Part 5 (1/2)

O ancient warrior! as we hail thee, And behold thy cordial smile, We hope that greetings ne'er may fail thee, Such as those of Britain's isle.

They are, although so seeming rude, Given only where we think them due; Most courteous, e'en when they intrude, Too vehement, but always true!

Applauses which no art can fas.h.i.+on, Which speak the feelings and no more; Which give respect the glow of pa.s.sion, When worth and valour we adore;

Blest is the hero in receiving!

And pride may scoff at, or despise, What if but once sincere believing, Is grateful to the good and wise.

XXIII.

_On the Death of Master Frederic Thomson_.

1810.

In the first dawn of youth I much admire The lively boy of ruddy countenance, Strong-built, and bold, and hardy, with black hair, And dark brown eye, contrasting its blue-white, Somewhat abruptly; save in the bright hour Of inward pa.s.sion, or of sudden joy; When, as a monarch, gracious and renown'd, Amid a crowd of subjects, diverse all, Thrills with one deep, soft feeling every heart; Or, as the sun throws his pervading beams At once on bleak harsh mountains and the sky; The soul, by union of its light and heat, Clears and irradiates all, and gives to strength A mellow sweetness; hues late undefin'd Grow more intense, or, if discordant, lose Their coa.r.s.eness, and become diaphanous.

This I admire, but still methinks I look With a serener pleasure on the head Crested by flaxen curls; or where soft locks, Like to long coiling leaves that lose their edge, s.h.i.+ne silken on the cheek, and parting smooth Above a fair and modest countenance, Harmonize with its pure, its tender bloom.

Still lovelier when with that infusion sweet Of saint or angel spirit, resident In the calm circle of a blue eye fring'd With sable lashes! I remember once A face like this, ere sickness took away Its freshness, in whose looks there also dwelt, If one may speak it of a thing so young, And not subdue our warm belief to say The prophecy of all these qualities, Refinement, gentleness, and mild resolve; Fitted to stem the evil of this world, And hold with patient intrepidity, The s.h.i.+eld of calm resistance to its power.

It seem'd as if no anger e'er could dwell Within his bosom; no blind prejudice Distract his judgment; and no folly call For a reproof: as if Affection were Too soon allied to Thought, and tempered so His morning, that the ministry of Time, The chast'ning trial of Remorse and Grief, And of stern Disappointment, all were spar'd.

XXIV.

_On the Death of Herbert Southey: addressed to his Father_.

Knowing the nature of thy grief, Too deep, too recent for relief, Oh! why impatient must I press So early on a friend's distress!

Why am I eager thus to prove, To him who feels excess of love, The tender liking we bestow On fair and guileless things below?

On Love and Joy without pretence, On kind and playful Innocence!

The pleas'd idea Memory kept, The partial glance which never slept, When hopes arose oft render'd vain, Of seeing Keswick yet again.

Never but once a child had won So much upon me as thy son; And, for each wild and winning art, That, nestling, fastens in the heart; For graces that light tendrils fling Around each nerve's tenacious string; Caprices beautiful, that strike The heart, and captive fancy, like Those of a tame, young bird at play, That carols near, then flits away, Will on a sudden upward soar, Then give its little wanderings o'er, For fondling, gentle, sweet repose, When tapering pinions softly close, Slight, warmth--pervaded quills are prest, And head shrunk closely to the breast: All sleeping but that lovely eye, Which speaks delight, and asks reply: Oh! with such graces never one Was so much gifted as thy son!

In each variety of tone, Each wayward charm, he stood alone; And all too nicely pois'd to press, Or ruffle tranquil happiness.

If thus a stranger thinks, who knew Him but an infant--if he grew With all the promise that appear'd So brightly then, still more endear'd-- If, as the Honey with the Bee, Affection dwells with poesy: If that Affection is comprest, And h.o.a.rded in a Father's breast, Whose very soul doth blessings shed Upon a grateful darling's head; While every look is treasur'd there, Till Thought itself becomes a prayer, And Hopes hang on him full and gay.

”As blossoms on a bough in May”[1]-- Shall any venture to intrude On thee? Oh! not with footstep rude, But with a timorous zeal I come, Just hang this wreath upon his tomb-- Record fond wishes sadly o'er, To see my little favourite more!

[Footnote 1: As many hopes hang on his n.o.ble head As blossoms on a bough in May; and sweet ones!

--_Beaumont and Fletcher._]

XXV.

Fear has to do with sacred things, And more than all from Pity springs.

Two school-girls once--the time is past, But ever will the memory last-- This moral to my fancy drew, In colours brilliant, deep, and true.