Chapter 2
I love those roses when they rise, From joy, from anger, or surprise; I love the kind, attentive zeal, So prompt to know what others feel, The mildness which can ne'er reprove, But in the sweetest tones of love-- All this, my Emily, is true, But I love more in loving you!
The self-command which can sustain, In silence, weariness and pain; The transport at a friend's success, Which has not words or power to bless, But, by a sudden, starting tear, Appears more precious, more sincere-- All this, my Emily, is true, And this I love in loving you!
* * * * *
A SAILOR'S SONG.
SET TO MUSIC BY MR. WALSH.
I ponder many a silent hour, On friends belov'd when far at sea, And, tell me, have I not the power To draw one kindred thought to me!
The while we linger on the coast, My truant fancy homeward flies, And when the view is almost lost, Unmanly tears bedew my eyes--
And oft forgetful do I stand, Nor crew, nor ship, nor ocean see; And often does my heart demand, If friends belov'd thus think on me!
And when to England bound once more, I shall with fond impatience burn, Will not some others on the shore As fondly look for my return!
O! let me of your kindness hear! Repeat the strain as I depart! It swells like music on my ear, It falls like balm upon my heart.
Aug. 21, 1805.
* * * * *
ANOTHER,
WRITTEN EARLIER.
Adieu to old England! adieu to my friends! Though fortune and fame I pursue, On thus looking around me, I cannot conceal, How reluctant I bid them adieu!
My heart sinks within me, I sigh to the gale, Thus slowly receding from shore, While fancy still whispers some terrible tale, Ah, perhaps I may see it no more!
There all that I love, that I value, remain, That only awakens my fears, For will the same spot its dear inmates contain, On the lapse of two lingering years?
They may smile in good fortune, or weep in distress, I shall know not a word of their fate! No pain can I soften, no sorrow redress! I may come, when, alas! 'tis too late!
I can fly without fear to encounter the foe, To my earliest wish I am true; But I cannot unmov'd quit the friends that I love, Or bid my dear country adieu!
* * * * *
SONG.
SET TO MUSIC BY MR. A. PETTIT, OF NORWICH.
Once more then farewell! and whilst I'm away, Oh! let not another entangle thy fancy! I shall think upon thee every hour of the day, And let not my love be forgotten by Nancy!
Oh! were I forsaken, the flow'r in my heart, Would fold all its leaves, and re-open them never! The sunshine of joy and of hope would depart, And belief in affection would perish for ever!
To talk thus is folly! I doubt not thy truth, A few years of absence will quickly pass over, I scorn other perils that menace my youth, From that wound, I must own, I could never recover!
* * * * *
HENRY,
ON THE DEPARTURE OF HIS WIFE FROM CALCUTTA.
Long is thy passage o'er the main, And native air alone can save! No friend thy weakness will sustain, But India is, for thee, a grave! Though winds arise, though surges swell, Maria, we must say farewell!
Oh! I bethink me of the time, When with each airy hope in view, In triumph to this fervid clime I bore a flowret nurs'd in dew! No fears did then my joy reprove, And it was boundless as my love!
Yet now to strangers I consign Thy wounded mind, thy feeble health; A charge more dear than life resign, To watch a little worldly wealth. Duty compels me to remain But oh! how heavy feels the chain!
My dear Maria! smile no more? This seeming patience makes me wild! So would'st thou once my peace restore, When, mourning for our only child, Each faint appeal was lost in air, Or turn'd my sadness to despair.
Alas! I only make thee grieve. And hark! the boat awaits below! They call aloud! and I must leave, The tears my folly forc'd to flow. Oh! had I but the time to prove, That mine are only fears of love!
* * * * *
SONNET.
Urge me no more! nor think, because I seem Tame and unsorrowing in the world's rude strife, That anguish and resentment have not life Within the heart that ye so quiet deem: In this forc'd stillness only, I sustain My thought and feeling, wearied out with pain! Floating as 'twere upon some wild abyss, Whence, silent Patience, bending o'er the brink, Would rescue them with strong and steady hand, And join again, by that connecting link, Which now is broken:--O, respect her care! Respect her in this fearful self-command! No moment teems with greater woe than this, Should she but pause, or falter in despair!
* * * * *
ON THE REGRET OF YOUTH.
Before a rose is fully blown, The outward leaves announce decay; So, ere the spring of Youth is flown, Its tiny pleasures die away;
The gay security we feel, The careless soul's delighted rest, That lively hope, that ardent zeal, And smiling sunshine of the breast.
Those simple tints, so bright and clear, No healing dew-drops can restore; For joys, which early life endear, Once blighted, can revive no more.
Yet lovely is the full-blown rose, Although its infant graces fly; The various opening leaves disclose, A fairer banquet to the eye;
A ruby's beams on drifted snow, Such pure, harmonious blushes shed; If distant, cast a tender glow, But near, its own imperial red;
The form assumes a prouder air, And bends more graceful in the gale; While, from its cup, of essence rare, A richer hoard of sweets exhale.
Could we again, by fancy led, That bower of swelling leaves confine, And round that fine, luxuriant head, The mossy tendrils now entwine,
Over what multitudes of bloom Would a few timid leaflets close! What mental joys resign their room, To causeless mirth, and tame repose!
The change to Reason's steady eye, Would neither good nor wise appear; And we may lay one precept by, Our discontent is insincere.
* * * * *
ELEGY ON SOPHIA GRAHAM,
WHO DIED JAN. 21, 1800.
Sweet is the voice of Friendship to the ear, Sweet is Affection's mildly-beaming eye, Sweet the applause which flows from lips sincere, And sweet is Pity's soft responsive sigh!
But now those flowers of life have lost their bloom, Faint all their beauty, cold their healing breath, No object fills my eye but yonder tomb, No sound awakes me but the name of death.
When in the world, I bear a look serene, And veil the gloomy temper of my grief; Sick with restraint at evening quit the scene, To find in tears and solitude relief.
Parent of Hope and Fancy! thoughtful Night! Why are these nurselings absent from thy bower, While Memory, with sullen, strange delight, Stalks lonely centinel the live-long hour?
O dear Sophia! could we e'er forget, Such fair endowments and unsullied worth, Thy partial friendship calls for our regret, And selfish feeling gives remembrance birth.
How often when this trembling hand essays Thy lov'd resemblance once again to trace, The portrait thought in mimic life arrays With all the sweet expression of thy face;
Art may its symmetry and beauty show, A look, a character, the pencil seize, Give to the form where youthful graces glow, An air of pensive dignity and ease,
But warmth of feeling and sensation fine, By mild reserve from common eyes conceal'd, The ray of genius and the heart benign, In artless gaiety so oft reveal'd--
All these are lost; no looks can now arise, Like those which every little act endear'd, Which even in the stranger's careless eyes Like innocence from other worlds appear'd!
Oft have I fear'd the breath of foolish praise, Might taint the lily which so humbly grew; That flattery's sun might shoot delusive rays, Impede her progress, and distract her view.
But vain the fear--for she remain'd the same, To outward charms indifferent or blind, Heedless alike of either praise or blame, If it respected not her heart and mind.
Rich in historic lore, the poet's lyre Had not, though screen'd by time, forsaken hung, She felt and studied with a kindred fire, The lofty strain immortal Maro sung.
She knew--but why essay to trace her thought Through its wide range, describe her blooming youth, The heart whose feelings were so finely wrought, Its meek ambition, and its love of truth?
All that parental-vanity desires, All that the friend can muse upon and mourn, All that the lover's ardent vow inspires, In thee, Sophia! from the world was torn!
But still we yield thee to no stranger's care; No unknown foe our tender love bereaves; Thou goest the angels' hallow'd bliss to share, A Father thy exalted soul receives!
* * * * *
TO MISS ROUSE BOUGHTON,
NOW THE RIGHT HON. LADY ST. JOHN.
Aberystwith, July 5th, 17--
Louisa, while thy pliant fingers trace The solemn beauties of the prospect round, Or, on thy instrument, with touching grace, Awaken all the witcheries of sound:
Mild, as thy manners, do the colours rise, As soft and unobtrusive meet the view; And, when the varied notes the ear surprize, We own the harmony as strictly true.
Be thine the praise, alas! a gift how rare! Artless, and unpretending, to excel! Forget the envied charm of being fair, To learn the noblest science,--acting well! And let no world the seal of truth displace, Or spoil the heart's accordance with the face!
* * * * *
TO THE SAME,
ON RECEIVING FROM HER A FEW FLOWERS OUT OF A BOUQUET, FROM MELCHBOURNE, 1807.
Hail! sweet Louisa! o'er these votive flow'rs Friendship and Fancy weave the joyful song, Wing with fresh rose-leaves all the train of hours, That in the distant aether float along!
Like those fair flowrets given by thy hand, Like thy own beauty, blooming and serene, The vision of thy future life is plann'd, And forms a clear, a bright, and varied scene!
That countenance so gentle, and so kind, That heart, which never gave a harsh decree, Suit all the turns of thy harmonious mind, And must, perforce, with destiny agree. This from the Sibyl's leaves affection drew, O, be the omen just! the promise true!
* * * * *
TO THE RIVER
WHICH SEPARATES ITSELF FROM THE DEE, AT BEDKELLERT.
July 19, 1799.
Let others hail the tranquil stream, Whose glassy waters smoothly flow, And, in the undulating gleam, Reflect another world below!
The yellow Conway as it raves, Demands my tributary song! When, rushing forth, resistless waves O'er rocky fragments foam along!
Like him, whose vigorous mind reviews The troubles which around him roll; The ceaseless warfare still pursues, And keeps a firm, undaunted soul.
Though sternly bent by toil and care, The brow hang darkly o'er his eye-- His features the fix'd meaning wear Of one who knows not how to sigh.
It is not apathy that reigns, O'erweening arrogance, or pride, For, in his warmly-flowing veins, The genial feelings all reside.
It is the breast-plate fortitude Should still to injury oppose; It is the shield with power imbu'd, To blunt the malice of his foes.
And should the savage country round, A more engaging aspect show, O Conway! it will then be found, How sweet and clear thy waters flow!
The birds will dip the taper wing-- The pilgrim there his thirst assuage, The wandering minstrel sit and sing, Or muse upon a distant age!
Bold River! soon within the deep, Each weary strife and conflict o'er, Thy venerable waves shall sleep, And feel opposing rocks no more!
* * * * *
THE OLD MAN'S FAREWELL.
Farewell, my pilgrim guest, farewell, A few days since thou wert unknown, None shall thy future fortunes tell, But sweetly have the moments flown!
And kindness, like the sun on flowers, Soon chas'd away thy tender gloom; New-fledg'd the sable-pinion'd hours, And wove bright tints in Fancy's loom.
We sought no secrets to divine, Neither thy name nor lineage knew, Our hearts alone have question'd thine, And found that all was just and true.
Pass not with hasty step, I pray, Across the threshold of my door! But pause awhile, with kind delay, We shall behold thy face no more!
Once only in a hundred years, The aloe's precious blossoms swell, So, in thy presence it appears, That Time has blossom'd, fare thee well![A]
[A] See Preface.
* * * * *
SONG.
DISTANCE FROM THE PLACE OF OUR NATIVITY.
Since I married Palemon, though happy my lot, Though my garden is pleasant, and lightsome my cot, Though love's smile, like a sunshine, I constantly see, Those blessings are all insufficient for me, I repine not at labour, I ask not for gold, But I want the sweet eyes of my friends to behold.
With Palemon I think o'er the world I could roam, Though he liv'd in a desert, would make it my home. From him no allurements his Lucy could bribe, And, though timid, no dangers, no menaces drive. But the heart that can love with devotion so true, Is not cold or forgetful, my parents, to you!
Oh idle declaimers! how is it ye say, That affection and tenderness fade and decay? Though so easily pain'd, they endure like a gem, And the heart and the mind imbibe colour from them! In affliction they brighten, in absence refine, And are causes of sorrow too sweet to resign.
* * * * *
THE OLD SHEPHERD'S RECOLLECTIONS.
Low, heavy clouds are hanging on the hills, And half-impatient of the sun's approach, Shake sullenly their cold and languid wings! Oh! it is fine to see his morning beams Burst on the gloom, while, in disorder'd flight, The shuddering, mournful vapours steal away; Like the tenacious spirit of a man, Shrinking from the loud voice of cheerfulness, When it breaks in, so sadly out of tune, Upon his quiet musing, and dispels The waking dream of a dejected heart: The dream I cherish in this solitude, In all the wanderings of my little flock, That which beguiles my loneliness, and takes Its charm and change from the surrounding scene.
Oh! how unwelcome often are to me The gayest, most exhilarating sounds! When slow and sickly Memory, tempted forth By dint of soft persuasion, brings to light His treasures--and, with childish eagerness, Arranges and collects--then suddenly To have him startled by discordance, drag, Without discrimination, all away-- And with them leap to his deep hollow cave-- Not easily to be withdrawn again, Grieves one who loves to think of other times, To talk with those long silent in the grave, And pass from childhood to old age again.
Behold this stony rock! whose rifted crest, Lets the rough, roaring torrent force a way, And, foaming, pour its waters on the vale! Behold them tumbling from their dizzy height, Like clouds, of more than snowy whiteness, thrown Precipitate from heav'n, which, as they fall, Diffuse a mist, in form of glory, round! This was my darling haunt a long time past! Here, when a boy, in pleasing awe, I sate, Wistfully silent, with uplifted eye, And heart attun'd to the sad, lulling sound They made descending. Far below my feet, Near where yon little, ruin'd cottage lies, Oft, at the pensive hour of even-tide I saw young Osborne bearing on his harp, And, trusting to an aged mother's care, His darkling steps: Beneath that falling beech, Whose wide-spread branches touch the water's edge, He lov'd to sit, and feel the freshen'd gale Breathe cool upon him.
Then that falling beech Was a young, graceful tree; which, starting up, Amid the looser fragments of the rock, Rear'd boldly in the air its lofty head, While, struggling with the stone, the nervous roots Pursued their own direction, elbowing out, Their flinty neighbour; who, o'erspread with moss, Of varied hues, and deck'd with flow'ring heath, That from each fissure hung luxuriant down, Became a seat, where, king of all the scene, The harper sate, and, in sweet melodies, Now like the lark rejoicing at the dawn, Now soothing as the nightingale's sad note, Hail'd the departing sun, whose golden rays Glitter'd upon the surface of the wave, And, as a child upon its mother's arm Seeks to delay the coming hour of rest, Till sudden slumbers steal upon his smiles And veil him in a dream of love and joy, He seem'd reluctant to withdraw his beams; And, rich in roseate beauty, for awhile Kept the green waves beneath his glowing head.
Kind, gentle Osborne! half a century Has silver'd o'er the crisp and yellow locks Of thy young auditor, but memory still Grasps the torn record of my weary life. And finds full many a page to tell of thee! Oh! ye who have a friend ye truly love, One whom your hearts can trust, whose excellence Was not obtruded boastingly to view, But time and happy circumstance reveal'd, Rays of quick light upon a diamond Which else had lain unnotic'd in the waste! Oh! hasten! hasten speedily to pay Each debt of fond affection! lock not up So cautiously the tribute due to worth! Nor let reserve, as I have often done, Enslave the sweetest feelings of the soul! And hang around them like an envious mist, O'er the bright radiance of the morning star, Leaving us nothing but a spot of light Bereav'd of all its lustre! For my friend, He never knew that there was one on earth, After a parent felt the touch of death, And Love, a weeping pilgrim, turn'd away Far from his dwelling--Oh! he never knew, That there was one who would have follow'd him, With steady kindness, even to the grave!
Thou dear, neglected friend! to whom I owe All that sustains my heart, and makes me think The gift of life a blessing, Oh! forgive That in thy sorrows, my forgetful tongue Spake not of zeal and service; of the debt Which gratitude was emulous to pay! I might have trimm'd the dying lamp of hope, And cheer'd the bitter hours of banishment: But Oh! my youth was fearful, and I felt So deep an awe of that unspotted worth And saint-like gentleness--such a mistrust Of my own powers to tell him what I wish'd, That I resisted all my feelings claim'd, In anguish I resisted; but a spell Hung o'er me and compell'd me to be mute.
Methinks I still behold him! tall and fair, He had a look so tranquil and so mild, That something holy stole upon the sense When he appear'd; his language had such power In converse, that the hearer, as entranced Sate lingering on to listen; while in song, Or skill upon the many-stringed harp Was never heard his equal! Then he knew All our old ballads, all our father's tales, All the adventurous deeds of early times, The punishment of blood or sacrilege, And the reward of virtue, when it seem'd Deserted by the world, and left alone, A prey to scorn, oppression, contumely And all the ills which make the good despair. When-e'er we circled round him, one young girl Was always present, of a nicer ear, And more refin'd perception than the rest. Now she was lost in thought, while on her cheek Lay silent tears--and then that cheek grew pale In wild amazement--but, when he began To speak of noble deeds, she rais'd her head, Bending with looks of mingled awe and love, And zealous admiration, on the youth, Alone insensible of all around, To the soft charm of symmetry and grace, The smile intelligent, the look benign, And all the outward raiment of the soul. Yet, though he saw her not, it was his fate To have an inward and discerning sense, Which spake of Lora's gentleness and worth. He lov'd in her the fondness of his art, And taught her many wild and simple airs, Suiting the plaintive tenor of her voice, Which he would mimic with sweet minstrelsy. When she was absent, and with strange delight, Repeat her parting words, her kind adieu, Or sweetly-spoken promise of return.
And that return was prompt: she linger'd oft Till evening wet the ground with heavy dew, Or came to take her lesson in the morn, Before her father's anxious eyes unclos'd, To look upon her beauty with delight, And soothe the rugged temper of his soul, By views of future grandeur for his child: Not thinking that her elegance of mind, The modest dignity of humble worth Which fits the low-born peasant to become A crowned monarch, and to wield with grace The golden sceptre, had instructed her To feel no paltry jealousy of power, No bold aspiring, and no wish beyond The bounded confines of her present state: Had counsell'd her, that even mines of wealth, Could purchase nothing to content the wise, Esteem or friendship, tenderness or love: That power at best was but a heavy weight; If well employ'd, a dubious, unpaid toil, If ill, a curse, to tempt men to their fate.
Her cheek had often felt the blush of shame, At his proud boasting; and her heart had sunk At the cold arrogance that scorn'd the poor; But she was fain to turn aside, and weep, To wring her hands in secret, and to raise The eye of silent anguish up to heaven; For though he dearly lov'd her, he would ne'er Submit to hear a murmur at his will. Oft with her heart oppress'd, and her blue eyes Full of unshedden tears, she bent her way Alone to Osborne's lowly cot, and when Her faint voice call'd the fond inquiry forth, Would say, "'tis true, my friends, that I am sad, Nay sick, with vain repining. O! I wish, That I were either indigent myself, Or that I had the power, the blessed power Of cheering the unhappy! for I want, By kindness to prevent the act of guilt, And ward the arrows of incroaching Death, Who comes, before the time, upon his prey. Think that there should be means to stay his wrath, To purchase health, life, comfort, innocence, And yet those means withholden!
"O! my heart! It dies with sorrow! and where most I love, Sheds all its bitterness; delighting still To tell the many miseries that flit At times across me! Those I lightly prize Partake the sunshine of my happier hours, Although I seek them with far less delight! The loud laugh dwells not here, the sportive dance, The carol of unconscious levity, And yet how oft, how willingly I come!"