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A sunshine of good will and cheerfulness
Enlivened all around. Oh! marvel not,
If, in the morning of his fair career,
Which promised all that honour could bestow
On high desert, the youth was summoned hence!
His soul required no farther discipline,
Pure as it was, and capable of heaven.—
Upon the spot from whence he just had seen
His General borne away, the appointed ball
Reached him. But not in that Gallician ground
Was it his fate, like many a British heart,
To mingle with the soil; the sea received
His mortal relics, to a watery grave
Consigned so near his native shore, so near
His father's house, that they who loved him best,
Unconscious of its import, heard the gun
Which fired his knell!—Alas! if it were known
When, in the strife of nations dreadful Death
Mows down, with indiscriminating sweep,
His thousands ten times told,—if it were known
What ties are severed then, what ripening hopes
Blasted, what virtues in their bloom cut off,
How far the desolating scourge extends,
How wide the misery spreads, what hearts beneath
Their grief are broken, or survive to feel
Always the irremediable loss,
Oh! who of woman born could bear the thought!
Who but would join with fervent piety
The prayer that asketh in our time for peace!—
Nor in our time alone!—Enable us,
Father which art in Heaven! but to receive
And keep thy word, thy kingdom then should come,
Thy will be done on earth, the victory
Accomplished over Sin as well as Death,
And the great scheme of Providence fulfilled!
They sin who tell us love can die;—
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor a varice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions as of earth,
They perish when they have their birth;
But love is indestructible,_
Its holy flame for ever burneth,-
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest;
It here is tried and purified,
And hall, in heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there.
Oh when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the anxious night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight!
MAN hath a weary pilgrimage
As through the world he wends,
Yet gentle Hope on every stage,
The comforter, attends;
And if the toil-worn traveller droops
With heaviness opprest,
She clueers his heart, and bids him see The distant place of rest.
To school the little exile goes,
And quits his mother's arms;
What then shall soothe his earliest woes,
When novelty has lost its charms,
Condemned to suffer through the day
Restraints that no rewards repay,
And cares, where love has no concern?
If memory still the present sours,
Hope lightens as she counts the hours
That hasten his return.
Youth comes, and eager fancy hails
The long-expected days:
Youth comes, and he is doom'd to prove
The fears and jealousies of love,
And all its long delays.
slut when the passions with their might
Afflict the doubtful breast,
Hope bids him yet expect delight,
And happiness, and rest.
When manhood comes with troubles rife,
And all the toils and cares of life
Usurp the busy mind,
Where shall the tired and harass'd heart
Its consolation find 7
Ilope doubts not yet the meed to obtain
Of difficulties past,
And looks beyond the toils of gain
To wealth, enjoy'd at last.
So to his journey's lauer stage
Ilis pilgrim feet attain,
And then he finds in wiser age
That earthly cares are vain.
Yet Hope the constant friend remains
Who sooth'd his troubles past,
Though oft deceiving and deceived,
The truest friend at last.
By Faith and Hope in life's last hour
Are life's last pangs relieved;
They give the expectation then
That cannot be deceived.
ODE oN THE DEATH of QUEEN chani.orre.
Death has gone up into our palaces!
The light of day once more
Hath visited the last abode
Of mortal royalty,
The dark and silent vault.
But not as when the silence of that vault
Was interrupted last
Doth England raise her loud lament,
Like one by sudden grief
Surprised and overcome.
EPISTLE TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Well, Heaven be thanked friend Allan, here I am,
Once more, to that dear dwelling-place returned,
Where I have passed the whole mid stage of life,
Notitly, certes,<-not unworthily—
So let me hope; where Time upon my head
Hath laid his frone and monitory hand;
And when this poor frail earthly tabernacle
Shall be dissolved—(it matters not how soon
Or late, in God's good time;)—where I would fain
Be gathered to my children, earth to earth.
Needless it were to say how willingly
I bade the huge metropolis farewell;
Its dust and dirt and din and smoke and smut,
Thames' water, pavior's ground, and London sky!
Weary of hurried days and restless nights;
Watchmen, whose office is to murder sleep,
When sleep might else have a weighed one's eyelids
Rattle of carriages, and roll of carts,
And tramp of iron hoofs; and worse than all,
(Confusion being worse confounded then
With coachmen's quarrels, and with footmen's shouts)
My next door neighbours, in a street not yet
Macadamized (me miserable!) at home!
For then had we, from midnight until morn,
House-quakes, street thunders, and door batteries.
(O Government, in thy wisdom and thy wants,
Tax knockers! in compassiou to the sick
And those whose sober habits are not yet
Inverted, topsy-turvying night and day;
Tax them more heavily than thou hast charged
Armorial bearings and bepowdered pates!)
Escaping from all this, the very whirl
Of mail-coach wheels, bound outwards from Lad Lane,
Was peace and quietness; three hundred miles
Of homeward way, seemed to the body rest,
And to the mind repose.
Donne did not hate
More perfectly that city. Not for all
Its social, all its intellectual joys,
(Which having touched, I may not condescend
To name aught else the demon of the place,
Might as his lure hold forth); not even for these
Would I forego gardens and green fields, walks,
And hedgerow trees and stiles and shady laues,
And orchards,-were such ordinary scenes
Alone to me accessible, as those
Wherein I learnt in infancy to love
The sights and sounds of nature; wholesome sights,
Gladdening the eye that they refresh; and sounds
Which, when from life and happiness they spring,
Bear with them to the yet unhardened heart
A sense that thrills its cords of sympathy;
Or, if proceeding from insensate things,
Give to tranquillity a voice where with
To woo the ear and win the soul attuned.
Oh not for all that London might bestow,
Would I renounce the genial influences
And thoughts and feelings, to be found where'er
We breathe beneath the open sky, and see
Earth's liberal bosom. Judge then from thyself,
Allan, true child of Scotland; thou who art
So oft in spirit on thy native hills,
And yonder Solway shores; a poet thou,
Judge from thyself how strong the ties which bind
A poet to his home, when—making thus
Large recompense for all that, haply, else
Might seem perversely or unkindly done,—
Fortune hath set his happy habitacle
Among the ancient hills, near mountain streams
And lakes pellucid; in a land sublime
And lovely, as those regions of romance,
Where his young fancy in its day dreams roamed,
Expatiating in forests wild and wide,
Loegrian, or of dearest Faery land.
Yet, Allan, of the cup of social joy
No man drinks freelier; nor with heartier thirst,
Nor keener relish, where I see around
Faces which I have known and loved so long,
That, when he prints a dream upon my brain,
Dan Morpheus takes them for his readiest types:
And therefore in that loathed metropolis
Time measured out to me some golden hours.
They were not leaden-footed while the clay,
Beneath the patient touch of Chantrey's hand,
Grew to the semblance of my lineaments.
Lit up in memory's landscape, like green spots
Of sunshine, are the mornings, when in talk
With him and thee and Bedford (my true friend
Of forty years) I saw the work proceed,
Subject the while myself to no restraint,
But pleasurably in frank discourse engaged;
Pleased too, and with no unbecoming pride,
To think this countenance, such as it is,
So oft by rascally mislikeness wronged,
Should faithfully to those who in his works
Have seen the inner man portrayed, he shown ;
And in enduring marble should partake
Of our great Sculptor's immortality.
I have been libelled, Allan, as thou knowest,
Through all degrees of calumny: but they
Who put one's name, for public sale, beneath
A set of features slanderously unlike,
Are our worst libellers. Against the wront;
Which they inflict, Time hath no remedy.
Injuries there are which Time redresseth best,
Being more sure in judgment, though perhaps
Slower in his process even than the Court,
Where Justice, tortoise-footed and mole-eyed,
Sleeps undisturbed, fanned by the lulling wings
Of harpies at their prey. We soon live down
Evil or good report, if undeserved.
Let then the dogs of faction bark and bay,+
Its bloodhounds savaged by a cross of wolf,
Its full-bred kennel from the Blatant Beast,-
Its poodles by unlucky training marred,—
Mongrel and cur and bobtail;—let them yelp
Till weariness and hoarseness shall at length
Silence the noisy pack; meantime be sure
I shall not stoop for stones to cast among them
So too its foumarts and its skunks may « stink
And be secure:n and its yet viler swarm,
The vermin of the press, both those that skip
And those that creep and crawl,-I do not catch
And pin them for exposure on the page;
Their filth is their defence.
But I appeal Against the limner and the graver's wrong! Their evil works survive them. Bilderdyk (Whom I am privileged to call my friend), Suffering by graphic libels in like wise, Gave his wrath vent in verse. Would I could give The life and spirit of his vigorous Dutch, As his dear consort hath transfused my strains Into her native speech, and made them known On Rhine, and Yssel, and rich Amstel's banks, And wheresoe'er the voice of Wondel still Is heard; and still Hooft and Antonides Are living agencies; and Father Cats, The Household Poet, teacheth in his songs The love of all things lovely, all things pure; Ilest poet, who delights the happy mind Of childhood, stores with moral strength the heart Of youth, with wisdom maketh mid life rich, And fills with quiet tears the eyes of age.
Hear then, in English rhyme, how Bilderdyk Describes his wicked portraits, one by one.
“A madman, who from Bedlam hath broke loose;
An honest fellow of the numskull race;
And, pappier-headed still, a very goose
Staring with eyes aghast and vacant face;
A Frenchman, who would mirthfully display
On some poor idiot his malicious wit:
And, lastly, one who, trained up in the way
Of worldly craft, hath not forsaken it,
But hath served Mammon with his whole intent,
(A thing of Nature's worst materials made),
Low minded, stupid, base, and insolent.
I–I—a poet,_have been thus portrayed
Can ye believe that my true effigy
Among these vile varieties is found 7
What thought, or line, or word hath fallen from me
In all my numerous works, whereon to ground
The opprobrious dotion? safely I may smile
At these, acknowledging no likeness here.
But worse is yet to come, so—soft a while'—
For now in potter's earth must I appear,
And in such workmanship, that sooth to say,
Humanity disowns the imitation,
And the dolt image is not worth its clay.
Then comes there one who will to admiration
In plastic wax the perfect face present;
And what of his performance comes at list?
Folly itself in every lineament!
Its consequential features overcast
With the coxcombical and shallow laugh
Of one who would, for condescension, hide,
Yet in his best behaviour can but half
Suppress, the scornfulness of empty pride.”
“And who is Bilderdyk on methinks thou sayest:
A ready question ; yet which, trust me, Allan,
Would not be asked, had not the curse that came
From Babel, clipt the wings of Poetry.
Napoleon asked him once, with cold fixed look,
* Art thou then in the world of letters known?”
And meeting his imperial look with eye
As little wont to turn away before
The face of man, the Hollander replied,
“At least I have done that whereby I have
There to be known deserved.»
- A man he is Who hath received upon his constant breast The sharpest arrows of adversity. Whom not the clamours of the multitude, Demanding, in their madness and their might, Iniquitous things, could shake in his firm mind; Nor the strong hand of instant tyranny From the straight path of duty turn aside; But who, in public troubles, in the wreck Of his own fortunes, in proscription, exile, Want, obloquy, ingrate neglect, and what Of yet severer trials Providence Sometimes inflicteth, chastening whom it loves, In all, through all, and over all, hath borne An equal heart; as resolute toward The world, as humbly and religiously Beneath his heavenly Father's rod resigned. light-minded, happy-minded, righteous man! True lover of his country and his kind; In knowledge and in inexhaustive stores Of native genius rich; philosopher, Poet, and sage. The language of a state Inferior in illustrious deeds to none, But circumscribed by narrow bounds, and now Sinking in irrecoverable deciine, Hath pent within its sphere a name, with which Europe should else have rung from side to side.
Such, Allan, is the Hollander to whom
Esteem and admiration have attached
My soul, not less than pre-consent of mind
And gratitude for benefits, when being
A stranger, sick, and in a foreign land,
He took me, like a brother, to his house,
And ministered to me, and made the weeks
Which had been wearisome and careful else,
So pleasurable, that in my kalendar
There are no whiter days. T will be a joy
For us to meet in heaven, though we should look
Upon each other's earthly face no more.
—Such is this world's complexion! a cheerful thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind,” and these again
Give place to calm content, audstedfast hope,
And happy faith, assured.—Return we now,
With such transition as our daily life
Imposes in its wholesome discipline,
To a lighter strain; and from the Gallery
Of the Dutch poet's misresemblances,
Pass into mine; where I will show thee, Allan,
Such an array of villanous visages,
That if among them all there were but one
Which as a likeness could be proved unpon me,
It were enough to make me in mere shame
Take up an alias and forswear myself.
Whom have we first? a dainty gentleman,
His sleepy eyes half closed, and countenance
To no expression stronger than might suit
A simper, capable of being moved;
Saucy and sentimental, with an air
So lack-thought and so lack-a-daisycal,
That one might guess the book which in his hand
He holds were Zimmerman on Solitude.
Then comes a jovial Landlord, who hath made it Part of his trade to be the shoeing-horn