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Hight Cascalie: and (sureties of thy faith) of tides obedient to external force,
And currents self-determined, as might seem,
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad, Stedfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse,
When Power stream'd from thee, 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'dHeld, as by Thetis erst her warrior Son:
Of Fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, And with those recreant unbaptized heels
Hy blean murmurs of poetic thought Thou ’rt flying from thy bounden ministeries Industrious in its joy, in Vales and Glens So sore it seems and burthensome a task
Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills ! To weave unwithering flowers ! But take thou heed: Or on the lonely High-road, when the Stars For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed Boy,
Were rising; or by secret Mountain-streams,
The Guides and the Companions of thy way'
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 snateh'd him from the Sickle and the Plow— For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded, To gauge Ale-Firkins.
Amid the trernor 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,
LOf that dear Hope afflicted and struck down Whose aged branches in the midnight blast
So summond homeward, thenceforth calm and sure Make solemn music: pluck its darkest bough, From the dread watch-tower 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, Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine
To their own music chanted ! The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility.
O great Baru'
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 Time is not with thein, OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
Nor less a sacred roil, 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,
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 shunn'd the eye of Hopm
And Hope that scaric would know itself from Fear
Theme hard as high! Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come in vain Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears And Genius given, and knowledge wou 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 rear'd, and all, regular ; and even when at a considerabie distance or high Commune with thee had open'd out-but flowers above us, we plainly hear the quill feathers ; their shafts und 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 sen.
+ Vide Pind. Olymp. ii. J. 156.
That way no more! and ill beseems it me, milits and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt.
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise.
Singing of Glory, and Futurity,
Most musical, most melancholy”+ bird ! To wander back on such unhealthful road,
A melancholy bird ? Oh! idle thought! Plucking the poisons of self-harm! And ill In nature there is nothing melancholy. Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths But some night-wandering man, whose heart was Sirew'd before thy advancing !
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Nor do thou, Or slow distemper, or neglected love Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour (And so, poor Wretch! filled all things with himself Of my communion with thy nobler mind
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 shifung elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
A venerable thing! and so his song In silenco listening, like a devout child,
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself My soul lay passive, by the various strain
Be loved like Nature! But 't will not be so; Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,
And youths and maidens most poetical, With momentary Stars of my own birth,
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring Fair constellated Foam,* still darting off
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still, Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea,
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon. O’er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.
And when_O Friend! my comforter and guide! My friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength !- A different lore: we may not thus profane Thy long sustained song finally closed,
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love And thy deep voice had ceased-yet thou thyself
And joyance ! "T is 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 I sale, my being blended in one thought
Would be too short for him to utter forth (Thoughi was it? or Aspiration ? or Resolve ?) His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound
Of all its music.
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 swist jug jug, Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
And one low piping sound more sweet than allCome, we will rest on this old mossy bridge! Surring the air with such a harmony, You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, That should you close your eyes, you might almost But hear no murmuring : it flows silently,
Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright Taat 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 superio 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 chargr darled off from the vessel's side, ench 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, except perhaps that troop over a wilderness."- The Friend, p. 220.
of having ridiculed his Bible.
A most gentle 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 dedicate 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 Haih heard a pause of silence; till the Moon Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-toner 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, Hare 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 morn,
Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book:
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 deem it wise
And momentary pauses of the thought ! To make him Nature's Play-mate. He knows well My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart The evening-star; and once, when he awoke With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, In most distressful mood (some inward pain
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream), And in far other scenes! For I was rear'd I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth The Frost performs its secret ministry,
With greenness, or the redbreast 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 eave-drops
fall Abstruser musings : save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
Ileard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost Tis 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 !
of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers !
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around !
THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.
COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN ABSENCE. Dim hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds' afar, O rise and yoke the turtles to thy car! Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove, And give me to the bosom of my love! My gentle love, caressing and carest, With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest ; Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes, Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs : While finely-flushing float her kisses meek, Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek. Chillid by the night, the drooping rose of May Mourns the long absence of the lovely day; Young Day, returning at her promised hour, Weeps o'er the sorrows of her fav’rite flower ; Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs, And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes. New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels : His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals!
[The Author has published the following humble fragment LINES TO JOSEPH COTTLE.
encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one
of our most celebrated living Poets. The language was inMy 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 corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is there
fore presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a com May your fame fadeless live, as “never-sere
mon Ballad-tale. Whether this is sufficient to justify the adop The 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 reason 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. Monody on John Henderson.
On the hedge elms in the narrow lane
Still swung the spikes of corn: Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday
Young Edward's marriage-morn.
Up through that wood behind the church,
There leads from Edward's door A mossy track, all over-bough'd
For half a mile or more.
And from their house-door by that track
The Bride and Bridegroom went; Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,
Seem'd cheerful and content.
But when they to the church-yard came,
I've heard poor Mary say,
Her heart it died away.
And when the vicar join'd their hands,
Her limbs did creep and freeze ; But when they pray'd, she thought she saw
Her mother on her knees.
which must be supposed to have been narrated in the first and second parts, is as followe,
Edward, a young farmer, meets, at the house of Ellen, her bosorn friend, Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which eoda in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the advice of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and intentions to Mary's Mother, a widow-woman bordering en ber fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a competent property, and from having had no other children bat Mary and another daughter (the Father died in their infancy), retaining, for the greater part, her personal attractions and corneliness of appearance; but a woman of low education and violeat temper. The answer which she at once returned to Edward's application was remarkable-"Well, Edward ! you are a bandsome young fellow, and you shall have my Daughter." From this time all their wooing passed under the Mother's eye; and, in fine, she became herself enamoured of her fature Son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment ant of calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to terself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of no Fety distant date, though the author has purposely altered the Dames and tbe scene of action, as well as invented the characters of the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, however, though perplexed by her strange detraction from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart stil mistaking her increasing fondness for motherly affection i whe, at leagth overcome by her miserable passion, alter much abuse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with rakent emotion"0) Edward ! indeed, indeed, she is not fit for you-she has not a heart to love you as you deserve. It is I that love you! Marry me, Edward! and I will this very day site all my property on you."— The Lover's eyes were now pened, and thus taken by surprise, whether from the effect of the borror which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on tes nervous system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense of the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, be fung her from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a bred voice that approached to a scream, she prayed for a Curse both on him and on her own Child. Mary happened to be in the room directly above them, heard Edward's.laugh and her Mother'. blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing Le Gall, ran op stairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her off to Ellen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on her part toward a reconciliation with her Mother, she was married to him.--And here the third part of the Tale begins.
I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to tragie, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that loopsed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was been averso to such subjects than at present), but from fed og in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagiEston, from an idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. I had bero rearling Bryan Edwards's account of the effect of the Gdy Witchcraft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and Hearte's deeply interesting Anecdotes of similar workings on the imagiaation of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who bare it in their power will be well repnid for the trouble of releting to those works for the passages alluded to), and I conet ved the design of showing that instances of this kind are not Diktaar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the brade in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the proFees and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from the Detotis
The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a carry church-sard, to a Traveller whose curiosity had been
ped by the appearance of three graves, close by each
, no two only of which there were grave-stones. On the first of these were the name, and dates, as usual: on the second,
but only a date, and the words, The Mercy of God is
And o'er the church-path they return'd
I saw poor Mary's back, Just as she stepp'd beneath the boughs
Into the mossy track.
Her feet upon the mossy track
The married maiden set: That moment—I have heard her say
She wish'd she could forget.
The shade o'erflush'd her limbs with heat
Then came a chill like death: And when the merry bells rang out,
They seem'd to stop her breath.
Beneath the foulest Mother's curse
No child could ever thrive : A Mother is a Mother still,
The holiest thing alive.
So five month's pass'd : the Mother still
Would never heal the strise ; But Edward was a loving man,
And Mary a fond wife.
“ My sister may not visit us,
My mother says her nay: O Edward ! you are all to me, I wish for your sake I could be
More lifesome and more gay.
“ I'm dull and sad ! indeed, indeed
I know I have no reason! Perhaps I am not well in health,
And 't is a gloomy season." 'Twas a drizzly time--no ice, no snow!
And on the few fine days She stirr'd not out, lest she might meet
Her Mother in her ways. But Ellen, spite of miry ways
And weather dark and dreary, Trudged every day to Edward's house, And made them all more cheery.
THE grapes upon the vicar's wall
Were ripe as ripe could be ; And yellow leaves in sun and wind
Were falling from the tree.