WHAT! and not one to heave the pious sigh? Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye, For social scenes, for life's endearments fled, Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead? Poor wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee, And sorrow for forlorn humanity.
Yes, I will weep; but not that thou art come To the cold sabbath of the silent tomb: For pining want, and heart-consuming care, Soul-withering evils, never enter there. I sorrow for the ills thy life has known, As through the world's long pilgrimage, alone, Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone, Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on; Thy youth in ignorance and labour past, And thine old age all barrenness and blast! Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe, Denied thee wisdom to support the blow, And robb'd of all its energy thy mind, Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind, Abject of thought, the victim of distress, To wander in the world's wide wilderness.
Ir is the funeral march. I did not think That there had been such magic in sweet sounds! Hark! from the blacken'd cymbal that dead tone!.. It awes the very rabble multitude;
They follow silently, their earnest brows
Lifted in solemn thought. "Tis not the pomp And pageantry of death that with such force
Arrests the sense;.. the mute and mourning train, The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse, Had pass'd unheeded, or perchance awoke
Á serious smile upon the poor man's cheek
At pride's last triumph. Now these measured sounds, This universal language to the heart
Speak instant, and on all these various minds Compel one feeling.
But such better thoughts Will pass away, how soon! and these who here Are following their dead comrade to the grave, Ere the night fall will in their revelry Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life Unnaturally rent, a man who knew
No resting place, no dear delights of home, Belike who never saw his children's face, Whose children knew no father,.. he is gone,.. Dropt from existence, like a blasted leaf That from the summer tree is swept away, Its loss unseen. She hears not of his death Who bore him, and already for her son Her tears of bitterness are shed; when first He had put on the livery of blood, She wept him dead to her.
We are indeed Clay in the potter's hand! One favour'd mind, Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore The ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man, Framed with like miracle, the work of God, Must as the unreasonable beast drag on A life of labour; like this soldier here, His wondrous faculties bestow'd in vain, Be moulded by his fate till he becomes A mere machine of murder.
Who say that this is well! as God has made All things for man's good pleasure, so of men The many for the few! Court-moralists, Reverend lip-comforters, that once a-week Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they Shall have their wealth hereafter, and though now Toiling and troubled, they may pick the crumbs That from the rich man's table fall, at length In Abraham's bosom rest with Lazarus.
Themselves meantime secure their good things here, And feast with Dives. These are they, O Lord! Who in thy plain and simple Gospel see
All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoin'd, No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them Who shed their brethren's blood,. . blind at noon-day As owls, lynx-eyed in darkness !
I thank thee, with no Pharisaic pride I thank thee, that I am not such as these; I thank thee for the eye that sees, the heart That feels, the voice that in these evil days, Amid these evil tongues, exalts itself, And cries aloud against iniquity.
ON A LANDSCAPE OF GASPAR POUSSIN.
GASPAR! how pleasantly thy pictured scenes Beguile the lonely hour! I sit and gaze With lingering eye, till dreaming Fancy makes The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul From the foul haunts of herded human-kind Flies far away with spirit speed, and tastes The untainted air, that with the lively hue Of health and happiness illumes the cheek Of mountain Liberty. My willing soul All eager follows on thy faery flights, Fancy best friend; whose blessed witcheries With cheering prospects cheat the traveller O'er the long wearying desert of the world. Nor dost thou, Fancy! with such magic mock My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew, Or Alquif, or Zarzafiel's sister sage, Who in her vengeance for so many a year Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced Lisuart the pride of Grecian chivalry. Friend of my lonely hours! thou leadest me To such calm joys as Nature, wise and good, Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons,.. Her wretched sons who pine with want amid The abundant earth, and blindly bow them down Before the Moloch shrines of Wealth and Power, Authors of Evil. Well it is sometimes That thy delusions should beguile the heart, Sick of reality. The little pile
That tops the summit of that craggy hill Shall be my dwelling: craggy is the hill
And steep; yet through yon hazels upward leads The easy path, along whose winding way Now close embower'd I hear the unseen stream Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam Gleam through the thicket; and ascending on Now pause me to survey the goodly vale That opens on my prospect, Half way up Pleasant it were upon some broad smooth rock To sit and sun myself, and look below, And watch the goatherd down yon high-bank path Urging his flock grotesque; and bidding now His lean rough dog from some near cliff go drive The straggler; while his barkings loud and quick Amid their tremulous bleat arising oft, Fainter and fainter from the hollow road Send their far echoes, till the waterfall, Hoarse bursting from the cavern'd cliff beneath, Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet Onward, and I have gain'd the utmost height. Fair spreads the vale below: I see the stream Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky. A passing cloud darkens the bordering steep, Where the town-spires behind the castle-towers Rise graceful; brown the mountain in its shade, Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal'd, Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun, Should bound mine eyes, ay, and my wishes too, For I would have no hope or fear beyond. The empty turmoil of the worthless world, Its vanities and vices would not vex
My quiet heart. The traveller, who beheld The low tower of the little pile, might deem It were the house of God; nor would he err So deeming, for that home would be the home Of Peace and Love, and they would hallow it To Him. Oh, life of blessedness! to reap The fruit of honourable toil, and bound Our wishes with our wants! Delightful thoughts, That soothe the solitude of weary Hope,
Ye leave her to reality awaked,
Like the poor captive, from some fleeting dream Of friends and liberty and home restored, Startled, and listening as the midnight storm Beats hard and heavy through his dungeon bars. Bath, 1795.
How many hearts are happy at this hour
In England! Brightly o'er the cheerful hall Flares the heaped hearth, and friends and kindred meet, And the glad mother round her festive board Beholds her children, separated long
Amid the wide world's ways, assembled now, A sight at which affection lightens up
With smiles, the eye that age has long bedimm'd,
I do remember when I was a child
How my young heart, a stranger then to care, With transport leap'd upon this holyday,
As o'er the house, all gay with evergreens, From friend to friend with joyful speed I ran, Bidding a merry Christmas to them all. Those years are past; their pleasures and their pains Are now like yonder convent-crested hill That bounds the distant prospect, indistinct, Yet pictured upon memory's mystic glass In faint fair hues. A weary traveller now
I journey o'er the desert mountain tracks Of Leon, wilds all drear and comfortless, Where the grey lizards in the noontide sun Sport on the rocks, and where the goatherd starts, Roused from his sleep at midnight when he hears The prowling wolf, and falters as he calls On Saints to save. Here of the friends I think Who now, I ween, remember me, and fill The glass of votive friendship. At the name Will not thy cheek, Beloved, change its hue, And in those gentle eyes uncall'd-for tears Tremble? I will not wish thee not to weep; Such tears are free from bitterness, and they Who know not what it is sometimes to wake And weep at midnight, are but instruments Of Nature's common work. Yes, think of me. My Edith, think that, travelling far away, Thus I beguile the solitary hours
With many a day-dream, picturing scenes as fair Of peace, and comfort, and domestic bliss As ever to the youthful poet's eye Creative Fancy fashion'd. Think of me.
Though absent, thine; and if a sigh will rise, And tears, unbidden, at the thought steal down, Sure hope will cheer thee, and the happy hour Of meeting soon all sorrow overpay.
WRITTEN AFTER VISITING
THE CONVENT OF ARRABIDA
HAPPY the dwellers in this holy house : For surely never worldly thoughts intrude On this retreat, this sacred solitude, Where Quiet with Religion makes her home. And ye who tenant such a goodly scene, How should ye be but good, where all is fair, And where the mirror of the mind reflects Serenest beauty? O'er these mountain wilds The insatiate eye with ever new delight Roams raptured, marking now where to the wind The tall tree bends its many-tinted boughs With soft accordant sound; and now the sport Of joyous sea-birds o'er the tranquil deep, And now the long-extending stream of light Where the broad orb of day refulgent sinks Beneath old Ocean's line. To have no cares That eat the heart, no wants that to the earth Chain the reluctant spirit, to be freed From forced communion with the selfish tribe Who worship Mammon,-yea, emancipate From this world's bondage, even while the soul Inhabits still its corruptible clay,.. Almost, ye dwellers in this holy house, Almost I envy you. You never see Pale Misery's asking eye, nor roam about
Those huge and hateful haunts of crowded men, Where Wealth and Power have built their palaces, Fraud spreads his snares secure, man preys on man, Iniquity abounds, and rampant Vice,
With an infection worse than mortal, taints The herd of humankind.
I too could love, Ye tenants of this sacred solitude, Here to abide, and when the sun rides high Seek some sequester'd dingle's coolest shade; And at the breezy hour, along the beach Stray with slow step, and gaze upon the deep, And while the breath of evening fann'd my brow, And the wild waves with their continuous sound
Soothed my accustom'd ear, think thankfully That I had from the crowd withdrawn in time, And found an harbour... Yet may yonder deep Suggest a less unprofitable thought, Monastic brethren. Would the mariner, Though storms may sometimes swell the mighty waves, And o'er the reeling bark with thundering crash Impel the mountainous surge, quit yonder deep, And rather float upon some tranquil sea, Whose moveless waters never feel the gale, In safe stagnation? Rouse thyself my soul ! No season this for self-deluding dreams;
It is thy spring-time; sow, if thou would'st reap; Then, after honest labour, welcome rest,
In full contentment not to be enjoy'd Unless when duly earn'd. O happy then
To know that we have walked among mankind More sinn'd against than sinning! Happy then To muse on many a sorrow overpast, And think the business of the day is done, And as the evening of our lives shall close, The peaceful evening, with a Christian's hope Expect the dawn of everlasting day.
ON MY OWN MINIATURE PICTURE,
TAKEN AT TWO YEARS OF AGE.
AND I was once like this! that glowing cheek Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes; that brow Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze Dies o'er the sleeping surface!.. Twenty years Have wrought strange alteration! Of the friends Who once so dearly prized this miniature, And loved it for its likeness, some are gone To their last home; and some, estranged in heart, Beholding me, with quick-averted glance Pass on the other side. But still these hues Remain unalter'd, and these features wear The look of Infancy and Innocence.
I search myself in vain, and find no trace Of what I was: those lightly arching lines Dark and o'erhanging now; and that sweet face Settled in these strong lineaments! . . There were Who form'd high hopes and flattering ones of thee, Young Robert! for thine eye was quick to speak Each opening feeling: should they not have known, If the rich rainbow on a morning cloud Reflects its radiant dyes, the husbandman Beholds the ominous glory, and foresees Impending storms!.. They augured happily, That thou didst love each wild and wondrous tale Of faery fiction, and thine infant tongue Lisp'd with delight the godlike deeds of Greece And rising Rome; therefore they deem'd, forsooth, That thou shouldst tread Preferment's pleasant path. Ill-judging ones! they let thy little feet Stray in the pleasant paths of Poesy, And when thou shouldst have prest amid the crowd, There didst thou love to linger out the day, Loitering beneath the laurel's barren shade. SPIRIT OF SPENSER! was the wanderer wrong? Bristol, 1796.
ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE OLD SPANIEL.
AND they have drown'd thee then at last! poor Phillis!
The burden of old age was heavy on thee,
And yet thou should'st have lived! What though Where twelve months since I held my way, and
Was dim, and watch'd no more with eager joy
The wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk With fruitless repetition, the warm Sun
Of England, and of all my heart held dear, And wish'd this day were come.
Might still have cheer'd thy slumbers; thou didst Well I remember, hover'd o'er the heath,
To lick the hand that fed thee, and though past Youth's active season, even Life itself Was comfort. Poor old friend, how earnestly Would I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst been Still the companion of my boyish sports; And as I roam'd o'er Avon's woody cliffs, From many a day-dream has thy short quick bark Recall'd my wandering soul. I have beguiled Often the melancholy hours at school, Sour'd by some little tyrant, with the thought Of distant home, and I remember'd then Thy faithful fondness; for not mean the joy, Returning at the happy holydays,
I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively Sometimes have I remark'd thy slow decay, Feeling myself changed too, and musing much On many a sad vicissitude of Life.
Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate Which closed for ever on him, thou didst lose Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead For the old age of brute fidelity.
But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed; And He who gave thee being did not frame The mystery of life to be the sport
Of merciless Man. There is another world For all that live and move. . a better one! Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine INFINITE GOODNESS to the little bounds Of their own charity, may envy thee.
RECOLLECTIONS OF A DAY'S JOURNEY IN SPAIN.
Nor less delighted do I call to mind,
Land of Romance, thy wild and lovely scenes, Than I beheld them first. Pleased I retrace With memory's eye the placid Minho's course, And catch its winding waters gleaming bright Amid the broken distance. I review Leon's wide wastes, and heights precipitous, Seen with a pleasure not unmix'd with dread, As the sagacious mules along the brink Wound patiently and slow their way secure ; And rude Galicia's hovels, and huge rocks And mountains, where, when all beside was dim, Dark and broad-headed the tall pines erect Rose on the farthest eminence distinct, Cresting the evening sky.
And damp and heavy is the unwholesome air;
I by this friendly hearth remember Spain, And tread in fancy once again the road,
When with the earliest dawn of day we left
The solitary Venta. 1 Soon the Sun Rose in his glory; scatter'd by the breeze The thin fog roll'd away, and now emerged We saw where Oropesa's castled hill Tower'd dark, and dimly seen; and now we pass'd Torvalva's quiet huts, and on our way Paused frequently, look'd back, and gazed around, Then journey'd on, yet turn'd and gazed again, So lovely was the scene. That ducal pile Of the Toledos now with all its towers Shone in the sunlight. Half way up the hill, Embower'd in olives, like the abode of Peace, Lay Lagartina; and the cool fresh gale Bending the young corn on the gradual slope Play'd o'er its varying verdure. I beheld A convent near, and could almost have thought The dwellers there must needs be holy men, For as they look'd around them all they saw Was good.
But when the purple eve came on, How did the lovely landscape fill my heart ! Trees scatter'd among peering rocks adorn'd The near ascent; the vale was overspread With ilex in its wintry foliage gay,
Old cork trees through their soft and swelling bark Bursting, and glaucous olives, underneath Whose fertilizing influence the green herb Grows greener, and with heavier ears enrich'd The healthful harvest bends. Pellucid streams Through many a vocal channel from the hills Wound through the valley their melodious way; And o'er the intermediate woods descried, Naval-Moral's church tower announced to us Our resting-place that night,-a welcome mark; Though willingly we loiter'd to behold
In long expanse Plasencia's fertile plain, And the high mountain range which bounded it, Now losing fast the roseate hue that eve Shed o'er its summit and its snowy breast, For eve was closing now. Faint and more faint The murmurs of the goatherd's scatter'd flock Were borne upon the air, and sailing slow
The broad-wing'd stork sought on the church tower top
His consecrated nest. O lovely scenes!
I gazed upon you with intense delight,
And yet with thoughts that weigh the spirit down. I was a stranger in a foreign land, And knowing that these eyes should never more Behold that glorious prospect, Earth itself Appear'd the place of pilgrimage it is.
WRITTEN FROM LONDON. 1798.
In the family-vault. If so, if I should lose, Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack So heavy on my shoulders, and mine Right pleasantly will end our pilgrimage.
If not, if I should never get beyond
This Vanity-town, there is another world Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, I gaze at night into the boundless sky,
MARGARET! my Cousin, . nay, you must not And think that I shall there be born again,
I love the homely and familiar phrase:
And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, However quaint amid the measured line
The good old term appears.
When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, Sir-ing and Madam-ing as civilly
As if the road between the heart and lips
Were such a weary and Laplandish way,
That the poor travellers came to the red gates Half frozen. Trust me, Cousin Margaret, For many a day my memory hath play'd The creditor with me on your account,
And made me shame to think that I should owe So long the debt of kindness. But in truth Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear So heavy a pack of business, that albeit I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours' race
Time leaves me distanced. Loth indeed were I That for a moment you should lay to me Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some Who know its genuine warmth. I am not one Who can play off my smiles and courtesies To every Lady of her lap-dog tired
Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; Mine are no mushroom feelings, which spring up At once without a seed and take no root, Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere, The little circle of domestic life,
I would be known and loved: the world beyond Is not for me. But, Margaret, sure I think That you should know me well, for you and I Grew up together, and when we look back Upon old times, our recollections paint The same familiar faces. Did I wield The wand of Merlin's magic, I would make Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, Ay, a new Ark, as in that other flood Which swept the sons of Anak from the earth; The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle Like that where whilom old Apollidon, Retiring wisely from the troublous world, Built up his blameless spell, and I would bid The Sea-Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, That we might stand upon the beach, and mark The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, And hear the eternal roar, whose pleasant sound Told us that never mariner should reach Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle We might renew the days of infancy, And Life like a long childhood pass away, Without one care. It may be, Margaret, That I shall yet be gather'd to my friends; For I am not of those who live estranged Of choice, till at the last they join their race
The exalted native of some better star; And, like the untaught American, I look
To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth.
NAY, William, nay, not so! the changeful year In all its due successions to my sight
Presents but varied beauties, transient all, All in their season good. These fading leaves, That with their rich variety of hues Make yonder forest in the slanting sun
So beautiful, in you awake the thought
Of winter, . . cold, drear winter, when the trees Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch
Its bare brown boughs; when not a flower shall
Its colours to the day, and not a bird Carol its joyaunce, . but all nature wear One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate, To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike. To me their many-colour'd beauties speak Of times of merriment and festival, The year's best holyday: I call to mind The school-boy days, when in the falling leaves I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign Of coming Christmas; when at morn I took My wooden kalendar, and counting up Once more its often-told account, smoothed off Each day with more delight the daily notch. To you the beauties of the autumnal year Make mournful emblems, and you think of man Doom'd to the grave's long winter, spirit-broken, Bending beneath the burthen of his years, Sense-dull'd and fretful, "full of aches and pains," Yet clinging still to life. To me they shew The calm decay of nature when the mind Retains its strength, and in the languid eye Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy That makes old age look lovely. All to you Is dark and cheerless; you in this fair world See some destroying principle abroad, Air, earth, and water full of living things, Each on the other preying; and the ways Of man, a strange perplexing labyrinth, Where crimes and miseries, each producing each, Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope That should in death bring comfort. Oh, my friend, That thy faith were as mine! that thou couldst see Death still producing life, and evil still Working its own destruction; couldst behold
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