And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill
Such grief was ours-it seems but yesterday-
When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay,
"T was thine, Maria, thine without a sigh
At midnight in a Sister's arms to die!
Oh thou wert lovely-lovely was thy frame,
And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it can.e!
And, when recall'd to join the blest above,
Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love,
Nursing the young to health. In happier hours,
When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers,
Once in thy mirth thou bad'st me write on thee;
And now I write-what thou shalt never see!
Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness Their halls with gladness. She, when all are still, That would in vain the starting tear repress. Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie, In sleep how beautiful! He, when the sky Gleams, and the wood sends up its harmony, When, gathering round his bed, they climb to share His kisses, and with gentle violence there Break in upon a dream not half so fair, Up to the hill-top leads their little feet; Or by the forest-lodge, perchance to meet The stag-herd on its march, perchance to hear The otter rustling in the sedgy mere; Or to the echo near the Abbot's tree, That gave him back his words of pleasantry— When the House stood, no merrier man than he! And, as they wander with a keen delight, If but a leve t catch their quicker sight Down a green alley, or a squirrel then Climb the gnarl'd oak, and look and climb again, If but a moth flit by, an acorn fall, He turns their thoughts to Him who made them all; These with unequal footsteps following fast, These clinging by his cloak, unwilling to be last.
The shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow,
And the swart sea-man, sailing far below,
Not undelighted watch the morning ray
Purpling the orient-till it breaks away,
And burns and blazes into glorious day!
But happier still is he who bends to trace
That sun, the soul, just dawning in the face;
The burst, the glow, the animating strife,
The thoughts and passions stirring into life;
The forming utterance, the inquiring glance,
The giant waking from his ten-fold trance,
Till up he starts as conscious whence he came,
And all is light within the trembling frame!
What then a Father's feelings? Joy and Fear
Prevail in turn, Joy most; and through the year
Tempering the ardent, urging night and day
Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way,
Praising each highly-from a wish to raise
Their merits to the level of his Praise.
Onward in their observing sight he moves,
Fearful of wrong, in awe of whom he loves!
Their sacred presence who shall dare profane?
Who, when He slumbers, hope to fix a stain?
He lives a model in his life to show,
That, when he dies and through the world they go,
Some men may pause and say, when some admire.
"They are his sons, and worthy of their sire!"
But Man is born to suffer. On the door
Sickness has set her mark; and now no more
Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild
As of a mother singing to her child.
All now in anguish from that room retire,
Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire,
And Innocence breathes contagion-all but one,
But she who gave it birth-from her alone
The medicine-cup is taken. Through the night,
And through the day, that with its dreary light
Comes unregarded, she sits silent by,
Watching the changes with her anxious eye:
While they without, listening below, above,
(Who but in sorrow know how much they love?)
From every little noise catch hope and fear,
Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear,
At length the Father, vain his power to save,
Follows his child in silence to the grave,
(That child how cherish'd, whom he would not give,
Sleeping the sleep of death, for all that live!)
Takes a last look, when, not unheard, the spade
Scatters the earth as dust to dust" is said,
Takes a last look and goes; his best relief
Consoling others in that hour of grief,
And with sweet tears and gentle words infusing
The holy calm that leads to heavenly musing.
-But hark, the din of arms! no time for sorrow
To horse, to horse! A day of blood to-morrow!
One parting pang, and then-and then I fly,
Fly to the field, to triumph-or to die!—
He goes, and Night comes as it never came! (17)
With shrieks of horror!-and a vault of flame!
And lo! when morning mocks the desolate,
Red runs the river by; and at the gate
Breathless a horse without his rider stands!
But husha shout from the victorious bands!
And oh the smiles and tears, a sire restored!
One wears his helm, one buckles on his sword;
One hangs the wall with laurel-leaves, and all
Spring to prepare the soldier's festival;
While She best-loved, till then forsaken never,
Clings round his neck as she would cling for ever'
Such golden deeds lead on to golden days,
Days of domestic peace-by him who plays
On the great stage how uneventful thought;
Yet with a thousand busy projects fraught,
A thousand incidents that stir the mind
To pleasure, such as leaves no sting behind!
Such as the heart delights in-and records
Within how silently-in more than words!
A Holiday-the frugal banquet spread
On the fresh herbage near the fountain-head
With quips and cranks-what time the wood-lark
there
Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air,
What time the king-fisher sits perch'd below,
Where, silver-bright, the water-lilies blow:-
A Wake the booths whitening the village-green,
Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen;
Sign beyond sign in close array unfurl'd,
Picturing at large the wonders of the world;
And far and wide, over the vicar's pale,
Black hoods and scarlet crossing hill and dale,
All, all abroad, and music in the gale:-
A Wedding-dance-a dance into the night
On the barn-floor, when maiden-feet are light;
When the young bride receives the promised dower,
And flowers are flung, herself a fairer flower:-
A morning-visit to the poor man's shed,
Down by the beech-wood side he turn'd away :
(Who would be rich while One was wanting bread?) And now behold him in an evil day
When all are emulous to bring relief,
And tears are falling fast-but not for grief:-
A Walk in Spring-Grattan, like those with thee.
By the heath-side (who had not envied me?)
When the sweet limes, so full of bees in June,
Led us to meet beneath their boughs at noon;
And thou didst say which of the Great and Wise,
Could they but hear and at thy bidding rise,
Thou wouldst call up and question.
Serving the State again-not as before,
Not foot to foot, the war-whoop at his door,-
But in the Senate: and (though round him fly
The jest, the sneer, the subtle sophistry,
With honest dignity, with manly sense,
And every charm of natural eloquence,
Like Hampden struggling in his Country's cause, (201
The first, the foremost to obey the laws,
The last to brook oppression. On he moves,
Careless of blame while his own heart approves,
Careless of ruin-("For the general good
"T is not the first time I shall shed my blood.")
On through that gate misnained, (21) through which
Went Sidney, Russel, Raleigh, Cranmer, More,
On into twilight within walls of stone,
Then to the place of trial; (22) and alone, (23)
Alone before his judges in array
Stands for his life: there, on that awful day,
Graver things
Come in their turn. Morning, and Evening, brings
Its holy office; and the sabbath-bell,
That over wood and wild and mountain-dell
Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy
With sounds most musical, most melancholy,
Not on his ear is lost. Then he pursues
The pathway leading through the aged yews,
Nor unattended; and, when all are there,
Pours out his spirit in the House of Prayer,
That House with many a funeral-garland hung (18) Counsel of friends-all human help denied
Of virgin-white-memorials of the young,
The last yet fresh when marriage-chimes were ringing,
And hope and joy in other hearts were springing;
That House, where Age led in by Filial Love,
Their looks composed, their thoughts on things above,
The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgiven--
Who would not say they trod the path to Heaven?
Nor at the fragrant hour-at early dawn-
Under the elm-tree on his level lawn,
Or in his porch is he less duly found,
When they that cry for Justice gather round,
And in that cry her sacred voice is drown'd;
His then to hear and weigh and arbitrate,
Like Alfred judging at his palace-gate.
Heal'd at his touch, the wounds of discord close;
And they return as friends, that came as foes.
Thus, while the world but claims its proper part,
Oft in the head but never in the heart,
His life steals on; within his quiet dwelling
That home-felt joy all other joys excelling.
Sick of the crowd, when enters he-nor then
Forgets the cold indifference of men?
All but from her who sits the pen to guide,
Like that sweet Saint who sate by Russel's side
Under the Judgment-scat, (24)-But guilty men
Triumph not always. To his hearth again,
Again with honor to his hearth restored,
Lo, in the accustom'd chair and at the board,
Thrice greeting those who most withdraw their
claim,
(The lowliest servant calling by his name)
He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all,
All met as at a holy festival!
-On the day destined for his funeral!
Lo, there the Friend, who entering where he lay
Breathed in his drowsy ear, Away, away!
Take thou my cloak-Nay, start not, but obey-
Take it and leave me." And the blushing Maid.
Who through the streets as through a desert stray'd;
And, when her dear, dear Father pass'd along,
Would not be held-but, bursting through the throng.
Halberd and battle-axe-kiss'd him o'er and o'er;
Then turn'd and went-then sought him as before,
Believing she should see his face no more!
-Soon through the gadding vine (19) the sun looks in, And oh, how changed at once-no heroine here,
And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin.
Then the bright kettle sings its matin-song,
Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong
Blend as they rise; and (while without are seen,
Sure of their meal, the small birds on the green;
And in from far a school-boy's letter flies,
Flushing the sister's cheek with glad surprise)
That sheet unfolds (who reads, that reads it not?)
Born with the day and with the day forgot;
Its ample page various as human life,
The pomp, the woe, the bustle and the strife!
But nothing lasts. In Autumn at his plow
Met and solicited, behold him now
Leaving that humbler sphere his fathers knew,
The sphere that Wisdom loves-and Virtue too,
She who subsists not on the vain applause
Misjudging man now gives and now withdraws.
"I was morn-the sky-lark o'er the furrow sung
As from his lips the slow consent was wrung;
As from the glebe his fathers till'd of old,
The plow they guided in an age of gold,
But a weak woman worn with grief and fear,
Her darling Mother! "T was but now she smiled
And now she weeps upon her weeping child!
-But who sits by, her only wish below
At length fulfill'd-and now prepared to go?
His hands on hers-as through the mists of night
She gazes on him with imperfect sight;
Her glory now, as ever her delight! (25)
To her, methinks, a second Youth is given;
The light upon her face a light from Heaven'
An hour like this is worth a thousand pass'd
In pomp or ease-T is present to the last!
Years glide away untold-T is still the same!
As fresh, as fair as on the day it came!
And now once more where most he loved to be
In his own fields-breathing tranquillity—
We hail him-not less happy, Fox, than thee!
Thee at St. Anne's so soon of care beguiled,
Playful, sincere, and artless as a child!
Thee, who wouldst watch a bird's-nest on the spray
Through the green leaves exploring, day by day.
How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat,
With thee conversing in thy loved retreat,
I saw the sun go down!-Ah, then 't was thine
Ne'er to forget some volume half divine,
Shakspeare's or Dryden's-through the chequer'd
shade
Borne in thy hand behind thee as we stray'd;
And where we sate (and many a halt we made)
To read there with a fervor all thy own,
And in thy grand and melancholy tone,
Some splendid passage not to thee unknown,
Fit theme for long discourse-Thy bell has toll'd!
-But in thy place among us we behold
One who resembles thee.
The village-clock strikes from the distant tower.
The plowman leaves the field; the traveller hears,
And to the inn spurs forward. Nature wears
Her sweetest smile; the day-star in the west
Yet hovering, and the thistle's down at rest.
And such, his labor done, the calm He knows,
Whose footsteps we have follow'd. Round him glows
An atmosphere that brightens to the last;
The light, that shines, reflected from the Past,
-And from the Future too! Active in Thought
Among old books, old friends; and not unsought
By the wise stranger-in his morning-hours,
When gentle airs stir the fresh-blowing flowers,
He muses, turning up the idle weed;
Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead
Watches his bees at hiving-time; and now,
The ladder resting on the orchard-bough,
Culls the delicious fruit that hangs in air,
The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear,
'Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there.
At night, when all, assembling round the fire,
Closer and closer draw till they retire,
A tale is told of India or Japan,
Of merchants from Golcond or Astracan,
What time wild Nature revell'd unrestrain'd,
And Sinbad voyaged and the Caliphs reign'd:-
Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale
Rings in her shrouds and beats her iron-sail,
Among the snowy Alps of Polar seas
Immovable-for ever there to freeze!
Or some great caravan, from well to well
Winding as darkness on the desert fell,
In their long march, such as the Prophet bids,
To Mecca from the land of Pyramids,
And in an instant lost-a hollow wave
Of burning sand their everlasting grave!—
Now the scene shifts to Venice-to a square
Glittering with light, all nations masking there,
With light reflected on the tremulous tide,
Where gondolas in gay confusion glide,
Answering the jest, the song on every side;
To Naples next-and at the crowded gate,
Where Grief and Fear and wild Amazement wait,
Lo, on his back a Son brings in his Sire, (26)
Vesuvius blazing like a World on fire!—
Then, at a sign that never was forgot,
A strain breaks forth (who hears and loves it not?)
From lute or organ! "T is at parting given,
That in their slumbers they may dream of Heaven;
Young voices mingling, as it floats along,
In Tuscan air or Handel's sacred song!
And She inspires, whose beauty shines in all,
So soon to weave a daughter's coronal,
And at the nuptial rite smile through her tears ;—
So soon to hover round her full of fears,
And with assurance sweet her soul revive
In child-birth-when a mother's love is most alive.
No, 't is not here that Solitude is known.
Through the wide world he only is alone
Who lives not for another. Come what will,
The generous man has his companion still;
The cricket on his hearth; the buzzing fly
That skims his roof, or, be his roof the sky,
Still with its note of gladness passes by:
And, in an iron cage condemn'd to dwell,
The cage that stands within the dungeon-cell,
He feeds his spider-happier at the worst
Than he at large who in himself is curst.
O thou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind (27)
Streams from the depth of ages on mankind,
Streams like the day-who, angel-like, hast shed
Thy full effulgence on the hoary head,
Speaking in Cato's venerable voice,
Look up, and faint not-faint not, but rejoice!"
From thy Elysium guide him. Age has now
Stamp'd with its signet that ingenuous brow;
And, 'mid his old hereditary trees,
Trees he has climb'd so oft, he sits and sces
His children's children playing round his knees :
Then happiest, youngest, when the quoit is flung,
When side by side the archer's bows are strung;
His to prescribe the place, adjudge the prize,
Envying no more the young their energies
Than they an old man when his words are wise;
His a delight how pure-without alloy;
Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy!
Now in their turn assisting, they repay
The anxious cares of many and many a day;
And now by those he loves relieved, restored,
His very wants and weaknesses afford
A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks,
Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks,
While they look up! Their questions, their replies,
Fresh as the welling waters, round him rise,
Gladdening his spirit: and, his theme the past,
How eloquent he is! His thoughts flow fast,
And, while his heart (oh can the heart grow old?
False are the tales that in the World are told!)
Swells in his voice, he knows not where to end;
Like one discoursing of an absent friend.
But there are moments which he calls his own.
Then, never less alone than when alone,
Those that he loved so long and sees no more,
Loved and still loves-not dead-but gone before,
He gathers round him; and revives at will
Scenes in his life-that breathe enchantment still-
That come not now at dreary intervals-
But where a light as from the Blessed falls,
A light such guests bring ever-pure and holy-
Lapping the soul in sweetest melancholy.
-Ah then less willing (nor the choice condemn)
To live with others than to think on them!
And now behold him up the hill ascending,
Memory and Hope like evening-stars attending;
Sustain'd, excited, till his course is run,
By deeds of virtue done or to be done.
When on his couch he sinks at length to rest,
Those by his counsel saved, his power redress'd,
Those by the World shunn'd ever as unblest,
At whom the rich man's dog growls from the gate,
But whom he sought out, sitting desolate,
Come and stand round-the widow with her child,
As when she first forgot her tears and smiled!
They, who watch by him, see not; but he sees,
Sees and exults-Were ever dreams like these?
They, who watch by him, hear not; but he hears,
And Earth recedes, and Heaven itself appears!
Tis past! That hand we grasp'd, alas, in vain!
Nor shall we look upon his face again!
But to his closing eyes, for all were there,
Nothing was wanting; and, through many a year,
We shall remember with a fond delight
The words so precious which we heard to-night;
His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows,
Like setting suns or music at the close!
Then was the drama ended. Not till then,
So full of chance and change the lives of men,
Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure
From pain, from grief, and all that we endure,
He slept in peace-say rather soar'd to Heaven,
Upborne from Earth by Him to whom 'tis given
In his right hand to hold the golden key
That opes the portals of Eternity.
-When by a good man's grave I muse alone,
Methinks an angel sits upon the stone;
Like those of old, on that thrice-hallow'd night,
Who sate and watch'd in raiment heavenly-bright;
And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear,
Says, pointing upward, that he is not here,
That he is risen!
But the day is spent;
And stars are kindling in the firmament,
To us how silent-though like ours perchance
Busy and full of life and circumstance;
Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue,
Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few;
And, as the sun goes round-a sun not ours-
While from her lap another Nature showers
Gifts of her own, some from the crowd retire,
Think on themselves, within, without inquire;
At distance dwell on all that passes there,
All that their world reveals of good and fair;
And, as they wander, picturing things, like me,
Not as they are, but as they ought to be,
Trace out the Journey through their little Day,
And fondly dream an idle hour away.
Note 1, page 11, col. 2.
Our pathway leads but to a precipice.
See Bossuet, Sermon sur la Résurrection.
Note 2, page 11, col. 2.
We fly; no resting for the foot we find.
"I have considered," says Solomon, "all the works that are under the sun; and behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit." But who believes it, till Death tells
to know himself. He tells the proud and insolent, that they are but abjects, and humbles them at the instant. He takes the account of the rich man, and proves him a beggar, a naked beggar. He holds a glass before the eyes of the most beautiful, and makes them see therein their deformity; and they acknowledge it.
O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none have dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world have flattered, thou only hast cast out and despised: thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hic jacet. RALEIGH.
Through the dim curtains of Futurity. Fancy can hardly forbear to conjecture with what temper Milton surveyed the silent progress of his work, and marked his reputation stealing its way in a kind of subterraneous current through fear and silence. I cannot but conceive him calm and confident, little disappointed, not at all dejected, relying on his own merit with steady consciousness, and waiting, without impatience, the vicissitudes of opinion, and the impartiality of a future generation.-JOHNSON.
After line 57, col. 2, in the MS.
O'er place and time we triumph; on we go,
Ranging in thought the realms above, below;
Yet, ah, how little of ourselves we know!
And why the heart beats on, or how the brain
Says to the foot, 'Now move, now rest again,'
From age to age we search, and search in vain.
Note 4, page 12, col. 1.
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The hour arrives, the moment wished and feared. A Persian Poet has left us a beautiful thought on this subject, which the reader, if he has not met with it, will be glad to know, and, if he has, to remember. Thee on thy mother's knees, a new-born child, In tears we saw, when all around thee smiled. So live, that, sinking in thy last long sleep, Smiles may be thine, when all around thee weep.
For my version I am in a great measure indebted
it us? It is Death alone that can suddenly make man to Sir William Jones.
Note 7, page 12, col. 2.
"These are my Jewels!"
The anecdote here alluded to, is related by Valerius Maximus, lib. iv, c. 4.
Note 8, page 12, col. 2.
"Suffer these little ones to come to me!"
visit Sicily and Greece, when hearing of the troubles in England, he thought it proper to hasten home. Note 13, page 13, col. 1.
I began thus far to assent... to an inward promptIn our early Youth, while yet we live only among intent study (which I take to be my portion in this ing which now grew daily upon me, that by labor and those we love, we love without restraint, and our life), joined with the strong propensity of nature, I hearts overflow in every look, word, and action. But might perhaps leave something, so written, to after when we enter the world and are repulsed by stran- times, as they should not willingly let it die.-MILTON gers, forgotten by friends, we grow more and more timid in our approaches even to those we love best. How delightful to us then are the little caresses of children! All sincerity, all affection, they fly into our arms; and then, and then only, we feel our first confidence, our first pleasure.
Note 14, page 13, col. 1.
't was at matin-time. Love and devotion are said to be nearly allied Boccaccio fell in love at Naples in the church of St. Lorenzo; as Petrarch had done at Avignon in the church of St. Clair.
Note 15, page 13, col. 2.
Lovely before, oh, say how lovely now!
but really are, most beautiful in the presence of those Is it not true, that the young not only appear to be they love? It calls forth all their beauty.
Note 16, page 13, col. 2.
And feeling hearts-touch them but rightly-pour
A thousand melodies unheard before!
Among us, says a philosophical historian, and Xenophon has left us a delightful instance of con. wherever birth and possessions give rank and au-jugal affection. thority, the young and the profligate are seen continu- The king of Armenia not fulfilling his engagement, ally above the old and the worthy: there Age can never Cyrus entered the country, and, having taken him find its due respect. But among many of the ancient and all his family prisoners, ordered them instantly nations it was otherwise; and they reaped the benefit before him. Armenian, said he, you are free; for you of it. "Rien ne maintient plus les mœurs qu'une are now sensible of your error. And what will you extrême subordination des jeunes gens envers les give me, if I restore your wife to you ?-All that I am vieillards. Les uns et les autres seront contenus, ceux-able. What, if I restore your children?—All that I là par le respect qu'ils auront pour les vieillards, et am able. And you, Tigranes, said he, turning to the ceux-ci par le respect qu'ils auront pour eux-mêmes." son, What would you do, to save your wife from MONTESQUIEU.
Note 10, page 12, col. 2.
Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate.
servitude? Now Tigranes was but lately married, and had a great love for his wife. Cyrus, he replied, to save her from servitude, I would willingly lay down my life.
Before I went into Germany, I came to Brodegate in Leicestershire, to take my leave of that noble Lady Let each have his own again, said Cyrus; and when Jane Grey, to whom I was exceeding much beholding. he was departed, one spoke of his clemency; and Her parents, the Duke and Duchess, with all the another of his valor; and another of his beauty, and Household, Gentlemen and Gentlewomen, were the graces of his person. Upon which, Tigranes hunting in the park. I found her in her chamber, asked his wife, if she thought him handsome. Really, reading Phædo Platonis in Greek, and that with as said she, I did not look at him.-At whom then did much delight as some Gentlemen would read a merry you look?-At him who said he would lay down his tale in Boccace. After salutation and duty done, with life for me.— -Cyropædia, 1. iii. some other talk, I asked her, why she would lose such pastime in the park? Smiling, she answered me, "I wist, all their sport in the park is but a shadow to that pleasure that I find in Plato."-ROGER ASCHAM.
Note 11, page 12, col. 2.
Then is the Age of Admiration.
Note 17, page 14, col. 2.
He goes, and Night comes as it never came!
These circumstances, as well as some others that follow, are happily, as far as they regard England, of an ancient date. To us the miseries inflicted by a foreign invader are now known only by description.
Dante in his old age was pointed out to Petrarch Many generations have passed away since our counwhen a boy; and Dryden to Pope.
Who does not wish that Dante and Dryden could have known the value of the homage that was paid them, and foreseen the greatness of their young admirers?
trywomen saw the smoke of an enemy's camp.
But the same passions are always at work everywhere, and their effects are always nearly the same; though the circumstances that attend them are in finitely various.
Note 18, page 15, col. 1.
That House with many a funeral-garland hung.
A custom in some of our country-churches.
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