments, still so strong,
Sweet Eton, shall I dedicate my song?
Or shall my spirit, for a moment, hover,
With wistful gaze, o'er Granta's tranquil bowers,
As o'er some maiden's sleep her phantom lover;
And to the memory of departed hours,
And calm enjoyments, which, alas, are over,
Suspend a votive wreath of fading flowers;
Greeting the Unforgotten who remain
In shades which I shall never see again?
Dear thoughts are these, which will not soon decay,
But I'm beginning, I'm afraid, to whine;
So, lest this canto should not close to-day,
I'll not indite another serious line;
But to thy image thus inscribe my lay,
Unknown, but much respected "Caroline,"
From whom I've just received a flattering letter,
Which makes me inconceivably your debtor.
I know not, lady, if thy cheek be fair,
Nor what may be the colour of thine eyes;
I ask no questions about lips or hair,
But I am sure that thou art good and wise
And gentle, and hast kindly tears to spare,
In graver moods, to poet's phantasies;
And therefore, lady, shalt thou be enshrined
Amidst the holiest visions of my mind.
Haply I ne'er shall see thee:--be it so;
I have a gentle vision of my own,--
A maiden with meek eyes, and locks that flow
Down on her lustrous shoulders; all alone
She sits, with saint-like aspect--touch'd with woe;
Mute--listening to the low and dreamy tone
Of quiet musings and calm thoughts, enshrined
Deep in the inmost temple of her mind.
Ay! there it is, with radiant garments flowing,
Like summer clouds around the rising sun--
The soul-lit eye with heavenly rapture glowing,
The cheek just crimson'd o'er, and leaning on
The small and snowy hand--alas! I'm growing
Most eloquently crazy--but I've done;
I only mean to say the form's enshrined
Amidst the holiest visions of my mind.
Perhaps 'tis better, lady, we should ne'er
Meet, lest this picture should receive a taint;
Though I believe that thou art far more fair
Than aught that my poor phantasy can paint;
But then you know, dear madam, if I were
Proud to be thought a poet (which I an't)
I should be fearful that those eyes so critical
Might think my person not the most poetical.
In the mean time I'll thank you to believe me
The beau ideal of a poet's figure;
Your kind imagination may conceive me
Like Milton on the whole, though something bigger:
Slender and graceful;--yet I own 'twould grieve me
Not to possess my share of youthful vigour--
Paint how you please--I leave it to your taste,
In which my fullest confidence is placed.
And here I pause awhile, and wish good bye
To all my readers; hoping they've perused
These sorry stanzas with indulgent eye,
And won't disdain to own they've been amused;
In which ease, by the first of next July,
I shall be very glad to be abused
By churlish critics--so but hearts most wise
Deign to approve my rambling phantasies.
Beneath these willow-boughs, whose hovering shade
Shifts with the breeze o'er this secluded stream,
'Midst reeds and waving bulrushes embay'd,
My boat hath floated since the noon-day gleam;
And now the light of eve begins to fade,
And I am scarce awaken'd from my dream--
My long day-dream of thee.--O! gentle friend,
When will this thraldom of my spirit end?
The storm, by which my heart so late was shaken,
Is over, and my thoughts are tranquil now,
And I can bear to feel myself forsaken--
Yea, with a placid and unalter'd brow;
Though, ever and anon, doth Memory waken
The slumbering gusts which make my spirit bow
And reel to its foundations--still my sleep
Is throng'd with passionate dreams, from which I start to
weep.
And though these lovely haunts have never seen
Thy beauty--nor, perchance, shall ever see,
Yet here the shadow of thy charms hath been,
And here are fresh remembrances of thee.
This lonely creek--these islands wild and green--
These woods and hills, speak feelingly to me;
For here that wild and secret passion grew,
In the first solitude my heart e'er knew.
But I must dream no more:--and if I borrow
From the cold world one last and pensive day
To bury my dead hopes and soothe fond sorrow
With the last tears these eyes will ever pay
To passion--thou wilt pardon me. To-morrow
Breaks the last spell, and bears me far away
From this dream-haunted region;--here I part
With the last folly of my hardening heart.
So now farewell to Love,--but not to thee,
High-hearted Friend!--The hour of my despair
Did first reveal thy being's depths to me;
I saw the beauty of thy soul laid bare,--
Its power, and gentleness, and majesty,
Its deep and strong affections; and I swear,
Here, while my hopes lie crush'd and bleeding yet,
Thou art the noblest spirit I have met.
High converse, since that hour, we two have held,
Which will not be forgotten; thou alone
Hast search'd my inmost bosom, and beheld
My nature in its weakness;--thou hast known
The thoughts that shook, the passions that rebell'd,
The dreams that made me tremble;--like thine own,
Have been my spirit's faintings.--O! that thou
Couldst feel the fulness of my triumph now!
Methinks I could embrace my desolation,
And say "Farewell" serenely, were I sure
That thy young spring of joyous expectation
From that far gathering tempest were secure,
Which yet may shake thy peace to its foundation
But I believe that thou wilt well endure
The fury of the storm, and lift thy brow
To heaven, unscathed, and more serene than now.
For in thy thoughtful forehead's clear expanse,
And in the lightning of thy quick, wild eye,
And in the restless dreams, that shift and glance
Through all thy eloquent looks incessantly--
In each bright movement of thy countenance--
In thy most thrilling converse--I descry
Heaven's stamp; nor e'er shall human error bind
The strength and genius of thy mighty mind.
O! had I known thee earlier--but one year--
One little year--when thou wast fancy-free,--
While both our natures trembled with one fear,
And panted with one thirst--I vow to thee,
By all that to my soul on earth is dear,
By all thy hopes of final victory,
By all we feel within, around, above--
Thou shouldst have loved me with a Spirit's love.
Nor vain had been my hope that I had found
In thee the embodied phantasy, whose gleams
Kindled my sleep for years, and pour'd around
My path the brightness of a poet's dreams--
Whose voice was to my ear a phantom-sound,
So sweet, that its ideal music seems
E'en now to haunt my sense--that thou wert She
To whom my dearest hopes must cling eternally.
'Tis o'er--but there are words, which thou hast spoken,
Writ on my heart in fire--and now I know
The slumber of my soul at length is broken,
Yea, by the stroke that laid its visions low;
Perchance hereafter I may find a token
Worthy to speak to thee of all I owe,
But never can repay thee--but e'en now
I must fulfil one unforgotten vow.
Have I not said that from this alter'd lyre
The strains thou lov'st not shall be heard no more?
Have I not said my spirit shall aspire
(If yet its weaken'd wing hath power to soar)
To nobler darings with a pure desire?
That when this tale is told--these wanderings o'er,
My song shall be attuned, with high endeavour,
To loftier music--or be mute for ever?
Haply, asleep in Reason's secret cells,
A power is hid, which yet may make me strong;
Haply, the desert of my soul bath wells
Which yet may pour a deeper stream of song;
Haply--but oh! awaken'd conscience tells
That I have trifled with my heart too long--
Deaden'd each nobler impulse, and profaned
The strength which Nature for high toils ordain'd.
Yet, from this hour, will I, with earnest thought,
Heap knowledge from neglected mines of lore;
If, haply, by long process, may be wrought
To steadfast ends my mind's unfashion'd ore:
Nor vain shall be the lessons thou hast taught,
Nor vain that purpose which, for thee, I swore
I would pursue in silence.--But 'tis time
To end this idle and presumptuous rhyme.
The task, which I began in happier hours,
Lies yet a shapeless fragment--and 'twill be
Hard to renew, with worn and drooping powers,
That toil whose fruits will yield no joy to thee.
Yet--for the feelings that so late were ours--
Thou wilt forgive my foolish phantasy,
Dallying with bitter jests, as if to ease
The aching of unheal'd remembrances.
Perhaps amidst my laughter, thou wilt hear,
At times, a sadder and more solemn tone,
Recalling to thine unforgetful ear
Things which are yet reveal'd to thee alone;
And thou, I think, wilt hold those accents dear,
And greet them with a pleasure all thine own;
Nor shall these gifts, which I so coldly bring,
Seem in thy sight a worthless offering.
Four months are past, since I've put pen to paper;
Four months of mingled sun, and wind, and rain,
Fog, thunder, morning frost, and evening vapour;
These soaking summers spoil one's rhyming vein;
But now I'll mend my pen, and trim my taper,
And sit down steadily to work again;
Because the public will be glad, I'm sure,
To hear at last some news of Tryamour.
We left King Arthur and his lovely bride
Safe at Carlisle--the honey-moon was over,
The happy pair had now grown sober-eyed,
Yet still, for several months, they lived in clover;
She seem'd a guardian-angel at his side,
And he was less a husband than a lover;
So one year pass'd, but ere a third had shone,
Love--virtue--comfort--confidence were gone.
But here, at starting, I must just premise
(Lest any reader should look grave and cold)
That 'tis not my intention to disguise
A tale immoral in decorous mould.
Approach not me, ye cockneys, good and wise,
And other great philosophers, who hold
That Epicurus is Man's best physician,
And chastity a "monkish superstition."
Think not to gain, in me, a new recruit--
You'll find yourselves mistaken, I assure you;
I hate your doctrines, and your rhymes to boot,
And tell you, in plain terms, I can't endure you;
I'd thresh you soundly, if I'd time to do't,
And thought a canto's horse-whipping would cure you,--
Though, I confess, 'twould grieve me to affront
That cleverest coxcomb in the world, Leigh Hunt.
I'll spare thy weaker brethren for thy sake--
I love thee, when I laugh at thee, sweet Leigh;
But do, my gentle Indicator, take
A friend's advice, and soon recross the sea.
How canst thou tarry with the jaded rake,
The heartless bard, the hoary debauchee,
The impotent reviler, who's unfurl'd
His Atheist banner to reform the world?
With all thy follies, thou wast still sincere,
And gentle (save in politics) though blind,
And very often silly, and, I fear,
Hast done some harm among the cockney kind;
But what in that same misanthropic peer,
What, in the name of wonder, couldst thou find,
Which could induce thee to suppose that he
Would make a good enthusiast, simple Leigh?
Thou wast a faithful and a fit Achates,
Once, to a great AEneas, Percy Shelley--
A vast, though erring spirit, whose sad fate is
A thing which I deplore--but let me tell ye,
You made yourself a monstrous ninny gratis
With that same funeral pile--he might as well lie
Methinks, beneath the turf o'ergrown with flowers,
As dance among the winds and thunder-showers.
However, he and you of course knew best;
His life, at least, was suited to his end,--
His obsequies to both--so let them rest;
But how Achates could at once descend
From his to Byron's friendship, I protest,
Is what it puzzles me to comprehend;
Take care, sweet Leigh, or you'll afford the Tories
A handle to invent ill-natured stories.
They'll say--I shan't believe 'em--but they'll say
That Leigh's become what once he most abhorr'd;
Has thrown his independence all away,
And dubb'd himself toad-eater to a Lord;
And though, of course, you'll hit as hard as they,
I fear you'll find it difficult to ward
Their poison'd arrows off--you'd best come back,
Before the Cockney kingdom goes to wrack.
The Examiner's grown dull as well as dirty,
The Indicator's sick, the Liberal dead;--
I hear its readers were some six-and-thirty,
But really 'twas too stupid to be read.
'Tis plain your present partnership has hurt ye:
Poor brother John "looks up and is not fed;"
For scarce a soul will purchase or get through one
E'en of his shilling budgets of Don Juan.
Poor brother John!--poor Cockneys!--but I've spent
More time upon you now than you deserve,
Because your King for better things was meant,
And shows, on most occasions, pluck and nerve;
I hope, sincerely, he may yet repent;
For you, sweet Cockneys these few hints must serve--
Perhaps I may expand them, by and by,
But have, at present, other fish to fry.
Buz on poor drones, too stingless to be fear'd,
Obscurity and dullness will protect you all;
I only wish your notions ne'er had sear'd
Far nobler hearts and heads more intellectual,--
Some whom to me deep feelings have endear'd,--
Whom--but regret's absurd and ineffectual;
Oh! that such souls should quit their flights divine,
To herd with Epicurus and his swine!
I hope I don't offend --but oh! sweet Fortune,
If thou hast eyes where I may favour find,
Or ears to hear my prayers--grant now this short one;
Oh! bore me with the dullest of mankind--
With fools most grave, and puppies most importune,
With talkative old women deaf and blind;
Kill me with pedants, dandies, dolts, and oafs,
But save--oh! save me from all philosophes.
They'll say I'm foolish--prejudiced--absurd--
Unphilosophical--the slave of custom;
And I acknowledge that I've still preferr'd
The old worn paths--for I can safely trust 'em;
To love one's country, and to keep one's word,
Are good old maxims, nor will time e'er rust 'em--
Our modern creeds are wiser, I dare say,
But sometimes lead us wofully astray.
'Tis hard, to find the souls long used to blend
With yours, infected by Hell's deadly leaven;
'Tis hard, to find your "own familiar friend,"
The foe of all your hopes in Earth and Heaven;
'Tis hard--but hush! these thoughts must not be penn'd--
Kind reader, let my folly be forgiven--
'Tis over--and we'll now trangress no farther,
But travel back to Britain and King Arthur.
It was a merry time in Old Carlisle;
The royal pair had closed their wedding tour,
And all the first and fairest of the isle,
Knight, squire, and lady, page and paramour,
Came to do homage there in proper style,
And feast, for several months, both rich and poor;
You may conceive the bustle and the row,
Which I've no time to paint minutely now.
The entertainments were of different kinds,
Adapted to each colour and capacity
Both of patrician and plebeian minds--
Balls, masks, and plays for tempers of vivacity,
Bear-baits and singlestick for boors and hinds,
And feasts for every species of edacity,
With butts of ale and hogsheads of metheglin,
And sportive songs to set the ladies giggling.
I wish I could depict, in colours glowing,
The knights who figured in King Arthur's train;
Sir Persevall, Sir Tristram, and Sir Gawain,
Sir Eglamour, Sir Guy, Sir Agrafayn,
Sir Launcelot of the Lake, Sir Kay, Sir Owen,
Sir Hugh, Sir Lanval--each of whom I'd fain
Immortalize in numbers ne'er surpast,
But must restrict that honour to the last.
Sir Lanval, or Sir Lonval--which you please,
(Sir Launfal, I believe,'s the genuine reading)
Except Sir Launcelot, was by some degrees,
The noblest knight alive for grace and breeding;
A finer face than his one seldom sees;
A nobler form hath seldom ta'en the lead in
Battle or ball; a heart more deep and free
Ne'er graced the good old days of chivalry.
His birth was princely, and his fortune large--
At least, had been so, for his liberality
Was boundless, shrinking from no cost or charge;
In fact, profusion seem'd his leading quality;
Had he been "heir of Calydon and Arge,"
His coffers would have dwindled to a nullity,
Beneath the constant round of princely presents,
He lavish'd daily upon slaves and peasants.
Silver, and gold, and garments rich and rare,
He sent, with courteous words, to squire and knight;--
Jewels and gauds to ladies brown and fair,--
Gave tournaments by day and balls at night,
With dinners fit to surfeit a Lord Mayor;
In short, so bounteous was this worthy knight,
That Arthur, with his princely conduct smitten,
Had made him Lord High Steward of Great Britain.
Sir Launfal bore his blushing honours well,
Without the smallest pride or ostentation,
So that he never for a moment fell
In popular regard and estimation;
Still was he courteous, kind, and affable,
Behaving as became his rank and station,--
His manners never alter'd for the worse,
His heart was not less open,--nor his purse.
For full twelve months Sir Launfal's presence graced
King Arthur's court, although 'twas clearly seen
Its morals were ill suited to his taste,
And he was sorely hated by the queen,
Whose favourites people thought were rarely chaste,
While you might read in good Sir Launfal's mien,
That he (although his virtue made no fuss)
Was most unfashionably virtuous.
The festival had now attain'd its height;
Carlisle was throng'd with fashion; every day
The court was treated with some new delight;
And, ere the sports were done, old authors say
Queen Guenever bestow'd on every knight
Some token of her love to bear away;
Sir Launcelot had a ring, Sir Guy a jewel,
Sir Launfal nothing, which he thought was cruel.
He could not brook this palpable neglect--
He thought the queen had shown a want of taste;
And, as his fortune now was nearly wreck'd
By his long habits of expense and waste,
He told his majesty, with due respect,
That "he was forced to leave the court in haste;--
He wish'd he could have seen the approaching tourney,
But couldn't for a day defer his journey.
"His father now in years, his letters told him,
Was sick and like to die, and wish'd once more,
Before his grave was ready, to behold him;
In fact, his horse was saddled at the door,
And he, unless his monarch's will controll'd him,
Quite ready to depart." The King was sore
At heart to lose him, but gave free permission,
Entreating him to use all expedition.
So forth Sir Launfal rode one autumn morning,
With a light pocket and a heavy heart;
Hopeless and nearly pennyless, but scorning
To play at court a base dependent's part,
And thinking, since, in spite of every warning,
He'd wasted thus his wealth, he'd bear the smart
In silence, as became him, without troubling
His friends in London, Aberdeen, or Dublin.
There's something in a solitary ride
Most cheering to one's spirits--though I own
'Tis better with a lady at one's side,
Pretty and witty--but when left alone
And hippish, I advise you to bestride
Your favourite chesnut, sorrel, bay, or roan,
And o'er the nearest common take a canter
As if you were pursued like Tam o'Shanter.
But, gentle lover, if 'tis love indeed,
And not the fall of stocks, or rise of beef,
Which gives you the blue-devils, pray take heed
How you walk out alone, or seek relief
In lonely vale or daisy-dappled mead--
You'll find new objects there to feed your grief;
In each green grove, by every purling stream,
You'll be for lying down, to weep and dream.
You'll stop and gather cowslips-you'll sit down,
And pick them all to pieces--then you'll sigh
For their untimely fate--so like your own--
And then your tears will gush from either eye,
As if yourself, as well as woes, they'd drown--
And then will sad and sleepless memory
Summon a host of absent looks and tones,
Enough to break the heart of stocks and stones.
No, no, touch not the earth, but mount and scurry
O'er hill and dale, o'er rugged ground and even;
Leap turnpike-gates--swim rivers in your hurry;
Shoot, like a whirlwind, between earth and heaven,--
And thus, amidst the fever and the flurry,
In which your senses all are toss'd and driven,
Sunshine above, and thy good steed beneath thee,
Thou may'st contrive to drain a draught of Lethe.
I say this from experience, and address it
To lovers without hope, and under age,
Whose flame's at best a bright but wavering cresset,
A heartburn which prompt medicines may assuage.
My skill's not universal, (I confess it,)
I can't prescribe for fools more grave and sage;--
Love at sixteen, and love at twenty-three
Differ no less in nature than degree.
Love at sixteen's a sort of mental measles--
A thing you must have once, but soon get over;
Not grave and steady, like Sir Peter Teazle's,
But fierce and soon burnt out;--your school-boy lover
Eats, drinks, and sleeps on love, but little sees else
Than dim and shapeless dreams which round him hover;
He seldom dreams of marriage, (the fond elf,)
At least if I may judge him from myself:
Or if he does, 'tis as bards dream of turtle,
A dream of other worlds, remote, ideal--
A vision of green dells, and groves of myrtle,
And lonely cots, where two fond hearts must be all
In all to one another--'twould subvert all
His air-built fabric, should you make it real
By introducing marriage-deeds, and rings,
And parsons, and such gross material things.
And yet his passion is sincere and fervent,
And blind of course, (that's not his case alone--
'Tis true, for instance, of myself and Derwent,
Whose years are riper, and whose hearts full-grown:)
Six weeks he lives the fair one's humblest servant,
Sees all her faults as clearly as his own,
Lives on her smiles till he returns to school,
And then a fortnight makes his passion cool.
Now love at twenty-three's a graver madness,
For at those years the heart hath ceased to dream;
You're wide awake, in calm and sober sadness,
Where all things are as real as they seem;
And if young hope should turn your sighs to gladness,
E'en in your spring of bliss, 'tis still a theme
For grave considerations, hopes and fears,
And cool provision for the after years.
And Reason wakes, and Love's no longer blind,
And Hymen his true face doth now discover;
And you must look into the fair one's mind,
And fathom well her heart before you love her;
But when the heart and head are once combined,
And Reason sanctions Passion--it's all over--
You're dish'd--and if she's cruel, (this bright she)--
Alas! poor gentleman of twenty-three!
For you're too young to bear your fate discreetly
And coolly, as you ought; and you're too old
To rend and break your twisted chains completely,
Cast your crush'd passion in some other mould,
And, with new hopes, at more propitious feet lie--
Alas! when that fit's o'er, your heart grows cold,
And if you ever wed, you wed for money--
Which is the usual end of matrimony.
Not being in love, Sir Launfal travell'd slowly;
He had no sad remembrances to shun;
It was the future which perplex'd him solely,--
The thought of what was fittest to be done--
Which made his pace more grave and melancholy;
And thus he journey'd, till the setting sun
Forewarn'd him of the near approach of night,
And he began to feel an appetite.
The dew rose dankly as the sun went down,
And the autumnal breeze grew damp and chill,
While poor Sir Launfal, and his courser brown,
Were unprovided with a lodging still;
At last, as evening fell, his native town
Lay right before his eyes, and made them fill
With memory's sweetest tears. Ten years had pass'd
Since he beheld that much-loved steeple last.
And up rose many a dormant recollection
In the most lone recesses of his mind,
And many a dream gone by and crush'd affection
Came o'er him; but Sir Launfal had not dined,
And was too hungry for profound reflection;
Besides, his horse had feelings less refined,
And gave strong symptoms of a disposition
To sink from sheer fatigue and inanition.
So on they fared, (Sir Launfal and his horse,)
And through the twilight city took their way;
The former thinking of old times, of course,
The latter wrapt in dreams of oats and hay;
How hunger freezes feeling at its source!
Poor courser! after fasting a whole day,
With what emotions dost thou now behold
The very stable where thy dam was foal'd?
Say, know'st thou not yon green and stagnant pool?
'Twas there that thou didst quench thy youngling thirst,
When first maternal tenderness grew cool;
In yonder paddock wast thou halter'd first,--
There thy first hay was munch'd, poor hairy fool,
Is not thy soft heart swelling fit to burst?
Alas! I might as well address thy crupper--
Thou think'st of nothing but thy stall and supper.
As through the market-place Sir Launfal rode,
The gossips all came out to peep and stare;
And many a young cheek at his aspect glow'd,--
And many an unforgotten face was there!
At last the charger, with his handsome load,
Stopp'd right before the mansion of the Mayor;--
He was the old Sir Launfal's groom of yore,
Which made the wise steed fix upon his door.
And forth he came (this corpulent old man)
In a prodigious hurry, and knelt down
And kiss'd Sir Launfal's stirrup, and began
In good set terms to welcome him to town,
"Which was unworthy" (thus the oration ran)
"To entertain a knight of such renown--
But bonfires should be lit, and bells should ring--
And pray how fared his Sovereign Lord the King?"
More had he spoken, but the knight cut short
His courteous greeting with, "My good Lord Mayor,
His Majesty was well when I left court--
And that he long may be so is my prayer;
Though I no more his favour and his sport
(Such is my wayward destiny) must share;
Nor rain on thee and thine, with liberal hand,
The honours and the fatness of the land.
"My race is run; henceforth let men no more
Love poor Sir Launfal for his Sovereign's sake;
The splendour of my life is past and o'er,
My dreams dispersed, my senses wide awake;
I've kept my virtue, but I've spent my store;
And now my solitary way I take,
Here, in my native town, to mend my ways,
And waste the frugal remnant of my days.
"Here, my old faithful servant, in thy house
Fain would I, for a while, find rest and ease."--
The Mayor (a man remarkable for nouse),
During Sir Launfal's speech had, by degrees,
Much changed his mind, and silent as a mouse,
First let the stirrup drop, then from his knees
Recovering, stood before his patron's eyes,
The gaping picture of chagrin'd surprise.
Three times his faltering lips essay'd to speak;
Three times the imperfect sounds were lost in air;
Three times he clear'd his throat, and seem'd to seek
Words to express the depth of his despair:
At last they came--"Sir Knight, for the last week,
Seven of your order I've expected there;
My house is all bespoke-you're come too late--
Good lack! 'tis really most unfortunate.--
"Had you but sent to let me know, or written, I
Would have procured you lodgings--at least tried--
If not put off these knights from little Britany;
But now each house is taken far and wide--
Yet stop--" (he scratch'd his head) "this plan I've hit on,
I
Have a small cottage by my orchard side,
Where if with moderate room you'll be content,
You can reside--I sha'n't charge much for rent.
"The house, though small, is dry--the situation
Extremely pleasant, healthy, light and airy;
And, if you're fond of cows, for recreation
Your honour may, at will, look through my dairy,
Which forms the chief delight and occupation
Of Blanch, my daughter, whom men call 'the Fairy,'
Whom--but, profoundly as I dote upon her,
I know that I may trust Sir Launfal's honour."
Sir Launfal's cheek grew red,--his eyes shot fire,
He felt inclined to spurn the ungrateful proffer;
But soon, on cooler thoughts, he check'd his ire,
Feeling that nothing else so fit might offer
As this lone cottage of his quondam squire,
To one who'd nearly wasted his last coffer;
And so, to cut a tedious story short--
Sir Launfal hired the place--and paid him for't.
Sir Launfal, when a boy, had learnt to read,
And (what was still more wonderful) to write;
And his old studies, in his time of need,
Prove now a source of comfort and delight.
He grew a most amazing clerk indeed,
Was very often at his books all night;
He then turn'd author, wrote some sheets of rhymes,
And "Memoirs of King Arthur's Court and Times."
The country people took him for a wizard--
It seem'd they all misconstrued the word "spell;"
In those days not a soul knew A from Izzard,
As now we all do, thanks to Doctor Bell;
So this book-learning stuck in every gizzard,
And if they met him after evening fell,
Poor wretches, how they quaked!--though all conceded
That no hobgoblin could behave as he did.
When the spring came, Sir Launfal took to fishing,
And, though he never fish'd without his book,
Contrived sometimes to bring a handsome dish in,
Which little Blanch with ready smiles would cook,
For she presided o'er Sir Launfal's kitchen;
Poor little Blanch; beware how thou dost look
On that fine face, or thine will soon be pale,
And I shall have to tell a piteous tale.
She was a young and most enchanting creature,
This "Fairy" Blanch, then scarcely turn'd sixteen;
As some one sings "with gay and delicate feature,"
And her heart flashing through her guileless mien;
For Nature still had been her only teacher,
And taught her nought but happiness--I've seen
But one face, that I know of, to compare
With her's for radiant smiles, and few so fair.
The face that I allude to--but I'll not
Digress when I can help it--I'll but say,
En passant, that it ne'er can be forgot,
While my soul lingers in its home of clay;
And, whatsoe'er may be its owner's lot,
Her goodness, which I never can repay,
Among my holiest thoughts shall still be shrined,
Yea, near Ione, in my inmost mind.
But to my task. This happy creature's song
Each morning, in his dreams, Sir Launfal heard,
Beneath his lattice as she tripp'd along,--
Sweet as the hymn of morn's full-hearted bird,
And no less joyous;--for she thought no wrong,
Nor ever had the breeze of passion stirr'd
Her heart's clear waters--so her voice was free
In its full gush of natural melody.
And through her garden, with the morn's first light,
With fawn-like footsteps would the maiden roam,
To pluck fresh garlands for the stranger knight,
Which in her lap she laughingly brought home,
And flung them o'er him with a girl's delight,
If by such playful wiles she might o'ercome
His melancholy mood;--the good knight smiled--
And gladden'd with kind looks that loveliest child.
Even as a father or some tender friend,
To her at times full gently would he speak,
Smooth her fair clustering locks, and mildly bend
To kiss her ivory forehead or soft cheek,
For greeting or good night.--I don't pretend
To know how he contrived, for many a week,
To keep his heart untouch'd--Alas! poor Blanch,
Thy gentle bosom was not half so stanch.
Poor bird! thou art infected--'tis too late
To fly; Love's net has tangled thy sweet wings.
Alas! 'tis vain to struggle with thy fate;
Thou hast beheld thy last of happy springs.
Sweet Blanch, too surely art thou desolate--
Oh! for some finer hand to touch my strings!
Oh! for the strains of him who sung so well
Of slain Lorenzo and his Isabel!
But for sweet Blanch--Sir Launfal's tone and look
Unwittingly had pierced her artless breast;
And soon their wonted bloom her cheeks forsook,
And her pale eye-lids were deprived of rest;
Beneath his glance her gentle spirit shook
With love, though scarcely to herself confest;
And still his absent voice was in her ears,
And her lone pillow still was bathed in tears.
Poor little girl! alas, she had no sister
To whom her secret grief she might reveal,
No mother, whose mild counsel might assist her--
Her pangs in secret was she doom'd to feel;
And now Sir Launfal's looks, whene'er he kiss'd her,
(Which was but seldom) pierced her heart like steel,
They were so cold--for he was not so stupid
As to o'erlook this handy-work of Cupid.
Therefore from dangerous talk did he refrain,
And hid the tears which to his eyes would start
For pity of the love-sick maiden's pain;
For good Sir Launfal had a tender heart;
Though, as I said before, and say again,
I can't imagine where he found the art
To keep it as he did--unless some spell
Lay on his nature--which seems probable.
O Reader! was it e'er thy sad mischance
To be beloved, when thou no more wast free--
To shrink-and quail at Beauty's brightest glance,
Because 'twas brightest when it beam'd on thee--
To check each kinder look, each meek advance
Of timorous love, with coldest courtesy--
Yet feel how deep that barbed coldness went?
And she so youthful and so innocent;
If such should ever be thy hapless lot,
I charge thee from her presence quickly fly;
Begone, while yet there's time, and linger not
To feed the passion of her ear and eye:
Haply, when absent, thou shalt be forgot;
But if to glut thy heartless vanity,
Thou triflest with her happiness--I vow,
Thee's not on earth a wretch more curs'd than thou.
'Tis hard, no doubt, to say farewell for ever,
To one who loves you, though you love not her,--
'Tis hard your wandering eyes from her's to sever;
But curb your inclinations, or you'll err.
The following couplet is profound and clever,
(Your Poet's still the best Philosopher)
These lines are taken out of Sophocles,
Be not alarm'd, fair ladies; all that's meant
Is, that if once you do whate'er you please,
You're sure to have good reason to repent.
I think it right to state such facts as these,
For fear some honest Grecian should invent
A meaning for the lines that's false or strain'd,
When ladies come to have the Greek explain'd.
But to proceed. When Blanch's father knew
The love his daughter to Sir Launfal bore,
(Though sore her strife to hide from outward view
The wound that rankled at her young heart's core)
Pale, on a sudden, and enraged he grew,
And angrily he bade her seek no more
The orchard cottage, and in secret curst
Sir Launfal and the hour he came there first.
So, the poor maiden, to her thoughts confined,
And to the grief that on her heart did press,
In a perpetual sadness droop'd and pined,
Wasting in tears her youthful loveliness;
Stricken she seem'd in body and in mind,
And those who look'd into her eyes might guess
Her days on earth were number'd;--thus she waned
To death, yet never, save with tears, complain'd.
And every day her wasted cheek grew paler,
And dimmer, every day, her eye became;
And the sweet music of her voice did fail her,
And her light footstep was no more the same.
The neighbours deem'd no natural grief could ail her,
And swore Sir Launfal had bewitch'd her frame;
'Twas true Sir Launfal had bewitch'd her,--not
Her body, but her soul,--which they forgot.
As for Sir Launfal, he was glad to see
That she return'd no more--he felt 'twas wise;
Though he oft miss'd her gentle company,
And now would sometimes think of her with sighs,
Recalling to his wakeful memory
Her voice so touching and her love-sick eyes;
And yet Sir Launfal still was fancy-free,
Which really is most wonderful to me!
Meanwhile, Sir Launfal's purse began to dwindle
To very small dimensions; yet, the more
It shrank, the more his heart appear'd to kindle
With pity for each beggar at his door;
The Fates for him had turn'd their darkest spindle;
He gave, and gave, until his scanty store
Was spent, and he was fairly in distress,
Without a sixpence,--lone and comfortless.
The country-people, when his bounties ceas'd
To flow as they were wont, and they could hope
No longer at his cost to drink and feast,
Gave to their fancies and their tongues full scope;
'Twas said, that all his demons were released
By a new bull just issued by the Pope;
And next, 'twas clearly proved, beyond denial,
Others were come to take him off to trial.
'Twas thought a shame that he'd been thus permitted
To deal, as he'd long dealt, in charms and spells,
By which so many tradesmen he'd outwitted,--
Enough to doom him to ten thousand hells;
Then poor Miss Blanch was sadly to be pitied;
You know she was the pink of country belles,
Till he bewitch'd her with his hateful magic;
'Twas fear'd her end would be extremely tragic.
The rumour of Sir Launfal's ruin spread,
Like wildfire, through the town, and young and old
Supp'd upon scandal till they surfeited;
But when to Blanch the heavy news was told
By some kind gossip, she uprais'd her head,
As if despair, at length, had made her bold;
She felt that sorrow must kill her,--but He,
Oh! must he die for very poverty?
And she, as she well knew, had gold, and land,
And flocks and herds, and jewels rich and gay,
(Her mother's legacy,) which, with her hand,
Should be bestow'd upon her wedding-day.
But she--as any fool might understand--
To Death in marriage now was given away;
So why should not her store relieve the dearth
Of the one creature whom she loved on earth?
'Twas the heart's logic:--but the point, alas!
Was her stern father of the gold to rid,
Who kept it closely, and was no such ass
As to yield up, or tell her where 'twas hid.
At last, one day when he was gone to mass,
Love lent her instinct, and she found the lid
Which cover'd all her treasures, and her eye
Gleam'd, as she seized the gold triumphantly.
Forgive her, reader; love's a bad logician,
But mostly honest; and if now the tie
Of duty she broke through, her lone condition
Must be poor Blanch's sad apology;
True, she forgot parental admonition,
In seizing thus her own--but who'll deny
That when young Love rebels, papa may go
(As the song says) and preach at Jericho.
This chanced one morn of merry Whitsuntide,
When the whole city and its Corporation,
Sheriffs, and Mayor, and Aldermen beside,
Were in a state of festal preparation;
And company pour'd in from far and wide,
Of every age and sex, and rank and station,
To the grand banquet held in the Town-hall,
Which was to be succeeded by a ball.
The noblest knight that ever couch'd a lance
Graced not that banquet--for his wealth was gone;
The loveliest maid that e'er adorn'd a dance
Grac'd not that banquet--for her cheek was wan;
The former was reduced to trust to chance
For turnips or a crust to dine upon;
The latter was, just then, upon her way
Her whole possessions at his feet to lay.
Indulgent reader, we'll omit the meeting,
Because I couldn't paint it, if I would;
You must conceive Sir Launfal's courteous greeting,
His mild refusal, and his gratitude--
The pale-faced girl her earnest suit repeating--
His tears dried often and again renew'd--
This, and much more, kind reader, understand,
Because this Canto's longer than I'd plann'd.
Meekly she gazeth on his faded cheek--
His cheek with hunger pale, as her's with love;
And with sad speech and piteous tears doth seek
The stubborn purpose of his heart to move;
Alas! she finds her best persuasion weak
With his unyielding spirit--so she strove
No longer of that boon to be a winner,
But only ask'd him if he'd come to dinner.
"Alas! thy cheek is thin and pale with want,
Famine stares wildly through thy keen wan eye,
And thou art lean, and spectre-like, and gaunt,
Who wast bred up in tenderest luxury;
Thou, of whom Britain did so lately vaunt,
The gentlest knight of all her chivalry;
Thou, still the first in battle and at board--
The bravest champion and the noblest lord.
"I am unworthy that a prince like thee
Should in my father's house such shelter find;
Yet, gentle knight, do me this courtesy
Once, ere I die, (for thou wast ever kind,
And still hast been the noblest friend to me)
And--when we part, leave but one kiss behind,
Such as thou gav'st of yore,--which I will keep
For ever--till these eyes have ceased to weep."
Thus, the poor girl, with meek submissive eyes
And earnest supplication, wept and knelt,
Till in Sir Launfal did such ruth arise,
As half enforced his spell-bound heart to melt--
But the charm held him--so, in courteous guise,
Once more did he dissemble what he felt,
And, in mild phrase, declined her gentle proffer--
But thank'd her, very kindly, for the offer.
Yet, lest his words should add one sorrow more
To that sad bosom's pain, did he request
"That she would lend him from her father's store,
A saddle and a bridle of the best;"
(His own were seized for debt some time before)
"With which he would set out upon his quest
Of great adventures, and redeem by strife
His ruin'd fortunes, or else lose his life."
They came: but, ere that mournful knight departed,
The maiden's lips once gently did he press,
Striving in vain to stem the tears which started
At the sad prospect of her loneliness;
He saw the girl for him was broken-hearted,
And why he loved her not, he could not guess;
But was prevented, by some charm or other,
From feeling more than as a friend or brother.
So he departed;--and, when next he came
To that old town, the gentle girl was dead;
Love was too mighty for her tender frame,
Which sunk beneath his shafts--and yet, 'tis said,
She ne'er was heard to breathe Sir Launfal's name
Till just before her guiltless spirit fled;
And then, she bless'd him with her parting breath,
And said she died for him, and welcomed death.
Sir Launfal visited her grave, and wept
Above it a long gush of silent tears;--
And, in his noon of fortune, when he slept
On an immortal breast, in after years,
Still in his heart her lovely image kept,
A thought distinct from earthly hopes and fears,
But mix'd with yearnings for some after-home,
And cherish'd hopes of endless bliss to come.
Amen! this Canto's no more like the last
Than copper's like pure gold, or crockery delf;--
I shan't be angry, reader, if it's cast
Behind the fire, or left upon the shelf;--
But by the next it shall be far surpast,
(At least in what depends upon myself;)--
In fact, the present Canto's whole demerit's
Occasioned by my utter want of spirits.
Two more are yet to come; and then I quit
The octave rhyme--perhaps the Muse-for ever;
So I must try, in these to shew my wit,
And make my final exit grand and clever;--
I hope that Canto III. may prove a hit,
Nor shall it fail for want of due endeavour;--
Meanwhile I furl my sails and drop my oar,
To soothe tired fancy with a stroll on shore.
Are you a poet, reader?--if you are,
And under twenty, be advised by me;--
Give up the trade in time--you'd better far
Endure disgrace, chains, exile, poverty,--
You'd better die at once, than live to mar
This world's best hopes, in thankless slavery
Grinding your soul, that, ere your bones are rotten,
You may be mock'd, belied, reviled, forgotten.
Why I give this advice is not the question;
Perhaps I've private reasons--never mind;
I charge you nothing for my bare suggestion,
And though my words are coarse, my meaning's kind ;--
Perhaps I'm rather hipp'd from indigestion,
Which proves, at least, that (though a bard) I've dined--
But to return--do any thing you will
But dream of reaching the Castalian rill.
That is, unless you've blood, and wind, and mettle,
And constant training, and five feeds a day--
"Books, leisure, perfect freedom," and can settle,
In rhyme as a profession:--I dare say,
On terms like these, a bard of proper metal
May snap his fingers at the dense array
Of stupid heads, cold hearts, and adverse fortune,
Which mostly make the poet's life a short one.
Go--if you can, for poesy's sweet sake
Renounce all social comforts;--live and die,
A lone enthusiast near some northern lake,
With your thick-coming thoughts for company;
And if contempt and slander fail to break
Your heart--e'en earn your immortality;
But then the hope of posthumous renown
Is all you'll have to wash life's bitters down.
Make up your mind to be traduced--to quarrel
With your best friends--to be misunderstood--
Pronounced unfeeling, and of course "immoral,"
Because you've felt more deeply than you should--
Bear this--and more--and you may wean the laurel;
And may it do you, for your pains much good.--
No doubt true fame's an ample compensation
For a life's anguish and a soul's prostration.
Only don't half and half it--be a poet
Complete, on not at all--the Muse is chary
To mortals of her love, and won't bestow it
On wooers scarce lukewarm, or prone to vary.
If you've another hobby, you must throw it
Away--in this she's downright arbitrary;
And if to her you must devote your heart,
Devote it whole--she won't accept a part.
For my part, I can't do it, and I couldn't
Were I ten poets--neither heart nor head
Have I to make a true Parnassian student,
For I must be loved, petted, praised, well-fed,
Or else--good night; without these aids I shouldn't
Writes verses fit to be review'd or read;
And, therefore, I'm determined to retire
Before the public ceases to admire.
This is of small importance; but I know
Some real poets, whom I grieve to see
Wasting, alas I their fancy's summer glow
In cold half-courtship of Calliope.
Oh! for some less asthmatic lungs to blow
A trumpet to their slumbering vanity,
And make them feel (the blockheads) that they're doing
Precisely what must cause their utter ruin.
Up! Walker, where on earth have you been dozing
These six years? Is your Muse effete, or dead,
That you persist in idling, punning, prosing,
Spinning fine cobwebs from your heart and head,
And miscellaneous monthly trash composing
For journals never fated to be read?
For shame--for shame,--if you'd preserve your credit,
Make haste and use some nobler means to spread it.
The world imagines, (but the world's an ass)
That I, not you, am Mr. Knight's Apollo:
Macaulay's fame doth far your fame surpass,
Praed's Troubadour beats your Gustavus hollow.
You'll hardly save your distance,--though, alas!
'Tis you who ought to lead, and we to follow:
We're clever fellows, (and, I think, we've shown
it,)
But far from first-rate poets,--I must own it.
But you--you must be perfectly aware
That you've been long profaning sacred powers,
And playing tricks with genius rich and rare,
In its true worth as far transcending ours
As the best China the worst crockery-ware.
Now, by Parnassus, and its laurel bowers,
Could I but half your inspiration borrow,
I'd try my hand at Æschylus to-morrow.
I've done--now where's Sir Launfal? who's the bore--
Plague--torment--burthen--bane of my existence;
A tertian fever, a perpetual sore,
A fool who can't be taught to keep his distance,
But raps, most importunely, at my door
Ten times a day, to ask for my assistance,
(Such as it is) to serve his private ends,
When I'm for chatting with my public friends.
Reader--I hope you've read the Faerie Queene--
If not, don't stop to ask me why or wherefore,
But shut at once this peerless magazine,
Though it should be the only book you care for,
And not to be resign'd without chagrin--
The fact is that I'm press'd for time, and therefore,
Must e'en refer you, without more apology,
To the said poem for my own mythology.
I can't point out the very place, nor will I
At threading Spencer's mazes try my skill;
As if a man should walk from Piccadilly,
To find a sovereign dropt on Ludgate-Hill;
Which project would, at best, be worse than silly;
But if you've time which you're inclined to kill,
Read the whole poem, my dear Sir, and I'll
Engage you'll find it fully worth your while.
Well, but suppose you won't,--which I dare say
Is not unlikely; for what soul will pore
On bards like Spencer at this time of day
When Clare's alive, and Rogers, and Tom Moore?
Why then I must, as briefly as I may,
Concenter all I know of fairy lore
In a few stanzas, just to let you see
My heroine's noble birth and pedigree.
Once on a time there lived a certain man,
By name Prometheus, who was shrewd and clever;
Indeed, so much so, that he soon began
To fancy it would cost him small endeavour
To beat Apollo, Jupiter, or Pan
At their own trades (take notice, if you've never
Heard of these names, and don't know who they were,
You'll find their histories in Lempnière.)
Well, what d'you think he did to show his wit?
He made a human figure all of clay,
Proportion'd and arranged it, bit by bit,
And gave it life and motion, with a ray
Filch'd from the sun--when all was right and fit,
Up jump'd this hopeful imp, and ran away;
Leaving Prometheus in desponding attitude,
Shock'd and astonish'd at such gross ingratitude.
I think it served him right, I must confess,
For following so absurd an occupation;
Whereas it was his duty to repress
The geometric growth of population
By all due means--I can't pretend to guess
Why he devised new modes of propagation;
When 'tis well known the earth yields far too little
E'en to supply her natural stock with victual.
The course that he pursued was clearly wrong;
He might as well have studied to invent
Some means to make men's appetites more strong,
Or cause a general dearth of nutriment;
However, as such topics don't belong
To verse by right, it is not my intent
To speculate at present--only I
Don't think man wants new means to multiply.
In spite of all Leigh Hunt may choose to say,
In spite of all that Godwin e'er has written,
I'm strongly for the old established sway
Of Hymen in the kingdom of Great Britain,
As the laws fix it at the present day--
So till some new economist shall hit on
A likelier plan to make the nation thrive,
A fig for Malthus--let good subjects wive.
I'm very far from wishing to improve
Our marriage code, like some wise friends of mine;
I'm quite against the reign of lawless love,
Though all that sort of thing's extremely fine;
But since such speculations are above
An understanding so confined as mine,
I hope I may declare, without impiety,
I'm for the present system of society.
I've dipp'd into some writers on equality--
Condorcèt, Wallace, Godwin, and Rousseau;
And trust there's no extreme illiberality
In owning that conviction comes but slow:
I'd not subvert court, crown, and principality,
Nor quash all penal statues at a blow;
Because, in spite of Human Nature's purity,
I think they'd always add to my security.
Indeed, I never like that state of things
Which puling poets call the age of gold;
I don't think Saturn was the best of kings;
Nor George the Third the worst--and I'll make bold
To say, in spite of all that Hesiod sings,
That if mankind's opinions should be poll'd,
A vast majority of votes would be
In favour of the nineteenth century.
Folks hadn't then a notion of good breeding,
Were quite unfashion'd, both in words and looks,
And never dreamt of writing or of reading,
Because, in fact, they'd neither pens nor books;
Were absolute barbarians in their feeding,
Had no French wines, French dishes, or French cooks,
French plays, or French philosophy, in which
Old England has of late become so rich.
Then just conceive their vegetable diet
(Raw acorns, I suspect, are indigestible,)
A year ago I took a whim to try it,
And found it inexpressibly detestable.
Fresh water from the spring (I can't deny it)
Is most salubrious--yet 'tis incontestable
That most men find it tasteless to a fault,
Unless impregnated with grapes or malt.
No doubt, it's very pleasant, after dining,
(As poets seldom dine) on fish, fowl, flesh,
Before a blazing fire and wine reclining,
To dream of fruits and streamlets fine and fresh--
Feasts of the golden age-and thus refining
On fancy and repletion, weave a mesh
Of most convincing argument, to prove
How men might thrive on lettuces and love.
Again I say--such theories are fine.
But when one comes to practice, I confess
I'd still continue on roast beef to dine,
Nor drink one single glass of port the less,
No, not an oyster nor a shrimp resign:--
I'm not at all particular in dress;
But to dispense with it appears to me
Wrong as regards both health and decency.
Sweet Muses! what a merciless digression!
Prometheus, Hymen, and the golden age--
Upon my word, my folly's past expression,
When I've as much to do as might engage
The House of Commons for at least a session;
But I'll turn over a new leaf--next page;--
This graceless cub Prometheus christen'd 'Elfe,'
Or 'Quick'--and shortly found him so himself.
Away ran Elfe, rejoicing in his vigour,
O'er hill and dale, through river, lake, and sea.
An active sprite, and of a handsome figure,
And wild, but winning, countenance was he;
Shaped like a mortal,--neither less nor bigger--
A goodly work of human fantasy,
When fantasy as yet was in her prime--
Not the weak dreamer of the present time.
Away ran Elfe--through village, town, and city,
Made close acquaintance with the sons of men,
And on their follies was severely witty,
Though things occurr'd, that pleased him, now and then.
He thought some men sincere, some women pretty--
But if he loved, was ne'er beloved again:
There was a sort of wildness in his eye,
Of which young ladies were extremely shy.
For, not to mention his absurd creation,
(Which form'd one grand objection, not ill grounded,)
And strange ingredients, of whose combination
His extra-human nature was compounded--
The source whence he derived his animation
Was a sufficient cause to have confounded
All hopes of love--for from the sun it came,
And so was mingled with poetic flame.
Therefore no woman loved him--nor could love;
'Twas not his fault nor theirs--'tis the condition
Of genius, which nought human can remove;
If you've a spark, in all your composition,
Of poetry, remember you may rove
From East to West, and light on no physician,
Who can enable you, with charms or philtres,
To gain the affections of these pretty jilters.
Not but they'll all caress you, and admire,
Dote on your rhymes, request you to transcribe
In gilt morocco, till your fingers tire,
With sweetest smiles and speeches for a bribe
And cold the Muse such prizes can't inspire--
For my part, I avow, without a gibe,
That to my mind no critic's praise can vie
With one bright twinkle in a female eye.
And there are noble creatures (though uncommon)
Who'll give you noble friendship--such as far
Transcends the love of any meaner woman,
And may be worshipp'd as the polar star
To your world-weary bark--but further no man
Must hope to pass that dim mysterious bar
Between the woman's and the poet's heart,
Which keeps them (more's the pity) miles apart.
That is, when once the woman's turn'd of twenty;
Till then, from warm sixteen, I doubt not you
May find full-hearted little things in plenty,
Who'll love you--or at least believe they do;
But when her head's once ripe, and heart half spent,
I Fear 'tis in vain for any bard to woo
A fair one, whether talented or stupid,
Or bid Calliope shake hands with Cupid.
Woman--I grieve to say it--is a creature--
A heavenly one, no doubt--but ne'ertheless
Extremely unpoetical by nature,
As those, who form exceptions, all confess.
I can't tell why this is--indeed I hate your
Reasons in rhyme-perhaps they don't possess
The organs (as Gall says) of ideality--
They never dream their lives are all reality.
They--but I won't philosophize--in short
Terpsichore's the female's only Muse;
A bard can have no chance who comes to court
Against some whisker'd bully of the blues,
Who piques himself on dancing as his forte,
And stands full six feet six without his shoes.
Or should the bard find favour, yet in sooth
The course of his love never does run smooth.
Shakspere and Spenser, Petrarch, Tasso--others
Of note--some dead and buried, some alive--
The tunefullest of all the tuneful brothers,
Are proofs how badly love-sick poets thrive.
Few Lauras ever become wives and mothers;
Few Petrarchs stock their Hymeneal hive
With offspring fruitful of poetic honey,
Begot and born in lawful matrimony.
There were three Mrs. Miltons, to be sure--
But I suspect they shortly saw their blunder;
The first soon found her place no sinecure,
So took French leave, at which I don't much wonder:
He must have been (besides that he was poor)
A terrible old fellow to live under;
And I conceive it must be hard to find
A handsome wife who'd have her husband blind.
But they've all motives, foolisher or fitter.
I've heard a woman of true genius say
She thought that poets were too apt to fritter
Their hearts on light and worthless things away:
The observation was correct, though bitter--
There is no doubt we're apt to go astray;
Falling in love head foremost, as we do,
It's seldom that our hearts sink deeply too.
But when they do--oh! then we love indeed--
With true devotion both of heart and brain,
Nor wholly from that thraldom can be freed,
While life and thought and fantasy remain;
Or if we are, according to my creed,
"Love's flower, once blighted, never blooms again."
The last line's from Glenarvon, slightly alter'd,--
I heard it sung once by a voice that falter'd;
And, ever since, its melody hath haunted
Mine ear, although I really scarce know why--
But it does haunt me like some voice enchanted,
As if the phantom of young hopes gone by--
Wali'd at my side--and yet no ghost seems wanted
To tell one that such hopes are born to die:
Such bubbles are as stale as melted vapours,
Or lists of bankrupts in the London papers.
Therefore I count myself a lucky fellow,
To find my feelings, with my hopes, decay;
My heart, which once was as a medlar mellow,
Is crusting like a walnut day by day;
So that I never shall look green and yellow
With melancholy thoughts, but cast away
Care for the future, sorrow for the past,
And die a good old bachelor at last.
Reader, I hope you're not much out of breath;
This last, I own, has been a long excursion;
We've frisk'd and scamper'd over hill and heath,
Forest and fen, in search of new diversion;
Fatiguing poor old Pegasus to death--
Now let's be sober as the Turk or Persian;
We mustn't leave sweet Tryamour forlorn--
Poor thing! she's quite impatient to be born.
Elfe, as I said, could find no paramour
Among Earth's daughters. (I assign'd a reason,
And hope no lady took offence, I'm sure;
Upon my word, I meant no sort of treason)--
--He did his best, poor fellow, to endure
Their coldness--and endured it for a season;
And then he wander'd from his ancient cronies,
And reach'd, at last, the gardens of Adonis;
And there, amidst all shapes and shapeless things,
The embryos of realities to be,--
The unembodied souls of slaves and kings,--
The forms that people earth and air and sea--
And pre-existences of rocks and springs,--
And many another nameless mystery,--
Elfe roaming on without an aim or guide,
Found suddenly a Lady at his side.
A Lady!--pray, Sir, was she young or old?--
Old, Sir,--extremely old--at least five hundred;
And yet, if you expect, Sir, to behold
A wrinkled wither'd crone, you've grossly blunder'd.
The sky, you know, with all its studs of gold,
Is very old indeed--and yet you've wonder'd,
I dare say, fifty times, at the excess
Of its imperishable loveliness.
Therefore you mustn't think that I've mis-stated
Or falsified the truth, when I declare
That this same Lady (though so long she'd waited
For wedlock) was superlatively fair;
Though how she was begotten or created,
Whence she derived her face and shape and air,
The author, whom I follow, does not say--
But she was lovely, and her name was Fay.
Not to be tedious, Elfe and she consented,
After brief courtship, to be man and wife;
Nor either, I believe, the choice repented,
Theirs was a pattern of connubial life;
So smooth you might suppose they had invented
Some charm to keep away domestic strife.
And they were blest with such a swarm of children
As to mere mortals would have been bewildering.
Their offspring was the race of Sprites and Fairies,
Sylphs, Goblins, all the preter-natural tribe,
Whose whims and pranks, opinions and vagaries.
'Twould take me forty volumes to describe;
So much their nature and employment varies
Hence, though I wish young people to imbibe
Instruction from my rhymes, 'tis not my plan to
Touch on this subject in the present Canto.
But of all Powers, whom old Romance and Fabl
Employ to people sea and air and earth,
Were Elfe and Fay the parents--I'm not able
To classify the species, though 'twere worth
One's while, and would be highly commendable
To do so, and to trace them, from the birth
Of the first-born, up to the present day,
Through Europe, Asia, and America.
Goblin and Genius, Demigod and Peri,
Vampyre and Brownie, Incubus and Goule,
Witch, Warlock, Wizard, Ghost, and Nightmare dreary,
Satyr and Nymph, (of whom we read at school;)
All these I might describe till I were weary,
Were I at liberty to play' the fool.
But Fate obliges me to waste my wit on
Those tribes alone which settled in Great Britain.
Some most erroneous notions have been cherish'd,
By sceptics, on this subject--some suppose
That the whole Fairy race has long since perish'd,
Extirpated by its relentless foes,
Philosophy and Science, who've so flourish'd
Of late, that one can scarcely wear a nose,
But they'll deny or doubt of its existence,
Unless one proves the fact by their assistance.
I wonder where Philosophy will stop!
I wonder what will next be disbelieved!
'Tis really time for Bards to shut up shop,
Thus of their lawful property bereaved.
In the Castalian spring there's scarce a drop
Of water left, which has not yet received
Some taint or other from the analytical
Muddlings of science, natural or political.
But 'tis sufficient to observe, at present,
The race of whom I now propose to treat
Are not dwarf'd goblins, mischievous though pleasant,
Who roam about at night to pinch and beat
Poor housemaids, and awake the toil-worn peasant
With the near music of their echoing feet;
Or thresh the corn, with swift though shadowy flail,
Or mar the beauty of the grey mare's tail.
Neither (which is material to my story,)
Are Fairies immaterial--shadowy things
Invested with an unsubstantial glory,
Trick'd out in sunshine robes and rainbow wings;
Bright forms, impalpable and transitory,
Whose fingers shun the weight of wedding rings;
But bright realities of flesh and blood--
A fact Sir Launfal shortly understood.
'Tis true they can throw off their fleshly dross,
And roam, unshackled spirits--then, at pleasure
Resume the same, when weary of its loss--
A privilege convenient beyond measure,
Which forms their chief distinction from the gross
Terrestrial race--when I've six months of leisure
I'll write a learned treatise to explain
How these strange beings form a sort of chain
Between mankind and pure ethereal natures,
Sharing the pleasures and the pains of both;
I only hope that no ill-natured creatures
Will doubt 'tis so--I own 'twould make me wroth.
One of this poem's most peculiar features
Is, that I'm ready to attest on oath
The truth of every fact therein recorded,
Although, of course, poetically worded.
But to proceed--the Anglo-Fairy kings
From Elfe to Oberon, and their horde's migrations,
And how they did a thousand wondrous things,
And reign'd in peace for many generations,
Built Windsor Castle, (all except the wings)
And London Bridge, the Tower, and other stations--
In short, their actions, whether great or mean,
Are they not written in the Faerie Queen?
King Oberon, last upon the list, was reekon'd
The wittiest Faery monarch ever known,
A sort of supernatural Charles the Second,
Who loved mad frolic better than his throne;
And, following just wherever Cupid beckon'd,
Was not content with one fair face alone;
But still from Fay to Fay kept lightly roving,
As if the object of his life were loving.
Many a curtain lecture, long and moral,
From Queen Titania was he dnom'd to hear;
Many a fairylike fantastic quarrel
Their Majesties enjoy'd from year to year,
Sung by the mightiest Bard who wears the laurel;
I should, perhaps, apprise the reader here,
That laws of human wedlock loosely bind
The airier fancies of the Elfin kind.
Of all King Oberon's manifold connexions,
(The loveliest daughters both of Elves and Men)
She who the most took hold of his affections
Was the young blue-eyed Fairy Guendolen;
Through whose dark story, as I hate reflections
On such sad subjects I shall draw my pen;
Just stating that Titania soon discover'd
Around what charms the King's attention hover'd.
And Guendolen's dread fate was never known,
Nor could e'en Oberon's self presume to guess
Whether she was condemn'd for aye to moan
Within the dark earth's innermost recess;
Or bound with ice chains to the frigid zone,
In her most white and tender nakedness;
Or--but in short Titania was a Tartar,
And so 'tis sure her rival proved a martyr.
She left one daughter, lovelier than the Hours,
The infant pledge of her unhappy love;
Whom Oberon convey'd to distant bowers,
And nurtured in a deep, enchanted grove,
Beyond the reach of fierce Titania's powers--
Kind reader, when tow'rd Westmoreland you rove,
You'll find it (if still extant) somewhere near
The classic margin of Winandermere.
Sweet Tryamour!--she grew apace and flourish'd
In the fresh vigour of her infant years,
By gentlest sprites, with food ambrosial, nourish'd
And filling oft her Father's eyes with tears,
Swift gushing at the thought of her who perish'd
For his ill-omen'd love.--Beyond her peers
Shone this sweet child in beauty, and became
The loveliest thing that bore the Faery name.
And to that charmed forest, day by day,
Came crowds of Faery suitors--wondrous forms
Dashing the lightning from their wings away,
And riding on the necks of winds and storms,
From distant Ind and desart Africa,
And the fair Western regions--countless swarms
Of unimaginable beings, all
Of glorious shape and mien majestical.
In vain they came:--the coy retiring maiden
Received them coldly and deferred to wed;
Whether her Mother's dreadful story weigh'd on
Her mind, and made her shun a Fairy's bed,
Or whether some strange spell her heart was laid on,
I know not--but a single life she led;
Choosing, in perfect freedom, still to rove
Amongst her maidens in the charmed grove.
Viewless alike to mortal and immortal,
Within that grove her crystal palace stood:
Not e'en could Faery footsteps pass its portal
To interrupt her virgin solitude;
But thither, at her summons, did resort all
Beautiful dreams, and visions bright and good,
And Powers at whose strong bidding is unfurl'd
The deep and secret beauty of the world.
The elements obey'd her--she had power
O'er frost and blight and thunder and eclipse,
Could raise the wind, and bid the welkin lower,
And founder, in their harbours, mightiest ships:
But oftener fell the cooling summer shower
At the mild bidding of her gentle lips;
And flowers sprang forth, and hawthorn buds appear'd--
For she chose rather to be loved than fear'd.
She loved mankind, and all mankind loved her;
For, though no eye had seen her, maidens felt
Her presence in the green leaves' rustling stir,
And in the vernal breeze which seem'd to melt
Into their hearts; the humble cottager,
Who in that old mysterious forest dwelt,
Knew she was near him, and ne'er fail'd to bless
The Fairy for the season's fruitfulness. '
All kindly deeds were hers.--The hopes and fears
Of love--the bridal bed--the first-born's sleep
On his young mother's bosom, bathed in tears
Which that first fondness cannot choose but weep--
The young bard's dreams--the sports of childish years,
By her were blest; and often would she keep
Her moonlight watch beside the maiden's grave,
And bid fresh flow'rets o'er its verdure wave.
This brings me back to Blanch, whose fate I'd nearly
Forgotten, and Sir Launfal soon forgot,
Though, when he heard it he was shock'd severely.--
Poor thing!--you recollect he loved her not,
Which broke her heart, for which I grieve sincerely;
Her's was indeed a melancholy lot;
And I'm extremely sorry to confess
'Twas Tryamour that caused it--more or less.
Nor let the reader deem this inconsistent--
For my sweet Fairy was a female too,
And females, when they've love for an assistant,
And a young handsome gentleman in view,
Assume a harshness from their nature distant,
And use a luckless rival like a Jew.
When once a woman's heart's in palpitation,
She's neither conscience nor consideration.
It chanced that at the time when England's court
Was at its height of frolic, show, and revel,
To do the new Queen honour, in such sort
As in those days was judged correct and civil,
The Fairy left her wood, to view the sport,
Not wishing or designing any evil;
But merely meditating an excursion,
To see, and haply share, the court's diversion.
Invisibly she roam'd (this gamesome Fairy)
Through hall, state-chamber, and superb saloon;
Peep'd e'en into the kitchen and the dairy;
Saw all the humours of the Honey-Moon;
Laugh'd loud, and sometimes, in a mad vagary,
At balls put flutes and fiddles out of tune;
Or suddenly extinguish'd all the tapers,
Or tripp'd up hapless dandies in their capers.
But on one luckless morn, as it befell,
She went to see a tournament, wherein
The brave Sir Launfal bore himself so well,
And look'd so handsome when he chanced to win,
That, over head and ears, in love she fell,
And vow'd 'twould be a burning shame and sin,
If such a noble Knight should waste his worth
On any daughter of the sons of Earth.
And from that day Sir Launfal's wealth declined,
And ladies look'd upon him with cold eyes;
It seem'd as if some spell had struck them blind,
Though you may guess the reason, if you're wise.
These two misfortunes mostly are combined--
As soon as wealth deserts you, girls despise;
And when you've ceased to be a "speculation,"
You lose, at once, all claim to toleration.
So by these means the Fairy strove to stem
Sir Launfal's tide of favour, and to wean
The ladies' hearts from him, and his from them,
And make him weary of the court's gay scene.
It was a method which I don't condemn,
At least it fully answer'd with the Queen;
But with poor Blanch it had a bad effect,--
She loved him better for the world's neglect.
And so she broke her heart, for which I'm sorry,
And would undo the mischief, if I could;
But mustn't alter this authentic story--
Perhaps it pleased the Fairy's wayward mood
To hurl Sir Launfal from his height of glory,
And prove him, in misfortune, wise and good:
But that Sir Launfal with poor Blanch should fall
In love, she couldn't tolerate at all.
Therefore she hung a spell around his heart,
And lull'd his earthly sympathies to sleep,
With the strong magic of her wondrous art;
And underneath his eyelids would she creep
(Of course I mean her spiritual part)
At night, and in her charms his senses steep;
Till he awoke, with thoughts perplex'd and dim
Of the strange beauty which so haunted him.
And thus she train'd him for her paramour--
Wiling his fancy from the world away;
A scheme which prosper'd better, to be sure,
In her hands than in those of Mr. Day;
Whose pair of breaking tits would not endure
The strictness of his pre-connubial sway;
But married persons of inferior fortunes,
Because they liked long sleeves instead of short ones.
'Twas summer--the enchanted forest lay,
Rich with the teeming leafiness of June,
In the still silence of meridian day,
Save when, at times, a low and fitful tune
Some wandering Zephyr on the leaves did play,
Or the unseen cicada hail'd the noon
With his shrill chirp, or, with a deep-fetch'd note,
Some meditative blackbird clear'd his throat.
There were some children, playing in the shade,
In one place, on their earnest sports intent;
When a new sound did suddenly invade
Their gambols, and anon their eyes were bent
On an unusual object--through the glade
A handsome Knight, upon a steed sore-spent
With travel and starvation, took his way--
The Knight was young, but pale--the steed a bay.
His eyes were sunk and dim--his head was bare;
His arms hung idly at his saddle-bow;
There was a pensive sadness in his air,
Which told that he had made fast friends with woe;
And yet a gentle patience linger'd there,
Softening his haggard eyes--his pace was slow;
Listlessly on his way he seem'd to wend,
He knew not whither--without aim or end.
The little children look'd upon his face
With awe, and turn'd not to their sports again
When he had past; his melancholy grace
Sank on their spirits with such tender pain:
The Knight soon reach'd the forest's loneliest place,
Dismounted, and took off his charger's rein;
Then throwing his worn frame beneath a tree,
Began to gather daisies tristfully.
'Twas poor Sir Launfal, who had lately bidden
Farewell to Blanch, and all the world beside;
And thus far, on his lonely journey, ridden,
Seeking some savage place, wherein to hide--
What every body wishes to have hidden--
His poverty--and so to spare his pride,
Not dreaming (lucky dog) of what was brewing
To raise him to the height of bliss from ruin.
While thus he lay, dejected and forlorn,
Under the shadow of the old oak tree,
Lamenting that he ever had been born
To such a doom of abject penury,--
Behold two damsels, brighter than the morn,
Came tow'rd him through the green-wood suddenly,
Array'd in garments of ethereal splendour,
Which dimm'd their beauties to a gleam more tender.
Of an immortal loveliness were they,
And yet seem'd mortal women--I've not time
To speak minutely of their dress to-day,
But you may find it in the ancient rhyme;
Which names each article of their array
In terms no less exact than they're sublime--
Poets, they say, have got into distresses
Ere now, for meddling with young ladies' dresses.
Short greeting pass'd between the dames and Knight,--
Then thus the lovelier spake, with smile demure--
"Will't please you, Sir, to meet the presence bright
Of our fair mistress, royal Tryamour?
Who hopes you'll dine and take a bed to-night
At her near palace, and (the more to ensure
Your friendship) begs you to accept this gem--
No brighter shines in England's diadem."
With that, she knelt and placed a charmed ring
Upon Sir Launfal's finger, who, while raising
The damsel, with the grace of any king,
Felt, in himself, a change the most amazing:
At once his mounting spirit seem'd to spring
Into ethereal worlds, and wildly gazing
Into the wood, he fed his wondering eyes
On sights that mock'd his dreams of Paradise.
I've known a ring, placed on a maiden's finger,
Produce a like effect--and mark'd with pleasure,
To what new thoughts and feelings it could bring her,
Unlocking, in her bosom, many a treasure,
Which, but for that, might have been doom'd to linger
For years unsunn'd and waste away at leisure,
Like gold deep buried in a virgin mine--
But oh! Sir Launfal, what surprise was thine!
For all that forest-space, where late uprear'd
Thick, gnarled oaks, tall elms and beeches stood,
To his cleansed vision suddenly appear'd
Peopled with an ethereal multitude
Of bright and wondrous beings--some career'd,
Chasing each other, as in playful mood,
Through air and earth and water; others bent
Their eyes upon him in mute wonderment.
He stood amidst a region fair and proud,
Round whose horizon, lost in viewless space,
Mountain on mountain rose, like cloud on Cloud
In the bright sunset sky, and at their base
Fair valleys spread, and mighty forests bow'd,
And gentle rivers ran a pleasant race,
And giant lakes lay scatter'd here and there,
And sweetest scents and sounds were floating everywhere.
And scarce a bow-shot off stood the pavilion
Of crystal, where the Fairy held her court,
Flooded with rays of azure, and vermilion,
And purple, and bright hues of every sort.
Had I the pencil of the Bard of Lillian--
Could I suppose description was my forte--
I'd try to paint the place as it deserves;
But such an effort now would shake my nerves.
But let no reader deem what's writ a fiction,
Vowing that no such place can now be found--
A mere bravado of poetic diction,
Existing really nowhere above ground.
Know that, beneath the Muse's jurisdiction,
Such Faery regions every where abound;
Yea, e'en in crowded cities, or in gaols--
Surpassing all the beauty of North Wales.
Over the portal of the Fay's abode
There stood a mighty eagle, of pure gold,
Whose diamond eyes with, such resplendence glow'd
As no rash gaze of mortal might behold
Unblinded; but on Launfal was bestow'd
Strange power of vision:--through the thickest fold
Of midnight darkness pierced the bird's keen eyes,
And served for gas-lights to this Paradise.
And round the gate, in Spenser's words, there "lay
Great sorts of lovers, piteously complaining"--
The Elfin suitors of the wayward Fay,
Who proved an arch Penelope, not deigning
To let them know 'twas time to go away--
But when they saw Sir Launfal, the whole train, in
An instant, knew their fate, and clear'd the portal
For the admission of the favour'd mortal.
Anon, from that strange company, arose
A sound of tumult wild and lamentation,
Till, in mid air, from cries they came to blows--
The general disappointment and vexation
Ruffled their rival tempers, I suppose,
Which threaten'd the whole race with extirpation:
But soon those thunder-clouds dispersed, and then
The sky was silent and serene again.
Sir Launfal stood beneath the dome alone,
(For his two guides had left him,) and survey'd
The walls that gleam'd with many a precious stone,
The emerald ceilings, with pure gold inlaid,
The windows arch'd, through which pale light was thrown
On many a pillar'd cloister's long arcade;
And, of all else forgetful, paused a space,
To view the splendours of that wondrous place.
Through many a long saloon and echoing hall,
Fair court and spacious vestibule, he pass'd:
Unutterably glorious seem'd they all,
And yet each seem'd more glorious than the last;
And now reflected from the crystal wall,
On his own passing form a glance he cast,
And started--for his dress, and face, and air
Proclaim'd that strange enchantment had been there.
His robes, when he set out, I grieve to say,
(You recollect he'd been in sad distress)
Were neither very new, nor very gay,
Nor at all singular for cleanliness:
In fact, he hadn't wherewithal to pay
For washing or for mending; so you'll guess
That, though he strove his tatter'd plight to hide, he
Was the reverse of any thing that's tidy.
His cloak and pantaloons were sadly torn,
His boots and hose as bad as bad could be;
And his thin cheeks, so pale and famine-worn,
Told tales of long and abject poverty.
He look'd indeed an object most forlorn,
And his gaunt steed look'd more forlorn than he:
They seem'd (though both their frames were strong and
thick-set)
The ghosts of Rosinante and Don Quixote.
But now so perfect was his transformation,
That scarcely could the Knight believe his eyes,
But doubted if so strange an alteration
Was to be class'd with grave realities,
Or dreams of a deranged imagination;
He almost fancied that his miseries
Had turn'd his brain; for now from top to toe
He was bedizen'd like a finish'd beau.
And his late haggard eyes were now grown brighter
Than ever they had been in days of yore;
His cheeks were plumper, and his teeth were whiter
Than when, at Arthur's court, the palm he bore
No less for his good looks than as a fighter--
Besides, so costly were the robes he wore,
That, gazing on his mien and his attire,
He sigh'd that none were near him to admire.
But now before two folding doors he stood
Of soft and pearly lustre, and within
That hidden room's mysterious solitude
Heard, as of waters, a low murmurous din,
Inviting noon-day sleep; in anxious mood
He paused, as if he thought 'twould be a sin,
With step irreverent and o'er-Curious eye,
To interrupt that deep tranquillity.
Thus while be stood, with restless feelings burning,
A low sweet music suddenly arose,
To which the doors on noiseless hinges turning,
Reveal their hidden secrets, and disclose
A hall whose light just served him for discerning
That 'twas constructed chiefly for repose;
And through that tender and voluptuous gloom,
Unconscious Launfal view'd his nuptial room.
No window into that enchanted place
Pour'd the full light of sun or stars or moon:
Mother-of-pearl wall'd round the sacred space,
Drinking in mellow'd floods the fiery noon,
And starr'd with gems that did the darkness chase,
Like those that peep through fleecy clouds in June;
Whence a still gleam on all the chamber lay,
Brighter than moonlight, softer far than day.
And in the midst, with low and slumberous sound,
By night and day a bubbling fountain play'd,
Whose voice alone the silentness profound
Of that delicious chamber did invade;
And at one end, as if in slumber bound,
On a bright couch the beauteous Fay was laid;
Tow'rd whom Sir Launfal did on tiptoe creep,
While still she soundly slept, or feign'd to sleep.
Her shape was perfect symmetry, though less
In stature than most forms of woman-kind;
But who shall paint the perfect loveliness
Of her resplendent features, which combined
All that of Heavenly Beauty poets guess,
With all that painters upon Earth can find?
And who shall paint the light, not yet reveal'd,
Which those long silken eyelashes conceal'd?
Description, as I've said, is not my forte;
So we'll give o'er describing--Launfal knelt
Some time-he knew not if 'twas long or short--
Beside her, and his heart began to melt
And leap and throb in such tumultuous sort
As he had never, till that moment, felt.
He knew at once his dream's mysterious beauty,
And saw that love was now become a duty.
And so he fell in love without delay,
And soon, by dint of gazing, grown more bold,
Press'd to his lips the fingers of the Fay--
A mode of courtship, in such cases, old.
It woke her--yet the story does not say
That she thought fit to look displeased, or scold;
But fix'd her eyes, that seem'd with love to swim,
Full on his face, and fondly welcomed him.
When will this canto end?--the situation
Of these two lovers would be quite a prize
To any bard who'd time for the narration
Of melting tones, fond looks, and burning sighs.
They sat some time, in mutual agitation,
Gazing devoutly on each other's eyes;
And then the Fairy sank on Launfal's breast,
And the whole story of her love confess'd.
She "fear'd that he would think her very bold,
For having dared to love him--she should seem
Indelicate to beings of his mould--
--Women would call her forwardness extreme--
And, she confess'd, her heart was not so cold
As she could wish"--and then a brighter gleam,
As she gazed on him, through her fond eyes rush'd--
And then she look'd upon the ground and blush'd.
"He had strange power of witch-craft, she was sure,
Who thus could charm a hapless Fairy's heart--
A Fairy's, too, who never could endure
A Faery suitor, and had mock'd the dart
Of Cupid, till she fell into his lure--
--She scarcely dared to hope that he would part
With Earth's most radiant Beauties for her sake,--
She had few offers for such love to make.
"Yet if he would be true to her, and live
Content with her poor beauty, he should be
Endow'd with all that Faery-land could give
Of wealth and power and bliss and dignity;
And she would roam (she hoped he would forgive
Her freedom) at his side o'er land and sea;
And make him still victorious in the fight,
And love him ever truly, day and night.
You may conceive (if you have ever been
Engaged in courtship that resembled this,
Thus basking in young eyes of tenderest sheen
In the full glow of love's acknowledged bliss)--
Sir Launfal's answer to the Faery queen;
So that I need not tell you 'twas a kiss,
"A long, long kiss" in Byron's phrase, which I,
On this occasion, deign to ratify.
And when that first and holiest rapture past,
Ere yet their severed lips had ceased to tingle,
(Pity such kisses can't for ever last
When love and duty, as in wedlock, mingle)--
Tryamour--since it's not the thing to fast,
For married people any more than single--
Summon'd her Fays, and bade them serve in haste
A marriage banquet in the Fairy taste.
And when that dainty feast at length was o'er,
The Queen a goblet to her lips did raise,
And pledged Sir Launfal as her spouse, before
The assembled company of Elves and Fays;
And gave him full possession of her store,
And vow'd to love him truly all her days;
He pledg'd the draught, and thus, with mutual passion,
The pair were wedded in the Faery fashion.
And here I once intended to describe,
In the sublimest verses I could write,
The feasts and frolics of the Elfin tribe
In celebration of that nuptial night;
The dance, the song, the gambol, and the gibe,
The illuminations, and the bonfires bright;
And how the groves were sprinkled with pavilions
Of sprites, who came to join the sport by millions.
And how, at midnight, the full moon and stars
Their brightest beams on those wild revels shed,
Gaily careering on their fiery cars,
As if they too were dancing over-head;
And how Jove laugh'd and Venus wink'd at Mars,
And Mars, beneath her glance, turn'd doubly red;
And sly old Saturn, from his mystic ring,
Appropriate lustre on the scene did fling.
I meant to have described Sir Launfal's sleep,
Dream-haunted, and the sights his inward eye
Saw, while his bride a loving watch did keep,
Kissing, full oft, his eyelids tenderly;
And giving his wrapt spirit power to peep
Into the secrets of earth, sea, and sky;
All which, for want of room, must be omitted,
I'm really quite alarm'd when I survey
The quantity of work that's to be done
In the remaining canto of this lay--
(For I'm resolved to finish it in one,
Whatever Mr. Knight may choose to say)--
Indeed, I half regret that I've begun
An undertaking which, I see, will double
The estimate I'd form'd of ink and trouble.
Canto the fourth will tell you how the Knight
Return'd in triumph, to the court of Britain;
And how he was admired by ladies bright,
And how Queen Guenever herself was smitten,
And suffer'd for her crimes, what served her right;
All which, before next April, shall be written
But, for the present, here my toils I close,
Leaving the lovers to their late repose.
"Before next April! "--Thirteen years ago
Thus spake I; but or ere that April shone,
My fancy's frozen stream had ceased to flow,
My dreaming time of life was past and gone.
And now when summer flowers no longer blow,
And the near autumn stealthily creeps on,
I must not with my primrose wreath of spring
Mix scentless buds of later blossoming.
So if there be who would the tale pursue
Of my sweet fairy and my gentle Knight,--
(An old quaint tale of passion fond and true,
Which did the taste of simpler days delight)--
Even to the fount from which my fancy drew
Let me such readers, ere we part, invite.
There, unrestricted, let them, if they will,
Of pure and tender beauty quaff their fill.
To them--to all who shall my page peruse,
Adieu --a long--perchance a last adieu
Friends of my youth, who cheer'd my early muse,
In whose warm smile my budding fancy grew,
Yours be these lays--nor ye a gift refuse,
Poor though it be, which haply shall renew
In your ripe hearts, as now it doth in mine,
The long lost feelings of the Auld lang sync.
In gravest toils, at war with phantasy,
Nine years, nine mortal years, have swiftly past,
Since my then youthful Muse unfolded last
Her curious treasures to the public eye.
Since then hath Fancy's rivulet been dry,
And on my brow her chaplet fading fast;
But now my 'crescent boat' erects her mast,
And braves once more the doubtful sea and sky.
Fair be her voyage, though she mounts no more
The gaudy streamers of her earlier days,
Nor, fraught with folly, scuds along the shore,
Her trade vain pleasure, and her fare vain praise;
But now, with steadier helm, and sail, and oar,
Her freight of calm and serious thought conveys.
I stand upon the verge of middle age,--
My five-and-thirtieth year well nigh complete;
Half way already on Life's pilgrimage--
Here let me rest awhile my way-worn feet,
And cherish recollections, sad yet sweet,
Of the long distance I have travell'd o'er.--
The present and the past together meet
In my mind's eye;--the future lies before--
Vast, void, oh how unlike the dream-throng'd days of yore!
Vast, void, and dim and dark;--and yet therein
Confused and shadowy phantoms I descry
Of joy and grief, each struggling hard to win
Over the other final victory;
My future life the prize for which they vie
So keenly each with each; but to the past
When I revert my unforgetful eye,
Ah me! how that is throng'd from first to last,
With bright and beauteous shapes, though fading now full
fast.
Childhood with all its joys--how long departed!
Boyhood and youth fantastically bright,
When, led by love and hope, I roam'd light-hearted
Through an ideal world of wild delight--
All these have fled, like visions of the night;
And lo! young wedlock's bright and cloudless morn,
Majestically rising, puts to flight
The last dim shades of lingering twilight born:--
Wedlock--whose sober bliss laughs Fancy's joys to scorn.
A few years pass, and lo! the scene is changed;
Life's shifting pageant hath grown graver still;
The thoughts are dead which once so wildly ranged,
I climb no longer the fair Muse's hill,
Of fancies quaint no longer take my fill;
But graver duties all my care demand,
Whereto I strive to bend my wayward will,
And raise my pastoral voice and guiding hand
To urge Christ's fainting flock on to their native land.
And bright-eyed children gambol round my knees,
And many a household care and joy is mine;
And in my path throng life's realities,
Which yet so brightly, to my thinking, shine,
That 'twere in me most idle to repine
For young imagination's baubles lost:
Safely at last, in peace and love divine,
My "crescent boat" is moor'd, no longer toss'd
By jarring winds, no more by adverse currents cross'd.
What more remains to rouse the power of song,
And wake tired fancy from that charmed sleep
In which her eyelids have been closed so long?
What stronger magic o'er my chords shall sweep,
And once more bid them into music leap?
For the old spells have lost their power of moving;
My blood's young flow hath settled into deep
And waveless peace;--still'd is my brain's wild roving;
My heart hath grown too calm for aught but sober loving.
What more remains?--Yes! one thing more, at least,
Claims a last effort;--by yon friendly hearth
Young Love prepares to-day his bridal feast--
A feast where sadness doth contend with mirth;
So must it ever be with joys of earth:
But mirth and sadness both are lovely there;
For never in that house is there a dearth
Of Christian love,--love which 'tis mine to share,
Love rich in purer bliss than I have found elsewhere.
And therefore, though perchance my faded strains
Shall more dishonour than adorn the theme,
Let me essay to break my spirit's chains,
And launch, once more, my bark upon the stream
Of pleasant vision and poetic dream;
Pourtraying, gentle friend, thy future life,
Tranquil and bright as I would have it seem
With household joys and happy feelings rife,
And thee, so dear a friend, the matron and the wife.
The moon hath scarce gone down,
And o'er our quiet town
The morning star is still his vigil keeping;
Night's silent reign hath ceased,
And slowly from the east
Day's wintry beams are o'er the twilight creeping;
Once more is life in house and field astir--
Sleeps yet our beauteous bride?--tread softly--wake not her.
Awhile let her forget
(Since love allows it yet)
The agitations of the coming hour;
The deep and solemn vows,
Which she, a virgin spouse,
Must speak, or ere in Hymen's chosen bower,
To his soft yoke resigning her wild will,
Of sweet connubial bliss she yet may take her fill.
Transition passing strange!
A swift yet solemn change,
From maidenhood, serene and fancy-free,
To all the unquiet cares
Which envious Fate prepares
Even for those matrons who the happiest be.
Thy dream of virgin peace is well nigh gone;
Sleep while thou may'st, young bride, still sleep securely
on.
Sleep on; for thou to-day
Must take thy leave for aye
Of pleasures loved and hoarded since thy birth;
To thine own mother's door
Thou shalt return no more
In thine own right--a dweller by her hearth;
Of all its joys the undisputed Queen;
For these no more to thee can be what they have been.
The sympathies intense
Of childhood's innocence,
Thy maidenly affections, sweet and dear--
The love so deeply felt
For all who with thee dwelt
Beneath one roof, for many a pleasant year,--
These thou can'st never lose; and yet must they,
Merged in a deeper stream, half disappear to-day.
Thy heart must now become
The calm and quiet home
Of stronger sympathies, and cares more high;
Nor ever must thou look,
Henceforth, on this world's book
With young imagination's glistening eye.
The page of vision must be closed for thee,
And all thy joys be those of dull reality.
Where art thou in thy dreams?--
Haply beside the streams,
Or wandering in the woods thy childhood loved;
In sunshine bright and clear
Most glorious doth appear
Each well-known haunt in which thy steps have roved;
And old familiar faces on thee smile,
And voices, loved long since, sound pleasantly the while.
E'en the beloved Dead
Have left their earth-strewn bed,
To commune with thee in thy dreams to-night;
And each resplendent brow
Looks fondlier on thee now
Than ever in those days of past delight,
To which thy slumbering heart now wanders back,
A wild and wondrous way in memory's moon-lit track.
Were it not well to be
In such sweet phantasy
Held by the fetters of eternal sleep?--
But soft!--what dreamy change,
Dim, and perplert, and strange,
Doth o'er the spirit of thy vision creep?
A sense obscure of transformation wrought
E'en in the deepest springs of feeling and of thought?
No more within thee plays
The life of early days,
With which, but now, thy vision was so bright;
O'er childhood's mental world
A curtain dark unfurl'd
Veils its departing glories from thy sight;
And thou art conscious of a woman's heart,
Within thy bosom form'd, complete in every part.
And straight, throughout thy dream,
New forms and faces gleam,
And other voices intermixt are heard;
At whose approaching sound
At once the depths profound
Of thought and will, of soul and sense are stirr'd:
And hopes and fears, and feelings vague and dim,
Through thy bewilder'd brain, in swift succession, swim.
And other sounds draw near,
And other shapes appear,
Commingled and confused:--arise, away,
'Tis time thou shouldst be gone;
Some power impels thee on
Whither thou know'st not--a mysterious way;
And lo! thou stand'st on consecrated ground,
Within a holy fane, with faces throng'd around.
What voice salutes thine ear?
Look up--thy parent dear
With wistful eye is o'er thy slumber bending;
The dreaded morn is come,
Which from the long loved home
Summons her child: already tears are blending
With smiles on either anxious sister's cheek;
Thy gentle brother droops with heart too full to speak.
An hour, and all is o'er;
Those cheeks are pale no more,
Those tears have ceased to flow: the word is spoken,
The holy rite complete,
And smiling faces greet
The husband and the wife with many a token
Of glad congratulation;--grief hath flown
For some few moments' space, which mirth asserts her own.
Some moments--a brief hour,
Ere for your nuptial bower
Ye two depart;--'tis gone, and we remain,
(I, and my tearful spouse)
In our deserted house,
Alone and pensive, between joy and pain,
Hope and dull fear, for what may us betide
From this day's deed, which yet Time's pregnant womb doth
hide.
But thou--speed on thy way,
And let thy heart be gay,
While hope and expectation yet are young;
By thy blest husband's side,
A bright and blooming bride,
Drink each fond word that trembles on his tongue;
Pay with thy looks each look of his fond eyes,
And learn--if still thou need'st--to love and yet be wise.
In sooth, it suits not thee,
Love's sweet absurdity,--
Thou know'st not how to play the woman's part;
Too bright a creature thou,
With that thought-breathing brow,
That intellect intense and burning heart,
To play with Cupid as weak women play;--
Therefore I deem it well thy wooing ends to-day.
For never didst thou wear
A less majestic air,
Than when, descending from thy loftier mood,
Thou didst consent awhile
Love's fervour to beguile
As more beseem'd less stately womanhood.
Nor couldst to cheat those lingering hours refuse
In such fond, foolish sort as lovesick maidens use.
O grief! if love like thine,
Which should be so divine,
So heavenly pure a feeling, so profound,
Had been profaned by aught
Of less exalted thought
Than may in woman's noblest heart be found.
The blind, the vulgar love be far from thee!
The love of impulse wild and feverish phantasy.
Affection deep, but still,
Calm forethought, temperate will,
Approving judgment, and deliberate choice;--
And dignity austere,
And self-respect severe--
In mates like these must love like thine rejoice,
From its pure presence putting far away
Whate'er our human heart's fond weakness doth betray.
Now, all such peril o'er--
On Hymen's tranquil shore
Securely landed--with a frown dismiss
Cupid's fantastic train,--
Be all thyself again;
Yea, far more lovely, from the quiet bliss
Of satisfied affection newly born,
To tame thy virgin pride, and soften thy wild scorn.
Keep well thy wedded state,
While in thy presence wait
All noble graces and all virtues high;
Calm prudence, wifely pride,
Love grave, and dignified
By mien sedate, and converse matronly.
Young bride, our neighbourhood demands of thee
Example bright of what a Christian wife should be.
For thou wast nurtured well,
Where pious hearts did dwell
In principle severe and faith sublime;
Love, purer than of earth,
Watch'd o'er thee from thy birth,
And taught and train'd thee e'en to maiden prime.
A high and saintly walk must needs be thine,
To realize the hopes which fondly round thee twine.
Thou wilt not put to shame,
Nor let dull scoffers blame
Thy Christian nurture;--in the face of Heaven
Take freely on thee now
A Christian matron's vow;
Let thy pure heart, while yet 'tis young, be given
To the high task which straight before thee lies,
And from thy bridal bower look upward to the skies.
Forget not that in thee
Redemption's mystery
Is dimly shadow'd forth and imaged now;
Type of that heavenly Bride
Who, at the Saviour's side,
Betroth'd to Him with many a solemn vow,
At the last day shall come in glory down,
To share his throne of love and amaranthine crown.
But hush!--for all too long
My weak and tedious song
Hath been discoursed to thy unlistening ear:
Long since, perchance, 'twas time
To cheek this wayward rhyme,
And leave thee free to other cares more dear.
In sooth, it is not well to waste to-day,
The gravest of thy life, in rhyme and roundelay.
The day is gone at last;--
Darkness is gathering fast
O'er the tired earth; all human hearts repose;
Even Love on Beauty's breast
Hath sigh'd himself to rest;
Here fitly may my song's last cadence close;
A feeble song, yet faithful and sincere,
Nor all unmeet, I trust, for hearts like thine to hear.
My Margaret, thou hast often marvell'd why
Thy husband, famed for feats of poesy
In boyhood and hot youth, hath so forgot
His tuneful craft, and now discourseth not
The music he was wont; and thou dost blame
His sluggish humour, which no hope of fame
Nor (what should move him more) remorseful shame
For talents unimproved, or buried deep
In the dim caves of intellectual sleep,
Can rouse to due exertion. I confess
That thy most sweet, upbraiding earnestness
Hath ofttimes moved me to a fond regret
For powers long valued, and remember'd yet
With melancholy pleasure; yet full well
Thou know'st how grave the duties which compel
My mind to other tasks; how vast a weight
Of solemn vows and cares importunate
Lies on the minister of Christ:--should I
Forget the deep responsibility
Attach'd to my high office?--leave my fold
Unwatch'd, my sheep unfed, that I might hold
Communion with a wild and wanton muse,
Whose weak earth-fetter'd pinions would refuse
To bear me to those heights of sacred song,
Where Christian poets, far above the throng
Of this world, tune their harps?--should I forego
The studies I most need, the hours I owe
To patient self-inspection--the still thought,
The frequent prayer, through which alone is taught
Knowledge of things divine, to weave once more
The idle rhymes I used to weave of yore.
And win the worthless meed of this world's praise,
As then I won it, by more worthless lays,
Repented of when finish'd? Oh, not so;
Better my stream of verse should cease to flow
For ever, than flow thus: if I could sing
With Saint and Psalmist, tuning every string
Of my rapt harp to the Eternal's praise,
Yet not disgrace my theme, I then might raise
My willing song triumphantly; and now,
If I may keep my ministerial vow,
By interweaving with a record brief
Of our still recent and still poignant grief,
Such lessons as beseem it--such as win
The soul from earthly dreams pollute with sin
To serious thought,--my toil will not be vain,
And we shall find some solace for our pain
In dwelling on its cause, recording now
Things which late wrung the heart, and wrapt the brow
In no unblest, though melancholy gloom;--
So sit we here beside our infant's tomb,--
And while thy pencil shadows forth the spot
So lately known, but ne'er to be forgot
"While memory holds her seat," my kindred art
Shall summon from their hiding place, the heart,
Remembrances most sad, but oh, most dear,
And note them down for many a future year
Of hallow'd meditation.
Dearest wife,
'Tis sixteen years, almost my half of life,
Since I, a boy, retiring from the throng
Of boyish playmates, breathed my first sad song--
"My Brother's Grave." Since then full many a change
Hath come upon my spirit--the free range
Of youthful thought--Hope's bright and beauteous prime,
The dreams and fancies of Life's golden time,
Have been and ceased to be; yet might I say
Which period of the days, now gone for aye,
Was richest in Earth's comforts, my fond heart
Would, without scruple, name the latter part,--
Our nine sweet years of wedlock: Time hath fled
So swiftly and so smoothly o'er my head
Since first I call'd thee wife--our days flow'd by
With such unmix'd and deep tranquillity,
That long our spirits seem'd to lack the rod
Which chastens and subdues each child of God.
And shall we murmur now that Death at last
Hath, Heaven-commission'd, o'er our threshold past,
And in our cup of long unmingled bliss
Infused one drop of bitterness? Shall this
Shake our once cheerful faith--at once destroy
That which we cherish'd, in our days of joy,
As undefiled religion? Nay, sweet love,
Confessing that this blow was from above,
Long needed, long suspended, soften'd now
By mercies great and many, let us bow
Beneath the Chastener's hand, and while our grief
Still vents itself in tears, or seeks relief
In these and such like tasks, let us confess
That God himself, in very faithfulness,
Hath caused us to be troubled; that 'tis good
To have been thus afflicted, thus subdued,
And wean'd in part from this world's vanities,
To that good world where now our treasure lies.
So bury we our dead. Now let us dwell
Awhile on the events which late befell
Ourselves and our dear children, ere Death's blow
Swept one from our sweet circle. Thou dost know
With how much close and cogent argument,
Convinced at last, our purpose we forewent
Of visiting my parents, that some length
Of sojourn near the sea might bring thee strength
Long lost, and now much needed; so one day,
One glorious day of August, on our way
Seaward we fared, and from the wharfs of Thames,
Mix'd with grave cits, and smiling city dames,
Took ship for fair Herne Bay. Our children three,
New to such bustling scenes, with childish glee
And wonderment perplext, look'd on and laugh'd,
As through the close ranged lines of bristling craft,
Moor'd by those wharfs, we thridded our slow way--
A dense and multitudinous array
Of vessels of all nations, mast on mast;
While ever and anon some steam-boat pass'd,
Bound homeward with its freight of busy folk,
Returning to their city's din and smoke,
After brief holiday in idlesse spent
At Deptford or Gravesend:--still on we went,
With swift, unconscious motion, floating by
Full many a spot in England's history
Well known and honour'd; arsenal and fort,
Fraught with war's stores, fair pier and crowded port,
Well known to merchants; cupola and dome
Of hospital superb, the princely home
Of veteran Seamen, while some batter'd hulk
Rear'd, ever and anon, its giant bulk
Above our puny top-mast, long laid by,
Far from war's din and battle's kindling cry,
Far from the roar of hostile cannonade,
From shock of clashing armaments, and made
A shrine for worship consecrate to him
Who sits on high between the cherubim;
Now echoing to the voice of praise and prayer
Where once the broadside peal'd on the vext air
Its dissonant thunder; grateful change, I ween,
To Christian hearts; but soon this busy scene
Gave place to one more peaceful: we had past
The realm of commerce: hull and sail and mast
Had faded in the distance, and we went
Along the coast of Surrey and fair Kent,
Fringed with rich woods and many a smooth ascent
Of green and sunny slopes, where village spires,
And stately mansions of stout English squires,
And villas of rich cits, by turns appear'd,
In swift succession, till at last we near'd
The mouth of the broad Thames.
Throughout the day
Our younger children between sleep and play
Had been alternating; our eldest boy,
(Himself not five) found matter to employ
His thought precocious, with observant eye
Noting whate'er he saw, and curiously
Investigating all things. We meanwhile
With books or conversation did beguile
Our not too tedious voyage: thou wast gay
With the blithe thoughts that in thy bosom lay,
Anticipating health, and strength, and joy,
Less for thyself than for our infant boy,
Whose premature and grief-o'erclouded birth,
Follow'd by sickness, long had caused a dearth
Of perfect gladness by our quiet hearth.
And yet, that day, how passing blithe was he,
How full of the sweet freaks of infancy,
As to and fro he paced along the deck
Hand-led, with restless step; or round thy neck
Flinging his passionate arms, with sportive glee
Mimick'd the hiss of the resentful sea,
Cloven by our keel; or gazed, with wistful eyes,
And heart of wonder, on some new found prize,
Soon chang'd for other novelty;--that look
Or his, I well remember, quickly took
The notice of one shipmate, who to me
Exclaim'd with air of thoughtful gravity,
"That child will be no common one." Alas!
How strangely that prediction came to pass!
Why dwell upon our landing? why recall
The toils and disappointments, one and all,
Of our whole search for lodgings? in few days
All was arranged, and we were free to gaze
From our front windows on the open sea,
Which sometimes slept beneath them peacefully,
Sometimes, with wrathful and obstreperous roar,
Swept the loose shingles from our sloping shore,
And hurl'd them back in scorn:--before us lay
A mighty pier, bisecting the broad bay
With its huge length, and stretching far away
To where the waves grew fiercer--work sublime
Of Telford's genius, which shall outlive Time,
In Britain's grateful memory enshrined;--
On either side our lodging, and behind,
In most admired disorder, up and down
Straggled the new-built and still spreading town,
A chaos wide of embryo street and square,
And stately terrace, built for the sea-air
To visit with its health-restoring breath,
And chase, if that might be, disease and death
From drooping invalids. Along the beach,
Eastward and westward, far as eye could reach,
Piles of unfinish'd buildings did extend,
Commingled strangely far the twofold end
Of rest and dissipation; here was seen
The bathing-house remote, with trim machine
Dipping its awning in the waves, and here,
Mocking the face of sickness, did appear
Ball-room and billiard-room, and gay parade,
Villa marine, aquatic esplanade,
And sea-commanding cottage.
Small concern
Had we with the gay world: we came to Herne
For health, not revelry; so, in our calm
And shelter'd dwelling, we inhaled the balm
Of the fresh sea-breeze, or along the shore
Stray'd with our children, to whose ear the roar
Of breakers was a new and stirring sound,
Enjoying their glad wonder, when they found
Shells or sea-weed, or pebbles strangely form'd,
Or chased the tiny crabs, which crawl'd and swarm'd
From underneath the shingles; while the sea
Daily, we fondly hoped, on them and thee
Shed life and bracing freshness. As for me,
My time, thou know'st, was short, so from the shore
Inland I turn'd my footsteps, to explore
(When first the heat permitted) those fair woods,
And pleasant dells, whose leafy solitudes
Stretch'd smilingly behind us. The first day,
I well remember, I had bent my way
With pencil in my hand, and serious book,
To seek some shady and sequester'd nook,
Where, unmolested, I might read at ease,
Or haply scribble some such lines as these,
As the whim took me. Such a nook I found
Hard by Herne Church, and stretch'd on the green ground,
O'erhung by clustering trees, spent some few hours
In study grave, beneath close sheltering bowers
Most meet for such employment; but what then
I noted most, and now recall again
Most fondly, was the loveliness which shone
In that old church, and church-yard still and lone.
A resting-place most fit it seem'd to be
For gentle dust, hung round by many a tree
Of deepest shade, and from intrusion free
Of foot or voice profane:--a holier gloom
Rests on it now--there stands our infant's tomb.
So one brief week was spent; and now the day
Too soon arrived which summon'd me away
From thee and my sweet children. Off the coast
The steam-boat's smoke was rising, when the post
Brought thee a letter from thou know'st what friend,
Fraught with dark news, and eloquently penn'd
By grief's deep inspiration; as we walk'd
Toward the pier head, how earnestly we talk'd
Of her and of her sorrows, till the grief
Of our own parting seem'd to find relief
E'en from the deep and yearning sympathy
Which we both felt for her; and when the sea
Swept me away upon its swelling breast
From thee and my dear boy, (whose grief, exprest
By silent tears, which, with averted face,
He strove to smother in my close embrace,
Had touch'd me with a father's deepest love,)
The spirit of old days began to move
Within me, and almost before mine eye,
Fixt on the pier, saw nought but vacancy
Where late your forms had stood, the power of song
Was re-awaken'd, and sent forth ere long
Haply a worthless, yet a loving strain,
Which, I well know, for ever shall remain
To us and those whose sorrow found it vent,
A record dear, a deathless monument
Of deep and pure affection, which must be
'Twixt us and them to all eternity.
Nor was this all; for when once more I stood
Beneath my Father's roof, my tuneful mood,
Thus waken'd, cheer'd my spirit's solitude,
(For solitude, sweet love, invests each spot,
Tho' crowded with dear forms, where thou art not,)
And oft, as I retired from circle gay
Of smiling friends, I wove a cheerful lay,
Breathing affection tender, pure, and high,
To Her whose late-found friendship thou and I
Ne'er can repay, or value worthily.
Ah, me! how sweetly were two mornings spent,
When, rising with the lark, alone I went
Through vale and grove, o'er verdant slope and hill,
By the stream side, and freely took my fill
Of pleasant fancies, framing at my ease
Thoughts full of love and dear remembrances
Into epistolary rhyme; and when
Night with her shades enveloped us again,
And the last words of evening prayer were said,
And, one by one, each worn and weary head
Save mine had sunk to rest upon its bed,
How blithely did my solitary light
Fling its pale ray athwart the gloom of night,
While with glad heart I plied my busy pen,
And mused and wrote, and wrote and mused again.
Ah! little deem'd I, at that task of joy,
What deadly pangs had seized my infant boy,
What grievous woe awaited thee and me.
My task was finish'd, and triumphantly
Committed to the post;--but err 'twas done,
I, though I knew it not, had lost a son!
That blow came sharp and sudden; when I sail'd,
The hue of gathering sickness scarce had paled
Our darling's cheek, and when upstairs I bent
My lingering steps, to kiss him ere I went,
Methought that there was something in his look,--
I knew not what,--that for a moment shook
My heart with vague forebodings, undefined,
And speedily dismiss'd;--my sanguine mind,
Prompt to anticipate the best, is slow
To harbour forethought of impending woe:
And when ere long a letter came from thee,
Which told me of thy past anxiety,
And danger now no more, my heart believed
That which it wish'd; and though at times I grieved
To think that sickness should invade the spot
Where thou still wert, and I, alas! was not,
I flung all fear aside, and thank'd our God
For thus withdrawing the uplifted rod.
Short was my triumph; the next post laid low
All my fair hopes, and plunged me deep in woe.
How hadst thou fared thro' all that dreadful time,
While I, far off, inditing pleasant rhyme,
Dream'd of no ill, save what seem'd ill to me,--
To lack thy smiles and sweet society;
To think how many a thrilling look and word,
By me should be unseen, by me unheard,
From the sweet lips and pleasure-beaming eyes
Of our three darlings;--every morn to rise
Unsummon'd by their voices, or by thine,
All day, though circled by loved friends, to pine
For others dearer still, and then at night
To miss the pure and exquisite delight
Of their last kiss;--to dream of them, till day
Chased the last visions of the night away;
And the light, darting through my window pane,
Summon'd me forth to walk and dream again.
Grieved I at this? ah! slender grief I ween!
What had I felt had we together been?
Had each fierce pang, which pierced thee through and
through
Struck on my heart, and wrung my spirit too;
Each hope, each fear which shook that soul of thine
Thrill'd with the selfsame bitterness through mine;
Had I been doom'd to witness each dread pain
Which rack'd his guiltless heart and guileless brain,
To listen to his weak and wailing cry,
To watch his tearful and imploring eye,
Craving the boon thou couldst not but deny,
One little drop to slake that bitter thirst--
Had I seen this, I think my heart had burst.
Yea, when the hour of mortal pain was past,
And the exhausted spirit, ebbing fast,
Had ta'en the speculation from that eye
Once so lit up with infant brilliancy;
When the calm hush of that most dread repose
Spoke suffering past, and life about to close
Till, as he faintly drew his last weak breath,
Thou look'dst and look'dst, and scarcely knew'st 'twas
death--
Had I seen this, which thou didst see alone,
I think e'en Reason would have left her throne:
And what thy gentle soul could scarce sustain,
Had crush'd my sterner heart, and overwhelm'd my brain.
Why was I spared? with what unknown intent?
Reserved, perhaps, for sharper punishment;
And oh! more needed, more deserved than thine:
For, throughout this, a Providence divine
Seems to have turn'd grief's sharpest darts from me,
To fix them still more stingingly in thee.
Thine was the struggle, while thy husband slept;
'Twas thy heart bled, thy gentle eyes that wept,
While death and life contended--he meanwhile,
Divided from thy side by many a mile,
Knew nothing of thy pangs, nor could assuage
By speech or look thy sorrow's wildest rage,
Nor e'en partake it with thee:--thou wast fain
To bear alone that grievous load of pain,
Unsoothed, unaided, by a husband's love,
But seeking thy best solace from above,
Kissing the rod which smote thee:--but for me
The bitter shock was soften'd graciously,
Not only by the space which lay between
Me and the terrors of that fearful scene,
But by a train of circumstances, slight
Themselves, yet used by mercy infinite
To break and mitigate the first dead blow
Which else had well nigh crush'd me with a woe
Too grievous to be borne:--my sterner heart
Had been prepared and disciplined in part,
For that which was to come, by what was past:
The news of that first danger made the last
And mortal stroke, though unexpected, still
A less undream'd of, unimagined ill
Than it had been till then; the sudden call
To swift and public travel; most of all,
The last few days' employment, which had wrought
A world within me of Elysian thought--
The sense of comfort minister'd by me
So recently to others, and to be
Repaid, as I well knew, with usury,--
The very thought of thee in thy deep grief
Pining for me, and for that poor relief
Which I alone of earthly friends could bring,--
Even this contributed to dull the sting
Of my own sorrow; yet, when morning broke
O'er Canterbury's towers, and I awoke
From the light slumber which had come to close
My travel-wearied eyes in brief repose,
When, hastening onward, I discern'd the bay
With all its shore-built dwellings, through the grey
Of twilight, and remember'd that there lay
My infant's corpse; ah me, how dull a weight
Press'd on my heart, how blank and desolate
The world seem'd then to me! Why rack again
Thy soul and mine, by dwelling on the pain
Of our sad meeting? Why record the sighs
Which heaved our breasts, the tears which from our eyes
Gush'd, as we stood in silence side by side
In that sad room in which our darling died,
And view'd him in his coffin? why recall
The pang of parting with the little all
Still left us of his beauty, when the day
Of burial came, and on our mournful way
We wended to the church-yard, wherein I
Had mark'd before the spot where he should lie,
My last sad office of parental care,
The fairest spot where all was passing fair;
A pleasant nook at the extremest end,
O'er which two stately sycamores extend
Their interlacing branches, and the ground,
Still without graves for some small space around,
Seem'd by strange chance to have been kept apart
For our sweet babe, that each paternal heart
Might have, when grief's first bitterness was gone,
One pleasant spot for thought to rest upon.
There, in the stillness of that sacred shade,
With many a tear the cherish'd dust we laid,
And turn'd us homeward; but still many a day
Our lingering steps trode and retrode the way
Which led us to his grave; and there didst thou,
With tear-suffused eyes and pale sad brow,
Sit by my side, and with thy pencil trace
Each feature of the loved though mournful place;
While, with no unblest ministry, did I
In thoughtful mood my task poetic ply,
Drawing sweet solace from the busy brain,
To ease the pressure of the heart's dull pain,
Which would not be dispell'd:--when I reflect
How long that gift, laid by in deep neglect,
Had slumber'd in my soul, and what relief
Was brought by its revival to our grief,
I scarce can think but that the recent woe
Felt by our friends, which caused the stream to flow
Once more within my heart, by Heaven was sent
In kindness to us two, with the intent
That powers call'd forth to soothe their deep distress
Should prove a solace to our bitterness.
For this we rest their debtors, but much more--
(Ah me, how much!) for that most blessed store
Of comfort which ere long their letters brought,
Breathing deep sympathy and Christian thought,
A treasure inexhaustible of love,
Not of this earth, but kindled from above;
Making us feel, in our extremest need,
That none but Christians can be friends indeed.
And now three mournful weeks were past and gone
Since death's drear visit, and a simple stone
Meanwhile had on our daring's grave been placed,
On which a simple epitaph was traced,
Writ by my hand--a record sad and brief
Of his past sweetness, of our present grief,
And the fond hope which ne'er will pass away,
Of blest re-union to endure for aye,
When death shall be no more. At length the day
Of our departure came, and we must say
Farewell, with lingering steps and tearful eyes,
To the sweet spot where our lost treasure lies.
With what heart-rending agony to thee
Thou well remember'st, and with grief, by me,
Felt, as I think, more from deep sympathy
With thy exceeding sorrow, than for aught
Suggested to myself of painful thought
By that leave-taking. It will doubtless seem
A paradox to many; yet I deem
That we of the wild heart and wandering brain
Are less accessible to joy or pain
From such associations--find the scene
Of joy long past, or sorrow which hath been,
Less pregnant with ideal bliss or woe
Than others do, whose feelings are more slow,
Whose fancies less intense. When we survey
The wrecks and reliques of the olden day--
Old battle-field, or camp, or ruin grey
Of abbey or of fortress, we feel less
Of its past pride, than of the loveliness
Which Time hath shed around it; others cast
Their mind's eye far more fondly on the past,
And muse so fixedly on days gone by,
That they impart a dread reality,
A present life, to things that were of old,
Peopling with phantoms what they now behold
In ruin and decay. So do not we;
Our light wing'd thoughts so easily can flee
From that which is to that which ought to be,
Glance with such swiftness from the scene that's nigh
Into the airiest realms of phantasy,
That if such scene should raise a transient pain
Within the heart, the ever ready brain,
Almost ere felt, disperses it again,
Filling its place with fancies sweet and strange,
Rapid and rich, and ever on the range.
'Tis this, and more than this, the poet's eye
So keen to seek, so ready to descry
All visible beauty, and the poet's breast
So eager to enjoy, so glad to rest,
In contemplation calm and deep delight,
Known but to him, on every lovely sight
Of nature, or of art, extracting thence
Whate'er it yields to gladden outward sense
Unmix'd and undisturb'd--'tis this that takes
The pressure from our hearts; 'tis this that makes
The interest, deep and keen, which others feel
In the mere scene of former woe and weal,
Known by themselves or others, less acute
In us than them. E'en now with careless foot
I traverse haunts where thou and I together
Roam'd hand in hand in youth's unclouded weather,
As love's sweet fancies led us; view the stream
On whose green banks we used to sit and dream
Of bliss to come, and pleasantly beguile
The lingering days of courtship; cross the stile
Where first our faith was plighted, and for life
Thou gavest thyself to me, my bride, my wife,
The mother of my children; pass each spot
Hallow'd by feelings ne'er to be forgot;
Yet, all the while, see little and feel less
Of aught except its present loveliness.
This is not so with thee; thy gentle heart
Dwells, I well know, most fondly on each part
Of all that cherish'd scene, and interweaves
E'en with the slightest whisper of its leaves,
The gush of its sweet waters, thoughts most dear
And recollections nursed for many a year,
And to be nursed for ever. So, when we
Together stood beneath one spreading tree
Of those which shade the grave, a heavier weight
Press'd on thy heart, and made it desolate,
Than mine then felt; O, not because my heart
Had then, or at this hour hath ceased to smart;
Still less because my faith, more strong than thine,
Soar'd higher from the grave to things divine:
'Twas simply that my nature is less prone
Than thine to see, in simple sod and stone,
That which lies hid beneath them; is less moved
By outward tokens of things lost and loved;
Grieves and rejoices, in its joy and grief,
Without excitement, and without relief,
From visible memorials, and is slow
To give admission to ideal woe.
So, knowing that mine eyes no more should see
My child on earth, it matter'd not to me
That I was soon to quit the burial place
Of him whom I should ne'er again embrace;
Whose infant voice no more should glad mine ear;
Whose infant kiss no more delight me here.
I felt the gift resumed by Him who gave:
The soul was gone, why linger at the grave?
But thou! Alas, what pain was thine to leave
That, and each spot where thou hadst loved to grieve;
How oft thy restless step and tearful eye
Roved thro' the room where thou hadst seen him die.
How oft, how fondly, thy sad looks survey'd
The bed wherein his cherish'd corpse was laid,
The chair which held his coffin; e'en the pall
Brought from his funeral--how thou loved'st them all!
And when the hour was come, when part we must
From the loved spot which held our darling's dust,
With what keen anguish wast thou torn away!
How, as our bark dash'd swiftly through the spray,
Didst thou still gaze on the receding bay,
As though thou leftest in that churchyard fair
The soul of him whose body sleepeth there!
Our journey was soon ended; o'er our town
The sun was going, in his glory, down,
Bright and rejoicing in a cloudless sky,
As we, in melancholy thought, drew nigh
Our once glad dwelling:--at the well known gate
The coach stopp'd short, and oh, how desolate
Seem'd our sweet home!--how had its glory pass'd,
Its aspect faded since we saw it last!
Yet was it nothing alter'd; every tree
Was still as beauteous as it used to be,
And Autumn's mellow lustihood was shed,
In rich luxuriance, on each garden bed,
Then deck'd with many a bright and gorgeous flower,
While hops prolific, twining round the bower,
Into our hearts a fresh memorial sent
Of our late found, but ever cherish'd Kent.
Within doors all was, with assiduous care,
Garnish'd and swept, as if to meet us there
E'en with unusual welcome; every room
Still redolent of paint: and thus the gloom
Which wrapt our hearts, grew darker and more dense
From jarring contrast; the oppressive sense
Of that unfitness which we felt to be
Near aught that breathed of this world's gaiety.
Even this was bitter; but much more, alas!
The sad memorials of the bliss that was,
But is not, and henceforth shall be no more.
The chair, the crib, the silent nursery floor,
Now press'd no longer by his tiny tread;
His nurse's empty chair, and unmade bed;
Yea, e'en the absence of his wailing cry,
At midnight heard, when thou, with scarce closed eye
And wakeful ear, wast ever prompt to start
At the least sound which told thy anxious heart,
Or seem'd to tell it, that thy child slept not;
This within doors;--without, each turf-clad spot
On which he sat, or with his little hand
Grasping the outstretch'd finger, strove to stand
Or walk, secure from sudden trip or fall;
The hawk his infant accents loved to call;
The two tall elms shading that grassy mound,
Where, with his nurse, or us, on the green ground
He laugh'd and play'd so often; each of these,
And many more, waked sad remembrances,
And still must wake them: on thy desolate heart
At first they struck so sharply, that the smart
I think had overwhelm'd thee, but that she,
Our dear, dear friend, in tenderest sympathy,
Sent by strong impulse of confiding love,
Came, like a blessed angel from above,
With healing on its wings, to soothe and share
The sorrow, which in solitude to bear
Had been too grievous. When I saw thee press'd,
Beloved, with such fondness to that breast,
Which is the home of every gentle thought,
And every pure affection; when she sought,
Still intermingling with thy tears her own,
To show us that we sorrow'd not alone,
(I might almost have said scarce more than she,)
Methought I could have blest our misery
.For bringing us such love; for thus revealing
The stream profound of pure and tender feeling
Which flows from her heart into thine and mine;
The richest boon which Providence Divine,
Lavish of good, hath on us two bestow'd;
The sweetest solace of that weary road
On which we travel between life and death,
Faint and perplext, and often out of breath;
But ne'er, I trust, to falter or despair,
While she walks with us, or before us there.
A fortnight now hath past; we have resumed
Our wonted occupations, and entomb'd
(Though it lives yet) in memory's deepest cell
The sacred grief which we can never tell
To this cold world; to me 'tis strange, that thou
Canst hide beneath so calm and smooth a brow
The pangs which still thou feel'st; canst talk and smile
So lightly, though I know that all the while
Thy heart is wrung by recollections deep
And ever present thoughts, too sad to sleep:
That heart knows its own bitterness, which none
May intermeddle with, save haply one,
Thy partner, not thy peer, in this deep woe,
On whose fond breast thy tears in secret flow,
To whom thy secret soul is all made known,
And loved and prized as dearly as his own.
How beareth he his burden? O, sweet wife,
Methinks, since yon dark day, the face of life
Is strangely alter'd; all that then seem'd bright
Hath been enveloped in untimely night;
The spring of Hope is o'er, its freshness dead;
I feel as if ten mortal years had fled
In one month's space, and wonder that my head
Is still ungrizzled. Death's dread foot hath cross'd
Our threshold, and the charm at length seems lost
Which kept him thence; our house is now no more
The virgin fortress that it was before;
So unassail'd by sorrow, that even we
Almost supposed that so 'twould ever be;
Almost forgot (all was so calm within)
That we were mortals, born in mortal sin,
And needed sorrow (till then never sent)
Both for reproof and for admonishment.
For years our stream of life had glided thus;
The griefs, which pierced our neighbours, touch'd not us;
While fortune's storms raged round us long and loud,
Sunshine, unchequer'd by a single cloud,
Lay on our home and hearth: we seem'd exempt
From Nature's common lot, and scarcely dreamt
Of the approach of ills, which yet we knew,
As Adam's children, we were subject to.
And now, not only are we thus bereft
Of one bright hope, but over all that's left
Hangs an oppressive cloud of doubt and fear,
A sense of that uncertainty which here
Cleaves to whatever we possess or love,
Reminding us that nowhere but above
Our treasure may be housed. Shall we neglect
This lesson, or with godless hearts reject
The counsel which God sends us? Oh! not so,
Lest we store up a heavier weight of woe,
Bring down more grievous chastisement, and lose
The benefit of this, should we refuse
To grieve when smitten, or desist from grief,
When comforted, as we are, with relief,
Such as few mourners share: 'tis my belief,
And, well I know, thine also, that God spoke
Most audibly to both in this sad stroke,
Admonishing of much that was amiss
In our past season of unclouded bliss;
Of much indulgence to dim dreams of sense,
Love of this world, and grievous indolence
Of heart, and mind, and will. Is it not well,
That the vain world which led us to rebel
Should thus be darken'd? what we used to prize
Too fondly should be taken from our eyes?
Only, we trust, to be for both reserved
In that bright world from which our thoughts have swerved
Too often, but henceforth must swerve no more.
Then let us on, more blithely than before,
Whither our lost ones beckon us away,--
On to the regions of eternal day.
The night is now far spent, the day at hand,
E'en now the outlines of a happier land,
Seen dimly through the twilight, greet our eyes,
And seraph voices shout, "Awake, arise,
The time for sleep is past." Why pause we here?
Our path before us lies, distinct and clear,
And haply from impediments more free
Than other paths of this world's travellers be.
For 'tis our blessed privilege, sweet love,
That we, while labouring for our rest above,
Guide other footsteps thither; that our task
Of daily duty, the chief cares that ask
Our thought, pertain to man's undying soul,
To teach, to cheer, to comfort, to control,
Reprove and guide the pilgrim who aspires
With our convictions, and with our desires,
To the same prize on which our hearts are set:
And though those hearts are not deliver'd yet
From this world's dull anxieties, yet now
Each should lift up, methinks, a loftier brow,
And look with a more fix'd and hopeful eye
To that fair world in which, beyond the sky,
Each hath a treasure of uncounted worth--
A treasure which once held us down to earth;
But now, made far more glorious, hath been given
By love divine to fix our hearts in Heaven.
I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle
mould.
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,
That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish
years.
I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair,
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious
air:
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me,
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency:
But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his
mind,
The food for grave enquiring speech he every where doth
find.
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk;
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children
talk.
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or
ball,
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimicks
all.
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext
With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the
next,
He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to
pray,
And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he
will say.
Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like
me,
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be:
And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful
brow,
I dare not think what I should feel were I to lose him now.
I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features
be,
How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my
knee:
I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's,
keen,
Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever
been;
But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender
feeling,
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love
revealing.
When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the
street,
Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and
sweet.
A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone,
Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport
alone.
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and
hearth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may
prove
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love:
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must
dim,
God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.
I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to
dwell.
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were
given,
And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in
Heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph
brow.
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth
feel,
Are number'd with the secret things which God will not
reveal.
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at
rest,
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving
breast.
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,
But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever
fresh.
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering
wings,
And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest
things.
I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and
I,)
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never
cease;
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain
peace.
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may
sever,
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for
ever.
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must
be,--
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and
this world's misery,--
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and
pain,--
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.
Sweet Babe, from griefs and dangers
Rest here for ever free;
We leave thy dust with strangers,
But oh, we leave not Thee.
Thy mortal sweetness, smitten
To scourge our souls for sin,
Is on our memory written,
And treasured deep therein;
While that which is immortal
Fond Hope doth still retain,
And saith "At heaven's bright portal
Ye all shall meet again."
'Twas my fond wish to greet our wedding day,
My Margaret, with a strain of jocund rhyme,
Such as I used to weave, in youth's sweet prime,
From a strange store of fancies wild and gay,
And quaint conceits, which intermingled lay
With graver thoughts, and musings half sublime
In my brain's cells: all these the frosts of time
Have nipt ere yet my hair is tinged with grey.
Chide me not, Love, nor cherish vain regret
For gifts departed:--we can spare them well;
What tho' young Fancy's dreamy moon hath set,
And Passion's once wild waves no longer swell,
Love's sober daylight smiles upon us yet,
And Peace is ours, how pure no tongue can tell.
If I may break my spirit's icy spell,
And free once more the frost-bound stream of song,
To thee, beloved Wife, will first belong
The praise and the reward; for thou canst tell
Whose gentle efforts made my bosom swell
Once more with love of verse extinct so long;
Who first evoked me with enticement strong,
And pleasant bribes, from the deep silent cell
Of mental idlesse: the next place to thee
In this poor praise holds that dear friend by right,
Who sheds upon our path so rich a light
Of cheering love and tenderest sympathy.
High above both, my song's sole Lord, is He,
Dear friend, they tell me 'tis the happy day,
(To me most happy) which beheld thy birth,
And, ere my name was written in the Earth,
Smiled on a rich and bountiful array
Of blessings, then provided, to allay
My future griefs, enhance my future mirth,
And in my future home, and round my hearth,
Cause pleasant gleams of light and love to play:
Therefore, dear friend, this day henceforth shall be
The holiest in my calendar of life,
Save two alone; the two which gave to me
First a betroth'd, and then a wedded wife,
Whom only love I more than I love thee;--
My dove of peace 'midst this world's toil and strife.
If I could doubt that, in another sphere,
Brighter than this, and ne'er to pass away,
The renovated soul shall live for aye,
Methinks such doubts would quickly disappear,
Friend, in thy presence, whom we all revere;
For when thy cheerful aspect I survey,
And mark thy sweet affections' ceaseless play,
Yet feel they lack their truest object here,--
How should my heart endure the freezing thought
That all this depth of love exists in vain;
Doom'd ne'er to lavish its rich sweets again
On him long lost, and oh, how fondly sought!
But here to dwell, in widowhood's dull pain
A few brief years, then vanish into nought?
No, this can never be: we needs must meet,
(If my poor faith may to the end endure)
Where love shall be more perfect and more pure,
And love's enjoyments more serenely sweet,
Than here they can be. There thine eyes shall greet
With joy, which tears shall never more obscure,
Him whom, preserved in Memory's portraiture,
Thy heart yet treasures in its still retreat;
While we, to whom thy love hath been so dear,
(My mate beloved and I) at length set free
From all the sorrows of this nether sphere,
Shall feel a scarce less rapturous ecstasy,
Contemplating the perfect bliss, which ye
Enjoy, beyond the reach of change or fear.
When from my desk in yonder crowded fane,
Thy vacant pew my wandering eyes survey,
Seeking unconsciously the far away,
My heart shrinks back upon itself with pain
And disappointment dull; and oft in vain
I wish and wish that thou wast here to pray
Beside me, and so speed upon their way
(As oft thou hast) my flagging prayers again:
But when, our solemn act of worship o'er,
In pastoral guise the pulpit I ascend,
No longer then thy absence I deplore:
Nay, can almost rejoice, beloved friend,
That I need play the mountebank no more,
Presuming my dim light to thee to lend.
Yet didst thou tell me once that some chance word,
From these unconscious lips at random sent,
Reproof and warning to thy spirit lent,
And dormant will to new exertion stirr'd:
And doubtless of such triumphs I have heard,
Achieved by ministry most impotent,
Which God, on purpose of rich grace intent,
To this world's strength and wisdom hath preferr'd.
But oh! beloved friend, if 'tis delight
To turn some unknown sinner from his way,
What joy should mine be, that my feeble might
Hath help'd thy faltering footsteps not to stray;
So adding, haply, to the crown of light,
Reserved for thee in Heaven, another ray!
Our minds were form'd, by nature, far apart,
And with few common sympathies endued:
Thine ardent and most active, and imbued
With thirst intense for truth, which thou, with heart
Faithful, and pure, and incorrupt by art
Sophistical, hast patiently pursued;
While I, in dreaming and fantastic mood,
Too indolent for such high goal to start,
Have wasted, in crude fancies, half my days.
Yet must we two be friends; if not for aught
Innate in both (which doubtless we shall find),
Yet for the love which thy true spirit sways
Toward two dear objects of my holiest thought,
With both our future prospects close entwined.
Not for thy genius, though I deem it high,
Thy clear and deep and comprehensive mind,
Thy vigorous thought, with healthful sense combined,
Thy language rich in simplest dignity;
Oh not for these, much honour'd friend, do I
Such food for fervent admiration find
In all thine efforts to persuade mankind
Of truth first dawning on thy mental eye;
But for thy fearless and ingenuous heart,
Thy love intense of virtue, thy pure aim
Knowledge and faith and wisdom to impart,
No matter at what loss of wealth and fame--
These are the spells which make my warm tears start,
And my heart burn with sympathetic flame.
Sound teachers are there of religion pure,
And unimpeach'd morality; grave men,
Who wield a cautious and deliberate pen,
And preach and publish doctrine safe and sure;
And many such, I ween, can ill endure
The eagle glance of thy far-piercing ken,
But almost deem thee from some Stygian den
Of monstrous error sprung,--obscene,--obscure.
Well! they may rail till they have rail'd their fill;
Only let me, by such sweet poison fed,
Drink from thy clear and ever flowing rill
Refreshment and support for heart and head;
Oft disagreeing, but extracting still
More food from stones of thine than such men's bread.
Mary, thou canst not boast thy sister's brow
Capacious, nor her proud and piercing eye,
Nor that calm look of conscious dignity,
Which makes us poets in her presence bow;
Yet scarce to me less beautiful art thou,
With thy dove's eyes, so modest, mild, and shy,
And that retiring, meek simplicity
Which wins pure hearts, they scarce know why or how;
Nor is thy voice less full of pleasant sound,
Thy words of pleasant meaning to my ear,
Albeit thy mind than hers is less profound,
Thy wit less bright. Sweet girl, for many a year,
No countenance more lovely have I found;
No gentler heart, no youthful friend more dear.
In youth and early manhood thou and I
Thro' this world's path walk'd blithely side by side,
Unlike, and yet by kindred aims allied,
Both courting one coy mistress--Poesy.
Those days are over, and our paths now lie
Apart, dissever'd by a space as wide
As the blank realms which heaven and earth divide,
And widening day by day continually,
Each hath forsaken the sweet Muses' shrine
For cares more serious; thou for wordy strife,
And senatorial toils,--how unlike mine!
Who lead the country pastor's humble life,
Sweetening its cares with joys denied to thine,
Fair children and a loved and loving wife.
So sang I, all unwitting of the prize,
Which thou meanwhile hadst won, and wearest now,
The fairest garland that enwreathes thy brow,
Crown'd though it be for youth's rich phantasies
And manhood's virtues, by the good and wise,
With well-earn'd laurel. I have witness'd how
Thy whole heart honours the blest nuptial vow;
How well become thee this world's tenderest ties;
And gladlier now doth my mind's eye repose
On thy bright home,--thy breathing times of rest
From public turmoil,--on the love which glows
In the fond father's and the husband's breast,
Than on thy well-waged strifes with factious foes,
Or letter'd triumphs, e'en by them confest.
In youth's impetuous days thy heart was warm,
Thy tongue uncheck'd, thy spirit bold and high,
With such blind zeal for miscall'd liberty,
That friend and foe look'd on thee with alarm.
But since maturer years dispell'd the charm,
And wean'd thee from thy first idolatry,
With what foul gibes doth faction's spiteful fry,
Venting its rage, around thee shriek and swarm!
Recreant or renegade the mildest name
With which they greet thee; but thy heart meanwhile
Is pure beyond the reach of venal blame,
Free, firm, unstain'd by selfishness or guile,
Too noble for even party to defile:
If thou art faithless, let me be the same.
Nor beautiful art thou, nor proudly graced
With fashion's vain accomplishments: thy mind
By artificial culture unrefined,
Not boasting pungent wit, or polish'd taste.
Yet seldom fondest parent hath embraced
A lovelier child; for never heart more kind,
With sweet and gentle courtesy combined,
Was so by affectation undebased:
Therefore, sweet girl, oft wearied with the blaze
Of intellectual womanhood, to thee
I turn for brief repose, and love to gaze
On thy most innocent simplicity;
With joy beholding, in thy winning ways,
How lovely goodness in itself may be.
Said I thou wast not beautiful? in sooth,
If that I did, shame blister my false tongue
For calumny most foul upon thee flung:
For what is beauty? Eye, cheek, hair, lip, tooth,
Forehead and form, in bloom of radiant youth
And faultless Symmetry? Such bards have sung,
And painters over such enamour'd hung,
And such have coxcombs praised with flatteries smooth;
But more than such doth heartfelt love demand,
And more than such, beloved girl, is thine:
Thought, sympathy, affection soft and bland,
Sense, feeling, goodness in thy sweet eyes shine:
Is not this beauty which all understand?
Which sways all hearts with power and grace divine?
There are, whose pearl of price is richly set
In mountings choice of intellectual gold,
And polish'd high by graces manifold;
Some such have I in life's brief journey met,
Whom, once beheld, I never can forget;
But thou wast fashion'd in a coarser mould;
And nature, by religion uncontroll'd
For many a year, will needs be nature yet.
But though I deem thy soul's full beauty marr'd,
Its stature dwarf'd, by much infirmity,
I honour thy strong faith, still struggling hard
With sin and Satan for the mastery;
Nor deem I that Heaven's gates can e'er be barr'd
To one who pants and toils for it like thee.
A gibbering ape that leads an elephant;
A dwarf deform'd, the presence heralding
Of potent wizard, or the Elfin King
Caliban, deigning sage advice to grant
To mighty Prosper in some hour of want;
Sweet Bully Bottom, while the fairies sing,
Braying applause to their rich carolling,--
But feebly typify thy flippant cant,
Stupid defamer, who, for many a year,
With Earth's profoundest teacher wast at school;
And, notwithstanding, dost at last appear
A brainless, heartless, faithless, hopeless fool.
Come, take thy cap and bells and throne thee here,
Conspicuous on the Dunce's loftiest stool.
Not anger, not contempt should be thy meed;
Not scornful indignation; but most deep
And sorrowing pity; soul that canst not sleep
For inborn turbulence, but still dost feed
Passion insane, with vengeful word and deed;
And so from strife to strife for ever leap,
While strangers marvel, foes deride, friends weep,
And good men pray for thee, and kind hearts bleed;
Meanwhile, by headstrong and impetuous will,
Thou on thy blind and desperate course art driven,
And dost the air with wrath and discord fill,
At enmity with all, though oft forgiven;
Thus growing, here on earth, more restless still,
And more unfit for future rest in Heaven.
We stood beside the sick, and, as we thought,
The dying pillow of our youngest child,
Whose spirit, yet by this world undefiled,
Seem'd ready to take wing; when there was brought
A letter for my hands, which in me wrought
Strange feelings; for it spake with kindness mild
Of one to like bereavement reconciled
By a brief lesson which my pen had taught.
And therewith came a little simple book,
Telling a gentle tale of children twain,
Whom God of late to rest eternal took
From this world's sin and sorrow, care and pain;
Thankfully on those pages did we look,
And trust they spake not to our hearts in vain.
So, lady, whom we honour, though unknown,
For thy frank spirit and thy pious love
Toward him who died on earth and reigns above,
Thou hast our thanks for this thy kindness, shown
Most opportunely: nor will thanks alone
Thy recompense, I trust, hereafter prove;
Who to our troubles, like a mission'd dove,
Didst bear the bough of peace from Heaven's high throne.
More blessed 'tis to give than to receive;
And more than thou receivedst hast thou given;
For none like parents for their offspring grieve,
And none can comfort, whose hearts ne'er were riven
With kindred anguish. Lady, I believe
Our earthly griefs will make us friends in Heaven.
Friend most beloved, most honour'd, fare thee well;
All joy go with thee to that home of Love;
Whence thou, at Friendship's call, didst late remove,
With pain and grief, and anxious fear to dwell.
Our gratitude for this we may not tell;
Nay, never, till we meet in realms above,
Can word or act the whole affection prove
With which to thee our thankful bosoms swell.
But well I know, that in these painful hours,
The comfort and support, which thou hast brought,
Hath, in the depth of both our spirits, wrought
That which shall live when penal flame devours
Earth and its works; a chain of burning thought
Binding thy soul eternally to ours.
For patient ministrations, sweet and kind;
For self-denying love, on our distress
Pouring its soft and soothing tenderness;
For the calm wisdom of thy Christian mind,
With deep experience of earth's griefs combined;
For comfort which no language can express;
For this, and how much more! thy name we bless,
And keep it in our heart of hearts enshrined.
But chiefly for those glimpses, pure and bright,
Of faith intense, and piety serene,
Wherewith thou charm'st our spiritual sight,
To worlds which fleshly eye hath never seen;
For that thy love, in sorrow's murkiest night,
The pole-star of our Faith and Hope bath been.
In peril and deep fear, before thy day,
My child, when hope had perish'd, thou wast born;
Yet wast thou lovely from thy natal morn,
And vigorous health in all thy limbs did play,
As if thou wouldst our every fear allay,
And laugh our fond anxieties to scorn.
Seven months roll'd by, and thou wast fiercely torn
By fell disease; but that too pass'd away,
Mocking hope's second death; and now again,
(Kind Heaven be praised) thy pulse with health beats
strong,
And thou, untouch'd by any grief or pain,
Fillest our home with gladness all day long,
Singing, with all thy little might and main,
Thy inarticulate and infant song.
Noel, our paths, in academic days,
Lay far apart, though by one Mother bred,
And with her noblest sons together fed
On food which healthiest intellects doth raise:
But thou, even then, didst walk in Wisdom's ways
With steadfast purpose; while my heart and head,
To loftier aims and aspirations dead,
Cared but to win a worthless crown of bays,
Which then, with childish fickleness, I cast
Even to the winds; now middle age is here,
And haply all my better days are past
With small improvement; while thou, year by year,
Art hiving glory, which for aye shall last,
When He, whose cross thou bearest, shall appear.
Well won and glorious trophies have been thine,
Macaulay, since we two "together stray'd"
(As young bards sing) "in Granta's tranquil shade;"
Now far divided by the ocean brine;
And thou, already a bright star, doth shine
Among our statesmen; yet fame hath not made
Thy young simplicity of heart to fade,
Nor is thy sympathy less warmly mine.
Therefore I trust that, in no distant time,
(Thy Oriental toils and duties o'er,)
Thou shalt revisit this our native clime,
Strengthen'd in soul through that bereavement sore,
For which, of late, my gift of plaintive rhyme
Such welcome solace on thy grief did pour.
Many there be, in these our factious days,
Whose hate would unrelentingly lay low
Crown, coronet, and mitre, at a blow;
Scarce sparing even the poet's wreath of bays,
For that thereto they may not hope to raise
Their own dull brows:--with me it is not so,
Who rather would chivalric fealty owe
To rank and virtue which o'ertop my praise.
Oh, lady! 'tis a pleasant thought to me
That there exists on earth a higher sphere
Than that in which I am content to be;
Adorn'd by worth like thine, which all revere;
Whereto I yield, with lowly heart sincere,
Homage profound and reverent courtesy.
Within two days, (if registers tell truth)
I and the nineteenth century were born;
Nor let me lightly such memorial scorn
Of ripen'd manhood and departed youth.
Twin wayfarers are we, although, in sooth,
My pilgrimage will soonest reach the bourn
Whence, saith the adage, travellers ne'er return;
Calm be our final rest, our passage smooth.
My path hath been the pleasanter so far,
Though haply the less busy; all his life
My fellow traveller hath been vext with war,
Fierce change, and dire convulsion, broils and strife.
Be my course govern'd by a milder star,
With Christian hopes and calm affections rife.
Well hast thou reason'd, Chalmers, on the deep
And awful mystery of redeeming love;
With argument profound intent to prove
How the Omniscient Mind doth ever keep
Protective watch on Heaven's empyreal steep,
O'er suns and systems through all space that move;
While yet its sleepless eyes minutely rove
Through lowliest dwellings in which mortals sleep.
Methinks, great Teacher, of that Mind thine own
Yields a faint emblem, who hast power to soar
On wing seraphic toward the Eternal Throne,
And Heaven and Hell's mysterious depths explore;
Yet on the meanest cot where poor men groan
Deignest thy wisdom's healing light to pour.
Alas! for those, whose bigot zeal would fain
Compress and crush, with Procrustean force,
All energies, all spirits, fine and coarse,
All tempers, feelings, habits, heart and brain,
Nation, race, climate, white and negro stain
Into one changeless and unbending course
Of discipline and form; without remorse
Devoting Church and sect to Satan's chain.
Chalmers, we do not worship at one shrine,
Albeit, I trust, both children of one Sire;
Nor would I wish my altar to be thine,
Delighting most thy greatness to admire,
When on our alien Church its sunbeams shine
With warm effulgence of congenial fire.
If aught of pastoral labour, not unblest,
Since youth's maturer prime I may have wrought;
If, from the pressure of unquiet thought,
My weary heart and brain have long had rest;
If, from my own emancipated breast,
To world-worn minds comfort hath e'er been brought;
Thanks be to thee, from whom my spirit sought
And found repose, by youthful doubts opprest.
Nor thou amidst thy triumphs, and the praise
Which well, from all the Churches, thou hast won,
Disdain the puny tribute of these lays:
For thou, they say, art Wisdom's meekest son,
And ever walkest humbly in her ways,
Giving God thanks for all that thou hast done.
Three days had we been wedded, when we stood
Within thy well known walls (my bride and I),
Majestic Ludlow; from a cloudless sky
Fell the rich moon-beams, in a silver flood,
On tower and terrace, river, hill, and wood;
Then my heart wander'd to the years gone by,
But Hope and Love to Memory made reply
That those to come look'd doubly bright and good.
Since then the eleventh year hath well nigh past,
And, with our children, here we stand again;
Again a thankful glance doth memory cast
On years of gladness, not unmixt with pain.
Meanwhile our hearts are changed and changing fast,
But thou, fair ruin, dost unchanged remain.
To patient study and unwearied thought,
And wise and watchful nurture of his powers,
Must the true poet consecrate his hours:
Thus, and thus only, may the crown be bought
Which his great brethren, all their lives, have sought;
For not to careless wreathers of chance flowers
Openeth the Muse her amaranthine bowers,
But to the Few, who worthily have fought
The toilsome fight, and won their way to fame.
With such as these I may not cast my lot,
With such as these I must not seek a name;
Content to please awhile and be forgot;
Winning from daily toil (which irks me not)
Rare and brief leisure these poor songs to frame.
My sister, we have lived long years apart;
Our mutual visits short and far between,
Like those of angels; yet we have not been
Divided, as I trust, in mind or heart.
Pale now and changed, though in thy prime thou art,
And, in the chasten'd sweetness of thy mien,
I read the workings of a soul serene
And patient under pain's life-wasting smart.
May God be with thee, and thy sojourn bless
Near Cheltenham's healing springs, that they may be
E'en as Bethesda's wondrous pool to thee,
Giving thee back lost health and loveliness;
While yet He purifies thy heart no less
By blest affliction's subtlest alchymy.
With no unmoved or irresponsive heart,
Have I, O Alford, listened to thy lay;
Thy pure and fervent lay of holy thoughts
And heavenward aspirations, tempered down
To apprehension of earth's grosser sense
By intermixture sweet of human love
And hymeneal fondness. Under heaven
My thought shapes not a happier lot than thine;
Who, in life's sunny summer, hand in hand
With the dear object of thy earliest love,
Walk'st through this world, at liberty to cull
Whate'er of bright and beautiful it yields
To thy keen instinct of poetic sense;
Therewith to feed the pure religious flame
Which burns upon the altar of thy heart,
And through the inner temple of thy being
Pours a continual gleam of living light,
Irradiating with splendour, not of earth,
Each well-proportioned and harmonious part
Of all its rich and graceful architecture.
Yea, blessed is thy lot, for thou enjoy'st
God's three divinest gifts,--love of Himself,
And love domestic, and the inward eye
Of the true poet; while, from earliest youth,
Thy soul hath been so disciplined, by use,
To wait on duty's call,--so taught to wield
Its inborn powers aright,--each natural sense
So exercised and strengthened to discern
The beautiful and good, and, when discern'd,
To mould them to God's service, that to thee
All things belong;--this world, and life and death;
All immaterial and material forms
Of glory and of loveliness;--'tis thine
To extract from all things seen, all things believed,
All things imagined, their essential sweetness,
As none but Christian poets, train'd like thee,
In sweet experience of earth's richest love,
Know to extract it.
Such, ten years ago,
Might seem to be my lot; for I was then
A youthful poet, even as thou art now;
And, like thee, newly join'd in holy bands
Of fond and fervent wedlock; like thee, too,
Had I then newly utter'd, in God's house,
The vows of an ambassador for Christ;
And, with no insincere or base intent,
(Albeit but ill prepared for such high task,
And little recking of its weightier cares
And dread responsibilities), assumed
The pastoral name and office. What forbade
But that, like thee, I too should then devote
My mind's expanded energies, my prime
And lustihood of thought, to heavenly song,
Hymning, in strains of such poor minstrelsy
As my less gifted spirit might send forth,
The truths thou hymn'st; and from my daily walk
Of ministerial duty, gathering food
For meditation calm, and serious thought,
Materials of no vain or aimless verse.
So had I, haply, ere my noon of life,
Won some poor niche amid the humbler shrines
Of Christian poets; and not only so,
But, e'en by the indulgence of sweet thought
And fond imagination, train'd my soul
For tasks of Christian duty; kept it clear
From this world's worst intrusions; tamed it down
More nearly to subjection to the Spirit;
And, while I breathed an atmosphere of peace
And holy joy, still drawn more nigh to heaven;
Meantime constructing, e'en from what supplied
My present comfort and my future hope,
A temple to God's glory.
Hopes like these,
If e'er such hopes were mine, have vanish'd long.
I must not think to have my name enroll'd
Among the names of those who gave to God
Their strength and fervour of poetic thought.
The days are gone, wherein I might have framed
Lays which, outlasting my own span of life,
Should, when my bones were dust, have warm'd the hearts
Of Christ's true servants: ne'er, in after years,
Shall my sweet babes associate with the thought
Of their lost parent the fair name of one
Bruited in good men's mouths for rich bequests
Left to the pious and reflective heart,
In tuneful records of his own calm thoughts
And meditative intercourse with heaven.
Nor sage, nor scholar, nor world-weary man,
Who seeks a respite from heart-stifling cares
In Poesy's domain, nor saint devout,
Yearning for pious sympathy, and fain
To vent the feelings of his own full heart
In the rich breathings of religious song,
Shall have recourse to me, or count my lays
Among the pure refreshments of his soul.
My songs will not be sung on winter nights
By cottage hearths, nor elevate the soul
Of sunburnt peasant or pale artizan,
Forgetting their six days of care and toil
In the calm gladness of the Sabbath eve,
And leading up their children's thoughts to Heaven
By grave and pious converse, interspersed
With psalms and hymns and spiritual songs,
Making the heart's rich melody to God.
My spirit must not mingle after death
With the free spirit of my native land;
Nor any tones, from these poor chords sent forth,
Linger upon her breezes, and be heard
Faintly, and yet with no discordant sound,
In her full chorus of religious song.
So I shall rest unhonour'd in my grave,
And unremember'd. Be it so. For this
Slight cause have I to grieve, if I may win
A better immortality; nor yet
Need I lament that all my better years
Have thus been lost to verse; since graver cares,
And pastoral labours, not, I trust, unblest,
And study of stern truth, according ill
With fond imagination's fervent dreams,
And daily intercourse with real grief,
Not to be soothed or solaced by the skill
Of vain and airy phantasy, have fill'd
The hours which else I might have dream'd away
On Helicon's green marge, in converse blest
With those celestial mistresses of song.
Not for these years I grieve, albeit defiled
With imperfections numberless, with much
Unfaithfulness of heart, and cold neglect
Of duties great and many, as I grieve
For that, the spring and seed-time of my life,
Wasted, alas, in academic shades,
Through blind self-love and indolence supine,
And rash misuse of all those better gifts
Wherewith my spirit was, or seem'd, endued;
While, all regardless of its youthful needs
And seasonable culture,--owning not
The obligation of a higher law
Than my own will,--I travell'd uncontroll'd
Through all the fields of song, as fancy led,
Or passionate caprice; from idle hearts
Winning vain praise, and solacing my own
With what was wasting all its betted strength,
And leaving it unstored and unprepared
For future tasks of duty.
For all this,
I am content to be what now I am;
And deem such retribution meet and right:
Nor blame I any, save myself alone,
For aught that hath been done, or left undone,
Now or in earlier days; yet I rejoice
To think that now a brighter day hath risen
On Granta's reverend towers than I beheld;
(For so thy lays assure me);--that the free
And noble spirit of her sons hath burst
The trammels of that false philosophy
Which fetter'd, in my day, her strongest hearts
And most capacious intellects to low
And sensual contemplations, shutting out
From youth's perverted and polluted gaze
All spiritual glories,--God and Heaven;
All that exalts and purifies the will,
And teaches us to feel and know even here
Our everlasting destiny.
Not long
Might such pollution dwell in fane so pure;
And years, I trust, have swept away all trace
Of mischief then wide spread; beneath those shades
A purer generation feeds its thought,
And trains its mental energies for deeds
Of great and Christian daring, undefiled
By base alloy of superstitious zeal
And bigot fury, such as, on the banks
Of Isis, darkens the meridian beams
Of piety and truth, and grossly mars
Their beauty with obscene companionship.
So may our Mother flourish while the name
Of England holds its proud pre-eminence
Among the nations: in her ancient halls,
And venerable cloisters, be our youth
Invigorated by salubrious draughts
Of free and fervent thought; and let the mind
Of our great country, like a mighty sea,
Be fed and freshen'd by perpetual streams
Of pure and virtuous wisdom, from those springs
Gushing unceasingly.
But thou, meanwhile,
In youth, in hope, in faith, in genius strong,
Fulfil thy noble doom; attune thy song
To themes of glorious daring; feed thy mind
On contemplations pure and peaceable
Of heavenly truth and beauty; ever cheer'd
And strengthen'd for thy high and holy task,
By constant increase of domestic love,
And fireside joys and comforts, and the sweets,
Many and pure, with ministerial toil
Inseparably link'd, and rendering back
Into the labourer's bosom rich reward.
So doubt not that thy name shall find a niche
Among the names of Earth's illustrious sons;
Nor that, when earth itself shall be burnt up
With all its works, and, in the fervent heat,
Its elements dissolve and fade away,
Thou shalt receive the recompense of one
Who put his talent out to usury,
And render'd to his lord, when he return'd,
A great and glorious interest of souls
Won to his love; helping to accomplish here
The number of the elect, and lead them back
With songs of triumph to their home in Heaven.
Come with us, and we will go
Where the Clyde's broad waters flow;
Where the cloud-capp'd mountains rise
To the dim north-western skies;
Where, through many a creek and bay,
Doth the salt sea find its way
Into those recesses deep
Where the mountain-shadows sleep,
And the dreary dark pine woods
Frown o'er watery solitudes,
Framing in those wilds, I ween,
Many a strange and witching scene,
Far to find, but fair to see,
For such folks as you and me.
Come with us, and we will go
Where the peaks of Arran glow,
In the sunset bright and clear,
Through the sweet months of the year.
There the light of evening lies
Longer than in southern skies;
There the northern meteors glare
Through the murky midnight air;
Till, when morn returns once more,
Rock and mountains, sea and shore,
Glen and valley, lake and stream,
Bask in the refreshing beam,
With more gorgeous light and shade
Than midsummer ever made
In these fertile plains of ours;
There old Goatfel proudly towers
O'er his brother mountains wild,
In sublime confusion piled
Crag on crag, and peak on peak,
Where the eye in vain may seek
One green spot whereon to rest;
There the eagle builds her nest
In Glen Rosa's ebon rocks,
Rent, as seems, by earthquake shocks
Into many a chasm and cleft,
In such huge disorder left
That you might suppose, in sooth,
The old gossip's guess was truth--
That the sweepings here were hurl'd
Of the new-created world.
Come with us, and we'll repair
To the "bonny shire of Ayr;"
To the flowery banks and braes,
Where the Doon's clear current strays
Underneath the holms which lie
Where old Monkwood flouts the sky
With its honest hideousness;
Ne'er did uglier house, I guess,
E'en in Scottish region stand
Mistress of a fairer land;
Ne'er did mansion more uncouth
Shelter age and gladsome youth,
In more loving union met
Than we shall behold there yet;
Though grim death hath busy been,
And though oceans roll between
Us and some with whom we roved
Once amidst those woods beloved.
Come with us; those woods should be
Dear to you as dear to me;
Though you ne'er, in childhood's hours,
Roam'd amidst their banks and bowers;
Though far other scenes than these
Haunt your young remembrances;
Yet, believe me, you shall soon
Love yon bright and brawling Doon,
And those hills and natural woods,
With their summer solitudes,
And the hearts that in them dwell,
And yon graceless house, as well
E'en as if you ne'er had known
Other haunts than these alone;
E'en as if yon clustering trees,
With your earliest sympathies,
In their robes of smiling green,
Still had intermingled been;
E'en as if yon river clear,
Murmuring to your infant ear,
First had, for your spirit, found
Entrance to the world of sound.
Six and twenty years had flown,
Ere by me those scenes were known;
Yet have they to me become
Sacred as my childhood's home;
Dear as though I ne'er had stray'd
From their sweet and sylvan shade.
There, in Love's delicious morn,
Ere our eldest child was born,
Ere youth's latest dream was fled,
Ere young Phantasy was dead,
Ere the Husband or the Wife
Felt the real pains of Life,
Ere Death's touch had harm'd us yet,
Roam'd I with my Margaret:
There, our gentle friends and true,
Gladly would we roam with you.
Come with us; our time is short
In those cherish'd haunts to sport.
All things mortal wax and wane,
Nor may we, even now, complain
That from us and ours, alas!
Must these pleasant places pass;
That for other eyes than ours
We have twined our favourite bowers;
That our own beloved Doon
Must for other ears too soon
Sing his blithe and jocund song
Those o'erhanging banks along;
And that stranger steps must roam
Through our old ancestral home;
Unfamiliar forms be seen
Where our loved and lost have been;
Unfamiliar spirits dwell
In the rooms we loved so well,
Homely though perchance they be
In their old simplicity.
So it is;--we find on earth
No continuing home or hearth;
Still through chance and change we roam,
Seeking better lands to come.
Come with us, and we will go
Where the streams of Zion flow
Through the city of our God,
Which no foot profane hath trod.
Change and sorrow come not there;
All is fix'd, as all is fair.
Earthly glories fade and fleet,
Nothing long on Earth is sweet;
Though our woods may still be green,
And sweet Doon may gush between,
Clear and sparkling as of old,
Yet no more may we behold
On his banks the forms that gave
Half their glory--for the grave
Hath already closed o'er some;
Others in their Eastern home,
Wander, nightly, in their dreams,
Through the woods and near the streams,
Which, when life is worn away,
And their temples strewn with grey,
And their hearts' best fervour o'er,
Haply they shall see once more;
See--by alien lords possest,
When our griefs are gone to rest.
Come with us;--let Memory still
Feed and cherish, as she will,
Forms of beauty gone and past,
Pleasures too intense to last.
Meet support therein may be
For the heart's infirmity;
But for us a brighter home
Spreads its glories;--let us come
Whither Faith, and Hope, and Love,
Urge our laggard steps above:
Let us such high call obey,
Help each other on the way;
Through the narrow entrance press
Of the realm of righteousness;
Where, in joy's eternal river,
This world's griefs are lost for ever.
With slow and toilsome course, this summer noon
Have I, in pensive and fantastic mood,
Forsaking, for a time the converse bland
And fair urbanities, which suit so well
Yon English hearth and household, wound my way
Up to this green hill's topmost eminence;
Whence, with a quick and comprehensive glance,
Which fills the soul with beauty, the glad eye
Takes in a vast and richly-varied plain
Of England's own fertility, adorn'd,
At intervals, with old ancestral halls,
Trim farms and village spires, which crown the hills,
Or just out-top the dark and leafy woods,
O'er which the blue smoke, like a level sea,
Delights to linger; to the thoughtful heart
Conveying no inapt or empty type
Of that which still hath been, and still shall be,
Despite the vaunts of democratic hate,
And turbulent assaults of godless men,
Our country's strength and glory;--household love
And social union, strengthen'd, not dissolv'd,
By meet gradation of well-order'd ranks,
Each melting into each, and, by the warmth
Of undefiled religion's genial sun,
Matured and cherish'd. On the extremest verge
Of the remote horizon, wavy lines
Of hills, which might almost assume the style
And dignity of mountains, mark the site
Of my paternal home, whereto, so oft
As summer's fervour or midwinter's frost
Restored our liberty, from school return'd,
Once more I mingled with the noisy group
Of brothers and of sisters, who, since then,
Have parted,--all upon their several paths
Of destiny or duty, through the world
To fare as Heaven may guide them. One, alas!
Slumbers already, many a fathom deep,
Beneath the stormy and tumultuous swell
Of the "still vext Bermoothes." One, cut off
In childhood's ripest bloom, my earliest song
In fitting strains bewail'd. A third, the heat
Of India's burning suns is withering fast,
Albeit in youth's maturest lustihood.
A fourth, who went from home with gallant port,
Wearing a soldier's frankness on his brow,
And, in his young heart, proudly cherishing
A soldier's noblest zeal, had found a home,
When last he wrote, near Afric's southern cape;
And there, in tranquil and inglorious ease,
Forsaking the plumed host and tented field
For peaceful tillage and the hunter's sport,
Was fashioning his idle sword and spear
To ploughshare and to pruning-hook, content
To learn war's trade no more, but to forego
Its present honours and its future hopes
For liberty and rest. In that old house,
Once echoing to the loud obstreperous mirth
Of ten wild boys and girls, now, in their age,
My parents dwell alone, from time to time
Gladden'd and cheer'd by visits few and brief
Of children and of grandchildren, whose sports
Haply recall the days of other years,
When we all dwelt about them, and diffuse
A gleam of pleasant light athwart the gloom
(If gloom indeed it be) which settles now
On all that large remainder of the year
Mark'd by our absence. Visits such as these
Should constitute, methinks, a last firm bond
Of sympathy between their souls and Earth,
And cherish still, even in their heart of hearts,
The light of earthly joy, sweetening the eve
Of this their mortal day, and with the hope
(Now brightening hour by hour) of fairer worlds,
And a more rich inheritance to come,
Connecting the remembrance of past bliss,
And sense of present comfort,--feeding thus
The incense of perpetual gratitude
Breathed from their hearts to Heaven;--nor let my own
Forget how large a debt of thankfulness
Is due to Him, who to His other gifts,
Unnumber'd and unmeasured, adds this too,--
That from my pastoral dwelling, by the banks
Of Avon, I can still, from year to year,
With the beloved co-partner of my joys
And soother of my sorrows, and with those
Dear babes who fill our happy home with smiles,
Revisit my paternal roof, and cheer
Their hearts, who gave me being, with the sound
Of children's voices, and make glad their hearth
With the blest sight of our full happiness.
Such be our task to-morrow; here to-day
We tarry with most kind, though late-found friends,
Whose venerable mansion at the foot
Of this fair hill, in all the state grotesque
Of England's olden architecture, lifts
Its chequer'd front, with timbers huge inlaid,
And fair white plaister; and with gables tall
Surmounted, from whose antique windows quaint
The eye looks through a stately avenue
Of elms, which have outlived the chance and change
Of centuries, into a verdant plain
With woods and waving corn-fields interspersed;--
Meet dwelling for a family most rich
In all that constitutes the genuine worth
Of our provincial gentry. In that house
A pleasant group of friends is gather'd now
In mirthful converse and communion bland
Of thought and feeling;--one most dear to me,
And many to each other scarce less dear;
Brothers and sisters,--some in youth's full prime,
And some in childhood's tenderest innocence,
Link'd firmly, each to each, by mutual ties
Of firm affection, and beneath the eye
Of one who wears upon her stately brow
The stamp and impress of true ladyhood,
And in her heart the wisdom and the love
Of English mothers, train'd with holiest care
To exercise of virtues such as thrive
And blossom best by England's own firesides,
And in the breath of her free atmosphere.
And one there is whom nature hath endow'd
With voice and soul of melody, than whom
The thrush and blackbird sing no richer strains,
Nor with more natural fervour gushing forth
From the heart's hidden founts;--and yet hath art
Fulfill'd in her its perfect work, nor oft
On the fastidious ear of critic fall
Notes warbled with more nice and finish'd skill
Than those which flow, unforced and uncontroll'd
From her melodious utterance. Dames there be,
By nature and fine art alike endued
With varied powers of song, potent to lull
The charmed sense, or raise the enraptured soul
To loftiest ecstasy, who yet dispel
Their strong enchantments by ill-timed caprice
And wayward affectation; marring still
Our pleasure, and the triumphs of their art,
By most preposterous vanity, which yields,
With feign'd reluctance, an ill-graced assent
To what it longs to grant, until desire,
Too long deferr'd, loses its poignancy,
And chill'd enjoyment sickens. Unlike these,
The maid of whom I speak unlocks, with free
And liberal grace, her floodgates of sweet sound,
And pours, at will, on our insatiate sense
Rich streams of never-dying melody;
Neither dissembling, with ill-acted show
Of modest self-disparagement, the worth
And richness of her gifts, nor on our choice
Obtruding them unask'd, but, with the pure
And simple kindness of a natural heart,
Imparting to our needs her special share
Of nature's dispensation,--breathing thus
An atmosphere around her of sweet mirth
And universal kindliness;--nor yet
Disdains she from the heights of sacred song,
Or the rich warblings of Italian art,
Into the lowliest regions to descend
Of homely music,--to the simple taste
Of childhood now attuning her sweet voice
In laugh-provoking ballads, and again
With some pathetic lay from Scottish land,
Which breathes the fervour of her own full heart,
Filling our eyes with tears.
All joy attend
That gentle songstress, whose remember'd strains
I trust shall haunt my sense in future years,
When the "rude shocks and buffets of the world,"
And long experience of life's daily ills,
Make Memory's stores more precious.
But I hear
Below me, in the hill's green winding paths,
The voices of my children, in wild mirth
Through intertangled boughs in search of me,
Their way exploring to this yew-tree bower
In which I sit and muse, protected well
By its dark shade from the oppressive beams
Of the meridian sun, to my weak eyes
Fraught with sharp pain and inflammation dire,
And threatening ever these asthmatic lungs,
With agony of respiration choked,
And spasms catarrhal; for, to me, the prime
And lustihood of summer ever brings
Return of fell disease,--most fell in this,--
That I no more, for ever, may enjoy
The sweetness of the year;--that what, in youth
And earlier boyhood, I so fondly loved,
Yea, and still love with all a poet's heart,--
The gorgeousness of nature at her noon,--
Must ever be associate in my thought
With sickness and dire suffering; that no more
May I behold the full magnificence
Or of the rising or the setting sun,
Nor welcome to my brow the noonday breeze,
Nor see Eve's star arise, nor greet the moon,
When, from the breathless sky, she pours her light
On the rich foliage of midsummer woods,
With full and free enjoyment, unalloy'd
By pain or apprehension;--that the toils
And sports of summer, its sweet sounds and sights,
To me must be forbidden;--ne'er again
The hay-field's fragrant breath must tempt my sense,
Nor the returning and high-laden wan,
Cheer'd by the shouts of joyous haymakers
Proclaiming harvest home, invite me too
To share their rude festivities; and when
The cloudless skies and verdant fields of June
Tempt friends and neighbours to beguile a day
In the green woods, or by the river's marge,
With mirth and music, I perforce must flee
Such festive meetings, and, close pent at home
In solitude and shade, shut out the light
Of the bright skies, and chase the pleasant breeze
From my closed windows; or o'ercloud the mirth
And mar the full enjoyment of kind friends
With the discordant and unwelcome sound
Of gasps spasmodic, with red tearful eyes
And ceaseless sternutation.
Not for this
Let me repine; small chastisement, I ween,
For disobedience great and oft renew'd
To Heaven's eternal laws: for years mis-spent,
And duties unfulfill'd ;--nor let me be
Unthankful for this sharp admonishment
Of nature's imperfection; of the doom
Most righteously awarded to our race,
Forbidding us to find, in this dark earth,
That which we look for in the world to come,--
Enjoyment unalloy'd; let me confess
That 'tis most well my sensual heart, which dotes
On earthly treasures with too fond a love,
Should have that love embitter'd and so raised
To objects more sublime; and let me still
Feel grateful for the strong and vigorous health
Which, from ripe Autumn to expiring Spring,
Nerves my firm limbs; nor less for that pure warmth
Of conjugal affection, which consoles
And mitigates my sickness, making glad
The chamber of my pain with sympathy.
There is no grief, even on this sinful earth,
Without its consolation; none which faith
And patient love may not convert to bliss,
Or make at least the path to it; and if
Such be indeed our sorrows,--for our joys,
Our sweet refreshments, richly interspersed
At intervals through all the narrow road
Which leads to life eternal--for all these
What thanks shall we repay? Even now, methinks,
From this secluded harbour I look down
On a fresh joy, provided by Heaven's love
To cheer me on my way;--a new-found store
Of pleasant thoughts and sweet remembrances,
Enriching my calm years of middle age,
And rendering compensation for whate'er
Of injury or loss the flight of time
May have inflicted on me. Thus life's path,
To the affectionate and thoughtful heart,
Can never prove a desart; by its side
Fresh springs gush brightly forth from time to time,
As old ones are dried up or left behind
In our swift pilgrimage; yet few, I deem,
Numbering my years, can reckon up like store
Of youth's surviving blessings; Death as yet
Hath mercifully dealt with us and ours;
And scarce a face which, fifteen years ago,
Smiled on me in my academic prime,
Hath lost as yet the lineaments and hue
Of mortal life. A fortnight scarce hath past
Since, in the great metropolis, we met,--
I and my youthful peers of Trinity,
Now nigh our noon of life; a motley band
Of poets and ripe scholars, once renown'd
For feats of numerous verse and sparkling prose;
Now each on graver toils and cares intent
In his particular sphere; some hard beset
By life's sharp ills,--of wife or child bereft;
Some deep immersed in senatorial wiles,
Quenching the quiet spirit of the Muse
In strife political; and some there were
By bright and blooming families begirt,
Yet still retaining, amid household cares
And toils professional, the cheerful laugh
And boon companionship of earlier days;--
Sober'd, not sadden'd, by life's chance and change,
Its joys and sorrows:--one (in youth's bright morn,
My poet-friend, though high, as Heaven o'er Earth,
Towering above me in all gifts and powers
Which constitute the poet) hath foregone
His natural birth-right, and those airy dreams
Of fellowship in song, which we two framed
Erewhile on Cam's green marge,--now to stern toil
And loftiest cares devote:--for this his choice,
Itself most wise, and in submission shaped
To Providential guidance, all respect
And rich reward be his; nor let me grieve
That Heaven hath cast our several lots apart,
And will'd that diverse interests, diverse cares,
Should grow and gather round us;--but let each
Take the more earnest heed, lest absence chill
His heart's best fervour; lest he live too much
In his peculiar world, with separate hopes
And separate fears encompass'd, till the free
And open passage of congenial thought,
Which yet joins heart to heart, shall be block'd up,
And each need closer intercourse with each
To clear it of obstruction.
But be this
Even as it may;--from all that hath been lost,
And all that yet remains, our hearts may learn
Some profitable lessons. Upon earth
Decay and renovation, in close track,
Follow each other; friendships wax and wane;
Old joys give place to new ones; and while thus
Provision is still made for life's support
And bountiful refreshment,--while the heart
Is cheer'd and strengthen'd for its daily task
Of duty, by accessions many and rich
Of ever freshening solace,--still we learn
That all is here unstable; that, till death,
We must not hope to lay our weary heads
On the soft lap of permanent repose;
Nor find secure and never-failing rest
For our foot's sole. Such comfort as Heaven gives
Let us enjoy with thankfulness; but still--
Remembering that our home is not on earth,
Nor earthy the affections and the joys
Which must make glad that home,--with steadfast aim
Pursue our heavenward path, from time to time
Refresh'd, in this world's wilderness, by springs
Of worldly joyance, but still looking on,
Beyond created things, to that full bliss
Which the regenerate and triumphant soul,
After its weary conflicts, by God's power,
Through faith, unto salvation safely kept,
Shall, in His presence, endlessly enjoy.
'Tis the sweet sixteenth of May--
How shall we keep holiday?
What the rites to Cupid due?
What to Hymen fond and true?
Dearest, where shall we find leisure
For that feast of holiest pleasure
Which this honour'd day demands,
Now dull care hath fill'd our hands
With such duties, sad and sober,
As from April to October,
Thence to April round again,
Make us toil with might and main,
Leaving scarce a moment free
For the freaks of phantasy;
For the dreams which disappear
Full three quarters of the year,
In our bosoms buried deep
Till the spring breeze breaks their sleep,--
When once more, like bees, they swarm
In the sunshine bright and warm;
For the dear and dreamy talk
Of a calm connubial walk,
When we two once more may wander,
Free to prate and free to ponder
On those days of youthful bliss,
When our lips first learnt to kiss;
When, in Windsor's forest shade,
Thou a young and dreaming maid,
I a fond and fervent swain,
Weak of heart and wild of brain,
Of love's folly took our fill,
"Wandering at our own sweet will?"
Now the days are alter'd quite,
Thou must work and I must write;
Thou hast children three to teach,
I have sermons three to preach,
Thou hast clothes to make and mend,
I've a straying flock to tend;
And the world hath grown so real,
That to roam in realms ideal
As we roved in days of yore--
We must think of it no more.
Fancy's reign is past and done,
That of sober truth begun.
How then, this sweet morn of May,
Shall we two keep holiday?
We will keep it as we may.
Though no frolic feast we make,
Yet our hearts shall be awake;
And our silent thoughts shall flee
To the realms of Memory.
We'll direct their stream to flow
Backward to nine years ago:
To the burning words that bound
This sweet chain our souls around;
To the first tumultuous kiss,
Harbinger of years of bliss;
To the mingled tear and smile,
Throb and thrill at Upton stile;
While full many a heart-flash'd glance,
Brightening either countenance,
Tells that, though nine years are over,
Each of us is still a lover;
Each, as every year hath flown,
Happier still and fonder grown.
Thoughts like these 'tis meet we call
To our silent festival;
Thoughts like these--but is there nought,
In the whole wide realm of Thought,
Meeter yet our hearts to cheer
On this day, of all the year
Fitliest due to musings high,
And divine philosophy?
Still our life is in its prime;
Still doth hope make friends with time;
Still unseam'd is either brow;
Yet I trust we are not now
Such in heart and mind and will,--
So unwean'd from folly still,
As when first love's fetters tied
The young bridegroom to the bride.
Forward let us bend our eyes
To our home beyond the skies;
For thereon, without amaze,
Faith hath made us free to gaze;
And though youth hath past away,
And my locks may soon turn grey,
And thy full and flashing eye
Lose its present brilliancy;
Yet such tokens we may greet
Of old Time's advancing feet,
With a holy joy that he
Ushers in Eternity;
And that all which fleets and fades
As he stealthily invades
That bright face and form of thin;
And these sturdy limbs of mine,
Doth a growing change prepare,
Laying thus our spirits bare;
Lightening slowly, day by day,
This their present load of clay,
That, on unencumber'd wing,
Heavenward they may learn to spring:
While, as we more fit become
For our everlasting home,
In our children we may see
All that we were wont to be--
Whatsoever gifts and powers
In our youth's best days were ours,--
As on a perennial stem,
Blossoming again in them.
Thus, though far from moonlit woods,
Streams, and bowers, and solitudes;
Far from wild romantic rambles--
Far from lonely brakes and brambles--
Compass'd round by this world's din,
But with love and peace within--
Thus, this sweet sixteenth of May,
Will we two keep holiday.
Dost thou remember, dearest, how the bird,--
The shrill, sweet warbler of another clime,
Which, with its mate, I gave thee on the morn
Of our last wedding-day--dost thou remember
How, while one cage held him and his sweet bride
In joint imprisonment, the happy bird
Forgot his natural melody, and, wrapt
(For so it seem'd) in tranquil contemplation
Of his connubial blessedness, sate dumb
"From morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve,"
Save when at intervals, with amorous chirp,
His little heart breathed forth its overflowings
Of quiet joy and deep contented love.
But when our harsh and marriage-slighting edict
Decreed their separation, and the pair,
Reluctantly divorced, were fain to nurse
Their unquench'd loves in solitary cages,
And forced disunion both of bed and board,
Then what a sudden gush of pent-up song
Burst from the widower's throat I as tho' the passion
Kindled by nature in his fiery heart,
And finding, until then, congenial vent
In interchange of amorous sympathies
With his own chosen mate,--was now constrain'd
To seek some new, unwonted utterance--
Best found in song. Herein methinks, the bird
Is an apt emblem of his wayward donor,
Who, for six blissful years, link'd to thy side
In loving and moat blest companionship,
Hath, all that time, lock'd up his vaunted store
Of thought poetic, breathing scarce a note
Of glad or mournful, light or serious song,
Not ode sublime, nor melting elegy,
Nor lofty-sounding epic. Why was this?
Why, but because the wild and passionate feelings,
The dim, mysterious instincts of his nature,
The struggling impulse of the Muse within him,
Which, in the days of his unmated youth,
Found vent in song and minstrelsy, have flow'd
Since thou wert his, in a far better channel.
Spending their once tumultuous energy
In exercises sweet o' chasten'd love
And mild endearments. Around thee have cluster'd
The tender thoughts, the rich imaginations,
The impulses and instincts, strange and strong,
The dreams and visions and wild phantasies,
Which else perhaps had wander'd unrestrain'd
Through many a devious track of poesy;
But, tamed by the strong magic of thy charms,
Have all foregone their rovings, and so mingled
Their manifold, and oft contending, currents
In one deep, tranquil, mighty stream of love.
Thus is it that, for very blessedness,
My Muse hath long been silent--long forgotten
The venturous flights of her less happy days;
But now that, summon'd by imperious duty,
And, for a time, foregoing love's sweet solace
For truest Friendship's sake, I dwell apart
From thee and my sweet children--now once more
The old imaginations wake within me;
Once more the wild and long forgotten music
Of teeming thoughts and fancies floats and thrills
Through my admiring brain; once more I seem
To walk in that bright land of fairy vision
Which is the poet's birthright,--his asylum
From all the harsh and sorrowful realities
Which vex him in this dull and daylight world.
Now, like our luckless bird, I seem endow'd
With sudden and unwonted power of song;
Which, if it may attain such tuneful pitch
As erst it reach'd--such as may not disgrace
The promise of my earlier utterance,--
To whom but thee, my own and only love,
Should its first notes be consecrate?
My heart
Turns fondly to thine image. O! where art thou?
How spending thy brief widowhood? what work
Of patient duty or meek love pursuing?
Haply thou watchest, with maternal fondness,
The slumbers of our children, or in calm
And serious converse with those gentle friends,
Whose presence half consoles thee for my absence,
Pliest thy busy needle, toiling hard
At some great masterpiece of seamstress skill,--
Trouser or tiny shirt, or infant frock,
Or cap constructed to set off the smiles
Of dimpled babyhood;--meanwhile to lighten
The evening's toil, one reads, with placid tone,
Some volume of grave truth or pleasant fiction,
Whereto with serious and attentive ear
Well pleased thou listenest, though at times thy thoughts,
Spite of thyself, wander away to him
Who, on his part, in solitude remote,
Is wedding his fond thoughts of thee and home
To these weak, worthless numbers. Peace be with thee,
My gentle love, whate'er thy occupation,
Where'er thy thoughts are fix'd ; such peace as thou,
By all the arts of wedded tenderness
Hast breathed into this wild and wayward spirit.
For thou hast been to me a guiding star,
My tutelary genius, my good angel,
The ministering spirit, by whose hand
The Giver of all good hath lavish'd on me
His choicest bounties. Thou canst never know
How much I owe thee for whate'er of good
Is mingled with this gross and selfish nature;
For what I am, or may be--and no less
For that which I am not; for, without thee,
And that sweet exercise of pure affections--
Those moods of sober thought and tender musing,--
That calm fulfilment of unquiet hopes
And fiery longings after happiness,
Which thou alone hast yielded or couldst yield me--
I had remain'd the wild, impetuous slave
Of uncontroll'd self will, made weak and wretched
By foul perversion of the choicest gifts
Shower'd on me by all-bounteous Providence.
And if, reclaim'd from wanderings manifold,
And made partaker of a better hope
And purer aspirations, I now walk,
Though with unsteady and irresolute step,
In the straight path which leads to life eternal,
To thee, in part, I owe it. Be all praise
To Him whose grace, by means inscrutable,
Hath won us from this world of sense and sin
To prospects bright of immortality!
Therefore, O gentlest, our connubial love,
Hallow'd by strong consent of mutual faith
And kindred aspirations, hath assumed
A nobler character; for we two walk
Through this life's strange and ever varying road,
Not as chance wayfarers, ere long to part
At Death's grim hostel--but as deathless souls
Inseparably join'd, and doom'd to share
Each other's company through endless changes
Of still progressive being:--and shall we,
Thus strongly bound by chains indissoluble,
Heirs of one blessed hope, leagued in pursuit
Of one immortal prize--shall we not share
Each other's joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
In tenderest sympathy? shall we not bear
Each other's burdens, cheer each other's toils,
And, in most loving emulation, strive
Which shall do most to help the other's welfare
In this world and the next? My Margaret,
Methinks when I look back on our past years
Of wedded life, much seems to be amiss
On my part--somewhat haply e'en on thine;
For this, whatever may have been my share
In our joint list of treasons conjugal,
For rash impatience, tempers unsubdued,
And much neglect of duties manifold,
Would I now crave forgiveness, and henceforth
Resolve, by powerful help of grace divine,
To act, more perfectly, the Christian husband.
Henceforth let us two live, in full discharge
Of all those gentle duties which we owe
Each to the other, as souls knit together
In bonds divine, and emblematical
Of that most holy and mysterious union
Wherein the Church is join'd to its great Head;--
Beloved and loving, cherishing and cherish'd.
And let no cold distrust, on either part,
Mar or obstruct the full and perfect freedom
Wherewith in turn we render, each to each,
Our debts of mutual service, faithful counsel,
Gentle admonishment, well-timed reproof,
And solace mild, and cheering exhortation.
Nor let us lack congenial partnership
Of thought and study, intermingling oft,
As time permits, with books of sacred lore
And serious meditation, hastier snatches
Of fiction wild and wizard phantasy.
So may our hearts be strengthen'd and refresh'd
For due discharge of this world's sterner duties;
For self-denying acts of meek good will
Toward all men;--chiefly those whom Heaven's high counsel
Hath placed within our own peculiar charge,
Linking their lot to ours in one close bond
Of Christian fellowship and pastoral care.
But, holier far than all, more closely blended
With all our heart's most pure and sacred feelings,--
That task, so wholly ours, to form the minds
Of our sweet children;--so to train them up,
That, after this world's brief and bustling journey,
We all may meet where sorrow is no more,
But God shall wipe the tears from all our eyes.
O here it is, in the exact fulfilment
Of this most solemn duty, that thy worth
Appears most brightly; here I recognize,
With love and admiration most profound,
The rich array of choicest qualities
Which grace thy wedded character, and fit thee
As fully for the mother as the wife.
Affection deep and fervent, yet controll'd
By principle severe;--decisive firmness,
And patience most long-suffering;--prudence mild,
And skill to guide and govern their young hearts
By gentle yet resistless impulses
To meek obedience and submission calm.
O, if 'tis written in high Heaven's decrees
That both of us must not behold them come
To life's maturity--mayst thou survive
To guide their progress thither; for so best
Shall our fond hopes and prayers be realized
By final union in the world to come.
But finish'd is my exile;--I return
Homeward with eager heart, most glad once more
To seize my pastoral stall, and so exchange
The wild and wandering visions of the Muse
For ministerial duties, and sweet store
Of home enjoyments. May this idle song
Find favour in thy sight, as I dare hope
It will not fail to find. Receive it, dearest,
Indulgently, as doubtless much it needs,
Framed as it is with long unpractised skill,
And energies decay'd; keep it in memory
Of thy fond husband's love, and when 'tis read,
Cease to regret that once, at Friendship's call,
He left thee and thy children, for awhile
To sojourn in the distant Cornish moors;
Where, to relieve the strong and passionate yearnings
Of his poor widow'd heart, he first devised,
And partly framed, this true and tender strain,
Begun and ended for no eyes but thine.
I love thee, lady--oh how well--
Nor thou canst guess, nor I can tell;
But 'tis with such a reverent love
As saints feel here for saints above;
A love less fond than household ties
And sweet domestic sympathies;
Less passionate, but purer far
Than purest dreams of lovers are;--
Such love as felt the Florentine
For her, his soul's immortal queen,
Who led him, in angelic guise,
Through the bright realms of Paradise.
For thou, though mortal still I ween,
Even such a guide to me hast been;
A cheering light, a mission'd star
To guide my footsteps from afar,
Through mist and fog, through shower and shine,
Right heavenward to thy home and mine.
Whence comes it then, (if thou canst guess,)
That when my heart would fain express
The thoughts thy presence makes to flow,--
The feelings that within me glow;
When I would open my full soul
Without reserve, without control,
Lay bare to thee each secret part
Of this poor, wayward, sinful heart,--
And speak with thee, in converse high,
Of thoughts that roam beyond the sky,--
Of all my hopes,--of all my fears,--
Of griefs that "lie too deep for tears,"--
Of doubts that o'er my spirit steal,--
Of all I would, but cannot feel,--
Of many a dark, rebellious hour,
In thought and will, to Heaven's high power--
Of bitter strife waged hard within,--
Of triumphs dark achieved by sin--
When thus I would pour forth'to thee
My inmost soul's anxiety,--
Or when, in less religious mood,
I'd talk with thee, if talk I could,
On subjects grave of pleasant thought,--
In all too happy to be taught
By thy pure wisdom, which doth reach
The farthest realm of thought and speech,
And make all lovely--tell me why
This spell-bound tongue so dumb doth lie?
Why is it that thy speaking eye,
Which smiles upon me with intent
To give serene encouragement,--
And thy sweet words, which fain would break
My spirit's charm, and gently wake
My slumbering speech to converse high,
By sense of mutual sympathy--
Why do these serve to tighten more
The chain which was so tight before?
Why doth each sweet attempt of thine
To give me freedom, only twine
A heavier, stronger spell around me
Than that with which my nature bound me?
Why, when my heart is yearning still
Of fervent talk to take its fill,
Doth want of power so fetter will,
That half in fear, and half in joy,
I falter like a frighten'd boy,
And stammer forth, in hurried tone,
A few faint, scatter'd words alone;--
Unmeaning words of vain assent,
Or more unmeaning sentiment--
Betokening thought confused and dim,--
Ideas indistinct, that swim
In shapeless masses, undefined
And dreamlike, through my labouring mind;
And feelings which, though proud to feel,
I neither dare nor can reveal?
It is not fear--it is not love,
Which so my charmed soul doth move,
That I must oft appear to thee
Senseless or passionless to be.
O lady! 'tis a dread respect
Of thy majestic intellect;
A sense of awe which makes me bow
Before thy voice, before thy brow,
In reverence for that depth of mind
So richly stored, so disciplined
To the full use of all its powers,
By patient thought and studious hours;
And, more than this, a consciousness,
Too deep for language to express,
Of that most perfect holiness
Which God himself in thee hath wrought
Through years of calm religious thought,--
Through study deep and constant prayer,--
Through trials dark--through grief and care,
Through contemplation pure and high--
Through many a well won victory,
With toil and pain, achieved o'er sin--
Enfranchising the depths within
From all dominion but his own,
And slowly building up a throne
In thy pure soul, whereon he may
Himself reign paramount for aye.
'Tis true, elsewhere I may have found
Minds as exact, nor less profound;
And haply some, in many years,
Almost in holiness thy peers;
But never, never found I one
In whom thy wit and wisdom shone
So chasten'd as they are in thee
By fervent Christianity;
Thy reason calm--thy faith intense--
Thy clear and bright intelligence;
And all this with a woman's heart,
Framed perfectly in every part,
And rich in sympathies of earth--
The love that gladdens home and hearth--
The prudence mild--the sense discreet--
The household smile so bright and sweet--
The sweeter tears, so prompt to flow,
Not for thine own but others' woe;
The grace which clothes in fairest dress
All this thine other loveliness;
In voice and look, in mind and heart,
Lady, how beautiful thou art!
And I,--should not this soul of mine
Feel, as it doth, rebuked by thine?
This soul, which howsoe'er endued
With capabilities of good--
With powers of thought, and feeling high,
And some bright gleams of phantasy,--
Did, in the morn of life's brief day,
Cast all its better gifts away;
Waste half its brightest years on earth
In cares and pleasures little worth;
Leaving itself untutor'd still,--
Unpurified from moral ill--
Unfurnish'd with the needful store
Of earthly or of heavenly lore;--
Its headstrong passions unsubdued--
Its carnal spirit unrenew'd;
Each talent unimproved, or given
To things on earth, not things in heaven?
Myself the slave, the Creature still
Of self-indulgence and blind will?
O lady, look not at my heart;
For, all benignant as thou art,
Thou couldst not choose but love me less,
Couldst thou behold, or know, or guess
Its yet too great unworthiness.
And wilt thou love me less? Ah me!
That I should thus conceive of thee!
That such a thought should e'er have birth
As that of losing, here on earth,
Thy friendship--the best boon, but one,
I yet retain beneath the sun!
No, lady, I can ne'er believe
But that howe'er thy soul may grieve
Over my many faults, thou still
Wilt yield me, of thine own sweet will,
Affection unreserved, but kind,
And with remembrances entwined
Dear, though most sad, of recent ties,
Close knit by mutual sympathies,
And sorrows, in which thou and I
Wept and consoled alternately.
Forgive me, then, that I so oft
Hear thy dear voice, so sweet and soft,
Provoking me by gentlest force
To intellectual discourse;
Yet sit, as seems, regardless by,
In helpless taciturnity.
Think of me, as of one whose seat
Should be for ever at thy feet;
As one who fain would learn of thee,
In most sincere humility--
Yea, like a meek and docile child,--
Religion pure and undefiled;--
As one whom God to thee hath given,
A friend to be prepared for Heaven.
I loved thee not, I knew thee not, I never heard thy
name,
Till they told me that thy spirit pure had left its mortal
frame;
Thy voice, thy smile, thy pleasant ways can never be to me
The treasures, which they are to some, of mournful memory:
When I gaze into the throng'd abyss of youth's departed
years,
Amidst the forms, that meet me there, no trace of thee
appears;
And if I strive to picture thee to Fancy's inward eye,
I see indeed a shadowy dream of beauty flitting by;
A thoughtful brow, a look lit up by faith and love
divine,--
But not the true, the mortal brow, the look that once was
thine.
And shalt thou then depart from earth, and take thy shining
place
Among the brightest daughters of our lost and ransom'd
race,
Without one passing thought from me, one feeling of regret
Unfelt for other Christian saints whose eyes and mine ne'er
met?
Shall I hear of all thy patient pangs, thy meekly yielded
breath,
Yet think of thee--as merely one who died a Christian
death?--
Undistinguish'd in my mental eye, from all the sainted dead
Whose souls the spirit cleansed from sin, for whom the Saviour
bled?
And, if we meet hereafter, in the mansions of the blest
Shall I then, by no assured mark, discern thee from the rest?
Not so; we two are strangers,--we were never friends on
earth;
We never slept beneath one roof, nor sate beside one
hearth.
And yet, methinks, we are not strange,--so many chains there
be
Which seem to weave a viewless band between my soul and
thee.
Sweet sister of my early friend, the kind, the
single-hearted,
Than whose remembrance none more bright still gilds the days
departed;
Beloved, with more than sister's love, by some whose love to
me
Is now almost my brightest gem in this world's treasury--
Shall I not love thee, sainted one, to whom such love was
given?
Shall I not mourn thy loss on earth, yet hail thy flight to
Heaven?
Thy grave is wet with bitter tears from eyes whose friendly
smile
Hath power to cheer my sinking heart, my heaviest cares
beguile;
The cordial tones and kindly looks, which gladden me and
mine,
Oft smiled and sounded pleasantly in unison with thine:
And should it be God's holy will that we their graves should
see,
Our tears will flow as fast for them as theirs have flow'd for
thee.
Thou must not be estranged from us--we too must share thy
love;
We claim thee for our spirit friend, our sister saint
above.
Where'er thy present home may be, whate'er thy present
bliss,
We call thee, from thine own bright world, to smile on us in
this.
If blessed souls may wander from the region of their
rest,--
If thou watchest still the infant's sleep who lately drain'd thy
breast,--
If still around the nuptial bed thy phantom footsteps
glide,--
If still thou walk'st invisible by thy saintly parent's
side,--
We bid thee--wilt thou hear us--from the haunts thou hold'st so
dear,
To join awhile our fireside group, and view our friendly
cheer.
Hover near us, in thy holiness,--smile sweet on home and
hearth,
Let thy unseen presence soothe our woes and sanctify our
mirth;
So may we with thy spirit hold communion calm and high,
Till we follow thee, by Jesu's grace, to thy home beyond the
sky.
At length they slumber sweetly,--
The mother and her child;
And all their pains completely
Are now to rest beguiled.
Thank God, who to our prayers
Hath sent this blest reply,
To soothe awhile my anxious cares,
And calm my wakeful eye.
Our maid, with watching weary,
To late repose is gone;
And, in this chamber dreary,
I sit and muse alone.
O joy! that, for a space,
My heart to muse is free
From my sweet boy's imploring face,
And moans of agony.
And joy! that his dear mother,
Beside him close reclined,
Doth in oblivion smother
The sorrows of her mind;
And that her body's pangs,
Which she so meekly bore,
Relax awhile their piercing fangs,
And vex her frame no more.
Who would not share my anguish,
To see that suffering pair
Condemn'd to pine and languish
In pain and sickness there?
Two gentle souls, like those,
So pure from guilt within,
Doom'd haply to these bitter woes
For my unpardon'd sin?
For oh! in this dark season,
What tales doth conscience tell!
How doth awaken'd reason
Reveal the bosom's hell!
What shapes before me start,
Too frightful to express,
Of sins long cherish'd in my heart,
And old unfaithfulness!
Full many a wild transgression,
In reckless boyhood wrought,
Comes forth to make confession
In this sad hour of thought;
And headstrong courses run,
Through paths of vice and wrong;
And deeds not done, which should be done,
And talents buried long.
They stand reveal'd before me,--
A black and hideous crowd;
And wail dire warnings o'er me,
And threatenings deep and loud.
The sensual days of youth,
And manhood's sloth are there;
And service slack perform'd to truth,
And much neglect of prayer.
Ah! little think my neighbours
How weak a thing is he,
Who thus among them labours
With pastoral ministry:
They know not, when they hear
My speech so blunt and bold,
How oft my heart, with doubt and fear,
Is comfortless and cold.
And is it then to chasten
These grievous faults in me,
That pain and sickness fasten
Their fangs, my child, on thee?
Is it for sins of mine,
My own beloved wife,
That all these fiery pangs of thine
Embitter thy dear life?
Oh, then, with deep repentance
Let me avert the blow,
And disannul the sentence
Which dooms my house to woe.
Let tears of contrite love
My soul's pollution wash,
And more devout obedience prove
How I have felt the lash.
It may be God will hear me,
With loving mercy mild,
And send sweet hope to cheer me
For thee and for our child.
I felt his hand just now--
Methought its heat was gone,
And on his late so feverish brow
A blessed moisture shone.
He utter'd not, at waking,
Those piteous cries of pain;
His head's perpetual aching
Hath sunk to rest again.
And thou art slumbering still--
I hear thee breathing deep;
God save thee from all threaten'd ill
By this refreshing sleep!
Two sufferers meek and lowly
Have ye together been;
Thy heart, with patience holy
And humble faith, serene:
His pains so sweetly borne
Could ne'er have been, I guess,
Had God not soothed his heart forlorn
With his own tenderness.
The dawn at length is breaking
In yon clear, frosty skies;
Our servants now are shaking
The slumber from their eyes.
O may the coming day
Bring health and peace to you,
And summon me stern duty's way
More straightly to pursue.
Away! away! away!
This earth's no longer gay;
For our child lies dead
In his grass-grown bed--
Shall we lie there too? O yea!
Away! away! away!
All things look old and grey;
There's nought below
But death and woe--
Shall we love this world? O nay!
Away! away! away!
Heaven's fields are bright and gay;
And our child dwells there
In the brightest air--
Shall we follow him thither? O yea!
Away! away! away!
Though rugged and steep's the way
Our child looks down
In his sunbright crown--
Shall he look in vain? O nay!
Away! away! away!
In the grave where Jesus lay--
Where our child lies now,--
Shall I and thou
Sleep sound, sweet love? O yea!
Away! away! away!
To the realms of eternal day;
Our path we must win
Against sorrow and sin--
Shall we falter or faint? O nay!
Away! away! away!
Through the dancing waves and spray
Like light we glide
With wind and tide--
Farewell to fair Herne Bay!
Away! away! away!
We'll greet thee as we may;
Though we found thee glad,
And we leave thee sad,
Thou'rt dear to us, Herne Bay.
Away! away! away!
O! little we thought, that day
When we near'd thy shore,
That we now, but four
Out of five, should leave Herne Bay.
Away! away! away!
When the grass grows green and gay
On our infant's grave,
O'er the swift sea wave,
We'll seek thee again, Herne Bay.
Away! away! away!
A treasure we leave for aye,
Which shall mark a track
For our fond hearts back
To thee and to thine, Herne Bay.
Away! away! away!
Let's weep no more, but pray
That each aching breast
Of us four may rest
As the fifth rests in Herne Bay.
Was this too needed? must even thou,
So firm in faith, so meek of heart,
So chasten'd by long suffering, bow
Once more beneath a bitterer smart
Than earth's worst sorrows can impart
To any unregenerate soul?
Must thou, enfranchised as thou art,
So nearly, from sin's dark control,
Still bleed beneath the stripes which make us sinners
whole?
I thought (ah vain and selfish thought!)
That all thy chastisements were o'er;
For that thy heart had now been taught
Christ's hardest lesson, and no more
Should ache as it hath ached of yore:
And 'twas a dear delight to me
To hope that, as Life's daylight wore,
Thy sky grew clear, and I should see
Thy sun, without a cloud, go down rejoicingly.
I hoped for years serene and calm,
Still calmer as their close drew nigh;
In which thy soul should breathe the balm
Of Heaven's profoundest peace, while I,
Sharing that deep tranquillity,
Should dwell near thy beloved side,
And learn thy wisdom pure and high,
And how thy earlier faith was tried,
And how thy soul had been, through suffering, sanctified.
I knew that in thy bosom dwelt
A silent grief, a hidden fear,
A sting which could be only felt
By spirits to their God most dear!
Which yet thou felt'st, from year to year,
Unsoften'd, nay embitter'd still;
And many a secret sigh and tear
Heaved thy sad heart, thine eyes did fill,
And anxious thoughts thou hadst presaging direst ill.
My prayers (ah! why so cold and few?)
Were that this weight might be removed;
And that thy living eyes might view
All they desired in all they loved;
But when imagination roved
Through dreams of sorrow, which might be,
My dull, blind heart was never moved,
Even by the thought that thou shouldst see
Of this thy bitterest fear the dread reality.
And now thou bleed'st beneath the blow--
The blow I deem'd too sharp to fall--
Ah! how shall I assuage thy woe?
What flow'rets scatter o'er the pall
Of earthly Hope's sad funeral?
Alas! I cannot rend the sky,
Nor streams of light celestial call
To burst the gloom which clouds the eye
E'en of thy faith, and wraps Heaven's sell in mystery.
I cannot--nor, alas! canst thou;
Although no dearer child hath He
Who grieves thy saintly spirit now
With this most dread severity;
Nor suffers thee as yet to see
Deliverance from heart-crushing woes;
Yet mayst thou to His bosom flee,
To Him thy secret soul disclose,
And in his long-tried love thy perfect trust repose.
Thou dost--ah! well I know thou dost--
I know thy heart was all in heaven,
To earth and earth's delusions lost,
To God and Christ completely given,
Ere yet by this last stroke 'twas riven:
Long hast thou dwelt with us on earth,
A spirit purged from earthly leaven,
Still sharing, all our grief and mirth,
Half angel though thou art, God's child by second birth.
Thy pangs, which now pierce soul and sense,
No child of this world e'er hath known;
And shall these earn no recompense
From Him whom they proclaim thine own--
The heir of Heaven's eternal throne?
Oh think not he can aught decree
Not breathing tenderest love alone,
And final bliss, to thine and thee--
Aught that could mar in heaven thy full felicity.
In heaven?--and must I think of Earth?
Ah! dearest friend--thy fading brow--
Thy failing strength--this new-sent dearth
Of hope, which makes thy firm heart bow!
Have I no cause to tremble now?
And yet--shanie on my selfish fears--
Shame that such fears I should avow--
Why grieve to think thy mortal years
Were number'd, thy work done in this our world of tears?
I will not;--yet I must--I must;
For what, alas! were I and mine,
When we had given thee back to dust;
When all that tenderness of thine,
Thy wisdom pure, thy faith divine,
Had vanish'd from our earthly store?
When thy deep heart's exhaustless mine
Should yield us its rich gems no more,
And all our loving talk, our pleasant days be o'er?
I may not think on griefs like these;--
Yet, yet, beloved friend, remain;
If earthly love hath power to case
The pressure of thy grievous pain,
And cheer thy chasten'd heart again;
Still let us minister to thee,
Nor haply minister in vain,
Whate'er of tenderest aid may be,
Whate'er of comfort yet, in all love's treasury.
Stay with us till our hearts are strong;
Till we can gaze, with steadier eye,
To where, amidst the saintliest throng,
Thy spirit shall be throned on high:
Stay till we too are fit to die,--
Christ's messenger to us and ours;
Teach us to share thy victory
O'er lust and sin's rebellious powers,
And lead our steps, with thine, to Heaven's unfading bowers.
Thanks, Marion, for thy Sojourn brief
In this our English home;
Source, as it is, of present grief,
But joy for years to come;
Of grief, that we must part to-day,
Of joy, that thou, when far away
Beyond the ocean foam,
Wilt leave, on mine and Margaret's heart,
An image fair of what thou art.
To her, or ere thy face we knew,
A cherish'd dream wast thou;
The tints her fancy o'er it threw
Have scarcely faded now:
But fancy's touch hath slender skill
The heart's desiring void to fill,
Or airy shapes endow
Of the unseen we pant to see,
With life and warm reality.
Hadst thou been coarse of form and mien,
Or base of mind and heart,
Small comfort it perchance had been
To know thee as thou art.
Then she and I might both have grieved
That our own visions, half believed,
For ever must depart
Before one disenchanting glance
Of thy long look'd for countenance.
But we have seen thee;--seen the mind
That lights thy full, dark eye;
Enjoy'd thy feelings warm and kind,
Thy spirit clear and high;
Have follow'd thee through thought's wide range,
With many a cordial interchange
Of mutual sympathy;
And seen thee tread the paths of life,
The friend, the mother, and the wife.
Henceforth there dwells in either heart
A form of flesh and blood,
Not shaped by fancy's treacherous art,
But known and understood:
No frail creation of the thought,
From frail materials feebly wrought,
In some fantastic mood;
But one whose real traits express
Distinct and breathing loveliness.
Thanks for thy visit; thanks for all
Which thou wilt leave behind;
The light that on our hearts will fall
From thy reflected mind;
The frank good will, the generous love,
The frequent thought on things above,
The speech sincere, but kind,
The humour gay, the sportive mirth,
The laugh that gladdens home and hearth.
Thanks for all these:--we know not how
Their worth is prized elsewhere;
But here our grateful hearts avow
That thou art good and fair.
And here thy memory still shall dwell,
A pleasant thought, a soothing spell
To blunt the stings of care;
Thy substitute, when thou art gone,
For friendly thought to rest upon.
And thou--when thou once more shalt see
Thy home in hot Bengal,
Shall no remembrance cleave to thee
Of us, of ours, of all
The friends whom here we love so well,
The quiet haunts in which we dwell,
The interests, great and small,
The tranquil pleasures, cares and ways
Which fill the English pastor's days?
Take with thee, Marion, thoughts like these
To cheer thy Indian home,
And give thy burthen'd spirit ease
When grief and care shall come.
Go, tell our friends, who linger there,
Our fields are pleasant as they were
Ere they began to roam;
Tell them that, come when come they will,
They'll find our hearts unalter'd still.
Nor worthless, nor by them unfelt
Such words from us will be;
Nor slow, perchance, their hearts to melt
When they shall speak with thee
Still fresh from calm familiar talk,
From fireside laugh and evening walk
With my sweet wife and me;
Thy voice a breeze from happier climes,
Breathing old thoughts, old joys, old times.
There's one who soothed us here erewhile
In days of care and pain,
With the sweet sunshine of her smile--
Our own beloved Jane.
Her gentle heart 'twill surely stir,
To think that here thou'st roam'd like her,
And lain where she hath lain;
Hast track'd the paths her footsteps press'd,
And shared, like her, our household rest.
High intercourse methinks should be
Between her soul and thine,
And store of mutual sympathy
In thoughts and cares divine.
With open heart and serious speech
May ye take council, each with each,
From Truth's exhaustless mine
Extracting treasures richer far
Than those of eastern monarchs are.
We know not if in after years
We e'er may meet again;
Nor whether, then, in smiles or tears,
In pleasure or in pain:
But this we know, that whatsoe'er
The burthen each may have to bear,
'Twill not be borne in vain,
If so our sever'd souls may be
Prepared for immortality.
Farewell! mayst thou, in yon dark land,
Thy hard course shape aright,
And shed o'er that fraternal band
Thy spirit's inner light;
Stern duty's arduous course pursue,
Thy human will, thyself subdue
By faith's all-conquering might;
And meet us, when life's toil is done,
The good fight fought, the victory won.
Maiden, on thy vaunted beauty
Never yet mine eye hath fed;
But, between young love and duty,
Thou, I know, art sore bested.
Love indeed hath been to thee
No vain trick of phantasy.
Haply childhood's visions told thee
He was mild, and bland, and fair;
Would, with soft embrace, enfold thee
From the touch of pain and care;
Strew thy path with brightest flowers,
Twine above thee myrtle bowers.
Such, in Eden's blissful valleys,
Love perchance might still have been,
Had not hell's triumphant malice
Marr'd his sweetness, dimm'd his sheen;
Such doth Fancy paint him still
To the longing heart and will.
Tell us, maiden, hast thou found him
Thus delicious, thus divine?
Doth such witchery breathe around him?
Is his spirit so benign?
Doth he shed, o'er heart and brain,
More of pleasure or of pain?
Dreams there be of brain-sick passion,
Sentimental groan and sigh,
Heart-aches aped for very fashion,--
Of such whimsies ask not I:
Let them trouble fops and fools,
Reign supreme o'er boarding-schools.
But with fiercer pain and anguish
Love like thine must oft contend;
Oft the breaking heart must languish
Till, with life, its sorrows end.
Well our Shakspere spake, in sooth,
"True love's course did ne'er run smooth."
Mammon spreads his glittering treasures
To entrap parental eyes;
Laughs to scorn our purest pleasures,
Revels in our tears and sighs.
How should true love flourish here,
In this earth's chill atmosphere?
Hard thy task;--yet meet it, maiden,
With a true and steadfast will,
Though thy heart, with care o'erladen,
Faint beneath the burden still.
Through thy worst temptations prove
Firm in duty, firm in love.
Better 'twere to wither slowly
On the lonely virgin stalk,
Than, fast bound in ties unholy,
Through a desert world to walk,
Dragging still, with toil and pain,
Sordid Mammon's golden chain.
Better far that maids should sprinkle
Flowers upon thy virgin grave,
When the star-beams faintly twinkle,
And the moon is on the wave,
Than thy brow with wreaths adorn
For a loveless bridal morn.
Better go a saint unspotted,
To thy glorious home above,
Than, by this world's gauds besotted,
Lose for ever life and love;
Throned in empty state and show,
Empress of a world of woe.
Yet, perchance, at length victorious
O'er this danger and distress,
We shall hail thy triumph glorious
With loud songs of happiness;
Lead thee home in bridal pomp,
With the sound of harp and trump;
Come, with shouting, forth to meet thee,
Wife and husband, sire and son;
As our new-found sister greet thee,
Boldly woo'd and nobly won.
Meet rejoicings then shall be
In our festive family.
Keep thy love, a guarded treasure
In thine inmost heart laid by;
All its pain and all its pleasure
Shall thy spirit purify;
If thou rein wild fancy still
With a firm and temperate will.
Murmur not;--bethink thee rather,
When these pangs thy patience try,
That thou hast another Father
In thy home above the sky.
When thine eyes with tears grow dim,
Turn them patiently to Him.
Welcome His consoling Spirit,
Then, whate'er thy mortal doom,
Doubt not that thou shalt inherit
Endless bliss beyond the tomb:
Where, redeem'd from earthly thrall,
Heavenly love is all in all.
Thay say that, since I wander'd last
Amidst my childhood's haunts and bowers,
A spirit to the skies hath past
From these romantic vales of ours,
For whom all gentle hearts make moan,
Each feeling all the loss its own.
And I, they say, must not withhold
A funeral chaplet from her bier;
For that her love was shared of old
By many to my memory dear;
And that, in youth, there fell on me
Some flashes of her brilliancy.
They bid me think on days long past,
When first that gentle face I knew,
Whose lineaments are fading fast
In dark decay's sepulchral hue;
They tell me of her graceful form,
Where banquets now the hungry worm.
And they remind me of her voice,
And of her magic minstrel skill,
Whose music made e'en grief rejoice--
But those rich notes are vocal still;
Blending their sweetness with the hymn
Of Heaven's melodious seraphim.
They tell me that her heart was kind
And pure as hearts of angels be;
They tell me thought enrich'd her mind,--
And I believed them; though to me
What matters now its richest worth,
Since she's in Heaven, and I on earth?
They tell me that, in later years,
Her hopes were all with Christ in Heaven?
That she had wash'd her heart in tears,
And felt sweet peace for sins forgiven.
I doubt them not; would God that I
Could thus to Time's poor trifles die!
So she is in her earthy bed,--
Her place in this world's void for aye;
She rests among the saintly dead,
Asleep until the judgment day;
And they, who loved her, vainly long
For her sweet looks, and words, and song.
They look and long: beside their hearth
They listen for her voice in vain;
By day or night, in grief or mirth,
They may not hear its tones again:
With craving heart, and aching eye,
They seek her still unconsciously.
And there are reliques, fair though few,
Which of her sweetness she hath left;
The forms her fairy pencil drew,
The garden of her care bereft;
The children, who as dear had grown,
To her, as they had been her own.
And poor men weep upon her grave
For many a blessing now no more;
The words she spake, the gifts she gave,
The balm her kindness loved to pour
Into their bleeding hearts, when care
And want, and grief were rankling there.
And who shall fill her place on earth?
And who her mother's tears shall dry?
And who relieve her sister's dearth
Of love, and bliss, and sympathy?
What voice shall summon from the dead
The grace and goodness which have fled?
It may not be; though oft in dreams
Perchance her image wanders back,
Fair as of old, and trailing gleams
Of glory down her earthward track;
So visiting the midnight sleep
Of eyes that only wake to weep.
That wake to weep? to weep for her?
The freed from Earth--the housed in Heaven?
Triumphant o'er the sepulchre,--
Her sorrows past, her sins forgiven?
To weep for her? it must not be;
Our tears would blot her victory.
Nay, hymn her flight with rapturous songs;
For she, in Death's embrace, hath done
With human griefs, and fears, and wrongs;
Her fight is fought, her triumph won.
The amaranth crown is round her brow,
She dwells beside her Saviour now.
Weep not, or weep as those should weep
Whose hope is stronger than their sorrow;
To-night our loved and lost ones sleep,
But Christ will bring them back to-morrow.
We shall not long lament them here,
Our home is in a brighter sphere.
Lady, whose sojourn in our simple town
Hath been an angel's visit, showering down,
From the far regions of its own bright skies,
Streams of pure love, and kindliest sympathies;
O lady, whom most fain would I address
With all St. John's pastoral tenderness,
Beseeching thee that we might love each other,
For the truth's sake, like sister and like brother.
(Or if a holier name than these there be
In Christian Friendship's phraseology,
Would, lady, such might serve for thee and me,)
If our past year of intercourse (most sweet
To me and mine) allow it--I entreat
Bear with me while I weave thee a rough song,
(For verse and I have lost each other long)
Of friendliest thoughts and feelings, such, in sooth,
As, scarce experienced in my prime of youth,
I little deem'd would e'er have glow'd again
In this worn heart and care-encumber'd brain.
Thanks to thee, friend revered, for thus revealing
These unsuspected springs of blissful feeling!
These deep, rich veins of comfort pure and high,
This growth of fresh and fervent sympathy;
These treasures of affection, long unknown,
Till the sweet sunbeams of thy friendship shone
Into my spirit's depths, and brought to light
A world of pleasures new and exquisite.
O! untold thanks to thee, that thou hast shown
What, but for thee, I haply ne'er had known
In its most bright and captivating dress--
The perfect beauty of true holiness,
With every sweet accomplishment combined
Of female grace, and more than female mind.
Thanks for the knowledge thou so well hast taught,
That 'tis not only youth's impassion'd thought,
And glowing fancy, which makes this world bright,
Gilding each object with unreal light,
And making us discern, in all we view,
Worth so transcendent if it were but true;
Till the fond heart, too frequently deceived,
Suspects all goodness, which it once believed,
E'en like the apples on the Dead Sea shore,
Goodly without, but ashes at the core.
From such drear thoughts by thee for ever freed,
And taught a nobler and more cheerful creed,--
Taught to perceive, with Reason's sober eye,
A loveliness unknown to phantasy,
To know, by ripe experience, that our earth
Possesses treasures of sublimer worth
Than young imagination e'er conceived,
Or faith, unpractised in the world, believed;
How gladly may I welcome middle age!
How cheerily pursue my pilgrimage,
Secure that nought can wholly darken life,
While thou'rt my friend, and--thou know'st who, my wife.
Call not this flattery, deeply valued friend;--
I fear thou wilt; yet could invention lend
Words still more fervent, all too cold would be
To speak the gratitude I owe to thee
For the last year's rich blessings. But no more,
Lest I should pain thee, while thy heart, still sore
From recent grief, shrinks sadlier than before
From praise. I know that death hath been a guest
By the fireside of some whom thou lov'dst best
Of many who love thee; that anxious fears,
Too soon succeeded by swift gushing tears
And funeral laments, have been the lot
Of thy sweet household; yet I mock thee not
With wailings for the dead; for she rests well--
Asleep in Jesus, safe from the rough swell
Of this world's troubled and tempestuous sea,
In the calm haven where we all would be.
Nor will I grieve for thee, in whose tried soul
Faith hath her perfect work, and doth control
The tides of passion nobly. Life for thee
Hath lost some part of its anxiety:
Thy heart hath been sore chasten'd, and no more
Shall ache, as it hath ached in days of yore,
At the drear touch of sorrow; thy worst woe
Hath been endured long-since, and nought below
Henceforth shall move thee from thy perfect trust,
Till thine own body shall return to dust,
Thy soul to its Creator. Death hath given
By this last blow one treasure more to Heaven,
Snapp'd one more bond which held thee down to earth,
And all condolence would be little worth
To one whose conversation is, like thine,
Ever more nearly among things divine.
But there's another dear to me and thee,
Thine own bright L----, oh! how fareth she
In this sad wreck of love, beneath this stroke
Of Heaven's own lightning, which at once hath broke
Friendship's strong bonds, worn through so many years,
And strengthen'd in the wearing: are her tears
Yet dry, or does their flowing bring relief
To that absorbing and most passionate grief,
Which only hearts like hers, of finest mould,
Feel as she feels it? Ere that grief grows old,
May He who sent it, and doth never send
A causeless sorrow, shape it to that end
For which I know thy constant prayers ascend
To His eternal presence.; may that mind
So proudly gifted, and e'en now inclined
To all things lovely, noble, pure and good,
Be, by this heart-stroke, to His will subdued,
And fix'd on things above.
Now let me greet
The second daughter of thy love, my sweet
And pensive-hearted M----. Hath she grown
In grace and spiritual beauty, shown
In her most gentle and heart-winning ways?
In that retiring meekness, which to praise
Were to insult it? in that quiet love
To things on earth, but more to things above?
In those mild eyes, serene as summer even,
Which speak of frequent communings with Heaven?
In the sweet zeal with which she doth explore
The fountains, deep and vast, of sacred lore,
To drink of Truth's pure stream? Tell her, from me,
The record of her last year's industry
Now lies upon my table; whereon I
Pore ever and anon with critic eye,
Which yet finds nought to blame, but much to praise.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Yet haply make the path which must be trod
By my own footsteps heavenward, more secure,
By dint of guiding youthful souls and pure
Up to their home and mine.
Shall I forget Mirthful E----, or disclaim my debt
Of kind remembrances to her? Not so--
Most gladly let me pay her that I owe;
Thanks for her childhood's friendship, a sweet boon
Made up of pure affections, which too soon
Our cold world will sophisticate, unless
Thy most discreet maternal tenderness,
Aided and blest by guidance from above,
Preserve the spring untainted;--may such prove
The crown of thy endeavours, and may she
Enjoy, while yet she can, the fancy-free
And happy days of childhood--happier still
To have the wanderings of her human will
Check'd by a Christian mother.
But how fares
The grave-eyed E----? Academic cares
Prove not, I trust, too heavy for his frail
And spirit-wasted strength. Is he still pale
From studious nights and days of contest high,
Struggling for hard and doubtful victory
With his well-match'd compeers! Success attend
His struggles, and mayst thou, high-hearted friend,
Be well repaid for all thy pious care
Of his past years, reaping a harvest fair
Of hopes fulfill'd in him.
Now wouldst thou learn
Somewhat of me and mine? The bay of Herne,
Hard by the towers of Canterbury old,
Doth, with its huge and shingly arms, enfold
Her whom reluctantly I spare from mine;
There she disporteth in the amorous brine,--
A mixture (pleasant as such mixtures be)
Of seaweed and Thames mud, miscall'd "the Sea,"
Wherein brave Maggie and her children three,
Her mother and two sisters, brave as she,
Plunge like so many mermaids merrily.
Heaven send the strength she needs (thou too wilt share,
Dear friend, in this my oft repeated prayer),
And give her to her household cares again,
Such as we both would have her, from all pain
And weakness quite deliver'd.
For myself
I wander here, a melancholy elf,
'Mid the sweet scenes in which my childhood roved,
Smiled on by many faces, long beloved,
Though now sore alter'd by the touch of years;
Yet lovelier far each well known spot appears
E'en than it did in youth; I know not why,
Unless perchance, that childhood's artless eye,
Familiarized too soon to scenes like these,
Saw not what now my riper manhood sees,
Nor my heart felt what now it deeply feels
In Nature's loveliest forms.
But sadness steals
O'er my poor heart, to find itself alone
Where least 'twould be so; where each rock and stone,
Green hill and gurgling stream, and stately tree,
Seem to demand, "Thy loved one, where is she?
Where the sweet pledges of her love to thee?"
Alas that 'tis so! that these weeks of rest
'Midst scenes and places which should cheer me best,
Should find me a lone widower. Yet so
High Heaven hath will'd; and hence the thoughts that flow
From heart to heart, the feelings that are sent
To gladden wedlock, must find other vent,
Best found, by me, in verse; therefore do I
Weave my thin woof of flimsy phantasy
(Poor substitute for sober household bliss,
And store of wedded joys) in strains like this,
Bidding thought wander to each distant scene
Of pleasure yet to be, or which hath been.
Therefore my present poverty I cheer
By reckoning up the treasures rich and dear
Which I possess elsewhere, and (best of all)
Think of thy friendship, lady, and recall
Thy virtues and thy kindnesses;--but now
'Tis time to rest this weary heart and brow
On my lone couch: all guardian angels dwell
With thee and thine for ever--so farewell.
For many a year, old friend, since thou and I
Dream'd our young dreams of twin-born poesy,
And wandering, arm in arm, Cam's banks along,
Held our wild talk, and framed our wayward song,
My stream of verse, as thou full well dost know,
If not dried up, at least hath ceased to flow:
Scarce, I believe, for other cause than this,
That my whole life hath been so full of bliss,
So rich in wedded and domestic love,
That the full heart hath had no will to rove
From the calm daylight of life's real sphere
Into the world of dreams. Year follow'd year,
In one scarce varied, yet unwearying round
Of undisturb'd enjoyment; still I found
The present more unclouded than the past,
And almost deem'd joy's increase thus would last,
Endless and still progressive. Why should I
Quit this fair world, and all its imagery,
For the unreal and unblest domain
Of shadowy fancy? why invoke again
My passionate Mus? why crowd this world-worn brain
With unaccustom'd visions, far less bright
Than the loved objects of my waking sight;
Exchanging sober certainty of peace
For wild unrest? 'Twas well my song should cease,
My harp lie mute; but now that Death hath come
Across my threshold, and despoil'd my home
Of its long virgin bliss, I rove once more
Through the dim fields of thought, well known of yore,
But long forsaken; summon from my brain
The ghosts of dreams which there had buried lain
Through my past years of happiness; extend
My plumeless wings, and struggle to ascend
(With efforts weak indeed, and little worth)
From the dim sphere of this perturbed earth
To Fancy's wizard realm. Thou'lt hardly guess
How swiftly, since yon day of bitterness,
My stream of what was once poetic thought
Hath flow'd and murmur'd; how this pen bath wrought
At the old toil, for years well nigh forgot,
While verse, almost without a blur or blot,
Starts from its touch unbidden. So I range
From bank to bank, culling a garland strange
Of many colour'd flowers,--explore the mine,
Boundless and deep, of Hebrew lore divine,--
And fashion some sweet tale, by Moses writ,
Into such simple rhyme as may befit
The studies of my nursery; or again
Revert, in thought, to our still recent pain,
And ere its memory fade (if fade it may),
Or all its bitterness hath past away,
Note down minutely every pang we felt
While Death, (grim inmate,) in our household dwelt;
Our griefs and consolations, one and all,
Before and since our darling's funeral:
Thus treasuring up such thoughts, for after years,
As then may fill our eyes with pleasant tears.
In these, and tasks like these, do I beguile
My leisure hours, and wander many a mile
With book and pencil; Gerard at my side,
Meanwhile his gallant donkey doth bestride,
With questions grave and deep, from time to time,
Scattering my thoughts, and spoiling many a rhyme;
Which, were his chat less clever or less quaint,
Might well provoke ten poets or a saint.
Thus by degrees have I laid up a store
Of verse--some eighteen hundred lines or more,
In two brief months, yet not encroached at all
On pastoral labours or didactical;
By strict economy of brains and time
Alternating my sermons with my rhyme,
And not retrenching half an hour per week
Of lecture to my flock, a page of Greek
Or Latin to my pupils. So I spend
My time (I trust not idly), and now send
A sample (not, perchance, first-rate), to thee
Of my new manufacture, which will be
A voice as from the sepulchre, to tell
Of days long past, but still remember'd well,
And ne'er to be forgotten; days of youth,
And hope, and gladness, and unsullied truth,
And rich imagination, which no more
Shall visit us in this world, or restore
What Time hath taken from us. Yet, my friend,
I trust Time borrows less than he doth lend
To souls like thine and mine; nor would I now,
While recent grief still half o'erclouds my brow--
While that, of which my home hath been bereft,
Still throws a shade of gloom o'er all that's left--
Give, if I could, my four and thirty years,
With all their cares and sorrows, hopes and fears,
For reckless twenty-one:--I'd not exchange
For all the ideal beauty, bright and strange,
Which fancy painted in the days gone by,
My Margaret's thin pale cheek and sunken eye;
(For grief, alas! on her hath done its work,
And in the depths of that deep heart doth lurk
A still consuming trouble;) I'd not give
The bliss which in my children's smiles doth live--
Their prattle, or their sports, for all the joy,
(Nay, ten times all) which, when I was a boy,
Or wayward stripling, danced before my sight
in waking dreams fantastically bright;
Though I believe, e'en then, my fondest thought
But rarely long'd for, or imagined aught
Of bliss more perfect than hath been my share;
Which, if 'tis mingled now with grief and care,
Why should I marvel, or repine that I
Must bear the burdens of mortality,--
The ills that flesh is heir to? I believe
That God, in mercy, causes me to grieve;
And, should the current of my future years
Be ruffled with deep sighs, and swoln with tears,
Let me reflect how cloudless and serene
The spring and summer of my life have been:
Yea, and thank God for sending griefs like these,
Lest I, like Moab, settle on my lees;
And, having preach'd to others, prove one day
Myself a miserable castaway.
But shall I waste the waters whose wild rush
From my heart's rock hath now been made to gush
By the sharp stroke of Heaven's afflictive rod?
Not so: henceforth let me devote to God
Whatever, with that current, may be roll'd;
Whether some few pure grains of genuine gold,
Such as enrich'd Pactolus' stream of yore,
Or haply baser and less brilliant ore;
Even such as stains your Cornish streams like blood,
Dimming their brightness with metallic mud,
And spoiling of its glories many a scene
Which, but for them, right beautiful had been;
So that we strangers, with offended eye,
Loathe the foul brooks, and wish their channel dry.
Such, haply, mine may be; for 'twill be fed
From depths whose better ore hath perished,
Work'd up long since by youthful passion's rage,
And manhood's cares, till now, in middle age,
A fragment only of what was remains,
Scanty and base, and scarcely worth the pains
By which it must be wrought; yet, such as 'tis,
Henceforth let it be His and only His,
Who form'd and who can use it, if He will,
Designs by us undreamt of to fulfil,
Poor though it be. Nor boots it to regret
The loss of my past years to verse, if yet
My heart has springs of feeling which may be
Wrought into strains of loftier poesy
Than I have yet attempted; though, I own,
I feel as if my spirit had outgrown
Its aptitude for song; as if too late,
It sought its wither'd powers to renovate,
Shooting forth blossoms on late summer's bough,
Which should have bloom'd in spring, and yielded now
To autumn's mellow fruitage. Good, my friend,
Thy sympathy and counsel quickly lend;
And if thou canst (as well thou couldst of old)
Assist my struggling spirit to unfold
Its latent powers; if thou canst guide aright
Its aimless yet and undecided flight,
Give me such aid. I challenge thee once more
To a renewal of our feats of yore.
Let me provoke thee to contention high
Of emulative prowess; let us try
Whether the paths of life, which now we tread,
Yield not wherewith our spirits may be fed
For enterprise poetic, and supply
Themes not unmeet for loftiest poesy.
Methinks our range for fruitful thought is wide--
The church, the cat, the dying saint's bedside,
The house of mourning, the glad nuptial morn,
The christening, and the death of the first-born;
Yea, even the pastoral glance, which peeps within
The foul abodes of infamy and sin;
The hopes and fears of ministerial fight
With souls deep plunged in spiritual night;
The triumph rarely, but how richly, won,
When guilt and desperation's headstrong son,
Whose soul for man or demon ne'er hath quail'd,
By strength of cogent argument assail'd,
Begins to stoop his helm, retreats and reels
Before the Spirit's sword, which now he feels
With terror and with pain, unfelt before,
Cutting its way into his heart's rough core,
And cleaving, with its keen ethereal point,
Spirit and soul, the marrow and the joint,
Till he is fain the unequal fight to yield,
And leave the gospel master of the field.
Yea, childlike and submissive, bows his head
To Heaven's high will, and follows as he's led,
Till his friends find him where disciples meet,
Devoutly sitting at his Saviour's feet--
Him whom no force could tame, no fetters bind,
Meek and well clothed, and in his perfect mind.
Triumphs like these to win and to rehearse
Is ours alone. Are such less fit for verse
Than battle-fields and bloodshed, wounds and scars,
And tears and groans, the pride of mortal wars?
Or would we look on Nature's face awhile
With eyes which would indulge a sober smile?
The world hath aspects, in our pastoral sphere,
Meet for such mirth: 'tis ours to see and hear
The parish feud--the vestry's grave debate;
And, in our daily walks, to contemplate
In poor and rich, in rustic and refined,
The freaks and whims of man's mysterious mind
In all its varying humours. But 'tis time
To check the rovings of this wayward rhyme;
And I have much to ask of thine and thee,
And somewhat too to tell, which may not be
Comprised in such brief space as now remains
In this full sheet. Howbeit, if these poor strains
Find favour in thy sight, (as I suppose
They partly will,) write soon in verse or prose,
As likes thee best, give me such sympathy
And counsel as thou canst; but let them be
Accompanied by news, delay'd too long,
Of all thy household; how, amidst the throng
Of boarding-house anxieties and cares,
The gentle spirit of our Mary fares;
How thrives my bright-eyed namesake, thy fair son;
What feats of letter'd prowess he hath done;
Nor cheat me of the promise, long since given,
To tell of Him, whose spirit, now in Heaven,
Sees, face to face, the God whom long he sought
By patient study and profoundest thought,
What I so thirst to hear.
Meanwhile our days
Yield matter plentiful for thanks and praise
To the great Giver of all Good; though now
Sorrow and care have drawn o'er either brow
A deeper shade than veil'd it heretofore,
Ere death had found an entrance through our door.
Our course of life thou knew'st of old, but O!
Thou know'st not, and 'tis time that thou shouldst know
(Thou and thy Mary) what a spring of bliss,
Almost too pure for such a world as this,
Hath gush'd out unawares within this year,
Our joys to brighten, and our griefs to cheer,
With sympathy and love intense and deep:--
A treasure beyond price, and which to keep
All to ourselves, unshared by thee and thine,
Seems monstrous. If high faith and love divine,
Glowing in hearts by nature's self design'd
For all things lovely, noble, pure and kind,
And graced by all that may command respect
Of female wisdom and fine intellect--
If this afford thee one attraction more
Than those in which we were so rich before,
Let not the summer months again have fled,
And left our parsonage unvisited.
Come, Derwent, and come, Mary; come and see
How bloom our roses on their parent tree:
Come, take sweet counsel with our friends, who here
Supply your place, and scarcely seem less dear.
Come, and let Derwikin, the bright and wise,
Gladden our Gerard's and George William's eyes;
That he and they, when we shall be no more,
May to each other bear the love we bore;
Transmitting to their sons, in after days,
The memory of our friendship and our lays.
Live, if ye may, and strike your roots in earth,
Poor flowerets of my fancy's second spring;
Whose unexpected and spontaneous birth
From grief's tear-water'd soil, did lately fling
A soothing fragrance o'er my home and hearth,
Sadden'd awhile by Death's first visiting.
Live, if ye may, and take abiding root,
Forerunners, haply, of autumnal fruit.
Feeble, in truth, and fading ye appear;
For my mind's garden, once o'erstock'd with flowers,
Hath been devote, for many a busy year,
To sterner culture, till its laurel bowers,
Too long neglected, have grown thin and sere,
And the scant labour of these leisure hours
May not the fulness of that bloom restore,
Which, suffer'd once to fade, revives no more.
I know not of what depth the soil may be
By which your growth is nurtured; but I know
That, henceforth, never shall it yield for me
Such gaudy wildflowers and rank weeds as grow
In the parterres of wanton phantasy,
But all its poor fertility bestow
On holier produce--lays of faith and love,
And His great praise who died, and reigns above.
High theme, and worthy to attune the strings
Of seraph harps to symphonies divine;
Whereat the angels, folding their bright wings
In trance-like silence, should wrapt ears incline
To strains which told them of profounder things
Than thought of theirs can fathom;--and shall mine
Venture beyond them? daring flight, I ween,
For grovelling fancy, such as mine hath been.
Twelve years, life's summer, have for ever fled,
Bringing strange changes, since the Muse I woo'd,
Even then by fits, as whim or wildness led,
In many a wayward and capricious mood:
And now that youth is o'er, and passion dead,
And nature, as I trust, in part subdued;
Almost would I forget, the strains I sung
In those rash days, when hope and I were young.
'Tis true, men praised them; they were fit to please
The popular ear; well stored with fancies strange,
And quaint conceits, and yet could pass, with ease,
From gay to grave, and skilfully exchange
Mirth and wild wit for tenderest melodies;
So wide and well young phantasy could range;
Yet had her flight been tamer, I had now
Had less to grieve my heart and cloud my brow.
My soul had then from self-reproach been free
For lawless revellings of uncheck'd thought;
For wanton sallies of untimely glee;
For errors, half perceived, yet boldly taught;
For dogmas crude, and false philosophy;
For vain applause by reckless satire bought;
For many an idle thought and idler dream,
Which seem'd not to me then so vile as now they seem.
And may I now redeem, in middle age,
The wasted powers and mis-spent days of youth,
And, in my wane of fancy, dare to wage
High warfare in behalf of deepest truth?
Is it too late to consecrate my page
To themes of holy love and heavenly ruth?
Too late to use aright the powers which Heaven,
For deeds of high emprize and steadfast aim, hath given?
I know not;--in the silent flight of Time
Much hath been lost which I can ne'er regain:
The freshness and the fervour of life's prime;
The buoyant heart, the ever teeming brain;
The power to shape things lovely or sublime,
And people with bright dreams this world's domain.
All these, as life steals on, have pass'd away,
Like morn's last stars that fade before the light of day.
For me no more may young imagination
The treasures of her shadowy world disclose,
With many a wild and wondrous revelation
Stealing my spirit from this vale of woes
Into those realms of dreamy contemplation
Wherein the world-worn heart may find repose
From grave reality and vexing care,
Breathing awhile sweet draughts of unpolluted air.
This world, this solid world, hath closed around me
Its prison bars and bolts; I could not break,
Even if I would, the fetters which have bound me,
Nor from my neck its yoke of bondage shake;
And yet 'tis well that earthly care hath found me,
'Tis well my spirit hath been forced to awake
From its day-dreams; that I can be no more
The idler that I was in days of yore.
So now my summer wreath is cull'd and twined,
Sweet be its breath to gentle hearts and wise;
But April and warm May have left behind
Some stray memorials of their changeful skies,
Various of scent and hue, of form and kind:
Some which stern critics will perchance despise;
Some which harsh censors will perchance condemn:--
So let it be--they were not meant for them.
But to the lowly, and the pure of heart,
These, my young fancy's offspring, I commend;
Not without hope that they may bear their part
In virtue's aid, and truth's high cause defend,
Though framed with careless aim and slender art,
In boyhood some, and all ere youth did end.
Nor, haply, vain the contrast they display
Between the noon and morning of my day.
So fare thee well, my book; and ye farewell
Once more, serene and pleasant paths of song;
Welcome grave cares, on which my heart must dwell,
And pastoral toils, not intermitted long.
Hereafter if again I tune my shell
To court the ear of the world's busy throng,
More "certain" be its sound, and every theme
Such as my graver tasks most fitly may beseem.
Once more among my earliest haunts!--once more
A solitary man, from home delights
Familiar, and the sounds of childish mirth,
And sweet endearments of connubial love,
Secluded for awhile;--beneath the roof
Which shelter'd me in childhood, and which still
Shelters my parents' age, for some few days,
A welcome guest, I sojourn. Years long past,--
The pleasant spring, and seed-time of my life,--
Revisit my mind's eye, with all their train
Of youthful thoughts and feelings, by these scenes
Mysteriously revived. Nor meets me here
One outward token from that newer world
Of cares and duties, fears and hopes and aims,
Sorrows and joys, in which I live and move,
A husband and a parent. Far away,
On the green banks of her beloved Doon,
My wife imbues our children's opening minds
With love of Caledonia's hills and glens;
Meanwhile inhaling, near her native coast,
From the bold mountains, and the breezy sea,
New health and vigour,--by her childhood's friends,
As I by mine, surrounded. So complete
Is thus my separation from all cares
Domestic and parental, that almost,
Methinks, by strong imagination led,
I might forget the two-and-twenty years
Of life, long since mature, which time hath stolen,
Since I, as boyhood melted into youth,
Bade sad farewell to Eton's long loved shades,
And these fair scenes together;--might forget
What all those years have made me,--what rich gifts
Their course hath brought,--what cares those gifts
produce,--
And be once more the dreaming, brain-sick boy
That then I was. And what if I give scope
To memory's pensive rovings?--What if now,
In this calm interim between the calls
Of active duty and of worldly care,
I bid my heart keep holiday,--forget
The Present and the Future in the Past,--
Live o'er again my long departed years
In tranquil meditation,--and perchance,
Comparing what I was with what I am,
Amidst that multitudinous array
Of thoughts and feelings which have come and gone,
Discern, in twilight gaze, the embryo state
Of what is now my being?--Haply thus
My time may not be lost;--Not for myself,
Nor for some gentle spirits, who may find,
Nor scorn to learn, a lesson from my lay,
Such as all records of Man's life might teach.
Dim and mysterious to the dreamer's eye,
Retracing the first gleams of consciousness,
Is Infancy and Childhood's fairy-land.
Scarce through the glory, as of other worlds,
Enveloping its outline, is discern'd,
At intervals distinctly, here and there,
A streak of clear reality,--some fact,
Or feeling, or sensation,--some event
To Childhood's eyes momentous, and thenceforth
Indelibly inscribed on Memory's page,
Only with life to be expunged. Even here,
Surrounded, as I am, by objects fraught
With old associations, and none else--
Wandering, at will, through old familiar rooms,
And gazing on old hills, and fields, and lanes,
And human forms, the first I ever knew,
And faces which I loved ere I could speak--
Even here, my first remembrances of life
Seem dim and distant. Scarce at intervals,
Events and epochs, few and far between,
Stand forth in clear relief;--a colour'd frock,--
A picture-book replete with marvels strange
To young imagination;--a quaint tale
Told by my grandam;--my first cloth pelisse,
With rows of glittering buttons all ablaze,
The envy of my infantine compeers;
And mix'd with these, at times, a tender gleam
Of somewhat (whether fantasy or love
I know not,)--a strange instinct lighting up
My heart beneath the glance of woman's eyes;--
A sense of beauty and mysterious power,
By beauty wielded, stirring to its depths
The soul of man, while he is yet a child.
So fares the world within;--around me crowd
Familiar objects;--our old nursery stands
Unalter'd, save that now it bears no trace
Of infantine or childish tenantry;--
Cradle, or crib, or tiny chair, or store
Of scatter'd toys, or window fenced with bars,
Or fire-place, guarded close from rash approach,
By lofty fender. Time's relentless march
Hath made strange havoc with the furniture
Once consecrate to childhood's mimic sports.
The chairs which, yoked and harness'd, served as steeds
To whirl us, on imaginary cars,
In pomp and pride of glorious coachmanship,
At length have disappear'd through slow decay;
Their wood-work fractured, and their horsehair seats
Worn bare by long attrition. Many a year,--
Yea, far into my manhood's lusty prime,
They stood where they were wont, and seem'd to bear
A charmed life. In sooth, I could have named
Each individual courser,--told the marks
Which once distinguish'd, to our childish thought,
The chestnut from the grey, the bay from brown;-
Which to each several brother was assign'd,
His own especial property;--which work'd
As wheeler,--which as leader. All are gone,--
The steeds, and they who drove them. Many a change,
Within doors and without, hath changed the face
Of the old dwelling, e'en within the span
Of my remembrance. Casements, which sufficed
The vicars of a less luxurious age,
First from the old stone frontage disappear'd,
Supplanted by broad panes.--A few years pass'd,
Riches increased, and lo! a pile arose
Of bright red brick, with slate cerulean roof'd,
Encroaching on the garden, and but ill
Consorting with the grey, time-mellow'd stone,
To which 'twas wedded. On the study's site,
Somewhat extended, straightway there appear'd
A gay and gilded drawing-room, o'er which,
Piled, story above story, tier on tier,
New bed-rooms tower'd, in ample space and height
Mocking the old and humble vicarage.
With pride we mark'd the building, as it grew,
(I and my brothers) deeming that at last
Our mansion should eclipse the squire's itself,
And we be counted greater than the squire.
Yet when the work was finish'd, and we dwelt
Like nobles, as we deem'd,--methinks, we found
Small compensation in our ceiled state,
For old associations swept away
With our abolish'd play-room--for the fall
Of shrubbery laurels, underneath whose thick
And sun-proof foliage we were wont to frame
Our mimic houses, with inventive skill
Arranging and imagining;--nor lack'd
To those umbrageous mansions aught that taste
Or ingenuity of modish art
Might fashion, or caprice of luxury
Deem needful for convenience. Banquet-halls
Were there, with banquets spread, from time to time,
Of sugar'd cakes and gingerbread, served up
On fragments of crack'd china; Drawing-rooms
Well furnish'd, and adorn'd with stately couch,
And ottoman and sofa, soft repose
Inviting and prolonging; closets cramm'd
With household stores; kitchen and scullery range,
With culinary implements complete;
And overhead, among the thickleaved bou