Mid the old lumber in the gallery,
That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
Why not remove it from its lurking-place!"
'Twas done as soon as said! but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden-clasp clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perish'd-save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's lagacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"Ginevra."-There then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she conceal'd herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fasten'd her down for ever!
To pomp and pageantry in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene :
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid,
At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved :
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,
And with the firmest, had the fondest, mind.
I mark'd his action, when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried:
The still tears, trickling down that furrow'd cheek,
Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride
Who in their base contempt, the great deride :
Nor pride in learning-though my clerk agreed,
If Death should call him, Ashford might succeed ;—
Nor pride in rustic skill, although he knew
None his superior, and his equals few:
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns Disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd;
In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd;
Pride, in the power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied;
In fact, a noble passion, mis-named pride.
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks, thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honour'd head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compell❜d to kneel and tremble at the sight,
To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,
Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile;
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there :
But he is bless'd, and I lament no more,
A wise good man, contented to be
LATE or early home returning,
In the starlight or the rain,
I beheld that lonely candle
Shining from his window-pane.
Ever o'er his tatter'd curtain,
Nightly looking, I could scan,
Ever writing,
Writing-writing,
The pale figure of a man:
Still discern behind him fall
The same shadow on the wall.
Far beyond the murky midnight,
By dim burning of my oil,
Filling aye his rapid leaflets,
I have watch'd him at his toil;
Watch'd his broad and seamy forehead, Watch'd his white industrious hand,
Ever passing
And repassing;
Watch'd and strove to understand
What impell'd it-gold, or fame
Bread, or bubble of a name.
Oft I've ask'd, debating vainly
In the silence of my mind,
What the services he rendered
To his country or his kind;
Whether tones of ancient music,
Or the sound of modern gong,
Wisdom holy,
Humours lowly,
Sermon, essay, novel, song,
Or philosophy sublime,
Fill'd the measure of his time.
No one sought him, no one knew him,
Undistinguish'd was his name;
Never had his praise been utter'd
By the oracles of fame.
Scanty fare and decent raiment,
Humble lodging, and a fire—
These he sought for,
These he wrought for,
And he gain'd his meek desire;
Teaching men by written word-
Clinging to a hope deferr'd.
So he lived. At last I miss'd him ;-
Still might evening twilight fall,
But no taper lit his lattice-
Lay no shadow on his wall.
In the winter of his seasons,
In the midnight of his day,
'Mid his writing,
Death had beckon'd him away,
Ere the sentence he had plann'd
Found completion at his hand.
But this man, so old and nameless,
Left behind him projects large,
Schemes of progress undeveloped,
Worthy of a nation's charge;
Noble fancies un-completed,
Germs of beauty im-matured,
Only needing
To have flourish'd and endured;
Meet reward in golden store
To have lived for evermore.
Who shall tell what schemes majestic
Perish in the active brain?
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