« AnteriorContinuar »
While Cam's ideal current glided by,
Far happier they who, fixing hope and aim
Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid brow
* There is now, alas! no possibility of the anticipation, with which the above Epistle concludes, being realised: nor were the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom they were intended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, ou her way from Shalapore to Bombay, deepiy lamented by all who knew her.
Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast; and her great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in the difficult path of life to which she had been called. The opinion she entertained of her own performances, given to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was modest and humble, and, indeed, far below their merits; as is often the this
(I OFTEN ask myself what will become of Rydal Mount after our.
day. Will the old walls and steps remain in front of the house and about the grounds, or will they be swept away with all the beautiful mosses and ferns and wild geraniums and other flowers which their rude construction suffered and encouraged to grow among them ?-This little wild flower-"Poor Robin” -is here constantly courting my attention, and exciting what may be called a domestic interest with the varying aspects of its stalks and leaves and flowers. Strangely do the tastes of men differ according to their employment and habits of life. “What a nice well would that be,” said a labouring man to me one day, “if all that rubbish was cleared off.” The "bubbish" was some of the most beautiful mosses and lichens and ferns and other wild growths that could possibly be seen. Defend us from the tyranny of trimness and neatness showing itself in this way! Chatterton says of freedom—“Upon her head wild weeds were spread” and depend upon it if “the marvellous boy" bad undertaken to give Flora a garland, he would have preferred what we are apt to call weeds to gardenflowers. True taste has an eye for both. Weeds have been called flowers out of place. I fear the place most people would assign to them is too limited. Let them come near to our abodes, as surely they may without impropriety or disorder.]
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
but how gay
case with those who are making trial of their powers, with a topc to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quality, viz., quickness in the motions of her mind, she had, within the range of the Author's acquaintance, no equal.
* The small wild Geranium known by that name.
And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content
his wealth or want a thought? the string touched in prelude to a lay Of pretty fancies that would round him play When all the world acknowledged elfin sway ? Or does it suit our humour to commend Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend, Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show Bright colours whether they deceive or no ? Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill; Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now, Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow: Yet more, we wish that men by men despised, And such as lift their foreheads overpriced, Should sometimes think, where'er they chance to spy This child of Nature's own humility, What recompense is kept in store or left For all that seem neglected or bereft; With what nice care equivalents are given, How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven.
[This poem was first printed in the Annual called the "Keepsake." The painter's name I am not sure of, but I think it was Holmes.]
That happy gleam of vernal eyes,
That o'er thy brow are shed;
I saw; and Fancy sped
What mortal form, what earthly face
'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers,
TO A REDBREAST—(IN SICKNESS.)
[Aluost the only verses by our lamented Sister Sara Hutchinson.]
Stay, little cheerful Robin ! stay,
And at my casement sing,
And this our parting spring.
Though I, alas ! may ne'er enjoy
The promise in thy song;
Doth to thy strain belong.
Methinks that in my dying hour
Thy song would still be dear,
My passing Spirit cheer.