The clink of an unheeded clock,
That vainly gives a threefold knock,
The toast that glows the breast,
The jolly-chorused roundelay,
The curtain that keeps out the day,
Let angels have the rest.
FOR THE APARTMENT IN CHEPSTOW CASTLE WHERE HENRY MARTEN THE REGICIDE WAS IMPRISONED
FOR thirty years secluded from mankind,
Here Marten linger'd. Often have these walls
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
He paced around his prison: not to him
Did nature's fair varieties exist:
He never saw the sun's delightful beams,
Save when through yon high bars it pour'd a sad
And broken splendour. Dost thou ask his crime?
He had rebell'd against the king, and sat
In judgment on him; for his ardent mind
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such
As Plato loved; such as, with holy zeal
Our Milton worshipp'd. Blessed hopes! awhile
From man withheld, even to the latter days,
When Christ shall come and all things be fulfilled.
Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid
Whom fancy still will portray to my sight,
How here I linger in this sullen shade,
This dreary gloom of dull monastic night.
Say, that from every joy of life remote
At evening's closing hour I quit the throng,
Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note,
Who pours like me her solitary song.
Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh;
Say, that of all her charms I love to speak,
In fancy feel the magic of her eye,
In fancy view the smile illume her cheek,
Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove,
And heave the sigh of memory and of love.
THINK, Valentine, as speeding on thy way
Homeward, thou hastest light of heart along,
If heavily creep on one little day
The medley crew of travellers among,
Think on thine absent friend: reflect that here
On life's sad journey comfortless he roves,
Remote from every scene his heart holds dear
From him he values, and from her he loves.
And when, disgusted with the vain and dull
Whom chance companions of thy way may doom,
Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full,
Turns to itself and meditates on home,
Ah, think what cares must ache within his breast Who loathes the lingering road, yet has no home of rest!
NOT to thee, Bedford! mournful is the tale Of days departed. Time in his career Arraigns not thee that the neglected year Hath past unheeded onward. To the vale Of years thou journeyest; may the future road Be pleasant as the past! and on my friend Friendship and love, best blessings! still attend, Till full of days he reach the calm abode Where nature slumbers. Lovely is the age Of virtue: with such reverence we behold The silver hairs, as some gray oak grown old That whilom mocked the rushing tempest's rage, Now like the monument of strength decayed, With rarely-sprinkled leaves, casting a trembling shade.
WHAT though no sculptured monument proclaim
Thy fate-yet, Albert, in my breast I bear
Inshrined the sad remembrance: yet thy name
Will fill my throbbing bosom. When despair,
The child of murdered hope, fed on thy heart,
Loved, honoured friend, I saw thee sink forlorn,
Pierced to the soul by cold neglect's keen dart,
And penury's hard ills, and pitying scorn,
And the dark spectre of departed joy,
Inhuman memory. Often on thy grave
Love I the solitary hour to employ
Thinking on other days; and heave the sigh
Responsive, when I mark the high grass wave
Sad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by.
HARD by the road, where on that little mound
The high grass rustles to the passing breeze,
The child of misery rests her head in peace.
Pause there in sadness: that unhallowed ground
Inshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep on,
Sleep on, poor outcast! lovely was thy cheek,
And thy mild eye was eloquent to speak
The soul of pity. Pale and woe-begone,
Soon did thy fair cheek fade, and thine eye weep
The tear of anguish for the babe unborn,
The helpless heir of poverty and scorn.
She drank the draught that chilled her soul to sleep,
I pause, and wipe the big drop from mine eye,
Whilst the proud Levite scowls and passes by.
TO A BROOK NEAR THE VILLAGE OF CORSTON.
As thus I bend me o'er thy babbling stream
And watch thy current, memory's hand portrays
The faint-formed scenes of the departed days,
Like the far forest by the moon's pale beam
Dimly descried, yet lovely. I have worn,
Upon thy banks, the livelong hour away,
When sportive childhood wantoned through the day,
Joyed at the opening splendour of the morn,
Or, as the twilight darkened, heaved the sigh,
Thinking of distant home; as down my cheek,
At the fond thought, slow stealing on, would speak
The silent eloquence of the full eye.
Dim are the long past days, yet still they please [breeze. As thy soft sounds half heard, borne on the inconstant
TO THE EVENING RAINBOW.
MILD arch of promise! on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair, with many a lovely ray,
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee; for the day,
Changeful and many-weathered, seemed to smile,
Flashing brief splendour through its clouds awhile,
Which deepened dark anon, and fell in rain:
But pleasant it is now to pause, and view
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,
And think the storm shall not return again.
Such is the smile that piety bestows
On the good man's pale cheek, when he, in peace, Departing gently from a world of woes,
Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.
WITH many a weary step, at length I gain
Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays, Gratefully round my brow, as hence the gaze Returns to dwell upon the journeyed plain. 'Twas a long way and tedious! To the eye Though fair the extended vale, and fair to view The falling leaves of many a faded hue,
That eddy in the wild gust moaning by.
Even so it fared with life! in discontent,
Restless through fortune's mingled scenes I went....
Yet wept to think they would return no more!
But cease, fond heart, in such sad thoughts to roam;
For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home,
And pleasant is the way that lies before.
FAIR is the rising morn, when o'er the sky
The orient sun expands his roseate ray,
And lovely to the bard's enthusiast eye
Fades the meek radiance of departing day;
But fairer is the smile of one we love,
Than all the scenes in nature's ample sway,
And sweeter than the music of the grove,
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight,
Edith! is mine; escaping to thy sight
From the hard durance of the empty throng.
Too swiftly then towards the silent night,
Ye hours of happiness! ye speed along;
Whilst I, from all the world's cold cares apart,
Pour out the feelings of my burthened heart.
How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns
The gathered tempest! from that lurid cloud
The deep-voiced thunders roll, awful and loud,
Though distant; while upon the misty downs
Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain.
I never saw so terrible a storm!
Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain
Wraps his torn raiment round his shivering form,
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