ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was gray When at the sacred Font for Thee I stood; Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood And shalt become thy own sufficient stay: Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil; Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, Embodied in the music of this Lay, Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream* Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear After her throes, this Stream of name more dear Since thou dost bear it, a memorial theme For others; for thy future self a spell To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.
Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard When sunshine follows shower, the breast can thrill Like the first summons, Cuckoo! of thy bill, With its twin notes inseparably paired. The Captive 'mid damp vaults unsunned, unaired, Measuring the periods of his lonely doom, That cry can reach; and to the sick man's room Sends gladness, by no languid smile declared. The lordly Eagle-race through hostile search May perish; time may come when never more The wilderness shall hear the Lion roar; But, long as Cock shall crow from household perch To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing, And thy erratic voice be faithful to the Spring!
IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR.
SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright, Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind To something purer and more exquisite Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek, Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, And head that droops because the soul is meek, Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare; That Child of Winter, prompting thoughts that clino From desolation toward the genial prime; Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, And filling more and more with crystal light As pensive Evening deepens into night.
UNQUIET Childhood here by special grace Forgets her nature, opening like a flower That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power In painful struggles. Months each other chase, And nought untunes that Infant's voice; a trace Of fretful temper sullies not her cheek; Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek That one enrapt with gazing on her face (Which even the placid innocence of Death Could scarcely make more placid, Heaven more bright) Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light; A Nursling couched upon her Mother's knee, Beneath some shady Palm of Galilee.
UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold, Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth, That Pile of Turf is half a century old: Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told Since suddenly the dart of death went forth his last work on earth; 'Gainst him who raised it, Thence by his Son more prized than aught which gold Could purchase-watched, preserved by his own hands, That, faithful to the Structure, still repair
DESPONDING Father! mark this altered boug, So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, Or moist with dews; what more unsightly now, Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if formed, Invisible? yet Spring her genial brow Knits not o'er that discolouring and decay As false to expectation. Nor fret thou At like unlovely process in the May Of human life: a Stripling's graces blow, Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall (Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow
Its waste.-Though crumbling with each breath of air, Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call; In annual renovation thus it stands
Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there,
And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare.
In all men, sinful is it to be slow
To hope-in Parents, sinful above all.
TO B. R. HAYDON, ESQ.,
ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE ON THE ISLAND OF ST. HELENA.
HAYDON! let worthier judges praise the skill Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines And charm of colours; I applaud those signs Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill; That unencumbered whole of blank and still, ocean without a wave; Sky without cloud - And the one Man that laboured to enslave The World, sole-standing high on the bare hill- Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent face Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place With light reflected from the invisible sun Set like his fortunes; but not set for aye Like them. The unguilty Power pursues his way, And before him doth dawn perpetual run.
ROMAN ANTIQUITIES DISCOVERED,
AT BISHOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE.
WHILE poring Antiquarians search the ground Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a Seer, Takes fire: The men that have been reappear;
Romans for travel girt, for business gowned, And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned, In festal glee: why not? For fresh and clear, As if its hues were of the passing year,
Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that mound Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins, Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil; Or a fierce impress issues with its foil
Of tenderness-the Wolf, whose suckling Twins The unlettered Ploughboy pities when he wins The casual treasure from the furrowed soil.
ST. CATHERINE OF LEDBURY
WHEN human touch, as monkish books attest, Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury bells Broke forth in concert flung adown the dells, And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy crest; Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady blest To rapture! Mabel listened at the side
Of her loved Mistress: soon the music died, And Catherine said, “Here I set up my rest.” Warned in a dream, the Wanderer long had sought A home that by such miracle of sound Must be revealed:
she heard it now, or felt
The deep, deep joy of a confiding thought; And there, a saintly Anchoress, she dwelt
Till she exchanged for heaven that happy ground.
TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT.
[Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq., for St. John's College, Cambridge.]
Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy place; And, if Time spare the colours for the grace Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt, Thou, on thy rock reclined, though Kingdoms melt, And States be torn up by the roots, wilt seem To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream, To think and feel as once the Poet felt. Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown Unrecognized through many a household tear, More prompt more glad to fall than drops of dew By morning shed around a flower half blown; Tears of delight, that testified how true To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!
WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant (As would my deeds have been) with hourly care, The mind's least generous wish a mendican For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak, though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine;
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
Ir these brief Records, by the Muses' art Produced as lonely Nature or the strife That animates the scenes of public life Inspired, may in thy leisure claim a part; And if these Transcripts of the private heart Have gained a sanction from thy falling tears, Then I repent not: but my soul hath fears Breathed from eternity; for as a dart Cleaves the blank air, Life flies: now every dav Is but a glimmering spoke in the swift wheel Of the revolving week. Away, away, All fitful cares, all transitory zeal;
So timely Grace the immortal wing may heal, And honour rest upon the senseless clay.
my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud Slowly surmounting some invidious hill,
Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood still, And might of its own beauty have been proud, But it was fashioned and to God was vowed By Virtues that diffused, in every part, Spirit divine through forms of human art:
Faith had her arch - her arch, when winds blow loud Into the consciousness of safety thrilled;
And Love her towers of dread foundation laid Under the grave of things; Hoe had her spire Star-high, and pointing still to something higher; Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice-it said, Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build.
A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
THE most alluring clouds that mount the sky Owe to a troubled element their forms, Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye We watch their splendour, shall we covet storms, And wish the lord of day his slow decline Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high? Behold, already they forget to shine,
Dissolve and leave to him who gazed a sigh. Not loth to thank each moment for its boon Of pure delight, come whensoe'er it may, Peace let us seek, - to steadfast things attune Calm expectations, leaving to the gay And volatile their love of transient bowers, The house that cannot pass away be ours.
ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON UPON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON.
By art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse stand On ground yet strewn with their last battle's wreck; Let the steed glory while his master's hand
Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck; But by the chieftain's look, though at his side
Which art hath lodged within his hand must laugh Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a check
By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy art be nature; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when critics grave and cool Have killed him, scorn should write his epitaph. How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; And so the grandeur of the forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality.
Is given to triumph and all human pride! Yon trophied mound shrinks to a shadowy speck In his calm presence! Him the mighty deed Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's rest, As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame In Heaven; hence no one blushes for thy name, Conqueror, mid some sad thoughts, divinely blest!
[Miss not the occasion: by the forelock take That subtle Power, the never halting Time, Lest a mere moment's putting off should make Mischance almost as heavy as a crime.] III.
"WAIT, prithee, wait!" this answer Lesbia threw Forth to her dove, and took no further heed, Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed; But from that bondage when her thoughts were freed She rose, and toward the close-shut casement drew, Whence the poor unregarded favourite, true To old affections, had been heard to plead With flapping wing for entrance. What a shriek Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a strain Of harmony! -a shriek of terror, pain, And self-reproach! for, from aloft, a kite Pounced, and the dove, which from its ruthless beak She could not rescue, perished in her sight!
COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838.
LIFE with yon lambs, like day, is just begun, Yet nature seems to them a heavenly guide. Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide; And sullenness avoid, as now they shun Pale twilight's lingering glooms, and in the sun Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied; Or gambol - each with his shadow at his side, Varying its shape wherever he may run. As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew All turn, and court the shining and the green, Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen Why to God's goodness cannot we be true, And so, His gifts and promises between, Feed to the last on pleasures ever new?
Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance, One upward hand, as if she needed rest From rapture, lying softly on her breast! Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance;
But not the less-nay more- - that countenance,' While thus illumined, tells of painful strife For a sick heart made weary of this life By love, long crossed with adverse circumstance. Would she were now as when she hoped to pass At God's appointed hour to them who tread Heaven's sapphire pavement, yet breathed well content, Well pleased, her foot should print earth's common grass,
Lived thankful for day's light, for daily bread, For health, and time in obvious duty spent.
ALL praise the likeness by thy skill portrayed; But 't is a fruitless task to paint for me, Who, yielding not to changes time has made, By the habitual light of memory see Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be; And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. Couldst thou go back into far-distant years, Or share with me, fond thought! that inward eye, Then, and then only, painter! could thy art The visual powers of nature satisfy, Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears, Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.
THOUGH I beheld at first with blank surprise This work, I now have gazed on it so long I see its truth with unreluctant eyes; O, my beloved! I have done thee wrong, Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, Ever too heedless, as I now perceive: Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, And the old day was welcome as the young, As welcome, and as beautiful-in sooth More beautiful, as being a thing more holy: Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth Of all thy goodness, never melancholy ; To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast Into one vision, future, present, past.
HARK! 'tis the thrush, undaunted, undeprest, By twilight premature of cloud and rain; Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain Who carols thinking of his love and nest, And seems, as more incited, still more blest.
And in a moment charmed my cares to rest. Yes, I will forth, bold bird! and front the blast. That we may sing together, if thou wilt, So loud, so clear, my partner through life's day, Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past, Thrilled by loose snatches of the social lay.
"T18 he whose yester-evening's high disdain Beat back the roaring storm- but how subdued His day-break note, a sad vicissitude! Does the hour's drowsy weight his glee restrum? Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein Pleased to renounce, does this dear thrush attune His voice to suit the temper of yon moon Doubly depressed, setting, and in her wane? Rise, tardy sun! and let the songster prove (The balance trembling between night and morn No longer) with what ecstasy upborne
He can pour forth his spirit. In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladnes Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
On what a wreck! how changed in mien and speech' Yet though dread Powers, that work in mystery, spin
Entanglings of the brain; though shadows stretch O'er the chilled heart- - reflect; far, far within Hers is a holy being, freed from sin. She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch, But delegated Spirits comfort fetch To her from heights that reason may not win. Like children, she is privileged to hold Divine communion; both do live and move, Whate'er to shallow faith their ways unfold, Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love; Love pitying innocence not long to last, In them in her our sins and sorrows past.
INTENT on gathering wool from hedge and brake Yon busy little-ones rejoice that soon
A poor old dame will bless them for the boon: Great is their glee while flake they add to flake With rival earnestness; far other strife Than will hereafter move them, if they make Pastime their idol, give their day of life To pleasure snatched for reckless pleasure's sake.
Thanks; thou hast snapped a fire-side prisoner's chain, Can pomp and show allay one heart-born grief!
Exulting warbler! eased a fretted brain,
Pains which the world inflicts can she requite
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