L. E. MACLEAN (L. E. L.). 1802-1838
Thou art gone from us, and with thee departed,
How many lovely things have vanished too;
Deep thoughts that at thy will to being started,
And feelings, teaching us our own were true.
Thou hast been round us, like a viewless spirit,
Known only by the music on the air;
The leaf or flowers which thou hast named inherit
A beauty known but from thy breathing there:
For thou didst on them fling thy strong emotion,
The likeness from itself the fond heart gave;
As planets from afar look down on ocean,
And give their own sweet image to the wave.
And thou didst bring from foreign lands their treasures
As floats thy various melody along;
We know the softness of Italian measures,
And the grave cadence of Castilian song.
A general bond of union is the poet,
By its immortal verse is language known, And for the sake of song do others know it
One glorious poet makes the world his own. And thou-how far thy gentle sway extended! The heart's sweet empire over land and sea; Many a stranger and far flower was blended
In the soft wreath that glory bound for thee. The echoes of the Susquehanna's waters
Paused in the pine-woods words of thine to hear; And to the wide Atlantic's younger daughters Thy name was lovely, and thy song was dear.
Was not this purchased all too dearly? never
Can fame atone for all that fame hath cost.
We see the goal, but know not the endeavour,
Nor what fond hopes have on the way been lost.
What do we know of the unquiet pillow,
By the worn cheek and tearful eyelid prest,
When thoughts chased thoughts, like the tumultuous billow,
Whose very light and foam reveals unrest? We say, the song is sorrowful, but know not What may have left that sorrow on the song; However mournful words may be, they show not The whole extent of wretchedness and wrong. They cannot paint the long sad hours, passed only In vain regrets o'er what we feel we are. Alas! the kingdom of the lute is lonely-Cold is the worship coming from afar.
What on this earth could answer thy requiring,
For earnest faith-for love, the deep and true,
The beautiful, which was thy soul's desiring,
But only from thyself its being drew.
How is the warm and loving heart requited
In this harsh world, where it awhile must dwell, Its best affections wronged, betrayed, and slightedSuch is the doom of those who love too well. Better the weary dove should close its pinion, Fold up its golden wings and be at peace: Enter, O Ladye, that serene dominion,
Where earthly cares and earthly sorrows cease. Fame's troubled hour has cleared, and now replying, A thousand hearts their music ask of thine.
Sleep with a light, the lovely and undying,
Around thy grave—a grave which is a shrine.
ST. JAMES'S STREET ON A SUMMER MORNING
O'er royal London in luxuriant May,
While lamps yet twinkled dawning crept the day,
Home from the hell the pale-eyed gamester steals,
Home from the ball flash jaded beauty's wheels.
The lean grimalkin, who since night began
Has hymned to love amid the wrath of man,
Scared from his raptures by the morning star,
Flits finely by and threads the area bar.
From fields suburban rolls the early cart,
As rests the revel so awakes the mart.
Transfusing Mocha from the beans within,
Bright by the crossing gleams the alchemic tin.
There halts the craftsman; there with envious sigh
The houseless vagrant looks and limps foot-weary by..
Behold that street, the Omphalos of Town,
Where the grim palace wears the prison's frown,
As mindful still, amid a gaudier race,
Of the veil'd genius of that mournful place,
Of floors no majesty but grief's has trod,
And weary limbs that only knelt to God.
What tales, what morals of the elder day,
If stones had language could that street convey!
Along that space the bloodhound crowd arrayed,
Howled round the shrine where last the Stuart prayed;
See to that spot the self-same bloodhounds run,
To lick the feet of Stuart's viler son.
There through the dusk-red towers amidst his ring
Of Vans and Mynheers rode the Dutchman king,
And there did England's Goneril thrill to hear
The shouts that triumph'd o'er her crownless Lear. There where the gaslight streams o'er Crockford's door
Bluff Henry chuckled at the jests of More.
There, where you gaze upon the last H. B.,
Swift paused and muttered-"Shall I have that
See?"
There where yon pile for party's common weal
Knits votes that serve with hearts abhorring Peel,
Blunt Walpole seized and roughly bought his man,
Or, tired of Polly, St. John lounged to Anne.
But see our Statesman when the steam is on,
And languid Johnny glows to glorious John.
When Hampden's thought by Falkland's muses
Lights the pale cheek and swells the generous breast;
When the pent heat expands the quickening soul,
And foremost in the race the wheels of genius roll.
What gives the past the haunting charms that please
Sage, Scholar, Bard-the shades of men like these.
Seen in our walks, with vulgar blame or praise,
Reviled or worshipped as our faction sways.
Some centuries hence and from that praise or blame,
As light from vapour breaks the steady flame,
And the trite present, which while acted seems
Life's dullest prose, fades in the land of dreams.
CONSEQUENCES OF THE REFORMATION
(From "St. Stephen's")
Faith thus dislodged from ancient schools and creeds,
Question to question, doubt to doubt succeeds-
Clouds gathering flame for thunders soon to be,
And glass'd on Shakespeare as upon a sea.
Each guess of others into worlds unknown
Shakespeare revolves, but guards conceal'd his own-
As in the Infinite hangs poised his thought,
Surveying all things, and asserting nought.
And now, transferr'd from singer and from sage,
Stands in full day the Spirit of the Age-
Inquiry! She, so coy when first pursued
In her own ancient, arduous solitude,
Seized by the crowd, and dragged before their bar,
Changes her shape, and towers transform'd to war;
Inscribes a banner, flings it to the gales-
Cries, "I am Truth, and Truth when arm'd prevails!" Up leaps the zealot-Zeal must clear her way,
And fell the forests that obscure the day.
To guard the Bible flashes forth the sword,
And Cromwell rides, the servant of the Lord.
Twin-born with Freedom, then with her took breath,
That Art whose dying will be Freedom's death.
From thought's fierce clash, in lightning broke the word;
Ungagg'd at last the Isle's strong man was heard:
Still in their sheaths the direful swords repose;
Voice may yet warn: The Orator arose !
Founders of England's slow-built eloquence-
Truth's last adornment as her first defence-
Pass-but as shadows! Nevermore again
May the land need, yet reel beneath, such men.
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