THE

LONELY HEARTH,

AND

OTHER POEMS.

The moving accident is not my trade,
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts;
'Tis my delight alone in summer shade
To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts.

WORDSWORTH.

THE

LONELY HEARTH.

TO A FRIEND.

Years

Have wrought strange alterations.-SOUTHEY.

'Tis eve-the stars are in the sky-the flowers
Fold up their dewy fringes-the slow rooks,
Still as the motion of a cloud, return
Home to the peaceful forest-the small bird
Is on the wing for its connubial nest-

The labourer leaves the fields, and tho' borne down
With age and toil, wends merrily along

His homeward pathway-the delighted youth
Steals from the pastime of his brother youths,
To meet the favourite maiden who awaits
His happy coming. Yea, all things on earth
Seem blest but I and yet it is an eve
That well might tranquillize the harassed mind,
And make it peaceful even as itself.

So have I found in former days; but now,
At such an hour, I seek my lonely hearth,
To mourn o'er past enjoyments, and to look
Into futurity's appalling gloom,

For some kind spirit that would love to cheer
Me on my journey, as the traveller looks
For a fair star to guide him through the night.

Yea, I have found one! and, my friend, 'tis thou! And unto thee my spirit clings amid

Its sufferings, even as a drowning man

Holds fast the twig that keeps him still afloat,
When the swoln river threatens with each wave
To overwhelm him.

O my faithful friend!

Thou dost remember when my humble hearth
Was happy as the happiest; when she-
My sister-shared with me in every care
Of our small household, and still cheered the mind
Too often given to melancholy thoughts;
When thou wast wont to visit our abode,
And weave with me the song, and talk of fame,
And other pleasing topics. I had dreams

In those sweet days, oh, most enchanting dreams!
Even dreams of immortality-Methought

That when this heart had ceased to beat, this tongue Was silent, and mine image passed away

For ever from the earth, my happy soul (For I was purer in those joyous days)

Might lean from heaven and hear some beauteous
maid

Warbling my songs along the greenwood side
At peaceful evening, while her little heart
Beat with unusual transport; or some youth
Conning, at midnight, by his glimmering lamp,
Each tender line, and blessing the sweet bard
Who had inspired him with the love of song,
And who had kindled in his glowing heart
A higher, purer pleasure than is found