The mood in which this labour was begun, O Friend! The termination of my course Is nearer now, much nearer; yet even then, In that distraction and intense desire,
I said unto the life which I had lived, Where art thou? Hear I not a voice from thee Which 'tis reproach to hear? Anon I rose As if on wings, and saw beneath me stretched Vast prospect of the world which I had been And was; and hence this Song, which like a lark I have protracted, in the unwearied heavens Singing, and often with more plaintive voice To earth attempered and her deep-drawn sighs, Yet centring all in love, and in the end All gratulant, if rightly understood.
Whether to me shall be allotted life,
And, with life, power to accomplish aught of worth, That will be deemed no insufficient plea
For having given the story of myself,
Is all uncertain: but, beloved Friend!
When, looking back, thou seest, in clearer view Than any liveliest sight of yesterday,
That summer, under whose indulgent skies, Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs, Thou in bewitching words, with happy heart, Didst chaunt the vision of that Ancient Man, The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes Didst utter of the Lady Christabel;
And I, associate with such labour, steeped In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours,
Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was found, After the perils of his moonlight ride, Near the loud waterfall; or her who sate
In misery near the miserable Thorn ;- ;-
When thou dost to that summer turn thy thoughts, And hast before thee all which then we were,
To thee, in memory of that happiness,
It will be known, by thee at least, my Friend! Felt, that the history of a Poet's mind
Is labour not unworthy of regard:
To thee the work shall justify itself.
The last and later portions of this gift
Have been prepared, not with the buoyant spirits That were our daily portion when we first
Together wantoned in wild Poesy,
But, under pressure of a private grief,
Keen and enduring, which the mind and heart, That in this meditative history
Have been laid open, needs must make me feel More deeply, yet enable me to bear
More firmly; and a comfort now hath risen From hope that thou art near, and wilt be soon Restored to us in renovated health;
When, after the first mingling of our tears 'Mong other consolations, we may draw Some pleasure from this offering of my love.
Oh! yet a few short years of useful life, And all will be complete, thy race be run, Thy monument of glory will be raised;
Then, though (too weak to tread the ways of truth) This age fall back to old idolatry,
Though men return to servitude as fast
As the tide ebbs, to ignominy and shame,
By nations, sink together, we shall still
Find solace-knowing what we have learnt to know, Rich in true happiness if allowed to be Faithful alike in forwarding a day
Of firmer trust, joint labourers in the work (Should Providence such grace to us vouchsafe) Of their deliverance, surely yet to come. Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak A lasting inspiration, sanctified
By reason, blest by faith: what we have loved, Others will love, and we will teach them how; Instruct them how the mind of man becomes A thousand times more beautiful than the earth On which he dwells, above this frame of things (Which, 'mid all revolution in the hopes And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged) In beauty exalted, as it is itself
Of quality and fabric more divine.
POEMS NOT APPEARING IN THE
EDITION OF 1849-50
WRITTEN AS A SCHOOL EXERCISE AT HAWKSHEAD, ANNO ÆTATIS 14
ND has the Sun his flaming chariot driven
Two hundred times around the ring of heaven,
Since Science first, with all her sacred train,
Beneath yon roof began her heavenly reign?
While thus I mused, me thought, before mine eyes, The Power of EDUCATION Seemed to rise; Not she whose rigid precepts trained the boy Dead to the sense of every finer joy; Nor that vile wretch who bade the tender age Spurn Reason's law and humour Passion's rage; But she who trains the generous British youth In the bright paths of fair majestic Truth: Emerging slow from Academus' grove In heavenly majesty she seemed to move. Stern was her forehead, but a smile serene 'Soften'd the terrors of her awful mien.' Close at her side were all the powers, design'd To curb, exalt, reform the tender mind : With panting breast, now pale as winter snows, Now flush'd as Hebe, Emulation rose; Shame follow'd after with reverted eye, And hue far deeper than the Tyrian dye; Last Industry appear'd with steady pace, A smile sat beaming on her pensive face. I gazed upon the visionary train,
Threw back my eyes, return'd, and gazed again. When lo! the heavenly goddess thus began, Through all my frame the pleasing accents ran.
When Superstition left the golden light And fled indignant to the shades of night;
When pure Religion rear'd the peaceful breast And lull'd the warring passions into rest, Drove far away the savage thoughts that roll In the dark mansions of the bigot's soul, Enlivening Hope display'd her cheerful ray, And beam'd on Britain's sons a brighter day; So when on Ocean's face the storm subsides, Hush'd are the winds and silent are the tides ; The God of day, in all the pomp of light,
Moves through the vault of heaven, and dissipates the night;
Wide o'er the main a trembling lustre plays,
The glittering waves reflect the dazzling blaze; Science with joy saw Superstition fly
Before the lustre of Religion's eye;
With rapture she beheld Britannia smile,
Clapp'd her strong wings, and sought the cheerful isle, The shades of night no more the soul involve,
She sheds her beam, and, lo! the shades dissolve; No jarring monks, to gloomy cell confined, With mazy rules perplex the weary mind; No shadowy forms entice the soul aside, Secure she walks, Philosophy her guide. Britain, who long her warriors had adored, And deem'd all merit centred in the sword; Britain, who thought to stain the field was fame, Now honour'd Edward's less than Bacon's name. Her sons no more in listed fields advance
To ride the ring, or toss the beamy lance; No longer steel their indurated hearts
To the mild influence of the finer arts; Quick to the secret grotto they retire
To court majestic truth, or wake the golden lyre; By generous Emulation taught to rise,
The seats of learning brave the distant skies.
Then noble Sandys, inspir'd with great design,
Reared Hawkshead's happy roof, and call'd it mine. There have I loved to show the tender age
The golden precepts of the classic page; To lead the mind to those Elysian plains
Where, throned in gold, immortal Science reigns; Fair to the view is sacred Truth display'd, In all the majesty of light array'd,
To teach, on rapid wings, the curious soul
To roam from heaven to heaven, from pole to pole, From thence to search the mystic cause of things And follow Nature to her secret springs;
Nor less to guide the fluctuating youth Firm in the sacred paths of moral truth, To regulate the mind's disordered frame, And quench the passions kindling into flame; The glimmering fires of Virtue to enlarge, And purge from Vice's dross my tender charge. Oft have I said, the paths of Fame pursue, And all that Virtue dictates, dare to do; Go to the world, peruse the book of man, And learn from thence thy own defects to scan; Severely honest, break no plighted trust, But coldly rest not here-be more than just ; Join to the rigours of the sires of Rome The gentler manners of the private dome; When Virtue weeps in agony of woe,
Teach from the heart the tender tear to flow; If Pleasure's soothing song thy soul entice, Or all the gaudy pomp of splendid Vice, Arise superior to the Siren's The wretch, the short-lived vision of an hour; Soon fades her cheek, her blushing beauties fly, As fades the chequer'd bow that paints the sky.
'So shall thy sire, whilst hope his breast inspires, And wakes anew life's glimmering trembling fires, Hear Britain's sons rehearse thy praise with joy, Look up to heaven, and bless his darling boy. If e'er these precepts quell'd the passions' strife, If e'er they smooth'd the rugged walks of life, If e'er they pointed forth the blissful way That guides the spirit to eternal day, Do thou, if gratitude inspire thy breast, Spurn the soft fetters of lethargic rest.
Awake, awake! and snatch the slumbering lyre, Let this bright morn and Sandys the song inspire.'
I look'd obedience: the celestial Fair Smiled like the morn, and vanish'd into air.
SONNET, ON SEEING MISS HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS WEEP AT A TALE OF DISTRESS
HE wept.-Life's purple tide began to flow
In languid streams through every thrilling vein; Dim were my swimming eyes--my pulse beat slow, And my full heart was swell'd to dear delicious pain.
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