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Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
FROST AT MIDNIGHT.
The frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry So many nightingales; and far and near,
Came loud-and hark, again! loud as before. In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, They answer and provoke each other's song, Have left me to that solitude, which suits With skirmish and capricious passagings,
Abstruser musings : save that at my side And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. And one low piping sound more sweet than all- 'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs Stirring the air with such a harmony,
And vexes meditation with its strange That should you close your eyes, you might al. And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, most
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, With all the numberless goings on of life, Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed, Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame You may perchance behold them on the twigs, Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not; Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright Only that film, which flutter'd on the grate, and full,
Still Autters there, the sole unquiet thing. Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Lights up her love-torch.
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
A most gentle maid, Making it a companionable form, Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling spirit Hard by the castle, and at latest eve,
By its own moods interprets, everywhere (E'en like a lady vow'd and dedicate
Echo or mirror secking of itself, To something more than nature in the grove,) And makes a toy of thought. Glides through the pathways: she knows all their
But 0! how oft, notes,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind That gentle maid! and oft a moment's space, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, To watch that suttering stranger' and as oft Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky
Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church tower, With one sensation, and these wakeful birds Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
From morn to evening, all the hot fair-day, As if some sudden gale had swept at once
So sweetly, that they stirr'd and haunted me A bundred airy harps! And she hath watch'd With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Many a nightingale perch'd giddily
Most like articulate sounds of things to come! On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt, And to that motion tune his wanton song
Lulld me to sleep, and sleep prolong'd my dreams! Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. And so I brooded all the following morn,
Farewell, 0 warbler! till to-morrow eve, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell! Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book: We have been loitering long and pleasantly, Save if the door half-open'd, and I snatch'd And now for our dear homes.— The strain again? A hasty glance, and still my heart leap'd up, Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe, For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
My playmate when we both were clothed alike! How he would place his hand beside his ear, Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, His little hand, the small forefinger up,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
Fill up the interspersed vacancies To make him nature's playmate. He knows well And momentary pauses of the thought! The evening star; and once, when he awoke My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart In most distressful mood, (some inward pain With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream,) And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,
And in far other scenes! For I was rear'd And he beheld the moon, and, hush'd at once, In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, And saw naught lovely but the sky and stars. While his fair eyes, that swam with undropp'd But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze tears
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam! Wells Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, It is a father's tale: but if that Heaven
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear Familiar with these songs, that with the night The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible He may associate joy! Once more, farewell, Of that eternal language, which thy God Sweet nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! fare- Utters, who from eternity doth teach well.
Himself in all, and ail things in himself,
Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove, Tby spirit, and by giving make it ask.
And give me to the bosom of my love! Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, My gentle love, caressing and carest, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest; With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes, Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Lull with fond wo, and med’cine me with sighs: Of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch While finely-flushing float her kisses meek, Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek. fall
Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Mourns the long absence of the lovely day; Or if the secret ministry of frost
Young day, returning at her promised hour, Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Weeps o'er the sorrows of her favourite flower Quietly shining to the quiet moon.
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs,
His pitying mistress mourns, and mourning heals!
TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM.
LINES TO JOSEPH COTTLE.
Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
My honour'd friend! whose verse concise, yet
Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast,
THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET There for the monarch-murder'd soldier's tomb AGAIN.
You wove th' unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues;
And to that holier chaplett added bloom, COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN ABSENCE.
Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews. Dim hour! that sleep’st on pillowing clouds afar,
But lo! your Hendersonf awakes the museO rise and yoke the turtles to thy car!
His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height!
You left the plain and soar'd mid richer views! * I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines So nature mourn’d, when sank the first day's light, Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of Aught to implore were impotence of mind,
night! it being written in Scripture, “ Ask, and it shall be given you," and my human reason being moreover convinced of the propriety of offering petilions as well as thanksgiv. * War, a fragment. † John the Baptist, a poem, ings to the Deity.
# Monody on John Henderson.
Still soar, my friend, those richer views among, innocence of his own heart still mistaking her inStrong, rapid, fervent flashing fancy's beam! creasing fondness for motherly affection; she, at Virtue and truth shall love your gentler song ; length, overcome by her miserable passion, after But poesy demands th' impassion'd theme: much abuse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, Waked by heaven's silent dews at eve's mild exclaimed with violent emotion—“O Edward ! ingleam,
deed, indeed, she is not fit for you-she has not a What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around! heart to love you as you deserve. It is I that love But if the vext air rush a stormy stream,
you! Marry me, Edward! and I will this very Or autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound, day settle all my property on you.”—The lover's With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest- eyes were now opened; and thus taken by surprise, honour'd ground.
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 IV. ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS
absurdity, he flung her from him and burst into a POEMS.
fit of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a loud voice
that approached to a scream, she prayed for a curse THE THREE GRAVES.
both on him and on her own child. Mary happened
to be in the room directly above them, heard EdA FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE. ward's laugh and ber mother's blasphemous prayer, [The author has published the following humble and fainted away. He, hearing the fall, ran up fragment, oncouraged by the decisive recommenda- stairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her off to tion of more than one of our most celebrated living Ellen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on poets. The language was intended to be dramatic; her part toward a reconciliation with her mother, that is, suited to the narrator: and the metre cor- she was married to him.-And here the third part responds to the homeliness of the diction. It is of the tale begins. therefore presented as the fragment, not of a
I was not led to choose this story from any parbut of a common ballad tale. Whether this is suf- tiality to tragic, much less to monstrous events, ficient to justify the adoption of such a style, in (though at the time that I composed the verses, any metrical composition not professedly ludicrous, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was less the author is himself in some doubt. At all events, averse to such subjects than at present,) but from it is not presented as poetry, and it is in no way finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect connected with the author's judgment concerning on the imagination, from an idea violently and poetic diction. Its merits, if any, are exclusivley suddenly impressed on it. I had been reading psychological. The story, which must be supposed Bryan Edwards's account of the effect of the Oby to have been narrated in the first and second parts, Witchcraft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and is as follows.
Hearne's deeply interesting anecdotes of similar Edward, a young farmer, meets, at the house of workings on the imagination of the Copper Indians, Ellen, her bosom friend, Mary, and commences an (those of my readers who have it in their power acquaintance, which ends in a mutual attachment will be well repaid for the trouble of referring to With her consent, and by the advice of their com
those works for the passages alluded to,) and I conmon friend Ellen, he announces bis hopes and in- ceived the design of showing that instances of this tentions to Mary's mother, a widow woman border-kind are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, ing on her fortieth year, and from constant health, and of illustrating the mode in which the mind is the possession of a competent property, and from affected in these cases, and the progress and symphaving had no other children but Mary and another toms of the morbid action on the fancy from the daughter, (the father died in their infaney,) retain-beginning. ing, for the greater part, her personal attractions
[The tale is supposed to be narrated by an old and comeliness of appearance; but a woman of sexton, in a country churchyard, to a traveller low education and violent temper. The answer
whose curiosity had been awakened by the appearwhich she at once returned to Edward's application ance of three graves, close by each other, to two was remarkable: “Well! Edward, you are a only of which there were grave-stones. On the handsome young fellow, and you shall have my first of these were the name, and dates, as usual : daughter.” From this time all their wooing passed on the second no name but only a date, and the under the mother's eye; and, in fine, she became words, The mercy of God is infinite.? herself enamoured of her future son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment and of calumny, 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 The grapes upon the vicar's wall parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, Were ripe as ripe could be ; however, though perplexed by her strange detrac- And yellow leaves in sun and wind tion from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the Were falling from the tree. 69
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Except that grave, you scarce see one
That was not dug by me: I'd rather dance upon them all
Than tread upon these three ! “Ay, sexton ! 'tis a touching tale."
You, sir! are but a lad; This month I'm in my seventieth year,
And still it makes me sad.
And Mary's sister told it me,
For three good hours and more; Though I had heard it, in the main,
From Edward's self, before.
There was a hurry in her looks,
Her struggles she redoubled : “It was a wicked woman's curse,
And why should I be troubled ?” These tears will come—I dandled her
When 'twas the merest fairy-
She told it not to Mary.
Round Ellen's neck she threw; “O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me,
And now she hath cursed you !"
Stalk fast adown the lea,
A twig from every tree.
And then away they flew ! As if with his uneasy limbs
He knew not what to do!
Well! it pass'd off! the gentle Ellen
Did wellnigh dote ou Mary ; And she went oftener than before, And Mary loved her more and more :
She managed all the dairy.
To market she on market days,
To church on Sundays came; All seem'd the same: all seem'd so, sir!
But all was not the same!
You see, good sir! that single hill?
His farm lies underneath: He heard it there, he heard it all,
And only gnash'd his teeth.
Had Ellen lost her mirth? 0! no!
But she was seldom cheerful ; And Edward look'd as if he thought
That Ellen's mirth was fearful.
Now Ellen was a darling love
In all his joys and cares : And Ellen's name and Mary's name Fast link'd they both together came,
Whene'er he said his prayers.
When by herself, she to herself
Must sing some merry rhyme; She could not now be glad for hours,
Yet silent all the time.
And in the moment of his prayers
He loved them both alike: Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy
Upon his heart did strike!
And when she soothed her friend, through all
Her soothing words 'twas plain
A haunting in her brain.
And then her wrist she spann'd;
She took her by the hand, And gazed upon her, and at first
She gently press'd her hand;
He reach'd his home, and by his looks
They saw his inward strife! And they clung round him with their arms,
Both Ellen and his wife.
And Mary could not check her tears,
So on his breast she bow'd; Then frenzy melted into grief,
And Edward wept aloud.
Then harder, till her grasp at length
Did gripe like a convulsion ! Alas! said she, we ne'er can be
Made happy by compulsion!