The tomb of honour that his deeds have won;
His glorious obsequies the nations grace,
And million hearts are beating now as one.
Hark! to the trumpets’ sound!
Hark! to the muffled drum!
The dead-march pealing its deep notes around
Proclaims—his ashes come!
High on a trophied car,
Beneath a gorgeous canopy,
Behold the coffin borne;
And glittering bright afar,
His mighty sword of victory,
Reminds how deep we mourn!
No more that dauntless hand and heart
Will wield its lightning-blade;
No more that warrior’s thunder-voice
Will marshall hosts arrayed,
In Battle’s iron panoply,
To fight for freedom and the free!
Age was upon his brow,
The glory of white hairs;
’Twas for our fathers that he fought,
And to the lasting peace he bought
We long have been the heirs!
We were but children when
His mightier deeds were done;
The rising greatness of his name,
His Indian glory, Spanish fame,
Through mists of time, so distant gleam,
They seem of th’ ages gone!
Yet will those deeds survive—
The glorious combats of Assaye,
Of Badajos, Vittoria,
And more as bright, in long array,
By Fame he kept alive.
But that, the greatest and the best,
Which bade mankind with peace be blest.
As in the earth’s young prime—
The crown of all, great Waterloo—
A sound to make the heart rejoice,
Shall with a mighty prophet-voice
Go sweeping on through time!—
The warrior sheathed his sword,
But loved his country still,
And sought by statesman-skill,
Diplomacy and counsel sage,
To aid her in a peaceful age,
And with determined will
A patriots love fulfil.
Oh hear him lift his voice,
War’s horrors to proclaim,
And speak the words of peace!
A man denouncing war
That gave him gorgeous fame?
Ye Kings and Emperors hear!
Then bid your jarrings cease,
And learn how greater far
To bind your aweful brows
With olive crown of peace,
Than the laurel wreath of war!
Oh, world! this lesson learn,
Let this holier truth prevail,
Till amidst each teeming vale,
And along each fertile plain,
The accursed sound of war
Shall be never heard again!—
But the cavalcade comes on,
The great hero on his car,
With the trumpet and the muffled drum,
And the death-march pealing far.
Where shall we find a grave
For this king of warrior-men;
Where, amidst the great and brave
Of the land, he fought to save,
His mighty dust may mingle,
With its kindred dust again?
In the Nation’s greatest temple,
Beneath her highest dome,
Let the hero, sage, and statesman
There find a fitting tomb.
Let the warrior of the earth,
And the warrior of the sea,
Slumber calmly side by side,
’Neath that gorgeous canopy.
Let Wellington and Nelson,
Unite and mingle dust,
As in Britain’s glorious story
Their bright fames for ever must.
In death they lie together—
Yea bone to bone is nigh!
Oh have their glorious spirits met
In the living world on high?
For there each noble feeling,
That fills our earthly hearts
From fetters free, more full in strength
To higher being starts.
May not the hero-sages,
Who’ve loved their native land,
E’en to the death, in yon bright realm,
Compose one radiant band.
We dare not limit Mercy—
Truth’s power to purify—
Nor judge the heart—which none can know
But the Omnipresent eye.—
Oh have their mighty spirits met
In the living world on high?—
Hark! in solemn music stealing
Through the sable-curtained pile,
Loudly swells the mournful anthem
Down each broad-arched, columned aisle.
’Tis a requiem for the dead,
To his dark tomb onward lead,
Whilst a nation bows the head
With a heart-consuming sorrow,
That no forms of grief need borrow,
Bending o’er the sacred bier,
There heaving forth the sigh, and there letting fall the tear.
Amid an aweful silence
The priestly voice hath said,
Now “Ashes unto ashes,
And dust to kindred dust,”
Whilst on the coffin dashes,
With dull sound, the crumbled mould,
But strikes the heart more strongly
Than if a knell had tolled.
Then prayers and hymns and anthems
Again from thousands rise,
Loud sounding through that mighty dome
And seem to pierce the skies!
Farewell, then, noble Hero,
The last tribute we can pay
Above thy once commanding form,
We’ve offered thee this day,
The witness of a nation’s love,
Esteem for thy desert,
And promise to remember thee
All uttered from the heart.
We ne’er shall see this noble dome,
Ascend gigantic to the clouds,
But deem it as the monument
Of that great hero it enshrouds.
Our thoughts will often on thy virtues dwell,
Thy dauntless courage, and puissant arm.
We will thy glories to our children tell,
And they to theirs, to bind them as a charm
To love the bold, the noble, and the free,
And every virtue bright, the world was taught by thee!
Sonnet to Harriet Beecher Stowe.
O Lady! heiress to a living fame,
Most loving, pious, pure, and true of heart,
Whose mighty pen hath made the whole world start
Aghast and wond’ring that the blighting shame
Of slavery should blot the earth; and claim
Her advocates in men, who to the mart
Drag on their fellows, groning ’neath the smart
Of blasted hopes, divided loves, and aim
Their manhood to crush out, and bow them down
Like soul-less brutes by torture and the lash!
Oh! noble is thine end! and may God crown
The work with rich success, and swiftly dash
Such yokes in twain, till men shout “Victory!
A Jubilee on earth! all slaves are free!”
Night Musings.
The sun’s keen rays are hidden by the hills,
But golden glories flame along the sky,
Shooting their radiance to the lofty crown
Of heaven’s bright vault. Unnumbered floating clouds
Skirt the horizon, and their crimson folds
Burn like a furnace in the glowing light,
Yet softly, gently; no fierce earthly fire
Is passing on them, but they calmly rest
As in the warmth and lustre of some sphere
By spirits tenanted; and gazing deep
Through yon refulgent vistas of the west,
The heart is ’wakened to immortal thoughts
Of higher beings, or of purer worlds;
To contemplations fitted to receive
The starry lessons of the coming night.
More soft and pure, more varied and serene,
The rainbow hues of fading twilight grow.
Above the summit of yon mountain peak,
The glittering star of evening sparkles fair
With gem-like radiance. O’er the darkening earth
The warm mists hover, and on buds and bells
Distil their fragrant life-inspiring dews.
Sweet flowers send forth their incense of perfume,
And fill the air with odour, breathing round
A rich refreshment, grateful to the heart.
Deep shadows spread, as if from heaven’s high arch,
Night, like a purple curtain, slowly fell,
Enfringed with gold, and richly ’broidered o’er
With sparkling gems, all scintillating bright.
The purple deepens, and one star-filled dome,
Circles with lustre all the earth around
So calm and peaceful, so serenely fair,
That earth’s wild passions at the glorious sight
Seem awed into repose; and man, brought forth
Amid a solitude sublime, to muse
With elevated thoughts, and higher aims,
Infused from heaven, and kindled by the glance
Of those far orbs, so lucid soft and clear,
Till all his soul in humble worship melts,
And holy reverence before the high,
Majestic presence of the starry worlds.
Ye gleaming lights, how beautiful ye shine,
Filling the night with loveliness. Not one,
Of all your myriads, but reveals a tale
Of ages so remote and vast, they seem
As an eternity to short-lived man.
Thus calmly shone ye when the formless deep
Heaved with the birth-throes of this present world,
And mountain summits forced their jagged heads
Through the dark surges of the boiling main.
Slow spread the continents beneath your light
In fearful desolation. Turbid flowed
The new-born rivers through the wilderness,
Herbless and treeless their wild, dreary banks.
But soon the life-touch of Creative breath
Passed o’er this desert, and it swiftly bloomed,
In verdant beauty. Herb and fruit and flower
Mingled their loveliness beneath the shade
Of trees umbrageous. The wide waters teemed
With pregnant life, the groves were filled with song,
And hill and valley echoed to the cry
Of new-formed creatures sporting in delight.
When earth was fitted to receive her guest,
After long ages of successive change
And wondrous preparation, man appeared,
Creation’s crown, the culminating point
Where finite and where infinite unite;
Where thought could dwell, and with sublime ascent,
Rise from all creatures to their Living Cause.
How fearful and how wonderful is mind!
A mystic mirror, fitted to reflect
The universe with all its varied forms,
In pure unsullied beauty; thence to pierce
Through the rich vision, and the fair array,
And deeply search each hidden spring and cause
Till, link by link, the golden chain is found
That binds creation to the Throne of Power.
How full of wonder man’s first ardent gaze
Around the earth, in daylight beauty bright;
But higher wonder must have stirred his soul—
More deep religious awe—when first the night
Revealed the glories of her ebon shade,
With thousand lamps attendant. Soon his mind
Would strive to learn the mystery immense
Of all their fair array. “Are ye mere lights
Amid the azure canopy of heaven,
In order marshalled, to redeem the night
From utter desolation? Oh! ye move
In wondrous sequence, and keep up a march
O’er the same pathway that the sun hath trod.
How godlike is your aspect, ye must rule
The destinies of man. Your varied fires
Control the life within him and around,
And make the kingdoms of the earth your own.”
Thus, in the infancy of mind, the stars,
Bright realms of light, by erring thought, were made
To shed a darkness on the human soul,
And bind its free-born energies. But now,
When thought, through centuries its march sublime
Hath onward held, and Science hath enlarged
Her bounds as ocean: to man’s questionings
The heavens unfold their secrets, and send down
Their revelations to astound his soul.
Her magic tube Astronomy hath held
With power aloft, and pierced the hidden depths,
Then turned to earth again, and told the tale,
The mighty tale, most wonderful yet true—
That yon bright specks are gorgeous worlds and suns,
In countless millions, far apart and spread
Throughout immensity, in ordered clans,
Harmonious systems, moving swiftly on
With power past utt’rance, through the aweful, vast,
Infinitude of space, and had their birth
Or first commenced their race sublime amid
Such deep profundity of ancient Time
It seems Eternity. Ye mighty worlds,
Like them of old, still would I fondly think
That on your orbs man’s destiny is writ
In brighter, fairer characters than e’er
Chaldean sage decyphered. Tell ye not
The greatness of that essence that can link
Itself by thought with ye? And are ye not
The cradles of his being, the primal worlds
Where his immortal destiny begins,
From whence ascending, into higher spheres,
His growing spirit may at length find rest
In spiritual realms? Your numbers tell
Of “numbers numberless” of finite minds,
Created likenesses of God most High,
In whose full myriads he may image forth
His own infinity, and fill their souls
With heavenly goodness, wisdom high and pure,
That thus receiving from the fount of Life
The living stream, their natures may become
Divine, angelical, prepared to form
A still increasing universe of bliss.
Oh thought ennobling, destiny sublime!
Happy the man who marks the canons writ
On his own being, on the sacred page
Of revelation, and the ordered frame
Of this fair world, and with an effort firm
And persevering, strives to win the prize!
How grand the lessons of creation’s book,
How mighty every page, when read aright,
To teach humility to man, and fill
His breast with sacred confidence and love
And holy fear. Then, bow ye, and adore,
The infinite of Love whence all things are,
The infinite of Truth that gave them frame,
The infinite of Power wherein they dwell,
The one Creating and Redeeming God!
The Sailor’s Bride.
The stars they shone keen in the deep blue sky,
And the moonlight softly slept
O’er the frozen earth, and the pale cold snow
That chirped as the traveller stept.
Poor Mary sat chilled by her lonely fire,
Her babe in its cradle lay,
As she watched its slumbers with cheerless breast,
On the eve of Christmas day.
“Thy father is yet on the wide, wide sea,”—
Her mournful heart thus sung,—
“I hoped he’d have been in our home, baby,
Ere the Christmas bells had rung.
“This time, so full of affection’s delights,
Of pure and innocent mirth,
Is lonely and sad, since he is not here
To joy with me o’er thy birth.
“When last he sailed forth, all the bright green buds
Just peeped on the branches bare;
And thou, my child, like the beautiful flowers,
Hadst breathed not the spring’s sweet air.
“Since then, fearful storms have darkened the sky,
And tempests disturbed the main,
And the sprightly glance of his loving eye
I ne’er may behold again!
“He never has looked on thy cherub form,
Or seen thy soft curling hair;
Or watched the quick smile, on thy rosy cheek,
Like a bright wave rippling there.
“To place thee, with joy, in thy father’s arms,
How my ardent soul doth yearn;
But still disappointed, each anxious day,
In solitude drear I mourn.
“But hark! do I dream? or a sharp quick step
Approaches our cottage door?
A well-known hand, lifts the opening latch,—
I clasp thee, my husband, once more!”
She’s pressed to the heart, of her sailor bold,
Their child in his arms he rears;
The sound of his kiss on its pure soft cheek,
Like a spell dispersed her tears!
The gloom from that dwelling hath passed away;
The hearth hath a glow more bright;
And the glorious sun next morning shone
For them with a richer light.
They love the sweet sounds from yon grey church tower,
Recalling their bridal day;
And thither they wend, with most grateful hearts,
Their tribute of thanks to pay.
Then in their own home, with its glowing fire,
And neighbours and friends around,
That loving pair hark with intense delight
To the Christmas bells’ glad sound.
Birth of the First-Born.
Beloved Eva! fain would I impart
The fervent feelings of a poet’s heart,
And in sweet-numbered melody make known
How glad I hail thee, and thy first-born son!
Thou art a mother! and thou now wilt share
All the rich pleasures of a mother’s care;
Wilt clasp thine infant to thy raptured breast,
And know on earth the feelings of the blest.
How kindly has the Author of our frame
Lit in our souls affection’s holy flame;
Bound heart to heart by kindred’s golden ties,
Fond links of love, delightful sympathies,
Whence deeper, richer, purer pleasures flow
Than all but those celestial joys bestow.
Of all deep chords within the human breast
One sounds with harmonies beyond the rest,
In sweeter music, more ecstatic tone,
And dwells in woman’s gentle heart alone.
Then first its thrilling melody was heard,
Surpassing Eden’s most enchanting bird,
When loving Eve, with silent rapture smiled,
On smiles returned her by her infant child.
Since that sweet hour what myriad hearts have glowed
With like soft gladness, and what eyes have flowed
With sparkling tears, that were by joy distilled,
From minds maternal happiness hath filled.
Such be thine ecstacy, such be thy joy,
Thy tender pleasure o’er thine infant boy;
Be it thy rich felicity to prove
The deepest raptures of maternal love.
’Tis sweet to cultivate some simple flower,
And watch its form expanding every hour,
From the green bud that swells upon the spray
Till full-blown petals meet the sunny ray,
Unfold bright tints, disclose surpassing bloom,
And shed around their delicate perfume.
But higher, nobler is the task assigned
To tend the first unfoldings of the mind,
And cultivate the young expanding heart,
The task which falls to every mother’s part.
Such sacred duty thou canst well fulfil,
Wake softest feeling, richest truth instil,
Raise latent thought, and evil’s growth arrest
Within thine infant’s slowly opening breast;
And as a flower erects its head on high
To meet the bright refulgence of the sky,
And gain refreshment from the dewy morn,
That fairer beauties may its form adorn,
So wilt thou teach, unceasingly, thy child
With gentle precept and instruction mild,
To look to heaven, fix its affections there,
And raise the incense of aspiring prayer.
From thy kind hand I know he will receive
All that a mother’s tenderness can give,
A ready help preventing every need,
The fond intention, and the kindly deed;
The watchful eye, the prompt protection share,
And constant efforts of unwearied care.
Thus taught by thee, to manhood may he rise,
Through childhood’s innocent and simple guise;
Through virtuous youth, improving year by year,
In all perfections which the heart endear;
Till strong in truth, of every good possessed,
A generous spirit and a candid breast,
A soul enlarged, a great and noble mind;
With feelings fervent, delicate, refined,
And that unspotted purity of heart
Which Heavenly blessing can alone impart,
He shall thy cares abundantly repay,
A constant solace to thy latest day:
Yielding rich happiness, like grateful soil
Returning harvest for the tillers toil,
Fruitful and rich, inviting to his hand,
In golden ripeness teeming o’er the land.
Lines to a Great Philanthropist.
Oh Wilderspin! I would attune the harp
Of sweetest poesy to tell thee how,
With heart and spirit, I esteem the work
And labour of thy life! no harsher sound
Than softest music will befit the theme—
No tone less ’trancing than the poet’s lyre.
Kind friend of Infants! who in early life,
Amidst the haunts and dwellings of the poor,
Looking around thee, saw them left to roam
In paths of wickedness, untrained, untaught,
Save in the deeds of ill; and with a heart
Of tender care, a mind resolved to act,
Didst love and pity them;—with deepest thought
And observation piercing and intense,
Didst keenly study all the mystic laws
Of mind unfolding in the infant breast,
And feeling rising in each little heart,
That to the one thou mightest know aright
Sweet simple truth in fitting form to give,
And train the other in all moral good,
Beneath the blessing of that God who gives
Full oft a life to truth within the mind,
As to the seeds we scatter in the ground.
By simple stories from the sacred page,
By parables and life-informing texts,
And milk sincere, pure from the Word Divine,
It was thy wish to lead them on to Christ,
And teach them of His love. Woe lies on those
Who with a wilful hand would force strong meat
On minds of delicate and tender age,
And thereby cause offence. The warning kind,
The simple precept, and the promise sweet,
The perfect picture of a holy life,
The lovely prospect of a world of light,
And joy and happiness, with God on high,
Are food for little ones, and cords of love
Whereby the Spirit may draw hearts to Him.
Teacher of babes! thy cause, when in its rise,
Drew friends around, who fostered it with care,
Endured a little time, and then fell off.
Alone, undaunted, in the face of scorn,
Of opposition, slander, ridicule,
And all that most can sink the heart of man
And baffle perseverance, thou didst still,
Upheld by strength imparted from on high,
With boldness persevere, and plead the cause
Of helpless infancy around the land,
And work unceasing for its lasting good
With untired ardour. Others now would reap
The fields which thou hast sown, and cast aside
Thy name into oblivion; would avail
Themselves of all thy labours; would forget
The mind from which they sprung, and leave thee now,
When the chill winter of old age comes on,
In dim obscurity. Nay, more than this—
Some would traduce thee, and use slander’s tongue:
But let the sinless cast a stone at thee!
And let all judge thee by thy noble works,
Thy deeds of true philanthropy, then all
Would look upon thee with a heart of love,
Of wonder, of astonishment and joy.
And oh may “He who doth the ravens feed,
Yea providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to thine age.” May He who said,
A cup of water given in his name
To little ones should have a full reward,
Give thee the riches of eternal life,
A spirit pure, a heart prepared and meet,
For joy and glory in the worlds above!
1845
Wye Dale, Buxton.
Here Nature, with a lavish bounty, pours
Her grandest beauties from her richest stores;
On either hand high rifted rocks uprear
Their summits proud that touching heaven appear,
Whilst on their shelves soft mountain herbage grows,
Fresh moss springs green, the pretty wild flower blows,
And many a tree, on their steep sides, is seen
Stretching broad branches, decked in living green,
’Mongst which the yew its gloomy boughs extends,
Where the grey crag’s terrific form impends;
Here the gay warbler’s sweetly carolled song
Resounds reverberating rocks among,
Whilst o’er mossed stones Wye’s new-born waters wail
Spreading their murmurs through this lonely dale.
Rydal Water.
Addressed to Wordsworth.
How fair beneath the noontide light,
In splendour rests this silver lake,
Engirt by many a mountain height,
High soaring rock, and purple peak.
Yon central isle, of sombre pines,
With dark green hue, and spreading bough,
Reflected in the water shines,
A softer vision seen below!
Around, unnumbered fairy isles
In rich luxuriant verdure lie,
Like gems amidst the waters’ smiles,
Or bright clouds on a summer sky.
Fair, spreading trees along the shore
Adorn each lofty headland steep;
Or on the marge their branches lave
Amidst the shining crystal deep.
Woods, rocks, and fells, and mountain peaks,
Sublime in hue, or rich and bright
As through the clouds the sunbeam breaks,
Reveal a vision of delight;
A scene so glorious and grand,
We well might deem that He whose word
Created all things, o’er this land
Had primal paradise restored.
Can man such loveliness behold,
So wondrous fair in every part,
And not as incense give to heaven
The adoration of his heart.
O! Lake, so beautiful and bright,
How oft the Rydal Bard on thee
Hath glanced his eye’s poetic light,
Till song gushed forth like torrents free.
The soft and gentle summer breeze,
As fairy-like it wanders round,
With deep-toned music midst the trees,
Gives forth his harp’s entrancing sound.
Each mountain soars in richer hues,
Each rock gives forth a sound of fame,
And streams in murmurs sweet diffuse
The gentle sound of Wordsworth’s name.
O could Parnassus’ far famed peak,
Or Castalie’s resplendent spring,
More glorious feeling in us wake
Or brighter dreams to fancy bring?
Amid a scene so rich and fair
How does my spirit long to dwell,
And quit the world, with all its care,
And bid its noisy haunts farewell.
My heart was never framed to toil
With Commerce on his crowded mart,
From his rough tasks my thoughts recoil,
But, oh! they love the poets’ art.
How sweet to me the woodland glade,
The wild-flower pearled with morning dew,
The noontide sun, the evening shade,
And all that nature gives to view.
And sweet to see them pictured bright
Upon the bard’s immortal page,
Enshrined in pure and heavenly light,
To charm the world from age to age.
Harp of the ancient British Bards!
Had I but skill to tune thy strings,
Entranced by thy delicious notes,
My heart would leave all meaner things.
Thy music owns a magic spell
To thrill my breast with glowing love;
Each rising throb of anguish quell
And make my pulse enraptured move!
No hoards of classic lore are mine;
Few treasures of historic truth;
No ancient themes my thoughts refine,
And past’s the sunshine of my youth.
Thus boding sadness chills my heart,
And bows my hopeless spirit down;
In vain I woo the poets’ art,—
The laurel wreath I ne’er shall own!
Sonnet to Elfrida.
Immortal being, whose career of time
Hath just begun, with holy hope we bring
Thee to the Temple of our Heavenly King,
To ask his gracious blessing in the prime
Of life’s fair infancy, ere earthly crime
Hath cast its stains upon thee; and whilst now
We sprinkle o’er thee, mid deep prayer and vow,
Baptismal water, emblem most sublime,
Of God’s eternal sanctifying Truth:
Oh may his goodness, and restoring grace,
Renew thy spirit, and from earliest youth
Sustain thee onwards in a heavenly race
And glorious fight of faith, till thou shaft rise
By death to blissful life beyond the skies.
The Mountain Height.
Come with me, and climb the proud mountain’s brow,
To view with high wonder the scene below,
Where huge hills heave like a foaming sea
By enchantment struck to tranquility.
Oh naught can depict to the mind’s deep sight
The terrible view from a mountain height,
As to fancy that ocean in awful storm
Had been turned to stone, with each wave in form.
In vallies beneath, calm lakes glitter bright
With radiant gleams of silvery light,
As they sweetly lie mid fair woodland shores,
Whence the purple peak of the mountain soars.
The hollow wind moans round these lofty rocks,
Whence the waterfalls gush with echoing shocks,
As they bound from their steeps with sparkling glee
To sweep in bright streams to their parent sea.