(Even like their persons in their portraits clothed With the accustomed garb of daily life)
Put on a lowly and a touching grace Of more distinct humanity, that left All genuine admiration unimpaired.
Beside the pleasant Mill of Trompington I laughed with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade; Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell his tales Of amorous passion. And that gentle Bard, Chosen by the Muses for their Page of State, Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft расе, I called him Brother, Englishman, and Friend! Yea, our blind Poet, who, in his later day, Stood almost single; uttering odious truth, Darkness before, and danger's voice behind, Soul awful, if the earth has ever lodged An awful soul, I seemed to see him here Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress Bounding before me, yet a stripling youth, A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks Angelical, keen eye, courageous look, And conscious step of purity and pride. Among the band of my compeers was one Whom chance had stationed in the very room Honored by Milton's name. O temperate Bard! Be it confessed that, for the first time, seated Within thy innocent lodge and oratory,
One of the festive circle, I poured out
Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain Never excited by the fumes of wine
Before that hour, or since. Then forth I ran From the assembly; through a length of streets Ran, ostrich-like, to reach our chapel door In not a desperate or opprobrious time, Albeit long after the importunate bell Had stopped, with wearisome Cassandra voice No longer haunting the dark winter night. Call back, O Friend! a moment to thy mind The place itself and fashion of the rites. With careless ostentation shouldering up My surplice, through the inferior throng I clove Of the plain Burghers, who in audience stood On the last skirts of their permitted ground, Under the pealing organ. Empty thoughts! I am ashamed of them: and that great Bard, And thou, O Friend! who in thy ample mind Hast placed me high above my best deserts, Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour, In some of its unworthy vanities,
The months passed on, remissly, not given up To wilful alienation from the right,
Or walks of open scandal, but in vague And loose indifference, easy likings, aims Of a low pitch, duty and zeal dismissed,
Yet Nature, or a happy course of things
Not doing in their stead the needful work. The memory languidly revolved, the heart Reposed in noontide rest, the inner pulse Of contemplation almost failed to beat. Such life might not inaptly be compared To a floating island, an amphibious spot Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal Not wanting a fair face of water weeds And pleasant flowers. The thirst of living praise, Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs, Where mighty minds lie visibly entombed, Have often stirred the heart of youth, and bred A fervent love of rigorous discipline.
Alas! such high emotion touched not me.
Look was there none within these walls to shame My easy spirits, and discountenance
Their light composure, far less to instil A calm resolve of mind, firmly addressed To puissant efforts. Nor was this the blame Of others, but my own; I should, in truth, As far as doth concern my single self, Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewhere: For I, bred up 'mid Nature's luxuries, Was a spoiled child, and rambling like the wind, As I had done in daily intercourse With those crystalline rivers, solemn heights, And mountains, ranging like a fowl of the air, I was ill tutored for captivity;
To quit my pleasure, and, from month to month,
Take up a station calmly on the perch Of sedentary peace. Those lovely forms Had also left less space within my mind, Which, wrought upon instinctively, had found A freshness in those objects of her love, A winning power, beyond all other power. Not that I slighted books, - that were to lack All sense, but other passions in me ruled, Passions more fervent, making me less prompt To in-door study than was wise or well,
Or suited to those years. Yet I, though used In magisterial liberty to rove,
Culling such flowers of learning as might tempt A random choice, could shadow forth a place (If now I yield not to a flattering dream) Whose studious aspect should have bent me down To instantaneous service; should at once Have made me pay to science and to arts And written lore, acknowledged my liege lord, A homage frankly offered up, like that Which I had paid to Nature. Toil and pains In this recess, by thoughtful Fancy built,
Should spread from heart to heart; and stately
Majestic edifices, should not want
A corresponding dignity within.
The congregating temper that pervades
Our unripe years, not wasted, should be taught
To minister to works of high attempt,
Works which the enthusiast would perform with
Youth should be awed, religiously possessed With a conviction of the power that waits
On knowledge, when sincerely sought and prized For its own sake, on glory and on praise If but by labor won, and fit to endure
The passing day; should learn to put aside Her trappings here, should strip them off abashed Before antiquity and steadfast truth
And strong book-mindedness; and over all A healthy sound simplicity should reign, A seemly plainness, name it what you will, Republican or pious.
Are a gratuitous emblazonry
That mocks the recreant age we live in, then Be Folly and False-seeming free to affect Whatever formal gait of discipline
Shall raise them highest in their own esteem, Let them parade among the Schools at will, But spare the House of God. Was ever known The witless shepherd who persists to drive A flock that thirsts not to a pool disliked? A weight must surely hang on days begun And ended with such mockery. Be wise, Ye Presidents and Deans, and, till the spirit Of ancient times revive, and youth be trained At home in pious service, to your bells Give seasonable rest, for 't is a sound Hollow as ever vexed the tranquil air; And your officious doings bring disgrace
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