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When recollection brings to mind,
The kindred ties I've left behind,
The converse gentle and refin'd,
I grieve!
Deep the regret, the pain extreme,
And yet I fondly love the dream,
And find the sad, delightful theme
Relieve.
It bids all present forms decay,
All present feelings fade away;
Impeding distance, long delay
Are o'er!
Fancy, so active in the gloom,
Till some one enters in the room,
Can all the images of home
Restore.
Alas! when weeks, and months are past,
Shall I that home behold at last,
Which even the dark clouds overcast
Endear?
Lest one of all the cares that dart
Like arrows round each thoughtful heart,
May pierce ere then some vital part
I fear!
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O generous Ali! while thy fate inspiresIndignant pity, with a patriot's fires,I mourn for Egypt, and with equal zeal,For her, for thee, and ruin'd science feel:Admire the confidence my heart deploresAnd blame the weakness it almost adores!
Pride of thy race! before my mental eyes,I see thee, like another Alfred rise;See honour splendent on thy ample brow,While Thought and Genius fill the orbs below;Those beaming orbs! where lofty sweetness shone,And where the soul sate smiling on her throne:Depriv'd too soon of that benignant ray,Which impious Dahab shudder'd to survey.Pale, bleeding, conquer'd, dying, and forlorn,I see thee view the wretch with silent scorn!See thy cheek flush at the false tears he shed,And proudly turn away the languid head,With mingled anger, sorrow, and disdain,That he should dare to tempt thy love again!
Oh! yet within the tent I see thee lie,The victor, like a coward, crouching by;O'erawed, rebuked, and humbled in the hour,The plenitude of his success and power!A pain the guilty never make us know,In all the miseries they cause below;A pain which they in every triumph feel,A humbling sense no glory yet could heal,The want of conscious worth, the poignant thought,That inwardly sets all pretence at naught!That curbs all self-applause—tears all disguise—When the subdued, the ruin'd candespise;And, in the arms of death, can yet be free,To say, "Let me be any thing but thee!"
Ambition! while thy zeal the good inflame,And make a noble nature sigh for fame,We deem thee of a more than royal line,For self-devotion tendeth to divine!But when, like Dahab's demon, selfish, vain,It loosens Gratitude's mysterious chain;When broken Faith aloud, but vainly calls;When the warm friend, the king, the brother falls;Instead of honours, and a conqueror's fame,Hatred shall haunt, and curses brand thy name!
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While others, from the Greek and Roman page,Declare the prudent councils of the sage;Or, in recital of achievements bold,Retrace the motives and the deeds of old,I, in the accents of my native clime,And, at the moment, shaking hands with Time,I, whom our recent loss forbids to roam,Shall plant my mourning standard nearer home!At the sad shrine where gallant Nelson sleeps,Where Britain bends her lofty head and weeps,Deeply lamenting that she cannot prove,The fond excess of dearly purchas'd love.
Is there a callous mind, that does not feelAn anxious interest in the public weal!Is there a heart that pities not the brave!To whom luxuriant laurels hide the grave!A grief unwing'd, yet unconsol'd by pride!A tongue that said not, when our hero died,While bitter tears that glorious loss deplore,The man wholov'd his countryis no more?No! in each eye the glowing trophies fade;Each sign of triumph seems a vain parade!The aching sigh to conquering shouts succeeds,And Victory assumes a widow's weeds.
Some wily chieftain, building up a name,May fight for immortality and fame;Time may embalm his valour, or his art,And History shew the coldness of a heart,Which, emulous of grandeur and a throne,Acts for itself, "its own low self" alone;And, in the inner chambers of the mind,Broods over plans to subjugate mankind:There fondly bends each nation to his sway,That he may rule, and all beside obey.Haply the mighty fabric may arise,Vast in its bulk, and aiming at the skies,Till Wisdom, viewing the enormous pile,Admires the madness of a man the while,Who labours with incessant toil and skill;To feed Ambition, discontented still;And for that serpent in his bosom curl'd,Erects a temple fit to hold the world!
Though such a chief a deathless wreath may crown,Though he may win a sterile, hard renown,His name shall ne'er a sudden glow impart,Nor make the tear of admiration start;Ne'er in his plaudits shall warm blessings join!None cry, "The triumph of that man is mine!"But, when his greatness crumbles in the dust,Coldly exclaim, "Lo! Providence is just!"Far different is the patriot warrior's lot!He may in Time's long journey be forgot;Though many generations shall decay,Ere England's love to Nelson wears away!But if at length successive years should castThe mist of distance upon ages past,And fathers what themselves have witness'd tell,Of those who yet shall serve their country well—Memory and Knowledge shall dispel the gloom,And shed strong light on every honour'd tomb—To lift the spirit when our courage fail,When worth departed, future ages hail!
And ye, compeers, who in the classic page,Do homage to the hero and the sage,Whose hearts at base and cruel actions bleed,But rise triumphant at a noble deed—Forbear from Duty's anxious side to stray,But follow bravely when she leads the way;Follow with head and heart, as Nelson fought;Be vigilant like him in act and thought;Then, as the lark mounts upwards in the skies,Early in life's fair morning will you rise,Expand bold pinions nearest to the sun,And claim the meed of glory fairly won.
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O ancient warrior! as we hail thee,
And behold thy cordial smile,
We hope that greetings ne'er may fail thee,
Such as those of Britain's isle.
They are, although so seeming rude,
Given only where we think them due;
Most courteous, e'en when they intrude,
Too vehement, but always true!
Applauses which no art can fashion,
Which speak the feelings and no more;
Which give respect the glow of passion,
When worth and valour we adore;
Blest is the hero in receiving!
And pride may scoff at, or despise,
What if but once sincere believing,
Is grateful to the good and wise.
1810.
1810.
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In the first dawn of youth I much admireThe lively boy of ruddy countenance,Strong-built, and bold, and hardy, with black hair,And dark brown eye, contrasting its blue-white,Somewhat abruptly; save in the bright hourOf inward passion, or of sudden joy;When, as a monarch, gracious and renown'd,Amid a crowd of subjects, diverse all,Thrills with one deep, soft feeling every heart;Or, as the sun throws his pervading beamsAt once on bleak harsh mountains and the sky;The soul, by union of its light and heat,Clears and irradiates all, and gives to strengthA mellow sweetness; hues late undefin'dGrow more intense, or, if discordant, loseTheir coarseness, and become diaphanous.This I admire, but still methinks I lookWith a serener pleasure on the headCrested by flaxen curls; or where soft locks,Like to long coiling leaves that lose their edge,Shine silken on the cheek, and parting smoothAbove a fair and modest countenance,Harmonize with its pure, its tender bloom.Still lovelier when with that infusion sweetOf saint or angel spirit, residentIn the calm circle of a blue eye fring'dWith sable lashes! I remember onceA face like this, ere sickness took awayIts freshness, in whose looks there also dwelt,If one may speak it of a thing so young,And not subdue our warm belief to sayThe prophecy of all these qualities,Refinement, gentleness, and mild resolve;Fitted to stem the evil of this world,And hold with patient intrepidity,The shield of calm resistance to its power.It seem'd as if no anger e'er could dwellWithin his bosom; no blind prejudiceDistract his judgment; and no folly callFor a reproof: as if Affection wereToo soon allied to Thought, and tempered soHis morning, that the ministry of Time,The chast'ning trial of Remorse and Grief,And of stern Disappointment, all were spar'd.
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Knowing the nature of thy grief,Too deep, too recent for relief,Oh! why impatient must I pressSo early on a friend's distress!Why am I eager thus to prove,To him who feels excess of love,The tender liking we bestowOn fair and guileless things below?On Love and Joy without pretence,On kind and playful Innocence!The pleas'd idea Memory kept,The partial glance which never slept,When hopes arose oft render'd vain,Of seeing Keswick yet again.
Never but once a child had wonSo much upon me as thy son;And, for each wild and winning art,That, nestling, fastens in the heart;For graces that light tendrils flingAround each nerve's tenacious string;Caprices beautiful, that strikeThe heart, and captive fancy, likeThose of a tame, young bird at play,That carols near, then flits away,Will on a sudden upward soar,Then give its little wanderings o'er,For fondling, gentle, sweet repose,When tapering pinions softly close,Slight, warmth—pervaded quills are prest,And head shrunk closely to the breast:All sleeping but that lovely eye,Which speaks delight, and asks reply:Oh! with such graces never oneWas so much gifted as thy son!In each variety of tone,Each wayward charm, he stood alone;And all too nicely pois'd to press,Or ruffle tranquil happiness.
If thus a stranger thinks, who knewHim but an infant—if he grewWith all the promise that appear'dSo brightly then, still more endear'd—If, as the Honey with the Bee,Affection dwells with poesy:If that Affection is comprest,And hoarded in a Father's breast,Whose very soul doth blessings shedUpon a grateful darling's head;While every look is treasur'd there,Till Thought itself becomes a prayer,And Hopes hang on him full and gay."As blossoms on a bough in May"[1]—Shall any venture to intrudeOn thee? Oh! not with footstep rude,But with a timorous zeal I come,Just hang this wreath upon his tomb—Record fond wishes sadly o'er,To see my little favourite more!
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[Footnote 1:
As many hopes hang on his noble head
As blossoms on a bough in May; and sweet ones!
Beaumont and Fletcher.]
Fear has to do with sacred things,And more than all from Pity springs.Two school-girls once—the time is past,But ever will the memory last—This moral to my fancy drew,In colours brilliant, deep, and true.
Mute, blooming, one all-wondering stands,
The elder kisses oft her hands,
Bends o'er with fainting, fond caress,
And languishes in strong distress.
Clings to her shoulder, were it meet,
Seems wishing to embrace her feet;
Like one impatient to implore,
Who dreads the time is nearly o'er,
To ask or to receive a boon,
Which must be known and granted soon.
A boon with life itself entwin'd,
One that her lips refus'd to name,
However oft the impulse came.
Such was the picture—but her mind
Forgetting self—could not arise,
To look in those unconscious eyes!
The zeal that prompted, were she free
To serve her friend on bended knee,
Shrunk from the orphan's gaze, just hurl'd,
Lonely and poor upon the world—
Unknowing yet her loss, endeared,
By its excess, and therefore fear'd!
Thus has it ever seem'd to me,That Pity made a DeityOf Mortal Suffering—that her rayMelted all blame, all scorn away!That when her arms the dying fold,When her pure hands the loathsome hold,Disgust and Dread, their power forego,The Aegis drops from Human Woe,Whose false and cruel glare aloneTurned other living hearts to stone.
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Lovely as are the wide and sudden calmsUpon a lake, when all the waters rise,To smooth each undulation, and presentA plain of molten silver—is the hope,Dear Edward, of thy safety—which now comesTo fill, expand, and elevate my heart—String every nerve, and give to every vein,A warmer and a sweeter sense of life!
Welcome, oh! welcome, that most healing hope,Pouring abroad an efficacious rayInto the aching bosom!—Tidings sweetThose of such prompt return, with wisdom gain'dBy suffering, but with all thy innocence,All thy accustomed gaiety of heart,And all thy deep, quick sensibilities!Those gems of virtue, which concentre stillIn narrow limits, stores of moral wealthBeyond all estimate—whose value known,The dealer sells his other merchandize;His ivory and curious workmanship,The silkworm's product and the cloth of gold,To purchase that imperishable store,More highly prized than all!—Possessing allThe properties, most precious of the rest,In a superior measure and degree,Without alloy, sparkling with inward light!Unseen, untraced the process of his growth!—No aid from any human hand or care!—-No nourishment from any earthly dews!No ripening from our bright, material sun!But secretly supplied by ProvidenceWith some more pure, diviner aliment,And with more heavenly, searching radiance fill'd;For the superior comfort, higher blissOf that in-drinking eye the soul of man!
Thus sang I, when fallacious hopes were rais'dOf his dear safety—whom, howe'er belov'd—However strong in health, and firmly builtLike a fine statue of the antique world,As if he might have reach'd a centuryWithout decrepitude, we ne'er again—Nor we alone, no other human eye—Can e'er behold! Then had I painted himReturning, as he lately left our shores,With all the fairness and the bloom of youth—The light brown hair, and its soft yellow gleams,Brightened with silver; thickening into shade,Now with a dove-like, now a chesnut hue!The smile of Peace and Love and joyful Hope!And those blue eyes, through whose dark lash the soul,Rejoicing, from its kind and happy home,Look'd forth with rapture, artless, and uncheck'd!Eyes, where Delight in careless luxuryLay nestling and indulging blissful thoughts;With every day-dream, for whose food the worldOffers magnificence and loveliness;All graceful motions, and all graceful forms.The ripened nectar of delicious sounds,The social haunt—the lonely quiet hour;The Hopes embodying innocent and gayAs those of Childhood, whose soft footstep pastNot long before, not yet forgotten, by!
The letter, dearest, blotted with thy tears,In answer to a caution—fear—express'dBy much too strongly—often gives my heartA secret pang—but of remorse for noughtBut paining thee—too tender to endureThe thought that self-indulgence, or neglect,Causing increas'd disquietude and care,Might, by increased disquietude and care,Open the grave for him who gave thee birth!How often and how warmly did'st thou ask,With epithets of fondness, how I dar'dImagine such a horror, and to onePresent, who would have died, or borne extremesOf any hard endurance, not to giveThe slightest anguish to a parent's breast!Alas! the cruel rashness of reproof—The busy vigilance of human pride—Like a too eager partizan, may strike,To ward off danger from his chieftain's head,A fellow soldier zealous in the cause!
As of this world, this visible, wide world,This earth, with all its forests, all its plants,All its deep mines, its rivers, and its seas,Yea! all that breathes, and moves, and clings to lifeBy any subtler impulse, which eludesOur blunted observation:—as of this,All that appears and all that is, so muchRemains, in scorn of science, unexplor'd;So, in the not less wond'rous moral world,The innermost recesses of the mind,We see as little; save, Phoenician like,By petty trade and parley on its coasts,Talk by interpreters, impatient guess,Or careless resting in incertitude,At meanings in a tongue almost unknown;Or so corrupted by this intercourse,That all its native harmony is lost,Its irresistible persuasions o'er!The clearness and the sweetness of its tones,Its loftiness, simplicity and truth.
All that we hear is coarse and limited,And yet we sail along and search no more,And look no farther, though the ear is pall'dWith the vile din of tame monotony,The taste perverted, judgment led astray,By soul-annihilating idleness,By universal, strengthless poverty,Which leans upon its neighbour for support,And lifts the eye for sanction, or assent,To weakness still more helpless than its own!
Two thousand years the sanctuary's veil
Has now been rent asunder, shewing all
That, to the patient and unsandall'd foot,
Egress and regress freely are allowed
Through that most glorious temple, where abstract,
And long a stranger to the vulgar eye,
Thought held her silent rule, and mission'd forth
Her sealed and unquestion'd messengers.
Yet those who follow nature when the track
Is finer than a hair—those who can cleave
The subtile and combined elements
That form a drop of water—those can shrink
From the more holy alchemy enjoin'd,
Call'd for by that disgust the heart conceives
At the usurping empire of pretence;
At all those useless and disgraceful chains,
Which tie us down, and imp with aptest wings,
Falsehood and selfishness, who ought to creep
In their own reptile slime, and dart away
When eyes perceiv'd their presence. Oh! could those
Adventure in too perilous a path,
If without other guide than the bright stars,
The love of what is lofty and divine,
Or the desire of gaining for mankind,
Now fettered and held down to poison'd food,
Its unpolluted birth-right
—they dared on,
Plunging at once into untravelled realms,
And bringing, as the harvest of their toil,
Arms which will make each potent talisman,
Each charm, and spell, and dire enchantment sink
In endless infamy—without a hope
To trick their bloated, and their wither'd limbs,
In any Proteus vestment of disguise,
Again to awe and ruinate the world.
Oh! my dear brother, little did I thinkThese lines would be prophetic, yet to meThey seem so; for I since have felt deep woe,And passed through seas of anguish to attainA view of mysteries wonderful and sad—Since they are rivetted, through every clime,With shame, and guilt, and wretchedness on allThat bear what only is thecurseof life,Whilst they remain, which have confronted time,Wearing the semblance, sporting with the namesOf truth and valour, liberty and God,Successfully, through each recorded age,But yetmayfall, and will, I trust and hope!
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