Vignettes In Verse Part 5

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 pa.s.sion, 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.

XXIII.

_On the Death of Master Frederic Thomson_.

1810.

In the first dawn of youth I much admire The 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 hour Of inward pa.s.sion, 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 beams At once on bleak harsh mountains and the sky; The soul, by union of its light and heat, Clears and irradiates all, and gives to strength A mellow sweetness; hues late undefin'd Grow more intense, or, if discordant, lose Their coa.r.s.eness, and become diaphanous.

This I admire, but still methinks I look With a serener pleasure on the head Crested by flaxen curls; or where soft locks, Like to long coiling leaves that lose their edge, Shine silken on the cheek, and parting smooth Above a fair and modest countenance, Harmonize with its pure, its tender bloom.

Still lovelier when with that infusion sweet Of saint or angel spirit, resident In the calm circle of a blue eye fring'd With sable lashes! I remember once A face like this, ere sickness took away Its freshness, in whose looks there also dwelt, If one may speak it of a thing so young, And not subdue our warm belief to say The 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 dwell Within his bosom; no blind prejudice Distract his judgment; and no folly call For a reproof: as if Affection were Too soon allied to Thought, and tempered so His morning, that the ministry of Time, The chast'ning trial of Remorse and Grief, And of stern Disappointment, all were spar'd.

XXIV.

_On the Death of Herbert Southey: addressed to his Father_.

Knowing the nature of thy grief, Too deep, too recent for relief, Oh! why impatient must I press So early on a friend's distress!

Why am I eager thus to prove, To him who feels excess of love, The tender liking we bestow On 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 won So much upon me as thy son; And, for each wild and winning art, That, nestling, fastens in the heart; For graces that light tendrils fling Around each nerve's tenacious string; Caprices beautiful, that strike The heart, and captive fancy, like Those 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 one Was 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 knew Him but an infant--if he grew With all the promise that appear'd So brightly then, still more endear'd-- If, as the Honey with the Bee, Affection dwells with poesy: If that Affection is comprest, And h.o.a.rded in a Father's breast, Whose very soul doth blessings shed Upon 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 intrude On 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!

[Footnote 1: As many hopes hang on his n.o.ble head As blossoms on a bough in May; and sweet ones!

--_Beaumont and Fletcher._]

XXV.

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 Deity Of Mortal Suffering--that her ray Melted 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 alone Turned other living hearts to stone.

XXVI.

ELEGY ON EDWARD BETHAM,

_Lost in the d.u.c.h.ess of Gordon East Indiaman, off the Cape of Good Hope_.

Lovely as are the wide and sudden calms Upon a lake, when all the waters rise, To smooth each undulation, and present A plain of molten silver--is the hope, Dear Edward, of thy safety--which now comes To 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 ray Into the aching bosom!--Tidings sweet Those of such prompt return, with wisdom gain'd By suffering, but with all thy innocence, All thy accustomed gaiety of heart, And all thy deep, quick sensibilities!

Those gems of virtue, which concentre still In narrow limits, stores of moral wealth Beyond 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 all The 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 Providence With some more pure, diviner aliment, And with more heavenly, searching radiance fill'd; For the superior comfort, higher bliss Of that in-drinking eye the soul of man!

Thus sang I, when fallacious hopes were rais'd Of his dear safety--whom, howe'er belov'd-- However strong in health, and firmly built Like a fine statue of the antique world, As if he might have reach'd a century Without decrepitude, we ne'er again-- Nor we alone, no other human eye-- Can e'er behold! Then had I painted him Returning, as he lately left our sh.o.r.es, 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 luxury Lay nestling and indulging blissful thoughts; With every day-dream, for whose food the world Offers 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 gay As those of Childhood, whose soft footstep past Not long before, not yet forgotten, by!

The letter, dearest, blotted with thy tears, In answer to a caution--fear--express'd By much too strongly--often gives my heart A secret pang--but of remorse for nought But paining thee--too tender to endure The 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'd Imagine such a horror, and to one Present, who would have died, or borne extremes Of any hard endurance, not to give The 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 life By any subtler impulse, which eludes Our blunted observation:--as of this, All that appears and all that is, so much Remains, 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 incert.i.tude, 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.