These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feastnight. Better than such discourse doth silence long, Are fostered by the comment and the gibe!" 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! Wings have we,-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, we 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. Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine: for thus I live remote From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought, Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought: And thus from day to day my little Boat Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 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. THE FORCE OF PRAYER; OR THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON-PRIORY. "WHAT is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my Tale; And their meaning is: whence can comfort spring When Prayer is of no avail? "What is good for a bootless bene?" And she made answer: "Endless Sorrow!” The Falconer to the Lady said; For she knew that her Son was dead. She knew it by the Falconer's words, -Young Romilly through Barden Woods And the Pair have reached that fearful chasm, | And the Lady prayed in heaviness How tempting to bestride! For lordly Wharf is there pent in With rocks on either side. This Striding-place is called The Strid, A name which it took of yore: A thousand years hath it borne that name And shall, a thousand more. And hither is young Romilly come, That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, He sprang in glee,-for what cared he The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, Now there is stillness in the Vale, And long unspeaking sorrow :-Wharf shall be to pitying hearts A name more sad than Yarrow. If for a Lover the Lady wept, A solace she might borrow From death, and from the passion of death;Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. She weeps not for the wedding-day He was a Tree that stood alone, Long, long in darkness did she sit, The stately Priory was reared; To Matins joined a mournful voice, That looked not for relief; Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, The Youth, who daily farther from the East Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, readst the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; To whom the grave Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight Of day or the warm light, A place of thought where we in waiting lie; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom, on thy Being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The Years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! And let the young Lambs bound We in thought will join your throng, Be now for ever taken from my sight, We will grieve not, rather find In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And oh ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Think not of any severing of our loves! The Clouds that gather round the setting sun are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. ODE THE MORNING OF THE DAY APPOINTED FOR A GENERAL THANKSGIVING. JANUARY 18, 1816. HALL, universal Source of pure delight! In naked splendour, clear from mist or haze, Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze. Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass Meek splendour, nor forgetst the humble And for thy bounty wert not unadored By pious men of old; Once more, heart-cheering Sun, I bid thee hail; Bright be thy course to-day, let not this promise fail! 'Mid the deep quiet of this morning-hour All nature seems to hear me while I speak, — By feelings urged, that do not vainly seek Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes That stream in blithe succession from the throats Of birds in leafy bower, A solid refuge for distress, He knows that from a holier altar came The current of this matin-song; Than aught dependant on the fickle skies. Have we not conquered?-By the vengeful sword? Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity; That curbed the baser passions, and left free A loyal band to follow their liege Lord, Clear-sighted Honour-and his staid Com peers, Along a track of most unnatural years, Of Britain's acts would sing, Shall represent her labouring with an eye Of circumspect humanity; Shall shew her clothed with strength and skill, All martial duties to fulfil; How dreadful the dominion of the impure! Why should the song be tardy to proclaim That less than power unbounded could not tame That Soul of Evil - which, from Hell let Who sees and feels, may lift a streaming eye A crouching purpose—a distracted will— Opposed to hopes that battened upon scorn, And to desires whose ever-waxing horn Not all the light of earthly power could fill; Opposed to dark, deep plots of patient skill, And the celerities of lawless force Which, spurning God, had flung away remorse What could they gain but shadows of redress? No more-the guilt is banished, And with the Guilt the Shame is fled, And with the Guilt and Shame the Woe hath vanished, Shaking the dust and ashes from her head! Fierce as a flood-gate bursting in the night-No more, these lingerings of distress To rouse the wicked from their giddy Firm as a rock in stationary fight; dream Sully the Jimpid stream of thankfulness. What robe can gratitude employ sures Of glory-and felicity-and love, Surrendering the whole heart to sacred pleasures? Land of our fathers! precious unto me |