And that the heart they brighten, may, Before them all, be sheathed in clay !— I do not know the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.
A few there are, whose smile and praise
My minstrel hope would kindly raise:
But, of those few-Death may impress
The lips of some with silentness;
While some may friendship's faith resign,
And heed no more a song of mine.-
Ask not, ask not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.
The sweetest song that minstrels sing,
Will charm not Joy to tarrying;
The greenest bay that earth can grow,
Will shelter not in burning woe;
A thousand voices will not cheer,
When one is mute that aye is dear!-
Is there, alas! no reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy?
The turf is green
Beneath the rain's fast-dropping sheen,
Yet asks not why that deeper hue
Doth all its tender leaves renew ;-
And I, like-minded, am content,
While music to my soul is sent,
To question not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.
Years pass-my life with them shall pass :
And soon, the cricket in the grass,
And summer bird, shall louder sing
Than she who owns a minstrel's string.
Oh, then may some, the dear and few,
Recall her love, whose truth they knew;
When all forget to question why
She had delight in minstrelsy!
FAREWELL!—a word that human lips bestow
On all that human hearts delight to know:
On summer skies, and scenes that change as fast;
On ocean calms, and faith as fit to last;
On Life, from Love's own arms that breaks away;
On hopes that blind, and glories that decay!
And ever thus, "farewell, farewell,” is said,
As round the hills of lengthening time we tread;
As at each step the winding ways unfold
Some untried prospect which obscures the old ;—
Perhaps a prospect brightly coloured o'er,
Yet not with brightness that we loved before;
And dull and dark the brightest hue appears
To eyes like ours, surcharged and dim with tears.
Oft, oft we wish the winding road were past,
And yon supernal summit gained at last;
Where all that gradual change removed, is found
At once, for ever, as you look around;
Where every scene by tender eyes surveyed,
And lost and wept for, to their gaze is spread—
No tear to dim the sight, no shade to fall,
But Heaven's own sunshine lighting, charming all.
Farewell!—a common word—and yet how drear
And strange it soundeth as I write it here!
How strange that thou a place of death shouldst fill,
Thy brain unlighted, and thine heart grown chill!
And dark the eye, whose plausive glance to draw,
Incited Nature brake her tyrant's law!
And deaf the ear, to charm whose organ true,
Moonian Music tuned her harp anew!
And mute the lips where Plato's bee hath roved;
And motionless the hand that genius moved!-
Ah, friend! thou speakest not-but still to me
Do Genius, Music, Nature, speak of thee!--
Still golden fancy, still the sounding line,
And waving wood, recall some word of thine:
Some word, some look, whose living light is o’er—
And Memory sees what Hope can see no more.
Twice, twice, thy voice hath spoken. Twice there came
To us a change, a joy—to thee, a fame!
Thou spakest once,* and every pleasant sight,
Woods waving wild, and fountains gushing bright,
Cool copses, grassy banks, and all the dyes
Of shade and sunshine gleamed before our eyes.
Thou spakest twice ; † and every pleasant sound
Its ancient silken harmony unwound,
From Doric pipe and Attic lyre that lay
Enclasped in hands whose cunning is decay;
And now no more thou speakest! Death hath met
And won thee to him! Oh, remembered yet!
We cannot see, and hearken, and forget!
My thoughts are far. I think upon the time,
When Foxley's purple hills and woods sublime
Were thrilling at thy step; when thou didst throw
Thy burning spirit on the vale below,
To bathe its sense in beauty.
There, never more shall step of thine resound!
There, Spring again shall come, but find thee not,
And deck with humid eyes her favourite spot;
Strew tender green on paths thy foot forsakes,
And make that fair, which Memory saddest makes.
For me, all sorrowful, unused to raise
A minstrel song and dream not of thy praise,
Upon thy grave my tuneless harp I lay,
Nor try to sing what only tears can say.
So warm and fast the ready waters swell-
So weak the faltering voice thou knewest well!
Thy words of kindness calmed that voice before;
Now, thoughts of them but make it tremble more;
And leave its theme to others, and depart
To dwell within the silence where thou art.
* Essay on the Picturesque.
+ Essay on the Pronunciation of the Ancient Languages,
Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them-
The summer flowers depart—
Sit still as all transformed to stone,
Except your musing heart.
How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees
Doth cause a leaf to fall.
Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
That flesh and dust impart ;
We cannot bear its visitings,
When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep!
The dearest hands that clasp our hands,—
Their presence may be o'er :
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
That tone may come no more!
Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,
Which once refreshed our mind,
Shall come-as, on those sighing woods, The chilling autumn wind.
Hear not the wind-view not the woods; Look out o'er vale and hill:
In spring, the sky encircled them
The sky is round them still.
Come autumn's scathe-come winter's cold-
Come change-and human fate!
Whatever prospect HEAVEN doth bound,
Can ne'er be desolate.
THE room was darkened; but a wan lamp shed
Its light upon a half-uncurtained bed,
Whereon the widowed sate.
Her veiling hair hung round her, and no breath
Came from her lips to motion it.
Its parted clouds, the calm fair face was seen
In a snow paleness, and snow silentness,
With eyes unquenchable, whereon did press
A little, their white lids, so taught to lie,
By weights of frequent tears wept secretly.
Her hands were clasped and raised—the lamp did fling
A glory on her brow's meek suffering.
Beautiful form of woman! seeming made
Alone to shine in mirrors, there to braid
The hair and zone the waist-to garland flowers—
To walk like sunshine through the orange bowers—
To strike her land's guitar-and often see
In other eyes how lovely hers must be.
Grew she acquaint with anguish? Did she sever
For ever from the one she loved for ever,
To dwell among the strangers? Ay! and she,
Who shone most brightly in that festive glee,
Sate down in this despair most patiently.
Some hearts are Niobes! in grief's down-sweeping,
They turn to very stone from over-weeping,
And after, feel no more. Hers did remain
In life, which is the power of feeling pain,
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