Sidor som bilder

awful scepticism into the darkness of another world, and the second breathing all that is most natural and tender in the affections of this,-were also written at this time, and have never before been published.


• Could I remount the river of my years

To the first fountain of our smiles and tears,


I would not trace again the stream of hours

· Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers,

But bid it flow as now-until it glides

'Into the number of the nameless tides.

'What is this Death ?-a quiet of the heart?
The whole of that of which we are a part?

• For Life is but a vision—what I see

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Of all which lives alone is life to me,

And being so-the absent are the dead,

Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread

'A dreary shroud around us, and invest
'With sad remembrances our hours of rest.


The absent are the dead-for they are cold,
'And ne'er can be what once we did behold;
And they are changed, and cheerless,—or if yet
'The unforgotten do not all forget,

Since thus divided-equal must it be

'If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea;

It may be both-but one day end it must


In the dark union of insensate dust.

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The under-earth inhabitants-are they
But mingled millions decomposed to clay?
The ashes of a thousand ages spread
'Wherever man has trodden or shall tread?
Or do they in their silent cities dwell
Each in his incommunicative cell?

'Or have they their own language? and a sense


Of breathless being ?-darken'd and intense

not quite so generous, of which a few of the opening lines is all I shall give :

'And thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee!

And thou wert sick-and yet I was not near. 'Methought that Joy and Health alone could be

Where I was not, and pain and sorrow here.
And is it thus ?-it is as I foretold,


And shall be more so:-' &c. &c.

'As midnight in her solitude?-Oh Earth!

'Where are the past ?-and wherefore had they birth?

The dead are thy inheritors-and we

But bubbles on thy surface; and the key

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My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
'Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
'No tears, but tenderness to answer mine:
'Go where I will, to me thou art the same-
A loved regret which I would not resign.

There yet are two things in my destiny,

'A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

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A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
'Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;
'Reversed for him our grandsire's* fate of yore,--

'He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

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Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage with

' out a tempest. He was known to the sailors by the facetious name of 6.66 Foul-weather Jack."

But, though it were tempest-tost,
Still his bark could not be lost.

'He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager (in Anson's Voyage), ' and subsequently circumnavigated the world, many years after, as com'mander of a similar expedition."



'Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. 'My whole life was a contest, since the day 'That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd The gift,—a fate, or will that walk'd astray; 'And I at times have found the struggle hard, ' And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay: 'But now I fain would for a time survive, 'If but to see what next can well arrive.

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Kingdoms and empires in my little day 'I have outlived, and yet I am not old;

" And when I look on this, the petty spray

'Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd

'Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away:

Something - I know not what-does still uphold A spirit of slight patience;-not in vain, Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.

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And with light armour we may learn to bear,)

Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not

'The chief companion of a calmer lot.

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Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air,

(For even to this may change of soul refer,

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I feel almost at times as I have felt


In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks, 'Which do remember me of where I dwelt


Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 'Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 'My heart with recognition of their looks; 'And even at moments I could think I see "Some living thing to love-but none like thee.

'Here are the Alpine landscapes which create
A fund for contemplation;-to admire
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;

'But something worthier do such scenes inspire:
'Here to be lonely is not desolate,

For much I view which I could most desire, 'And, above all, a lake I can behold

Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.

Oh that thou wert but with me!--but I grow

The fool of my own wishes, and forget

The solitude which I have vaunted so

Has lost its praise in this but one regret;

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There may be others which I less may show ;

'I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet


I feel an ebb in my philosophy,

And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.

'I did remind thee of our own dear lake*,


By the old hall which may be mine no more. 'Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake 'The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:

Sad havoc Time must with my memory make 'Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before; 'Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 'Resign'd for ever, or divided far.

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The passions which have torn me would have slept;

'I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept.

With false ambition what had I to do? 'Little with love, and least of all with fame;

And yet they came unsought, and with me grew,

And made me all which they can make-a name.

'Yet this was not the end I did pursue;

Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.

But all is over-I am one the more


To baffled millions which have gone before.

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'My years have been no slumber, but the prey
'Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share

Of life which might have fill'd a century,
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by.

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For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart
I know myself secure, as thou in mine:
We were and are-I am, even as thou art-
'Beings who ne'er each other can resign;

It is the same, together or apart,

'From life's commencement to its slow decline
'We are entwined-let death come slow or fast,

" The tie which bound the first endures the last!'

In the month of August, Mr. M. G. Lewis arrived to pass some time with him; and he was soon after visited by Mr. Richard Sharpe, of whom he makes such honourable mention in the Journal already given, and with whom, as I have heard this gentleman say, it now gave him evident pleasure to converse about their common friends in England. Among those who appeared to have left the strongest impressions of interest and admiration on his mind was (as easily will be believed by all who know this distinguished person) Sir James Mackintosh.

Soon after the arrival of his friends, Mr. Hobhouse and Mr. S. Davies, he set out, as we have seen, with the former on a tour through the Bernese Alps,—after accomplishing which journey, about the beginning of October he took his departure, accompanied by the same gentleman, for Italy.

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