And threatening ever these asthmatic lungs,
With agony of respiration choked,
And spasms catarrhal; for, to me, the prime
And lustihood of summer ever brings
Return of fell disease, most fell in this,
That I no more for ever may enjoy
The sweetness of the year; that what, in youth
And earlier boyhood, I so fondly loved,
Yea, and still love with all a poet's heart,
The gorgeousness of nature at her noon,-
Must ever be associate in my thought
With sickness and dire suffering; that no more
May I behold the full magnificence
Or of the rising or the setting sun,
Nor welcome to my brow the noonday breeze,
Nor see Eve's star arise, nor greet the moon
When from the breathless sky she pours her light
On the rich foliage of midsummer woods,
With full and free enjoyment, unalloy'd
By pain or apprehension;-that the toils
And sports of summer, its sweet sounds and sights,
To me must be forbidden; ne'er again
The hay-field's fragrant breath must tempt my sense,
Nor the returning and high-laden wain,
Cheer'd by the shouts of joyous haymakers
Proclaiming harvest home, invite me too
To share their rude festivities; and when
The cloudless skies and verdant fields of June
Tempt friends and neighbours to beguile a day
In the green woods, or by the river's marge,
With mirth and music, I perforce must flee
Such festive meetings, and, close pent at home
In solitude and shade, shut out the light
Of the bright skies, and chase the pleasant breeze
From my closed windows; or o'ercloud the mirth
And mar the full enjoyment of kind friends
With the discordant and unwelcome sound
Of gasps spasmodic, with red tearful eyes
And ceaseless sternutation.
Let me repine; small chastisement, I ween,
For disobedience great and manifold
To Heaven's eternal laws; for years mis-spent,
And duties unfulfill'd; nor let me be
Unthankful for this sharp admonishment
Of nature's imperfection; of the doom
Most righteously awarded to our race,
Forbidding us to find in this dark earth
That which we look for in the world to come,-
Enjoyment unalloy'd; let me confess
That 'tis most well my sensual heart, which dotes
On earthly treasures with too fond a love,
Should have that love embitter'd, and so raised
To objects more sublime; and let me still
Feel grateful for the strong and vigorous health
Which, from ripe autumn to expiring spring,
Nerves my firm limbs; nor less for that pure warmth
Of conjugal affection, which consoles
And mitigates my sickness, making glad
The chamber of my pain with sympathy.
There is no grief, even on this sinful earth,
Without its consolation; none which faith
And patient love may not convert to bliss,
Or make at least the path to it; and if
Such be indeed our sorrows, for our joys,
Our sweet refreshments, richly interspersed
At intervals through all the narrow road
Which leads to life eternal-for all these
What thanks shall we repay? Even now, methinks,
From this secluded arbour I look down
On a fresh joy, provided by Heaven's love
To cheer me on my way; a new-found store
Of pleasant thoughts and sweet remembrances,
Enriching my calm
of middle age,
And rendering compensation for whate'er
Of injury or loss the flight of time
May have inflicted on me.
To the affectionate and thoughtful heart,
Can never prove a desart; by its side
Fresh springs gush brightly forth from time to time,
As old ones are dried up or left behind
In our swift pilgrimage; yet few, I deem,
Numbering my years, can reckon up like store
Of youth's surviving blessings; Death as yet
Hath mercifully dealt with us and ours;
And scarce a face which, fifteen years ago,
Smiled on me in my academic prime,
Hath lost as yet the lineaments and hue
Of mortal life. A fortnight scarce hath past
Since, in the great metropolis, we met,
I and my youthful peers of Trinity,
Now nigh our noon of life; a motley band
Of poets and ripe scholars, once renown'd
For feats of numerous verse and sparkling prose;
Now each on graver toils and cares intent
In his particular sphere; some hard beset
By life's sharp ills, of wife or child bereft;
Some deep immersed in senatorial wiles,
Quenching the quiet spirit of the Muse
In strife political; and some there were
By bright and blooming families begirt,
Yet still retaining, amid household cares
And toils professional, the cheerful laugh
And boon companionship of earlier days,
Sober'd, not sadden'd, by life's chance and change,
Its joys and sorrows: one, in youth's bright morn,
My poet-friend, though high, as Heaven o'er Earth,
Towering above me in all gifts and powers
Which constitute the poet, hath foregone
His natural birth-right, and those airy dreams
Of fellowship in song, which we two framed
Erewhile on Cam's green marge, now to stern toil
And loftiest cares devoted :-for this choice,
Itself most wise, and in submission shaped
To Providential guidance, all respect
And rich reward be his; nor let me grieve
That Heaven hath cast our several lots apart,
And will'd that diverse interests, diverse cares,
Should grow and gather round us; but let each
Take the more earnest heed, lest absence chill
His heart's best fervour; lest he live too much
In his peculiar world, with separate hopes
And separate fears encompass'd, till the free
And open passage of congenial thought,
Which yet joins heart to heart, shall be block'd up,
And each need closer intercourse with each
To clear it of obstruction.
Even as it may; from all that hath been lost,
And all that yet remains, our hearts may learn
Some profitable lessons. Upon earth
Decay and renovation, in close track,
Follow each other; friendships wax and wane;
Old joys give place to new ones; and while thus
Provision is still made for life's support
And bountiful refreshment,-while the heart
Is cheer'd and strengthen'd for its daily task
Of duty, by accessions many and rich
Of ever freshening solace, still we learn
That all is here unstable; that, till death,
We must not hope to lay our weary heads
On the soft lap of permanent repose;
Nor find secure and never failing rest
For our foot's sole. Such comfort as Heaven gives
Let us enjoy with thankfulness; but still
Remembering that our home is not on earth,
Nor earthy the affections and the joys
Which must make glad that home, with steadfast aim Pursue our heavenward path, from time to time Refresh'd in this world's wilderness by springs
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