Slight cause have I to grieve, if I may win A better immortality; nor yet
Need I lament that all my better years
Have thus been lost to verse, since graver cares And pastoral labours, not, I trust, unblest, And study of stern truth, according ill With fond imagination's fervent dreams, And daily intercourse with real grief, Not to be soothed or solaced by the skill Of vain and airy phantasy, have fill'd
The hours which else I might have dream'd away On Helicon's green marge, in converse blest With those celestial mistresses of song. Not for these years I grieve, albeit defiled With imperfections numberless, with much Unfaithfulness of heart, and cold neglect Of duties great and many; as I grieve For that, the spring and seed-time of my life, Wasted, alas, in academic shades,
Through blind self-love and indolence supine, And rash misuse of all those better gifts Wherewith my spirit was or seem'd endued; While, all regardless of its youthful needs And seasonable culture, owning not The obligation of a higher law
Than my own will, I travell'd uncontroll'd Through all the fields of song, as fancy led, Or passionate caprice, from idle hearts Winning vain praise, and solacing my own With what was wasting all its better strength,
And leaving it unstored and unprepared
For future tasks of duty.
I am content to be what now I am,
And deem such retribution meet and right: Nor blame I any, save myself alone,
For aught that hath been done, or left undone, Now or in earlier days; yet I rejoice
To think that now a brighter day hath risen On Granta's reverend towers than I beheld; (For so thy lays assure me);-that the free And noble spirit of her sons hath burst The trammels of that false philosophy Which fetter'd, in my day, her strongest hearts And most capacious intellects to low And sensual contemplations, shutting out From youth's perverted and polluted gaze All spiritual glories, God and Heaven, All that exalts and purifies the will, And teaches us to feel and know even here Our everlasting destiny.
Might such pollution dwell in fane so pure; And years, I trust, have swept away all trace Of mischief then wide spread; beneath those shades A purer generation feeds its thought,
And trains its mental energies for deeds Of great and Christian daring, undefiled By base alloy of superstitious zeal And bigot fury, such as on the banks
Of Isis darkens the meridian beams Of piety and truth, and grossly mars Their beauty with obscene companionship. So may our Mother flourish while the name Of England holds its proud preeminence Among the nations: in her ancient halls And venerable cloisters be our youth Invigorated by salubrious draughts
Of free and fervent thought, and let the mind Of our great country, like a mighty sea, Be fed and freshen'd by perpetual streams
Of pure and virtuous wisdom, from those springs Gushing unceasingly.
In youth, in hope, in faith, in genius strong, Fulfil thy noble doom: attune thy song To themes of glorious daring; feed thy mind On contemplations pure and peaceable Of heavenly truth and beauty; ever cheer'd And strengthen'd for thy high and holy task, By constant increase of domestic love,
And fireside joys and comforts, and the sweets, Many and pure, with ministerial toil Inseparably link'd, and rendering back Into the labourer's bosom rich reward.
So doubt not that thy name shall find a niche Among the names of Earth's illustrious sons; Nor that, when earth itself shall be burnt up With all its works, and, in the fervent heat, Its elements dissolve and fade away,
Thou shalt receive the recompense of one Who put his talent out to usury,
And render'd to his lord, when he return'd, A great and glorious interest of souls Won to his love; helping to accomplish here The number of the elect, and lead them back With songs of triumph to their home in Heaven.
COME with us, and we will go Where the Clyde's broad waters flow; Where the cloud-capp'd mountains rise To the dim north western skies; Where, through many a creek and bay, Doth the salt sea find its way Into those recesses deep
Where the mountain-shadows sleep,
And the dreary dark pine woods
Frown o'er watery solitudes,
Framing in those wilds, I ween, Many a strange and witching scene, Far to find, but fair to see, For such folks as you and me.
Come with us, and we will go Where the peaks of Arran glow, In the sunset bright and clear
Through the sweet months of the year. There the light of evening lies Longer than in southern skies; There the northern meteors glare Through the murky midnight air, Till, when morn returns once more, Rock and mountains, sea and shore, Glen and valley, lake and stream, Bask in the refreshing beam, With more gorgeous light and shade, Than midsummer ever made, In these fertile plains of ours; There old Goatfel proudly towers O'er his brother mountains wild, In sublime confusion piled Crag on crag, and peak on peak, Where the eye in vain may seek One green spot whereon to rest; There the eagle builds her nest In Glen Rosa's ebon rocks,
Rent, as seems by earthquake shocks, Into many a chasm and cleft,
In such huge disorder left,
That you might suppose, in sooth, The old gossip's guess was truth- That the sweepings here were hurl'd Of the new-created world.
Come with us, and we'll repair To the "bonny shire of Ayr,"
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