213. THE SAME.Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:England hath need of thee: she is a fenOf stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,Have forfeited their ancient English dowerOf inward happiness. We are selfish menO! raise us up, return to us again;And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;So didst thou travel on life's common wayIn cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.W. WORDSWORTH.
214.When I have borne in memory what has tamedGreat nations; how ennobling thoughts departWhen men change swords for ledgers, and desertThe student's bower for gold,—some fears unnamedI had, my Country!—am I to be blamed?Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,Verily, in the bottom of my heartOf those unfilial fears I am ashamed.For dearly must we prize thee; we who findIn thee a bulwark of the cause of men;And I by my affection was beguiled:What wonder if a Poet now and then,Among the many movements of his mind,Felt for thee as a lover or a child!W. WORDSWORTH.
215. HOHENLINDEN.On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat at dead of nightCommanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast array'dEach horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neigh'dTo join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills with thunder riven;Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;And louder than the bolts of HeavenFar flash'd the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stainéd snow;And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye BraveWho rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few shall part, where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.T. CAMPBELL.
216. AFTER BLENHEIM.It was a summer evening,Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun;And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and roundWhich he beside the rivuletIn playing there had foundHe came to ask what he had foundThat was so large and smooth and round.Old Kaspar took it from the boyWho stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And with a natural sigh"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,"Who fell in the great victory."I find then in the garden,For there's many here about;And often when I go to ploughThe ploughshare turns them out.For many thousand men," said he,"Were slain in that great victory.""Now tell us what 'twas all about,"Young Peterkin he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks upWith wonder-waiting eyes;"Now tell us all about the war,And what they fought each other for.""It was the English," Kaspar cried,"Who put the French to rout;But what they fought each other forI could not well make out.But every body said," quoth he,"That 'twas a famous victory."My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly:So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head."With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide,And many a childing mother thenAnd newborn baby died:But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory."They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun:But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory."Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' wonAnd our good Prince Eugene";"Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"Said little Wilhelmine;"Nay—nay—my little girl," quoth he,"It was a famous victory.And every body praised the DukeWho this great fight did win.""But what good came of it at last?"Quoth little Peterkin:—"Why that I cannot tell," said he,"But 'twas a famous victory."R. SOUTHEY.
217. PRO PATRIA MORI.When he who adores thee has left but the nameOf his fault and his sorrows behind,O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fameOf a life that for thee was resign'd!Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,Thy tears shall efface their decree;For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,I have been but too faithful to thee.With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;Every thought of my reason was thine;In my last humble prayer to the Spirit aboveThy name shall be mingled with mine!O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall liveThe days of thy glory to see;But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can giveIs the pride of thus dying for thee.T. MOORE.
218. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moonbeam's misty lightAnd the lantern dimly burning.No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him:But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we saidAnd we spoke not a word of sorrow,But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bedAnd smooth'd down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow!Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.C. WOLFE.
219. SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN.In the sweet shire of Cardigan,Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,An old man dwells, a little man,I've heard he once was tall.Full five-and-thirty years he livedA running huntsman merry;And still the centre of his cheekIs red as a ripe cherry.No man like him the horn could sound,And hill and valley rang with glee,When Echo bandied round and roundThe halloo of Simon Lee.In those proud days he little caredFor husbandry or tillage;To blither tasks did Simon rouseThe sleepers of the village.He all the country could outrun,Could leave both man and horse behind;And often, ere the chase was done,He reel'd and was stone-blind.And still there's something in the worldAt which his heart rejoices;For when the chiming hounds are out,He dearly loves their voices.But O the heavy change!—bereftOf health, strength, friends, and kindred, seeOld Simon to the world is leftIn liveried poverty:His master's dead, and no one nowDwells in the Hall of Ivor;Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;He is the sole survivor.And he is lean and he is sick,His body dwindled and awryRests upon ankles swoln and thick;His legs are thin and dry.He has no son, he has no child;His wife, an aged woman,Lives with him, near the waterfall,Upon the village common.Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,Not twenty paces from the door,A scrap of land they have, but theyAre poorest of the poor.This scrap of land he from the heathEnclosed when he was stronger;But what avails the land to themWhich he can till no longer?Oft, working by her husband's side,Ruth does what Simon cannot do;For she, with scanty cause for pride,Is stouter of the two.And, though you with your utmost skillFrom labour could not wean them,'Tis little, very little, allThat they can do between them.Few months of life has he in storeAs he to you will tell,For still, the more he works, the moreDo his weak ankles swell.My gentle reader, I perceiveHow patiently you've waited,And now I fear that you expectSome tale will be related.O reader! had you in your mindSuch stores as silent thought can bring,O gentle reader! you would findA tale in everything.What more I have to say is short,And you must kindly take it;It is no tale; but, should you think,Perhaps a tale you'll make it.One summer-day I chanced to seeThis old man doing all he couldTo unearth the root of an old tree,A stump of rotten wood.The mattock totter'd in his handSo vain was his endeavourThat at the root of the old treeHe might have work'd for ever."You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,Give me your tool," to him I said;And at the word right gladly heReceived my proffer'd aid.I struck, and with a single blowThe tangled root I sever'd,At which the poor old man so longAnd vainly had endeavour'd.The tears into his eyes were brought,And thanks and praises seem'd to runSo fast out of his heart, I thoughtThey never would have done.—I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deedsWith coldness still returning;Alas! the gratitude of menHas oftener left me mourning.W. WORDSWORTH.
220. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.I have had playmates, I have had companionsIn my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I have been laughing, I have been carousing,Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I loved a Love once, fairest among women:Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,Seeking to find the old familiar faces.Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces,How some they have died, and some they have left me,And some are taken from me; all are departed;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.C. LAMB.
221. THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.As slow our ship her foamy trackAgainst the wind was cleaving,Her trembling pennant still look'd backTo that dear isle 'twas leaving.So loth we part from all we love,From all the links that bind us;So turn our hearts, as on we rove,To those we've left behind us!When, round the bowl, of vanish'd yearsWe talk with joyous seeming—With smiles that might as well be tears,So faint, so sad their beaming;While memory brings us back againEach early tie that twined us,Oh, sweet's the cup that circles thenTo those we've left behind us!And when in other climes, we meetSome isle or vale enchanting,Where all looks flowery wild and sweet,And nought but love is wanting;We think how great had been our blissIf Heaven had but assign'd usTo live and die in scenes like this,With some we've left behind us!As travellers oft look back at eveWhen eastward darkly going,To gaze upon that light they leaveStill faint behind them glowing,—So, when the close of pleasure's dayTo gloom hath near consign'd us,We turn to catch our fading rayOf joy that's left behind us.T. MOORE.
222. YOUTH AND AGE.There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes awayWhen the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast,But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happinessAre driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vainThe shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,—As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!LORD BYRON.
223. A LESSON.There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,And the first moment that the sun may shine,Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,Oft have I seen it muffled up from harmIn close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.But lately, one rough day, this flower I past,And recognised it, though an alter'd form,Now standing forth an offering to the blast,And buffeted at will by rain and storm.I stopp'd and said with inly-mutter'd voice,"It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;This neither is its courage nor its choice,But its necessity in being old."The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;It cannot help itself in its decay;Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue."And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.To be a prodigal's favourite—then, worse truth,A miser's pensioner—behold our lot!O Man! that from thy fair and shining youthAge might but take the things Youth needed not!W. WORDSWORTH.
224. PAST AND PRESENT.I remember, I rememberThe house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soonNor brought too long a day;But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away.I remember, I rememberThe roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily-cups—Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birthday,—The tree is living yet!I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers thenThat is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow.I remember, I rememberThe fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from HeavenThan when I was a boy.T. HOOD.
225. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.Oft, in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone,Now dimm'd and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.When I remember allThe friends, so link'd together,I've seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.T. MOORE.
226. INVOCATION.Rarely, rarely, comest thou,Spirit of Delight!Wherefore hast thou left me nowMany a day and night?Many a weary night and day'Tis since thou art fled away.How shall ever one like meWin thee back again?With the joyous and the freeThou wilt scoff at pain.Spirit false! thou hast forgotAll but those who need thee not.As a lizard with the shadeOf a trembling leaf,Thou with sorrow art dismay'd;Even the sighs of griefReproach thee, that thou art not near,And reproach thou wilt not hear.Let me set my mournful dittyTo a merry measure;—Thou wilt never come for pity,Thou wilt come for pleasure;—Pity then will cut awayThose cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.I love all that thou lovest,Spirit of Delight!The fresh Earth in new leaves drestAnd the starry night;Autumn evening, and the mornWhen the golden mists are born.I love snow, and all the formsOf the radiant frost;I love waves, and winds, and storms,Everything almostWhich is Nature's, and may beUntainted by man's misery.I love tranquil solitude,And such societyAs is quiet, wise, and good;Between thee and meWhat diff'rence? but thou dost possessThe things I seek, not love them less.I love Love—though he has wings,And like light can flee,But above all other things,Spirit, I love thee—Thou art love and life! O come!Make once more my heart thy home!P.B. SHELLEY.
227. STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.The sun is warm, the sky is clear,The waves are dancing fast and bright,Blue isles and snowy mountains wearThe purple noon's transparent light:The breath of the moist air is lightAround its unexpanded buds;Like many a voice of one delight—The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'—The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.I see the Deep's untrampled floorWith green and purple sea-weeds strown;I see the waves upon the shoreLike light dissolved in star-showers thrown;I sit upon the sands alone;The lightning of the noon-tide oceanIs flashing round me, and a toneArises from its measured motion—How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.Alas! I have nor hope nor health,Nor peace within nor calm around,Nor that Content, surpassing wealth,The sage in meditation found,And walked with inward glory crown'd—Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;Others I see whom these surround—Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.Yet now despair itself is mildEven as the winds and waters are;I could lie down like a tired child,And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne, and yet must bear,Till death like sleep might steal on me,And I might feel in the warm airMy cheek grow cold, and hear the seaBreathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.P.B. SHELLEY.
228. THE SCHOLAR.My days among the Dead are past;Around me I behold,Where'er these casual eyes are cast,The mighty minds of old:My never-failing friends are they,With whom I converse day by day.With them I take delight in wealAnd seek relief in woe;And while I understand and feelHow much to them I owe,My cheeks have often been bedew'dWith tears of thoughtful gratitude.My thoughts are with the Dead; with themI live in long-past years,Their virtues love, their faults condemn,Partake their hopes and fears,And from their lessons seek and findInstruction with an humble mind.My hopes are with the Dead; anonMy place with them will be,And I with them shall travel onThrough all Futurity;Yet leaving here a name, I trust,That will not perish in the dust.R. SOUTHEY.
229. THE MERMAID TAVERN.Souls of Poets dead and goneWhat Elysium have ye known,Happy field or mossy cavern,Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?Have ye tippled drink more fineThan mine host's Canary wine?Or are fruits of ParadiseSweeter than those dainty piesOf Venison? O generous food!Drest as though bold Robin HoodWould, with his Maid Marian,Sup and browse from horn and can.I have heard that on a dayMine host's signboard flew awayNobody knew whither, tillAn astrologer's old quillTo a sheepskin gave the story—Said he saw you in your gloryUnderneath a new-old SignSipping beverage divine,And pledging with contented smackThe Mermaid in the Zodiac!Souls of poets dead and goneWhat Elysium have ye known—Happy field or mossy cavern—Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?J. KEATS.
230. THE PRIDE OF YOUTH.Proud Maisie is in the wood,Walking so early;Sweet Robin sits on the bush,Singing so rarely."Tell me, thou bonny bird,When shall I marry me?"—"When six braw gentlemenKirkward shall carry ye.""Who makes the bridal bed,Birdie, say truly?"—"The gray-headed sextonThat delves the grave duly."The glowworm o'er grave and stoneShall light thee steady;The owl from the steeple singWelcome, proud lady!"SIR W. SCOTT.
231. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.One more UnfortunateWeary of breathRashly importunate,Gone to her death!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderlyYoung, and so fair!Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing;Take her up instantly,Loving, not loathing.Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfully,Gently and humanly;Not of the stains of her—All that remains of herNow is pure womanly.Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful:Past all dishonour,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.Still, for all slips of hers,One of Eve's family—Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily.Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,Her fair auburn tresses;Whilst wonderment guessesWhere was her home?Who was her father?Who was her mother?Had she a sister?Had she a brother?Or was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!O! it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherlyFeelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God's providenceSeeming estranged.Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood, with amazement,Houseless by night.The bleak wind of MarchMade her tremble and shiver;But not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life's history,Glad to death's mystery,Swift to be hurl'd—Any where, any whereOut of the world!In she plunged boldly,No matter how coldlyThe rough river ran,Over the brink of it,—Picture it, think of it,Dissolute Man!Lave in it, drink of it,Then, if you can!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderly,Young, and so fair!Ere her limbs frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently, kindly,Smooth and compose them;And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!Dreadfully staringThro' muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFix'd on futurity.Perishing gloomily,Spurr'd by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest.—Cross her hands humblyAs if praying dumbly,Over her breast!Owning her weakness,Her evil behaviour,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!T. HOOD.
232. ELEGY.O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;But on thy turf shall roses rearTheir leaves, the earliest of the year,And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:And oft by yon blue gushing streamShall Sorrow lean her drooping head,And feed deep thought with many a dream,And lingering pause and lightly tread;Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!Away! we know that tears are vain,That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:Will this unteach us to complain?Or make one mourner weep the less?And thou, who tell'st me to forget,Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.LORD BYRON.
233. HESTER.When maidens such as Hester dieTheir place ye may not well supply,Though ye among a thousand tryWith vain endeavour.A month or more hath she been dead,Yet cannot I by force be ledTo think upon the wormy bedAnd her together.A springy motion in her gait,A rising step, did indicateOf pride and joy no common rate,That flush'd her spirit:I know not by what name besideI shall it call: if 'twas not pride,It was a joy to that allied,She did inherit.Her parents held the Quaker ruleWhich doth the human feeling cool;But she was train'd in Nature's school;Nature had blest her.A waking eye, a prying mind;A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind;Ye could not Hester.My sprightly neighbour! gone beforeTo that unknown and silent shore,Shall we not meet, as heretoforeSome summer morning—When from thy cheerful eyes a rayHath struck a bliss upon the day,A bliss that would not go away,A sweet fore-warning?C. LAMB.
234. CORONACH.He is gone on the mountain,He is lost to the forestLike a summer-dried fountain,When our need was the sorest.The fount reappearingFrom the raindrops shall borrow,But to us comes no cheering,To Duncan no morrow!The hand of the reaperTake the ears that are hoary,But the voice of the weeperWails manhood in glory.The autumn winds rushingWaft the leaves that are serest,But our flower was in flushingWhen blighting was nearest.Fleet foot on the correi,Sage counsel in cumber,Red hand in the foray,How sound is thy slumber!Like the dew on the mountain,Like the foam on the river,Like the bubble on the fountain,Thou art gone, and for ever!SIR W. SCOTT.
235. THE DEATH BED.We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.But when the morn came dim and sadAnd chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.T. HOOD.
236. ROSABELLE.O listen, listen, ladies gay!No haughty feat of arms I tell;Soft is the note, and sad the layThat mourns the lovely Rosabelle."Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew,And, gentle lady, deign to stay!Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day."The blackening wave is edged with white;To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh."Last night the gifted Seer did viewA wet shroud swathed round lady gay;Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?"'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heirTo-night at Roslin leads the ball,But that my lady-mother thereSits lonely in her castle-hall."'Tis not because the ring they ride,And Lindesay at the ring rides well,But that my sire the wine will chideIf 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."—O'er Roslin all that dreary nightA wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,And redder than the bright moonbeam.It glared on Roslin's castled rock,It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;'Twas seen from Dryden's grove of oak,And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.Seem'd all on fire that chapel proudWhere Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,Each baron, for a sabled shroud,Sheathed in his iron panoply.Seem'd all on fire within, around,Deep sacristy and altar's pale;Shone every pillar foliage-bound,And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.Blazed battlement and pinnet high,Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—So still they blaze, when fate is nighThe lordly line of high Saint Clair.There are twenty of Roslin's baron's boldLie buried within that proud chapelle;Each one the holy vault doth hold,But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!And each Saint Clair was buried thereWith candle, with book, and with knell;But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sungThe dirge of lovely Rosabelle.SIR W. SCOTT.
237. ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.I saw where in the shroud did lurkA curious frame of Nature's work;A flow'ret crushéd in the bud,A nameless piece of BabyhoodWas in her cradle-coffin lying;Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:So soon to exchange the imprisoning wombFor darker closets of the tomb!She did but ope an eye, and putA clear beam forth, then straight up shutFor the long dark: ne'er more to seeThrough glasses of mortality.Riddle of destiny, who can showWhat thy short visit meant, or knowWhat thy errand here below?Shall we say, that Nature blindCheck'd her hand, and changed her mindJust when she had exactly wroughtA finish'd pattern without fault?Could she flag, or could she tire,Or lack'd she the Promethean fire(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assureLife of health, and days mature:Woman's self in miniature!Limbs so fair, they might supply(Themselves now but cold imagery)The sculptor to make Beauty by.Or did the stern-eyed Fate descryThat babe or mother, one must die;So in mercy left the stockAnd cut the branch; to save the shockOf young years widow'd, and the painWhen Single State comes back againTo the lone man who, reft of wife,Thenceforward drags a maiméd life?The economy of Heaven is dark,And wisest clerks have miss'd the markWhy human buds, like this, should fall,More brief than fly ephemeralThat has his day; while shrivell'd cronesStiffen with age to stocks and stones;And crabbéd use the conscience searsIn sinners of an hundred years.—Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:Rites, which custom does impose,Silver bells, and baby clothes;Coral redder than those lipsWhich pale death did late eclipse;Music framed for infants' glee,Whistle never tuned for thee;Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,Loving hearts were they which gave them.Let not one be missing; nurse,See them laid upon the hearseOf infant slain by doom perverse.Why should kings and nobles havePictured trophies to their grave,And we, churls, to thee denyThy pretty toys with thee to lie—A more harmless vanity?C. LAMB.