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.
'Tis sixteen years, almost my half of life, Since I, a boy, retiring from the throng
Of boyish playmates, breathed my first sad song
My Brother's Grave." Since then full many a
Hath come upon my spirit-the free range
Of youthful thought-Hope's bright and beauteous
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
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
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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