Читать книгу The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2 - Bowles William Lisle - Страница 4

A shower, even while we gaze, steals o'er the scene,

Shrouding it, and the sea-view is shout out,

Save where, beyond the holms, one thread of light

Hangs, and a pale and sunny stream shoots on,

O'er the dim vapours, faint and far away,

Like Hope's still light beyond the storms of Time.

Come, let us rest a while in this rude seat!

I was a child when first I heard the sound

Of the great sea. 'Twas night, and journeying far,

We were belated on our road, 'mid scenes

New and unknown, – a mother and her child,

Now first in this wide world a wanderer: —

My father came, the pastor of the church16

That crowns the high hill crest, above the sea;

When, as the wheels went slow, and the still night

Seemed listening, a low murmur met the ear,

Not of the winds: – my mother softly said,

Listen! it is the sea! With breathless awe,

I heard the sound, and closer pressed her hand.

Much of the sea, in infant wonderment,

I oft had heard, and of the shipwrecked man,

Who sees, on some lone isle, day after day,

The sun sink o'er the solitude of waves,

Like Crusoe; and the tears would start afresh,

Whene'er my mother kissed my cheek, and told

The story of that desolate wild man,

And how the speaking bird, when he returned

After long absence to his cave forlorn,

Said, as in tones of human sympathy,

Poor Robin Crusoe!

Thoughts like these arose,

When first I heard, at night, the distant sound,

Great Ocean, "of thy everlasting voice!"17

Where the white parsonage, among the trees,

Peeped out, that night I restless passed. The sea

Filled all my thoughts; and when slow morning came,

And the first sunbeam streaked the window-pane,

I rose unnoticed, and with stealthy pace,

Straggling along the village green, explored

Alone my fearful but adventurous way;

When, having turned the hedgerow, I beheld,

For the first time, thy glorious element,

Old Ocean, glittering in the beams of morn,

Stretching far off, and, westward, without bound,

Amid thy sole dominion, rocking loud!

Shivering I stood, and tearful; and even now,

When gathering years have marked my look, – even now

I feel the deep impression of that hour,

As but of yesterday!

Spirit of Time,

A moment pause, and I will speak to thee!

Dark clouds are round thee; but, lo! Memory waves

Her wand, – the clouds disperse, as the gray rack

Disperses while we gaze, and light steals out,

While the gaunt phantom almost seems to drop

His scythe! Now shadows of the past, distinct,

Are thronging round; the voices of the dead

Are heard; and, lo! the very smoke goes up —

For so it seems – from yonder tenement,

Where leads the slender pathway to the door.

Enter that small blue parlour: there sits one,

A female, and a child is in her arms;

A child leans at her side, intent to show

A pictured book, and looks upon her face;

One, from the green, comes with a cowslip ball;18

And one,19 a hero, sits sublime and horsed,

Upon a rocking-steed, from Banwell-fair;

This,20 drives his tiny wheel-barrow, without,

On the green garden-sward; whilst one,21 apart,

Sighs o'er his solemn task – the spelling-book —

Half moody, half in tears. Some lines of thought

Are on that matron's brow; yet placidness,

Such as resigned religion gives, is there,

Mingled with sadness; for who e'er beheld,

Without one stealing sigh, a progeny

Of infants clustering round maternal knees,

Nor felt some boding fears, how they might fare

In the wide world, when they who loved them most

Were silent in their graves!

Nay! pass not on,

Till thou hast marked a book – the leaf turned down —

Night Thoughts on Death and Immortality!

This book, my mother! in the weary hours

Of life, in every care, in every joy,

Was thy companion: next to God's own Word,

The book that bears this name,22 thou didst revere,

Leaving a stain of tears upon the page,

Whose lessons, with a more emphatic truth,

Touched thine own heart!

That heart has long been still!

But who is he, of aspect more severe,

Yet with a manly kindness in his mien,

He, who o'erlooks yon sturdy labourer

Delving the glebe! My father as he lived!

That father, and that mother, "earth to earth,

And dust to dust," the inevitable doom

Hath long consigned! And where is he, the son,

Whose future fate they pondered with a sigh?

Long, nor unprosperous, has been his way

Through life's tumultuous scenes, who, when a child,

Played in that garden platform in the sun;

Or loitered o'er the common, and pursued

The colts among the sand-hills; or, intent

On hardier enterprise, his pumpkin-ship,

New-rigged, and buoyant, with its tiny sail,

Launched on the garden pond; or stretched his hand,

At once forgetting all this glorious toil,

When the bright butterfly came wandering by.

But never will that day pass from his mind,

When, scarcely breathing for delight, at Wells,

He saw the horsemen of the clock23 ride round,

As if for life; and ancient Blandifer,24

Seated aloft, like Hermes, in his chair

Complacent as when first he took his seat,

Some hundred years ago; saw him lift up,

As if old Time was cowering at his feet,

Solemn lift up his mace, and strike the bell,

Himself for ever silent in his seat.

How little thought I then, the hour would come,

When the loved prelate of that beauteous fane,

At whose command I write, might placidly

Smile on this picture, in my future verse,

When Blandifer had struck so many hours

For me, his poet, in this vale of years,

Himself unchanged and solemn as of yore!

My father was the pastor, and the friend

Of all who, living then – the scene is closed —

Now silent in that rocky churchyard sleep,

The aged and the young! A village then

Was not as villages are now. The hind,

Who delved, or "jocund drove his team a-field,"

Had then an independence in his look

And heart; and, plodding on his lowly path,

Disdained a parish dole, content, though poor.

He was the village monitor: he taught

His children to be good, and read their book,

And in the gallery took his Sunday place, —

To-morrow, with the bee, to work.

So passed

His days of cheerful, independent toil;

And when the pastor came that way, at eve,

He had a ready present for the child

Who read his book the best; and that poor child

Remembered it, when, treading the same path

In which his father trod, he so grew up

Contented, till old Time had blanched his locks,

And he was borne – whilst the bell tolled – to sleep

In the same churchyard where his father slept!

His daughter walked content, and innocent

As lovely, in her lowly path. She turned

The hour-glass, while the humming wheel went round,

Or went "a-Maying" o'er the fields in spring,

Leading her little brother by the hand,

Along the village lane, and o'er the stile,

To gather cowslips; and then home again,

To turn her wheel, contented, through the day.

Or, singing low, bend where her brother slept,

Rocking the cradle, to "sweet William's grave!"25

No lure could tempt her from the woodbine shed,

Where she grew up, and folded first her hands

In infant prayer: yet oft a tear would steal

Down her young cheek, to think how desolate

That home would be when her poor mother died;

Still praying that she ne'er might cause a pain,

Undutiful, to "bring down her gray hairs

With sorrow to the grave!"

Now mark this scene!

The fuming factory's polluted air

Has stained the country! See that rural nymph,

An infant in her arms! She claims the dole

From the cold parish, which her faithless swain

Denies: he stands aloof, with clownish leer;

The constable behind – and mark his brow —

Beckons the nimble clerk; the justice, grave,

Turns from his book a moment, with a look

Of pity, signs the warrant for her pay,

A weekly eighteen pence; she, unabashed,

Slides from the room, and not a transient blush,

Far less the accusing tear, is on her cheek!

A different scene comes next: That village maid

Approaches timidly, yet beautiful;

A tear is on her lids, when she looks down

Upon her sleeping child. Her heart was won,

The wedding-day was fixed, the ring was bought!

'Tis the same story – Colin was untrue!

He ruined, and then left her to her fate.

Pity her, she has not a friend on earth,

And that still tear speaks to all human hearts

But his, whose cruelty and treachery

Caused it to flow! So crime still follows crime.

Ask we the cause? See, where those engines heave,

That spread their giant arms o'er all the land!

The wheel is silent in the vale! Old age

And youth are levelled by one parish law!

Ask why that maid, all day, toils in the field,

Associate with the rude and ribald clown,

Even in the shrinking April of her youth?

To earn her loaf, and eat it by herself.

Parental love is smitten to the dust;

Over a little smoke the aged sire

Holds his pale hands – and the deserted hearth

Is cheerless as his heart: but Piety

Points to the Bible! Shut the book again:

The ranter is the roving gospel now,

And each his own apostle! Shut the book:

A locust-swarm of tracts darken its light,

And choke its utterance; while a Babel-rout

Of mock-religionists, turn where we will,

Have drowned the small still voice, till Piety,

Sick of the din, retires to pray alone.

But though abused Religion, and the dole

Of pauper-pay, and vomitories huge

Of smoke, are each a steam-engine of crime,

Polluting, far and wide, the wholesome air,

And withering life's green verdure underneath,

Full many a poor and lowly flower of want

Has Education nursed, like a pure rill,

Winding through desert glens, and bade it live

To grace the cottage with its mantling sweets.

There was a village girl, I knew her well,

From five years old and upwards; all her friends

Were dead, and she was to the workhouse left,

And there a witness to such sounds profane

As might turn virtue pale! When Sunday came,

Assembled with the children of the poor,

Upon the lawn of my own parsonage,

She stood among them: they were taught to read

In companies and groups, upon the green,

Each with its little book; her lighted eyes

Shone beautiful where'er they turned; her form

Was graceful; but her book her sole delight!26

Instructed thus she went a serving-maid

Into the neighbouring town, – ah! who shall guide

A friendless maid, so beautiful and young,

From life's contagions! But she had been taught

The duties of her humble lot, to pray

To God, and that one heavenly Father's eye

Was over rich and poor! On Sunday night,

She read her Bible, turning still away

From those who flocked, inflaming and inflamed,

To nightly meetings; but she never closed

Her eyes, or raised them to the light of morn,

Without a prayer to Him who "bade the sun

Go forth," a giant, from his eastern gate!

No art, no bribe, could lure her steps astray

From the plain path, and lessons she had learned,

A village child. She is a mother now,

And lives to prove the blessings and the fruits

Of moral duty, on the poorest child,

When duty, and when sober piety,

Impressing the young heart, go hand in hand.

No villager was then a disputant

In Calvinistic and contentious creeds;

No pale mechanic, from a neighbouring sink

Of steam and rank debauchery and smoke,

Crawled forth upon a Sunday morn, with looks

Saddening the very sunshine, to instruct

The parish poor in evangelic lore;

To teach them to cast off, "as filthy rags,"

Good works! and listen to such ministers,

Who all (be sure) "are worthy of their hire;"

Who only preach for good of their poor souls,

That they may turn "from darkness unto light,"

And, above all, fly, as the gates of hell,

Morality!27 and Baal's steeple house,

Where, without "heart-work," Doctor Littlegrace

Drones his dull requiem to the snoring clerk!"28

True; he who drawls his heartless homily

For one day's work, and plods, on wading stilts,

Through prosing paragraphs, with inference,

Methodically dull, as orthodox,

Enforcing sagely that we all must die

When God shall call – oh, what a pulpit drone

Is he! The blue fly might as well preach "Hum,"

And "so conclude!"

But save me from the sight

Of curate fop, half jockey and half clerk,

The tandem-driving Tommy of a town,

Disdaining books, omniscient of a horse,

Impatient till September comes again,

Eloquent only of "the pretty girl

With whom he danced last night!" Oh! such a thing

Is worse than the dull doctor, who performs

Duly his stinted task, and then to sleep,

Till Sunday asks another homily

Against all innovations of the age,

Mad missionary zeal, and Bible clubs,

And Calvinists and Evangelicals!

Yes! Evangelicals! Oh, glorious word!

But who deserves that awful name? Not he

Who spits his puny Puritanic spite

On harmless recreation; who reviles

All who, majestic in their distant scorn,

Bear on in silence their calm Christian course.

He only is the Evangelical

Who holds in equal scorn dogmas and dreams,

The Shibboleth of saintly magazines,

Decked with most grim and godly visages;

The cobweb sophistry, or the dark code

Of commentators, who, with loathsome track,

Crawl o'er a text, or on the lucid page,

Beaming with heavenly love and God's own light,

Sit like a nightmare!29 Soon a deadly mist

Creeps o'er our eyes and heart, till angel forms

Turn into hideous phantoms, mocking us,

Even when we look for comfort at the spring

And well of life, while dismal voices cry,

Death! Reprobation! Woe! Eternal woe!

He only is the Evangelical

Who from the human commentary turns

With tranquil scorn, and nearer to his heart

Presses the Bible, till repentant tears,

In silence, wet his cheek, and new-born faith,

And hope, and charity, with radiant smile,

Visit his heart, – all pointing to the cross!

He only is the Evangelical,

Who, with eyes fixed upon that spectacle,

Christ and him crucified, with ardent hope,

And holier feelings, lifts his thoughts from earth,

And cries, My Father! Meantime, his whole heart

Is on God's Word: he preaches Faith, and Hope,

And Charity, – these three, and not that one!

And Charity, the greatest of these three!30

Give me an Evangelical like this! But now

The blackest crimes in tract-religion's code

Are moral virtues! Spare the prodigal, —

He may awake when God shall "call;" but, hell,

Roll thy avenging flames, to swallow up

The son who never left his father's home

Lest he should trust to morals when he dies!

Let him not lay the unction to his soul,

That his upbraiding conscience tells no tale

At that dread hour; bid him confess his sin,

The greater that, with humble hope, he looks

Back on a well-spent life! Bid him confess

That he hath broken all God's holy laws, —

In vain hath he done justly, – loved, in vain,

Mercy, and hath walked humbly with his God!

These are mere works; but faith is everything,

And all in all! The Christian code contains

No "if" or "but!"31 Let tabernacles ring,

And churches too,32 with sanctimonious strains

Baneful as these; and let such strains be heard

Through half the land; and can we shut our eyes,

And, sadly wondering, ask the cause of crimes,

When infidelity stands lowering here,

With open scorn, and such a code as this,

So baneful, withers half the charities

Of human hearts! Oh! dear is Mercy's voice

To man, a mourner in the vale of sin

And death: how dear the still small voice of Faith,

That bids him raise his look beyond the clouds

That hang o'er this dim earth; but he who tears

Faith from her heavenly sisterhood, denies

The gospel, and turns traitor to the cause

He has engaged to plead. Come, Faith, and Hope,

And Charity! how dear to the sad heart,

The consolations and the glorious views

That animate the Christian in his course!

But save, oh! save me from the tract-led Miss,

Who trots to every Bethel club, and broods

O'er some black missionary's monstrous tale,

Reckless of want around her!

But the priest,

Who deems the Almighty frowns upon his throne,

Because two pair of harmless dowagers,

Whose life has passed without a stain, beguile

An evening hour with cards; who deems that hell

Burns fiercer for a saraband; that thou —

Thou, my sweet Shakspeare – thou, whose touch awakes

The inmost heart of virtuous sympathy, —

Thou, O divinest poet! at whose voice

Sad Pity weeps, or guilty Terror drops

The blood-stained dagger from his palsied hand, —

That thou art pander to the criminal!

He who thus edifies his Christian flock,

Moves, more than even the Bethel-trotting Miss,

My pity, my aversion, and my scorn.

Cry aloud! – Oh, speak in thunder to the soul

That sleeps in sin! Harrow the inmost heart

Of murderous intent, till dew-drops stand

Upon his haggard brow! Call conscience up,

Like a stern spectre, whose dim finger points

To dark misdeeds of yore! Wither the arm

Of the oppressor, at whose feet the slave

Crouches, and pleading lifts his fettered hands!

Thou violator of the innocent

Hide thee! Hence! hide thee in the deepest cave,

From man's indignant sight! Thou hypocrite!

Trample in dust thy mask, nor cry faith, faith,

Making it but a hollow tinkling sound,

That stirs not the foul heart! Horrible wretch!

Look not upon the face of that sweet child,

With thoughts which hell would tremble to conceive!

Oh, shallow, and oh, senseless! In a world

Where rank offences turn the good man pale,

Who leave the Christian's sternest code, to vent

Their petty ire on petty trespasses,

If trespasses they are; – when the wide world

Groans with the burthen of offence; when crimes

Stalk on, with front defying, o'er the land,

Whilst, her own cause betraying, Christian zeal

Thus swallows camels, straining at a gnat!

Therefore, without a comment, or a note,

We love the Bible; and we prize the more

The spirit of its pure unspotted page,

As pure from the infectious breath that stains,

Like a foul fume, its hallowed light, we hail

The radiant car of heaven, amidst the clouds

Of mortal darkness, and of human mist,

Sole, as the sun in heaven!33

Oh! whilst the car

Of God's own glory rolls along in light,

We join the loud song of the Christian host,

(All puny systems shrinking from the blaze),

Hosannah to the car of light! Roll on!

Saldanna's34 rocks have echoed to the hymns

Of Faith, and Hope, and Charity! Roll on!

Till the wild wastes of inmost Africa,

Where the long Niger's track is lost, respond,

Hosannah to the car of light! Roll on!

From realm to realm, from shore to farthest shore,

O'er dark pagodas, and huge idol-fanes,

That frown along the Ganges' utmost stream,

Till the poor widow, from the burning pile

Starting, shall lift her hands to heaven, and weep

That she has found a Saviour, and has heard

The sounds of Christian love! Oh, horrible!

The pile is smoking! – the bamboos lie there,

That held her down when the last struggle shook

The blazing pile!35 Hasten, O car of light!

Alas for suffering nature! Juggernaut,

Armed, in his giant car goes also forth,

Goes forth amid his red and reeling priests,

While thousands gasp and die beneath the wheels,

As they go groaning on, 'mid cries, and drums,

And flashing cymbals, and delirious songs

Of tinkling dancing girls, and all the rout

Of frantic superstition! Turn away!

And is not Juggernaut himself with us?

Not only cold insidious sophistry

Comes, blinking with its taper-fume, to light,

If so he may, the sun in the mid heaven!

Not only blind and hideous blasphemy

Scowls in his cloak, and mocks the glorious orb,

Ascending, in its silence, o'er a world

Of sin and sorrow; but a hellish brood

Of imps, and fiends, and phantoms, ape the form

Of godliness, till godliness itself

Seems but a painted monster, and a name

For darker crimes, at which the shuddering heart

Shrinks; while the ranting rout, as they march on,

Mock Heaven with hymns, till, see! pale Belial

Sighs o'er a filthy tract, and Moloch marks,

With gouts of blood, his brandished magazine!

Start, monster, from the dismal dream! Look up!

Oh! listen to the apostolic voice,

That, like a voice from heaven, proclaims, To faith

Add virtue! There is no mistaking here;

Whilst moral education by the hand

Shall lead the children to the house of God,

Nor sever Christian faith from Christian love.

If we would see the fruits of charity,

Look at that village group, and paint the scene!

Surrounded by a clear and silent stream,

Where the swift trout shoots from the sudden ray,

A rural mansion on the level lawn

Uplifts its ancient gables, whose slant shade

Is drawn, as with a line, from roof to porch,

Whilst all the rest is sunshine. O'er the trees

In front, the village church, with pinnacles

And light gray tower, appears; whilst to the right,

An amphitheatre of oaks extends

Its sweep, till, more abrupt, a wooded knoll,

Where once a castle frowned, closes the scene.

And see! an infant troop, with flags and drum,

Are marching o'er that bridge, beneath the woods,

On to the table spread upon the lawn,

Raising their little hands when grace is said;

Whilst she who taught them to lift up their hearts

In prayer, and to "remember, in their youth,"

God, "their Creator," mistress of the scene

(Whom I remember once as young), looks on,

Blessing them in the silence of her heart.

And we too bless them. Oh! away, away!

Cant, heartless cant, and that economy,

Cold, and miscalled "political," away!

Let the bells ring – a Puritan turns pale

To hear the festive sound: let the bells ring —

A Christian loves them; and this holiday

Remembers him, while sighs unbidden steal,

Of life's departing and departed days,

When he himself was young, and heard the bells,

In unison with feelings of his heart —

His first pure Christian feelings, hallowing

The harmonious sound!

And, children, now rejoice, —

Now, for the holidays of life are few;

Nor let the rustic minstrel tune, in vain,

The cracked church-viol, resonant to-day

Of mirth, though humble! Let the fiddle scrape

Its merriment, and let the joyous group

Dance in a round, for soon the ills of life

Will come! Enough, if one day in the year,

If one brief day, of this brief life, be given

To mirth as innocent as yours! But, lo!

That ancient woman, leaning on her staff!

Pale, on her crutch she rests one withered hand;

One withered hand, which Gerard Dow might paint,

Even its blue veins! And who is she? The nurse

Of the fair mistress of the scene: she led

Her tottering steps in infancy – she spelt

Her earliest lesson to her; and she now

Leans from that open window, while she thinks —

When summer comes again, the turf will lie

On my cold breast; but I rejoice to see

My child thus leading on the progeny

Of her poor neighbours in the peaceful path

Of humble virtue! I shall be at rest,

Perhaps, when next they meet; but my last prayer

Is with them, and the mistress of this home.

"The innocent are gay,"36 gay as the lark

That sings in morn's first sunshine; and why not?

But may they ne'er forget, as life steals on,

In age, the lessons they have learned in youth!

How false the charge, how foul the calumny

On England's generous aristocracy,

That, wrapped in sordid, selfish apathy,

They feel not for the poor!

Ask, is it true?

Lord of the whirling wheels, the charge is false!37

Ten thousand charities adorn the land,

Beyond thy cold conception, from this source.

What cottage child but has been neatly clad,

And taught its earliest lesson, from their care?

Witness that schoolhouse, mantled with festoon

Of various plants, which fancifully wreath

Its window-mullions, and that rustic porch,

Whence the low hum of infant voices blend

With airs of spring, without. Now, all alive,

The green sward rings with play, among the shrubs —

Hushed the long murmur of the morning task,

Before the pensive matron's desk!

But turn,

And mark that aged widow! By her side

Is God's own Word; and, lo! the spectacles

Are yet upon the page. Her daughter kneels

And prays beside her! Many years have shed

Their snow so silently and softly down

Upon her head, that Time, as if to gaze,

Seems for a moment to suspend his flight

Onward, in reverence to those few gray hairs,

That steal beneath her cap, white as its snow.

Whilst the expiring lamp is kept alive,

Thus feebly, by a duteous daughter's love,

Her last faint prayer, ere all is dark on earth,

Will to the God of heaven ascend, for those

Whose comforts smoothed her silent bed.

And thou,

Witness Elysian Tempe of Stourhead!

Oh, not because, with bland and gentle smile,

Adding a radiance to the look of age,

Like eve's still light, thy liberal master spreads

His lettered treasures; – not because his search

Has dived the Druid mound, illustrating

His country's annals, and the monuments

Of darkest ages; – not because his woods

Wave o'er the dripping cavern of Old Stour,

Where classic temples gleam along the edge

Of the clear waters, winding beautiful; —

Oh! not because the works of breathing art,

Of Poussin, Rubens, Rembrandt, Gainsborough,

Start, like creations, from the silent walls;

To thee, this tribute of respect and love,

Beloved, benevolent, and generous Hoare,

Grateful I pay; – but that, when thou art dead

(Late may it be!) the poor man's tear will fall,

And his voice falter, when he speaks of thee.38

And witness thou, magnificent abode,

Where virtuous Ken,39 with his gray hairs and shroud,

Came, for a shelter from the world's rude storm,

In his old age, leaving his palace-throne,

Having no spot where he might lay his head,

In all the earth! Oh, witness thou, the seat

Of his first friend, his friend from schoolboy days!

Oh! witness thou, if one who wanted bread

Has not found shelter there; if one poor man

Has been deserted in his hour of need;

Or one poor child been left without a guide,

A father, an instructor, and a friend;

In him, the pastor, and distributor40

Of bounties large, yet falling silently

As dews on the cold turf! And witness thou,

Marston,41 the seat of my kind, honoured friend —

My kind and honoured friend, from youthful days.

Then wandering on the banks of Rhine, we saw

Cities and spires, beneath the mountains blue,

Gleaming; or vineyards creep from rock to rock;

Or unknown castles hang, as if in clouds:

Or heard the roaring of the cataract,

Far off, beneath the dark defile or gloom

Of ancient forests; till behold, in light,

Foaming and flashing, with enormous sweep,

Through the rent rocks – where, o'er the mist of spray

The rainbow, like a fairy in her bower,

Is sleeping, while it roars – that volume vast,

White, and with thunder's deafening roar, comes down.

Live long, live happy, till thy journey close,

Calm as the light of day! Yet witness thou,

The seat of noble ancestry, the seat

Of science, honoured by the name of Boyle,

Though many sorrows, since we met in youth,

Have pressed thy generous master's manly heart,

Witness, the partner of his joys and griefs;

Witness the grateful tenantry, the home

Of the poor man, the children of that school —

Still warm benevolence sits smiling there.

And witness, the fair mansion, on the edge

Of those chalk hills, which, from my garden walk,

Daily I see, whose gentle mistress droops42

With her own griefs, yet never turns her look

From others' sorrows; on whose lids the tear

Shines yet more lovely than the light of youth.

And many a cottage-garden smiles, whose flowers

Invite the music of the morning bee.

And many a fireside has shot out, at eve,

Its light upon the old man's withered hand

And pallid cheek from their benevolence —

Sad as is still the parish-pauper's home —

Who shed around their patrimonial seats

The light of heaven-descending Charity.

And every feeling of the Christian heart

Would rise accusing, could I pass unsung,

Thee,43 fair as Charity's own form, who late

Didst stand beneath the porch of that gray fane,

Soliciting44 a mite from all who passed,

With such a smile, as to refuse would seem

To do a wrong to Charity herself.

How many blessings, silent and unheard,

The mistress of the lonely parsonage

Dispenses, when she takes her daily round

Among the aged and the sick, whose prayers

And blessings are her only recompense!

How many pastors, by cold obloquy

And senseless hate reviled, tread the same path

Of charity in silence, taught by Him

Who was reviled not to revile again;

And leaving to a righteous God their cause!

Come, let us, with the pencil in our hand,

Portray a character. What book is this?

Rector of Overton!45 I know him not;

But well I know the Vicar, and a man

More worthy of that name, and worthier still

To grace a higher station of our Church,

None knows; – a friend and father to the poor,

A scholar, unobtrusive, yet profound,

"As e'er my conversation coped withal;"

His piety unvarnished, but sincere.46

Killarney's lake,47 and Scotia's hills,48 have heard

His summer-wandering reed; nor on the themes

Of hallowed inspiration49 has his harp

Been silent, though ten thousand jangling strings —

When all are poets in this land of song,

And every field chinks with its grasshopper —

Have well-nigh drowned the tones; but poesy

Mingles, at eventide, with many a mood

Of stirring fancy, on his silent heart

When o'er those bleak and barren downs, in rain

Or sunshine, where the giant Wansdeck sweeps,

Homewards he bends his solitary way.

Live long; and late may the old villager

Look on thy stone, amid the churchyard grass,

Remembering years of kindness, and the tongue,

Eloquent of his Maker, when he sat

At church, and heard the undivided code

Of apostolic truth – of hope, of faith,

Of charity – the end and test of all.

Live long; and though I proudly might recall

The names of many friends – like thee, sincere

And pious, and in solitude adorned

With rare accomplishments – this grateful praise

Accept, congenial to the poet's theme;

For well I know, haply when I am dead,

And in my shroud, whene'er thy homeward path

Lies o'er those hills, and thou shalt cast a look

Back on our garden-slope, and Bremhill tower,

Thou wilt remember me, and many a day

There passed in converse and sweet harmony.

A truce to satire, and to harsh reproof,

Severer arguments, that have detained

The unwilling Muse too long: – come, while the clouds

Work heavy and the winds at intervals,

Pipe, and at intervals sink in a sigh,

As breathed o'er sounds and shadows of the past —

Change we our style and measure, to relate

A village tale of a poor Cornish maid,

And of her prayer-book. It is sad, but true;

And simply told, though not in lady phrase

Of modish song, may touch some gentle heart,

And wake an interest, when description fails.