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Oh for a world in principle as chaste
To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce, As this is gross and selfish! over which
High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway,
Thy prophets speak of such; and, noting down That govern all things here, shouldering aside
The features of the last degenerate times,
Come then, and added to thy many crowns,
Due to thy last and most effectual work,
He is the happy man, whose life e'en now
Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; The occasion it presents of doing good
Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, More than the perquisite: where law shall speak Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts
Would make his fate his choice; whom the And equity; not jealous more to guard
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, (fruit A worthless form, than to decide aright:
Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse,
Content indeed to sojourn while he must Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace) Below the skies, but having there his home. With lean performance ape the work of love! The world o'erlooks him in her busy search
Come then, and added to thy many crowns, Of objects, more illustrious in her view; Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth, And, occupied as earnestly as she, Thou who alone art worthy! It was thine
Though more sublimely, he o’erlooks the world. By ancient covenant, ere nature's birth;
She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; And thou hast made it thine by purchase since, He seeks not her's, for he bas proved them vain. And overpaid its value with thy blood.
He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Thy saints proclaim thee king; and in their hearts Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems Thy title is engraven with a pen
Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Dipt in the fountain of eternal love.
Therefore in contemplation is his bliss : Thy saints proclaim thee king; and thy delay Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, The dawn of thy last advent, long-desired,
And shows him glories yet to be revealed. Would creep into the bowels of the bills,
Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, And flee for safety to the falling rocks.
And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams The very spirit of the world is tired
Oft water fairest meadows; and the bird, Of its own taunting question, asked so long, That flutters least, is longest on the wing. “ Where is the promise of your Lord's approach ?" Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, The infidel has shot his bolts away,
Or what achievements of immortal fame Till his exhausted quiver yielding none,
He purposes, and he shall answer-None. He gleans the blunted shafts, that have recoiled, His warfare is within. There unfatigued And aims them at the shield of truth again.
His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, That hides divinity from mortal eyes;
And never withering wreaths, compared with which And all the mysteries to faith proposed,
The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds. Insulted and traduced, are cast aside,
Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, As useless, to the moles and to the bats.
That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks They now are deemed the faithful, and are praised, Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Who constant only in rejecting thee,
Deems him a cypher in the works of God, Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal,
Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, And quit their office for their error's sake.
Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Blind, and in love with darkness ! yet even these Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring Worthy, compared with sycophants, who knee And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes, Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man! When, Isaac like, the solitary saint So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare Walks forth to meditate at even-tide, The world takes little thought. Who will may And think on her, who thinks not for herself. preach,
Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns
Of little worth, an idler in the best,
That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. And in their service wage perpetual war
Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, With conscience and with thee. Lust in their hearts, Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth Account him an incuinbrance on the state,
Receiving benefits, and rendering none.
'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, Shine with his fair example, and though small To charm his ear, whose eye is on the heart; Ilis influence, if that influence all be spent
Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.
She came—she is gone-we have metHe sits secure, and in the scale of life
And meet perhaps never again; Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place.
The sun of that moment is set, The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen,
And seems to have risen in vain. Must drop indeed the hope of public praise ;
Catharina has fled like a dream But he may boast what few that win it can,
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) That if his country stand not by his skill,
But has left a regret and esteem,
That will not so suddenly pass.
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delayed Not that he peevishly rejects a mode,
By the nightingale warbling nigh. Because that world adopts it. If it bear
We paused under many a tree, The stamp and clear impression of good sense,
And much she was charmed with a tone And be not costly more than of true worth,
Less sweet to Maria and me, He puts it on, and for decorum sake
Who had witnessed so lately her own. Can wear it e’en as gracefully as she. She judges of refinement by the eye,
My numbers that day she had sung, He by the test of conscience, and a heart
And gave them a grace so divine, Not soon deceived; aware that what is base
As only her musical tongue No polish can make sterling; and that vice,
Could infuse into numbers of mine. Though well perfumed and elegantly dressed,
The longer I heard, I esteemed Like an unburied carcase tricked with flowers,
The work of my fancy the more, Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far
And ev'n to myself never seemed
So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year, Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care
Catharina, did nothing impede, Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved
Would feel herself happier here; Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
For the close woven arches of limes So glide my life away! and so at last,
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times
Than all that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is endued Beneath the turf that I have often trod.
With a well-judging taste from above, It shall not grieve me then, that once, when called
Then, whether embellished or rude, To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse,
'Tis nature alone that we love. I played awhile, obedient to the fair,
The achievements of art may amuse, With that light task; but soon, to please her more,
May even our wonder excite, Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,
hills, and vallies, diffuse Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit;
A lasting, a sacred delight. Roved far, and gathered much: some harsh, 'tis true,
Since then in the rural recess Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof,
Catharina alone can rejoice, But wholesome, well-digested ; grateful some May it still be her lot to possess To palates, that can taste immortal truth;
The scene of her sensible choice! Insipid else, and sure to be despised.
To inhabit a mansion remote But all is in his hand, whose praise I seek.
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,
And by Philomel's annual note If he regard not, though divine the theme.
To measure the life that she leads :
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, (again; To wing all her moments at home,
Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round And with scenes that new rapture inspire
But, recollecting with a sudden thought, As oft as it suits her to roam.
That flight in circles urged advanced them nought, She will have just the life she prefers,
They gathered close around the old pit's brink, With little to wish or to fear,
And thought again-but knew not what to think. And ours will be pleasant as hers,
The man to solitude accustomed long,
Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue;
Have speech for him, and understood with ease;
After long drought, when rains abundant fall,
Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, There is a field, through which I often pass,
How glad they catch the largess of the skies; Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,
But, with precision nicer still, the mind Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood,
He scans of every loco-motive kind; Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,
Birds of all feather, beasts of every name, Reserved to solace many a neighbouring 'squire,
That serve mankind, or shuu them, wild or tame; That he may follow them through brake and briar, The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine,
Have all articulation in his ears; Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
He spells them true by intuition's light, A narrow brook, by rushy banks concealed, And needs no glossary to set him right. Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;
This truth premised was needful as a text, Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
To win due credence to what follows next. But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;
Awhile they mused; surveying every face, And where the land slopes to its watery bourn,
Thou hadst supposed them of superior race; Wide yawns a gulph beside a ragged thorn ; Their periwigs of wool, and fears combined, Bricks line the sides, but shivered long ago,
Stamped on each countenance such marks of mind, And horrid brambles intertwine below;
That sage they seemed, as lawyers o'er a doubt, A hollow scooped, I judge in ancient time,
Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out; For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.
Or academic tutors, teaching youths,
When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest,
A ram, the ewes and wethers sad, addressed. With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;
Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack: Sounds such as these, so worthy to be feared. Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,
Could I believe that winds for ages pent With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats,
In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent, With a whole gamut filled of heavenly notes,
And from their prison-house below arise, For which, alas ! my destiny severe,
With all these hideous howlings to the skies, Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.
I could be much composed, nor should appear The sun, accomplishing his early march,
For such a cause to feel the slightest fear. His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch,
Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders rolled When, exercise and air my only aim,
All night, we resting quiet in the fold. And heedless whither, to that field I came,
Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound
I could expound the melancholy tone; Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found,
Should deem it by our old companion made, Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang The ass; for he, we know, has lately strayed, All Kilwick and all Dingle-derry rang.
And being lost perhaps, and wandering wide, Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom Might be supposed to clamour for a guide. pressed
But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear, The herb as soft, while nibbling strayed the rest; That owns a carcase, and not quake for fear? Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, Dæmons produce them doubtless, brazen-clawed Struggling, detained in many a petty nook.
And fanged with brass the dæmons are abroad; All seemed so peaceful, that from them conveyed
I hold it therefore wisest and most fit, To me their peace by kind contagion spread.
That life to save, we leap into the pit. But when the huntsman, with distended cheek, Him answered then his loving mate and true, 'Gan make his instrument of music speak,
But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.
Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we.
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. Or be it not, or be it whose it may,
What ardently I wished, I long believed, And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues And, disappointed still, was still deceived. Of dæmons uttered, from whatever lungs,
By disappointment every day beguiled, Sounds are but sounds, and till the cause appear,
Dupe of tomorrow even from a child. We have at least commodious standing here.
Thus many a sad tomorrow came and went, Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last.
I learned at last submission to my lot, While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. For Reynard, close attended at his heels
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, By panting dog, tired man, and spattered horse, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; Through mere good fortune, took a different course. And where the gardener Robin, day by day, The flock grew calm again, and I, the road
Drew me to school along the public way, Following, that led me to my own abode,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt Much wondered that the silly sheep had found
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, Such cause of terror in an empty sound
'Tis now become a history little known, So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced Live till to-morrow, will have passed away.
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, PICTURE.
The biscuit, or confectionary plum; Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
All this, and more endearing still than all, Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see, 'The
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, same, that oft in childhood solaced me;
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
That humour interposed too often makes; “Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”
All this still legible in memory's page, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
And still to be so to my latest age, (Blest be the art that can immortalize,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Who biddest me honour with an artless song,
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, I will obey, not willingly alone,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)
Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here! A momentary dream, that thou art she.
I would not trust my heart—the dear delight My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no—what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy ynbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; My boast is not that I deduce my birth So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; shore,
But higher far my proud pretensions rise“ Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;" The son of parents passed into the skies. And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide And now, farewell-time unrevoked has run Of life, long since, has anchored at thy side. His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, Always from port withheld, always distressed- I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; Me howling winds drive devious, tempest-tossed, To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost; Without the sin of violating thine; And day by day some current's thwarting force And, while the wings of fancy still are free, Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. And I can view this mimic show of thee, But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! Time bas but half succeeded in his theftThat thought is joy, arrive what may to me. Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.