His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, And listened to the wind; and, as before, Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, Aad for the land, his small inheritance. And to that hollow dell from time to time Did he repair, to build the Fold of which His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet The pity which was then in every heart For the old Man-and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thither went, And never lifted up a single stone.
The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears to flow, Till a winter's noon-day placed her buried Son Before her eyes, last child of many gone-
His raiment of angelic white, and lo! His very feet bright as the dazzling snow Which they are touching; yea far brighter, even As that which comes, or seems to come, from heaven, Surpasses aught these elements can show. Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that hour Whate'er befel she could not grieve or pine;
But the Transfigured, in and out of season, Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a power Over material forms that mastered reason.
There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he Oh, gracious Heaven, in pity make her thine!
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years, from time to time, He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, And left the work unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel Survive her Husband: at her death the estate Was soll, and went into a stranger's hand. The Cottage which was named the EVENING STAR is gone the ploughshare has been through the ground
On which it stood; great changes have been wrought in all the neighbourhood:-yet the oak is left
| That grew beside their door; and the remains Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.
How beautiful when up a lofty height Har ascends among the humblest poor, And feeling sinks as deep! See there the door One, a Widow, left beneath a weight Of Varneless debt. On evil Fortune's spite She wasted no complaint, but strove to make A just repayment, both for conscience-sake And that herself and hers should stand upright
the world's eye. Her work when daylight failed Paced not, and through the depth of night she kept Sur earnest vigils, that belief prevailed Wich note, the noble Creature never slept; Be by one, the hand of death assailed Her chidren from her inmost heart bewept.
THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE.
[The subject of the following poem is from the Orlandus of the author's friend, Kenelm Henry Digby: and the liberty is taken of inscribing it to him as an acknowledgment, however unworthy, of pleasure and instruction derived from his numerous and valuable writings, illustrative of the piety and chivalry of the olden time.]
You have heard 'a Spanish Lady
How she wooed an English man* ;' Hear now of a fair Armenian,
Daughter of the proud Soldàn;
How she loved a Christian Slave, and told her pain By word, look, deed, with hope that he might love
*See, in Percy's Reliques, that fine old ballad, "The Spanish Lady's Love;" from which Poem the form of stanza, as suitable to dialogue, is adopted.
And how blest the Reunited,
While beneath their castle-walls, Runs a deafening noise of welcome!— Blest, though every tear that falls Doth in its silence of past sorrow tell,
Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal And makes a meeting seem most like a dear farewell.
Say that I, who might have languished,
Drooped and pined till life was spent,
Now before the gates of Stolberg
My Deliverer would present
For a crowning recompense, the precious grace
On the ground the weeping Countess Knelt, and kissed the Stranger's hand; Act of soul-devoted homage,
Pledge of an eternal band:
Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie,
Which, with a generous shout, the crowd did ratify.
Constant to the fair Armenian,
Gentle pleasures round her moved,
Like a tutelary spirit
Reverenced, like a sister, loved.
Christian meekness smoothed for all the path of
Of her who in my heart still holds her ancient Who, loving most, should wiseliest love, their only
Mute memento of that union
In a Saxon church survives,
Where a cross-legged Knight lies sculptured
As between two wedded WivesFigures with armorial signs of race and birth, And the vain rank the pilgrims bore while yet on earth.
THERE's more in words than I can teach: Yet listen, Child!—I would not preach; But only give some plain directions
To guide your speech and your affections. Say not you love a roasted fowl, But you may love a screaming owl, And, if you can, the unwieldy toad That crawls from his secure abode Within the mossy garden wall When evening dews begin to fall. Oh mark the beauty of his eye: What wonders in that circle lie! So clear, so bright, our fathers said He wears a jewel in his head! And when, upon some showery day, Into a path or public way
A frog leaps out from bordering grass, Startling the timid as they pass, Do you observe him, and endeavour To take the intruder into favour; Learning from him to find a reason For a light heart in a dull season. And you may love him in the pool, That is for him a happy school,
In which he swims as taught by nature, Fit pattern for a human creature, Glancing amid the water bright, And sending upward sparkling light.
Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing A love for things that have no feeling: The spring's first rose by you espied, May fill your breast with joyful pride; And you may love the strawberry-flower, And love the strawberry in its bower; But when the fruit, so often praised For beauty, to your lip is raised,
Say not you love the delicate treat, But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat.
Long may you love your pensioner mouse, Though one of a tribe that torment the house: Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat, Deadly foe both of mouse and rat; Remember she follows the law of her kind, And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind. Then think of her beautiful gliding form, Her tread that would scarcely crush a worın, And her soothing song by the winter fire, Soft as the dying throb of the lyre.
I would not circumscribe your love: It may soar with the eagle and brood with the dove, May pierce the earth with the patient mole,
Or track the hedgehog to his hole.
Loving and liking are the solace of life,
Rock the cradle of joy, smooth the death-bed of strife.
You love your father and your mother, Your grown-up and your baby brother; You love your sister, and your friends, And countless blessings which God sends: And while these right affections play, You live each moment of your day; They lead you on to full content, And likings fresh and innocent, That store the mind, the memory feed, And prompt to many a gentle deed: But likings come, and pass away; "Tis love that remains till our latest day: Our heavenward guide is holy love, And will be our bliss with saints above.
FAREWELL LINES.
'HIGH bliss is only for a higher state,' But, surely, if severe afflictions borne With patience merit the reward of peace, Peace ye deserve; and may the solid good,
Sought by a wise though late exchange, and here With bounteous hand beneath a cottage-roof To you accorded, never be withdrawn, Nor for the world's best promises renounced. Most soothing was it for a welcome Friend, Fresh from the crowded city, to behold That lonely union, privacy so deep,
Such calm employments, such entire content. So when the rain is over, the storm laid,
A pair of herons oft-times have I seen, [pon a rocky islet, side by side,
Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease;
And so, when night with grateful gloom had fallen. Two glow-worms in such nearness that they shared, As seemed, their soft self-satisfying light, Each with the other, on the dewy ground, Where He that made them blesses their repose.— When wandering among lakes and hills I note, Once more, those creatures thus by nature paired, And guarded in their tranquil state of life, Even, as your happy presence to my mind Their union brought, will they repay the debt, And send a thankful spirit back to you, Wch hope that we, dear Friends! shall meet again.
MOGESTED IN A WESTMORELAND COTTAGE.)
Davy in by Autumn's sharpening air Er half-stripped woods and pastures bare, Bes Robin seeks a kindlier home: Not a beggar is he come, But enters as a looked-for guest, feffing in his ruddy breast, As were a natural shield Carged with a blazon on the field, De to that good and pious deed
ich we in the Ballad read. But pensive fancies putting by, And wild-wood sorrows, speedily He plays the expert ventriloquist ;
And caught by glimpses now-now missed, Fumes the listener with a doubt
eft voice he throws about
ames from within doors or without! merer such a sweet confusion, tand by delicate illusion? Es at your elbow-to your feeling The 1stes are from the floor or ceiling; And he's a ndile to be guessed,
ya have marked his heaving chest, Actesy throat whose sink and swell, Beray the Elf that loves to dwell In Exter's bosom, as a chosen cell.
Hart-tirased we smile upon the Bird 1' wm, and with like pleasure stirred send him, when he's only heard.
But small and fugitive our gain Compared with hers who long hath lain, With languid limbs and patient head Reposing on a lone sick-bed;
Where now, she daily hears a strain That cheats her of too busy cares, Eases her pain, and helps her prayers. And who but this dear Bird beguiled The fever of that pale-faced Child; Now cooling, with his passing wing, Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring: Recalling now, with descant soft Shed round her pillow from aloft, Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh, And the invisible sympathy
Of 'Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, Blessing the bed she lies upon *?' And sometimes, just as listening ends In slumber, with the cadence blends A dream of that low-warbled hymn Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim Lamps of faith, now burning dim, Say that the Cherubs carved in stone, When clouds gave way at dead of night And the ancient church was filled with light, Used to sing in heavenly tone, Above and round the sacred places They guard, with winged baby-faces.
Thrice happy Creature! in all lands Nurtured by hospitable hands: Free entrance to this cot has he, Entrance and exit both yet free; And, when the keen unruffled weather That thus brings man and bird together, Shall with its pleasantness be past, And casement closed and door made fast, To keep at bay the howling blast, He needs not fear the season's rage, For the whole house is Robin's cage. Whether the bird flit here or there, O'er table lilt, or perch on chair, Though some may frown and make a stir, To scare him as a trespasser,
And he belike will flinch or start, Good friends he has to take his part; One chiefly, who with voice and look Pleads for him from the chimney-nook, Where sits the Dame, and wears away
Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lie on,'
are part of a child's prayer, still in general use through the northern counties.
« ForrigeFortsæt » |