Volume 8 — 1835
Reading edition
Two Evening Voluntaries, two Elegies (on the deaths of Charles Lamb and James Hogg), the lines on the Bird of Paradise, and a few sonnets, make up the poems belonging to the year 1835.—Ed.
“WHY ART THOU SILENT? IS THY LOVE A PLANT”
Composed 1835 (or earlier).—Published 1835
[In the month of January,—when Dora and I were walking from Town-end, Grasmere, across the Vale, snow being on the ground, she espied, in the thick though leafless hedge, a bird’s nest half-filled with snow. Out of this comfortless appearance arose this Sonnet, which was, in fact, written without the least reference to any individual object, but merely to prove to myself that I could, if I thought fit, write in a strain that Poets have been fond of. On the 14th of February in the same year, my daughter, in a sportive mood, sent it as a Valentine, under a fictitious name, to her cousin C.W.—I.F.]
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
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— 5 Bound to thy service with unceasing care,[17] The mind’s least generous wish a mendicant 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, 10 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!
TO THE MOON (COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE,—ON THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND)
Composed 1835.—Published 1837
One of the “Evening Voluntaries.”—Ed.
Wanderer! that stoop’st so low, and com’st so near To human life’s unsettled atmosphere; Who lov’st with Night and Silence to partake, So might it seem, the cares of them that wake; And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping, 5 Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping; What pleasure once encompassed those sweet names Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims, An idolizing dreamer as of yore!— I slight them all; and, on this sea-beat shore 10 Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend That bid me hail thee as the Sailor’s Friend; So call thee for heaven’s grace through thee made known By confidence supplied and mercy shown, When not a twinkling star or beacon’s light 15 Abates the perils of a stormy night; And for less obvious benefits, that find Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind; Both for the adventurer starting in life’s prime; And veteran ranging round from clime to clime, 20 Long-baffled hope’s slow fever in his veins, And wounds and weakness oft his labour’s sole remains. The aspiring Mountains and the winding Streams, Empress of Night! are gladdened by thy beams; A look of thine the wilderness pervades, 25 And penetrates the forest’s inmost shades; Thou, chequering peaceably the minster’s gloom, Guid’st the pale Mourner to the lost one’s tomb; Canst reach the Prisoner—to his grated cell Welcome, though silent and intangible!— 30 And lives there one, of all that come and go On the great waters toiling to and fro, One, who has watched thee at some quiet hour Enthroned aloft in undisputed power, Or crossed by vapoury streaks and clouds that move 35 Catching the lustre they in part reprove— Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day, And make the serious happier than the gay? Yes, lovely Moon! if thou so mildly bright 40 Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite, To fiercer mood the phrenzy-stricken brain, Let me a compensating faith maintain; That there’s a sensitive, a tender, part Which thou canst touch in every human heart, 45 For healing and composure.—But, as least And mightiest billows ever have confessed Thy domination; as the whole vast Sea Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty; So shines that countenance with especial grace 50 On them who urge the keel her plains to trace Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude, Cut off from home and country, may have stood— Even till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye, Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh— 55 Touched by accordance of thy placid cheer, With some internal lights to memory dear, Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast Tired with its daily share of earth’s unrest,— Gentle awakenings, visitations meek; 60 A kindly influence whereof few will speak, Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek. And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave;[18] Then, while the Sailor, ’mid an open sea 65 Swept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free, Paces the deck—no star perhaps in sight, And nothing save the moving ship’s own light To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night— Oft with his musings does thy image blend, 70 In his mind’s eye thy crescent horns ascend, And thou art still, O Moon, that Sailor’s Friend!
TO THE MOON (RYDAL)
Composed 1835.—Published 1837
One of the “Evening Voluntaries.”—Ed.
Queen of the stars!—so gentle, so benign, That ancient Fable did to thee assign, When darkness creeping o’er thy silver brow Warned thee these upper regions to forego, Alternate empire in the shades below— 5 A Bard, who, lately near the wide-spread sea Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up to thee With grateful thoughts, doth now thy rising hail From the close confines of a shadowy vale. Glory of night, conspicuous yet serene, 10 Nor less attractive when by glimpses seen Through cloudy umbrage,[19] well might that fair face, And all those attributes of modest grace, In days when Fancy wrought unchecked by fear, Down to the green earth fetch thee from thy sphere, 15 To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear! O still belov’d (for thine, meek Power, are charms That fascinate the very Babe in arms, While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs outright, Spreading his little palms in his glad Mother’s sight) 20 O still belov’d, once worshipped! Time, that frowns In his destructive flight on earthly crowns, Spares thy mild splendour; still those far-shot beams Tremble on dancing waves and rippling streams With stainless touch, as chaste as when thy praise 25 Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays; And through dark trials still dost thou explore Thy way for increase punctual as of yore, When teeming Matrons—yielding to rude faith In mysteries of birth and life and death 30 And painful struggle and deliverance—prayed Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. What though the rites be swept away, the fanes Extinct that echoed to the votive strains; Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot, cease 35 Love to promote and purity and peace; And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may trace Faint types of suffering in thy beamless face. Then, silent Monitress! let us—not blind To worlds unthought of till the searching mind 40 Of Science laid them open to mankind— Told, also, how the voiceless heavens declare God’s glory; and acknowledging thy share In that blest charge; let us—without offence To aught of highest, holiest, influence— 45 Receive whatever good ’tis given thee to dispense. May sage and simple, catching with one eye The moral intimations of the sky, Learn from thy course, where’er their own be taken, “To look on tempests, and be never shaken”;[20] 50 To keep with faithful step the appointed way Eclipsing or eclipsed, by night or day, And from example of thy monthly range Gently to brook decline and fatal change; Meek, patient, stedfast, and with loftier scope, 55 Than thy revival yields, for gladsome hope![21]
WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB
[Light will be thrown upon the tragic circumstance alluded to in this poem when, after the death of Charles Lamb’s Sister, his biographer, Mr. Sergeant Talfourd, shall be at liberty to relate particulars which could not, at the time his Memoir was written, be given to the public. Mary Lamb was ten years older than her brother, and has survived him as long a time. Were I to give way to my own feelings, I should dwell not only on her genius and intellectual powers, but upon the delicacy and refinement of manner which she maintained inviolable under most trying circumstances. She was loved and honoured by all her brother’s friends; and others, some of them strange characters, whom his philanthropic peculiarities induced him to countenance. The death of C. Lamb himself was doubtless hastened by his sorrow for that of Coleridge, to whom he had been attached from the time of their being school-fellows at Christ’s Hospital. Lamb was a good Latin scholar, and probably would have gone to college upon one of the school foundations but for the impediment in his speech. Had such been his lot, he would most likely have been preserved from the indulgences of social humours and fancies which were often injurious to himself, and causes of severe regret to his friends, without really benefiting the object of his misapplied kindness.—I.F.]
In the edition of 1837, these lines had no title. They were printed privately,—before their first appearance in that edition,—as a small pamphlet of seven pages without title or heading. A copy will be found in the fifth volume of the collection of pamphlets, forming part of the library bequeathed by the late Mr. John Forster to the South Kensington Museum. There are several readings to be found only in this privately-printed edition. The poem was placed among the “Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces.”—Ed.
Composed November 19, 1835.—Published 1837
To a good Man of most dear memory[22] This Stone is sacred.[23] Here he lies apart From the great city where he first drew breath, Was reared and taught; and humbly earned his bread, To the strict labours of the merchant’s desk 5 By duty chained. Not seldom did those tasks Tease, and the thought of time so spent depress, His spirit, but the recompense was high; Firm Independence, Bounty’s rightful sire; Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air; 10 And when the precious hours of leisure came, Knowledge and wisdom, gained from converse sweet With books, or while he ranged the crowded streets With a keen eye, and overflowing heart: So genius triumphed over seeming wrong, 15 And poured out truth in works by thoughtful love Inspired—works potent over smiles and tears. And as round mountain-tops the lightning plays, Thus innocently sported, breaking forth As from a cloud of some grave sympathy, 20 Humour and wild instinctive wit, and all The vivid flashes of his spoken words. From the most gentle creature nursed in fields[24] Had been derived the name he bore—a name, Wherever christian altars have been raised, 25 Hallowed to meekness and to innocence; And if in him meekness at times gave way, Provoked out of herself by troubles strange, Many and strange, that hung about his life;[25] Still, at the centre of his being, lodged 30 A soul by resignation sanctified: And if too often, self-reproached, he felt That innocence belongs not to our kind, A power that never ceased to abide in him, Charity, ’mid the multitude of sins[26] 35 That she can cover, left not his exposed To an unforgiving judgment from just Heaven. O, he was good, if e’er a good Man lived! From a reflecting mind and sorrowing heart Those simple lines flowed with an earnest wish, 40 Though but a doubting hope, that they might serve Fitly to guard the precious dust of him Whose virtues called them forth. That aim is missed; For much that truth most urgently required Had from a faltering pen been asked in vain: 45 Yet, haply, on the printed page received, The imperfect record, there, may stand unblamed As long as verse of mine shall breathe the air Of memory, or see the light of love.[27] Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my Friend, 50 But more in show than truth;[28] and from the fields, And from the mountains, to thy rural grave Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o’er Its green untrodden turf, and blowing flowers; And taking up a voice shall speak (tho’ still 55 Awed by the theme’s peculiar sanctity Which words less free presumed not even to touch) Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lamp From infancy, through manhood, to the last Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour, 60 Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, enshrined[29] Within thy bosom. “Wonderful” hath been The love established between man and man, “Passing the love of women;” and between Man and his help-mate in fast wedlock joined 65 Through God,[30] is raised a spirit and soul of love Without whose blissful influence Paradise Had been no Paradise; and earth were now A waste where creatures bearing human form, Direst of savage beasts, would roam in fear, 70 Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on;[31] And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieve That he hath been an Elm without his Vine, And her bright dower of clustering charities, That, round his trunk and branches, might have clung 75 Enriching and adorning. Unto thee, Not so enriched, not so adorned, to thee Was given (say rather thou of later birth Wert given to her) a Sister—’tis a word Timidly uttered, for she lives, the meek, 80 The self-restraining, and the ever-kind; In whom thy reason and intelligent heart Found—for all interests, hopes, and tender cares, All softening, humanising, hallowing powers, Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought— 85 More than sufficient recompense! Her love (What weakness prompts the voice to tell it here?) Was as the love of mothers; and when years, Lifting the boy to man’s estate, had called The long-protected to assume the part 90 Of a protector, the first filial tie Was undissolved; and, in or out of sight, Remained imperishably interwoven With life itself. Thus, ’mid a shifting world, Did they together testify of time[32] 95 And season’s difference—a double tree With two collateral stems sprung from one root; Such were they—such thro’ life they might have been In union, in partition only such; Otherwise wrought the will of the Most High; 100 Yet, thro’ all visitations and all trials, Still they were faithful; like two vessels launched From the same beach one ocean to explore[33] With mutual help, and sailing—to their league True, as inexorable winds, or bars 105 Floating or fixed of polar ice, allow.[34] But turn we rather, let my spirit turn With thine, O silent and invisible Friend! To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief, When reunited, and by choice withdrawn 110 From miscellaneous converse, ye were taught That the remembrance of foregone distress, And the worse fear of future ill (which oft Doth hang around it, as a sickly child Upon its mother) may be both alike 115 Disarmed of power to unsettle present good So prized, and things inward and outward held In such an even balance, that the heart Acknowledges God’s grace, his mercy feels, And in its depth of gratitude is still. 120 O gift divine of quiet sequestration! The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, And feeding daily on the hope of heaven, Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves To life-long singleness; but happier far 125 Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others, A thousand times more beautiful appeared, Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie Is broken; yet why grieve? for Time but holds His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead 130 To the blest world where parting is unknown.[35]
EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG
Composed 1835.—Published 1835
[These verses were written extempore, immediately after reading a notice of the Ettrick Shepherd’s death, in the Newcastle paper, to the Editor of which I sent a copy for publication. The persons lamented in these verses were all either of my friends or acquaintance. In Lockhart’s Life of Sir Walter Scott, an account is given of my first meeting with him in 1803. How the Ettrick Shepherd and I became known to each other has already been mentioned in these notes. He was undoubtedly a man of original genius, but of coarse manners and low and offensive opinions. Of Coleridge and Lamb I need not speak here. Crabbe I have met in London at Mr. Rogers’s, but more frequently and favourably at Mr. Hoare’s upon Hampstead Heath. Every spring he used to pay that family a visit of some length, and was upon terms of intimate friendship with Mrs. Hoare, and still more with her daughter-in-law, who has a large collection of his letters addressed to herself. After the Poet’s decease, application was made to her to give up these letters to his biographer, that they, or at least part of them, might be given to the public. She hesitated to comply, and asked my opinion on the subject. “By no means,” was my answer, grounded not upon any objection there might be to publishing a selection from these letters, but from an aversion I have always felt to meet idle curiosity by calling back the recently departed to become the object of trivial and familiar gossip. Crabbe obviously for the most part preferred the company of women to that of men, for this among other reasons, that he did not like to be put upon the stretch in general conversation: accordingly in miscellaneous society his talk was so much below what might have been expected from a man so deservedly celebrated, that to me it seemed trifling. It must upon other occasions have been of a different character, as I found in our rambles together on Hampstead Heath, and not so much from a readiness to communicate his knowledge of life and manners as of natural history in all its branches. His mind was inquisitive, and he seems to have taken refuge from the remembrance of the distresses he had gone through, in these studies and the employments to which they led. Moreover, such contemplations might tend profitably to counterbalance the painful truths which he had collected from his intercourse with mankind. Had I been more intimate with him, I should have ventured to touch upon his office as a minister of the Gospel, and how far his heart and soul were in it so as to make him a zealous and diligent labourer: in poetry, though he wrote much as we all know, he assuredly was not so. I happened once to speak of pains as necessary to produce merit of a certain kind which I highly valued: his observation was—“It is not worth while.” You are quite right, thought I, if the labour encroaches upon the time due to teach truth as a steward of the mysteries of God: if there be cause to fear that, write less: but, if poetry is to be produced at all, make what you do produce as good as you can. Mr. Rogers once told me that he expressed his regret to Crabbe that he wrote in his later works so much less correctly than in his earlier. “Yes,” replied he, “but then I had a reputation to make; now I can afford to relax.” Whether it was from a modest estimate of his own qualifications, or from causes less creditable, his motives for writing verse and his hopes and aims were not so high as is to be desired. After being silent for more than twenty years, he again applied himself to poetry, upon the spur of applause he received from the periodical publications of the day, as he himself tells us in one of his prefaces. Is it not to be lamented that a man who was so conversant with permanent truth, and whose writings are so valuable an acquisition to our country’s literature, should have required an impulse from such a quarter? Mrs. Hemans was unfortunate as a poetess in being obliged by circumstances to write for money, and that so frequently and so much, that she was compelled to look out for subjects wherever she could find them, and to write as expeditiously as possible. As a woman, she was to a considerable degree a spoilt child of the world. She had been early in life distinguished for talent, and poems of hers were published while she was a girl. She had also been handsome in her youth, but her education had been most unfortunate. She was totally ignorant of housewifery, and could as easily have managed the spear of Minerva as her needle. It was from observing these deficiencies, that, one day while she was under my roof, I purposely directed her attention to household economy, and told her I had purchased Scales which I intended to present to a young lady as a wedding present; pointed out their utility (for her especial benefit) and said that no ménage ought to be without them. Mrs. Hemans, not in the least suspecting my drift, reported this saying, in a letter to a friend at the time, as a proof of my simplicity. Being disposed to make large allowances for the faults of her education and the circumstances in which she was placed, I felt most kindly disposed towards her, and took her part upon all occasions, and I was not a little affected by learning that after she withdrew to Ireland, a long and severe sickness raised her spirit as it depressed her body. This I heard from her most intimate friends, and there is striking evidence of it in a poem written and published not long before her death. These notices of Mrs. Hemans would be very unsatisfactory to her intimate friends, as indeed they are to myself, not so much for what is said, but what for brevity’s sake is left unsaid. Let it suffice to add, there was much sympathy between us, and, if opportunity had been allowed me to see more of her, I should have loved and valued her accordingly; as it is, I remember her with true affection for her amiable qualities, and, above all, for her delicate and irreproachable conduct during her long separation from an unfeeling husband, whom she had been led to marry from the romantic notions of inexperienced youth. Upon this husband I never heard her cast the least reproach, nor did I ever hear her even name him, though she did not wholly forbear to touch upon her domestic position; but never so that any fault could be found with her manner of adverting to it. —I.F.]
This first appeared in The Athenæum, December 12, 1835, and in the edition of 1837 it was included among the “Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces.”—Ed.
When first, descending from the moorlands, I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide Along a bare and open valley, The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.[36] When last along its banks I wandered, 5 Through groves that had begun to shed Their golden leaves upon the pathways, My steps the Border-minstrel led. The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer,[37] ’Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;[38] 10 And death upon the braes of Yarrow, Has closed the Shepherd-poet’s eyes:[39] Nor has the rolling year twice measured, From sign to sign, its stedfast course, Since every mortal power of Coleridge 15 Was frozen at its marvellous source;[40] The rapt One, of the godlike forehead,[41] The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.[42] 20 Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,[43] Or waves that own no curbing hand, How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land! Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber[44] 25 Were earlier raised, remain to hear A timid voice, that asks in whispers, “Who next will drop and disappear?” Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, Like London with its own black wreath, 30 On which with thee, O Crabbe! forth-looking, I gazed from Hampstead’s breezy heath. As if but yesterday departed, Thou too art gone before;[45] but why, O’er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 35 Should frail survivors heave a sigh? Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep; For Her who, ere her summer faded, Has sunk into a breathless sleep.[46] 40 No more of old romantic sorrows, For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid! With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead.[47]
UPON SEEING A COLOURED DRAWING OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE IN AN ALBUM
Composed 1835.—Published 1836
[I cannot forbear to record that the last seven lines of this Poem were composed in bed during the night of the day on which my sister Sara Hutchinson died about 6 P.M., and it was the thought of her innocent and beautiful life that, through faith, prompted the words——
On wings that fear no glance of God’s pure sight, No tempest from his breath.
The reader will find two poems on pictures of this bird among my Poems. I will here observe that in a far greater number of instances than have been mentioned in these notes one poem has, as in this case, grown out of another, either because I felt the subject had been inadequately treated, or that the thoughts and images suggested in course of composition have been such as I found interfered with the unity indispensable to every work of art, however humble in character.—I.F.]
One of the “Poems of Sentiment and Reflection.”—Ed.
Who rashly strove thy Image to portray? Thou buoyant minion of the tropic air; How could he think of the live creature——gay With a divinity of colours, drest In all her brightness, from the dancing crest 5 Far as the last gleam of the filmy train Extended and extending to sustain The motions that it graces——and forbear To drop his pencil! Flowers of every clime Depicted on these pages smile at time; 10 And gorgeous insects copied with nice care Are here, and likenesses of many a shell Tossed ashore by restless waves, Or in the diver’s grasp fetched up from caves Where sea-nymphs might be proud to dwell: 15 But whose rash hand (again I ask) could dare, ’Mid casual tokens and promiscuous shows, To circumscribe this Shape in fixed repose; Could imitate for indolent survey, Perhaps for touch profane, 20 Plumes that might catch, but cannot keep, a stain; And, with cloud-streaks lightest and loftiest, share The sun’s first greeting, his last farewell ray! Resplendent Wanderer! followed with glad eyes Where’er her course; mysterious Bird! 25 To whom, by wondering Fancy stirred, Eastern Islanders have given A holy name——the Bird of Heaven! And even a title higher still, The Bird of God![48] whose blessed will 30 She seems performing as she flies Over the earth and through the skies In never-wearied search of Paradise—— Region that crowns her beauty with the name She bears for us——for us how blest, 35 How happy at all seasons, could like aim Uphold our Spirits urged to kindred flight On wings that fear no glance of God’s pure sight, No tempest from his breath, their promised rest Seeking with indefatigable quest 40 Above a world that deems itself most wise When most enslaved by gross realities!
“DESPONDING FATHER! MARK THIS ALTERED BOUGH”
Composed 1835.—Published 1835
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
Desponding Father! mark this altered bough,[49] 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 5 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 10 (Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call: In all men, sinful is it to be slow To hope——in Parents, sinful above all.
“FOUR FIERY STEEDS IMPATIENT OF THE REIN”
Composed 1835.—Published 1835
[Suggested on the road between Preston and Lancaster where it first gives a view of the Lake country, and composed on the same day, on the roof of the coach.—I.F.]
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein Whirled us o’er sunless ground beneath a sky As void of sunshine, when, from that wide plain, Clear tops of far-off mountains we descry, Like a Sierra of cerulean Spain, 5 All light and lustre. Did no heart reply? Yes, there was One;—for One, asunder fly The thousand links of that ethereal chain; And green vales open out, with grove and field, And the fair front of many a happy Home; 10 Such tempting spots as into vision come While Soldiers, weary of the arms they wield And sick at heart[50] of strifeful Christendom, Gaze on the moon by parting clouds revealed.
TO ——
Composed 1835.—Published 1835
[The fate of this poor Dove, as described, was told to me at Brinsop Court, by the young lady to whom I have given the name of Lesbia.—I.F.]
[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.]
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
“Wait, prithee, wait!” this answer Lesbia[51] 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 5 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 10 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!
ROMAN ANTIQUITIES DISCOVERED AT BISHOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE
Composed 1835.—Published 1835
[My attention to these antiquities was directed by Mr. Walker, son to the itinerant Eidouranian Philosopher. The beautiful pavement was discovered within a few yards of the front door of his parsonage, and appeared from the site (in full view of several hills upon which there had formerly been Roman encampments) as if it might have been the villa of the commander of the forces, at least such was Mr. Walker’s conjecture.—I.F.]
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
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, 5 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: 10 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
Composed 1835.—Published 1835
[Written on a journey from Brinsop Court, Herefordshire.—I.F.]
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
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;[52] Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady blest 5 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 10 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.
“BY A BLEST HUSBAND GUIDED, MARY CAME”[53]
Published 1835
[This lady was named Carleton; she, along with a sister, was brought up in the neighbourhood of Ambleside. The epitaph, a part of it at least, is in the church at Bromsgrove, where she resided after her marriage.—I.F.]
One of the “Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces.”—Ed.
By a blest Husband guided, Mary came From nearest kindred, Vernon[54] her new name; She came, though meek of soul, in seemly pride Of happiness and hope, a youthful Bride. O dread reverse! if aught be so, which proves 5 That God will chasten whom he dearly loves. Faith bore her up through pains in mercy given, And troubles that were each a step to Heaven: Two Babes were laid in earth before she died; A third now slumbers at the Mother’s side; 10 Its Sister-twin survives, whose smiles afford A trembling solace to her widowed Lord. Reader! if to thy bosom cling the pain Of recent sorrow combated in vain; Or if thy cherished grief have failed to thwart 15 Time still intent on his insidious part, Lulling the mourner’s best good thoughts asleep, Pilfering regrets we would, but cannot, keep; Bear with Him—judge Him gently who makes known His bitter loss by this memorial Stone; 20 And pray that in his faithful breast the grace Of resignation find a hallowed place.
“OH WHAT A WRECK! HOW CHANGED IN MIEN AND SPEECH!”
Composed 1835.—Published 1838
[The sad condition of poor Mrs. Southey[55] put me upon writing this. It has afforded comfort to many persons whose friends have been similarly affected.—I.F.]
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
Oh what a Wreck! how changed in mien and speech! Yet—though dread Powers, that work in mystery, spin Entanglings of[56] the brain; though shadows stretch O’er the chilled heart—reflect; far, far within Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. 5 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;[57] both do live and move, 10 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.