"Do not think I am reading hard; I believe it is all over with that. I have had a recurrence of my old complaint within this last four or five days, which has half unnerved me for every thing. The state of my health is really miserable; I am well and lively in the morning, and overwhelmed with nervous horrors in the evening. I do not know how to proceed with regard to my studies:—a very slight overstretch of the mind in the daytime occasions me not only a sleepless night, but a night of gloom and horror. The systole and diastole of my heart seem to be playing at ball—the stake, my life. I can only say the game is not yet decided:—I allude to the violence of the palpitation. I am going to mount the Gog-magog hills this morning, in quest of a good night's sleep. The Gog-magog hills for my body, and the Bible for my mind, are my only medicines. I am sorry to say, that neither are quite adequate. Cui, igitur; dandum est vitio? Mihi prorsus. I hope, as the summer comes, my spirits (which have been with the swallows, a winter's journey) will come with it. When my spirits are restored, my health will be restored:—the 'fons mali' lies there. Give me serenity and equability of mind, and all will be well."
He, however, rallied again; but he seems to have been aware that his end was not far distant, for in March he told his brother that though his stay at Cambridge, in the long vacation, was important, he intended to go to Nottingham for his health, and more particularly for his mother's sake; adding, "I shall be glad to moor all my family in the harbour of religious trust, and in the calm seas of religious peace. These concerns are apt at times to escape me; but they now press much upon my heart, and I think it is my first duty to see that my family are safe in the most important of all affairs."
In April, however, he drew a pleasing picture of his future life, in which his filial and paternal tenderness are conspicuous; but he soon afterwards went to Nottingham; and in a letter to his friend Mr. Leeson, written from that town, on the 7th of April, he gave a very melancholy account of himself:
"It seems determined upon, by my mother, that I cannot be spared, since the time of my stay is so very short, and my health so very uncertain. The people here can scarcely be persuaded that any thing ails me; so well do I look; but occasional depressions, especially after any thing has occurred to occasion uneasiness, still harass me. My mind is of a very peculiar cast. I began to think too early; and the indulgence of certain trains of thought, and too free an exercise of the imagination, have superinduced a morbid kind of sensibility; which is to the mind what excessive irritability is to the body. Some circumstances occurred on my arrival at Nottingham, which gave me just cause for inquietude and anxiety; the consequences were insomnia, and a relapse into causeless dejections. It is my business now to curb these irrational and immoderate affections, and, by accustoming myself to sober thought and cool reasoning, to restrain these freaks and vagaries of the fancy, and redundancies of [unknown symbols]. When I am well, I cannot help entertaining a sort of contempt for the weakness of mind which marks my indispositions. Titus when well, and Titus when ill, are two distinct persons. The man, when in health, despises the man, when ill, for his weakness, and the latter envies the former for his felicity."
As his health declined his prospects seemed to brighten. He was again pronounced first at the great College examination; he was one of the three best theme writers, whose merits were so nearly equal that the examiners could not decide between them; and he was a prize-man both in the mathematical and logical or general examination, and in Latin composition. His College offered him a private tutor at its expense, and Mr. Catton obtained exhibitions for him to the value of sixty-six pounds per annum, by which he was enabled to give up the pecuniary assistance he had received from his friends. But even at this moment, when the world promised so much, his situation was truly deplorable. The highest honours of the University were supposed to be within his grasp, and the conviction that such was the general opinion, goaded him on to the most strenuous exertions when he was incapable of the slightest. This struggle between his mental and physical powers, was not, however, of long duration. In July he was seized with an attack that threatened his life, and which he thus described in a letter to Mr. Maddock:
"Last Saturday morning I rose early, and got up some rather abstruse problems in mechanics for my tutor, spent an hour with him, between eight and nine got my breakfast, and read the Greek History (at breakfast) till ten, then sat down to decipher some logarithm tables. I think I had not done any thing at them, when I lost myself. At a quarter past eleven my laundress found me bleeding in four different places in my face and head, and insensible. I got up and staggered about the room, and she, being frightened, ran away, and told my gyp to fetch a surgeon. Before he came I was sallying out with my flannel gown on, and my academical gown over it; he made me put on my coat, and then I went to Mr. Farish's: he opened a vein, and my recollection returned. My own idea was, that I had fallen out of bed, and so I told Mr. Farish at first; but I afterwards remembered that I had been to Mr. Fiske, and breakfasted. Mr. Catton has insisted on my consulting Sir Isaac Pennington, and the consequence is, that I am to go through a course of blistering, &c. which, after the bleeding, will leave me weak enough.
"I am, however, very well, except as regards the doctors, and yesterday I drove into the country to Saffron Walden, in a gig. My tongue is in a bad condition, from a bite which I gave it either in my fall, or in the moments of convulsion. My nose has also come badly off. I believe I fell against my reading desk. My other wounds are only rubs and scratches on the carpet. I am ordered to remit my studies for a while, by the common advice both of doctors and tutors. Dr. Pennington hopes to prevent any recurrence of the fit. He thinks it looks towards epilepsy, of the horrors of which malady I have a very full and precise idea; and I only pray that God will spare me as respects my faculties, however else it may seem good to him to afflict me. Were I my own master, I know how I should act; but I am tied here by bands which I cannot burst. I know that change of place is needful; but I must not indulge in the idea. The college must not pay my tutor for nothing. Dr. Pennington and Mr. Farish attribute the attack to a too continued tension of the faculties. As I am much alone now, I never get quite off study, and I think incessantly. I know nature will not endure this. They both proposed my going home, but Mr. * * did not hint at it, although much concerned; and, indeed, I know home would be a bad place for me in my present situation. I look round for a resting place, and I find none. Yet there is one, which I have long too, too much disregarded, and thither I must now betake myself. There are many situations worse than mine, and I have no business to complain. If these afflictions should draw the bonds tighter which hold me to my Redeemer, it will be well. You may be assured that you have here a plain statement of my case in its true colours without any palliation. I am now well again, and have only to fear a relapse, which I shall do all I can to prevent, by a relaxation in study. I have now written too much.
"I am, very sincerely yours,
"H. K. WHITE.
"P. S. I charge you, as you value my peace, not to let my friends hear, either directly or indirectly of my illness."
A few weeks afterwards he again directed his mother's hopes to a tranquil retreat for his family in his parsonage, but said nothing of his illness; and he told Mr. Haddock, in September,
"I am perfectly well again, and have experienced no recurrence of the fit: my spirits, too, are better, and I read very moderately. I hope that God will be pleased to spare his rebellious child; this stroke has brought me nearer to Him; whom indeed have I for my comforter but Him? I am still reading, but with moderation, as I have been during the whole vacation, whatever you may persist in thinking. My heart turns with more fondness towards the consolations of religion than it did, and in some degree I have found consolation."
But notwithstanding these flattering expressions, he appears to have felt that he had but a short time to live; and it was probably about this period that he wrote his lines on the "Prospect of Death," perhaps one of the most beautiful and affecting compositions in our language:
"On my bed, in wakeful restlessness,I turn me wearisome; while all around,All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;I only wake to watch the sickly taperWhich lights me to my tomb.—Yes, 'tis the handOf Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,Slow sapping the warm current of existenceMy moments now are few—the sand of lifeEbbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little,And the last fleeting particle will fall,Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditateWhile meditate we may.* * * * *I hoped I should not leaveThe earth without a vestige; Fate decreesIt shall be otherwise, and I submit.Henceforth, O world, no more of thy desires!No more of Hope! the wanton vagrant Hope;I abjure all. Now other cares engross me,And my tired soul, with emulative haste,Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven."
"On my bed, in wakeful restlessness,I turn me wearisome; while all around,All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;I only wake to watch the sickly taperWhich lights me to my tomb.—Yes, 'tis the handOf Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,Slow sapping the warm current of existenceMy moments now are few—the sand of lifeEbbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little,And the last fleeting particle will fall,Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditateWhile meditate we may.* * * * *I hoped I should not leaveThe earth without a vestige; Fate decreesIt shall be otherwise, and I submit.Henceforth, O world, no more of thy desires!No more of Hope! the wanton vagrant Hope;I abjure all. Now other cares engross me,And my tired soul, with emulative haste,Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven."
On the 22nd of September he wrote to Mr. Charlesworth, and his letter indicates the possession of higher spirits and more sanguine hopes, than almost any other in his correspondence. About the end of that month he went to London, on a visit to his brother Neville, but returned to College within a few weeks, in a state that precluded all chance of prolonging his existence; but still he did not cease to hope, or rather sought to delude his brother into the belief that he should recover; for in a letter addressed to him, which was found in his pocket after his decease, dated Saturday, 11th of October, he says,
"I am safely arrived, and in College, but my illness has increased upon me much. The cough continues, and is attended with a good deal of fever. I am under the care of Mr. Parish, and entertain very little apprehension about the cough; but my over-exertions in town have reduced me to a state of much debility; and, until the cough be gone, I cannot be permitted to take any strengthening medicines. This places me in an awkward predicament; but I think I perceive a degree of expectoration this morning, which will soon relieve me, and then I shall mend apace. Under these circumstances I must not expect to see you here at present; when I am a little recovered, it will be a pleasant relaxation to me. Our lectures began on Friday, but I do not attend them until I am better. I have not written to my mother, nor shall I while I remain unwell. You will tell her, as a reason, that our lectures began on Friday. I know she will be uneasy if she do not hear from me, and still more so, if I tell her I am ill.
"I cannot write more at present than that I am
"Your truly affectionate Brother,
"H. K. WHITE."
A friend acquainted his brother with his situation, who hastened to him; but when he arrived he was delirious, and though reason returned for a few moments, as if to bless him with the consciousness that the same fond relative, to whose attachment he owed so much, was present at his last hour, he sunk into a stupor, and on Sunday, the 19th of October, 1806, he breathed his last.
Thus died, in his twenty-second year, Henry Kirke White, whose genius and virtues justified the brightest hopes, and whose fitness for Heaven does not bring the consolation for his untimely fate which perhaps it ought. It is impossible to refrain from anticipating what his talents might have produced, had his existence been extended; and though it is extremely doubtful if he were capable of worldly happiness, there is a selfishness in our nature which makes us grieve when those who are likely to increase our intellectual pleasures are hurried to the grave.
In whatever light the character of this unhappy youth be contemplated, it is full of instruction. His talents were unusually precocious, and their variety was as astonishing as their extent. Besides the Poetical pieces in this volume, and his scholastic attainments, his ability was manifested in various other ways. His style was remarkable for its clearness and elegance, and his correspondence and prose pieces show extensive information. To great genius and capacity, he united the rarest and more important gifts of sound judgment and common sense. It is usually the misfortune of genius to invest ordinary objects with a meretricious colouring, that perverts their forms and purposes, to make its possessor imagine that it exempts him from attending to those strict rules of moral conduct to which others are bound to adhere, and to render him neglectful of the sacred assurance that "to whom much is given from him will much be required." Nature, in Kirke White's case, appears, on the contrary, to have determined that she would, in one instance at least, prove that high intellectual attainments are strictly compatible with every social and moral virtue. At a very early period of his life, religion became the predominant feeling of his mind, and she imparted her sober and chastened effects to all his thoughts and actions. The cherished object of every member of his family, he repaid their affection by the most anxious solicitude for their welfare, offering his advice on spiritual affairs with impressive earnestness, and indicating, in every letter of his voluminous correspondence, the greatest consideration for their feelings and happiness. For the last six years he deemed himself marked out for the service of his Maker, not like the member of a convent, whose duties consist only in prayer, but in the exercise of that philanthropy and practical benevolence which ought to adorn every parish priest. To qualify himself properly for the holy office, he subjected his mind to the severest discipline; and his letters display a rational piety, and an enlightened view of religious obligations, that confer much greater honour upon his name, than his Poetical pieces, whether as proofs of talent, or of the qualities of his heart.
Such was Henry Kirke White as he appeared to others; but there are minuter traits of character which no observer can catch, and which the possessor must himself delineate. Though early impressed with melancholy, it was not of a misanthropic nature; and while despair and disappointment were preying on his heart, he was all sweetness and docility to others. A consciousness of the possession of abilities, and of being capable of better things than those which he seemed destined to perform, gives to some of his productions the appearance of discontent, and of having overrated his pretensions. He was, like many youthful Poets, too fond of complaining of fortune, of supposing himself neglected, and of comparing his humble lot with those situations for which he believed himself qualified; but these were the lucubrations of his earliest years, before he found friends to foster his talents. So far, indeed, from having reason to lament the indifference of others to his merits, his life affords one of the most striking examples in the history of genius, that talents when united to moral worth, will be rewarded by honours and fame, that obscure birth is no impediment to advancement, and that a person of the humblest origin may, by his own exertions, become, in the great arena of learning, an object of envy even to those of the highest rank. It is due to him, whose good sense was so remarkable, to point out the time in his career to which the passages in question refer; and to add that his correspondence, after he entered the University, expressed nothing but satisfaction with his lot, and a desire to justify the kindness and expectations of his patrons. Still, Kirke White was unhappy; and, since no other cause then existed for his mental wretchedness, it must be ascribed to a morbid temperament, induced partly by ill health, and partly by constitutional infirmity. The uncertainty of his early prospects, and the fear of ridicule if he expressed his feelings, rendered him reserved, and made him confine his thoughts to his own bosom, for he says,
"When all was new, and life was in its spring,I lived an unloved solitary thing;E'en then I learn'd to bury deep from dayThe piercing cares that wore my youth away;"
"When all was new, and life was in its spring,I lived an unloved solitary thing;E'en then I learn'd to bury deep from dayThe piercing cares that wore my youth away;"
and in a letter to Mr. Maddock, in September, 1804, he thus spoke of himself:
"Perhaps it may be that I am not formed for friendship, that I expect more than can ever be found. Time will tutor me; I am a singular being under a common outside: I am a profound dissembler of my inward feelings, and necessity has taught me the art. I am long before I can unbosom to a friend, yet, I think, I am sincere in my friendship: you must not attribute this to any suspiciousness of nature, but must consider that I lived seventeen years my own confidant, my own friend, full of projects and strange thoughts, and confiding them to no one. I am habitually reserved, and habitually cautious in letting it be seen that I hide any thing."
None knew better than himself that the aspirations and feelings of which genius is the parent are often found to be inconsistent with felicity:
"Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,His melancholy moan,He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days,Pangs that his sensibility uprouseTo curse his being and his thirst for praise.Thou gavest to him with treble force to feelThe sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn;And what o'er all does in his soul presidePredominant, and tempers him to steel,His high indignant pride."
"Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,His melancholy moan,He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days,Pangs that his sensibility uprouseTo curse his being and his thirst for praise.Thou gavest to him with treble force to feelThe sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn;And what o'er all does in his soul presidePredominant, and tempers him to steel,His high indignant pride."
Nor was he unconscious that the toils necessary to secure literary distinction, when endured by a shattered frame, are in the highest degree severe. How much truth and feeling are there in the Lines which he wrote after spending a whole night in study, an hour when religious impressions force themselves with irresistible weight on the exhausted mind:
"Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,How insignificant do all the joys,The gaudes, and honours of the world appear!How vain ambition!—Why has my wakeful lampOut watch'd the slow-paced night?—Why on the page,The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'dThe hours devoted by the world to rest,And needful to recruit exhausted nature?Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repayThe loss of health? or can the hope of gloryLend a new throb unto my languid heart,Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye,Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?"
"Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,How insignificant do all the joys,The gaudes, and honours of the world appear!How vain ambition!—Why has my wakeful lampOut watch'd the slow-paced night?—Why on the page,The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'dThe hours devoted by the world to rest,And needful to recruit exhausted nature?Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repayThe loss of health? or can the hope of gloryLend a new throb unto my languid heart,Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye,Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?"
What a picture of mental suffering does the following passage present, and how impressive does it become when the fate of the author is remembered:
"These feverish dews that on my temples hang,This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame;These, the dread signs of many a secret pang—These are the meed of him who pants for Fame!"
"These feverish dews that on my temples hang,This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame;These, the dread signs of many a secret pang—These are the meed of him who pants for Fame!"
Like so many other ardent students, the night was his favourite time for reading; and, dangerous as the habit is to health, what student will not agree in his descriptions of the pleasures that attend it?
"The night's my own, they cannot steal my night!When evening lights her folding star on high,I live and breathe; and, in the sacred hoursOf quiet and repose, my spirit flies,Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space,And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for heaven."
"The night's my own, they cannot steal my night!When evening lights her folding star on high,I live and breathe; and, in the sacred hoursOf quiet and repose, my spirit flies,Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space,And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for heaven."
Kirke White's poetry is popular, because it describes feelings, passions, and associations, which all have felt, and with which all can sympathize. It is by no means rich in metaphor, nor does it evince great powers of imagination; but it is pathetic, plaintive, and agreeable; and emanating directly from his own heart, it appeals irresistibly to that of his reader. His meaning is always clear, and the force and vigour of his expressions are remarkable. In estimating his poetical powers, however, it should be remembered, that nearly all his Poems were written before he was nineteen; and that they are, in truth, but the germs of future excellence, and ought not to be criticized as if they were the fruits of an intellect on which time and education had bestowed their advantages. It is, however, in his prose works, and especially in his correspondence, that the versatility of his talents, his acquirements, his piety, and his moral excellence are most conspicuous.
A question arises with respect to him which, in the history of a young Poet, is always interesting, but which Mr. Southey has not touched. Abundance of proof exists in his writings of the susceptibility of his heart; but it is not stated that he ever formed an attachment. In many of his pieces he speaks with tenderness of a female whom he calls Fanny; and in one of them, from which it appears that she was dead, he expresses his regard in no equivocal manner; but there are other grounds for concluding that his happiness was affected by disappointed affection. To his friend Mr. Maddock, in July, 1804, he observed:
"I shall never, never marry. It cannot, must not be. As to affections, mine are already engaged as much as they ever will be, and this is one reason why I believe my life will be a life of celibacy. I love too ardently to make love innocent, and therefore I say farewell to it."
With this passage one of his Sonnets singularly agrees:
When I sit musing on the chequer'd past(A term much darken'd with untimely woes),My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flowsThe tear, though half disowned; and binding fastPride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,I say to her, she robb'd me of my rest,When that was all my wealth. 'T is true my breastReceived from her this wearying, lingering smart;Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart;Though wrong'd, I love her—yet in anger love,For she was most unworthy. Then I proveVindictive joy: and on my stern front gleams,Throned in dark clouds, inflexible....The native pride of my much injured heart.
When I sit musing on the chequer'd past(A term much darken'd with untimely woes),My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flowsThe tear, though half disowned; and binding fastPride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,I say to her, she robb'd me of my rest,When that was all my wealth. 'T is true my breastReceived from her this wearying, lingering smart;Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart;Though wrong'd, I love her—yet in anger love,For she was most unworthy. Then I proveVindictive joy: and on my stern front gleams,Throned in dark clouds, inflexible....The native pride of my much injured heart.
Was the subject of this Sonnet wholly imaginary, or was there some unfortunate story which, for sufficient reasons, his biographers have suppressed? It is true, that in his letters, written at a much later period, he speaks of marriage in a manner not to be reconciled with the idea that he was then suffering from recollections of that description; but he may, in the interval of two years, have partially recovered from his loss.
Kirke White was buried in the Church of All Saints, Cambridge, but no monument was erected to him until a liberal minded American, Mr. Francis Boott, of Boston, placed a tablet to his memory, with a medallion, by Chantrey, with the following inscription, by Professor Smyth, one of his numerous friends:
"Warm'd with fond hope and learning's sacred flame,To Granta's bowers the youthful Poet came;Unconquer'd powers the immortal mind display'd,But worn with anxious thought, the frame decay'd:Pale o'er his lamp, and in his cell retired,The martyr student faded and expired.Oh! genius, taste, and piety sincere,Too early lost 'midst studies too severe!Foremost to mourn, was generous Southey seen,He told the tale, and show'd what White had been,Nor told in vain. For o'er the Atlantic waveA wanderer came, and sought the Poet's grave;On yon low stone he saw his lonely name,And raised this fond memorial to his fame."
"Warm'd with fond hope and learning's sacred flame,To Granta's bowers the youthful Poet came;Unconquer'd powers the immortal mind display'd,But worn with anxious thought, the frame decay'd:Pale o'er his lamp, and in his cell retired,The martyr student faded and expired.Oh! genius, taste, and piety sincere,Too early lost 'midst studies too severe!Foremost to mourn, was generous Southey seen,He told the tale, and show'd what White had been,Nor told in vain. For o'er the Atlantic waveA wanderer came, and sought the Poet's grave;On yon low stone he saw his lonely name,And raised this fond memorial to his fame."
CLIFTON GROVE.
DEDICATION.
To Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire, the following trifling effusions of a very youthful Muse are, by permission, dedicated by her Grace's much obliged and grateful Servant,
HENRY KIRKE WHITE
Nottingham.
The following attempts in Verse are laid before the Public with extreme diffidence. The Author is very conscious that the juvenile efforts of a youth, who has not received the polish of Academical discipline, and who has been but sparingly blessed with opportunities for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must necessarily be defective in the accuracy and finished elegance which mark the works of the man who has passed his life in the retirement of his study, furnishing his mind with images, and at the same time attaining the power of disposing those images to the best advantage.
The unpremeditated effusions of a Boy, from his thirteenth year, employed, not in the acquisition of literary information, but in the more active business of life, must not be expected to exhibit any considerable portion of the correctness of a Virgil, or the vigorous compression of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, frequently known to bestow much, labour on their amusements; and these poems were, most of them, written merely to beguile a leisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals of studies of a severer nature.
[---- Greek ---] Every one loves his own work," says Stagyrite; but it was no overweening affection of this kind which induced this publication. Had the author relied on his own judgment only, these Poems would not, in all probability, ever have seen the light.
Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives for this publication? He answers—simply these: The facilitation, through its means, of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, have been the principal objects of his ambition; and the increase of the capacity to pursue those inclinations which may one day place him in an honourable station in the scale of society.
The principal Poem in this little collection (Clifton Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers and harmonious coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be regarded as a description of a nocturnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompanied with such reflections as the scene naturally suggested. It was written twelve months ago, when the Author was in his sixteenth year:—The Miscellanies are some of them the productions of a very early age.—Of the Odes, that "To an early Primrose" was written at thirteen—the others are of a later date.—The Sonnets are chiefly irregular; they have, perhaps, no other claim to that specific denomination, than that they consist only of fourteen lines.
Such are the Poems towards which I entreat the lenity of the Public. The Critic will doubtless find in them much to condemn; he may likewise possibly discover something to commend. Let him scan my faults with an indulgent eye, and in the work of that correction which I invite, let him remember he is holding the iron Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth of seventeen; and, remembering that, may he forbear from crushing, by too much rigour, the painted butterfly whose transient colours may otherwise be capable of affording a moment's innocent amusement.
H. K. WHITE.
Nottingham.
A SKETCH.
Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light,And day's last vestige takes its silent flight.No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke,Which with the dawn from yonder dingle broke;No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head,The crows assembling seek their wind-rock'd bed;Still'd is the village hum—the woodland soundsHave ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds,And general silence reigns, save when belowThe murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow;And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late,Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate;Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale,Breathes its wild music on the downy gale.
Now, when the rustic wears the social smile,Released from day and its attendant toil,And draws his household round their evening fire,And tells the ofttold tales that never tire;Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise,And manufacture taints the ambient skies,The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom,The air-pent hold, the pestilential room,And rushes out, impatient to beginThe stated course of customary sin:Now, now my solitary way I bendWhere solemn groves in awful state impend:And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain,Bespeak, bless'd Clifton! thy sublime domain.Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower,I come to pass the meditative hour;To bid awhile the strife of passion cease,And woo the calms of solitude and peace.And oh! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on highThy leafy throne where wavy poplars sigh!Genius of woodland shades! whose mild controlSteals with resistless witchery to the soul,Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspireMy glowing bosom with thy hallow'd fire.And thou, too, Fancy, from thy starry sphere,Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear,Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight,Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight.At thy command the gale that passes byBears in its whispers mystic harmony.Thou wavest thy wand, and lo! what forms appear!On the dark cloud what giant shapes career!The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale,And hosts of sylphids on the moonbeams sail.This gloomy alcove darkling to the sight,Where meeting trees create eternal night;Save, when from yonder stream the sunny ray,Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day;Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind,Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined,I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood;Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food;Or woke with song the woodland echo wild,And at each gay response delighted smiled.How oft, when childhood threw its golden rayOf gay romance o'er every happy day,Here, would I run, a visionary boy,When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky,And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's formSternly careering on the eddying storm;And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul,His voice terrific in the thunders roll.With secret joy I view'd with vivid glareThe vollied lightnings cleave the sullen air;And, as the warring winds around reviled,With awful pleasure big,—I heard and smiled.Beloved remembrance!—Memory which endearsThis silent spot to my advancing years,Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest,In shades like these to live is to be bless'd.While happiness evades the busy crowd,In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud.And thou too, Inspiration, whose wild flameShoots with electric swiftness through the frame,Thou here dost love to sit with upturn'd eye,And listen to the stream that murmurs by,The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken flight,The mellow music of the listening night.Congenial calms more welcome to my breastThan maddening joy in dazzling lustre dress'd,To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I raise,That ye may bless my unambitious days,Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife,May trace with me the lowly vale of life,And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave,May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave.Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows,A livelier light upon my vision flows.No more above the embracing branches meet,No more the river gurgles at my feet,But seen deep down the cliff's impending side,Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide.Dim is my upland path,—across the greenFantastic shadows fling, yet oft betweenThe chequer'd glooms the moon her chaste ray sheds,Where knots of bluebells droop their graceful heads.And beds of violets, blooming 'mid the trees,Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze.
Say, why does Man, while to his opening sightEach shrub presents a source of chaste delight,And Nature bids for him her treasures flow,And gives to him alone his bliss to know,Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms?Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms?And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath,Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death?Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clingsKnow what calm joy from purer sources springs;Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife,The harmless pleasures of a harmless life,No more his soul would pant for joys impure,The deadly chalice would no more allure,But the sweet potion he was wont to sipWould turn to poison on his conscious lip.
Fair Nature! thee, in all thy varied charms,Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms!Thine are the sweets which never, never sate,Thine still remain through all the storms of fate.Though not for me, 't was Heaven's divine commandTo roll in acres of paternal land,Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoyThine opening beauties with a lover's eye.
Happy is he, who, though the cup of blissHas ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss,Who, still in abject poverty or pain,Can count with pleasure what small joys remain:Though were his sight convey'd from zone to zone,He would not find one spot of ground his own,Yet as he looks around, he cries with glee,These bounding prospects all were made for me:For me yon waving fields their burden bear,For me yon labourer guides the shining share,While happy I in idle ease recline,And mark the glorious visions as they shine.This is the charm, by sages often told,Converting all it touches into gold.Content can soothe where'er by fortune placed,Can rear a garden in the desert waste.
How lovely, from this hill's superior height,Spreads the wide view before my straining sight!O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground,E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound,My ken is borne; while o'er my head sereneThe silver moon illumes the misty scene:Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade,In all the soft varieties of shade.
Behind me, lo! the peaceful hamlet lies,The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes.No more, where late the social faggot blazed,The vacant peal resounds, by little raised,But locked in silence, o'er Arion's1starThe slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car:The church bell tolls, deep sounding down the glade,The solemn hour for walking spectres made;The simple ploughboy, wakening with the sound,Listens aghast, and turns him startled round,Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes,Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise.Now ceased the long, the monitory toll,Returning silence stagnates in the soul;Save when, disturbed by dreams, with wild affright,The deep mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night:Or where the village alehouse crowns the vale,The creaking signpost whistles to the gale.A little onward let me bend my way,Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay.That spot, oh! yet it is the very same;That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name:There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom,There yet the violet sheds its first perfume,And in the branch that rears above the restThe robin unmolested builds its nest.'T was here, when hope, presiding o'er my breast,In vivid colours every prospect dress'd:'T was here, reclining, I indulged her dreams,And lost the hour in visionary schemes.Here, as I press once more the ancient seat,Why, bland deceiver! not renew the cheat!Say, can a few short years this change achieve,That thy illusions can no more deceive!Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread,And thou too, gay seducer, art thou fled?
Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe,Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her tear,And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy wayCould throw a gleam of transitory day.How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems;How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams;The dire mistake too soon is brought to light.And all is buried in redoubled night.Yet some can rise superior to the pain,And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain;While others, dead to feeling, can survey,Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away:But yet a few there be,—too soon o'ercast!Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast,And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the gloom,To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb.So in these shades the early primrose blows,Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows:So falls untimely on the desert waste,Its blossoms withering in the northern blast.
Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display,Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way;Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat,The timid hare from its accustom'd seat.And oh! how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood,That winds the margin of the solemn flood!What rural objects steal upon the sight!What rising views prolong the calm delight!
The brooklet branching from the silver Trent,The whispering birch by every zephyr bent,The woody island, and the naked mead,The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed,The rural wicket, and the rural stile,And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile.Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes,Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise.High up the cliff the varied groves ascend,And mournful larches o'er the wave impend.Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise,What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes!Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed,The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head.And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind,Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind.Still every rising sound of calm delightStamps but the fearful silence of the night,Save when is heard between each dreary rest,Discordant from her solitary nest,The owl, dull screaming to the wandering moon;Now riding, cloud-wrapp'd, near her highest noon:Or when the wild duck, southering, hither rides,And plunges, sullen in the sounding tides.
How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youthGave to each tale the holy force of truth,Have I long linger'd, while the milkmaid sungThe tragic legend, till the woodland rung!That tale, so sad! which, still to memory dear,From its sweet source can call the sacred tear,And (lull'd to rest stern Reason's harsh control)Steal its soft magic to the passive soul.These hallow'd shades,—these trees that woo the wind,Recall its faintest features to my mind.A hundred passing years, with march sublime,Have swept beneath the silent wing of time,Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade,Reclusely dwelt the far famed Clifton Maid,The beauteous Margaret; for her each swainConfess'd in private his peculiar pain,In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair,Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair.No more the Shepherd on the blooming meadAttuned to gaiety his artless reed,No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deckHis favourite wether's unpolluted neck,But listless, by yon bubbling stream reclined,He mix'd his sobbings with the passing wind,Bemoan'd his hapless love; or, boldly bent,Far from these smiling fields a rover went,O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam,A self-will'd exile from his native home.
Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain;Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain.Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs,The echoing vault responded to their vows,As here deep hidden from the glare of day,Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way.
Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name;'T was there the blushing maid confessed her flame.Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie,When evening slumber'd on the western sky.That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare.Each bears mementos of the fated pair.
One eve, when Autumn loaded every breezeWith the fallen honours of the mourning trees,The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower.And waited long beyond the appointed hour,Yet Bateman came not;—o'er the woodland drear,Howling portentous did the winds career;And bleak and dismal on the leafless woodsThe fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods;The night was dark; as, now and then, the galePaused for a moment—Margaret listen'd pale;But through the covert to her anxious earNo rustling footstep spoke her lover near.Strange fears now fill'd her breast,—she knew not why,She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh.She hears a noise,—'t is he,—he comes at last,—Alas! 't was but the gale which hurried past:But now she hears a quickening footstep sound,Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound;'T is Bateman's self,—he springs into her arms,'T is he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms."Yet why this silence?—I have waited long,And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among.
And now thou'rt here my fears are fled—yet speak,Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek?Say, what is wrong?" Now through a parting cloudThe pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud,And Bateman's face was seen; 't was deadly white,And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight."Oh, speak! my love!" again the maid conjured,"Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured?"He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell,Thrice from his lips the unfinished accents fell;When thus at last reluctantly he brokeHis boding silence, and the maid bespoke:"Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advanceI on these fields must cast my parting glance;For three long years, by cruel fate's command,I go to languish in a foreign land.Oh, Margaret! omens dire have met my view,Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true?Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee,Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me,And on the silken couch of wealth reclined,Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?"
"Oh! why," replies the maid, "my faith thus prove,Canst thou! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love?Hear me, just God! if from my traitorous heartMy Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part,If, when he hail again his native shore,He finds his Margaret true to him no more,May fiends of hell, and every power of dread,Conjoin'd then drag me from my perjured bed,And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps,To find deserved death in yonder deeps!"2Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drewA golden ring, and broke it quick in two;One half she in her lovely bosom hides,The other, trembling, to her love confides."This bind the vow," she said, "this mystic charmNo future recantation can disarm,The right vindictive does the fates involve,No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve."
She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry,The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by,And once again the lady of the nightBehind a heavy cloud withdrew her light.Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay;But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away:Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart,Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart.
When to the distant land the youth was sped,A lonely life the moody maiden led.Still would she trace each dear, each well known walk,Still by the moonlight to her love would talk,And fancy, as she paced among the trees,She heard his whispers in the dying breeze.
Thus two years glided on in silent grief;The third her bosom own'd the kind relief:Absence had cool'd her love—the impoverish'd flameWas dwindling fast, when lo! the tempter came;He offered wealth, and all the joys of life,And the weak maid became another's wife!Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime,When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime.Sure of her constancy, elate he came,The lovely partner of his soul to claim;Light was his heart, as up the well known wayHe bent his steps—and all his thoughts were gay.Oh! who can paint his agonizing throes,When on his ear the fatal news arose!Chill'd with amazement,—senseless with the blow,He stood a marble monument of woe;Till call'd to all the horrors of despair,He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair;Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot,And sought those scenes (by memory ne'er forgot),Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame,And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame.'T was night—he sought the river's lonely shore,And traced again their former wanderings o'er.Now on the bank in silent grief he stood,And gazed intently on the stealing flood,Death in his mein and madness in his eye,He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by;Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave—Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave.
Yet still he stood irresolutely bent,Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent.He knelt.—Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind,And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind,The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept,The paly moonbeam on its surface slept,And all was peace;—he felt the general calmO'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm:When casting far behind his streaming eye,He saw the Grove,—in fancy saw her lie,His Margaret, lull'd in Germain's3arms to rest,And all the demon rose within his breast.Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand,Cast his dark eye once more upon the land,Then, at one spring he spurn'd the yielding bank,And in the calm deceitful current sank.
Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound,As in the stream he plunged, was heard around:Then all was still—the wave was rough no more,The river swept as sweetly as before;The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene,And peace returning brooded o'er the scene.
Now, see upon the perjured fair one hangRemorse's glooms and never ceasing pang.Full well she knew, repentant now too late,She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate.But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast,The offended God prolong'd her life unbless'd.But fast the fleeting moments roll'd away,And near and nearer drew the dreaded day;That day foredoom'd to give her child the light,And hurl its mother to the shades of night.The hour arrived, and from the wretched wifeThe guiltless baby struggled into life.—As night drew on, around her bed a bandOf friends and kindred kindly took their stand;In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time,Intent to expiate her awful crime.Their prayers were fruitless.—As the midnight cameA heavy sleep oppress'd each weary frame.In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming load,Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode.They slept till in the blushing eastern skyThe blooming Morning oped her dewy eye;Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd bed,But lo! the hapless Margaret was fled;And never more the weeping train were doom'dTo view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd.
The neighbouring rustics told that in the nightThey heard such screams as froze them with affright;And many an infant, at its mother's breast,Started dismay'd, from its unthinking rest.And even now, upon the heath forlorn,They show the path down which the fair was borne,By the fell demons, to the yawning wave,Her own, and murder'd lover's, mutual grave.
Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear,Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening ear,That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweetsIn the drear silence of these dark retreats;And even now, with melancholy power,Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour.'Mid all the charms by magic Nature givenTo this wild spot, this sublunary heaven,With double joy enthusiast Fancy leansOn the attendant legend of the scenes.This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods,And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods;This, as the distant cataract swells around,Gives a romantic cadence to the sound;This, and the deepening glen, the alley green,The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between,The massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas,The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees,The lengthening vista, and the present gloom,The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume:These are thy charms, the joys which these impartBind thee, bless'd Clifton! close around my heart.
Dear Native Grove! where'er my devious track,To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back.Whether in Arno's polish'd vales I stray,Or where "Oswego's" swamps obstruct the day;Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide,The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side;Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse,Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views;Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam,My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home.When Splendour offers, and when Fame incites,I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights,Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change,Renounce the wish which first induced to range;Turn to these scenes, these well known scenes once more,Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore,And tired with worlds, and all their busy ways,Here waste the little remnant of my days.But if the Fates should this last wish deny,And doom me on some foreign shore to die;Oh! should it please the world's supernal King,That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing;Or that my corse should, on some desert strand,Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting hand;Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb,My sprite shall wander through this favourite gloom,Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove,Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove,Sit a lorn spectre on yon well known grave,And mix its moanings with the desert wave.
1The constellation Delphinus. For authority for this appelation, see Ovid's Fasti, B. xi. 113.2This part of the Trent is commonly called "The Clifton Deeps."3Germain is the traditionary name of her husband.
A POEM.1
Genius of musings, who, the midnight hourWasting in woods or haunted forests wild,Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower,Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance;Or when the vollied lightnings cleave the air,And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm,Sitt'st in some lonely watchtower, where thy lamp,Faint blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far,And, 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved,Dost ponder on the awful scene, and traceThe vast effect to its superior source,—Spirit, attend my lowly benison!For now I strike to themes of import highThe solitary lyre; and, borne by theeAbove this narrow cell, I celebrateThe mysteries of Time!
Him who, august,Was e'er these worlds were fashion'd,—ere the sunSprang from the east, or Lucifer display'dHis glowing cresset in the arch of morn,Or Vesper gilded the serener eve.Yea, He had been for an eternity!Had swept unvarying from eternityThe harp of desolation—ere his tones,At God's command, assumed a milder strain,And startled on his watch, in the vast deep,Chaos's sluggish sentry, and evokedFrom the dark void the smiling universe.
Chain'd to the groveling frailties of the flesh,Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross,Cannot survey, with fix'd and steady eye,The dim uncertain gulf, which now the muse,Adventurous, would explore; but dizzy grown,He topples down the abyss.—If he would scanThe fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpseOf its unfathomable depths, that soHis mind may turn with double joy to God,His only certainty and resting place;He must put off awhile this mortal vest,And learn to follow, without giddiness,To heights where all is vision, and surprise,And vague conjecture.—He must waste by nightThe studious taper, far from all resortOf crowds and folly, in some still retreat;High on the beetling promontory's crest,Or in the caves of the vast wilderness,Where, compass'd round with Nature's wildest shapes,He may be driven to centre all his thoughtsIn the great Architect, who lives confess'dIn rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes.
So has divine Philosophy, with voiceMild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave,Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes,Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy,His faint, neglected song—intent to snatchSome vagrant blossom from the dangerous steepOf poesy, a bloom of such a hue,So sober, as may not unseemly suitWith Truth's severer brow; and one withalSo hardy as shall brave the passing windOf many winters,—rearing its meek headIn loveliness, when he who gathered itIs number'd with the generations gone.Yet not to me hath God's good providenceGiven studious leisure,2or unbroken thought,Such as he owns,—a meditative man;Who from the blush of morn to quiet evePonders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er,Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din:From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'dWith Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the dayHath duties which require the vigorous handOf steadfast application, but which leaveNo deep improving trace upon the mind.But be the day another's;—let it pass!The night's my own!—They cannot steal my night!When evening lights her folding star on high,I live and breathe; and in the sacred hoursOf quiet and repose my spirit flies,Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space.And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for Heaven.
Hence do I love the sober-suited maid;Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my theme,And she shall aid me now to magnifyThe night of ages,—now when the pale rayOf starlight penetrates the studious gloom,And, at my window seated, while mankindAre lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breezeOf stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole,Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine,Assumes her wonted sway.
Behold the worldRests, and her tired inhabitants have pausedFrom trouble and turmoil. The widow nowHas ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lieLock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest.The man of sorrow has forgot his woes;The outcast that his head is shelterless,His griefs unshared.—The mother tends no moreHer daughter's dying slumbers, but surprisedWith heaviness, and sunk upon her couch,Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, lull'dOn Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapp'd,Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shuddering nurse,Poor victim! smiles.—Silence and deep reposeReign o'er the nations; and the warning voiceOf Nature utters audibly withinThe general moral:—tells us that repose,Deathlike as this, but of far longer span,Is coming on us—that the weary crowds,Who now enjoy a temporary calm,Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapp'd aroundWith grave clothes: and their aching restless headsMouldering in holes and corners unobserved,Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep.
Who needs a teacher to admonish himThat flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist?What are our joys but dreams? and what our hopesBut goodly shadows in the summer cloud?There's not a wind that blows but bears with itSome rainbow promise:—Not a moment fliesBut puts its sickle in the fields of life,And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares.'T is but as yesterday since on yon stars,Which now I view, the Chaldee shepherd3gazedIn his mid watch observant, and disposedThe twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape.Yet in the interim what mighty shocksHave buffeted mankind—whole nations razed—Cities made desolate—the polish'd sunkTo barbarism, and once barbaric statesSwaying the wand of science and of arts;Illustrious deeds and memorable namesBlotted from record, and upon the tongueOf gray Tradition, voluble no more.
Where are the heroes of the ages past?Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty onesWho flourish'd in the infancy of days?All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fameExultant, mocking at the pride of man,Sits grim Forgetfulness.—The warrior's armLies nerveless on the pillow of its shame;Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blazeOf his red eyeball.—Yesterday his nameWas mighty on the earth.—To-day—'t is what?The meteor of the night of distant years,That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld,Musing at midnight upon prophecies,Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleamPoint to the mist-poised shroud, then quietlyClosed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret upSafe in the enamel's treasures.
Oh how weakIs mortal man! how trifling—how confinedHis scope of vision! Puff'd with confidence,His phrase grows big with immortality,And he, poor insect of a summer's day!Dreams of eternal honours to his name;Of endless glory and perennial bays.He idly reasons of eternity,As of the train of ages,—when, alas!Ten thousand thousand of his centuriesAre, in comparison, a little pointToo trivial for account.—O, it is strange,'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies;Behold him proudly view some pompous pile,Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies,And smile, and say, My name shall live with thisTill time shall be no more; while at his feet,Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dustOf the fallen fabric of the other dayPreaches the solemn lesson.—He should knowThat time must conquer; that the loudest blastThat ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trumpFades in the lapse of ages, and expires.Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloomOf the gigantic pyramid? or whoRear'd its huge walls? Oblivion laughs, and says,The prey is mine.—They sleep, and never moreTheir names shall strike upon the ear of man,Their memory burst its fetters.
Where is Rome?She lives but in the tale of other times;Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home,And her long colonnades, her public walks,Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet,Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace,Through the rank moss reveal'd, her honour'd dust.But not to Rome alone has fate confinedThe doom of ruin; cities numberless,Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy,And rich Phoenicia—they are blotted out,Half razed from memory, and their very nameAnd being in dispute.—Has Athens fallen?Is polish'd Greece become the savage seatOf ignorance and sloth? and shall we dare
* * * * *
And empire seeks another hemisphere.Where now is Britain?—Where her laurel'd names.Her palaces and halls? Dash'd in the dust.Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride,And with one big recoil hath thrown her backTo primitive barbarity.——Again,Through her depopulated vales, the screamOf bloody Superstition hollow rings,And the scared native to the tempest howlsThe yell of deprecation. O'er her marts,Her crowded ports, broods Silence; and the cryOf the low curlew, and the pensive dashOf distant billows, breaks alone the void;Even as the savage sits upon the stoneThat marks where stood her capitols, and hearsThe bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinksFrom the dismaying solitude.—Her bardsSing in a language that hath perished;And their wild harps suspended o'er their graves,Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain.
Meanwhile the Arts, in second infancy,Rise in some distant clime, and then, perchance,Some bold adventurer, fill'd with golden dreams,Steering his bark through trackless solitudes,Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prowHath ever ploughed before,—espies the cliffsOf fallen Albion.—To the land unknownHe journeys joyful; and perhaps descriesSome vestige of her ancient stateliness:Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mindOf the unheard-of race, which had arrivedAt science in that solitary nook,Far from the civil world; and sagely sighs,And moralizes on the state of man.
Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt,Moves on our being. We do live and breathe,And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not.We have our springtime and our rottenness;And as we fall, another race succeeds,To perish likewise.—Meanwhile Nature smiles—The seasons run their round—The Sun fulfilsHis annual course—and heaven and earth remainStill changing, yet unchanged—still doom'd to feelEndless mutation in perpetual rest.Where are conceal'd the days which have elapsed?Hid in the mighty cavern of the past,They rise upon us only to appall,By indistinct and half-glimpsed images,Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote.
Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch,When the rude rushing winds forget to rave,And the pale moon, that through the casement highSurveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hourOf utter silence, it is fearful thenTo steer the mind, in deadly solitude.Up the vague stream of probability;To wind the mighty secrets of the past,And turn the key of time!—Oh! who can striveTo comprehend the vast, the awful truth,Of the eternity that hath gone by,And not recoil from the dismaying senseOf human impotence? The life of manIs summ'd in birthdays and in sepulchres;But the Eternal God had no beginning;He hath no end. Time had been with himFor everlasting, ere the dredal worldRose from the gulf in loveliness.—Like himIt knew no source, like him, 't was uncreate.What is it then? The past Eternity!We comprehend a future without end;We feel it possible that even yon sunMay roll for ever: but we shrink amazed—We stand aghast, when we reflect that timeKnew no commencement.—That heap age on age,And million upon million, without end,And we shall never span the void of daysThat were and are not but in retrospect.The Past is an unfathomable depth,Beyond the span of thought; 'tis an elapseWhich hath no mensuration, but hath beenFor ever and for ever.
Change of daysTo us is sensible; and each revolveOf the recording sun conducts us onFurther in life, and nearer to our goal.Not so with Time,—mysterious chronicler,He knoweth not mutation;—centuriesAre to his being as a day, and daysAs centuries.—Time past, and Time to come,Are always equal; when the world beganGod had existed from eternity.
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Now look on manMyriads of ages hence.—Hath time elapsed?Is he not standing in the selfsame placeWhere once we stood?—The same eternityHath gone before him, and is yet to come;His past is not of longer span than ours,Though myriads of ages intervened;For who can add to what has neither sum,Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end?Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind?Who can unlock the secrets of the high?In speculations of an altitudeSublime as this, our reason stands confess'dFoolish, and insignificant, and mean.Who can apply the futile argumentOf finite beings to infinity?
He might as well compress the universeInto the hollow compass of a gourd,Scoop'd out by human art; or bid the whaleDrink up the sea it swims in!—Can the lessContain the greater? or the dark obscureInfold the glories of meridian day?What does philosophy impart to manBut undiscovered wonders?—Let her soarEven to her proudest heights—to where she caughtThe soul of Newton and of Socrates,She but extends the scope of wild amazeAnd admiration. All her lessons endIn wider views of God's unfathom'd depths.
Lo! the unletter'd hind, who never knewTo raise his mind excursive to the heightsOf abstract contemplation, as he sitsOn the green hillock by the hedge-row side,What time the insect swarms are murmuring,And marks, in silent thought, the broken cloudsThat fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky,Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouseThe thrill of gratitude, to him who form'dThe goodly prospect; he beholds the GodThroned in the west, and his reposing earHears sounds angelic in the fitful breezeThat floats through neighbouring copse or fairy brake,Or lingers playful on the haunted stream.Go with the cotter to his winter fire,Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill,And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon;Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar.Silent, and big with thought; and hear him blessThe God that rides on the tempestuous clouds,For his snug hearth, and all his little joys:Hear him compare his happier lot with hisWho bends his way across the wintry wolds,A poor night traveller, while the dismal snowBeats in his face, and, dubious of his path,He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast,He hears some village mastiff's distant howl,And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light;Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes,And clasps his shivering hands; or overpowered,Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with sleep,From which the hapless wretch shall never wake.Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praiseAnd glowing gratitude,—he turns to bless,With honest warmth, his Maker and his God!And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind,Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bredIn want and labour, glows with nobler zealTo laud his Maker's attributes, while heWhom starry Science in her cradle rock'd,And Castaly enchasten'd with his dews,Closes his eyes upon the holy word,And, blind to all but arrogance and pride,Dares to declare his infidelity,And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts?What is philosophy, if it impartIrreverence for the Deity, or teachA mortal man to set his judgment upAgainst his Maker's will? The Polygar,Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with himWho thus perverts the talents he enjoys,Is the most bless'd of men! Oh! I would walkA weary journey, to the furthest vergeOf the big world, to kiss that good man's hand,Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art,Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God,Feeling the sense of his own littleness,Is as a child in meek simplicity!What is the pomp of learning? the paradeOf letters and of tongues? e'en as the mistsOf the gray morn before the rising sun,That pass away and perish.
Earthly thingsAre but the transient pageants of an hour;And earthly pride is like the passing flower,That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die.'T is as the tower erected on a cloud,Baseless and silly as the schoolboy's dream.Ages and epochs that destroy our pride,And then record its downfall, what are theyBut the poor creatures of man's teeming brain?Hath Heaven its ages? or doth Heaven preserveIts stated eras? Doth the OmnipotentHear of to-morrows or of yesterdays?There is to God nor future nor a past;Throned in his might, all times to him are present;He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come;He sees before him one eternal now.Time moveth not!—our being 't is that moves;And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream,Dream of swift ages and revolving years,Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days:So the young sailor in the gallant bark,Scudding before the wind, beholds the coastReceding from his eyes, and thinks the while,Struck with amaze, that he is motionless,And that the land is sailing.
Such, alas!Are the illusions of this proteus life!All, all is false: through every phasis still'T is shadowy and deceitful. It assumesThe semblances of things and specious shapes;But the lost traveller might as soon relyOn the evasive spirit of the marsh,Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits,O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way,As we on its appearances.
On earthThere is no certainty nor stable hope.As well the weary mariner, whose barkIs toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus,Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain,And sunbeams never penetrate, might trustTo expectation of serener skies,And linger in the very jaws of death,Because some peevish cloud were opening,Or the loud storm had bated in its rage;As we look forward in this vale of tearsTo permanent delight—from some slight glimpseOf shadowy, unsubstantial happiness.
The good man's hope is laid far, far beyondThe sway of tempests, or the furious sweepOf mortal desolation.—He beholdsUnapprehensive, the gigantic strideOf rampant Ruin, or the unstable wavesOf dark Vicissitude.—Even in death,—In that dread hour, when, with a giant pang,Tearing the tender fibres of the heart,The immortal spirit struggles to be free,Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not,For it exists beyond the narrow vergeOf the cold sepulchre. The petty joysOf fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd,And rested on the bosom of its God.This is man's only reasonable hope;And 't is a hope which, cherish'd in the breast,Shall not be disappointed. Even he,The Holy One—Almighty—who elancedThe rolling world along its airy way,Even He will deign to smile upon the good,And welcome him to these celestial seats,Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign.
Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault,Survey the countless gems which richly studThe night's imperial chariot;—TelescopesWill show thee myriads more innumerousThan the sea sand;—each of those little lampsIs the great source of light, the central sunRound which some other mighty sisterhoodOf planets travel, every planet stock'dWith Hying beings impotent as thee.Now, proud man! now, where is thy greatness fled?What art thou in the scale of universe?Less, less than nothing!—Yet of thee the GodWho built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful,As well as of the mendicant who begsThe leavings of thy table. And shalt thouLift up thy thankless spirit, and contemnHis heavenly providence! Deluded fool,Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with death,Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell.
How insignificant is mortal man,Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour!How poor, how trivial in the vast conceitOf infinite duration, boundless space!God of the universe! Almighty One!Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds,Or with the storm, thy rugged charioteer,Swift and impetuous as the northern blast,Ridest from pole to pole; Thou who dost holdThe forked lightnings in thine awful grasp,And reignest in the earthquake, when thy wrathGoes down towards erring man, I would addressTo thee my parting pæan; for of Thee,Great beyond comprehension, who thyselfArt Time and Space, sublime Infinitude,Of Thee has been my song!—With awe I kneelTrembling before the footstool of thy state,My God!—my Father!—I will sing to theeA hymn of laud, a solemn canticle,Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshadesThe throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre,And give its wild strings to the desert gale.Rise, Son of Salem! rise, and join the strain,Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp,And, leaving vain laments, arouse thy soulTo exultation. Sing hosanna, sing,And halleluiah, for the Lord is great,And full of mercy! He has thought of man;Yea, compass'd round with countless worlds, has thoughtOf us poor worms, that batten in the dewsOf morn, and perish ere the noonday sun.Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful:He gave the Nubian lion but to live,To rage its hour, and perish; but on manHe lavish'd immortality and Heaven.The eagle falls from her aërial tower,And mingles with irrevocable dust:But man from death springs joyful,Springs up to life and to eternity.Oh, that, insensate of the favouring boon,The great exclusive privilege bestow'dOn us unworthy trifles, men should dareTo treat with slight regard the proffer'd Heaven,And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swearIn wrath, "They shall not enter in my rest."Might I address the supplicative strainTo thy high footstool, I would pray that thouWouldst pity the deluded wanderers,And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock.Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Him,Thy well beloved, who, upon the cross,Bled a dread sacrifice for human sin,And paid, with bitter agony, the debtOf primitive transgression.