There was-and O! how many sorrows crowd Into these two brief words!—there was a claim(a) By generous friendship given-had fate allow'd, It well had bid thee rank the proudest of the proud!
All angel now-yet little less than all,
While still a pilgrim in our world below! What 'vails it us that patience to recall,
Which hid its own, to sooth all other woe; What 'vails to tell, how Virtue's purest glow Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair: And, least of all, what 'vails the world should know,
That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair, Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and wither there!
INSCRIPTION FOR A COLUMN AT NEW- BURY.
ART thou a Patriot, Traveller ?-On this field Did FALKLAND fall, the blameless and the brave, Beneath a Tyrant's banners.-Dost thou boast Of loyal ardour? HAMPDEN perish'd here, The rebel HAMPDEN, at whose glorious name
(a) This is understood to refer to the Dutchess of Buccleuch, who died shortly before the poem appeared.
If with thy neighbour thou should'st not accord, In charity remember these good men, And quell all angry and injurious thoughts.
ON A LANDSCAPE OF GASPAR POUSSIN.
POUSSIN! how pleasantly thy pictured scenes Beguile the lonely hour! I sit and gaze With lingering eye, till charmed FANCY makes The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul From the foul haunts of herded human-kind Flies far away with spirit-speed, and tastes The untainted air, that with the lively hue Of health and happiness illumes the cheek Of mountain LIBERTY. My willing soul All eager follows on thy faery flights, FANCY! best friend; whose blessed witcheries With loveliest prospects cheat the traveller O'er the long wearying desert of the world. Nor dost thou, FANCY! with such magic mock My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew, Or Alquif, or Zaizafiel's sister sage, Whose vengeful anguish for so many a year Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced Lisuart the Grecian, pride of chivalry.
Friend of my lonely hours! thou leadest me To such calm joys as Nature, wise and good,
Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons;
Her wretched sons, who pine with want amid
The abundant earth, and blindly bow them down Before the Moloch shrines of WEALTH and POWER,
AUTHORS OF EVIL. Oh, it is most sweet To medicine with thy wiles the wearied heart, Sick of reality. The little pile
That tops the summit of that craggy hill Shall be my dwelling: craggy is the hill
And steep; yet through yon hazels upwards leads The easy path, along whose winding way Now close-embower'd I hear the unseen stream Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam Gleam through the thicket; and ascending on, Now pause me to survey the goodly vale That opens on my vision. Half way up Pleasant it were upon some broad smooth rock To sit and sun myself, and look below, And watch the goatherd down yon high-bank'd path
Urging his flock grotesque; and bidding now His lean rough dog from some near cliff go drive The straggler; while his barkings loud and quick Amid their trembling bleat arising oft, Fainter and fainter from the hollow road Send their far echoes, till the waterfall
Hoarse bursting from the cavern'd cliff beneath, Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet
Onward, and I have gain'd the upmost height. Fair spreads the vale below: I see the stream Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky. A passing cloud darkens the border steep, Where the town-spires behind the castle-towers
Rise graceful; brown the mountain in its shade. Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal'd, Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun Should bound mine eyes,-ay, and my wishes too,
For I would have no hope or fear beyond. The empty turmoil of the worthless world, Its vanities and vices, would not vex My quiet heart. The traveller who beheld The low tower of the little pile, might deem It were the house of God: nor would he err So deeming, for that home would be the home Of PEACE and LOVE, and they would hallow it TO HIM. Oh, life of blessedness! to reap The fruit of honourable toil, and bound
Our wishes with our wants! Delightful thoughts, That sooth the solitude of maniac HOPE, Ye leave her to reality awaked,
Like thee poor captive, from some fleeting dream Of friends and liberty and home restored, Startled, and listening as the midnight storm Beats hard and heavy through his dungeon bars.
INSCRIPTION FOR A TABLET AT PENSHURST.
ARE days of old familiar to thy mind, O Reader? Hast thou let the midnight hour Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived With high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs, Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain,
Following their dangerous fortunes? If such love Hath ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread, As with a Pilgrim's reverential thoughts, The groves of Penshurst. Sydney here was born, Sydney, than whom no gentler, braver man His own delightful genius ever feign'd Illustrating the vales of Arcady
With courteous courage and with loyal love. Upon his natal day the acorn here
Was planted. It grew up a stately oak, And in the beauty of its strength it stood And flourish'd, when his perishable part Had moulder'd dust to dust.
Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sydney's fame Endureth in his own immortal works.
EXTRACT FROM RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS.
A CHRISTIAN Woman spinning at her door Beheld him, and with sudden pity touch'd, She laid her spindle by, and running in Took bread, and following after, call'd him back, And placing in his passive hands the loaf, She said, Christ Jesus for his Mother's sake Have mercy on thee! With a look that seem'd Like idiocy he heard her, and stood still, Staring a while; then bursting into tears Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart, Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts. So through the streets, and through the northern gate,
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