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A most gentle Maid, By its own moods interprets, everywhere Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Echo or mirror seeking of itself, Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
And makes a toy of Thought. (Even like a lady vow'd and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove)
But O! how oft, Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their How oft, at school, with most believing mind notes,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, That gentle Maid! and oft a moment's space, To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud, With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Hath heard a pause of silence; till the Moon Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-to ver Einerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang With one sensation, and these wakeful Birds From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
So sweetly, that they stirr'd and haunted me As if some sudden gale had swept at once With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch'd Most like articulate sounds of things to come! Many a Nightingale perch'd giddily
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book:
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, How he would place his hand beside his ear, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, His little hand, the small forefinger up,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thed,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth CHE Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drups Have left me to that solitude, which suits
fall Abstruser musings : save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost 'T is calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
TO A FRIEND.
TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM
Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse,
Embow'rs me from noon's sultry influence!
gaze undazzled there, and love the sofien'd sky
night! Sull soar, my friend, those richer views among, Strong, rapid, fervent flashing Fancy's beam!
Virtue and Truth shall love your genuer song ; But Poesy demands th' impassion d theme : Waked by Heaven's silent dews at eve's mild gleam, What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around ! But if the vext air rush a storiny stream, Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound, With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest
THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.
COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN ABSENCE. Diy hour! that sleep’st on pillowing clouds afar, O rise and yoke the turtles to thy car! Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove, And give me to the bosom of my love! My gentle love, caressing and carest, With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest; Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes, Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs : While finely-flushing float her kisses meek, Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek. Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May Mourns the long absence of the lovely day; Young Day, returning at her promised hour, Weeps o'er the sorrows of her fav'rite nower; Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs, And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes. New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels : His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals!
IV. ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE THREE GRAVES.
A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE.
[The Author has published the following humble fragment LINES TO JOSEPH COTTLE.
encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one
of our most celebrated living Poets. The language was inMy honor'd friend! whose verse concise, yet clear, tended to be dramatic; that is, suited to the narrator: and the Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
metre corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is there
fore presented as the frugment, not of a Poem, but of a com May your fame fadeless live, as “ never-sere"
mnon Ballad-tale. Whether this is sufficient to justify the adop The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence tion of such a style, in any metrical composition not profesy
edly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all * I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines
events, it is not presented as Poetry, and it is in no way con
nected with the Author's judgment concerning Poetic diction, Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Its merits, if any, are exclusively Psychological. The story Aught to implore were impotence of mind, it being written in Scripture, "Ask, and it shall be given you." and iny buman reason being moreover convinced of the pro
* War, a Fragment. † John the Baptist, a Poem. ciety of offering petitions as well as thanksgivings to the Deity. I Monody on Juhn Henderson.
On the hedge elms in the narrow lane
Still swung the spikes of corn: Dear Lord ! it seems but yesterday
Young Edward's marriage-morn.
Up through that wood behind the church,
There leads from Edward's door A mossy track, all over-bough'd
For half a mile or more.
And from their house-door by that track
The Bride and Bridegroom went; Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,
Seem'd cheerful and content.
But when they to the church-yard came,
I've heard poor Mary say,
Her heart it died away.
And when the vicar their hands,
Her limbs did creep and freeze ; But when they pray'd, she thought she saw
Her mother on her knees.
which must be supposed to have been narrated in the first and second parts, is as follows.
Edward, a young fariner, meets, at the house of Ellen, her bosom friend, Mary, and commonces an acquaintance, which ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the advice of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and intentions to Mary's Mother, a widow-woman bordering on her fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a competent property, and from having had no other children but Mary and another daughter (the Father died in their infancy), retaining, for the greater purt, her personal attractions and comeliness of appearance: but a woman of low education and violent temper. The answer which she at once returned to Edward's application was remarkable-"Well, Edward ! you are a handsome young fellow, and you shall have my Daughter." From this time all their wooing passed under the Mother's eye: and, in fine, she became herself enamoured of her future Son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment and of caluinny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of no very distant date, though the author has purposely altered the names and the scene of action, as well as invented the characters of the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, however, though perplexed by her strange detraction from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart still mistaking her increasing fondness for motherly affection; she, at length overcome by her miserable passion, after much abuse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion-"O Edward! indeed, indeed, she is not fit for you--she has not a heart to love you as you deserve. It is I that love you! Marry me, Edward! and I will this very day settle all my property on you."— The Lover's eyes were now opened ; and thus taken by surprise, whether from the effect of the horror which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense of the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, he flung her from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a Joud voice that approached to a scream, she prayed for a Curse both on him and on her own Child. Mary happened to be in the room directly above them, heard Edward's laugh and her Mother's blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing the fall, ran up stairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her off to Ellen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on her part loward a reconciliation with her Mother, she was married to him.-And here the third part of the Tale begins.
I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was less averse to such subjects than at present), but from finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagination, from an idea violently and suddenly impreszed on it. I had been reading Bryan Edwards's account of the effect of the Oby Witchcraft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and Hearne's deeply interesting Anecdotes of similar workings on the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of referring to those works for the passages alluded to), and I conceived the design of showing that instances of this kind are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the progrees and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from the beginning.
(The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a country church-yari, to a Traveller whose curiosity had been awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the first of these were the name, and dates, as usual: on the second, no name, but only a date, and the words, The Mercy of God is infinite...
And o'er the church-path they return'd
I saw poor Mary's back,
Into the mossy track.
Her feet upon the mossy track
The married maiden set: That moment-I have heard her say
She wish'd she could forget.
The shade o'erflush'd her limbs with heat
Then came a chill like death: And when the merry bells rang out,
They seem'd to stop her breath.
Beneath the foulest Mother's curse
No child could ever thrive: A Mother is a Mother still,
The holiest thing alive.
So five month's pass'd: the Mother still
Would never heal the strife ; But Edward was a loving man,
And Mary a fond wife.
“ My sister may not visit us,
My mother says her nay: O Edward! you are all to me, I wish for your sake I could be
More lifesome and more gay.
“ I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed
I know I have no reason! Perhaps I am not well in health,
And 't is a gloomy season."
"T was a drizzly time-no ice, no snow!
And on the few fine days She stirr'd not out, lest she might moet
Her Mother in her ways. But Ellen, spite of miry ways
And weather dark and dreary, Trudged every day to Edward's house, And made them all more cheery.
THE grapes upon the vicar's wall
Were ripe as ripe could be ; And yellow leaves in sun and wind W'ere falling from the tree.
But ere she from the church-door stepp'd,
She smiled and told us why; • It was a wicked woman's curse,"
Quoth she," and what care I?”
Dear Ellen did not weep at all,
But closelier did she cling, And turn'd her face, and look'd as if She saw some frightful thing.