Till thine own body shall return to dust,
Thy soul to its Creator. Death hath given
By this last blow one treasure more to Heaven,
Snapp'd one more bond which held thee down to
earth,
And all condolence would be little worth
To one whose conversation is, like thine,
Ever more nearly among things divine.
But there's another dear to me and thee,
Thine own bright L--, oh! how fareth she
In this sad wreck of love, beneath this stroke
Of Heaven's own lightning, which at once hath
Friendship's strong bonds, worn through so many
And strengthen'd in the wearing: are her tears
Yet dry, or does their flowing bring relief
To that absorbing and most passionate grief,
Which only hearts like hers, of finest mould,
Feel as she feels it? Ere that grief grows old,
May He who sent it, and doth never send
A causeless sorrow, shape it to that end
For which I know thy constant prayers ascend
To his eternal presence; may that mind
So proudly gifted, and e'en now inclined
To all things lovely, noble, pure and good,
Be, by this heart-stroke, to His will subdued,
And fix'd on things above.
The second daughter of thy love, my sweet
And pensive-hearted M-. Hath she grown
In grace and spiritual beauty, shown
In her most gentle and heart-winning ways?
In that retiring meekness, which to praise
Were to insult it? in that quiet love
To things on earth, but more to things above?
In those mild eyes, serene as summer even,
Which speak of frequent communings with Heaven?
In the sweet zeal with which she doth explore
The fountains deep and vast of sacred lore,
To drink of Truth's pure stream? Tell her, from me,
The record of her last year's industry
Now lies upon my table; whereon I
Pore ever and anon with critic eye,
Which yet finds nought to blame, but much to praise.
Yet haply make the path, which must be trod
By my own footsteps heavenward, more secure,
By dint of guiding youthful souls and pure
Up to their home and mine.
Mirthful E-, or disclaim my debt
Of kind remembrances to her? Not so
Most gladly let me pay her that I owe;
Thanks for her childhood's friendship, a sweet boon
Made up
of pure affections, which too soon
Our cold world will sophisticate, unless
Thy most discreet maternal tenderness,
Aided and blest by guidance from above,
Preserve the spring untainted; may such prove
The crown of thy endeavours, and may she
Enjoy, while yet she can, the fancy-free
And happy days of childhood-happier still
To have the wanderings of her human will
Check'd by a Christian mother.
But how fares The grave-eyed E-? Academic cares Prove not, I trust, too heavy for his frail And spirit-wasted strength. Is he still pale From studious nights and days of contest high, Struggling for hard and doubtful victory With his well match'd compeers? Success attend His struggles, and mayst thou, high-hearted friend, Be well repaid for all thy pious care
Of his past years, reaping a harvest fair
Of hopes fulfill'd in him.
Somewhat of me and mine? The bay of Herne, Hard by the towers of Canterbury old,
Doth, with its huge and shingly arms, enfold
Her whom reluctantly I spare from mine;
There she disporteth in the amorous brine,
A mixture (pleasant as such mixtures be)
Of seaweed and Thames mud, miscall'd" the Sea,"
Wherein brave Maggie and her children three,
Her mother and two sisters, brave as she,
Plunge like so many mermaids merrily. [share, Heaven send the strength she needs (thou too wilt
Dear friend, in this my oft repeated prayer),
And give her to her household cares again,
Such as we both would have her, from all pain
And weakness quite deliver❜d.
I wander here, a melancholy elf,
'Mid the sweet scenes in which my childhood roved, Smiled on by many faces, long beloved,
Though now sore alter'd by the touch of years;
Yet lovelier far each well known spot appears
E'en than it did in youth; I know not why,
Unless, perchance, that childhood's artless eye,
Familiarized too soon to scenes like these,
Saw not what now my riper manhood sees,
Nor
my heart felt what now it deeply feels
In Nature's loveliest forms.
O'er my poor heart, to find itself alone
Where least 'twould be so; where each rock and
Green hill and gurgling stream, and stately tree, Seem to demand, "Thy loved one, where is she? Where the sweet pledges of her love to thee?", Alas that 'tis so! that these weeks of rest
'Midst scenes and places which should cheer me best, Should find me a lone widower. Yet so
High Heaven hath will'd; and hence the thoughts that flow
From heart to heart, the feelings that are sent
To gladden wedlock, must find other vent,
Best found, by me, in verse; therefore do I
Weave my thin woof of flimsy phantasy
(Poor substitute for sober household bliss,
And store of wedded joys) in strains like this,
Bidding thought wander to each distant scene
Of pleasure yet to be, or which hath been.
Therefore my present poverty I cheer
By reckoning up the treasures rich and dear
Which I possess elsewhere, and (best of all)
Think of thy friendship, lady, and recall
Thy virtues and thy kindnesses;—but now
'Tis time to rest this weary heart and brow
On my lone couch: all guardian angels dwell
With thee and thine for ever-so farewell.
August, 1834.
NO. II. TO THE REV. DERWENT COLERIDGE.
FOR many a year, old friend, since thou and I
Dream'd our young dreams of twin-born poesy,
And wandering, arm in arm, Cam's banks along,
Held our wild talk, and framed our wayward song,
My stream of verse, as thou full well dost know,
If not dried up, at least hath ceased to flow:
Scarce, I believe, for other cause than this,
That my whole life hath been so full of bliss,
So rich in wedded and domestic love,
That the full heart hath had no will to rove
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