Page images
PDF
EPUB

Some loved dream, in his heart cherished fondly and

long,

Which he wanted the science to weave into song.

Thence the pilgrim of nature in fancy may stray Where the silver-bright Duddon winds calmly away; By its flower-fringed margin to muse and to dream, Till his thoughts are as gentle and pure as its stream! Or, if 't is his pastime to linger among

Such wild scenes as Salvator has painted and sung,

He may climb green Helvellyn's proud summit of

snow,

And look down on the blue gleaming waters below,
That lie smiling, new beauties for ever disclosing,

Like a babe at the feet of some Titan reposing!

There the dreamer, who tracks the dark footsteps of

Time,

And for ever would muse 'mid its ruins sublime;
Who delights to the deeds of past ages to turn;
Will find lore that his spirit hath panted to learn.
From the song of proud Dion, so solemn and sweet,
To thy Silver-white Doe and her Sabbath Retreat :-
Each high theme of the Lyre hath awoke at thy call,
Every chord hast thou touched, and drawn music
from all!

11.

CAMPBELL.

GRACEFUL Poet of Hope, who hast charmed us so

long,

With a stream of home-music, sweet, solemn, and

strong;

Now smooth as the wave when 't is chained and at rest,
And the hues of the sky lie like flowers on its breast;
Now sweeping in glory and might on its way;
And now struggling from silence and darkness, to day!
Though the freshness of feeling that prompted in youth
Those heart-stirring measures, hath died, and the

truth

That is shrined in the soul when life's race is begun, May be something impaired ere the haven be won;Though the visions be fled that gave light to thy spring, And thy heart and thy harp both have broken a string;Like the leaves on the tree that no tempest may kill, There are feelings unwithered that cling to thee still! Alas! that a poet, so gifted, should leave

Life's calm vale of repose, 'mid the many to weave Lays, that whisper too oft of the crowd whence they

spring ;

How unlike the wild wood-notes he once used to sing! What marvel his Muse's bright pinion should sink, When so turbid the waters her spirit must drink?

Can we wonder her plumage should lose its proud dyes, When she trails on the earth, what was formed for the

skies!

No! the Poet's a planet that's brightest apart—

Let him revel at will in the world of the heart;

But the moment he strives 'mid the crush of the

throng,

Like a bird too much handled, he loses his song;
And the fools wont to worship his light from afar,
Are the first to proclaim him no longer a star.
Hie thee back to the Harp that beguiled thee of yore,
And return to the strife of the many no more!
Dismiss the small junta that wait on thy nod-
Such a coterie deserve no such Bard for their god;
To some idol congenial, like ****, let them turn,
Nor thus live by the light that they steal from thy urn.
For the novice whose self-love their arts have beguiled,
Will be lucky indeed if he 'scape undefiled:

Have a care-though at present 't is incense they fling,

He who fawns like a slave, like a serpent will sting!

[It may be proper to mention that the above lines were written previously to Mr. Campbell's connexion with the Metropolitan."]

66

III.

COLERIDGE.

WILD mystic! whose life lapses on like a dream,
Or the changeful repose of some sun-chequered stream;
Now shaded with clouds that will darken the heart,
When some bosom-nursed hope spreads its wing to
depart;

Now reflecting the gleam of some sunshiny face,
That still flits round thy pillow an angel of grace;
Thy wishes forestalled, and thy sadness subdued,
'And the feelings that many would wrong, understood;
Why sleeps the high strain once so solemn and strong?
Let thy heart and thy harp once more waken in song!
Is love the fond theme? We will listen and grieve,

So the strain bring us tidings of fair Genevieve;
Or if regions untrod, save by thee, thou would'st try,
Hold us breathless once more with thy Mariner's eye!
Would'st thou murmur a hymn, let thy harpings arise
Where the monarch of mountains looks out from the
skies!

Still silent!-Thy counsel, at least, let us share,

And gain wisdom and strength life's vexations to bear; For, none ever bent to thy converse or lay,

But came mended in knowledge and spirit away.

IV.

CHARLES LAMB.

QUAINT masker! why hide, 'neath a garb so uncouth,
A well-spring of song, and a day-star of truth?
Why struggle, to bury a heart-cherished brood
Of fine fancies and feelings, in crambo so rude?
Yet thy "faces familiar" are welcome to all,
And a host of warm wishes arise at their call.
For what if thy Muse will be sometimes perverse,
And present us with prose, when she means to give verse?
For her freak to atone, and her critics to pose,
She'll as often vouchsafe us a poem in prose;

So sparkling with dew from the fountain sublime,
That we drink in its beauty, and miss not the rhyme.
Henceforth may the plant 't is thy joy to illume,
For thee ever send forth its mildest perfume;
"Dream Children," revisit thy slumbers, and play
In the light of thy love, till morn melts them away.
For this, may thy fortune be often to list
To thy worthy" Aunt Battle's" opinions of whist;
Thine ears ne'er be pestered again with a jig,
And thy stomach become a depôt for "Roast Pig!"

A. A. W.

[The preceding fragments were written in the fly-leaves of the works of the Poets to whom they refer.]

« PreviousContinue »