IX THOUGH to give timely warning and deter Fixed on the statutes of Eternity, Endues her conscience with external life Within our hearts, the love whose flower hath blown Bright as if heaven were ever in its eye, Will pass so soon from human memory; And not by strangers to our blood alone, But by our best descendants be unknown, Unthought of- this may surely claim a sigh. Yet, blessed Art, we yield not to dejection; Thou against Time so feelingly dost strive. Where'er, preserved in this most true reflection, An image of her soul is kept alive, Some lingering fragrance of the pure affection, Whose flower with us will vanish, must survive. TO I. F. 1840. 1851 THE star which comes at close of day to shine More heavenly bright than when it leads the morn, Is friendship's emblem, whether the forlorn She visiteth, or, shedding light benign Through shades that solemnize Life's calm decline, Doth make the happy happier. This have we Glimmers before my sight through thankful tears, Such as start forth, not seldom, to approve Our truth, when we, old yet unchilled by age, Call thee, though known but for a few fleet years, The heart-affianced sister of our love! POOR ROBIN 1840. 1842 I often ask myself what will become of Rydal Mount after our day. Will the old walls and steps remain in front of the house and about the grounds, or will they be swept away with all the beautiful mosses and ferns and wild geraniums and other flowers which their rude construction suffered and encouraged to grow among them? This little wild flower "Poor Robin" is here constantly courting my attention, and exciting what may be called a domestic interest with the varying aspects of its stalks and leaves and flowers. Strangely do the tastes of men differ according to their employment and habits of life. "What a nice well would that be," said a labouring man to me one day, "if all that rubbish was cleared off." The "rubbish" was some of the most beautiful mosses and lichens and ferns and other wild growths that could possibly be seen. Defend us from the tyranny of trimness and neatness showing itself in this way! Chatterton says of freedom-"Upon her head wild weeds were spread;" and depend upon it if "the marvellous boy" had undertaken to give Flora a garland, he would have preferred what we are apt to call weeds to garden-flowers. True taste has an eye for both. Weeds have been called flowers out of place. I fear the place most people would assign to them is too limited. Let them come near to our abodes, as surely they may without impropriety or disorder. Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day! And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, con tent With a hard bed and scanty nourishment, Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower; And flowers they well might seem to passers-by II If looked at only with a careless eye; Flowers or a richer produce (did it suit The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit. But while a thousand pleasures come unsought, Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought? Or does it suit our humour to commend 20 Bright colours whether they deceive or no? to the top of the hill without once dismounting, a feat which it was scarcely possible to perform except during a season of dry weather; and a guide, with whom we fell in on the mountain, told us he believed it had never been accomplished before by any one. By Art's bold privilege Warrior and Warhorse 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 Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a check 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! TO A PAINTER 1841 (?). 1842 The picture which gave occasion to this and the following Sonnet was from the pencil of Miss M. Gillies, who resided for several weeks under our roof at Rydal Mount. 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 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. ON THE SAME SUBJECT THOUGH I beheld at first with blank surprise This Work, I now have gazed on it so long Ever too heedless, as I now perceive: cast These verses were begun while I was on a visit to my son John at Brigham, and were finished at Rydal. As the contents of the volume, to which they are now prefixed, will be assigned to their respective classes when my poems shall be collected in one volume, I should be at a loss where with propriety to place this prelude, being too restricted in its bearing to serve for a preface for the whole. The lines towards the conclusion allude to the discontents then fomented through the country by the agitators of the Anti-Corn-Law League: the particular causes of such troubles are transitory, but disposition to excite and liability to be excited are nevertheless permanent, and therefore proper objects for the poet's regard. |