Singing of Glory, and Futurity, To wander back on such unhealthful road, Plucking the poisons of self-harm! And ill Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths Strew'd before thy advancing! Nor do thou, Sage Bard! impair the memory of that hour Nor let my words import more blame than needs. Eve following eve, Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home And when-O Friend! my comforter and guide! Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength!Thy long sustained song finally closed, And thy deep voice had ceased-yet thou thyself Wert still before my eyes, and round us both That happy vision of beloved facesScarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close I sate, my being blended in one thought (Thought was it? or Aspiration? or Resolve?) Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the soundAnd when I rose, I found myself in prayer. THE NIGHTINGALE; A CONVERSATION POЕМ; No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 1 A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars of flame danced and sparkled and went out in it: and every now and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off from the vessel's side, each with its own small constellation, over the sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilderness. The Friend, p. 220. • Most musical, most melancholy, bird! A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy. But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love (And so poor Wretch! filled all things with himself, My friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt A different lore: we may not thus profane Nature's sweet voices, always full of love And joyance! 'T is the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music! And I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description. It is spoken in the character of the melancholy man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton: a charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible. A A most gentle Maid, Who dwelleth in her hospitable home Hard by the castle, and at latest eve (Even like a lady vow'd and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove) By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. But O! how oft, Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, How oft, at school, with most believing mind That gentle Maid! and oft a moment's space, Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve, How he would place his hand beside his ear, And bid us listen! And I deem it wise To make him Nature's Play-mate. He knows well Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream), And he beheld the Moon, and, hush'd at once, Sweet Nightingale! Once more my friends! farewell. FROST AT MIDNIGHT. THE Frost performs its secret ministry, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. TO A FRIEND, TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM. THUS far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse, I've view'd-her soul affectionate yet wise, Embow'rs me from noon's sultry influence! Circling the base of the Poetic mount A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlab'ring feet. Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast, There for the monarch-murder'd Soldier's tomb You wove th' unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues; And to that holier chaplet 2 added bloom, Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews. But lo! your Henderson 3 awakes the Muse-His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height! THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN. You left the plain and soar'd 'mid richer views! COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN ABSENCE. DIM hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar, Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes, So Nature mourn'd, when sank the first day's light, With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night! Still soar, my friend, those richer views among, Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound, ground. IV. ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE THREE GRAVES. A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE. [THE Author has published the following humble fragment, encouraged by the decisive recommendation of inore than one of our most celebrated living Poets. The language was intended to be dramatic; that is, suited to the narrator; and the metre corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is therefore presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a common Ballad-tale. Whether this is sufficient to justify the adoption of such a style, in any metrical composition not professedly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all events, it is not presented as Poetry, and it is in no way connected with the Author's judgment concerning Poetic diction. Its merits, if any, are exclusively Psychological. The story which must be supposed to have been narrated in the first and second parts is as follows. Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen, her bosomfriend, Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the advice of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and intentions to Mary's Mother, a widow-woman bordering on her fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a competent property, and from having had no other children but Mary and another daughter (the Father died in their infancy), retaining, for the greater part, her personal attractions and comeliness of appearance; but a woman of low education and violent temper. The answer which she at once returned to Edward's application was remarkable- Well, Edward! you are a handsome young fellow, and you shall have my Daughter. From this time all their wooing passed under the Mother's eye; and, in fine, she became herself enamoured of her future Son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment and of calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of no very distant date, though the author has purposely altered the names and the scene of action, as well as invented the characters of the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, however, though perplexed by her strange detractions from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart still mistaking her increasing fondness for motherly affection; she. at length overcome by her miserable passion, after much abuse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion-O Edward! indeed, indeed, she is not fit for you--she has not a heart to love you as you deserve. It is I that love you! Marry me, Edward! and I will this very day settle all my property on you. -The Lover's eyes were now opened; and thus taken by surprise, whether from the effect of the horror which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense of guilt of the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, he flung her from bim and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a loud voice that approached to a scream, she prayed for a Curse both on him and on her own Child. Mary happened to be in the room directly above them, heard Edward's laugh and her Mother's blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. Hе, hearing the fall, ran up stairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her off to Ellen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on her part toward a reconciliation with her Mother, she was married to him. And here the third part of the Tale begins. I was not led to chuse this story from any partiality to tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was less averse to such subjects than at present), but from finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagination, from an Idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. I had been reading Bryan Edwards's account of the effect of the Oby Witchcraft on the Negroes in the West-Indies, and Hearne's deeply interesting Ancedotes of similar workings on the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of referring to those works for the passages alluded to), and I conceived the design of showing that instances of this kind are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of ¡llustrating the mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the progress and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from the beginning. The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a country church-yard, to a Traveller whose curiosity had been awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the first of these was the name, and dates, as usual: on the second, no name, but only a date, and the words, The Mercy of God is infinite.] PART III. THE grapes upon the vicar's wall And yellow leaves in sun and wind On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane Up through that wood behind the church, A mossy track, all over-bough'd And from their house-door by that track But when they to the church-yard came, And when the vicar join'd their hands, But when they pray'd, she thought she saw And o'er the church-path they return'd- Her feet upon the mossy track That moment-I have heard her say- The shade o'er-flush'd her limbs with heat- And when the merry bells rang out, Beneath the foulest Mother's curse A Mother is a Mother still, So five months pass'd: the Mother still << My sister may not visit us, • I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed T was a drizzly time-no ice, no snow! She stirr'd not out, lest she might meet Her Mother in the ways. But Ellen, spite of miry ways And weather dark and dreary, Trudged every day to Edward's house, And made them all more cheery. And now Ash-Wednesday came-that day But few to church repair: For on that day you know we read The Commination prayer. Our late old vicar, a kind man, He wish'd that service was clean out The Mother walk'd into the church- And gentle Ellen welcomed her With courteous looks and mild. Thought she what if her heart should melt, And all be reconciled!. The day was scarcely like a day The clouds were black outright: And many a night, with half a Moon, I've seen the church more light. The wind was wild; against the glass The rain did beat and bicker; The church-tower swinging over head, You scarce could hear the vicar! And then and there the Mother knelt, And audibly she cried • Oh! may a clinging curse consume This woman by my side! «O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven, Although you take my life O curse this woman, at whose house Young Edward woo'd his wife. << By night and day, in bed and bower, O let her cursed be!!!» So having pray'd, steady and slow, She rose up from her knee! And left the church, nor e'er again The church-door enter'd she. I saw poor Ellen kneeling still, So pale! I guess'd not why: When she stood up, there plainly was A trouble in her eye. And when the prayers were done, we all Came round and ask'd her why: Giddy she seem'd, and sure, there was A trouble in her eye. But ere she from the church-door stepp'd, She smiled and told us why: • It was a wicked woman's curse, Quoth she, and what care 1?» Much better had she wept. And if her heart was not at ease, There was a hurry in her looks, These tears will come-I dandled her When't was the merest fairyGood creature! and she hid it all: She told it not to Mary. But Mary heard the tale: her arms I saw young Edward by himself He snatch'd a stick from every fence, A twig from every tree. He snapp'd them still with hand or knee, And then away they flew! As if with his uneasy limbs He knew not what to do! You see, good Sir! that single hill? His farm lies underneath: He heard it there, he heard it all, And only gnash'd his teeth. Now Ellen was a darling love In all his joys and cares : And Ellen's name and Mary's name Fast link'd they both together came, Whene'er he said his prayers. And in the moment of his prayers He loved them both alike: Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy Upon his heart did strike! He reach'd his home, and by his looks And they clung round him with their arms, And Mary could not check her tears, So on his breast she bow'd; Then Frenzy melted into Grief, And Edward wept aloud. Dear Ellen did not weep at all, But closelier did she cling, And turned her face, and looked as if She saw some frightful thing. |