A fly may settle, or a blossom fall. There swims, of blazing sun and beating shower And near him, darkling like a sullen Gnome, Of hue and altering shape that charmed all eyes. Alas! they pined, they languished while they shone; And, if not so, what matters beauty gone Roll on, ye spouting whales, who die or keep Dive, at thy choice, or brave the freshening gale! Sunward to seek the daylight in its fount, Bays, gulfs, and ocean's Indian width shall be, Till the world perishes, a field for thee! While musing here I sit in shadow cool, I ask what warrant fixed them (like a spell Their peace, perhaps, our lightest footfall marred; Is there a cherished bird (I venture now To snatch a sprig from Chaucer's reverend brow) – Is there a brilliant fondling of the cage, Though sure of plaudits on his costly stage, Though fed with dainties from the snow-white hand Of a kind mistress, fairest of the land, But gladly would escape; and, if need were, Scatter the colors from the plumes that bear The emancipated captive through blithe air Into strange woods, where he at large may live On best or worst which they and Nature give? The beetle loves his unpretending track, The snail the house he carries on his back; The far-fetched worm with pleasure would disown But most the Bard is true to inborn right, Lark of the dawn, and Philomel of night, Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch For the dear blessings of a lowly couch, A natural meal,-days, months, from Nature's hand; Time, place, and business, all at his command! Who bends to happier duties, who more wise, Than the industrious Poet, taught to prize Above all grandeur a pure life uncrossed By cares in which simplicity is lost? That life, the flowery path that winds by stealth, With garlands, cheats her into happiness; Give me the humblest note of those sad strains In a deep vision's intellectual scene, Such earnest longings and regrets as keen Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade; A doleful bower for penitential song, Where Man and Muse complained of mutual wrong While Cam's ideal current glided by, And antique towers nodded their foreheads high, But Fortune, who had long been used to sport Far happier they who, fixing hope and aim On the humanities of peaceful fame, Enter betimes with more than martial fire The generous course, aspire, and still aspire; Stifle the contradictions of their fate, And to one purpose cleave, their Being's godlike mate! Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid brow That woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow; With modest scorn reject whate'er would blind The ethereal eyesight, cramp the winged mind! Then, with a blessing granted from above To every act, word, thought, and look of love, Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, till age Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest page.* 1829. * There is now, alas! no possibility of the anticipation, with which the above Epistle concludes, being realized: nor were the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom they were intended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, on her way from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply lamented by all who knew her. Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast; and her great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in the difficult path of life to which she had been called. The opinion she entertained of her own performances, given to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was modest and humble, and, indeed, far below their merits; as is often the case with those who are making trial of their powers, with a hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quality, namely, quickness in the motions of her mind, she had, within the range of the Author's acquaintance, no equal. |