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OUR FIRST SORROW.*

SEPT. 1834.

My Margaret, thou hast often marvell'd why
Thy husband, famed for feats of poesy
In boyhood and hot youth, hath so forgot
His tuneful craft, and now discourseth not
The music he was wont; and thou dost blame
His sluggish humour, which no hope of fame
Nor (what should move him more) remorseful shame
For talents unimproved, or buried deep
In the dim caves of intellectual sleep,
Can rouse to due exertion. I confess
That thy most sweet, upbraiding earnestness
Hath ofttimes moved me to a fond regret
For powers long valued, and remember'd yet
With melancholy pleasure; yet full well

This poem is published rather in compliance with the wishes of friends, to whose opinion the author cannot but defer, than accordantly with the dictates of his own judgment. It was written (as the reader will perceive) under peculiar circumstances, at a time when the author little thought of again appearing before the public in his poetical capacity; and, as he feels that no alterations which he could now make in it would so modify its general character as to render it much fitter for publication, he has thought it best to print it almost verbatim as it was originally composed.

Thou know'st how grave the duties which compel
My mind to other tasks; how vast a weight
Of solemn vows and cares importunate

Lies on the minister of Christ :--should I

Forget the deep responsibility

Attach'd to my high office?—leave my fold
Unwatch'd, my sheep unfed, that I might hold
Communion with a wild and wanton muse,
Whose weak earth-fetter'd pinions would refuse
To bear me to those heights of sacred song,
Where Christian poets, far above the throng
Of this world, tune their harps ?-should I forego
The studies I most need, the hours I owe
To patient self-inspection-the still thought,
The frequent prayer, through which alone is taught
Knowledge of things divine, to weave once more
The idle rhymes I used to weave of yore,
And win the worthless meed of this world's praise,
As then I won it, by more worthless lays,
Repented of when finish'd? Oh, not so;
Better my stream of verse should cease to flow
For ever, than flow thus: if I could sing
With Saint and Psalmist, tuning every string
Of my rapt harp to the Eternal's praise,
Yet not disgrace my theme, I then might raise
My willing song triumphantly; and now,
If I may keep my ministerial vow,

By interweaving with a record brief
Of our still recent and still poignant grief,
Such lessons as beseem it-such as win

The soul from earthly dreams pollute with sin
To serious thought,—my toil will not be vain,
And we shall find some solace for our pain
In dwelling on its cause, recording now

Things which late wrung the heart, and wrapt the brow

*

In no unblest, though melancholy gloom,-
So sit we here beside our infant's tomb,-
And while thy pencil shadows forth the spot
So lately known, but ne'er to be forgot
"While memory holds her seat," my kindred art
Shall summon from their hiding place, the heart,
Remembrances most sad, but oh, most dear,
And note them down for many a future year
Of hallow'd meditation.

Dearest wife,

'Tis sixteen years, almost my half of life, Since I, a boy, retiring from the throng

Of boyish playmates, breathed my first sad song

66

My Brother's Grave." Since then full many a

change

Hath come upon my spirit-the free range

Of youthful thought-Hope's bright and beauteous

prime,

The dreams and fancies of Life's golden time,
Have been and ceased to be; yet might I say
Which period of the days, now gone for aye,

The first one hundred and eight lines of the poem were written in the situation here described.

Was richest in Earth's comforts, my fond heart Would, without scruple, name the latter part,Our nine sweet years of wedlock: Time hath fled So swiftly and so smoothly o'er my head

Since first I call'd thee wife-our days flow'd by
With such unmix'd and deep tranquillity,

That long our spirits seem'd to lack the rod
Which chastens and subdues each child of God.
And shall we murmur now that Death at last
Hath, Heaven-commission'd, o'er our threshold past,
And in our cup of long unmingled bliss
Infused one drop of bitterness? Shall this
Shake our once cheerful faith-at once destroy
That which we cherish'd, in our days of joy,
As undefiled religion? Nay, sweet love,
Confessing that this blow was from above,
Long needed, long suspended, soften'd now
By mercies great and many, let us bow
Beneath the Chastener's hand, and while our grief
Still vents itself in tears, or seeks relief

In these and such like tasks, let us confess
That God himself, in very faithfulness,
Hath caused us to be troubled; that 'tis good
To have been thus afflicted, thus subdued,
And wean'd in part from this world's vanities,
To that good world where now our treasure lies.
So bury we our dead. Now let us dwell

Awhile on the events which late befell

Ourselves and our dear children, ere Death's blow Swept one from our sweet circle. Thou dost know

C

With how much close and cogent argument,
Convinced at last, our purpose we forewent
Of visiting my parents, that some length

Of sojourn near the sea might bring thee strength
Long lost, and now much needed: so one day,
One glorious day of August, on our way

Seaward we fared, and from the wharfs of Thames,
Mix'd with grave cits, and smiling city dames,
Took ship for fair Herne Bay. Our children three,
New to such bustling scenes, with childish glee
And wonderment perplext, look'd on and laugh'd,
As through the close ranged lines of bristling craft,
Moor'd by those wharfs, we thridded our slow
A dense and multitudinous array

way:

Of vessels of all nations, mast on mast;
While ever and anon some steam-boat pass'd,
Bound homeward with its freight of busy folk,
Returning to their city's din and smoke,
After brief holiday in idlesse spent

At Deptford or Gravesend :—still on we went,
With swift, unconscious motion, floating by
Full many a spot in England's history

Well known and honour'd; arsenal and fort,
Fraught with war's stores, fair pier and crowded port,
Well known to merchants; cupola and dome
Of hospital superb, the princely home

Of veteran Seamen, while some batter'd hulk
Rear'd, ever and anon, its giant bulk
Above our puny top-mast, long laid by,

Far from war's din and battle's kindling cry,

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