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of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 't is true,
The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two isles
In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad,
My gentle-hearted Charles ! fur thou hast pined
In the great city pent, winning thy way
And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink
Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun! Lurk'd undiscover'd by him ; not a rill
Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, There issues from the fount of Hippocrene, Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds ! But he had traced it upward to its source,
Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves ! Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell, And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my Friend, Knew the gay wild-Powers on its banks, and culla Struck with deep joy, may stand, as I have stood, Its med cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone,
Silent with swimming sense ; yen, gazing round Piercing the long-neglected holy cave,
On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem
Less gross than bodily; and of such hues
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad Philosopher! contemning wealth and death, As I myself were there! Nor in this bower, Yet docile, childlike, full of life and love! This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd Here, rather than on monumental stone,
Much that has soothed me.' Pale beneath the blaze This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes, Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch'd Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek. Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see
The shadow of the leaf and stem above
Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay
Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass, In the Juno of 1797, some long-expected Friends paid a visit Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue
to the Author's Cottage; and on the morning of their ar- Through the late twilight: and though now the Bat
Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,
No waste so vacant, but may well employ This Lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart Beauties and feelings, such as would have been
Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes Most sweet to my remembrance, even when age ”T is well to be bereft of promised good, Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! They, mean. That we may lift the soul, and contemplate
while, Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
With lively joy the joys we cannot share.
My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last Rook On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,
Beat its straight path along the dusky air Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,
Homewards, I blest it! deering its black wing To that still roaring dell, of which I told :
(Now : dim speck, now vanishing in light) The roaring dell, 'o'erwooded, narrow, deep,
Had cross'd the mighty Orbis dilated glory,
While thou stood'st gazing; or when all was still,
Flew creakingt o'er thy head, and had a charm
TO A FRIEND
DEAR Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween
NO MORE POETRY.
• The Asplenium Scolopendrium, called in some countries † Some months after I had written this line, it gave me pleathe Adder's Tongue, in others the Hart's Tongue; but With sure to observe that Bartram had observed the same circumering gives the Adder's Tongue as the trivial name of the stance of the Savanna Crane. "When these Birds move Ophioglossum only.
their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate and
Hight Castalie: and (sureties of thy faith)
Of tides obedient to external force, That Pity and Simplicity stood by,
And currents self-determined, as might seem, And promised for thee, that thou shouldst renounce Or by some inner Power; of moments awful, The world's low cares and lying vanities,
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad, Stedfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse, When Power stream'd from theė, and thy soul And wash'd and sanctified to Poesy.
received Yes-thou wert plunged, but with forgetful hand The light reflected, as a light bestow'd Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior Son :
Of Fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought
Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills!
Were rising; or by secret Mountain-streams, And I have arrows* mystically dipp'd,
The Guides and the Companions of thy way! Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead.? And shall he die unwept, and sink to Earth
Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense * Without the meed of one melodious tear?"
Distending wide, and Man beloved as Man, Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved Bard, Where France in all her towns lay vibrating Who to the “ Illustrioust of his native land
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst “So properly did look for patronage.”
Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud Ghost of Mæcenas! hide thy blushing face!
Is visible, or shadow on the Main. They snatch'd him from the Sickle and the Plow For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded, To gauge Ale-Firkins.
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow,
Amid a mighty nation jubilant,
When from the general heart of human-kind
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity! There stands a lone and melancholy tree,
Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down, Whose aged branches in the midnight blast
So summond homeward, thenceforth calm and sure, Mahe solemn music: pluck its darkest bough,
From the dread watch-lower of man's absolute Self, Ere yet the unwholesome night-dew be exhaled,
With light unwaning on her eyes, to look
Far on-herself a glory to behold,
Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice,
A song divine of high and passionate thoughts, krut in nice intertexture, so to twine
To their own music chanted!
O great Bard!
Of ever-enduring men. The truly Great
Have all one age, and from one visible space
Shed influence! They, both in power and act, COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION Are permanent, and 'T'ime is not with them, OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old,
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame FRIEND of the Wise! and Teacher of the Good! Among the archives of mankind, thy work Into my heart have I received that lay
Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, More than historic, that prophetic lay,
Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay, Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! Of the foundations and the building up
Ah! as I listend with a heart forlorn,
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of painsBy vital breathings secret as the soul
Keen Pangs of Love, awakening as a babe Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart; Thoughts all too deep for words
And Fears self-willid, that shunnid the eye of Hope ;
And Hope that scarce would know itself from Fear,
Theme hard as high! Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come in vain, Of smules spontaneous, and mysterious fears And Genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth), And all which I had cull'd in wood-walks wild,
And all which patient toil had reard, and all, regular; and even when at a considerable distance or high Commune with thee had open'd out-but flowers above us, we plainly hear the quill-feathers; their shafts and Strew'd on my corse, and borne upon my bier, webs upon one another creak as the joints or working of a In the same coffin, for the self-same grave! vessel in a tempestuous wa." * Vide Pined. Olymp. 18. I. 156. Verbatim froro Boros's dedication of his Poems to the No
That way no more! and ill beseems it me, Edity and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt.
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise,
Singing of Glory, and Futurity,
* Most musical, most melancholy"+ bird !
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrow), he and such as he,
When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs
By Sun or Moon-light, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like Nature ! But 't will not be so;
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still,
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs
My friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance! "Tis the merry Nightingale Wert still before my eyes, and round us both
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates That happy vision of beloved faces
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
And I know a grove
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many Nightingales ; and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other's song, No cloud, no relic of the sunken day
With skirmish and capricious passagings, Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
and full, A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade And hark! the Nightingale begins its song, Lights up her love-torch.
"A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals * This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars to that of mere description. It is spoken in the character of the of flame danced and sparkled and went out in it: and every melancholy man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The now and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the chargo darted off from the vessel's side, each with its own small con- of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton: a charge than stellation, over the sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar which none could be more painful to him, excopt perhaps that troop over a wilderness.”—The Friend, p. 220.
of having ridiculed his Bible.
A most gentlo Maid, By its own moods interprets, everywhere Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Echo or mirror seeking of itself, Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
And makes a toy of Thought. (Even like a lady vow'd and dedicato To something more than Nature in the grove)
But O! how oft, Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their How oft, at school, with most believing mind notes,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, That gentle Maid! and oft a moment's space, To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud, With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Hath heard a pause of silence; till the Moon Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-lower, Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang With one sensation, and these wakeful Birds From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
So sweetly, that they stirr'd and haunted me As if some sudden gale had swept at once With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear A hundred airy harps! And she hath watch'd Most like articulate sounds of things to come! Many a Nightingale perch'd giddily
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
And so I brooded all the following mom,
Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book:
A hasty glance, and still my heart leap'd up, We have been loitering long and pleasantly, For still I hoped 10 see the stranger's face, And now for our dear homes.- That strain again? Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe, My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! Who, capable of no articulate sound, Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, How he would place his hand beside his ear, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, His little hand, the small forefinger up,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies And bid us listen! And I decm it wise
And momentary pauses of the thought!
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
Ilimself in all, and all things in himself.
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be swect to thce,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth The Frost performs its secret ministry,
With greenness, or the red breast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the cave-drops Have left me to that solitude, which suits
fall Abstruser musings : save that at my side
Heard only in the trances of the blast, My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
Or if the secret ministry of frost "T is calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
TO A FRIEND.
TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM.
Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse,
Embow'rs me from noon's sultry influence!
Makes solemn music! But th' unceasing rill
But Poesy demands th' impassion'd theme :
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream,
THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.
COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN ABSENCE.
Dim hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar,
IV. ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE THREE GRAVES.
A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE.
[The Author has published the following humble fragment, LINES TO JOSEPII.COTTLE.
encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one
of our most' celebrated living Poets. The language was in My honor'd friend! whose verse concise, yet clear, tended to be dramatic ; that is, suited to the narrator; and the Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
metre correxponds to the bomeliness of the diction. It is there
foro presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a comMay your fame fadeless live, as “never-sere”
mon Ballad-talo. Whether this is sufficient to justify the adopThe ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence tion of such a style, in any metrical composition not profess
edly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all * I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines
events, it is not presented as Poetry, and it is in no way con
nected with the Author's judgment concerning Poetic diction. of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Its merits, if any, are exclusively Psychological. The story Aught to implore were impotence of mind, it being written in Scripture. "Ask, and it shall be given you." and my human rearon being moreover convinced of the pro
War, a Fragment. † John the Baptist, a Poem. priety of offering petitions as well as thanksgivings to the Deity. 1 Monody on John Henderson,