9.

Better it is all losses to deplore,

Which dutiful affection can sustain,

Than that the heart should, in its inmost core, Harden without it, and have lived in vain.

10.

This love which thou hast lavish'd, and the woe Which makes thy lip now quiver with distress, Are but a vent, an innocent overflow,

From the deep springs of female tenderness.

11.

And something I would teach thee from the grief That thus hath fill'd those gentle eyes with tears, The which may be thy sober, sure relief

When sorrow visits thee in after years.

12.

I ask not whither is the spirit flown

That lit the eye which there in death is seal'd; Our Father hath not made that mystery known; Needless the knowledge, therefore not reveal'd.

13.

But didst thou know in sure and sacred truth,
It had a place assign'd in yonder skies,
There through an endless life of joyous youth,
To warble in the bowers of Paradise ;

14.

Lucy, if then the power to thee were given

In that cold form its life to re-engage, Wouldst thou call back the warbler from its Heaven, To be again the tenant of a cage?

15.

Only that thou might'st cherish it again,
Wouldst thou the object of thy love recall
To mortal life, and chance, and change, and pain,
And death, which must be suffered once by all?

16.

Oh, no, thou say'st: oh, surely not, not so!
I read the answer which those looks express :

For pure and true affection well I know
Leaves in the heart no room for selfishness.

17.

Such love of all our virtues is the gem;

We bring with us the immortal seed at birth: Of heaven it is, and heavenly; woe to them Who make it wholly earthly and of earth!

18.

What we love perfectly, for its own sake

We love and not our own, being ready thus Whate'er self-sacrifice is ask'd, to make;

That which is best for it, is best for us.

19.

O Lucy! treasure up that pious thought!
It hath a balm for sorrow's deadliest darts;
And with true comfort thou wilt find it fraught,
If grief should reach thee in thy heart of hearts.
Buckland, 1828.

XVIII.

1.

My days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast
The mighty minds of old;

My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

2.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

3.

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

4.

My hopes are with the Dead, anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on

Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust. Keswick, 1818.

XIX.

IMITATED FROM THE PERSIAN.

LORD! who art merciful as well as just,
Incline thine ear to me, a child of dust!
Not what I would, O Lord! I offer thee,
Alas! but what I can.

Father Almighty, who hast made me man,
And bade me look to Heaven, for Thou art there,
Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer,
Four things which are not in thy treasury,

I lay before thee, Lord, with this petition:
My nothingness, my wants,
My sins, and my contrition.

Lowther Castle, 1828.

Corston is a small village about three miles from Bath, a little to the left of the Bristol road. The manor was parted with by the monks of Bath, about the reign of Henry I., to Sir Roger de St. Lo, in exchange. It continued in his family till the reign of Edward II., when it passed to the family of Inge, who are said to have been domestics to the St. Los for several generations. In process of time, it came to the Harringtons, and was by them sold to Joseph Langton, whose daughter and heiress brought it in marriage to William Gore Langton, Esq. The church which, in 1292, was valued at 7 marks, 98. 4d.. was appropriated to the prior and convent of Bath; and a vicarage ordained here by Bishop John de Drokensford, Nov. 1. 1321, decreeing that the vicar and his successors in perpetuum should have a hall, with chambers, kitchen, aud bakehouse, with a third part of the garden and curtilage, and a pigeon-house, formerly belonging to the parsonage; that he should have one acre of arable land, consisting of three parcels, late part of the demesne of the said parsonage, together with common pasturage for his swine in such places as the rector of the said church used that privilege; that he should receive from the prior and convent of Bath one quarter of bread-corn yearly, and have all the altarage, and all small tithes of beans and other blade growing in the cottage enclosures and cultivated curti. lages throughout the parish; that the religious aforesaid and their successors, as rectors of the said church, should have all the arable land, with a park belonging to the land (the acre above mentioned only excepted), and receive all great tithes, as well of corn as of hay; the said religious to sustain all burdens, ordinary and extraordinary, incumbent on the church as rectors thereof. The prior of Bath had a yearly pension out of the vicarage of 4s."-Collinson's Hist. of Somersetshire, vol. iii. pp. 341–347.

ON as I journey through the vale of years,
By hopes enliven'd, or deprest by fears,
Allow me, Memory, in thy treasured store,
To view the days that will return no more.
And yes! before thine intellectual ray,
The clouds of mental darkness melt away!
As when, at earliest day's awakening dawn,
The hovering mists obscure the dewy lawn,
O'er all the landscape spread their influence chill,
Hang o'er the vale and wood, and hide the hill,
Anon, slow-rising, comes the orb of day,
Slow fade the shadowy mists and roll away,
The prospect opens on the traveller's sight,

And hills and vales and woods reflect the living light.

O thou, the mistress of my future days,
Accept thy minstrel's retrospective lays;
To whom the minstrel and the lyre belong,
Accept, my EDITH, Memory's pensive song.
Of long-past days I sing, ere yet I knew
Or thought and grief, or happiness and you;
Ere yet my infant heart had learnt to prove
The cares of life, the hopes and fears of love.

Corston, twelve years in various fortunes fled
Have pass'd with restless progress o'er my head,
Since in thy vale beneath the master's rule
I dwelt an inmate of the village school.
Yet still will Memory's busy eye retrace
Each little vestige of the well-known place;
Each wonted haunt and scene of youthful joy,
Where merriment has cheer'd the careless boy;
Well-pleased will fancy still the spot survey
Where once he triumph'd in the boyish play,
Without one care where every morn he rose,
Where every evening sunk to calm repose.

Large was the house, though fallen in course of fate From its old grandeur and manorial state. Lord of the manor, here the jovial Squire Once called his tenants round the crackling fire; Here while the glow of joy suffused his face, He told his ancient exploits in the chase, And, proud his rival sportsmen to surpass, He lit again the pipe, and fill'd again the glass.

But now no more was heard at early morn
The echoing clangor of the huntsman's horn;
No more the eager hounds with deepening cry
Leapt round him as they knew their pastime nigh;
The Squire no more obey'd the morning call,
Nor favourite spaniels fill'd the sportsman's hall;
For he, the last descendant of his race,
Slept with his fathers, and forgot the chase.
There now in petty empire o'er the school
The mighty master held despotic rule;
Trembling in silence all his deeds we saw,
His look a mandate, and his word a law;
Severe his voice, severe and stern his mien,

And wondrous strict he was, and wondrous wise I ween.

Even now through many a long long year I trace
The hour when first with awe I view'd his face;
Even now recall my entrance at the dome,..
"Twas the first day I ever left my home!
Years intervening have not worn away
The deep remembrance of that wretched day,
Nor taught me to forget my earliest fears,
A mother's fondness, and a mother's tears;
When close she prest me to her sorrowing heart,
As loth as even I myself to part;
And I, as I beheld her sorrows flow,
With painful effort hid my inward woe.

But time to youthful troubles brings relief, And each new object weans the child from grief. Like April showers the tears of youth descend, Suddenly they fall, and suddenly they end, And fresher pleasure cheers the following hour, As brighter shines the sun after the April shower.

Methinks even now the interview I see, The Mistress's glad smile, the Master's glee; Much of my future happiness they said, Much of the easy life the scholars led, Of spacious play-ground and of wholesome air, The best instruction and the tenderest care; And when I followed to the garden-door My father, till through tears I saw no more, . . How civilly they sooth'd my parting pain, And never did they speak so civilly again.

Why loves the soul on earlier years to dwell,
When Memory spreads around her saddening spell,
When discontent, with sullen gloom o'ercast,
Turns from the present and prefers the past?
Why calls reflection to my pensive view
Each trifling act of infancy anew,

Each trifling act with pleasure pondering o'er,
Even at the time when trifles please no more?
Yet is remembrance sweet, though well I know
The days of childhood are but days of woe;
Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours
What else should be our sweetest blithest hours;
Yet is it sweet to call those hours to mind,..
Those easy hours for ever left behind;
Ere care began the spirit to oppress,
When ignorance itself was happiness.

Such was my state in those remember'd years
When two small acres bounded all my fears;
And therefore still with pleasure I recall

The tapestried school, the bright brown-boarded hall,

The murmuring brook, that every morning saw
The due observance of the cleanly law;
The walnuts, where, when favour would allow,
Full oft I went to search each well-stript bough;
The crab-tree, which supplied a secret hoard
With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board;
These trifling objects then my heart possest,
These trifling objects still remain imprest;
So when with unskill'd hand some idle hind
Carves his rude name within a sapling's rind,
In after years the peasant lives to see
The expanding letters grow as grows the tree;
Though every winter's desolating sway
Shake the hoarse grove and sweep the leaves away,
That rude inscription uneffaced will last,
Unalter'd by the storm or wintry blast.

Oh while well pleased the letter'd traveller roams
Among old temples, palaces, and domes,
Strays with the Arab o'er the wreck of time
Where erst Palmyra's towers arose sublime,
Or marks the lazy Turk's lethargic pride,
And Grecian slavery on Ilyssus' side,
Oh be it mine, aloof from public strife,
To mark the changes of domestic life,

The alter'd scenes where once I bore a part.
Where every change of fortune strikes the heart.
As when the merry bells with echoing sound
Proclaim the news of victory around,
Rejoicing patriots run the news to spread
Of glorious conquest and of thousands dead,
All join the loud huzzah with eager breath,
And triumph in the tale of blood and death;
But if extended on the battle-plain,

Cut off in conquest some dear friend be slain,
Affection then will fill the sorrowing eye,
And suffering Nature grieve that one should die.

Cold was the morn, and bleak the wintry blast Blew o'er the meadow, when I saw thee last. My bosom bounded as I wander'd round With silent step the long-remember'd ground, Where I had loiter'd out so many an hour, Chased the gay butterfly, and cull'd the flower, Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace, Or with mine equals vied amid the chase. I saw the church where I had slept away The tedious service of the summer day; Or, hearing sadly all the preacher told, In winter waked and shiver'd with the cold. Oft have my footsteps roam'd the sacred ground Where heroes, kings, and poets sleep around; Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivied wall, Or aged convent tottering to its fall; Yet never had my bosom felt such pain, As, Corston, when I saw thy scenes again; For many a long-lost pleasure came to view, For many a long-past sorrow rose anew; Where whilom all were friends I stood alone, Unknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown.

There, where my little hands were wont to rear
With pride the earliest salad of the year;
Where never idle weed to spring was seen,
Rank thorns and nettles rear'd their heads ob-

scene.

Still all around and sad, I saw no more
The playful group, nor heard the playful roar;
There echoed round no shout of mirth and glee,
It seem'd as though the world were changed like

me!

Enough! it boots not on the past to dwell, . . Fair scene of other years, a long farewell! Rouse up, my soul! it boots not to repine, Rouse up for worthier feelings should be thine; Thy path is plain and straight,.. that light is given,..

Onward in faith, . . and leave the rest to Heaven.

Oxford, 1794.

L

Hesiod.

YET one Song more! one high and solemn strain
Ere, Phoebus! on thy temple's ruin'd wall
I hang the silent harp: there may its strings,
When the rude tempest shakes the aged pile,
Make melancholy music. One song more!
PENATES, hear me ! for to you I hymn
The votive lay; whether, as sages deem,

Ye dwell in inmost Heaven, the Counsellors 2
Of Jove; or if, Supreme of Deities,

All things are yours, and in your holy train
Jove proudly ranks, and Juno, white-arm'd Queen,
And wisest of Immortals, the dread Maid
Athenian Pallas. Venerable Powers,

And when the lingering hour of rest was come,
First wet with tears my pillow. As I grew
In years and knowledge, and the course of time
Developed the young feelings of my heart,
When most I loved in solitude to rove
Amid the woodland gloom; or where the rocks
Darken'd old Avon's stream, in the ivied cave
Recluse to sit and brood the future song,.
Yet not the less, PENATES, loved I then
Your altars; not the less at evening hour
Loved I beside the well-trimm'd fire to sit,
Absorb'd in many a dear deceitful dream
Of visionary joys, . . deceitful dreams, . .

rites

Estranged, and exiled from your altars long,

I have not ceased to love you, Household Gods!

In many a long and melancholy hour

Of solitude and sorrow, hath my heart
With earnest longings pray'd to rest at length
Beside your hallow'd hearth, . . for Peace is there!
Yes, I have loved you long! I call on ye
Yourselves to witness with what holy joy,
Shunning the common herd of humankind,
I have retired to watch your lonely fires
And commune with myself: . . delightful hours,
That gave mysterious pleasure, made me know
Mine inmost heart, its weakness and its strength,
Taught me to cherish with devoutest care
Its deep unworldly feelings, taught me too
The best of lessons to respect myself.

Nor have I ever ceased to reverence you,
Domestic Deities! from the first dawn

Of reason, through the adventurous paths of youth
Even to this better day, when on mine ear
The uproar of contending nations sounds
But like the passing wind, and wakes no pulse
To tumult. When a child. . . (for still I love
To dwell with fondness on my childish years,)
When first, a little one, I left my home,
I can remember the first grief I felt,
And the first painful smile that clothed my front
With feelings not its own: sadly at night
I sat me down beside a stranger's hearth;

1 Hence one explanation of the name Penates, because they were supposed to reign in the inmost heavens.

2 This was the belief of the ancient Hetrusci, who called them Concertes and Complices.

They form'd to Fancy's mould her votary's heart.

By Cherwell's sedgey side, and in the meads Where Isis in her calm clear stream reflects The willow's bending boughs, at early dawn, In the noon-tide hour, and when the night-mist

rose,

I have remember'd you; and when the noise
Of lewd Intemperance on my lonely ear
Burst with loud tumult, as recluse I sate,
Musing on days when man should be redeem'd
From servitude, and vice, and wretchedness,
I bless'd you, Household Gods! because I loved
Your peaceful altars and serener rites.
Nor did I cease to reverence you, when driven
Amid the jarring crowd, an unfit man
To mingle with the world; still, still my heart
Sigh'd for your sanctuary, and inly pined;
And loathing human converse, I have stray'd
Where o'er the sea-beach chilly howl'd the blast,
And gazed upon the world of waves, and wish'd
That I were far beyond the Atlantic deep,
In woodland haunts, a sojourner with Peace.

Not idly did the ancient poets dream, Who peopled earth with Deities. They trod The wood with reverence where the Dryads dwelt ; At day's dim dawn or evening's misty hour They saw the Oreads on their mountain haunts, And felt their holy influence; nor impure Of thought, nor ever with polluted hands, 3

3 Μηδε ποτ' αιναων ποταμων καλλίρροον ύδως
Ποσσι πέραν, πριν γ' ευξη ίδων ες καλα ῥεῖθρα,
Χείρας νιψάμενος πολυκρατῳ ύδατι λευκω
Ος ποταμον διαβη, κακοτητι δε χειρας ανίστος,
Τωδε θεοι νεμεσωσι, και αλγεα δωκαν οπίσσω - Hesiod,