"Long on the deep the mists of morning lay,
Then rose, revealing, as they rolled away,
Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods
Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods:
And say,--when all to holy transport given,
Embraced and wept as at the gate of Heaven,
When one and all of us, repentant, ran,
And on our faces, blessed the wondrous man,--
Say, was I thus deceived, or from the skies
Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies?
'Glory to God!' unnumbered voices sung,
'Glory to God!' the vales and mountains rung--
Voices that hailed creation's primal morn,
And to the shepherds sung a Savior born.
Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore
The sacred cross, and kneeling, kissed the shore.
But what a scene was there? Nymphs of romance!
Youths graceful as the fawn, with eager glance
Spring from the glades, and down the alleys peep;
Some headlong rush, bounding from steep to steep,
And clap their hands, exclaiming as they run,
'Come and behold the children of the sun!'
When hark, a signal-shot! The voice it came
Over the sea, in darkness and in flame!
They saw, they heard; and up the highest hill,
As in a picture, all at once were still!
Creatures so fair, in garments strangely wrought,
From citadels, with Heaven's own thunder fraught,
Checked their light footsteps--statue-like they stood,
As worshiped forms, the Genii of the Wood!
At length the spell dissolves! the warrior's lance
Rings on the tortoise with wild dissonance!
And see, the regal plumes, the coach of state!
Still, where it moves, the wise in council wait!
See now borne forth the monstrous masks of gold,
And ebon chair of many a serpent fold;
These now exchanged for gifts that thrice surpass
The wondrous ring, and lamp, and horse of brass.
What long-drawn tube transports the gazer home,
Kindling with stars at noon the ethereal dome?
'Tis here: and here circles of solid light
Charm with another self the cheated sight;
As man to man another self disclose,
And now with terror starts, with triumph glows!"
Italy, Mr. Rogers's last published poem of any length, is a fine
production, full of that glorious land, and abounding with the finest
subjects for the painter and the sculptor; but we must not be tempted
to speak further of it here.
The changes of Mr. Rogers's life, or of his abodes, have not been
many. He was born at Newington-green, in 1763, and is, consequently,
eighty-three years of age. Newington-green, his birthplace, has all
the marks of an old locality. In this neighborhood the Tudor princes
used to live a good deal. Canonbury, between this green and Islington,
was a favorite hunting-seat of Elizabeth, and no doubt the woods and
wastes extended all round this neighborhood. There is Kingsland, now
all built on, there is Henry VIII.'s walk, and Queen Elizabeth's walk,
all in the vicinity; and this old, quiet green seems to retain a
feeling and an aspect of those times. It is built round with houses,
evidently of a considerable age. There are trees and quietness about
it still. In the center of the south side is an old house standing
back, which is said to have been inhabited by Henry VIII. At the end
next to Stoke Newington stands an old Presbyterian chapel, at which
the celebrated Dr. Price preached, and of which, afterward, the
husband of Mrs. Barbauld was the minister. Near this chapel De Foe was
educated, and the house still remains. In this green lived, too, Mary
Wollstoncraft, being engaged with another lady in keeping a school.
Samuel Rogers was born in the stuccoed house at the southwest corner,
which is much older than it seems. Adjoining it is a large, old
garden. Here his father, and his mother's father, lived before him. By
the mother's side he was descended from the celebrated Philip Henry,
the father of Matthew Henry, and was therefore of an old
Non-conformist family. Mr. Rogers's grandfather was a gentleman,
pursuing no profession, but his father engaged in banking. Mr. Rogers
continued to reside in this house till after his father's death, and
wrote and published here his Pleasures of Memory, which appeared a
short time before his father's decease.
On quitting Newington-green, Mr. Rogers took chambers in the Temple,
where he continued to reside five years, or till about 1800, when he
removed to his present house; so that he has occupied his present
abode the greater part of half-a-century. In this house, 22, St.
James's-place, he has not only written every one of his chief poems,
except the Pleasures of Memory, but he has been visited in it by a
vast number of the most celebrated men of his time, among them Byron,
Scott, Moore, Crabbe, Fox, Campbell, Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge,
etc.
At an early period of his life he was anxious to purchase an estate in
the country, not too far from London, where he could build a house
after his own taste. He pitched on Fredley farm, in Norbury-park, near
Mickleham, in Surrey, which was to be disposed of. By some means it
escaped him, and disappointed in his object, he seems to have given up
the search for another situation, and contented himself with building
his house on paper. The result was the abode described in his Epistle
to a Friend, published in 1798. His villa is placed in a rustic
hamlet, has few apartments, but is not without its library and cold
bath, and is furnished with prints after the best painters, and casts
from the antique. The whole of this poem breathes the love of the
country, of simplicity of life, and condemns the pomp and the follies
of London fashionable life. Its accompaniments, its exterior and
interior, are all of the same unostentatious character--it is an abode
that any man of taste might possess without any great wealth.
"Still must my partial pencil love to dwell
On the home prospects of my hermit-cell:
The mossy pales that skirt the orchard green
Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses seen;
And the brown pathway that with careless flow
Sinks, and is lost among the trees below.
Still must it trace, the flattering tints forgive,--
Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live.
Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance pass,
Browsing the hedge by fits, the panniered ass;
The idling shepherd-boy with rude delight,
Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's flight;
And, in her kerchief blue, the cottage maid,
With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade
Far to the south a mountain vale retires,
Rich in its groves, and glens, and village spires;
Its upland lawns, and cliffs with foliage hung,
Its wizard stream, nor nameless, nor unsung.
And through the various year, the various day,
What scenes of glory burst and melt away!"