Part 13

‘The next with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 115 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. 120

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to misery all he had, a tear; He gained from Heaven, ’twas all he wished, a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose;) The bosom of his Father and his God. _Thomas Gray._

CLXIX

_WRESTLING JACOB._

Come, O Thou traveller unknown, Whom still I hold, but cannot see, My company before is gone, And I am left alone with Thee; With Thee all night I mean to stay, 5 And wrestle till the break of day.

I need not tell Thee who I am, My misery or sin declare; Thyself hast called me by my name; Look on thy hands, and read it there! 10 But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou? Tell me thy Name, and tell me now.

In vain Thou strugglest to get free, I never will unloose my hold; Art Thou the Man that died for me? 15 The secret of thy love untold. Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal Thy new, unutterable Name? 20 Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell: To know it now, resolved I am: Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

’Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue, 25 Or touch the hollow of my thigh; Though every sinew be unstrung, Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly: Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, Till I thy Name, thy nature know. 30

What though my shrinking flesh complain, And murmur to contend so long? I rise superior to my pain; When I am weak, then am I strong: And when my all of strength shall fail, 35 I shall with the God-Man prevail.

My strength is gone; my nature dies; I sink beneath thy weighty hand; Faint to revive, and fall to rise; I fall, and yet by faith I stand: 40 I stand, and will not let Thee go, Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

Yield to me now, for I am weak, But confident in self-despair; Speak to my heart, in blessings speak, 45 Be conquered by my instant prayer! Speak, or Thou never hence shall move, And tell me, if thy Name be Love?

’Tis Love! ’tis Love! Thou diedst for me! I hear thy whisper in my heart! 50 The morning breaks, the shadows flee; Pure universal Love Thou art! To me, to all, thy bowels move; Thy nature and thy Name is Love!

My prayer hath power with God; the grace 55 Unspeakable I now receive; Through faith I see Thee face to face, I see Thee face to face, and live: In vain I have not wept and strove; Thy nature and thy Name is Love. 60

I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art; Jesus, the feeble sinner’s Friend! Nor wilt Thou with the night depart, But stay, and love me to the end! Thy mercies never shall remove, 65 Thy nature and thy Name is Love!

The Sun of Righteousness on me Hath rose, with healing in his wings; Withered my nature’s strength, from Thee My soul its life and succour brings; 70 My help is all laid up above; Thy nature and thy Name is Love.

Contented now upon my thigh I halt, till life’s short journey end; All helplessness, all weakness, I 75 On Thee alone for strength depend; Nor have I power from Thee to move; Thy nature and thy Name is Love.

Lame as I am, I take the prey, Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o’ercome; 80 I leap for joy, pursue my way, And, as a bounding hart, fly home; Through all eternity to prove, Thy nature and thy Name is Love! _Charles Wesley._

PART THE FOURTH.

CLXX

_TO THE CUCKOO._

O blithe new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice: O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass, 5 Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers, 10 Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, 15 A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. 20

To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet; 25 Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.

O blessèd bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be 30 An unsubstantial, fairy place That is fit home for thee! _William Wordsworth._

CLXXI

_THE RAINBOW._

Triumphal arch that fill’st the sky, When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight, 5 A mid-way station given For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, 10 As when I dreamed of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation’s face Enchantment’s veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place 15 To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. 20

When o’er the green undeluged earth, Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine, How came the world’s gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled 25 O’er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang 30 On earth, delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye, Unraptured, greet thy beam; Theme of primeval prophecy, 35 Be still the poet’s theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshened fields, The snowy mushroom springs. 40

How glorious is thy girdle cast O’er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark, 45 As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 50 Nor lets the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man. _Thomas Campbell._

CLXXII

_THE COMMON LOT._

Once, in the flight of ages past, There lived a man:--and WHO was HE?-- Mortal! howe’er thy lot be cast, That Man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth, 5 The land in which he died unknown: His name has perished from the earth; This truth survives alone:--

That joy and grief, and hope and fear, Alternate triumphed in his breast; 10 His bliss and woe,--a smile, a tear!-- Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirits’ rise and fall, We know that these were felt by him, 15 For these are felt by all.

He suffered,--but his pangs are o’er; Enjoyed,--but his delights are fled; Had friends,--his friends are now no more; And foes,--his foes are dead. 20

He loved,--but whom he loved, the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womb: Oh she was fair!--but nought could save Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen; 25 Encountered all that troubles thee: He was--whatever thou hast been; He is--what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night, Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 30 Erewhile his portion, life, and light, To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o’er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky 35 No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race, Their ruins since the world began, Of HIM afford no other trace Than this,--THERE LIVED A MAN! 40 _James Montgomery._

CLXXIII

_THE HOLLY TREE._

O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see The Holly Tree? The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an Intelligence so wise, 5 As might confound the atheist’s sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen Wrinkled and keen; No grazing cattle through their prickly round Can reach to wound; 10 But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes, And moralize; And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree 15 Can emblems see, Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear Harsh and austere; 20 To those who on my leisure would intrude, Reserved and rude;-- Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be, Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, 25 Some harshness show, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 30

And as when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green, The Holly leaves a sober hue display Less bright than they; But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 35 What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?

So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng; So would I seem amid the young and gay More grave than they; 40 That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly Tree. _Robert Southey._

CLXXIV

_THE SQUIRE’S PEW._

A slanting ray of evening light Shoots through the yellow pane: It makes the faded crimson bright, And gilds the fringe again; The window’s gothic framework falls 5 In oblique shadows on the walls.

And since those trappings first were new, How many a cloudless day, To rob the velvet of its hue, Has come and passed away! 10 How many a setting sun hath made That curious lattice-work of shade!

Crumbled beneath the hillock green The cunning hand must be, That carved this fretted door, I ween, 15 Acorn and fleur-de-lis; And now the worm hath done her part In mimicking the chisel’s art.

In days of yore (as now we call) When the First James was king, 20 The courtly knight from yonder Hall His train did hither bring, All seated round in order due, With broidered suit and buckled shoe.

On damask cushions decked with fringe, 25 All reverently they knelt; Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge, In ancient English spelt, Each holding in a lily hand, Responsive to the priest’s command. 30

Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle, The sunbeam, long and lone, Illumes the characters awhile Of their inscription-stone: And there, in marble hard and cold, 35 The knight with all his train behold.

Outstretched together are exprest He and my lady fair, With hands uplifted on the breast, In attitude of prayer: 40 Long-visaged, clad in armour, he-- With ruffled arm and bodice she.

Set forth in order as they died, Their numerous offspring bend, Devoutly kneeling side by side, 45 As if they did intend For past omissions to atone By saying endless prayers in stone.

Those mellow days are past and dim, But generations new 50 In regular descent from him Have filled the stately pew, And in the same succession go To occupy the vaults below.

And now the polished modern Squire 55 And his gay train appear, Who duly to the Hall retire A season every year, And fill the seats with belle and beau, As ’twas so many years ago; 60

Perchance, all thoughtless, as they tread The hollow-sounding floor, Of that dark house of kindred dead, Which shall, as heretofore, In turn receive to silent rest 65 Another and another guest:

The feathered hearse and sable train, In all their wonted state, Shall wind along the village lane, And stand before the gate, 70 Brought many a distant county through, To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away, All to their dusty beds, Still shall the mellow evening ray 75 Shine gaily o’er their heads; While other faces, fresh and new, Shall fill the Squire’s deserted pew. _Jane Taylor._

CLXXV

_A DREAM._

Once a dream did weave a shade O’er my angel-guarded bed, That an emmet lost its way Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, ’wildered, and forlorn, 5 Dark, benighted, travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke, I heard her say:

‘Oh, my children! do they cry, Do they hear their father sigh? 10 Now they look abroad to see, Now return and weep for me.’

Pitying, I dropped a tear: But I saw a glowworm near, Who replied, ‘What wailing wight 15 Calls the watchman of the night?

‘I am set to light the ground, While the beetle goes his round. Follow now the beetle’s hum, Little wanderer, hie thee home!’ 20 _William Blake._

CLXXVI

_DECEMBER MORNING._

I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light, Winter’s pale dawn; and as warm fires illume, And cheerful tapers shine around the room, Through misty windows bend my musing sight, Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white 5 With shutters closed peer faintly through the gloom, That slow recedes; while yon grey spires assume, Rising from their dark pile, an added height By indistinctness given--Then to decree The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold 10 To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee Wisdom’s rich page. O hours more worth than gold, By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free From drear decays of age, outlive the old! _Anna Seward._

CLXXVII

_THE THRUSH’S NEST._

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound With joy--and oft, an unintruding guest, 5 I watched her secret toils from day to day; How true she warped the moss to form her nest, And modelled it within with wood and clay. And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, 10 Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue: And there I witnessed in the summer hours A brood of nature’s minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. _John Clare._

CLXXVIII

_TIME._

O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence, Lulling to sad repose the weary sense, The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last, 5 And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile; As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour, 10 Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while; Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure. _William Lisle Bowles._

CLXXIX

_FANCY IN NUBIBUS._

Oh, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease, Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, To make the shifting clouds be what you please, Or let the easily-persuaded eyes Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 5 Of a friend’s fancy; or, with head bent low, And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold, ’Twixt crimson banks; and then a traveller go From mount to mount, through Cloudland, gorgeous land! Or, listening to the tide with closèd sight, 10 Be that blind Bard, who on the Chian strand, By those deep sounds possessed with inward light, Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

CLXXX

_EVENING._

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven is on the sea: 5 Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder--everlastingly. Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear’st untouched by solemn thought, 10 Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year; And worshipp’st at the temple’s inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. _William Wordsworth._

CLXXXI

_THE WALL-FLOWER._

I will not praise the often-flattered rose, Or, virgin-like, with blushing charms half seen, Or when, in dazzling splendour, like a queen, All her magnificence of state she shows; No, nor that nun-like lily which but blows 5 Beneath the valley’s cool and shady screen; Nor yet the sun-flower, that with warrior mien Still eyes the orb of glory where it glows; But thou, neglected Wall-flower! to my breast And Muse art dearest, wildest, sweetest flower! 10 To whom alone the privilege is given Proudly to root thyself above the rest; As Genius does, and from thy rocky tower Lend fragrance to the purest breath of heaven. _Thomas Doubleday._

CLXXXII

_THE SEA-CAVE._

Hardly we breathe, although the air be free: How massively doth awful Nature pile The living rock, like some cathedral aisle, Sacred to Silence and the solemn Sea. How that clear pool lies sleeping tranquilly, 5 And under its glassed waters seems to smile, With many hues, a mimic grove the while Of foliage submarine, shrub, flower, and tree. Beautiful scene! and fitted to allure The printless footsteps of some sea-born maid, 10 Who here, with her green tresses disarrayed, ’Mid the clear bath, unfearing and secure, May sport at noontide in the caverned shade-- Cold as the shadow--as the waters pure. _Thomas Doubleday._

CLXXXIII

_HOLY THURSDAY._

’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green; Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul’s, they like Thames’ waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town, 5 Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own: The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, 9 Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. _William Blake._

CLXXXIV

_ON AN ANTIQUE GEM BEARING THE HEADS OF PERICLES AND ASPASIA._

This was the ruler of the land, When Athens was the land of fame; This was the light that led the band, When each was like a living flame; The centre of earth’s noblest ring-- 5 Of more than men the more than king!

Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, His sovereignty was held or won: Feared--but alone as freemen fear, Loved--but as freemen love alone, 10 He waved the sceptre o’er his kind By nature’s first great title--mind!

Resistless words were on his tongue-- Then eloquence first flashed below; Full armed to life the portent sprung-- 15 Minerva from the Thunderer’s brow! And his the sole, the sacred hand That shook her ægis o’er the land.

And throned immortal by his side, A woman sits with eye sublime,-- 20 Aspasia, all his spirit’s bride; But, if their solemn love were crime, Pity the Beauty and the Sage-- Their crime was in their darkened age.

He perished, but his wreath was won-- 25 He perished in his height of fame; Then sunk the cloud on Athens’ sun, Yet still she conquered in his name. Filled with his soul, she could not die; Her conquest was posterity 30 _George Croly._

CLXXXV

_LOVE._

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I 5 Live o’er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine stealing o’er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; 10 And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She leaned against the armèd man, The statue of the armèd knight; She stood and listened to my lay, 15 Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene’er I sing The songs that make her grieve. 20

I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story-- An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush, 25 With downcast eyes, and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; 30 And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another’s love, 35 Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face. 40

But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den, 45 And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade,--

There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; 50 And that he knew it was a fiend, This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death 55 The Lady of the Land;--

And how she wept, and clasped his knees, And how she tended him in vain; And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;-- 60

And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay;--

His dying words--but when I reached 65 That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; 70 The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, 75 Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. 80