Ay, we are changed: upon thy noble brow
Dwells the deep musing meet for manhood's prime ; Thy step is firmer, and thy rich locks now
Are somewhat darken'd by the touch of time, And graver cares are round thy spirit twined, Than in these shades thy childhood left behind.
Yet, though Time sports with outward forms at will, In deeper things his breath has scarce been felt, And the long lapse of years doth find us still
Before the shrines at which our childhood knelt ; And what in those young days we wont to prize Are still the same, the dearest in our eyes.
Still, as of yore, 'tis thy delight to bend
Where some bold river thunders on its course,
Where cataracts in whiten'd showers descend,
Deafening the air with clamour loud and hoarse,
Thou lovest to ply the angler's silent art,
Alone with nature, and thy own deep heart.
Thou hast gone forth to mingle with the world,
And breathed the air of many a foreign clime;
But from thy spirit never has been hurl'd
The warm, fresh feeling of that early time;
And I behold the glory of thy youth,
Blest with an honest heart of kindliness and truth.
For me, though years have borne upon their flight A thousand joys my childhood could not dream,
My soul has ever found its chief delight
By lonely mountain glen, or gushing stream.
And life can yield no pleasure and no pride
Dearer than this,—to wander by thy side.
And should we hither stray, when young romance
Has faded in the world's ungenial air,
And the soft lightning of the eagle glance
In those dark eyes, be seen but faintly there,
Oh! may we find in nature's beauty still
A joy all shadowless, a charm for every ill!
-Tait's Magazine, 1848.
BREATHE all thy minstrelsy, immortal harp!
Breathe numbers warm with love, while I rehearse,
Delightful theme, resembling most the songs
Which day and night are sung before the Lamb!
Thy praise, O Charity! thy labours most
Divine, thy sympathy with sighs, and tears,
And groans; thy great, thy godlike wish, to heal.
All misery, all fortune's wounds, and make
The soul of every living thing rejoice.
Oh, thou wast needed much in days of Time!
No virtue half so much!-none half so fair!
To all the rest, however fine, thou gavest
A finishing and polish, without which
No man e'er enter'd heaven. Let me record
His praise, the man of great benevolence,
Who press'd thee closely to his glowing heart,
And to thy gentle bidding made his feet
Swift minister. Of all mankind, his soul
Was most in harmony with heaven: as one
Sole family of brothers, sisters, friends:
One in their origin, one in their rights
To all the common gifts of Providence,
And in their hopes, their joys, and sorrows one,
He view'd the universal human race.
He needed not a law of state, to force
Grudging submission to the law of God;
The law of Love was in his heart alive:
What he possess'd, he counted not his own,
But, like a faithful steward in a house
Of public alms, what freely he received,
He freely gave; distributing to all
The helpless, the last mite beyond his own
Temperate support, and reckoning still the gift
But justice due to want; and so it was,
Although the world, with compliment not ill
Applied, adorn'd it with a fairer name.
Nor did he wait till to his door the voice
Of supplication came, but went abroad,
With foot as silent as the starry dews,
In search of misery that pined unseen,
And would not ask. And who can tell what sights He saw! what groans he heard in that cold world Below! where Sin, in league with gloomy Death, March'd daily through the length and breadth of all The land, wasting at will, and making earth,
Fair earth a lazar-house, a dungeon dark,
Where Disappointment fed on ruin'd Hope;
Where Guilt, worn out, lean'd on the triple edge
Of Want, Remorse, Despair; where Cruelty
Reach'd forth a cup of wormwood to the lips
Of sorrow, that to deeper sorrows wail'd;
Where Mockery, and Disease, and Poverty,
Met miserable Age, erewhile sore bent
With his own burden; where the arrowy winds
Of Winter pierced the naked orphan babe,
And chill'd the mother's heart, who had no home;
And where, alas! in mid-time of his day,
An honest man, robb'd by some villain's hand,
Or with long sickness pale, and paler yet
With want and hunger, oft drank bitter draughts
Of his own tears, and had no bread to eat.—
Oh! who can tell what sights he saw, what shapes
Of wretchedness! or who describe what smiles
Of gratitude illumed the face of woe,
While from his hand he gave the bounty forth!
As when the Sun, to Cancer wheeling back,
Returned from Capricorn, and shew'd the north,
That long had lain in cold and cheerless night,
His beamy countenance; all nature then
Rejoiced together, glad: the flower look'd up
And smiled; the forest, from his locks, shook off
The hoary frost, and clapp'd his hands; the birds
Awoke, and, singing, rose to meet the day;
And from his hollow den, where many months
He slumber'd sad in darkness, blithe and light
Of heart the savage sprung, and saw again
His mountains shine, and with new songs of love
Allured the virgin's ear: so did the house,
The prison house of guilt, and all the abodes
Of unprovided helplessness, revive,
As on them look'd the sunny messenger
Of Charity. By angels tended still,
That mark'd his deeds, and wrote them in the book
Of God's remembrance; careless he to be
Observed of men, or have each mite bestow'd
Recorded punctually, with name and place,
In every bill of news. Pleased to do good,
He gave and sought no more, nor question'd much,
Nor reason'd who deserved; for well he knew
The face of need.-Ah me! who could mistake?
The shame to ask, the want that urged within,
Composed a look so perfectly distinct
From all else human, and withal so full
Of misery, that none could pass, untouch'd,
And be a Christian; or thereafter claim,
In any form, the name or rights of man;
Or, at the day of judgment, lift his eye;
While he, in name of Christ, who gave the
A cup of water, or a bit of bread,
Impatient for his advent, waiting stood,
Glowing in robes of love and holiness,
Heaven's fairest dress! and round him, ranged in white, A thousand witnesses appeared, prepared
To tell his gracious deeds before the Throne.
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