And, Matthew, for thy children dead,
I'll be a son to thee!"
At this he grasped my hand, and said,
"Alas! that cannot be."
We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went;
And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,
He sang those witty rhymes.
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.
I AM not one who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbors, daily, weekly, in my sight:
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.
"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe;
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
The languid mind into activity.
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee,
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe."
Even be it so yet still among your tribe,
Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me!
Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies
More justly balanced; partly at their feet,
And part far from them: sweetest melodies
Are those that are by distance made more sweet;
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet !
and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books,
know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store,
Matter wherein right voluble I am,
To which I listen with a ready ear;
Two shall be named, preeminently dear,-
The gentle Lady married to the Moor,
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.
Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote
From evil-speaking; rancor, never sought,
Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourses, and joyous
thought:
And thus from day to day my little boat
Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceable.
Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares,
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!
Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
ILLUSTRATED BOOKS AND NEWSPAPERS.
DISCOURSE was deemed Man's noblest attribute,
And written words the glory of his hand;
Then followed Printing with enlarged command
For thought, dominion vast and absolute
For spreading truth, and making love expand.
Now
prose and verse sunk into disrepute
Must lackey a dumb Art that best can suit
The taste of this once-intellectual Land.
A backward movement surely have we here,
From manhood, back to childhood; for the age,
Back towards caverned life's first rude career.
Avaunt this vile abuse of pictured page!
Must eyes be all in all, the tongue and ear
Nothing? Heaven keep us from a lower stage!
TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND.
Composed while we were laboring together in his pleasureground.
SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
Thou art a tool of honor in my hands;
I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride.
Rare master has it been thy lot to know; Long hast Thou served a man to reason true, Whose life combines the best of high and low, The laboring many and the resting few;
Health, meekness, ardor, quietness secure,
And industry of body and of mind;
And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
As nature is,
too pure to be refined.
Here often hast thou heard the Poet sing
In concord with his river murmuring by;
Or in some silent field, while timid spring
Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy.
Who shall inherit thee when death has laid Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord? That man will have a trophy, humble Spade! A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword.
If he be one that feels, with skill to part
False praise from true, or greater from the less,
Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,
Thou monument of peaceful happiness!
He will not dread with thee a toilsome day,
Thee, his loved servant, his inspiring mate!
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