And in its depth of gratitude is still.
O gift divine of quiet sequestration ! The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, And feeding daily on the hope of heaven, Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves To life-long singleness; but happier far
Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others, A thousand times more beautiful appeared, Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie
Is broken; yet why grieve? for Time but holds His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead
To the blest world where parting is unknown.
EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG.
WHEN first, descending from the moorlands,
I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide
Along a bare and open valley,
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.
When last along its banks I wandered, Through groves that had begun to shed Their golden leaves upon the pathways, My steps the Border-minstrel led.
The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies; And death upon the braes of Yarrow, Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes :
Nor has the rolling year twice measured, From sign to sign, its stedfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source;
The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand, How fast has brother followed brother From sunshine to the sunless land!
Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
"Who next will drop and disappear?"
Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, Like London with its own black wreath,
On which with thee, O Crabbe! forthlooking,
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,
And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead.
COMPOSED BY THE SEASIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802.
FAIR Star of evening, Splendour of the west, Star of my Country! on the horizon's brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest, Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink, Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies. Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot, One life, one glory! — I, with many a fear For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, Among men who do not love her, linger here.
CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802.
Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind, Or what is it that ye go forth to see?
Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree,
Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and blind, Post forward all, like creatures of one kind,
With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee In France, before the new-born Majesty. 'Tis ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind,
A seemly reverence may be paid to power; But that's a loyal virtue, never sown
In haste, nor springing with a transient shower: When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown, What hardship had it been to wait an hour? Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!
I GRIEVED for Buonaparté, with a vain
And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood Of that Man's mind—what can it be? what food Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could he gain? 'Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. Wisdom doth live with children round her knees: Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk Of the mind's business; these are the degrees By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.
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