ss/ 
 
 ^ 
 
 \ 
 
 ) 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 ■y 
 
 I, 
 
 r\
 
 STANDARD A^^ORKS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 WILLIAM PICKERING, CHANCERY LANE, 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 Complete in 2 vols. Ato. price Five Guineas, 
 
 A NEW DICTIONARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 ENGLISH 'language. 
 
 BY CHARLES RICHARDSON. 
 
 This work consists of two large quarto voivmes, upon the compo- 
 sition of wliich the author has been employed tor more than 20 years : 
 and though the expense of publication has exceeded the sum of 6000/. 
 it is published at the moderate price of 5 guineas. The two volumes 
 contain nearly 2300 pages of 3 columns each, closely yet cTearly and 
 beautifully printed. In this Dictionary equal care has been bestowed 
 upon the Etymologies and Explanation ; and also upon the copious 
 selection of quotations in illustration of both: — these are arranged in 
 chronological series from Wiclif and Chaucer to Burke and Cowper. 
 
 REVIEWS AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 " Mr. Pickering lias just put fuilh a New Dictionary of tlie Eiiglisli 
 Lsnguai^e, wliich, whether we regard its extraorfiinary cheapness, or the extra- 
 ordinary labour and ability by which it is characterised, bids fair to rival all 
 similar publications. The' meanin',' of eaoh word is illiislratcd by a greater 
 number of passages from standard English writers than is to be found in an) 
 similar work ; and the reading necessary for the supply of this immense body, 
 must have been the labour of years. A part of lliis Dictionary appeared, we find, 
 in the Enryclopiedia MetropoHtana, and was spoken of by the Quarterly and 
 other reviews, as the greatest lexicographical achievement of the age. In its 
 complete form it will be, to judge from the sample before us, a work of unrivalled 
 ability, labour and utility." — OW England. 
 
 " The compiler, who has already approved his ability for this work by what 
 he has contributed of it to the EncydoptEdia MetropoHtana, justly observes, 
 that Dr. Johnson did not execute his own project, and that the desideratum of a
 
 CRITICAL NOTICES continued. 
 
 Uiotionary to 'exhibit, liist, the natural and primitive si^iiitication of words, 
 then >iivc tlie coiiseiinential, and then llie inctapluirical nuanin^, and the quota- 
 tions to be arrangecl according to tlie ayes of tlie aiitliors,' is, at the distance of 
 nearly nimty years, still more to be desiderated now, than in 1747, when the 
 learned lexicoijrapher ina(U' liis proposition to Lord Chesterfield. Mr. Richardson 
 derives considerable aiil from Home Tooke's philological labours; and fjom the 
 part before us, we would anticipate a useful and interesting work." — Literary 
 Gazette. 
 
 " The arrangement is founded upon the plan which Dr. Johnson put forth as 
 the proper mode of proceedini; with liis ureat nndertakins;, tlio"i;h lie did not, 
 in the execniion, adhere to his own sciieme. The task whicli our great philo- 
 loger left unfidiilled has been performed by Mr. Richardson, with a patient 
 labom- in research and colleclion, wliich Johnson, we suspect, never possessed, 
 and with means at liis disposal, by the resuscitation of our ancient writers, which 
 Johnson certainly never had. Ju(li;ini; from the specimen before us, tlie result 
 will be to present llie world with the most complete Dictionary that ever was 
 published, as regards the etynioloiry and primitive iiieauing of the words, the 
 successive ^'owth of their secondary significations, tin' giadual advance and 
 changes of the language, the vast bo(ly of quotations from all authors, whether 
 ancient or modern, and, in consecpience, the skeleton history of ihe English lan- 
 guage which it indirectly presents ; it will, in short, be a work indispensable to 
 every one « ho is curious in his mother tongue, and wiihout which no library 
 can be considered complete." — Spectator. 
 
 " It would be impossible to spe.ik of the value of this work within the short 
 space of a literary notice; but thus much we can assure our readers, that in its 
 plan it is novel, and more comprehensive than any of its predecessors; that the 
 quotations from the earliest potts, chroniclers, divines, &c. arranged in chrono- 
 logical Older, in illustration of dillerent words, supply an admirable view of the 
 progress of the English tongue ; that reference is made to chapter and verse for 
 every quotation given. No library shouhl be without it." — Christian Remem- 
 brancer. 
 
 Of the care and diligence bestowed in getting up the New Dictionary we are 
 prepared to speak in the highest praise. The paper is good, the type remarkably 
 clear, the size convenient, in every respect becoming a work of national impor- 
 tance. 'I'he radical word with its derivatives, is placed at Ihe head of the meaning, 
 of the etymological derivation and of tlie quotations, by which their usages are 
 illustrated. These (piotalions are selected and digested in the chronological order 
 of Ihe writers appealed to, so thai one, with comnuin sagacity, may trace Ihe 
 changes through which a word has passed down to its modern acceptation. The 
 primilive signifoalioii is thus made to give a strength and clearness to our own 
 pereeplion of llie word. We reini'iiibcr wlicii it was the custom to characterise a 
 dull heavy work by the remark, " 1 would as soon read a Dictionary through." 
 We may now say, without drawing upon the truth, that- we have a Dictionary 
 surpassing in enlerlainment and knowledgi' most books. The deep research and 
 extensive reading which have amassed lliis wealth of quotalions, make us ac- 
 quainted with stores of Ihoiiglil, hilherlo buried in the dust of time, or accessible 
 only to the favoured few. Ihe divines, llur poets, the dramatists, the philoso- 
 phers, the historians, who have helped to build up Ihe noble fabric of our lan- 
 guage, me made in short but appropriate sentences, to gi\e lis their own literary 
 portraits; and, if style be an index lo cliaraeler, and expression to Ihoughl, we 
 have here a hue opportunity of comparing a'.;e with age, not only in its liliMary, 
 but also in its intellieliial fealnres. We add, that no deeper slain could be 
 marked upon our national reputation, than that such a wc.rk, so grainl in its de- 
 sign, and so perfect in its execution, should meet with iiidinerence,or even Willi 
 pa rl i a 1 success . " — <V limcestersh ire ( 'hrmiirle. 
 
 " We are inclined to consider the Kiiglish language as having attained that 
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 nervalion. As helps to ihis, we have the various acceptations, in which every 
 word has been used by approved wiilers, collectii) by Mr. Kicliarilsoii, in a Dic- 
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 new guide for llie llicory and ii-e ol languages, exeinptifyinK his (Home Tooke's; 
 principles, by applying them to our own Umzuc''— Quarterly Keview for March, 
 
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 WORKS BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
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 POEMS BY JOHN MOULTRIE 
 
 -^dbr 
 
 SECOND T,DITION 
 
 LONDON 
 WILLIAM PICKERING 
 
 1838
 
 >
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 PART I. 
 
 CONSISTING OF POEMS RECENTLY COMPOSED. 
 
 Page 
 
 Introductory Sonnet 1 
 
 Epitlialamiura 2 
 
 Ode 5 
 
 Our P'irst Sorrow 14 
 
 The Three Sons 40 
 
 Epitaph in the Churchyard of Heme, Kent 44 
 
 Sonnets : 
 
 Sonnet 1 45 
 
 II 45 
 
 III 4fi 
 
 IV 46 
 
 V 47 
 
 VL 48 
 
 VII 48 
 
 VIII 49 
 
 IX. To the Rev. Dr. Arnold 49 
 
 X. To the same 50 
 
 XI 51 
 
 XII. To Winthrop Mackworth Praed 51 
 
 XIII. Continued 52 
 
 XIW To the same 52 
 
 XV 53 
 
 XVI 53 
 
 XVII 54 
 
 XVIII. To the anonymous Editor of Coleridge's 
 
 Letters and Conversations — 55 
 
 775493
 
 IV COXTENTS. 
 
 Paee 
 
 Sonnet XIX 55 
 
 XX 56 
 
 XXI 56 
 
 XXII 57 
 
 XXIII 58 
 
 XXIV. To my Infant Child 58 
 
 XXV. To Baptist Noel 59 
 
 XX\'I. To Thomas Babin>iton Macaulaj... 59 
 
 XXVII. To a Lady of Rank 60 
 
 XXVIII 60 
 
 XXIX. To the Rev. Dr. Chalmers 61 
 
 XXX. To the same 62 
 
 XXXI. To the same 62 
 
 XXXII. On revisiting Ludlow Castle 63 
 
 XXXIII 63 
 
 XXXIV 64 
 
 Protestant H^^nn to the Virgin 65 
 
 Ilvmn for Easter Eve 80 
 
 To Henry Alford 85 
 
 Come witli us 92 
 
 Midsummer jMusings 98 
 
 Love's May Day 109 
 
 Love in Absence 113 
 
 An Apology for Taciturnity 121 
 
 To Margaret in Heaven 127 
 
 Stanzas written in a Sick Room before Dawn 131 
 
 Dirge suggested in Sleep 135 
 
 Farewell to Heme Bay 137 
 
 Stanzas 138 
 
 To Marion 143 
 
 To Sylvia 148 
 
 Palinode to the same 152 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas 153 
 
 Familiar Epistles: 
 
 I, To a Female Friend 157 
 
 II. To the Rev. Derwent Coleridge 164 
 
 Conclusion to Part 1 173
 
 CONTENTS. V 
 
 PART II. 
 
 CONSISTING OF POEMS COMPOSED BETWEEN THE 
 YEARS 1818 AND 1828. 
 
 Page 
 
 My Brother's Grave 181 
 
 To 188 
 
 Fragments : 
 
 Invocation 191 
 
 Dream Love 192 
 
 The Fairy ^laimoune 193 
 
 Day Dreams : 
 
 Xo. 1. To 197 
 
 II 200 
 
 Song to the Spring Breeze 205 
 
 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Sonnet I. To Poesy 211 
 
 II. To , on her Voyage to India 211 
 
 III 212 
 
 IV. To a Lady, with a Poem by a Friend 213 
 
 V '. 213 
 
 VI. ToAdine 214 
 
 VII. On seeing the same Lady 215 
 
 VIII. To the same Lady 215 
 
 IX 216 
 
 X 21b 
 
 XL Scotch Quadrilles 217 
 
 XII : 218 
 
 XIII 218 
 
 XIV 219 
 
 The Lay of the Lovely 220 
 
 The !Maniac 224 
 
 To Helen 226 
 
 Song 227
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 To Mary 231 
 
 " Forget Thee" 233 
 
 Epitaph in Windsor Churchyard 235 
 
 METRICAL ROMANCES. 
 
 The Witch of the North 236 
 
 Sir Launt'al. Canto 1 255 
 
 Introductory Stanzas to Canto II 286 
 
 Canto II 291 
 
 Canto III 320 
 
 Conclusion 358
 
 POEMS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 CONSISTING OF POEMS RECENTLY COMPOSED.
 
 SONNET. 
 
 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. 
 
 , B
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 DEC. 18, 1834. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY STANZAS. 
 
 I. 
 I STAND upon the verge of middle age, — 
 My five and thirtieth year well nigh complete ; 
 Halfway 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 vore ! 
 
 n. 
 Vast, void, and dim and dark ; — and vet therein 
 Confused and shadowy phantoms 1 descry 
 Of joy and grief, each struggling hard to win 
 Over the other final victory ; 
 My future life the jjrizo for which they vie 
 So keenly each with each ; but to the past 
 When I revert my unforixetfiil eve, 
 Ah me ! how that is throng'd, from first to last. 
 
 With bright and beauteous shapes, though fading 
 now full fast.
 
 El'I rilALA.MlU.M. 3 
 
 111. 
 
 Childhood with all its joys — how lon<;- departed ! 
 
 Boyhood and youth fantastically blight, 
 
 When, led by love and hope, I loam'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 shapes of lingering twilight born : — 
 Wedlock — whose sober bliss laughs Fancy's joys 
 to scorn. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A few years pass, and lo ! the scene is changed : 
 Life's shifting pageant hath grown graver still ; 
 The though ts 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. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 mj- thinking, shine, 
 Tiiat 'twere in me most idle to repine
 
 4 EPlTflALAMIUM, 
 
 For Youn^' imaa'ination's baubles lost : 
 Safely at last, in peace and love divine, 
 My " crescent boat" is mooi'd, no longer toss'd 
 By jarring winds, no more by adverse currents 
 cross'd. 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 strongermagic o'er my chords shall sweep, 
 And once more bid them into music leap ? 
 For the old spells have lost their power of moving ; 
 i\Iy blood's young flow hath settled into deep 
 And waveless peace ; — still'd is my brain's wild 
 roving ; [loving. 
 
 My heart hath grown too calm for aught but sober 
 
 VI I. 
 
 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 Avhich 'tis mine to share, 
 I>ove rich in purer bliss than I have found elsewhere. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And therefore, though perchance my faded strains 
 Shall more dishonour than adorn the theme.
 
 EPITIIALAMIU.M. 
 
 Let me essay to break my spirit's chains, ' 
 And launch, once more, my bark upon the stream 
 Of pleasant vision and poetic dream ; 
 Pouitraying, gentle friend, thy future life, 
 Tranquil and brig-ht as I would have it seem, 
 With household joys and happy feelings rife. 
 And thee, so dear a friend, the matron and the wife. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 [ing : 
 
 Day's wintiy beams are o'er the twilight creep- 
 Once more is life in house and field astir — 
 Sleeps yet our beauteous bride ? — tread softly — 
 wake not her. 
 
 II. 
 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.
 
 6 EPITIIALAMIL-.M. 
 
 III. 
 
 Transition passing strang-e ! 
 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sleep on ; for thou to-day 
 Must take thy leave for aye 
 Of pleasures loved and hoarded since thv 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. 
 
 V. 
 
 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.
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. 7 
 
 VI, 
 
 Thy heart must now become 
 
 The calm and quiet home 
 Of strong-er sympathies, and cai'es more hig'h ; 
 
 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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Where art thou in thy dreams ? — 
 Haply beside the streams, 
 Or wandering in the woods thy childhood loved; 
 In sunshine brio-ht 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. 
 
 VIII, 
 
 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 thv slumberincr heart now wanders 
 back, 
 A wild and wondrous way in memory's moon-lit 
 track.
 
 8 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Were it not well to be 
 In such sweet phantasy 
 Held by the fetters of eternal sleep '. — 
 But soft ! — what dreamy change, 
 Dim, and perplext, and strange, 
 Doth o'er the spirit of thy vision creep ? 
 A sense obscure of transformation wroiicrht 
 E'en in the deepest springs of feeling and of 
 thought ? 
 
 X. 
 
 No more within thee plays 
 
 The life of early days, 
 With which, but now, thv 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. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And straight, throughout thy dream, 
 New forms and faces gleam. 
 And other voices intermix t 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.
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. 9 
 
 XII. 
 
 And Other sounds draw near, 
 
 And other shapes appear, 
 Coniniing-led 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 holv fane, with faces throng'd around. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 What voice salutes thine ear ? 
 Look up — thy parent dear 
 W^ith wistful eye is o'er thy slumber bending ; 
 The dieaded morn is come, 
 W'hich from the long loved home 
 Summons her child : already tears are blending- 
 With smiles on either anxious sister's cheek ; 
 Thy g-entle brother droops with heart too full to 
 speak. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 An hour, and all is o'er ; 
 Those cheeks are pale no more. 
 Those tears have ceased to flow : the woid 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.
 
 10 F.PITHALAMIUM. 
 
 XV. 
 
 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 
 Fi'om this day's deed, which yet Time's pregnant 
 womb doth hide. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 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. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 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.
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. 11 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 O grief! if love like thine, 
 
 Which should be so divine, 
 So heavenly pure a feeling, so profound, 
 
 Had been piofaned 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. 
 
 XX. 
 
 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 
 
 XXI. [betray. 
 
 Now, all such peril o'er — 
 
 On Hymen's tranquil shore
 
 12 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 Securely landed — with a fVowii dismiss 
 
 Cupid's fantastic train, — 
 
 Be all thyself again ; 
 Yea, far nioie lovely, from the quiet bliss 
 Of satisfied affection newly born, 
 To tame thy virgin pride, and soften thy wild scorn. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Keep well tliy 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 mntronlv. 
 Young bride, our neighbourhood demands of thee 
 Example bright of what a Christian wife should be. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 For thou waist nurtured w^ell. 
 
 Where pious hearts did dwell 
 In principle severe and faith sublime; 
 
 Love, purer than of earth, 
 
 Watch'd o'er thee fi'om 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. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 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 ;
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. V^ 
 
 Let thy pure heart, while yet 'tis young-, be g-iven 
 
 To the high task which straight before thee lies. 
 
 And from thy bridal bower look upward to tlie skies. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Forsfet 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 g-lory down, 
 To share his throne of love and amaranthine crown. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But hush ! — for all too long 
 
 My weak and tedious song- 
 Hath been discoursed to thy iinlistening- ear : 
 
 Long- since, perchance, 'twas time 
 
 To check this wayward rhyme. 
 And leave thee free to other cares more dear. 
 In sooth, it is not well to waste to-day. 
 The g-ravest of thy life, in rhyme and roundelay. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 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 sons:, vet faithful and sincere, 
 Nor all unmeet I trust for hearts like thine to hear.
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW.* 
 
 SEPT. 1834. 
 
 -My Margaret, thou hast often marvell'd wliy 
 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 shiggish humour, which no hope of fame 
 Nor(whatshou!d move him more) remorseful shame 
 For talents unimproved, or buried deep 
 in the dim caves of intellectual sleep, 
 ('an 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 
 
 * Tliis ])oem is published rather in coiupliauce with the 
 wishes of friends, to whose ofiinion the author cannot but 
 defer, tlian accordantly with the dictates of his own juds?- 
 inent. It was written (as the reader will ]>erceive) under 
 peculiar circumstances, at a time when the autlior little 
 thought of again appearing before the public iti liis jjoetical 
 capacity ; and, as he feels that no alterations wliicii hecould 
 now ma!v(! in it would so inodil'v its general character as to 
 render it iiiiich fitter for puhlicution, he has thoirghr it best 
 to jiriiit il almost verbatim as it was originally conipos(>d.
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. lo 
 
 Thou know'st how grave the duties uhicli (.onipt:! 
 
 My mind to other tasks ; how vast a weight 
 
 Of solemn vows and cares importunate 
 
 Lies on the minister of Christ : — shouhl 1 
 
 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 tauglii 
 
 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 How 
 
 For ever, than How 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 leconl brief 
 
 (^f our still recent and still poignant grief, 
 
 Such lessons as beseem it — such as win
 
 16 OUR FIRST SORROW. 
 
 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. 
 
 * 'I'lie first one Inindred and ei;^ht lines of the poem were 
 written in the situation here described.
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. 17 
 
 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 firet I call'd thee wife — our days flow'd by 
 With such unraix'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-comraission'd,o'erour threshold past, 
 And in our cup of long unming-led 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 bluw 
 Swept one from oar sweet circle. Thou dotit knov/ 
 
 c
 
 18 OUR. FIRST SORROW. 
 
 With how much close and cogent arsrument, 
 
 CO? 
 
 Convinced at last, our puipose 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 Heme 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, 
 
 Moord 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 w^e 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 poit. 
 
 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 ciy,
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. 19 
 
 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 conA'ersation 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,
 
 20 OUR FIRST SORROW. 
 
 V.'hose premature and grief-o'erclouded birth, 
 Follow'd by sickness, long- had caused a dearth 
 Of perfect g-ladness 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 
 Fling-ing- 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 
 Of 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 scoin : — 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
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. 21 
 
 Of Telford's genius, which shall outlive Tinie, 
 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 building did extend. 
 Commingled strangely for 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 Heme 
 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 wondei", when they found 
 Shells or sea- weed, or pebbles strangely fornx'd, 
 Or chased the tinycrabs, which crawl'd andswarm'd
 
 22 OUR FIRST SORROW. 
 
 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 fiist the heat pejmitted) 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 Heme 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
 
 OUll FIRST SOllROW. 23 
 
 The steam-boat's smoke was rising', when the post 
 
 Broughtthee 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, ray 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,)
 
 24 OUR FIRST SORROW. 
 
 And oft, as I retii'ed 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, 
 
 Anjd, 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 ere 'twas done, 
 
 I, though I knew it not, had lost a son ! 
 
 That blow came sharp and sudden ; when Isail'rf, 
 The hue of gathering sickness scarce had paled 
 Our darling's cheek, and when upstairs I bent 
 ATy lingering steps, to kiss him ere I went,
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. 25 
 
 Metliought that there was something in his look, — 
 I knew not what, — that for a moment shook 
 My heart with vag-ue 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 oiF, 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 ;
 
 26 OUR FIRST SORROW. 
 
 And the light, darting through my window pane, 
 Sumnion'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 Reafeon would have left her throne : 
 And what thy gentle soul could scarce sustain, 
 Had crush'd my sterner heart, and overwhelm'd my 
 
 brain.
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. 27 
 
 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 corae, 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
 
 28 OUR FIRST SORROW. 
 
 Than it had heen till then ; the sudden call 
 
 To swift and public travel ; most of all, 
 
 The last few days' employment, which had wroijoht 
 
 A world within me of Elvsian thought — 
 
 The sense of comfort minister'd by me 
 
 So recently to others, and to be 
 
 Repaid, as I well knew, with usury, — 
 
 The veiy thong:ht of thee in thy deep grief 
 
 Pining; for me, and for that poor relief 
 
 Which I alone of eaj-thly 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 bav 
 
 With all its shore-built dwellins-s, throuo-h the srev 
 
 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 ? Vv'hy record the sighs 
 
 Which heaved our breasts, the tears which from 
 
 our eyes 
 Gush'd, as Ave stood in silence side by side 
 In that sad room in which oui- darling diad, 
 And view'd him in his coffin ? Avhy recall 
 The pang of parting with the little all 
 .Still left us of his beauty, when the day
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. 29 
 
 Of burial came, and on our mournful way 
 We wended to the church-vard, wherein I 
 Had mark'd before the spot where he should lie, 
 My last sad otfice 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 w'ith 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 tlie busy brain. 
 To ease the pressure of the heart's dull pain, 
 Which would not be dispell'd : — when 1 reflect 
 How long that gift, laid by in deep neglect, 
 Had slumber'd in my soul, and what relief 
 Was brought by its levival to our grief, 
 1 scarce can think but that the recent woe
 
 30 OUR FIRST SORROW. 
 
 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 darling'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, witli 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
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. "Ji 
 
 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 tliat 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
 
 •32 Ol'R FIKST SORROW. 
 
 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 
 Jn us than them. E'en now with careless foot 
 I travei'se 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 pait 
 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
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. 33 
 
 And recollections nursed for many a year, 
 And to be nursed for ever. So, when we 
 Tog-ether stood beneath one spreading tree 
 Of those which shade the grave, a heavier ueight 
 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 
 ivoved thro' the room where thou hadst seenhinidie. 
 How oft, how fondly, thy sad looks survey 'd 
 
 D
 
 34 OUR FlRSr SOIIROW. 
 
 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 ; oer 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, 
 Thendeck'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
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. [ir, 
 
 Which \vraptouiliearts,grewdarkerandmore 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 thoUjWith 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 heait 
 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,
 
 36 OUR FIKST SORROM'. 
 
 With healing on its wings, to soothe and share 
 The sorrow, whicli 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,) 
 Methouolit I could have blest our miserv 
 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
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. 3/ 
 
 And ever present thoughts, too sad to sleep : 
 That lieart 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 I'ound us long and loud, 
 Sunshine, unchequer'd by a single cloud. 
 Lay on our home and hearth : we seem'd exempt
 
 38 OUR riRST SORROW. 
 
 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
 
 OUR FIRST SORROW. 39 
 
 Too often, but henceforth must swerve no more. 
 Then let us on, more blithely than l)efore. 
 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 divjne to fix our hearts in Heaven.
 
 THE THREE SONS. 
 
 I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, 
 
 With eves of thou^rhtful earnestness, and mind of 
 gentle mould. 
 
 They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways ap- 
 pears. 
 
 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 yt't his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and 
 serious air : 
 
 1 know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth 
 me, 
 
 But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fer- 
 vency : 
 
 But that which others most admire, is the thought 
 which fills his mind, 
 
 The fond for grave enquiring speech he every where 
 doth find. 
 
 Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we to- 
 gether 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, 
 
 J5ut looks on manhood's ways ami works, and aptly 
 mimicks all.
 
 TIIL THREE SONS. 41 
 
 His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext 
 With thoughts about this vvoild of ours, and thouijhts 
 
 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 g-entle 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, 
 ] dare not think what I should feel, where 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 fea- 
 tures be. 
 
 How silver sweet those tones of his when he prat- 
 tles on my knee : 
 
 I do not think his light blue eye is, like his bro- 
 ther'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,
 
 42 THE THREE SONS. 
 
 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 wear- 
 
 eth now. 
 Nor guess how hright a glory crowns his shining 
 
 seraph brow.
 
 THE THREE SONS. 43 
 
 The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which 
 ho 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 glit- 
 tering wings. 
 
 And soothe him with a song that breathes of Hea- 
 ven'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 cer- 
 tain 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, —
 
 44 THE THREE SONS. 
 
 When we muse on tliat 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. 
 
 Heme Bay, August 29, 1834. 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HERNE, KENT. 
 
 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."
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 SOxVNET I. 
 
 'TwAS my fond wish to greet our wedding daj-, 
 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. 
 
 July 28, 1833. 
 
 SONNET II. 
 
 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;
 
 46 SONNETS, 
 
 Wlio 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, 
 Its Origin and End — the Infinite. 
 
 SONNET III. 
 
 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 
 ^ly future griefs, enhance m.y 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. 
 
 SONNET IV. 
 
 If I could doubt that, in another sphere. 
 Brighter than this, and ne'er to pass away,
 
 SONNETS. 4/ 
 
 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? 
 
 SONNET V. CONTINUED. 
 
 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.
 
 48 SONNETS. 
 
 SONNET \ I. 
 
 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 dujl ; 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 flag-ging 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. 
 
 SONNET VII. CONTINUED. 
 
 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 prefen 'd. 
 
 But oh ! beloved friend, if 'tis delight 
 
 To turn some unknown sinner from his way,
 
 SONNETS. 4\) 
 
 What joy should mine be, that my feeble might 
 Hatli help'd thy faltering footsteps not to stray; 
 So adding, haply, to the crown of light, 
 Reserved for thee in Heaven, another ray ! 
 
 SONNET Vlir. 
 
 Ouu 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 spii'it sways 
 Toward two dear objects of my holiest thought, 
 With both our future prospects close entwined. 
 
 SONNET IX, TO THE REV. DR. ARNOLD. 
 
 Not for thy genius, though I deem it high. 
 Thy clear and deep and comprehensive mind, 
 Thy vigorous thought, with healthful sense com- 
 bined, 
 Thy language rich in simplest dig-nity ; 
 Oh not for these, much honour'd friend, do I 
 
 £
 
 50 SOXXETS. 
 
 Such food for fervent admiration find 
 In all thine efforts to persuade mankind 
 Of truth first dawninf-- on thv mental eve ; 
 But for thy fearless and ingenuous heart, 
 Thy love intense of virtue, thy pure aim 
 Kno\vledg;e 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. 
 
 SONNET X. TO THE SAME. 
 
 Sound teachers are there of relig-ion pure, 
 And unimpeach'd morality ; grave mea, 
 Who wield a cautious and deliberate pen, 
 And preach and publish doctrine safe and sure ; 
 And many such, 1 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 till ; 
 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.
 
 SONNETS. ol 
 
 SONNET XI. 
 
 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 [how ; 
 
 Which wins pure hearts, they scarce know why or 
 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. 
 
 SONNET XI[. 
 
 TO WINTIIROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 
 
 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 
 
 Asthe 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,
 
 .52 SOX NETS. 
 
 And senatorial toils, — how unlike mine ! 
 Who lead the country pastor's humble life, 
 Sweetening- its cares Avith jovs denied to thine, 
 Fair children and a loved and loving- wife. 
 
 SONNET XIII. CONTINUED. 
 
 So sang I, all unwitting of the prize, 
 
 Which thou meanwhile hadst won, and wearest 
 
 now. 
 The fairest garland that cnwreathes thy, brow, 
 Crown'd though it be for youth's rich phantasies 
 And manhood's virtues, by the good and wise. 
 With vvell-earn'd laurel. 1 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. 
 
 SONNET XI\ . TO THE SAME. 
 
 I x 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 wcan'd thee from thy first idolatry.
 
 SONNETS. 53 
 
 With what foul gibes doth faction's spiteful fry, 
 Venting its rage, around thee shriek and swarm ! 
 Recreant or renegade the mildest name [while 
 With which they greet thee ; but thy heart mean- 
 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. 
 
 SONNET XV. 
 
 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. 
 
 SONNET XVI. CONTINUED. 
 
 Said I thou wast not beautiful ? in sooth, 
 If that I did, shame blister my false tongue
 
 64 SONNETS. 
 
 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 ? 
 \\'hich sways all hearts with power and grace divine? 
 
 SONNET XVII. 
 
 TiiEUE are, Avhose pearl of price is richly set 
 
 In mountings choice of intellectual gold. 
 
 And polisli'd high by graces manifold ; 
 
 Some such have I in life's brief journey met. 
 
 Whom, once beheld, 1 never can forget; 
 
 But thou wast fashion'd in a coarser mould ; 
 
 And nature, by religion uncontroll'd 
 
 For many a year, Avill needs be nature yet. 
 
 But though I deem thy soul's full beauty niarr'd, 
 
 Its stature dwarf'd, by muth infiimity, 
 
 1 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.
 
 SOVXLTS. 55 
 
 SONNET XVIII 
 
 •|() THE ANONVMOl-S EDITOR OF COLERIDGF.'s 
 Ll.TTEllS AND COXVTUSATION S. 
 
 A gibbeki>:g ape that leads an elephant ; 
 
 A dwarf defonn'd, the presence heralding 
 
 Of potent wizard, or the Elfin King ; 
 
 Caliban, deigning sage advice to grant 
 
 To mighty Prosper in some houi' 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. 
 
 SONNET XIX. 
 
 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 ])ray for thee, and kind hearts bleed ;
 
 Oi feONNtrS. 
 
 Meanvvliile, by Iioadstrou^:," and impetuous will. 
 Thou on thy blind and desperate course art driven, 
 And dost the air with wrath and discord fill, 
 At enmitv with all, thousrh oft fori!:iven : 
 Thus growing', here on earth, more restless still, 
 And more unfit for future rest in Heaven. 
 
 SONNET XX. 
 
 We stood beside the sick, and, as we thought. 
 
 The dying pilloAV 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, 
 
 V/hom God of late to rest eternal took 
 
 From this world's sin and sorrow, care and pain : 
 
 Tljankfully on those pages did we look. 
 
 And tiust they spake not to our hearts in vain. 
 
 sowirr XXI. continued. 
 
 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 onr thanks for this thy kindness, shown
 
 SONNETS. o7 
 
 Most opportunely : nor will thanks alone 
 Thy recompense, I trust, hereafter prove ; 
 Who to our troubles, like a inission'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. 
 
 SONNET XXn. 
 
 Fill END most beloved, most lionour'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.
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 SONNET XXIII. 
 
 For patient ministrations, sweet and kind ; 
 For self-denying love, on our distress 
 Pouring its soft and soothing tenderness ; 
 For tlie calm Avisdom of thy christian mind. 
 With deep experience of earth's griefs comhined ; 
 l"oi- comfort which no language can express ; 
 l-oi' 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 hath been. 
 
 SONNET XXIV. TO MV infant child. 
 
 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.
 
 SONNETS. i9 
 
 Fillcst our home with <z:hKJnoss all day long, 
 Sing-ing, with all thy little mig-ht and main, 
 Thy inarticulate and infant song. 
 
 SONNET XXV, TO kaptist noei.. 
 
 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 Avorthless 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. 
 
 SONNET XXVI. 
 
 TO THOMAS B.Vr.lNGTON RIACAULAV. 
 
 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, dost shine 
 
 Among our statesmen ; yet fame hath not made
 
 60 SONNETS. 
 
 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 throug-h that bereavement sore. 
 For which, of late, my gift of plaintive rhyme 
 Such welcome solace on thy grief did pour. 
 
 SONNET XXVII. TO a lady of rank. 
 
 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 thim.', which all revere ; 
 Whereto I yield, with lowly heart sincere. 
 Homage profound and reverent courtesy. 
 
 SONNET XXVIII. 
 
 With IN" two days, (if registers tell truth) 
 I and the nineteenth century were born ; 
 Nor let me lightly such memorial scorn
 
 SONNETS. CI 
 
 Of ripen'd manhood and departed youth. 
 Twin wayfarers are we, although, in sooth, 
 My pilgrimage will soonest reach the hourn 
 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. 
 
 SONNET XXIX. 10 THE KEV. UR. ClIALMEUS. 
 
 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 giounf 
 Deignest thy wisdom's healing light to pour. 
 
 * Semions on Modern Astronomy, &c. 
 t Christian and Civic Economy, &:c.
 
 62. SONNETS.' 
 
 SONNET XXX. TO THE SAME. 
 
 Alas ! for those, whose biprot zeal would fain 
 Compress and crush, with Procrustean force. 
 All enerj^ies, all spirits, fine and coarse, 
 All tempers, feelings, habits, heart and brain, 
 Nation, race, climate, white and negro stain 
 Into one changeless and unbendins: course 
 Of discipline and form ; without remorse 
 Devotini:: 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 con<>:enial fire. 
 
 SONNET XXXI. TO THE SAME, 
 
 Ik 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 ;
 
 SONNETS. 63 
 
 For thou, they say, art Wisdom's meekest son, 
 And ever walkest humbly in her ways, 
 (livintr God thanks for all that thou hast done. 
 
 SONNET XXXII. 
 
 ON" UEVISITINCI LUDLOW CASTLE JULY, 1836. 
 
 Three days had we been wedded, when we stood 
 Within thy well known walls, (my bride and 1) 
 Majestic Ludlow ; fi-om 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. 
 
 SONNET XXXIII. 
 
 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 bretlircn, all their lives, have 
 sought ;
 
 64 SONNETS. 
 
 l-'or not to careless wreiitliers of clmuce flowers 
 Upeneth 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 (whicii irks me not) 
 Rare and brief leisure these poor songs to frame. 
 
 SONNET XXXIV. 
 
 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, 
 (living thee back lost health and loveliness ; 
 While yet He purifies thy heart no less 
 By blest affliction's subtlest alchymy. 
 
 October, 1836.
 
 65 
 
 PROTESTANT HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 
 
 I. 
 With no forbidden vow 
 To thy blest name we bow, 
 Holiest of women, nor, Avith suppliant knee. 
 And fondly whisper'd prayer, 
 The votive gift prepare. 
 Which yet, with reverent heart, we bring to 
 
 Thee, 
 As to the highly favour'd, from whose womb 
 Into this groaning world did its Redeemer come. 
 
 II. 
 Not as enthroned on high 
 Near Heaven's dread Majesty; 
 Not as endued with Mediatorial power, 
 With Christ to intercede 
 For human hearts that bleed 
 When sin assails, or care and grief devour ; 
 Not as the Queen of Heaven, by right divine, 
 Do we bemock thy praise, or idolize thy shrine, 
 
 III. 
 We know not on what shore, 
 Since life's brief toil was o'er, 
 Thysoulhath sojourn'd ; whether dreamlesssleep, 
 Diffused o'er brain and breast. 
 Lulls sense and thought to rest, 
 AV'hile angels their calm watch beside thee keep, 
 
 F
 
 66 PROTESTAKT HYMN 
 
 Till their great Captain's trump shall rend the 
 tomb, 
 Proclaiming- the dread day of Nature's final doom. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Or whether, near the side 
 Of Him, the Crucified, 
 Thy Saviour and thy Son, already tasting 
 Rich antepasts of Heaven, 
 (Thy mortal sins forgiven 
 For his dear sake) thou calmly view'st the 
 
 wasting 
 Of Time's dull ages, which must fade and flee, 
 Ere body, soul, and sense, in perfect bliss can be ; 
 
 V. 
 
 Or whether, from on high. 
 Thou lead'st the company 
 Of spirits sent to minister below 
 To all salvation's heirs. 
 Soothing their human cares. 
 And o'er their darkest hours of earthly woe 
 Breathing the balm of Heaven's eternal peace, 
 And smoothing danger's waves, and causing fear 
 to cease. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Such hosts as once of old 
 
 Did mortal eye behold, 
 Unseen till then, nor ever since display'd ; 
 
 When, in the illumined mount, 
 
 In numbers passing count. 
 Chariot on chariot, horse with horse array'd
 
 TO THE VIRGIN. 67 
 
 In fiery leg-ions, with empyreal blaze, 
 At the great Prophet's prayer burst on his servant's 
 gaze. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Such forms as oft seem nigh 
 To Christian dreamer's eye. 
 At lonely twilight, or the tearful hour 
 When friends, long parted, meet 
 In converse sad but sueet, 
 Of friends fast bound in Deiith's still grasping 
 
 power ; 
 Theioved, the long'd for, who, from their repose. 
 Look down, they fondly deem, on all their joys and 
 woes. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 No thought of man can guess 
 In what obscure recess 
 Of Heaven or Earth those blessed souls may be. 
 Who, purged from fleshly stain. 
 Are from the galling chain 
 Of fleshly bondage, by the grave, set free : 
 We know not of their haunts, but know that thou 
 Art e'en as one of them, and with them mingled 
 now. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Of all that saintly host 
 With whom consort'st thou most ? 
 To whom (if disembodied spirits frame 
 Intelligible speech. 
 Imparting, each to each,
 
 68 PROTESTANT IIYJIN 
 
 Thouglit for Avliich we, the earthly, have no 
 
 name) — 
 To whom, O Holiest, dost thou now disclose 
 The pure and peaceful thoughts Avhich gladden thy 
 repose ? 
 
 X. 
 
 Haply they all to thee 
 
 Yield meet precedency, — 
 To thee, the saintliest of all saints confest ; 
 
 Encircling some bright throne 
 
 Whereon thou reign'st alone, 
 The virgin queen of all the realm of rest ; 
 Dispensing smiles, like light, from side to side, 
 On ranks of radiant saints, and martyrs glorified. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yet one, perchance, there is, 
 
 Joint heiress of thy bliss. 
 And scarce less honour'd ; before whom e'en thou, 
 
 With reverence due, lay'st down 
 
 Thine amaranthine crown, 
 And veil'st the blaze of thy effulgent brow : 
 She, our great Mother, Mary, ours and thine, 
 And saved , like us and thee, by love and grace divine. 
 
 XII. 
 
 On her majestic fiice 
 
 The blest still haply trace 
 The lingering look of scaice forgotten sadness ; 
 
 E'en while, in rapture mild, 
 
 On thee her favourite child 
 She gazeth througli bright smiles and tears of 
 gladness.
 
 TO THK VIRGIN. 69 
 
 For earth's four thousand years of grief and 
 gloom 
 Ended by Him who lay within thy Virgin womb. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Two forms are at her side, 
 Serene and thoughtful-eyed ; 
 Abel and Enoch ; — Death's first victim this; 
 For whom that bitterest pain 
 First pierced the heart and brain 
 Of Parents mourning for Earth's dearest bliss : 
 The other, deathless raised from Earth to 
 Heaven, 
 Type of the grave subdued, and sin, through faith, 
 forgiven. 
 
 MV. 
 
 And, haply, some there be, 
 
 Erewhile endued, like thee, 
 With woman's holiest heart ; who trod on earth 
 
 The ways of Heavenly truth, — 
 
 Meek Hannah, constant Ruth, 
 And that fair Persian Queen of Hebrew birth : 
 Some, haply, who with thee on Earth were seen, 
 Martha, and Mary, and repentant Magdalene. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And others whom even we 
 
 (If fondest Phantasy 
 May image that which Love would fain believe) 
 
 Have walk'd with here below, — 
 
 Now freed from all Earth's woe — 
 Souls whom thou may'st, with tenderest love, 
 receive ;
 
 70 PROTESTANT IIYMX 
 
 Mothers, and wives, and maidens undefiled, 
 And infants who, even here, might on thy lap have 
 smiled. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But wherefore thus prolong. 
 
 In vain, presumptuous song, 
 Poor shadowy fancies of a world unseen ! 
 
 Why strive to picture thee, 
 
 As what thou now niay'st be — 
 Rather than that which thou indeed hast been ; 
 A mortal dweller in this world of death, 
 Athingofflesh and blood,instinct with human breath? 
 
 XVII. 
 
 As such, men yielded thee 
 Their fond idolatry, 
 (For which thou weep'st, if souls in glory can;) 
 For thee impassion'd thought 
 Such fleshly beauty wrought. 
 As thrills the enamour'd soul of sensual man. 
 So the meek mother, with her babe divine. 
 Was hymn'd with many a vow at many an erring 
 
 xviii. [shrine. 
 
 Nor e'er with subtler wile 
 The old Tempter did beguile 
 His victim Man from worship pure and true ; 
 Assembling whatsoe'er 
 Of holy, bright and fair 
 Creation yieldeth to our human view ; 
 When to thy name he bade us bend the knee. 
 Fall down before thy shrine, and fondly worship 
 Thee.
 
 TO THE VIKGIN. 71 
 
 XIX. 
 
 For in thy heart did meet 
 Such feelings pure and sweet 
 As never met in woman save in thee ; 
 The maid's, the mother's heart, 
 Complete in every part, 
 Woman's meek faith, and angel's purity ; 
 So Heaven and Earth in thee commingled seem ; — 
 Whate'eron Earth we love, — whate'er of Heaven we 
 dream. 
 
 XX. 
 
 No wanton fancies wild 
 Thy maiden prime beguiled ; 
 Nor hopes, nor fears of Earth's tumultuous love ; 
 But Faith to visions hia^h 
 Unseal'd thy mental eye. 
 And fix'd thy earnest heart on things above. 
 Meet wast thou, and most worthy to behold 
 That glorious angel's face, who thy great doom 
 foretold. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Nor at thy nuptial hour. 
 Nor in thy bridal bower, 
 Might earthly passion and light dalliance be ; 
 But o'er thy saintly soul 
 An awful rapture stole. 
 When Heaven's creative power o'ershadow'd 
 
 thee. 
 Impregnating thy chaste and virgin womb 
 With Him who died to rise triumphant o'er the tomb.
 
 72 PUOTESTANT HYMN 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And when that hour was come, 
 Consign'd, by Eve's dread doom, 
 To bitterest anguish, with no mortal throes 
 Of travail dire, but free 
 From nature's agony, 
 Didst thou the treasure of thy womb disclose ; 
 And, at the fountains of thy virgin breast. 
 First feed Heaven's newborn heir, then cradle him 
 to rest. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Nor did thy bosom know 
 A mother's anxious woe ; 
 Her painful pressure of continual care ; 
 Her wakeful hopes and fears; 
 Her secret sighs and tears ; 
 When o'er her child, of sin and death the heir, 
 She watcheth with a heart of wild unrest, 
 Lest sickness seize his frame, or sin corrupt his 
 breast. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 For he, the immortal, grew, 
 
 With tender heart and true, 
 In wisdom, as in stature, at thy feet; 
 
 His bosom free within 
 
 From speck or taint of sin; 
 Each act in outward rectitude complete ; 
 And in thy lowly home, with reverence mild. 
 Did all thy gentle will, a grave and godly child.
 
 TO THE VIRGIN. 73 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Communion calm and pure 
 Was that which' did endure 
 Through childhood's years between his soul and 
 thine ; 
 O'er many a treasured word 
 From his dear accents heard, 
 And breathing- wisdom high and love divine, 
 Brooded thy heart until the hour was come, 
 When He for God's great work must leave his tran- 
 quil home. 
 
 xxvr. 
 Never on earth, till then, 
 In all the haunts of men, 
 Did such a mother watch o'er such a child ; 
 'Twas thine alone to see, 
 From tenderest infancy 
 To perfect manhood, nature undefiled 
 By act or thought of sin, each day revealin<^ 
 New depths of guileless love, and pure and hea- 
 venly feeling, 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Say, swell'd thy heart with pride. 
 
 When thou beheld'st him ride 
 In meekest glory, in the after years ; 
 
 While, strewn o'er all his way, 
 
 Branches and garments lay, 
 And loud Hosannahs, pealing in his ears, . 
 Hail'd him the promised king from David's stem, 
 Conjing in triumph to his own Jerusalem ?
 
 74 PROTESTANT HYMN 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And when the traitor's art 
 
 Had done its hateful part, 
 And speechless he, and uncomplaining stood ; 
 
 By cruel scourges torn, 
 
 While many a piercing thorn 
 Bedew'd his godlike brow with streams of blood ; 
 And the coarse rabble, with insulting cry, 
 Taunted his patient grief, and mock'd his agony; — 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 When on the cross he hung 
 
 With parch'd and feverish tongue, 
 By torture dire and dreadful anguish spent ; 
 
 Till Earth's convulsive groan 
 
 Proclaim'd his spirit flown, 
 While the hills trembled, and the rocks were rent. 
 And heaven itself lay wrapt in distant gloom, 
 And many a buried saint rose from his bursting 
 
 XXX. [tomb ;— 
 What feeling then was thine ? 
 
 Did thy pure heart repine 
 At thy child's anguish ? or, in him beholding 
 A 11 sorrow slain at last. 
 And Death's dread empire past, [ing 
 
 Couldst thou rejoice, e'en while, (thy arms enfold- 
 His gentle corpse in their most pure embrace,) 
 Thou gazed'st thro' thy tears on that pale, lifeless 
 
 XXXI. [face ? 
 And when, (his conflicts o'er,) 
 
 From Hades' shadowy shore
 
 TO THE VIRGIN. 75 
 
 Return'd, he rose triumphant oer the tomb; 
 
 Oh ! shared he not with thee, 
 
 In tenderest sympathy, 
 His joy and triumph for man's alter'n doom? 
 Wast thou alone, of all he loved, forgot, 
 The only friend on earth whom he remember'd not ? 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Where wast thou in that hour 
 When he, by Death's dark power 
 Enthrall'd erewhile in his sepulchral prison, 
 Once more on earth was seen 
 By faithful Magdalene ? 
 Why heardst not thou the greeting, " He liath 
 
 risen ! 
 Come, see the place in which the Saviour lay ; 
 The seal is broken now, the stone is roll'd away?" 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 For many a day appear'd 
 
 That form and face revered 
 Where brethren met, and many a word was spoken 
 
 By that divinest voice, 
 
 Which made their hearts rejoice 
 In pain and peril ; yet he left no token, 
 By man recorded, of especial love. 
 No word or thought of thee ere yet he went above. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 We know not, nor may guess 
 Why slept his tenderness 
 (Or seem'd to sleep) once deeply felt tow'rd thee ; 
 Or if indeed he came,
 
 7C> PROTESTANT HYMN 
 
 In heart and soul the same 
 E'en as in childhood he was wont to be, 
 To lay his deathless trophies at thy feet, 
 And all his pang's to thee and all his joys repeat. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Such things may well have been — 
 Too sacred to be seen 
 By human eye, or told by human pen ; 
 Yea ! till thy aged breast 
 Sank to its final rest, 
 And thy form f\ided from the eyes of men. 
 Such parting words may in its depths have dwelt 
 As gave thee peace and joy which none but thou have 
 felt. 
 
 XXXVI, 
 
 But vain all efforts be 
 
 Of venturous phantasy 
 Tosuch dim heights of shadowy thoughtto climb : 
 
 Almost unmeet it seems 
 
 To suffer her wild dreams 
 Round thee to float, and, in fantastic rhyme, 
 Depict thee, to the mind's believing- eye. 
 In false and fading tints of airy imagery. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 We deem thee bright and fair, 
 
 Almpst as angels are ; 
 And haply such thou wast ; but few endure 
 
 To picture thee grown old 
 
 Midst sorrows manifold, 
 Widow'd and childless, feeble, frail and poor ;
 
 TO THK VIRGIN. / / 
 
 With wi'inkled brow, and locks of hoary gray, 
 And eye grown dim and dull by years of slow decay. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Nor love our hearts the gloom 
 Diffused around the tomb 
 Which hides thy form, to hungry worms a prey ; 
 Nor bear, in thought, to trace 
 Corruption's foul embrace 
 Wasting thy sweet mortality away. 
 Thou art too fair, too heavenly-bright a thing 
 To bear the loathly breath of such imagining. 
 
 xxxix. 
 But thee, with features mild, 
 On thy celestial child 
 Down-looking, in bright youth's resplendent 
 bloom, 
 We cherish with fond heart ; 
 As many a limner's art 
 Shadows thee forth, unsullied by the gloom 
 Of years or mortal pain ; thy gentle eyes 
 Beaming forth Heaven's own love, like gleams from 
 Paradise. 
 
 XL. 
 
 And yet, methinks, 'twere well 
 
 Our foolish hearts should dwell 
 On thy fair image e'en in its decay ; 
 
 Remembering that of old, 
 
 Beneath the wormy mould. 
 As we must lie, the Saviour's mother lay ; 
 Like us the grave, like us corruption saw, 
 Subject, like us and ours, to Death's unbending law.
 
 78 PROTESTANT HYMN 
 
 XLI. 
 
 'Twas thine on earth to share 
 
 Whatever griefs we bear, 
 Christ's parent, yet our sister ; and to thee 
 
 Our reverent hearts look back 
 
 O'er Time's mysterious track, 
 As to the first by Heaven ordain'd to be 
 A Cliristian matron — that most holy thing* 
 Which human thoughtcan frame in all its wandering. 
 
 XLII, 
 
 And Woman, who began 
 
 Then first to rank with Man, 
 His subject, but thenceforth no more his slave ; 
 
 Derives, in part, from thee 
 
 Her righteous victory 
 O'er injury and wrong ; and o'er thy grave 
 In thought laments, meet reverence to express 
 To thee, in Christian rights, her first great ances- 
 
 XLiii. [tress. 
 
 Such honours still be thine ; 
 
 Such wreaths for ever twine 
 Around thy sepulchre as now we bring ; 
 
 Such greetings thither come 
 
 From many a Christian home, 
 Where wife, and husband, and glad children sing. 
 At morn and eve, their hymn of peace and love, 
 For comfort here below, to Him who reigns above. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Let Christian maids from thee, 
 Type of virginity,
 
 TO THE VIRGIK. 79 
 
 Borrow their blameless thoughts, their calm 
 desires ; 
 And Christian matrons seek 
 Thy spirit mild and meek ; 
 Thy holy wisdom ; sons and reverend sires, 
 By love like thine in Christian nurture rear'd, 
 Still bless the mother's looks, the mother's tones 
 revered, 
 
 XLV. 
 
 But hark ! the trump of doom 
 Peals through, and bursts the tomb ! 
 The Hving and the dead together throng 
 Before the eternal throne. 
 Whereon He sits alone, 
 Who died upon the cross for human wrong. 
 Mary, the child to whom thy womb gave birth, 
 Unveil'd in glory stands ; sole judge of heaven and 
 earth. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 And thee, and us, and all, 
 
 That dreadful trump must call. 
 To hear our several dooms by Him decreed : 
 
 In terror of that day 
 
 Vain fancy melts away ; 
 E'en Christian faith doth tremble like a reed 
 Sway'd by the wind : — we think of Thee no more; 
 Our song is silent now ; its music past and o'er.
 
 80 
 
 HYMN FOR EASTER EVE, 
 
 APRIL 2, 1836. 
 
 I. 
 
 All is o'er ; — the pain, — the sorrow, — 
 
 Human taunts, and fiendish spite ; 
 Death shall be despoil'd to-morrow 
 
 Of the prey he grasps to-night ; 
 Yet once more, to seal his doom, 
 Christ must sleep within the tomb. 
 
 II. 
 Close and still the cell that holds him, 
 
 While in brief repose he lies ; 
 Deep the slumber that enfolds him 
 
 Veil'd awhile from mortal eyes : — 
 Slumber such as needs must be 
 After hard-won victory. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Fierce and deadly was the anguish 
 Which on yonder cross he bore ; 
 
 How did soul and body languish, 
 Till the toil of death was o'er ! 
 
 But that toil, so fierce and dread. 
 
 Bruised and crush'd the serpent's head. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Whither hath his soul departed ? — 
 Roams it on some blissful shore. 
 Where the meek and faithful-hearted,
 
 HYMN FOR EASTER EVE. SI 
 
 Vext by this world's hate no more, 
 Wait, until the trump of doom 
 Call their bodies from the tomb ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Or, on some benig-nant mission. 
 
 To the imprison'd spirits sent, 
 Hath he to their dark condition 
 
 Gleams of hope and mercy lent ? — 
 Souls not wholly lost of old. 
 When o'er earth the deluge roU'd I* 
 
 Ask no more ; — the abyss is deeper 
 E'en than angels' thoughts may scan ; 
 
 Come and watch the heavenly sleeper ; 
 Come and do what mortals can, 
 
 Reverence meet toward Him to prove. 
 
 Faith, and trust, and humble love. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Far away, amidst the regions 
 
 Of the bright and balmy east, 
 Guarded by angelic legions 
 
 Till Death's slumber shall have ceased, 
 (How should we its stillness stir?) 
 Lies the Saviour's sepulchre. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Far away ; — yet thought would wander 
 
 (Thought by Faith's sure guidance led). 
 Farther yet to weep and ponder 
 
 * 1 Peter, iii. 19, 'JO. 
 G
 
 82 HYMN FOR EASTEK EVE. 
 
 Over that sepulchral bed. 
 Thither let us haste and flee 
 On the wings of phantasy. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Haste, from every clime and nation, 
 Fervent youth, and reverend age ; 
 
 Peasant, prince, — each rank and station, 
 Haste, and join this pilgrimage. 
 
 East and west, and south and north, 
 
 Send your saintliest spirits forth. 
 
 X. 
 
 Mothers, ere the curtain closes 
 
 Round your children's sleep to-night, 
 
 Tell them how their Lord reposes. 
 Waiting for to-morrow's light ; 
 
 Teach their dreams to Him to rove, 
 
 Him who loved them, Him they love. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Matron grave and blooming maiden. 
 
 Hoary sage and beardless boy. 
 Hearts with grief and care o'erladen, 
 
 Hearts brimful of hope and joy, 
 Come and greet, in death's dark hali. 
 Him who felt with, felt for all. 
 
 xn. 
 Men of God, devoutly toiling 
 
 This world's fetters to unbind ; 
 Satan of his prey despoiling 
 
 In the hearts of human kind ; 
 Let, to-night, your labours cease. 
 Give your care-worn spirits peace.
 
 HYMN FOR EASTER EVE. 83 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Ye who roam o'er seas and mountains, 
 
 Messengers of love and light; 
 Ye who guard Truth's sacred fountains 
 
 Weary day and wakeful night ; 
 Men of labour, men of lore, 
 Give your toils and studies o'er. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Dwellers in the woods and valleys, 
 
 Ye of meek and lowly breast ; 
 Ye who, pent in crowded allevs. 
 
 Labour early, late take rest ; 
 Leave the plough, and leave the loom. 
 Meet us at our Saviour's tomb. 
 
 XV. 
 
 From your halls of stately beauty, 
 Sculptured roof and marble floor, 
 
 In this work of christian duty 
 
 Haste, ye rich, and join the poor. 
 
 Mean and noble, bond and free, 
 
 Meet in frank equality, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Lo, his grave ! the grey rock closes 
 O'er that virgin burial-ground ; 
 
 Near it breathe the garden roses, 
 Trees funeieal droop around ; 
 
 In whose boughs the small birds rest. 
 
 And the stock-dove builds her nest. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And the moon with floods of splendour 
 Fills the spicy midnight air ;
 
 84 HYMN FOR EASTER EVE. 
 
 Tranquil sounds and voices tender 
 Speak of life and gladness there. 
 Ne'er was living thing, I wot, 
 Which our Lord regarded not. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Bird, and beast, and insect rover, — 
 
 E'en the lilies of the field, 
 Till His gentle life was over, 
 
 Heavenly thought to Him could yield. 
 All that is to Him did prove 
 Food for wisdom, food for love. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But the hearts th'at bow'd before Him 
 Most of all to Him were dear ; 
 
 Let such hearts to-night watch o'er Him, 
 Till the day-spring shall appear : 
 
 Then a blighter sun shall rise 
 
 Than e'er kindled up the skies. 
 
 XX. 
 
 All night long, with plaintive voicing, 
 Chaunt his requiem, soft and low ; 
 
 Loftier strains of loud rejoicing 
 
 From to-morrow's harps shall flow. 
 
 " Death and hell at length are slain, 
 
 Christ hath triumph'd, Christ doth reign."
 
 35 
 
 TO HENRY ALFORD, 
 
 AUTHOR or " THE SCnOOL OF THE HEAHT," 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 With no unmoved or irresponsive heart, 
 Have I, O Alford, listen'd to thy lay ; 
 Thy pure and fervent lay of holy thoug:hts 
 And heavenward aspirations, temper'd down 
 To apprehension of earth's grosser sense 
 By intermixture sweet of human love 
 And hymeneal fondness. Under heaven 
 My thoug-ht 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
 
 86 TO IIEXRY ALFORD. 
 
 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 strengthen'd 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 1 then newly utter'd, ih 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 foibade 
 But that, like thee, I too should then devote 
 My mind's expanded energies, my prime 
 And lustihood of thought, to heavenly song.
 
 TO HENRV A I.FORD. 87 
 
 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 
 
 (3f 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 shrinos 
 
 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 woi-ld'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
 
 88 TO HENRY ALFORD. 
 
 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 sj)iritual 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
 
 TO HENRY ALFORD. 89 
 
 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 better strength.
 
 W TO IIEXIIY ALFOIID. 
 
 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 riQ-ht : 
 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 briarhter dav 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 Avill, 
 And teaches us to feel and know even here 
 Our everlastin"- destinv. 
 
 Not lonjr 
 Might such pollution dwell in fane so pure ; 
 And years, I trust, have swept away all trace 
 Of mischief then widespread; beneath those shades 
 A purer generation feeds its thought, 
 And trains its mental energies for deeds 
 Of great and Christian daring, undefiled 
 I'y base alloy of superstitious zeal 
 And bigot fury, such as, on the banks
 
 TO HEN II V ALFORD. 91 
 
 Of Isis, darkens the meridian beams 
 
 Of pietv and truth, and grossly mars 
 
 Their beauty with obscene companionship. 
 
 So may our Mother flourish while the name 
 
 Of Eng-land holds its proud preeminence 
 
 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 ^visdom, 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,
 
 92 TO HENRY ALFOUD. 
 
 Thou slialt 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 g-lorious interest of souls 
 
 Won to his love ; helping' to accomplish here 
 
 The number of the elect, and lead them hack 
 
 With songs of triumph to their home in Heaven. 
 
 COME WITH US. 
 
 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 dreaiy 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,
 
 COME WITH US. 9L} 
 
 Through the sweet months of the year. 
 There the light of evening lies 
 Longer than in soutlievn 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 Avorld. 
 
 Come with us, and we'll repair 
 To the " bonny shire of Ayr;"
 
 94 COME WITH US. 
 
 To the flowery banks and braes, 
 Where the Boon's clear current strays 
 Underneath the holms which lie 
 Where old Monkwood flouts the sky 
 With its honest hideousness ; 
 Ne'er did ug-lier house, I g-uess, 
 E'en in Scottish rea-ion 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 vet : 
 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
 
 COME WITH US. 95 
 
 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 Avith us ; our time is short 
 In those cherish'd haunts to sport. 
 All things mortal wax and wane. 
 Nor may we, even now, complain
 
 96 COME 'VVITH US. 
 
 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 love 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^ 
 Tiirough 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 lilarth is sweet ; 
 Though our woods may still be green. 
 And sweet Doon may gush between,
 
 COME W ITII US. 97 
 
 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. 
 
 n
 
 98 
 
 MIDSUMMER MUSINGS. 
 
 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 
 
 \ un English hearth and household, wound my way 
 
 Up to this green hill's topmost eminence ; 
 
 Whence, with a quick and comprehensive glance, 
 
 Which lills 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 dissolved. 
 
 By meet gradation of well-ordor'd ranks, 
 
 E2ach melting into each, and, by the warmth 
 
 Of undefiled religion's genial sun, 
 
 Matured and cherish'd. On the extremest verge
 
 MlDSL'M.MEll Mi;six(;s. <jy 
 
 Of the remote horizon, wavy lines 
 
 Of hills, which might almost assume the style 
 
 And dig-nity 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 1 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 I 
 
 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, iu 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,
 
 100 MIDSUMMER MUSINGS. 
 
 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,
 
 MIDSUMMER MUSIXGS. 101 
 
 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 k ind, 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 checquer'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 w ith holiest care
 
 102 MlDSUMSIEIl MUSINGS. 
 
 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 uncontroU'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 pf whom I speak unlocks, with free 
 
 And liberal grace, her floodgates of sweet sound, 
 
 And pours, at will, on our insatiate sense 
 
 Hich streams of never-dying melody ; 
 
 Neither dissembling, with ill-acted show 
 
 Of modest self-disparagement, the worth
 
 MIDSUMMER MUSINGS. 103 
 
 Alul richness of her gifts, nor on our choice 
 01>truding them unask'd, but, with the pure 
 And simple kindness of a natural heart, 
 Imparting to our needs her special share 
 Of nature's dispensations, — 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,
 
 104 MIDSUMMER MUSINGS. 
 
 And threatening- ever these asthmatic lung's, 
 
 With a<^ony of respiration choked, 
 
 And spasms catarrhal ; for, to me, the prime 
 
 And lustihood of summer ever bring-s 
 
 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 1 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 temptmysense. 
 
 Nor the returning and high-laden wain, 
 
 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,
 
 MIDSUMMER MUSINGS. 105 
 
 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 unfuHill'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 afli'ection, which consoles 
 And mitigates my sickness, making glad 
 The chamber of my pain with sympathy.
 
 lOB MIDSUMMER MUSINGS. 
 
 There is no grief, even on this sinful earth, 
 V.'ithout its consolation ; none Avhich 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 throusrh all the narrow road 
 Which leads to life eternal — for all these 
 What thanks shall we repay? Even now, methinks. 
 From this secluded arbour I look doAvn 
 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 afifectionate and thoughtful heart. 
 Can never prove a desart ; by its side 
 Fresh springs gush brightly forth from time to time. 
 As old ones arc 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, —
 
 MIDSUMMER MUSINGS. i07 
 
 I and my youthful peers of Trinity, 
 
 Now nigh our noon of Hfe ; a motley band 
 
 Of poets and ripe scholars, once renovvn'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 Avill'd that diverse interests, diverse cares, 
 
 Should grow and gather round us ; — but let each 
 
 Take the more earnest heed, lest absence chill
 
 103 MIDSUMMER MUSINGS. 
 
 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 yetjoins 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 weaiy 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 liomc 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
 
 MIDSUMMER MUSINGS. 109 
 
 Refresh'd, in this world's wilderness, by springs 
 Of worldly joyance, but still looking^ on, 
 Beyond created thing^s, 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. 
 
 LOVE'S MAY DAY. 
 
 '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
 
 110 love's may day. 
 
 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 youn<^ 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 ;
 
 love's may pay. 111 
 
 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; woi'ds 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 glancp, 
 Bri":htenins: 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 unseem'd is either brow ; 
 Yet I trust we are not now 
 Such in heart and mind and will, — 
 So unwean'd from folly still,
 
 112 LOVES MAT DAY. 
 
 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 thine, 
 
 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, —
 
 LOVE S MAY DAY. 113 
 
 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. 
 May 16, 1834. 
 
 LOVE IN ABSENCE. 
 
 JANUARY, 1832. 
 
 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
 
 114 LOVE IN ABSENCE. 
 
 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 iinquench'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 ! 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 constraint 
 
 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 most 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 tlie 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 swee^ of chasten'd love
 
 LOVE IN ABSENCE. 115 
 
 And mild endearments. Around thee have cluster'd 
 The tender thoughts, the rich imaginations, 
 The impulses and instincts, strange and strong, 
 The dreams and v'^isions 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 rovinos, and so minified 
 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, —
 
 11(5 LOVE IN ABSENCE. 
 
 To wliom 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 fiiends, 
 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, 
 S])ite 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 peaceasthou, 
 By all the arts of wedded tenderness. 
 Hast breathed into this wild and wayward spirit. 
 For thou hast been to me a guiding star.
 
 LOVE IN ABSENCE. 117 
 
 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 mins-led with this p-ross 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 aft'ections — 
 
 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 uncontroU'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 chai-acter ; for we two walk
 
 118 LOVE IX ABSENCE. 
 
 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 hclj) 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
 
 lOVE IX ABSENCE. 119 
 
 Wherein the church is joln'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. 
 80 may our hearts be strens:then'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 mostpure 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 v. orth
 
 120 LOVE IN ABSENCE. 
 
 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 controU'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. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Cut finish'd is my exile ; — I return 
 Homeward with eager heart, most glad once more 
 To seize my pastoral staff, 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 Avhen 'tis read,
 
 LOVE IN ABSENCE. 121 
 
 Cease to regret that once, at Friendship's call, 
 He left thee and thy children, for awhile 
 To soiourn in the distant Cornish moors ; 
 Where,torelievethe 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. 
 
 AN APOLOGY FOR TACITURNITY. 
 
 I LOVE thee, lady — oh how well — 
 
 Nor thou canst g-uess, 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 ang-elic 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.
 
 122 A\ ArOI.OGY FOR TACITUUMTV. 
 
 Whence comes it then, (if thou canst guess,) 
 That when my heart would fain express 
 The thoughts thy pi-esence makes to flow, — 
 The feelings that within nie glow ; 
 When I Avould open my full soul 
 Without reserve, without controul. 
 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 skv, — 
 Of all my hopes, — of all my fears, — 
 Of griefs that " lie too deep for tears," — 
 Of doubts tlyit 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 Avithin, — 
 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 thougVit, — 
 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 spoil-bound tongue so dumb doth lie? 
 Why is it that thy speaking eye, 
 Which smiles upon me with intent
 
 AN APOLOGY FOR TACITUUMTV. 123 
 
 To ii;ive 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 boupd 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, scattered words alone ; — 
 
 Unmeaning words of vain assent, 
 
 ( )r move 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, 
 
 1 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
 
 124 AN APOLOGY FOR TACITUUXITY. 
 
 Senseless or passionless to be. 
 
 O lady ! 'tis a dread respect 
 
 Of thy majestic intellect ; 
 
 A sense of awe which makes me bow 
 
 I^efore 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
 
 AN APOLOGY FOR TACITURNITY. 125 
 
 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 ; —
 
 126 AN APOLOGY FOR TACITURNITY. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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, 
 
 1 yet retain beneath the sun I 
 No, lady, I can ne'er believe 
 
 But that, howe'er thy soul may grieve 
 Over my many fsiults, thou still 
 Wilt yield me, of tliine 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 whicii thou and I 
 Wept and consoled alternately. 
 
 Forgive me, then, that 1 so oft 
 Hear thy dear voice, so sweet and soft,
 
 AN APOLOGY FOR TACITURNITY. 127 
 
 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. 
 September, 1834. 
 
 TO MARGARET IN HEAVEN. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 de- 
 parted years. 
 
 Amidst the forms, that meet me there, no trace of 
 thee appears ;
 
 128 TO MARGARET IN HEAVEN. 
 
 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. 
 
 II. 
 And shalt thou then depart from earth, and take thy 
 
 shining place 
 Among the brightest daughters of our lost and ran- 
 
 som'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 chris- 
 tian 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 aesured mark, discern thee from 
 
 the rest ? 
 
 III. 
 Not so; we two are strangers, — we were never 
 . friends on earth ;
 
 TO MARGARET IN HEAVEN. 12P 
 
 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 betAveen my 
 
 soul and thee. 
 Sweetsisterof my early friend, the kind, the singrle- 
 
 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 ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thy grave is wet with bitter tears from eyes whose 
 
 friendly smile 
 Hath power to cheer my sinking heait, 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 tlicm as theirs have 
 
 flow'd for thee. 
 
 K
 
 130 TO MAllGARKT IN HEAVEN. 
 
 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, Avhate'er thy 
 
 present bliss. 
 We call thee, from thine own bright world, to smile 
 
 on us in this. 
 
 V. 
 
 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, — smilesweetonhome 
 
 and hearth. 
 Let thy unseen presence soothe our woes and sanc- 
 tify 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.
 
 131 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN IN A SICK ROOM BEFORE DAWN, 
 JANUARY 8, 1835. 
 
 I. 
 
 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. 
 II. 
 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. 
 III. 
 And joy ! that his dear mother, 
 
 Beside him close reclined. 
 Doth in oblivion smother 
 
 The sorrows of her mind ;
 
 !32 STANZAS. 
 
 And that her body's pang-s, 
 
 Which she so meekly bore. 
 Relax awhile their piercing fangs. 
 
 And vex her frame no more. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 '. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 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.
 
 STANZAS. 133 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 ai-e there ; 
 And service slack perform'd to truth, 
 
 And much neg^lect of prayer. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ah ! little think my neighbours 
 
 How weak a thing; is he. 
 Who thus among- them labours 
 
 With pastoral ministry : 
 Thev know not, when thev hear 
 
 My speech so blunt and bold, 
 How oft my heart, with doubt and fear. 
 
 Is comfortless and cold. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And is it then to chasten 
 
 These grievous faults in me, 
 That pain and sickness fasten 
 
 Th^ir 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 ? 
 
 X. 
 
 Oh then, with deep repentance 
 Let me avert the blow.
 
 134 STANZAS. 
 
 And disannul the sentence 
 
 Which dooms my house to woe. 
 
 Let tears of contrite love 
 My soul's pollution wash, 
 
 And more devout obedience proA'e 
 How I have felt the lash. 
 
 XI. 
 
 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. 
 
 xii. 
 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 — 
 
 1 hear thee breathing deep ; 
 God save thee from all threaten'd ill 
 
 By this refreshing sleep ! 
 
 xin. 
 'J'uo sufferers meek and lowly 
 
 Have ye together been ; 
 Tliy heart, with patience holy 
 
 And humble faith, serene:
 
 STANZAS. 135 
 
 His pains so sweetly borne 
 
 Could ne'er have been, 1 guess, 
 
 Had God not soothed his heart forlorn 
 With his own tenderness. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The dawn at length is breaking 
 
 In yon clear, frost)' 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. 
 
 DIRGE, 
 SUGGESTED IN SLEEP. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 Away ! away ! away ! 
 All things look old and grey ; 
 
 There's nought below 
 
 But death and woe — 
 Shall we love this world ? O nay I
 
 136 DIRGE, SUGGESTED IX SLEEP. 
 
 III. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 V, 
 
 Away ! away ! away ! 
 
 In the arrave where Jesus lav — 
 
 Where our child lies now, — 
 
 Shall I and thou 
 Sleep sound, sweet love ? O yea ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 !
 
 137 
 
 FAREWELL TO HERNE BAY, 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE MOMENT OF DEPAKTURE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Away ! away ! away ! 
 
 Through the dancing waves and spray 
 
 Like light we glide 
 
 With wind and tide — 
 Farewell to feir Heme Bay ! 
 
 11. 
 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, Heme Bay. 
 
 III. 
 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 Heme Bay. 
 
 IV, 
 
 Away I 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, Heme Bay.
 
 133 faueui:ll to iiernl bay. 
 
 V. 
 
 Away ! away ! away ! 
 
 A treasure we leave for aye, 
 Which shall mark a track 
 For our fond hearts back 
 
 To thee and to thine, Heme Bay. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Away! away! away! 
 
 Let's weep no more, but pray 
 
 That each aching breast 
 
 Of us four may rest 
 As the fifth rests in Heme Bay. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 I. 
 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 ? 
 M ust tliou, enfranchised as thou art. 
 So nearly, from sin's dark controul, 
 Still bleed beneath the stripes which make us sin- 
 ners whole ? 
 
 II, 
 I thought (ah vain and selfish thought !) 
 That all thy chastisements were o'er ;
 
 STANZAS. 139 
 
 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 g-revv clear, and I should see 
 Thy sun, without a cloud, go down rejoicingly. 
 
 III. 
 I hoped for years serene and calm, 
 Still calmer as their close drew ni"-h : 
 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 hig-h. 
 And how thy earlier faith was tried, 
 A nd how thy soul had been, through suffering, sanc- 
 tified. 
 
 IV. 
 
 1 knew that in thy bosom dwelt 
 A silent g'rief, 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 anxiousthoughtsthouhadstpresaging direst ill.
 
 140 STANZAS. 
 
 V. 
 
 My prayers (ah ! why so cold and few ?) 
 Were that this weij^ht miylit he 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And now thou bleed'st beneath the blow — 
 The blow I deem'd too sharp to fall — 
 A h ! how shall I assuage thy woe ? 
 What flow'rets scatter o'er the pall 
 (3f 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 self in 
 mystery. 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 ;
 
 STANZAS. 1-11 
 
 Yet niayst thou to His bosom flee, 
 To Him thy secret soul disclose, 
 And in his long-tried love thy perfect trust repose. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thy pangs, which now pierce soul and sense. 
 No child of this world ere 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. 
 
 X. 
 
 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 ?
 
 142 STANZAS. 
 
 And yet — shame 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 ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 I may not think on griefs like these ; — 
 Yet, yet, beloved friend, remain ; 
 If earthly love hath power to ease 
 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. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 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 :
 
 STANZAS. ]Ad 
 
 Stay till we too are fit to die, — 
 Christ's messeng;er 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 unfadin<^ 
 bowers. 
 Dec. 3, 1835. 
 
 TO- MARION, 
 
 I. 
 
 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. 
 
 II. 
 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 realitv.
 
 144 TO MARION. 
 
 III. 
 
 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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. 
 
 v. 
 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 breatbing loveliness.
 
 TO MARION. J 145 
 
 \ r. 
 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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 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. 
 
 Vlll. 
 
 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? 
 
 r.
 
 146 TO MARION. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Take with tliee, Marion, thoughts like these 
 
 To cheer thy Indian home, 
 And g-ive thy burthen'd spirit ease 
 
 When c:ri<^f 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. 
 
 X. 
 
 Nor worthless, nor by them unfelt 
 
 Such words from us will be ; 
 Xor 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 climesfi 
 Breathing old thoughts, old joys, old times. 
 
 XI. 
 
 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 bath lain ; 
 liitst track'd the patlis her footsteps press'd, 
 And shared, like her, our household rest.
 
 TO MARION". 1-17 
 
 XII. 
 
 High intercourse methinks should be 
 
 Between her soul and thine, 
 And store of mutual sympathy 
 
 In thoug-hts and cares divine. 
 With open heart and serious speech 
 May ye take counsel, each with each, 
 
 From Truth's exhaustless mine 
 Extracting treasures richer far 
 Than those of eastern monarchs are. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Farewell 1 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 anhdue 
 
 By faith's all-conquering might ; 
 And meet us, when life's toil is done, 
 The good fight fought, the victoiy won. 
 
 Mav, 18.56,
 
 148 
 
 TO SYLVIA. 
 
 I. 
 Maidkx, 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. 
 
 II. 
 Haply childhood's visions told thee 
 
 He was mild, and bland, and fair ; 
 W ould, with soft embrace, enfold thee 
 
 From the touch of pain and care ; 
 Strew thy path with brightest flowers. 
 Twine above thee myrtle bowers. 
 
 III. 
 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Tell us, maiden, hast thou found him 
 
 Thus delicious, thus divine ? 
 Doth such witchery breathe around him ? 
 
 is his spirit so benign?
 
 TJ SYLVIA. 14!) 
 
 Doth he shed, o'er heart and brain. 
 More of pleasure or of pain ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Dreams there be of brain-sick passion, 
 
 Sentimental groan and sig'h. 
 Heart-aches aped for very fashion, — 
 
 Of such whimsies ask not I : 
 Let them trouble fops and fools, 
 Reign supreme o'er boardiny;-schools. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But with fiercer pain and ang-uish 
 IjOve like thine must oft contend ; 
 
 Oft the breakings heart must languish 
 Till, with life, its sorrows end. 
 
 Well our Shakespeare spake, in sooth, 
 
 " True love's course did ne'er run smooth." 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 viu. 
 Hard thy task ; — yet meet it, maiden. 
 
 With a true and steadfast will, 
 Though thy heart, with care o'erladen, 
 
 Faiot beneath the burden still. 
 Through thy worst temptations prove 
 Firm in dutv, firm in love.
 
 150 TO SYLVI.l. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Better 'twere to ivither slowl}' 
 On the lonely virgin stalk, 
 
 Than, fast bound in ties unholy, 
 Through a desart world to walk, 
 
 Dragging" still, with toil and pain, 
 
 Sordid Mammon's golden chain. 
 
 X. 
 
 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 wieaths adorn 
 
 For a loveless bridal morn. 
 
 XI. 
 
 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. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet, perchance, at length victorious 
 O'er this danger and distress. 
 
 We shall bail thy triumph glorious 
 With loud songs of happiness ; 
 
 Load thee home in bridal pomp, 
 
 With the sound of harp and trump;
 
 TO SYLVIA. 151 
 
 Mil. 
 
 Come, Avith shouting-, forth to meet thee, 
 
 Wife and husband, sire and son ; 
 ,'\s our new-found sister g-reet thee, 
 
 Boldly woo'd and nobly won. 
 Meet rejoicings then shall be 
 In our festive family. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 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. 
 
 XV. 
 
 IMurmur 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. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 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.
 
 152 
 
 PALINODE, TO THE SAME. 
 
 Heariless thou art and exquisitely base ; 
 Traitress to love and tender virgin feeling ; 
 And yet some thanks we owe thee for revealing' 
 Thy bosom's guile, ere thou hadst found a place 
 Among the wives and matrons of our race : 
 Thy perfect vileness is thy victims healing : 
 Woe to Jihn now whose spirit thou art stealing 
 With the false smiles of thy deceitful face. 
 
 Thou art not worth a poet's anger ; — take 
 His pity rather; — pity for thy lot, 
 When thy last dupe shall from his dream awake, 
 And thou, fast bound in joyless wedlock's knot, 
 Cold as thou art, shalt feel thy sear'd heart ache 
 For passion quench'd and fervent vows forgot.
 
 153 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 I. 
 Tjiey 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 g^entle hearts make moan, 
 Each feeling- all the loss its own. 
 
 11. 
 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. 
 
 III. 
 They bid me think on days long; past. 
 
 When fiist that g^entle face I knew, 
 Whose lineaments are fading- fast 
 
 In dark decay's sepulchral hue : 
 Thev tell me of her graceful form. 
 Where banquets iiov/ the hungry worm. 
 
 1 V. 
 
 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 ;
 
 154 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 Ijlending- tlicir sweetness witli the hymn 
 Of Heaven's melodious seraphim. 
 
 V. 
 
 They tell me that her lieart was kind 
 And pure as hearts of angels be ; 
 
 They tell me thought enrich'd her mind, — 
 And I believe them ; though to me 
 
 What matters now its richest worth, 
 
 Since she's in Heaven, and 1 on earth ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 forg'iven. 
 I doubt them not ; would God that I 
 Could thus to Time's poor trifles die ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 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. 
 
 vni. 
 Thoy 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, 
 Thoy seek her still unconsciously.
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. liJ5 
 
 IX, 
 
 And tliere 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. 
 
 X. 
 
 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. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And who shall fill her place on earth ? 
 
 And who licr 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? 
 
 XII. 
 
 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.
 
 ]56 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 XUI. 
 
 That wake to weep ? to weep for her ? 
 
 The freed from Eartli — 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. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 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. 
 
 XV. 
 
 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. 
 
 Julv 1.", 1036.
 
 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 
 
 NO. I. TO A FEMALE FRIEND. 
 
 Lady, whose sojourn in our simple town 
 Hath been an angel's visit, showering- down, 
 Fiom the far regions of its own bright skies, 
 Streams of pure love, and kindliest sympathies; 
 
 ladv, 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. 
 ((Jr 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 — 1 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, 
 
 1 little deeni'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.
 
 158 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 
 
 This growth of fresh and fervent sympathy ; 
 These treasures of affection, long unknown, 
 Till the sweet sunbeams of thy friendsliip shone 
 Into my spirit's depths, and brought to light 
 A woi'ld 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 — 
 Tiie 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 woith 
 Than young imagination e'er conceived. 
 Or faith, unpractised in the world, believed ; 
 How gladly may I welcome middle age !
 
 TAMILIAK EPISTLES. 1-39 
 
 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 v/ould be 
 To speak the gratitude 1 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 yoi-o, 
 At the drear touch of sorrow ; thy worst woe 
 Hath been endured long since, and uou;;iit below 
 Henceforth shall move thee from thy perfect tru.«t
 
 160 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 
 
 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
 
 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 161 
 
 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 offrequent 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 yetfinds nought to blame, butmuch 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, 
 
 M
 
 162 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 
 
 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 fulfiU'd in him. 
 
 Now wouldst thou learn 
 Somewhat of me and mine ? The bay of Heme, 
 Hard by the towers of Canterbury old, 
 Doth, with its huge and shing'ly 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. [share. 
 Heaven send the strength she needs (thou too wilt
 
 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 163 
 
 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,
 
 164 lAMILIAR EPISTLES. 
 
 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 
 Bv 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. 
 
 August, 1834. 
 
 NO. II. TO THE REV. DERWENT COLERIDGE. 
 
 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 : 
 S»;irce, 1 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
 
 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. I6'j 
 
 From the calm daylight of life's real sphere 
 
 Into the world of dreams. Year followed 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 Avould last. 
 
 Endless and still progressive. Why should I 
 
 Quit this fair world, and all its imager)', 
 
 For the unreal and unblest domain 
 
 Of shadowy fancy ? why invoke again 
 
 My passionate Muse ? 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 thedimfieldsof thought, wellknown 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 smftly, since yon day of bitterness, 
 My stream of what was once poetic thought 
 Hath flow'd and murmur'd ; how this pen hath 
 
 wrought
 
 I')6 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 
 
 At the old toil, for years well nig-h forgot, 
 Wiiile verse, almost without a blur or blot, 
 Starts from its touch unbidden. So I rang-e 
 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, 
 Scatteringmy 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 encroach'd at all 
 On pastoral labours or didactical ;
 
 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 167 
 
 By strict economy of brains and time 
 Alternating- my sermons with my rliyme, 
 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 ;) Fd not give 
 The bliss which in my children's smiles doth live —
 
 168 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 L 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 cui'rent, 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,
 
 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 169 
 
 And spoiling- of its g-lories many a. scene 
 Wliich, 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, 
 Desig;ns by us undreamt of to fulfill, 
 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 strug-gling spirit to unfold 
 Its latent powers ; if thou canst guide aright
 
 170 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 
 
 Tts 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 cot, 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
 
 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 171 
 
 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 Avars ? 
 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, 
 (){ all thy household ; how, amidst the throng 
 Of boarding-house anxieties and cares,
 
 172 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 
 
 The gentle spirit of our Mary fores ; 
 
 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 knevv'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 ff-male wisdom and fine intellect —
 
 FAMILIAR EPISTLES. 173 
 
 If this afford thee one attraction more 
 Than those in which ue were so rich before, 
 Let not the summer months again have fled, 
 And left our parsonage unvisited. 
 Come, Deruent, and come, Mary; come, and see 
 How bloom our roses on their pai-ent 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. 
 
 October, 1834. 
 
 CONCLUSION TO PART I. 
 
 I. 
 
 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-vvater'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.
 
 174 CONCLUSION TO PART I. 
 
 II. 
 
 Feeble, in truth, and fading ye appear ; [flowers, 
 
 For my mind's garden, once o'erstock'd with 
 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. 
 
 III. 
 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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. 
 
 V. 
 
 Twelve years, life's summer, have for ever fled, 
 Bringing8trangechanges,since the Muse Iwoo'd,
 
 CONCLUSION TO PART 1. 175 
 
 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 for2:et the strains I sun"- 
 
 In those rash days, when hope and I where young^. 
 
 VI. 
 
 '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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 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. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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 ?
 
 176 CONCLUSION TO PART I. 
 
 Is it too late to consecrate my page 
 
 To themes of holy love and heavenly luth ? 
 Too late to use aright the powers which Heaven, 
 For deeds of high eraprize and steadfast aim, hath 
 given ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 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 do- 
 main. 
 
 All these, as life steals on, have pass'd away, 
 
 Like morn's last stars that fade before thelight of dav. 
 
 X. 
 
 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. 
 
 XI. 
 
 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 ;
 
 CONCLUSION TO PART I. 177 
 
 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. 
 
 XII. 
 
 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 chang-eful 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. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 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 Avorld's busy throng. 
 
 More " certain" be its sound, and every theme 
 
 Such as my graver tasks most fitly may beseem. 
 
 N
 
 POEM S. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 CONSISTING OF POEMS COMPOSED BETWEEN THE 
 YEARS 1818 AND 1828.
 
 MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.* 
 
 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, — 
 
 * This poem was written when the author was an Eton 
 boy, and of course abounds witli faults of composition. He 
 has, however, thought it better to leave these than to correct 
 them.
 
 182 MY BROTHER S GRAVE. 
 
 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,
 
 MY brother's grave. 183 
 
 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 ; 
 0.n 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.
 
 184 JMY BROTHER S GRAVE. 
 
 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 hiU'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, 
 Mv 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
 
 MV BROTHERS GRAVE. 185 
 
 Doth crush'd affection cease to smart. 
 Again I join'd the sportive crowd 
 Of boyish phiymates, 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. 
 
 1 drew near to my father's gate — 
 No smiling faces met me now — 
 I enter'd— all was desolate —
 
 186 MY BROTHER S GRAVE. 
 
 Grief sat upon my mothei"'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 1 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 p-lance I downwaid "ave — 
 
 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,
 
 MY brother's grave. 137 
 
 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 otliers ; 
 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? 
 
 November, 1818.
 
 188 
 
 TO 
 
 I.v 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. 
 1 launch into life's stormy main, 
 
 And 'tis with tears — but not of sorrow, 
 That, pouring thus my parting 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.
 
 TO . 189 
 
 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. 
 Twoiild break my soul's divinest dream 
 
 With meaner love to mingle thee ; 
 'Twould dim the most unearthly beam 
 
 Thy form sheds o'er my 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,
 
 190 TO . 
 
 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. 
 
 Sept. 18, 1820.
 
 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 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 within me which not all have felt ; 
 
 If, in the dim and fading light of Even, 
 A Poet's rapture on my soul hath 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.
 
 192 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 June, 1820. 
 
 DREAM LOVE. 
 
 Oa ! 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' aident ; 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
 
 FRAGMENTS. 198 
 
 And sinless years be happy, and may noiig;ht 
 That tastes of soitow 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 — 7nuch 
 grace, 
 
 And lovely as thy spirit be thy face. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 ***** 
 
 June, 1820. 
 
 THE FAIRY MAIMOUNE. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 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. 
 
 o
 
 194 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 There was a deep and solitaiy well in 
 
 The palace w-here 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 his 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 dav, 
 
 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
 
 FRAGMENTS. 195 
 
 With music, and each flower 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 ai-ose 
 
 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 Pa- 
 radise. 
 
 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 rin':;' loud into his ears
 
 196 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 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. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 July, 1821.
 
 DAY DREAMS. 
 
 NO. I. TO . 
 
 I. 
 
 I KNEW that Death was stern and strong, 
 
 That sceptred hand and helmed head, 
 The fear'd on earth, the famed in song, 
 
 Must sink beneath his silent tread ; 
 That Poet's brain, and Warrior's heart, 
 
 And Beauty's most resplendent form, 
 Glor}' and pride, and strength, must part, 
 
 To grace the banquet of the worm. 
 But tell not me — it cannot be. 
 That Death, my love, may alter thee. 
 
 II. 
 Oh ! hast thou ne'er in fancy view'd 
 
 The shadows dark of days to come — 
 Their toils and cares, a hideous brood, 
 Strife with the world's fierce multitude, — 
 Pain, sickness, agony, distress. 
 When yearns the heart in weariness 
 Tow'rd absent friends, the dead, the lost, 
 And those by fortune tempest-toss'd 
 
 To some far-distant home ? 
 Though many an hour of love and mirth 
 May cheer man's spirit here on earth,
 
 I9R OAV niiF.AMS. 
 
 And friends may meet in moments gay, 
 
 And the dancing heart keep holiday, 
 
 Yet oh ! far oftener must it bear 
 
 Its solitary load of care, 
 
 Aching in anguish deep and lone. 
 
 For many a loved and loving one. — 
 
 I'll not believe that at his birth 
 
 To man such sympathies were given, 
 But that their joys, so few on earth. 
 
 Might be renew'd in Heaven. 
 Then tell not me — it cannot be. 
 That Death, my love, may alter thee. 
 
 III. 
 And hast thou ne'er, at fall of Even, 
 
 When moans the breeze in sounds of woe, 
 And stars begin to wink in Heaven, 
 
 And earth in twilight melts below. 
 And, in the stillness of the hour. 
 
 The voice of waters solemn seems — 
 Felt some unknown mysterious Power 
 
 Breathe o'er thee, from the woods and streams, 
 
 Steeping thy soul in tearful dreams ; 
 Till wandering thoughts spring up on high. 
 As the soul would roam through the starry sky. 
 And the realms of the sainted dead explore, 
 Whom the living eye shall view no more. 
 In the crystal light of their calm retreat. 
 
 The look of Earth's affection bearing. 
 
 And still their radiant faces wearing 
 The smile we used to think so sweet ?
 
 DAY DREAMS. 199 
 
 Thou must have felt that witching hour, 
 
 Its deep, and calm, and silent power ; 
 Thou must have felt that tearful gushing 
 
 From the heart's fresh and lonely springs, 
 And the charmed soul through the blue sky rushing, 
 
 On the Spirit of Twilight's wings. 
 Then rise, each sense to rapture hushing. 
 
 Visions of unforgotten things. 
 And they who loved, whose spirits love us, 
 Float in the deep blue sky above us, 
 
 In dreamlike wanderings. 
 On every passing breeze float by 
 Voices we loved in infancy — 
 They tell of some untroubled land. 
 
 Where souls that love repose together, 
 And many a white and radiant hand 
 
 With gentlest motion waves us thither. 
 And oh ! 'tis sweet to rove on high 
 With that celestial company, 
 And feel, while yet we breathe beneath. 
 That hearts remain unchanged in Death. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In sleep I dream of happy days, 
 That smile beyond the tomb ; 
 And fond imagination roves 
 Through wondrous valleys, fields, and groves. 
 Where gentle brooks that gush between, 
 And skies eternally serene, 
 
 Make one perpetual bloom. 
 And ever in those dreams divine,
 
 200 DAY DREAMS. 
 
 Thy gentle spirit stands by mine ; 
 Thy voice of music wanders by, 
 
 Thy form is floating in my view ; 
 And still thy soft and earnest eye 
 
 Smiles on me, as 'tis wont to do. 
 Then tell not me— it cannot be. 
 That Death, my love, can alter thee. 
 1821. 
 
 NO. II. 
 
 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. 1 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 otluT days, but now upon her cheek 
 Sickness had set his seal, and wasting years
 
 DAY DREAMS. 20] 
 
 And sorrow, worst of all — yet still her mien 
 
 Held its original sweetness. Piety, 
 
 And gentleness, and charity, and faith, 
 
 Shone there, and from hersoften'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 
 
 Fix'd with such fond and beaming earnestness. 
 
 That I might know their owners had no thought 
 
 Beyond that gentle lady's happiness. 
 
 My dream was darken'd. 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, compress'd convulsively, betray'd 
 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
 
 202 BAY DREAMS. 
 
 Was comforting: the asronies 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, to that house of woe. 
 They were ray friends in childhood, and I sigh'd 
 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-knoll in my ear. 
 Which my heart echoed back. — I felt, that hour,
 
 DAY DREAMS. 203 
 
 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 brighten'd. Soundsof love and joy, 
 And hymeneal songs, and rustic mirth, 
 Mix'd with the 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 
 Pinin? in hopeless sickness ; holy love. 
 And chaste connubial raptures, fill'd her eyes, 
 Smilincr throuarh 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 loved, 
 And the calm pulses of maturity
 
 204 DAY DREAMS. 
 
 Throughout my being" throbb'd. I stood begirt 
 By beaming faces of time-honour'd friends, 
 Whose children play'd 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, me- 
 
 thought. 
 There lean'd a radiant form upon my bosom, 
 Dearer than all, from whose mild eyes 1 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. 
 
 1820.
 
 205 
 
 SONG TO THE SPRING BREEZE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh ! Spirit of the Breeze, 
 Who singest in the trees, 
 Making low music, while the young leaves dance ; 
 Unveil, unveil to me 
 Thy beauty silently, 
 Let me thy bright eyes view, and dovelike coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 II. 
 Oft doth my Fancy's eye 
 The Naiads fair espy. 
 Silently floating down some gentle stream ; 
 And glisten as it sees 
 The green-rob'd Dryades, 
 Or Oreads dancing nightly by their Queen's pale 
 beam. 
 
 III. 
 And I, on nights of June, 
 Have watch'd, beneath the Moon, 
 The gambols quaint of many a gamesome Fay, 
 Around the tiny throne 
 Of mirthful Oberon, 
 And his capricious Queen, proud-eyed Titania.
 
 206 SONG TO THE SPRING BREEZE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Rut, Spirit of the Breeze, 
 
 Whose noonday melodies, 
 And fragrant breath, soothe me so tenderly ; 
 
 In vain 1 strive to view 
 
 Thy form's celestin! hue. 
 Too shadowy a dream art thou to flit o'er Fancy's 
 eye. 
 
 V. 
 
 Or art thou but a sound. 
 In fragrance floating round, 
 
 The whisper of some rural Deity, 
 
 Who, stretch'd in grotto calm, 
 With breath of purest balm. 
 
 Is warbling to the Nymphs' delicious minstrelsy ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh ! happy wandering thing, 
 
 Thus bearing on thy wing 
 Refreshing coolness, fragrance, and sweet sound ; 
 
 How calmly dost thou stray 
 
 Through groves and meadows gay. 
 Still catching, as tliou glidest on, new freshness 
 from the ground. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thou Ijreathest on my brow, — 
 
 I feel thy kisses now, — 
 Thy cooling kisses : — but what charm was this ? 
 
 For oh ! those kisses bore 
 
 A joy unfelt before, 
 A momentary, strange, imaginative bliss.
 
 SONG TO THE SPRING BREEZE. 207 
 
 VIII. 
 
 From my distemper'd brain 
 
 Tliou didst call up a train 
 Of recollections sweet, which long had slept ; 
 
 Almost before my eyes 
 
 I saw dear forms arise, 
 And cherish'd thoughts and feelings from their 
 deep cells crept. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Whence was this wondrous spell ? 
 
 Thou sweet-voiced Spirit tell — 
 Oh ! com'st thou from mine own Salopian hills ? 
 
 Their freshness dost thou bring. 
 
 Thou blessed gale of Spring, 
 With soothing charms to win me from my dream 
 
 X. [of ills? 
 
 Oh ! there did lurk beneath 
 
 The fragrance of thy breath 
 A dim emotion of remember'd joy ; 
 
 And in thy voice I heard 
 
 Tones that my spirit stirr'd, 
 The kindly tones that spoke to me, and cheer'd me 
 when a boy. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Hast thou not wandering been 
 
 Amid those valleys green, 
 Which bear the light print of my loved one's feet; 
 
 And as thou glidedst by, 
 
 Caught her most holy sigh ? 
 1 felt, I felt its fragrance in thy kiss so sweet.
 
 208 SONG TO THE SPRING BREEZE. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And hast thou not stray'd o'er 
 
 Sabrina's grassy shore, 
 Sweetening- thy cool bi-eath with her springing 
 flowers ; 
 
 And pass'd the cot where dwell 
 
 They whom I love so well, 
 Beneath their arching trees, and honeysuckle 
 
 XIII. [bowers ? 
 
 Bear'st thou not thence along 
 
 My dark-brow'd sister's song, 
 Her song so potent gentle hearts to move ; 
 
 Whose sweet and maiden tone, 
 
 Perchance hath sweeter grown. 
 Now blended with the quiet sighs and tender notes 
 of love ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Or she, the mild-ey'd maid, 
 Perchance by moonlight stray'd, 
 
 Quietly gazing at the silent sky ; 
 
 When thou didst catch her thought, 
 With such calm rapture fraught, 
 
 To breathe it o'er my weary soul, deliciously. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Oh ! thou hast nought to do 
 
 Upon the ocean blue, 
 Filling with busy breath the mariner's sails ; 
 
 No worldly, dull employment. 
 
 Thou bodiless enjoyment, 
 Is thine, nor aught hast thou to do with wild and 
 warring gales.
 
 SONG TO THE SPRING BREEZE. 209 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But peacefully thou roamest, 
 
 And wheresoe'er thou coniest, 
 Breathest around the freshness of the skies ; 
 
 And on our hearts dost fling, 
 
 From thy enchanted wing, 
 Reniemhrances of absent love, calm thoughts, and 
 happy sighs. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 I know that thou art come 
 
 From my far-distant home. 
 And thy calm breathings tell what peace is there; 
 
 But, gentle fay, returning. 
 
 Say not my soul is burning 
 With disappointment's bitter sting- and comfortless 
 despair. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Say that my spirit knows 
 
 Sweet moments of repose ; 
 That dear and happy musings still are mine ; 
 
 That Hope's bright dreams are flown, 
 
 But many a lingering tone 
 Of Memory's music lulls me yet to ecstasies divine. 
 
 April, 1821.
 
 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 SONNET I. 
 TO POESY. 
 
 Wonderful Spirit, whose eternal shrine 
 Is in great Poets' souls, whose voice cloth 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 ?i 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 awav. 
 Winning from sterner thought a frequent holiday. 
 1821. 
 
 SONNET II. 
 TO , ON HER VOYAGE TO INDIA. 
 
 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.
 
 •212 SONNETS. 
 
 When the lioarse 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. 
 
 Jan. 18'^iJ. 
 
 SONNET III. 
 
 The oorgeous ranks of flamintr 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 knov.n in Paradise shall speak to me. 
 And earthly love be free from Earth's alloys. 
 
 1821.
 
 SOXN'ETS. "213 
 
 SONNET IV. 
 
 TO A LADV, WITH A POEM BY A Fill END. 
 
 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 worili, 
 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. 
 Jan. 1822. 
 
 SONNET V. 
 
 So, froward maiden, thou wilt quit for ever 
 Thy country and her many-weather'd skies ; 
 All old home-thoughts and early sympathies 
 Aljjuring, and wilt strive, with vain endeavour, 
 To quench thine English spirit : — never, never, 
 Though herding vvitii our natural enemies, 
 May'st thou do this ; for thou art bound by ties
 
 214 SONNETS. 
 
 Which neither thou, nor time, nor fate can sever. 
 Therefore, although thy children must not claim 
 Freedom, the Briton'sbirth-right, — though the song 
 Of Milton he to them an idle name, 
 And Shakespeare's wisdom vain, thou wilt not 
 
 wrong' 
 Thy countr)' with cold scorn, nor think it shame 
 To weep when thoughts of home into thy bosom 
 throng. 
 
 1822. 
 
 SONNET VI. 
 TO ADINli. 
 
 Lady ! I know three poets who know thee ; 
 And all write sonnets, in the which they swear 
 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 onlv know that I'm so tired of hearing 
 The list of thy perfections, that I gape 
 Sometimes instead of duly sonneteering ; 
 And therefore am I called brute, bear, and ape. 
 And other names ' past mentioning or bearing.' 
 March, 1822.
 
 SONNETS. 215 
 
 SONNET VII. 
 ON SEEING THE SAME LADY. 
 
 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 lone 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. 
 Nov. 1822. 
 
 SONNET VIII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 On ! 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 wild-hearted ! — yet no less 
 Fit than thyself a poet's love to bless — 
 My Gloriana bright, my Faery Queen !
 
 216 SONNETS. 
 
 Tliou, Lady, in thy meek, affectionate eyes, 
 Bearest such mag'ic as, I well believe, 
 Few can resist ; to me the chai-ms they weave 
 Spring: from thy f|:entle wedded sympathies : 
 And couldst thou less adore thy wayward mate, 
 Oh ! I should hate thee with a poet's hate ! 
 
 SONNET IX. 
 
 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 scjiurute 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, 
 ril kneel, and pray that it may not bo so ! 
 I8i;;5. 
 
 SONNET X. 
 
 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.
 
 SOX NETS. 217 
 
 Wilt tou'id the South turn no unkindly eye. 
 Nor scorn to think of these poor woods of ours. 
 And friends who dwelt in Windsor's sylvan bowers, 
 And him wiio fianies tiiis 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. 
 Miiv, 18'JJ. 
 
 SONNET XI. 
 
 SCOTCH QUADRILLES. 
 
 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. 
 I82i.
 
 218 SONNETS. 
 
 SONNET XII. 
 
 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 haplv some few shapes scarce less divine : 
 Yet for no other brow must 1 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 foolish 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. 
 1824. 
 
 SONNET XIII. 
 
 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 
 
 filings to thee over fondly ; in the skies 
 
 I have no hope, no purpose, no desire 
 
 With which thou minglest not; and if I lose
 
 SONNETS. 219 
 
 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. 
 Cambridge, April, 1825. 
 
 SONNET XIV. 
 
 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 hath twined. 
 
 April, 1825.
 
 220 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LOVELY. 
 
 • 
 
 I. 
 
 The mirth and music of the festal hall, 
 
 And sunshine of bright eyes, had past away ; 
 And, till late slumber should mine own enthrall. 
 
 Circled with deep tranquillity I lay ; 
 Thinking, (as Bards should think,) in amorous wise, 
 Of those sweet faces and love-beaming' eyes. 
 
 II. 
 And soon upon my weary soul descended 
 
 The dreamy sleep which is the Poet's waking ; 
 But still before my fancy's eye were blended 
 
 The night's past joys, more rapturous still and 
 taking 
 Unearthly glory from the gleams which come. 
 When sleeps the body, of the spirit's home. 
 
 III. 
 J saw the many foi'ms which I had deem'd 
 
 So fair, that fairer nought on eartli could be ; 
 But now from out their Human Beauty stream'd 
 
 Effulgence as of Immortality ; 
 And when they lifted up their gentle eyes, 
 I saw swift thoughts and winged phantasies 
 
 IV. 
 
 Throng thro' those azure gates, like gathering stars 
 In summer-evening's sky ; and when they spoke
 
 LAY OF TIJE LOVELY. 221 
 
 A sound more touching^ tlian the wild guitar's, 
 Heard o'er the waters, on their lips awoke ; 
 Which did my ear in such sweet music steep, 
 That my charm'd spirit could not choose but weep. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 Howers which Nature's hand hath 
 dyed 
 And Nature's breath perfumed : — rich gems whose 
 
 worth 
 Decks the maternal bosom of the earth. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Methought the Muse laugh'd archly in my face 
 As she presented that fair wreath: " And now," 
 
 Quoth she, " Sir Poet, 'tis thy task to place 
 M}' sacred garland on the worthiest brow 
 
 Of all that Hoat, to-night, before thine eye. 
 
 In this so fair and gentle company. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Oh ! pure and holy must the maiden be. 
 
 Whose brow may be encircled by that wi'eath, 
 
 Twined near the living spring of Castaly, 
 
 When the world's eye was slumber-seal'd — be- 
 neath 
 
 The cold, calm gazeof the Queen-Moon, whose look 
 
 No dream impure, no tainted thought can brook. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " And (for the Muses wove it) she must bear 
 The Muses' lightning in her radiant eyes,
 
 222 LAY OF THE LOVELY. 
 
 Which (though most mirthful) must have tears to 
 spare, 
 In graver moods, to gentlest sympathies ; 
 She must be wise, imaginative, fair : — 
 Now say what brow shall this bright garland wear." 
 
 IX. 
 
 It was an awful thing, (as ye may guess. 
 Fair Ladies,) to behold those visions bright, 
 
 Which swam, encircled in such loveliness 
 As Spirits dream of, in my dazzled sight ; 
 
 Seeking the worthiest forehead among them 
 
 Whose worst was worthy of a diadem. 
 
 X. 
 
 And first two fair-hair'd sisters side by side 
 I saw — the graceful leaders of the dance : 
 
 Of gentle aspect, mild, and thoughtful-eyed; 
 And as 1 gazed on either countenance 
 
 Almost I deem'd that they that wreath might share, 
 
 And yet I felt a worthier brow was there. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Next pass'd a delicate form, in whose deep eyes 
 Beam'd the tranquillity of wedded love ; 
 
 FoUow'd by one who, in more mirthful guise, 
 Did like a spirit of the breezes move. 
 
 Each was unutterably fair — and yet, 
 
 I knew for neither was that coronet. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And then came one, the Fairy of the Hills, 
 With open brow and laughter-loving eye, 
 
 And voice whose sound was as the sound of rills 
 Gushing at summer-noon refreshingly ;
 
 LAY OF THE LOVELY. 223 
 
 And she bent on me her brig-ht, laughing eyes, 
 As if, almost she would demand the prize, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But felt that one was worthier. Then there came 
 A grave-eyed maiden of most gentle mien, 
 
 Whose looks, elate with triumph, seem'd to claim, 
 Not for herself, the glory of the scene, 
 
 But for some honour'd friend. — As on she pass'd 
 
 Rose three bright forms — the loveliest and the last. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 One was array 'd in the last splendid gleam 
 Of parting childhood ; on the verge she stood 
 
 Of that sweet age, when life's first fairy dream 
 Dissolves into the dawn of womanhood ; 
 
 And to her soul's young gaze were still unfurl'd 
 
 Those radiant glimpses of an earlier world. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The next had riper years ; no longer child. 
 And yet scarce woman ; restless was her eye, 
 
 And never, never hath on poet smiled 
 A look more full of youthful ecstasy. 
 
 It seem'd those wandering orbs could scarce repress 
 
 The springing tears of the soul's happiness. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But who is she, the last of that fair band ? — 
 Methinks the room grows bright as she advances, 
 
 As from the touch of an enchanter's wand ; 
 And oh ! what aspect can endure the glances, 
 
 The piercing glances of those sunny eyes. 
 
 Lit by gay dreams and rapturous phantasies ?
 
 224 LAY OF TflE LOVELY. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 On as she came, methought wild strains were heard 
 Of such sweet music, that my garland bent 
 
 Its quivering leaves, and every flow'ret stirr'd 
 And trembled in that sudden ravishment, 
 
 As if the Spring-breeze kiss'd it — This is She, 
 
 The child of Genius and of Poesy. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Her Spirit was upon me, and I felt 
 
 The might, and gentleness, and majesty 
 
 Which in that fair and wild-eyed maiden dwelt ; 
 And, in my dream, I hasten'd joyfully 
 
 Hor blow to circle with the wreath divine 
 
 Whose was that brow? — lone, whose but thine ? 
 
 Jan. 1822, 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 TiiEY 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.
 
 THE MANI.AC. 225 
 
 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 g'aze, 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 Itloom, the guiltless maiden. 
 
 1822.
 
 226 
 
 TO HELEN. 
 
 The gift, dear maid, which thou hast sent 
 
 To galdden 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 Avhose 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, artless one, 
 
 Oh ! bear it far from me ; 
 1 know not Avhat 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 
 
 I
 
 TO HELEN. 227 
 
 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. 
 Aus. 1823. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 sun- 
 shine of thv face : 
 
 For thy guileless looks, and speech sincere, yet 
 sweet as speech can be, — 
 
 Here's a health, my Scottishlassie ! — here's a hearty 
 health to thee.
 
 228 SONG. 
 
 II. 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — thoug'h 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 
 
 woi'ld's dreary sea, — 
 Here's a health, my Scottish lassie ! here's a hearty 
 
 health to thee ! 
 
 HI. 
 
 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 wist- 
 ful eye ; 
 
 Tho' thou wilt bless some happier love, nor care a 
 jot for me, — 
 
 Here's a health, my Scottish lassie I here's a hearty 
 health to thee ! 
 
 IV, 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — when I meet 
 
 thee in the throng 
 C>f merr}' youths and maidens dancing lightsomely 
 
 along.
 
 SOXG. 2-29 
 
 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. 
 
 V. 
 
 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — 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 skv.
 
 230 SONG. 
 
 Like the rainbow in the evening-, like the blossom 
 
 on the tree, 
 Is the thought, my Scottish lassie — is the lonely 
 
 thought of thee. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie — the' 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, still I'll drink a 
 
 health to thee. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — here's a part- 
 ing 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 ^\hatsoe'er may be my fate, my dearest toast 
 shall be 
 
 Still a bonlth, my Scottish lassie, still a hearty 
 health to thee ! 
 
 Ifi24.
 
 231 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 I. 
 iMv Muse hath long with silence dwelt, 
 
 My harp been long unstrung- ; 
 I cannot feel as I have felt, 
 Nor sino- as I have suns,'. 
 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. 
 
 II. 
 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. 
 
 III. 
 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, tJiou canst tell
 
 232 TO MARY. 
 
 Of one who nursed my fancy well, 
 
 And reai'd it with his own, 
 'Till discord fell 'twixt him and me. 
 And left me — what I now must be. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 fenent thoucrht 
 
 Look back in life's decline, 
 When youthful passion's reign is o'er. 
 And fancy's dreams delude no more. 
 
 V, 
 
 '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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 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
 
 TO MARY. 233 
 
 Of future hours which yc and we 
 
 Together shall have past ; 
 And feelings, now too deep for tears, 
 Must perish in the wear of years ; — 
 
 VII. 
 
 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. 
 
 Pl}Tnouth, September 1, ]8'27. 
 
 "FORGET THEE?" 
 
 " Forget thee ?" — If to dream by night, and muse 
 
 on thee by day, 
 If all theworship,deep and wild,apoet's heart can pay. 
 If prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's 
 
 protecting power. 
 If winged thoughts that flit to thee — a thousand in 
 
 an hour, 
 Ifbusy Fancy blending thee with all my future lot, — 
 If tills thoucall'st" forurettinsr," thou, indeed shalt be 
 
 forgot !
 
 234 FOUGET TIir.E. 
 
 '' Forget thee ?" — Bid the forest-bh-ds forget their 
 sweetest tune ; 
 
 " Forsret thee ?" — Bid the sea for2:et to swell be- 
 neath the moon ; 
 
 Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's re- 
 freshing dew ; 
 
 Thyself forget thine " own dear land," and its 
 " mountains wild and blue;" 
 
 F"orget each old familiar face, each long remember'd 
 spot ; — 
 
 When these things are forgot by thee, then thou 
 shalt be forgot ! 
 
 Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and 
 
 fancy-free. 
 For God forbid ! thy gladsome heart should grow 
 
 less glad for me ; 
 Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh! bid not mine 
 
 to rove. 
 But let it nurse its humble faith and uncomplaining 
 
 love ; 
 If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me 
 
 not, 
 Forget me then ; — but ne'er believe that thou can'st 
 
 be forgot I 
 
 February 14, 1825.
 
 2.^5 
 
 EPITAPH IN WINDSOR CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 I'EBRUAKY 20, 1828. 
 
 Bright, tlio' 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 oil ! 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 shinest like a star from thine own bright skies 
 
 On the path thou hast trod before us.
 
 236 
 
 METRICAL ROMANCES. 
 
 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 
 
 And thus I won my Genevieve, 
 I\Iy sweet and beauteous bride. 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 IXTRODUCTORY SONNET. 
 
 From the lone silence of my dreamless cell 
 A wizard voice hath call'd me : — I obey, 
 And fain would f^reet that summons with a lay 
 Which should outshine my brightest. — Oh ! 'tis well, 
 That the hist 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. 
 
 Windsor, 1821.
 
 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 
 
 I. 
 There is a witch, whose freaks in English story, 
 
 Balhid, 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. 
 
 11. 
 Within a Northern cavern, dim and vast, 
 
 This lady- witch was born : a twilight gleam 
 Of everlasting icicles was cast. 
 
 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. 
 
 III. 
 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 va])ours 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 eftulgence of her love.
 
 238 THE WITCH or the north. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Amidst the Northern forests, lakes, and hilld, 
 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, 
 
 Fiom the fiee air, and from the mountain dew* 
 
 Of her wild clime, and that her wizard ken 
 
 Pierced far beyond the dreams of elves or men. 
 
 V. 
 
 And to her beck, while yet she was a child, 
 A thousand strang-e 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 tlame; 
 
 Brownie, and elf, and warlock, came to enrich 
 
 The festal pageants of this wondrous witch. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Her's was a reign of love ; her mild dominion 
 Was o'er the heart and Avill 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 ; 
 
 • Honi soil qui mal y pense.
 
 THE AVITCH OF THE NORTH. 239 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 fiU'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. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 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.
 
 240 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 
 
 X. 
 
 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. 
 
 XI. 
 
 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 Shakespeare's sweet imaginings, 
 
 The witch her dwelling fixed, and with strange 
 power 
 
 Raised, and adorned, a bright enchanted bower ; 
 
 XII. 
 
 Wherein, with potent cabalistic scrolls. 
 And spells contrived by necromantic lore, 
 
 And chaiTTi'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, 
 
 Tlie wizard-maiden dwelt for many a day. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The deep recesses of her inmost cell
 
 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 241 
 
 Were garnisli'd with strang'e treasures : lovers' 
 siiirhs 
 Fill'd many a mag-ical 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 enig'mas brought from Fa'erj'-land, 
 Which none but bards and witches understand. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 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. 
 
 > XV. 
 
 She had a chariot, which the Muses brought her. 
 Built by themselves, shaped like the horned star 
 
 Which gems the forehead of Latona's dau"-hter, 
 And drawn by winged dreams ; and in this car 
 
 Whene'er the witch was w^earied with the slaucrhter 
 Of Southron hearts, she used to roam alar 
 
 Into the realms of shadowy thought, and spy 
 
 The secrets of the land of poesy. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 O'er the steep mountains, on the pathless air, 
 Through the unfathom'd depths of the dim sea, 
 
 u
 
 242 THE WITCH or the north. 
 
 Did these swift dreams the magic chariot bear. 
 Wherein she sat unharni'd and terror-free ; 
 
 In heaA'en and earth's veil'd re^'ions 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. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 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 di-eams convoyed 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 mig'ht move her, laugh 'd or wept. 
 
 XA'III. 
 
 Her soul's deep eyes were open'd ; in that hour 
 All day-light'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 fail-, 
 
 Couch'd on young eyes which had not look'd on care. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 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 ;
 
 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 243 
 
 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. 
 
 XX. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXI, 
 
 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. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 These were her midnight pranks ; by day, she wau- 
 der'd 
 In the fair bowers of old romantic lore ; 
 And now o'er Spenser's sweet creations ponder'd. 
 And nowo'ersweeterShakspeare's.— Hell's dread 
 door
 
 244 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 
 
 The Florentine unbarr'd to her; she wonder'd 
 
 And wept o'er Ariosto's countless store 
 Of sad and mirthful fancies ; Milton <jave 
 To her the knowletlg-e which o'er-leaps the grave. 
 
 xxui. 
 And, beside 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 : — 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 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 tieasured in a magic tome, — 
 Some favour'd spirit's present : — but the history 
 Of this same present still remains a mystery. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Howe'er, 'tis certain that each page was fill'd 
 With sweet and witching rhymes, while, day by 
 
 Immortal ink the poet-genii spill'd, [^^y? 
 
 To swell the precious store, and many a lay 
 
 Was weekly added, whose rich music thrill'd 
 All gentle liearts, and bore men's thoughts away
 
 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 245 
 
 To a dream-paradise : — such wondrous skill 
 These Genii had to work the witch's will. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Yet, ere such fiery spirits could be tamed 
 
 Down to complete subjection, charms were used, 
 
 Too dreadful (save by witches) to be named, 
 
 And manv a potent herb was cuU'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. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Philosophy hath grasp'd the lightning's pinions 
 And tamed the rebel sprites of frost and snow, 
 
 Hath ridden on the st&fm 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 
 
 PoAver to control that wild fantastic brood, 
 
 Which the strong magic of the witch subdued. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 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.
 
 246 THE AVITCH OF THE KORTH. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 But he was sadly changed ; — his once proud wings. 
 Which used to bear him, swift as Dian's sphere,* 
 
 Thi'ough thought's vast realms, in rapturous wan- 
 derings, 
 Hung weak andplumelcsSnow; 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. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 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 him sigh, 
 
 Or any tale of amorous passion tell ; 
 
 * I do wander every where 
 
 Swifter tlian the moone's sphere. 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream.
 
 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 247 
 
 But he would prate, with careless courtesy, 
 To woman, or to witch, as might befall, — 
 View their enchantments — and despise them all. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 '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 heai't and mien ; 
 
 And 'twas this coldness taught him to defy. 
 
 As he long did, the witch's sorcery. — 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Fool! — Fool! — withtauntingandirrcverentspeech, 
 
 And sneers, and scornful gibes, he durst provoke 
 The spells and dread enchantments, from whose reach 
 
 He seenid 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 chiefijj they 
 Who bow'd beneath the Northern witch's sway. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 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 :—
 
 248 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 AVhicli 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 knitherbrows,andclench'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 — 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 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 hind the Genius, must be made. 
 
 XXXVIT. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Aerial 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. — 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And all night long, with swift, imwearied hands. 
 Those patient spirits toil'd incessantly.
 
 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 249 
 
 Obedient to the witch's dread commands : 
 
 Some brought strange herbs, some bruised them 
 skilfully ; 
 
 Some for ingredients flew to the far lands 
 Of fieiy Ind, and spicy Araby.— 
 
 Yet, all was finish'd ere the lark awoke, 
 
 Or, through the darkness, morn's first twilight broke. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 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 ; — 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 But 'tis most certain, that, from that dire morn, 
 
 His looks were strangely alter'd — that his brow, 
 Which such a stedfast calm of late had worn.
 
 250 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 
 
 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. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 L. 
 
 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 thatstrange visions danced before his eye : — 
 
 And how, ere daylight broke, he used to wander 
 
 Into lone woods, to poetise and ponder. 
 
 LI, 
 
 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 ut all compare ;
 
 THE WITCH OF THE NORTH. 251 
 
 And that but he discover'd, in a word, 
 
 That all his former notions were absurd. 
 
 LII. 
 
 And, from the boldest and most scornful sprite 
 That ever mock'd at necromantic power, 
 
 He g^rew 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 ! 
 
 LIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 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 woi'k him fiercer woe.
 
 252 THE WITCH OF THE NCUTH. 
 
 LV, 
 
 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 pilferd 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. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Yet 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. 
 
 LVI I. 
 
 Still rail'd he not on her, but madly flew 
 
 On her chief minions, with irreverent gibes, 
 
 And stung thorn, 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.)
 
 THE UlTCII OF THE NORTH. 253 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 And then he vow'd by tliose 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 ! 
 
 i.ix. 
 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. 
 
 LX. 
 
 And he petition'd (this presumptuous elf) 
 That, if his lady's heart was yet nnwon, 
 
 He might adventure for the prize himself, 
 And do whate'er hy prowess could be done, 
 
 To throw all i-ival 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, 
 
 LXI. 
 
 And then he vow'd, with many a solemn oath, 
 That, should the witch e'er deign to let him be
 
 254 THE AVITCIl OF THE ^'ORTH. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 And that with love which none hut 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. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 November, 18^4.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY SONNET. 
 
 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 forg-et. 
 Mingled as 'tis with food for late regret, — 
 The unpruned blossoms of my wits' 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. 
 
 July, 1836. 
 
 CANTO 1. 
 
 I. 
 King Arthur, in the tenth year of his reign. 
 
 Fell sick of the blue devils: — by his court 
 So many brace of dragons had been slain, — 
 
 So many giants, with their crimes, cut short,-
 
 256 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 So many wrongs aveng-ed, 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. 
 
 II. 
 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. 
 
 III. 
 The game laws were enforced in all their rigour. 
 
 And several peasants were convicted fully 
 Of breaking dragons' 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 aftVonting, — 
 And then a frost set in, which spoil'd the hunting. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As for the ladies, they, poor souls, declared 
 
 That " they certayne for dullnesseshulden 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.
 
 SIR LAU.VFAI,. 257 
 
 In a late fray had got a broken head, 
 And was not able yet to leave his bed. 
 
 V. 
 
 In short, Miss Edge worth's demon, pale Ennui, 
 Had seized on the whole court with dire asffnes- 
 sion ; 
 
 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. 
 
 VI, 
 
 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, 
 Thejaundice, or " that worm i' th' 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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 'Tis a complaint that's chiefly incidental 
 
 Tolovers, 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 Channcey Towns- 
 hend lards 
 His groaning stanzas (just to eke his strains out,) 
 
 s
 
 258 SIR LAUXFAL. 
 
 With yloom enougrh to blow tenFrenchmen'sbrains 
 out. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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 physi- 
 cian ; — 
 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 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 deserv'es 
 
 (To say the least,) a handsome flagellation ; 
 A mode of treatment which I own that I , 
 In " nervous" cases, often long to try. 
 
 X. 
 
 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 types and paper, bearing 
 
 The title of" Blue Devils," and I fear 
 
 'Twould seem absurd, in one so often wearing 
 
 Their liver)' as myself, to act physician 
 
 To others haply in no worse condition.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 259 
 
 XI. 
 
 I wonder whether Mr. Wordsworth's yacht, 
 Thatfine sky-cruiser call'd the" Crescent Moon," 
 
 Might, upon reasonable terms, be got 
 
 To bear 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. 
 
 XII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 'Tis a vile world — a woild 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 bored with butchers' shops. 
 
 And markets — and prize odes — and hay — and hops .
 
 260 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 In me these things breed legions of ijlue 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 host 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. 
 
 XV. 
 
 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. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Here am I now, al twenty-three, inditing 
 Dull verses in a style which I despise, 
 
 And once abjured — just when I should be figliting 
 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.
 
 31 K LAUNFAL. 261 
 
 X\'II. 
 
 " Time spast" — I should have nursed 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 growipg ripeness, and laid up a store 
 Of thought, and kept my fancy in control, 
 And made the Muse task-mistress of my soul. 
 
 X \ 1 1 1 . 
 1 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 ; 
 
 Loved 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, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 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 whv I eat and drink so.
 
 262 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But thou, lone, 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 hetter 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 ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis most true — too justly thou disdainest 
 The wretch who still (though hopeless) half as- 
 pires — 
 
 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 e'er felt poetic fires ; — 
 
 And yet couldst thou but know how thou hast been 
 
 My dream, my star, my radiant Faery Queen — 
 
 XXII. 
 
 How, ere that silent phantom, which I fear'd. 
 Had ceased to haunt me with its blighting eyes, 
 
 And, in my dim horizon, Hope appear'd, 
 
 Mv spirit turn'd to theo, and hung- with sighs 
 
 On thy sweet imago, in the region sphered 
 Of its lost dreams and sainted memories ; 
 
 And how each meaner wish I did remove, 
 
 That I might love thee with a perfect love ; — 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Couldst thou know this But why do I awaken 
 
 Vain thoughts and idle yearnings ? — am not I
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 263 
 
 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 ? 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 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 reveied 
 
 In my land's lang-uage ? — that I yet may shrine 
 
 Thy name, lone, in a living* line ? 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 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.
 
 264 SIR LAUNFAL, 
 
 Was quite — or very nearly — all my eye, — 
 A sort of barren fancy's tympany ; 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The passage I allude to you may find 
 
 Not far from the beginning of Godiva,)* 
 
 1 now request you, uith 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. 
 
 XXVIIl. 
 
 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 iMiclid up, and should be getting 
 Grave, for you know I'm turn'd of twenty-three: 
 
 A point at which you'll own its nearly time 
 
 To think of Reason more, and less of Rhyme. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 I must digress no further ; if I do, 
 
 I shall forget my subject — let me see. 
 
 Where was 1 ? 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. 
 
 • Seep. 191. 
 
 J
 
 SUi LAUNFAL. 2(j5 
 
 xxx. 
 
 The privy council in g-reat haste assembled 
 On the sixth day, and held a long debute ; 
 
 The courtiers all look'd blue, the doctors trembled. 
 And bulletins were posted at the gate, 
 
 Tellinff the world it could not be dissembled 
 
 That the King's health was in a dangerous state : 
 
 Thouo-h not a soul, of all that saw or heard of 'em, 
 
 In that unlearned age, could read a word of 'em. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Anon throughout the kingdom flew a rumour 
 That 'twas quite sure his Majesty would die 
 
 Of this inveterate melancholic humour ; 
 
 'Twas said he loath'd his victuals, and put by 
 
 Bottle and bowl, and nothing could he chew more 
 Substantial than his favourite furmety, 
 
 (Which 1 can't say I like)— a dreadful tissue 
 
 Of mortal signs — and then he had no issue ; 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Having been much too busy, all his life. 
 To think of man-iage ; so all sorts of fears. 
 
 In every loyal breast, of course were rife. 
 And mobs were all together by the ears, 
 
 Ready to settle, with club, fist, or knife 
 
 Who was to tax them ; and ambitious Peers 
 
 Were promising, intriguing, and controlling. 
 
 Imploring, threatening, bribing, and cajoling. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 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
 
 266 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 To raise their workmen's wages in a trice : 
 Wlien 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. 
 
 XXXIV, 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 I wish I'd time to trace his generation, 
 Just as 1 find it in the old romance, 
 
 Which is replete with useful information, 
 
 From ancient lore of England and of France ; 
 
 But 1 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. 
 
 NX XVI. 
 
 'Tis a fine subject, and if e'er hereafter 
 I chance to find the talent and the time, 
 
 Perhaps I'll make the publie die with laughter, 
 By telling the whole tale in octave rhyme ; 
 
 In which 1 can be gay, or grave, or " daft" or 
 Pathetic, or sarcastic, or sublime, 
 
 Just as the maggot bites ;— the reader can see
 
 SIK LAUNFAL. 267 
 
 My fancy guides me, and not I my fancy. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 In that g-reat poem shall be fully sho^vn 
 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- ; 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 But Avill 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. 
 
 XXXI X. 
 
 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. 
 
 XL. 
 
 What progress he had made in mathematics 
 Is what at present I shall not dispute on.
 
 268 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 Because I've scarcely learnt to solve quadratics, 
 And am not over-perfect in my Newton ; 
 
 Though 1 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. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Nor have I ascertain'd (1 own with grief) 
 
 GreatMerlin'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 tiy. 
 
 XI.Il. 
 
 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. 
 
 M.III. 
 
 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, verj' fairly, that you lie ; 
 If you think fit to thresh me, I can bear it. 
 
 Knowing the thumps, in fact, are all my eye ;
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. '.^69 
 
 And that all sorts of fractures, hurts, and bruises, 
 Are as unreal as the patient chooses. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 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 ; 
 1 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. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 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 1 long 
 
 In my fond arms, with passionate love to strain her — 
 
 And — wish the vision was a little plainer. 
 
 XLVl. 
 
 .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 
 
 Mine eye hath well examined his parts. 
 And findi them perfect Richard. 
 
 King John, Act i. Sc. 1.
 
 270 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 Much long-er in this style, 'twill be my death ; 
 So we'll return to Britain, and find out 
 What Doctor Merlin's A'isit was about. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 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, 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 " Had told him that his Majesty was ill ; 
 
 So he had come directly from Caer-Murdin, 
 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 lonp: had this disorder on him huno- ? 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " 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.
 
 SIR Li\UNFAL. 271 
 
 L. 
 
 Sejc art!)uru0, 2DiaboIi0 eiocrulci0 
 
 acgcr, ob BcsiUerium (Sisantum 
 DecoIIatorum in tlalcntiw Juliis, 
 
 ©al. matdmon. quotitiic capiat quantum 
 Suff. et conjuGsialibus aculcio 
 
 [^^ersus desideratur — unus tantum] 
 E;aui3tu matut, mcriu. et bcspcrtino, 
 IRijc, pult). pil. — jfiat — auct. £B. D» iHcrlmo. 
 
 LI. 
 
 The meaning of the document is plain — 
 Tlie 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 ma2:ic. 
 
 LII. 
 
 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- 
 
 His courage for a moment fairly fell — [hearted, 
 'Twas the first time it ever had departed, 
 
 Thouarh he had seen atrano-e sia-hts — this sudden 
 terror 
 
 The wizard noticed, and produced a mirror. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 " My liege," said he, "this wondrous glass, created 
 By cunning spirits of my Father's breed,
 
 272 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 (Which for such works is justly celehratod) 
 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. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 " '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 : 
 
 i.v. 
 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. 
 
 I.v I. 
 " The appearance instantaneously display'd" 
 
 (I borrow that last line from the Excursion, 
 And have not much improved it, I'm afraid, 
 
 • Fairy Queen, Book III. canto ii.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 273 
 
 By tipping it with rhyme, to fit my version) 
 VV^as 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. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 " 'Tvvas 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, 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 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, 
 
 T
 
 274 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 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. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Her figure was right-royal, and her mien 
 (As on that flowery bank reposed she lay) 
 
 Such as might well become a sceptered 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. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 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 playd, 
 
 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.) 
 
 LXIl. 
 
 The dame, meanwhile, with delicate skill was braid- 
 ing 
 
 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, mot ;
 
 sill LAUNFAL. 275 
 
 While, gently peeping' those bright links between. 
 Smiled varied leaves of light and sober green. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 There shone the lily, pure as vi^oman'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. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 And ever, as her glancing fingers wove 
 That blushing garland, at the lady's feet 
 
 A bright-eyed maiden warbled songs of love, 
 W'hich, 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. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 " 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 knov.s. 
 
 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.
 
 276 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 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 mastei-'d 
 him, 
 
 For his pulse falter'd, and his sight grew dim. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 " The enchantment works," thought Merlin ; " 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. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 " Sire ," quoth the wizard , " by that wondrous science 
 Which raised this splendid vision, I discover 
 
 The dame to he 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.
 
 SIR LAUNFAI-. "277 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 " 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 irapassion'd arms the willing fair, 
 
 And the full tide of wedded raptures whirl in. 
 
 My ait's all nonsense, and ray name's not Merlin." 
 
 LXX. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 I speak this feelingly ; because sometimes, 
 While busy on mv last immortal poem,
 
 278 SIR LAUXFAL. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 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 chivaliy. 
 
 Drums beat, and trumpets bray'd, and horses 
 started. 
 And Howers were flung from window and balcony, 
 And songs yell'd out in praise of matrimony. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Forth on the road to Holyhead they pass'd, 
 
 A goodly party — I^rds, 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. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 I won't relate the stories that were told — 
 The catches that were sung, all through North 
 Wales ;
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 279 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXVl. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 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 ;
 
 280 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 King George the Fourth, you know, was luckier 
 still ; 
 
 For his spouse left the world she'd long been trou- 
 bling, 
 
 Just as he anchor'd in the bay of Dublin. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 What were the feelings of the royal turtles. 
 
 When each first saw what each had lovedso long,— 
 
 How they were crown'd with roses and with myr- 
 The Poet Laureate's hymeneal song, — [ties, — 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 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.
 
 SIR LAUXFAL. 281 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 I've not, as yet, produced upon the stage 
 My hero, nor my heroine — but assure 
 
 The ladies 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. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 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
 
 282 SIR I.AUNFAL. 
 
 Of fairy bowers and forest scenery, 
 (Subjects so dear to Shakespeare and to me) 
 The reader then shall see — what he shall see. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 But these things are in embryo ; — and noAv, 
 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, lone, thou 
 Art yet a thought of too great holiness ; 
 
 And of a difterent strain the versfe must be, 
 
 VVhich I can bear to dedicate to thee. 
 
 I.XXXVII. 
 
 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 sh;ill lie — an offering wild, 
 but meet.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 283 
 
 LXXXVIIl. 
 
 I now despise myself, that I have spoken 
 Thy name 'midst fancies of a lighter kind, 
 
 And with wild Avords my soul's long silence broken : 
 Nor should this be, lone, 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. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 ( )r 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 ? 
 
 xc. 
 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 ? 
 
 xci. 
 Dear thoughts are these, which will not soon decay 
 
 But I'm beginning, I'm afraid, to whine ;
 
 284 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 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. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 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 saintlike 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. 
 
 xciv. 
 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 ;
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 285 
 
 1 only mean to say the form's enshrined 
 Amidst the holiest visions of my mind. 
 
 xcv. 
 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. 
 
 xcvi. 
 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, 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 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 case, by the first of next July, 
 
 I shall be very glad to be abused 
 By churlish critics — so but hearts more wise 
 Deign to approve my rambling phantasies.
 
 286 
 
 IN rRODUCTORY STANZAS TO THE SECOND 
 CANTO OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 TO ****. 
 
 1. 
 
 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 1 am scarce awaken'd from my dream — 
 My long day-dream of thee. — O ! gentle friend, 
 When will this thraldom of my spirit end ? 
 
 •2. 
 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. 
 
 3. 
 And though these lovely haunts have never seen 
 
 Thy beauty — nor, perchance, shall ever see.
 
 .SIR LA UN I' A L. 287 
 
 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 liere that wild and secret passion grew. 
 In the first solitude my heart e'er knew. 
 
 4. 
 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. 
 
 5. 
 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. 
 
 6. 
 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.
 
 288 SIR LAUXFAL, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 7. 
 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. 
 
 8. 
 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. 
 
 9. 
 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, 
 
 Bv all thy hopes of final victory, 
 By all we feel within, around, above — 
 Thou shouldst have loved me with a Spirit's love.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 289 
 
 10. 
 
 Nor vain had been my hope that I had found 
 
 In thee the embodied phantasy, whose gleams 
 Kindled ray 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, 
 
 11. [spoken, 
 
 'Tis o'er — but there are words, which thou hast 
 
 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 fulfill one unforgotten vow. 
 
 12. 
 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 ? 
 
 13. 
 H aply, asleep in Reason's secret cells, 
 
 A power is hid, which yet may make me strong ; 
 
 u
 
 290 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 Haply, the desart of my soul hath 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. 
 
 14. 
 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. 
 
 15. 
 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. 
 
 16. 
 Perhaps amidst my laughter, thou wilt hear, 
 
 At times, a sadder and more solemn tone, 
 Recalling to thine unforgetful ear 
 
 * " And from that hour did I, with earnest thought, 
 Heap knowledge hoia for bidden mines of lore." 
 
 Shelley.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 291 
 
 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. 
 Sept. 6th, 1823. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 I. 
 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. 
 
 II. 
 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. 
 
 III. 
 But here, at starting, I must just premise 
 
 * That of 1823.
 
 ">^ 
 
 292 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 (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."* 
 
 IV. 
 
 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. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 heai'tless bard, the hoary debauchee. 
 
 The impotent reviler, wlio's unfurl'd 
 
 His Atheist banner to reform the world ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 With all thy follies, thou wast still sincere, 
 And gentle (save in politics) though blind, 
 
 * SLellev — notes to Queen JMab.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 293 
 
 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 ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thou wast a faithful and a fit Achates, 
 
 Once, to a great iEneas, 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. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 They'll say — I shan't believe 'em — but they'll say 
 That Leigh's become what once he mostabhorr'd ; 
 
 Has thrown his independence all away. 
 And dubb'd himself toad-eater to a Lord ; 
 
 And though, of course, vou'll hit as-hard as they, 
 1 fear you'll find it difficult to ward
 
 294 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 Their poison'd arrows off— you'd best come back, 
 Before the Cockney kingdom goes to wrack. 
 
 X. 
 
 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. 
 
 XI. [spent 
 
 Poor brother John ! — poor Cockneys ! — but I've 
 
 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. 
 
 XII. 
 
 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 !
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 295 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I hope T 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. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 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 wofuUy astray, 
 
 XV. 
 
 '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 transgress no farther, 
 
 But travel back to Britain and King Arthur.
 
 296 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 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. 
 
 xvii. 
 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 metlieglin. 
 And sportive songs to set the ladies giggling. 
 
 XVIIl. 
 
 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. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Sir Lanval, or Sir Lonval — which you please, 
 (Sir Launful, I believe's the genuine reading)
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 297 
 
 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. 
 
 XX. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 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. 
 
 xxii. • 
 
 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 ;
 
 298 sill LAUNFAL. 
 
 Still was he courteous, kind, and affable, 
 
 Behaving as became his rank and station, — 
 His manners never alter'd for the worse. 
 His heart vi^as not less open, — nor his purse. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Forfull 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. 
 
 XXIV, 
 
 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 ever}- 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. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 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; —
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 299 
 
 He wish'd he could have seen the approaching 
 
 tourney, 
 But couldn't for a day, defer his journey. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 "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 controU'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. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 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 
 An if you were pursued like Tarn o' Shanter.
 
 300 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 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 hea- 
 
 And thus, amidst the fever and the flurry, [ven, — 
 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. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 I say this from experience, and address it 
 To lovers without hope, and under age,
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 301 
 
 Whose flame's at best a bright but wavering cresset, 
 *A heartburn which prompt medicines may as- 
 suage. 
 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. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Love at sixteen's a sort of mental measles — 
 
 A thing you 7Hr<sf 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 s&es 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: 
 
 xxxxv. 
 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 heartsmust beall 
 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. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 And yet his passion is sincere and fervent, 
 
 And blind of course, (that's not his case alone —
 
 302 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 '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. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 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 ifyoungHope should turnyour 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. 
 
 xxxvii. 
 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 hei' ; 
 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 ! 
 
 XXXVII I. 
 
 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.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. ;J(J3 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 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. 
 
 XL. 
 
 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, 
 W^ere 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. 
 
 XLl. 
 
 And up rose many a dormant recollection 
 In the most lone recesses of his mind, 
 
 And many a dream gone by and crush'd aflfection 
 Came o'er him ; but Sir Launfal had not dined, 
 
 And was too hungry for profound reflection ; 
 Besides, his horse had feelings less refined,
 
 304 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 And gave strong symptoms of a disposition 
 To sink from sheer fatigue and inanition. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 So on they fared, (Sir Launfal and his horse,) 
 And through the twiHght city took their way ; 
 
 The former thinking of old times, of course, 
 Tlie 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 ? 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Say, know'st thou not yon green and stagnant pool ? 
 
 'Twas there that thou didst quench thy young- 
 ling 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. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 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 Launful's groom of yore, 
 
 Which made the wise steed fix upon his door.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 305 
 
 XLV. 
 
 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 ?" 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 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. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 " 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 ftugal remnant of my days. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 " Here, my old faithful servant, in thy house 
 Fain would I, for a while, find rest and ease." — 
 
 X
 
 306 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 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. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 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 toseek 
 
 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. — 
 
 L. 
 
 " 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'nt charge much for rent. 
 
 LI. 
 
 " The house, though small, is dry — the situation 
 
 Extremely pleasant, healthy, light and airy ; 
 And, if you're fond of cows, for recreation
 
 sill LAUNFAL. 307 
 
 Your honour may, at will, look through my dairy, 
 Which forms the chief delight and occupation 
 
 Of Blanch, my daughter, whom men call ' the 
 Faiiy,' 
 Whom — but, profoundly as I dote upon her, 
 1 know that I may trust Sir Launfal's honour." 
 
 LII. 
 
 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. 
 
 mi. 
 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 v.er}' 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." 
 
 LIV. 
 
 The country people took him for a wizard — 
 It seem'd they all misconstrued the word" spell ,' 
 
 In those davs not a soul knew A from Izzard, 
 As now we all do, thanks to Doctor Bell ; 
 
 So this book-learning stuck in every gizzard.
 
 308 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 And if they met him after evening- fell, 
 Poor wretches, how they quaked ! — though all con- 
 ceded 
 That no hobgoblin could behave as he did. 
 
 LV. 
 
 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 readv smiles would cook , 
 
 For she presided oer 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. 
 
 I.VI. 
 
 She was a young and most enchanting creature 
 This " Fairy" Blanch, then scarcely tum'd six- 
 teen ; 
 
 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. 
 
 LVII, 
 
 The face that I allude to — but I'll not 
 
 Digress when 1 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,
 
 SIR LAUNIAL. 309 
 
 Among my holiest thoughts shall still be shrined, 
 Yea, near lone, in my inmost mind. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 But to mv 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 thouo-ht 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. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 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 — 
 
 Andgladden'd with kind looks that loveliest child. 
 
 LX. 
 
 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.
 
 310 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Poor bird ! thou art infected — 'tis too late 
 
 To fly ; Love's net has tangled thy sweet wings, 
 
 Alas I '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 !* 
 
 LXII. 
 
 But for sweet Blanch — Sir Launfal's tone and looks 
 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. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 • Keats.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 311 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXV, 
 
 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, 
 JBecawse '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 ! 
 
 LXV I. 
 
 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, 
 
 There's not on earth a wretch more curs'd than thou. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 'Tis hard, no doubt, to say farewell for ever, 
 To one who loves you, though you love not her, —
 
 312 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 '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) 
 
 OvK ai'Tiriareiv av0((,' a'j' XvTrwjxtQa. 
 
 LXVlil. 
 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. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 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'score) 
 
 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. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 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. 
 
 Ajax, 108.5-C.
 
 SIR LAUNI'AI.. 313 
 
 Wasting" in tears her j'outhful 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, complaind. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 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
 
 314 sill r.AUXFAL. 
 
 Was spent, and he was fairly in distress. 
 Without a sixpence, — lone and comfortless. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 '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. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 The rumour of Sir Launfal's ruin spread, 
 
 Like wildfire, through the town, andyoungand 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 ?
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 315 
 
 LXXVII, 
 
 And slie, 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 ? 
 
 LXXVIIl. 
 
 Twas th e 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. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 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 seizins: thus her own — but who'll deny 
 
 That when young Love rebels, papa may go 
 
 (As the song says) and preach at Jericho. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 This chanced one morn of merry Whitsuntide, 
 When the whole city and its Corporation,
 
 316 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 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 great banquet held in the Town-hall, 
 
 Which was to be succeeded by a ball. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 The noblest knight that ever coiich'd a lance 
 Graced not that banquet — forhis wealth was gone ; 
 
 The loveliest maid that e'er adorn'd a dance 
 
 Graced 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. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 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. 
 
 Lxxxni. 
 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 ;
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 317 
 
 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 hiir. if he'd come to dinner. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 " 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 bi-ed 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. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 *' 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, — Avhich I will keep 
 
 For ever — till these eyes have ceased to weep." 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 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,
 
 318 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 And, in mild phrase, declined her g'entle proffer — 
 But thank'd her, very kindly, for the offer, 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 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." 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXXIX, 
 
 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,'tis8aid, 
 
 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.
 
 SIULAUNFAL. 319 
 
 XC. 
 
 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. 
 
 xci. 
 Amen ! this Canto's no more like the last 
 
 Than copper's like pure gold, or crockery delf; — 
 1 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. 
 
 xcii. 
 Two more are yet to come ; — and then I quit 
 
 The octave rhyme — perhaps the Muse — for ever ; 
 So I must tr)', in these to show 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. 
 
 END OF CANTO II.
 
 SIR LAUxNFAL. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 I. 
 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, 
 
 II. 
 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 tliough 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. 
 
 III. 
 That is, unless you've blood, and wind, and mettle. 
 And constant training, and five feeds a day —
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 321 
 
 " 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 fing'ers at the dense array 
 
 Of stupid heads, cold hearts, and adverse fortune. 
 
 Which mostly make the poet's life a short one. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 immortalitj' ; 
 
 But then the hope of posthumous renown 
 
 Is all you'll have to wash life's bitters down. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 wear the Jiiure! ; 
 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Only don't half and half it — be a poet 
 
 Complete, or 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 
 
 Y
 
 322 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 — goodnight; without these aids I shouldn't 
 
 Write verses fit to be review'd or read ; 
 And, therefore, I'm determined to retire 
 Before the public ceases to admire. 
 
 viii. 
 This is of small importance ; but I know 
 
 Some real poets, whom I grieve to see 
 Wasting alas ! 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Up I 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. 
 
 Now, alas! nineteen! Jan. 2], 1837.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 323 
 
 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. 
 
 X. 
 
 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. 
 
 XI. 
 
 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 y OUT inspiration borrow, 
 
 I'd try my hand at ^Eschylus to-morrow. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I've done — now where 's Sir Launfal ? who's the 
 bore — [ence ; 
 
 Plague — torment — burthen — bane of my exist- 
 A tertian fever, a perpetual sore, 
 
 A fool who can't be taught to keep his distance, 
 But raps, most importunely, at my door
 
 324 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 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. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Reader — I hope you've read the Faerie Queene — 
 If not, don't stop to asij. 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'dfor time, and, therefore. 
 
 Must e'en refer you, without more apology. 
 
 To the said poem for my own mythology. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I can't point out the very place, nor will I 
 At threading Spenser'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. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Well, but suppose you won't, — which I dare say 
 Is not unlikely ; for what soul will pore 
 
 On bards like Spenser 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.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 325 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Once on a time there lived a certain man, 
 
 By name Prometheus, who was shrewd and clever, 
 
 Indoed, 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 Lempriere.) 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Well, what d'you think he did to show his wit ? — 
 He made a human fig-ure all of clay, 
 
 Proportion'd and ari'anged 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. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The course that he pursued wns clearly wrong; 
 He might as well have studied to invent
 
 326 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 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. 
 
 XX. 
 
 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 establish'd 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. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I'm verj' 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 1 may declare, without impiety, 
 
 I'm for the present system of society. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 I've dipp'd into some writers on equality — 
 Condorcet, Wallace, Godwin, and Rousseau ; 
 
 And trust there's no extreme illiberality 
 In owning that conviction comes but slow :
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 327 
 
 I'd not subvert court, crown, and principality, 
 
 Nor quash all penal statutes at a blow ; 
 Because, in spite of Human Nature's purity, 
 I think they'd always add to my security. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 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 sav, in spite of all that Hesiod sings, 
 That if mankind's opinion should be poll'd, 
 
 A vast majority of votes would be 
 
 In favour of the nineteenth century. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 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)
 
 328 SIR LAUNI AL. 
 
 Is most salubrious — yet 'tis incontestable 
 That most men find it tasteless to a fault, 
 Unless impregnated with grapes or malt. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 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 dispensp. with it appears to me 
 
 Wrong as regards both health and decency. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 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.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 329 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Away ran Elfe, rejoicing in his vig-oiir, 
 
 O'er hill and dale, through river, lake, and sea. 
 
 An active sprite, and of a handsome figure. 
 And Avild, 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. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 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 somemensincere, 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. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 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.
 
 330 SIR I.AUNFAL. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 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 pai't, I avow, without a gibe. 
 
 That to my mind no ci'itic's praise can vie 
 
 With one bright twinkle in a female eye. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 That is, when once the woman's tum'd of twenty; 
 Till then, from warm sixteen, I doubt not you
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 331 
 
 May find full-hearted little things in plenty, 
 Who'll love you — or at least believe they do ; 
 
 But when her head'sonce ripe, and heart half spent,! 
 Fear 'tis in vain for any bard to woo 
 
 A fair one, whether talented or stupid, 
 
 Or bid Calliope shake hands with Cupid. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 xxxviii 
 Shakespeare and Spenser, Petrarch, Tasso— others 
 
 Of note — some dead and buried, some alive — 
 The tunefuUest of all the tuneful brothers, 
 
 Are proofs how badly love-sick poets thrive. 
 Few Lauras ever become wives and mothers ;
 
 332 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 Few Petrarchs stock their Hymeneal hive 
 With offspring fruitful of poetic honey, 
 Begot and born in lawful matrimony. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 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 Avife who'd have her husband blind. 
 
 XL. 
 
 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 loA^e head foremost, as we do, 
 
 It's seldom that our hearts sink deeply too. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 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 thou<rht and fantasy remain ; 
 
 Or if we are, according to my creed, 
 
 " Love's flower, once blighted, never blooms 
 again."
 
 SIR LAUKFAL. 333 
 
 The last line's from Glenarvon, slightly alter'd,— 
 I heard it sung once by a voice that falter'd : 
 
 XLII. 
 
 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 — 
 
 Wail'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. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 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 lets be sober as the Turk or Persian : 
 We mustn't leave sweet Tryamour forlorn — 
 Poor thing ! she's quite impatient to be born. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Elfe, as I said, could find no paramour
 
 334 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 Among Earth's dang-hters. (I assign'd a reason, 
 And hope no lady took oft'ence, 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 ; 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 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. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 A Lady ! — pray, Sir, was she old or young ? — 
 Old, Sir, — extremely old — at least five hundred ; 
 
 And yet, if you expect, Sir, to behold [der'd. 
 
 A wrinkled wither'd crone, you've grossly bhin- 
 
 Tbe 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. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 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 fail-; 
 
 Though how she was begotten or created.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 335 
 
 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. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 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'. 
 
 L. 
 
 Their offspring was the race of Sprites and Fairies, 
 Sylphs, Goblins, all the preter-natural tribe. 
 
 Whose whims and pranks, opinions and vagai-ies, 
 'T would take me forty volumes to describe; 
 
 So much their nature and employment varies : — 
 Hence, though 1 wish young people to imbibe 
 
 Instruction from my rhymes, 'tis not my plan to 
 
 Touch on this subject in the present Canto. 
 
 LI. 
 
 But of all Powers, whom old Romance and Fable 
 Employ to people sea and air and earth, 
 
 Were Elfe and Fay the parents — Fm 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.
 
 336 SlU LAINIAL. 
 
 Lll. 
 
 Goblin and Genius, Demig-od 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. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 LV. 
 
 But 'tis sufficient to observe, at present. 
 The race of whom I now propose to treat
 
 SIR LA UN FA L. 337 
 
 Are not dwarfd goblins, mischievous though plea- 
 sant, 
 
 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 ; 
 Orthresh the corn, with swift though shadowyflail, 
 Or mar the beauty of the grey mare's tail. 
 
 LVI, 
 
 Neither (which is material to my story,) 
 Are Fairies i/nmaterial — shadowy things 
 
 Invested with an unsubstantial glory, 
 
 Trick'd outin sunshine robes and rainbow wings ; 
 
 Bright forms, impalpable and transitory. 
 
 Whose fingers shun the weight of weddingrings ; 
 
 But bright realities of flesh and blood — 
 
 A fact Sir Launfal shortly understood. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 '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 
 Ten-estrialrace — when I've six months of leisure 
 
 I'll write a learned treatise to explain 
 
 How these strange beings form a sort of chain 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Between mankind and pure ethereal natures, 
 Sharing the pleasures and the pains of both ; 
 
 1 only hope that no ill-natured creatures 
 
 Will doubt 'tis so — I own 'twould makemewroth. 
 
 One of this poem's most peculiar features 
 
 z
 
 338 SIR LAUKFAL. 
 
 Is, that I'm ready to attest on oath 
 The truth of every fact therein recorded, 
 Although, of course, poetically worded. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 But to proceed — the Anglo-Faery kings, 
 
 From Elfe to Oberon, and their horde's migra- 
 tions, 
 
 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 sta- 
 tions — 
 
 In short, their actions, whether great or mean. 
 
 Are they not written in the Faerie Queene ? 
 
 LX. 
 
 King Oberon, last upon the list, was reckon'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. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Many a curtain lecture, long and moral. 
 
 From Queen Titania was he doom'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.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 339 
 
 That laws of human wedlock loosely bind 
 The airier fancies of the Elfin kind. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 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 
 W^ithin 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. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 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 — 
 Kindreader,whentow'rd Westmoreland you rove. 
 
 You'll find it (if still extant) somewhere near 
 
 The .classic margin of Winandermere.
 
 340 SIR I.Ar\FAL. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Sweet Tryamour ! — she grew apace and flourish'd 
 In the fresh vigour of her infant years, 
 
 By gentlest sprites, with food ambrosial, nouiish'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. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXVI I. 
 
 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 Avas 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. 
 
 LXVIIl. 
 
 Viewless alike to mortal and immortal. 
 
 Within that grove her crystal palace stood :
 
 SIR I.AUNFAL. 341 
 
 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 unfiirl'd 
 The deep and secret beauty of the world. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXl. 
 
 All kindly deeds were hers. — The hopes and fears 
 Of love — the bridal bed — the first-horn's sleep 
 
 On his young mother's bosom, bathed in tears 
 Which that first fondness cannot choose but weep-
 
 342 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 This brings me back to Blanch, whosefate 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, forwhich I grieve sincerely; 
 Her's was indeed a melancholy lot ; 
 
 And I'm extremely sorry to confess 
 
 'Twas Try amour that caused it — more or less, 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 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;
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 343 
 
 But merely meditating an excursion, 
 
 To see, and haply share, the court's diversion. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 And from that day Sir Launfal's wealth declined, 
 And ladies look'd upon him with cold eyes ; 
 
 It seera'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 Avealth deserts you, girls despise ; 
 
 And when you've ceased to be a " speculation." 
 
 You lose, at once, all claim to toleration.
 
 344 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXX I. 
 
 And thus she train'd him for her paramour — 
 Wiling his fancy from the world away ;
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 343 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 '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. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 His eyes were sunk and dim — his head was bare ; 
 His arms hung idly at his saddle-bow ; 
 
 * Author of Sandford and Merton. See Mr. Edgeworth's 
 autobiography.
 
 346 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 There was a pensive sadness in his air, [woe ; 
 
 Which told that he had made fast friends with 
 And yet a gentle patience Ung-er'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. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 The little children look'd upon his face 
 
 With awe, and turn'd not to their sports again 
 
 \\ hen 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. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 '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. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 M'hile 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,
 
 SIR I.AUNKAL. 347 
 
 Came tow'rd him through the green-wood sud- 
 Array'din garments of ethereal splendour, [denly, 
 Which dimm'd theirbeautiestoagleammore tender. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 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. 
 Lxxxix. [Knight, — 
 
 Short greeting pass'd between the dames and 
 
 Then thus the lovelier spake, with smile demure — 
 " Will 'tplease 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." 
 
 xc. 
 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.
 
 348 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 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 lingei- 
 For years unsunn'd, and waste away at leisure, 
 
 Like gold deep buried in a vii-gin mine — 
 
 But oh ! Sir Launfal, what surprise was thine ! 
 
 XCII. 
 
 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. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 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, 
 
 Andsweetest scents and sounds were floating every- 
 where. 
 
 * Forest on forest hung around his head, 
 Like cloud on cloud. — Keats' Hyperion.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 349 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 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 brig'ht 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. 
 
 xcv. 
 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, 
 
 Existin<^ 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. 
 
 xcvi. 
 Over the poi-tal 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 [fold 
 Strange power of vision : — through the thickest 
 Of midnight darkness pierced the bird's keen eyes, 
 And served for gas-lights to this Paradise. 
 
 xcvii. 
 And round the gate, in Spenser's words, there " lay 
 Great sorts of lovers, piteously complaining" — ■
 
 350 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 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. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 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 extirpa- 
 tion : 
 But soon those thunder-clouds dispersed, and then 
 The sky was silent and serene again. 
 
 xcix. 
 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. 
 
 c. 
 Through many a long saloon and echoing hall, 
 
 Fair court and spacious vestibule, he pass'd : 
 Unutterably glorious seem'd they all,
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 351 
 
 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. 
 
 ci. 
 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. 
 
 cn. 
 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. 
 
 cm. 
 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,
 
 352 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 Or dreams of a deransred imaa'ination : 
 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. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 Andhis latehag'gard 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 foi 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. 
 
 cv. 
 
 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. 
 
 cvi. 
 Thus while he stood, with restless feelings burning, 
 
 A low sweet music suddenly arose. 
 To which the doors on noiseless hino^es turning- 
 
 R-eveal their hidden secrets, and disclose 
 A hall whose light just served him for discerning 
 
 That 'twas constructed chiefly for repose ;
 
 SIR LAUNFAL. 353 
 
 And through that tender and vohiptuous gloom, 
 Unconscious Launfal view'd his nuptial room. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 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 throug-h fleecy clouds in J une ; 
 
 Whence a still gleam on all the chamber lay. 
 
 Brighter than moonlight, softer far than day. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 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. 
 
 cix. 
 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 ? 
 
 A A
 
 354 SIR LAUXFAL. 
 
 ex. 
 
 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. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 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. 
 
 cxii. 
 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 Faii-y sank on Launfal's breast, 
 And the whole story of her love confess'd. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 She " fear'd that he would think her very bold, 
 For having dared to love him — she should seem
 
 SIR LAUXFAL. 355 
 
 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 g-leam, 
 Asshe g'azed on him, through her fond eyes rush'd — 
 And then she look'd upon the ground and blush'd. 
 
 cxiv. 
 " He had strange power of witch-craft, she was sure, 
 
 Who thus could charm a hapless Fairy's heart — 
 A Faii-y'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. 
 
 cxv. 
 " 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." 
 
 ex VI. 
 
 You may conceive (if you have ever been 
 Engaged in courtship that resembled this, 
 
 Thus baskino- in younti- eyes of tenderest sheen 
 In the full glow of love's acknowledged bliss) — 
 
 Sir Launfal's answer to the Faery queen ;
 
 356 SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 So that I need not tell you 'twas a kiss 
 " A long, lon<2^ kiss" in Byron's phrase, which I, 
 On this occasion, deign to ratify. 
 
 cxvii. 
 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. 
 
 ex VI II. 
 
 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 ; [sion. 
 
 He pledg'd the draught, and thus, with mutual pas- 
 
 The pair were wedded in the Faery fashion. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 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 tliat 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.
 
 SIR lAlNFAL. 357 
 
 CXX. 
 
 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 IMars, 
 And Mars, beneath her glance, turn'd doubly red; 
 
 And sly old Saturn, from his mystic ring, 
 
 Appropriate lustre on the scene did fling. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 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, 
 Although the tasteful reader's to be pitied. 
 
 cxxn. 
 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. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 Canto the fourth will tell you how the Knight 
 Return'd in triumph, to the court of Britain ;
 
 358 Sill LAUNFAL. 
 
 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. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 " Before next April !" — Thirteen years ago 
 Thus spake I ; but or ere that April shone, 
 
 My fancy's frozen stream had ceased to tlow, 
 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 fair}' 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.* 
 
 * The Romance upon wliich this poem was founded is 
 contained in the first volume of llitson's selection.
 
 CONCLUSION, 359 
 
 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 youi- ripe hearts, as now it doth in mine. 
 
 The long lost feelings of the Auld lang syne. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 0. Wliittinghain.Tooks Court, Chanceij Lane.
 
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