Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice, Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, Lift up that gray-haired forehead, and rejoice In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!
GRIEF, thou hast lost an ever ready friend Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is mute; And Care, a comforter that best could suit Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend; And Love, a charmer's voice, that used to lend, More efficaciously than aught that flows
From harp or lute, kind influence to compose The throbbing pulse, else troubled without end: Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest From her own overflow, what power sedate On those revolving motions did await Assiduously, to soothe her aching breast; And, to a point of just relief, abate
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.
EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere
Of occupation, not by fashion led,
Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'er
My nerves from no such murmur shrink, though
Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear,
When twilight shades darken the mountain's head. Even She who toils to spin our vital thread Might smile on work, O Lady, once so dear To household virtues. Venerable Art,
Torn from the Poor! yet shall kind Heaven protect Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect, Trusting to crowded factory and mart And proud discoveries of the intellect, Heed not the pillage of man's ancient heart.
COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORELAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY.
WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn That saw the Saviour in his human frame Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame Put on fresh raiment,- till that hour unworn: Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn, And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece, In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace, Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn. A blest estate when piety sublime
These humble props disdained not! O green dales! Sad may I be who heard your Sabbath chime When Art's abused inventions were unknown; Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own; And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales!
OFT have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek, Matrons and Sires, who, punctual to the call Of their loved Church, on fast or festival Through the long year the House of Prayer would seek:
By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak
Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall, But with one fervor of devotion meek. I see the places where they once were known, And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds, Is ancient Piety for ever flown?
Alas! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds That, struggling through the western sky, have won Their pensive light from a departed sun!
COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812.
WHAT need of clamorous bells, or ribbons gay, These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace? Angels of love, look down upon the place; Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day! Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display Even for such promise:— serious is her face,
Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep
With gentleness, in that becoming way
Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear; No disproportion in her soul, no strife : But when the closer view of wedded life
Hath shown that nothing human can be clear From frailty, for that insight may the Wife To her indulgent lord become more dear.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.
YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;
For if of our affections none finds grace
In sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God made The world which we inhabit? Better plea Love cannot have, than that in loving thee Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, Who such divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. His hope is treacherous only whose love dies With beauty, which is varying every hour; But in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, That breathes on earth the air of paradise.
No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine, And my Soul felt her destiny divine, "And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: Heaven-born, the Soul a heavenward course must hold;
Beyond the visible world she soars to seek (For what delights the sense is false and weak) Ideal Form, the universal mould.
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes: nor will he lend His heart to aught that doth on time depend. 'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, That kills the soul: love betters what is best, Even here below, but more in heaven above.
FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME BEING.
THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed: Of good and pious works Thou art the seed, That quickens only where Thou say'st it may:
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