Chapter III: Preface

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: Pas to oicheios ergon agapao], "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.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

CLIFTON GROVE.

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 sounds Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, And general silence reigns, save when below The 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 begin The stated course of customary sin: Now, now my solitary way I bend Where 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 high Thy leafy throne where wavy poplars sigh! Genius of woodland shades! whose mild control Steals with resistless witchery to the soul, Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspire My 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 by Bears 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 ray Of 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 form Sternly 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 glare The 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 endears This 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 flame Shoots 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 breast Than 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 green Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between The 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 sight Each 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 clings Know 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 sip Would 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 command To roll in acres of paternal land, Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoy Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye.

Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss Has 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 serene The 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's[1] star The 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 rest The 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 way Could 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 delight Stamps 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 youth Gave to each tale the holy force of truth, Have I long linger'd, while the milkmaid sung The 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 swain Confess'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 mead Attuned to gaiety his artless reed, No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck His 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 breeze With 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 woods The fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods; The night was dark; as, now and then, the gale Paused for a moment--Margaret listen'd pale; But through the covert to her anxious ear No 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 cloud The 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 broke His boding silence, and the maid bespoke: "Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance I 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 heart My 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!"[2] Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew A 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 charm No 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 night Behind 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 flame Was 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 way He 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 calm O'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's[3] arms 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 hang Remorse'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 wife The guiltless baby struggled into life.-- As night drew on, around her bed a band Of 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 came A 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 sky The 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'd To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd.

The neighbouring rustics told that in the night They 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 sweets In 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 given To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven, With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans On 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 impart Bind 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.

Footnotes:

[1] The constellation Delphinus. For authority for this appelation, see Ovid's Fasti, B. xi. 113.

[2] This part of the Trent is commonly called "The Clifton Deeps."

[3] Germain is the traditionary name of her husband.

TIME,

A POEM.[1]

Genius of musings, who, the midnight hour Wasting 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 trace The vast effect to its superior source,-- Spirit, attend my lowly benison! For now I strike to themes of import high The solitary lyre; and, borne by thee Above this narrow cell, I celebrate The mysteries of Time!

Him who, august, Was e'er these worlds were fashion'd,--ere the sun Sprang from the east, or Lucifer display'd His glowing cresset in the arch of morn, Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. Yea, He had been for an eternity! Had swept unvarying from eternity The 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 evoked From 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 scan The fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpse Of its unfathomable depths, that so His 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 night The studious taper, far from all resort Of 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 thoughts In the great Architect, who lives confess'd In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes.

So has divine Philosophy, with voice Mild 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 snatch Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous steep Of poesy, a bloom of such a hue, So sober, as may not unseemly suit With Truth's severer brow; and one withal So hardy as shall brave the passing wind Of many winters,--rearing its meek head In loveliness, when he who gathered it Is number'd with the generations gone. Yet not to me hath God's good providence Given studious leisure,[2] or unbroken thought, Such as he owns,--a meditative man; Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er, Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din: From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day Hath duties which require the vigorous hand Of steadfast application, but which leave No 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 hours Of 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 magnify The night of ages,--now when the pale ray Of starlight penetrates the studious gloom, And, at my window seated, while mankind Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole, Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, Assumes her wonted sway.

Behold the world Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused From trouble and turmoil. The widow now Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie Lock'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 more Her daughter's dying slumbers, but surprised With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch, Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, lull'd On 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 repose Reign o'er the nations; and the warning voice Of Nature utters audibly within The 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 around With grave clothes: and their aching restless heads Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved, Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep.

Who needs a teacher to admonish him That flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist? What are our joys but dreams? and what our hopes But goodly shadows in the summer cloud? There's not a wind that blows but bears with it Some rainbow promise:--Not a moment flies But 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 shepherd[3] gazed In his mid watch observant, and disposed The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. Yet in the interim what mighty shocks Have buffeted mankind--whole nations razed-- Cities made desolate--the polish'd sunk To barbarism, and once barbaric states Swaying the wand of science and of arts; Illustrious deeds and memorable names Blotted from record, and upon the tongue Of gray Tradition, voluble no more.

Where are the heroes of the ages past? Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones Who flourish'd in the infancy of days? All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame Exultant, mocking at the pride of man, Sits grim Forgetfulness.--The warrior's arm Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame; Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze Of his red eyeball.--Yesterday his name Was 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 gleam Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly Closed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up Safe in the enamel's treasures.

Oh how weak Is mortal man! how trifling--how confined His 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 centuries Are, in comparison, a little point Too 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 this Till time shall be no more; while at his feet, Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust Of the fallen fabric of the other day Preaches the solemn lesson.--He should know That time must conquer; that the loudest blast That ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trump Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires. Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom Of the gigantic pyramid? or who Rear'd its huge walls? Oblivion laughs, and says, The prey is mine.--They sleep, and never more Their 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 confined The 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 name And being in dispute.--Has Athens fallen? Is polish'd Greece become the savage seat Of 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 back To primitive barbarity.----Again, Through her depopulated vales, the scream Of bloody Superstition hollow rings, And the scared native to the tempest howls The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts, Her crowded ports, broods Silence; and the cry Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash Of distant billows, breaks alone the void; Even as the savage sits upon the stone That marks where stood her capitols, and hears The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks From the dismaying solitude.--Her bards Sing 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 prow Hath ever ploughed before,--espies the cliffs Of fallen Albion.--To the land unknown He journeys joyful; and perhaps descries Some vestige of her ancient stateliness: Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived At 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 fulfils His annual course--and heaven and earth remain Still changing, yet unchanged--still doom'd to feel Endless 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 high Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour Of utter silence, it is fearful then To 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 strive To comprehend the vast, the awful truth, Of the eternity that hath gone by, And not recoil from the dismaying sense Of human impotence? The life of man Is summ'd in birthdays and in sepulchres; But the Eternal God had no beginning; He hath no end. Time had been with him For everlasting, ere the dredal world Rose from the gulf in loveliness.--Like him It 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 sun May roll for ever: but we shrink amazed-- We stand aghast, when we reflect that time Knew no commencement.--That heap age on age, And million upon million, without end, And we shall never span the void of days That were and are not but in retrospect. The Past is an unfathomable depth, Beyond the span of thought; 'tis an elapse Which hath no mensuration, but hath been For ever and for ever.

Change of days To us is sensible; and each revolve Of the recording sun conducts us on Further in life, and nearer to our goal. Not so with Time,--mysterious chronicler, He knoweth not mutation;--centuries Are to his being as a day, and days As centuries.--Time past, and Time to come, Are always equal; when the world began God had existed from eternity.

* * * * *

Now look on man Myriads of ages hence.--Hath time elapsed? Is he not standing in the selfsame place Where once we stood?--The same eternity Hath 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 altitude Sublime as this, our reason stands confess'd Foolish, and insignificant, and mean. Who can apply the futile argument Of finite beings to infinity?

He might as well compress the universe Into the hollow compass of a gourd, Scoop'd out by human art; or bid the whale Drink up the sea it swims in!--Can the less Contain the greater? or the dark obscure Infold the glories of meridian day? What does philosophy impart to man But undiscovered wonders?--Let her soar Even to her proudest heights--to where she caught The soul of Newton and of Socrates, She but extends the scope of wild amaze And admiration. All her lessons end In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths.

Lo! the unletter'd hind, who never knew To raise his mind excursive to the heights Of abstract contemplation, as he sits On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, What time the insect swarms are murmuring, And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds That fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky, Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd The goodly prospect; he beholds the God Throned in the west, and his reposing ear Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze That 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 bless The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds, For his snug hearth, and all his little joys: Hear him compare his happier lot with his Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, A poor night traveller, while the dismal snow Beats 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 praise And 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 bred In want and labour, glows with nobler zeal To laud his Maker's attributes, while he Whom 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 impart Irreverence for the Deity, or teach A mortal man to set his judgment up Against his Maker's will? The Polygar, Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys, Is the most bless'd of men! Oh! I would walk A weary journey, to the furthest verge Of 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 parade Of letters and of tongues? e'en as the mists Of the gray morn before the rising sun, That pass away and perish.

Earthly things Are 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 they But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain? Hath Heaven its ages? or doth Heaven preserve Its stated eras? Doth the Omnipotent Hear 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 coast Receding 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 assumes The semblances of things and specious shapes; But the lost traveller might as soon rely On 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 earth There is no certainty nor stable hope. As well the weary mariner, whose bark Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain, And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust To 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 tears To permanent delight--from some slight glimpse Of shadowy, unsubstantial happiness.

The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep Of mortal desolation.--He beholds Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride Of rampant Ruin, or the unstable waves Of 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 verge Of the cold sepulchre. The petty joys Of 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 elanced The 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 stud The night's imperial chariot;--Telescopes Will show thee myriads more innumerous Than the sea sand;--each of those little lamps Is the great source of light, the central sun Round which some other mighty sisterhood Of planets travel, every planet stock'd With 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 God Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful, As well as of the mendicant who begs The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn His 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 conceit Of 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 hold The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp, And reignest in the earthquake, when thy wrath Goes down towards erring man, I would address To thee my parting pæan; for of Thee, Great beyond comprehension, who thyself Art Time and Space, sublime Infinitude, Of Thee has been my song!--With awe I kneel Trembling before the footstool of thy state, My God!--my Father!--I will sing to thee A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle, Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades The 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 soul To 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 thought Of us poor worms, that batten in the dews Of 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 man He 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'd On us unworthy trifles, men should dare To treat with slight regard the proffer'd Heaven, And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear In wrath, "They shall not enter in my rest." Might I address the supplicative strain To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou Wouldst 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 debt Of primitive transgression.

Oh! I shrink, My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect That the time hastens, when, in vengeance clothed, Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves, And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start At the appalling summons. Oh I how dread, On the dark eye of miserable man, Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom, Will burst the effulgence of the opening Heaven; When to the brazen trumpet's deafening roar Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend, Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word! The dead shall start astonish'd from their sleep! The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey, The bellowing floods shall disembogue their charge Of human victims. From the farthest nook Of the wide world shall troop the risen souls, From him whose bones are bleaching in the waste Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse, Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides, Is wash'd on some Caribbean prominence, To the lone tenant of some secret cell In the Pacific's vast ... realm, Where never plummet's sound was heard to part The wilderness of water; they shall come To greet the solemn advent of the Judge.

Thou first shalt summon the elected saints To their apportion'd Heaven! and thy Son, At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious joy On all his past distresses, when for them He bore humanity's severest pangs. Then shalt thou seize the avenging scimitar, And, with a roar as loud and horrible As the stern earthquake's monitory voice, The wicked shall be driven to their abode, Down the immitigable gulf, to wail And gnash their teeth in endless agony.

* * * * *

Rear thou aloft thy standard.--Spirit, rear Thy flag on high!--Invincible, and throned In unparticipated might. Behold Earth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent sway, Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while, Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush Of mighty generations, as they pass To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. Who shall contend with Time--unvanquish'd Time, The conqueror of conquerors, and lord Of desolation?--Lo! the shadows fly, The hours and days, and years and centuries, They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall, The young are old, the old are in their graves. Heard'st thou that shout? It rent the vaulted skies; It was the voice of people,--mighty crowds,-- Again! 't is hushed--Time speaks, and all is hush'd; In the vast multitude now reigns alone Unruffled solitude. They all are still; All--yea, the whole--the incalculable mass, Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains.

Rear thou aloft thy standard.--Spirit, rear Thy flag on high, and glory in thy strength. But do thou know the season yet shall come, When from its base thine adamantine throne Shall tumble; when thine arm shall cease to strike, Thy voice forget its petrifying power; When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no more. Yea, he doth come--the mighty champion comes, Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death wound, Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors, And desolate stern Desolation's lord. Lo! where he cometh! the Messiah comes! The King! the Comforter! the Christ!--He comes To burst the bonds of Death, and overturn The power of Time.--Hark! the trumpet's blast Rings o'er the heavens! They rise, the myriads rise-- Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chains Of torpor,--He has ransom'd them,...

Forgotten generations live again, Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old, Beyond the flood:--the righteous of their times Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. The sainted mother wakes, and in her lap Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave, And heritor with her of Heaven,--a flower, Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain Of native guilt, even in its early bud. And, hark! those strains, how solemnly serene They fall, as from the skies--at distance fall-- Again more loud--the halleluiahs swell; The newly risen catch the joyful sound; They glow, they burn; and now with one accord Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb Who bled for mortals.

* * * * *

Yet there is peace for man.--Yea, there is peace Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene; When from the crowd, and from the city far, Haply he may be set (in his late walk O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone, And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail, And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time Will waft him to repose, to deep repose, Far from the unquietness of life--from noise And tumult far--beyond the flying clouds, Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no more.

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Footnotes:

[1] This Poem was begun either during the publication of Clifton Grove, or shortly afterwards, but never completed: some of the detached parts were among his latest productions.

[2] The Author was then in an attorney's office.

[3] Alluding to the first astronomical observations made by the Chaldean shepherds.

CHILDHOOD.[1]

A POEM.