The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 4

IN YOUTH.

Milton, our n.o.blest poet, in the grace Of youth, in those fair eyes and cl.u.s.tering hair, That brow untouched by one faint line of care, To mar its openness, we seem to trace The front of the first lord of human race, 'Mid thine own Paradise portrayed so fair, Ere Sin or Sorrow scathed it: such the air That characters thy youth. Shall time efface These lineaments as crowding cares a.s.sail!

It is the lot of fall'n humanity.

What boots it! armed in adamantine mail, The unconquerable mind, and genius high, Right onward hold their way through weal and woe, Or whether life's brief lot be high or low!

IN AGE.

And art thou he, now "fall'n on evil days,"

And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek, These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!

A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,-- A spirit, when thine eyes to the noon's blaze Their dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek, As in the sight of G.o.d intent to seek, 'Mid solitude or age, or through the ways Of hard adversity, the approving look Of its great Master; whilst the conscious pride Of wisdom, patient and content to brook All ills to that sole Master's task applied, Shall show before high heaven the unaltered mind, Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind!

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT.

ON ACCIDENTLY MEETING AND PARTING WITH SIR WALTER SCOTT, WHOM I HAD NOT SEEN FOR MANY YEARS, IN THE STREETS OF LONDON, MAY 1828.

Since last I saw that countenance so mild, Slow-stealing age, and a faint line of care, Had gently touched, methought, some features there; Yet looked the man as placid as a child, And the same voice,--whilst mingled with the throng, Unknowing, and unknown, we pa.s.sed along,-- That voice, a share of the brief time beguiled!

That voice I ne'er may hear again, I sighed At parting,--wheresoe'er our various way, In this great world,--but from the banks of Tweed, As slowly sink the shades of eventide, Oh! I shall hear the music of his reed, Far off, and thinking of that voice, shall say, A blessing rest upon thy locks of gray!

ELEGY WRITTEN AT THE HOTWELLS, BRISTOL,

JULY, 1789.

INSCRIBED TO THE REV. W. HOWLEY.[16]

The morning wakes in shadowy mantle gray, 1 The darksome woods their glimmering skirts unfold, p.r.o.ne from the cliff the falcon wheels her way, And long and loud the bell's slow chime is tolled.

The reddening light gains fast upon the skies, 2 And far away the glistening vapours sail, Down the rough steep the accustomed hedger hies, And the stream winds in brightness through the vale.

Mark how those riven rocks on either sh.o.r.e 3 Uplift their bleak and furrowed fronts on high; How proudly desolate their foreheads h.o.a.r, That meet the earliest sunbeams of the sky!

Bound for yon dusky mart,[17] with pennants gay, 4 The tall bark, on the winding water's line, Between the riven cliffs slow plies her way, And peering on the sight the white sails s.h.i.+ne.

Alas! for those by drooping sickness worn, 5 Who now come forth to meet the cheering ray; And feel the fragrance of the tepid morn Round their torn b.r.e.a.s.t.s and throbbing temples play![18]

Perhaps they muse with a desponding sigh 6 On the cold vault that shall their bones inurn; Whilst every breeze seems, as it whispers by, To breathe of comfort never to return.

Yet oft, as sadly thronging dreams arise, 7 Awhile forgetful of their pain they gaze, A transient l.u.s.tre lights their faded eyes, And o'er their cheek the tender hectic plays.

The purple morn that paints with sidelong gleam 8 The cliff's tall crest, the waving woods that ring With songs of birds rejoicing in the beam, Touch soft the wakeful nerve's according string.

Then at sad Meditation's silent hour 9 A thousand wishes steal upon the heart; And, whilst they meekly bend to Heaven's high power, Ah! think 'tis hard, 'tis surely hard to part:

To part from every hope that brought delight, 10 From those that loved them, those they loved so much!

Then Fancy swells the picture on the sight, And softens every scene at every touch.

Sweet as the mellowed woods beneath the moon, 11 Remembrance lends her soft-uniting shades; "Some natural tears she drops, but wipes them soon:"-- The world retires, and its dim prospect fades!

Airs of delight, that soothe the aching sense; 12 Waters of health, that through yon caverns glide; Oh! kindly yet your healing powers dispense, And bring back feeble life's exhausted tide!

Perhaps to these gray rocks and mazy springs 13 Some heart may come, warmed with the purest fire; For whom bright Fancy plumes her radiant wings, And warbling Muses wake the lonely lyre.

Some orphan Maid, deceived in early youth, 14 Pale o'er yon spring may hang in mute distress; Who dream of faith, of happiness, and truth, Of love--that Virtue would protect and bless.

Some musing Youth in silence there may bend, 15 Untimely stricken by sharp Sorrow's dart; For friends.h.i.+p formed, yet left without a friend, And bearing still the arrow at his heart.

Such was lamented RUSSELL'S[19] early doom, 16 The gay companion of our stripling prime; Ev'n so he sank unwept into the tomb, And o'er his head closed the dark gulph of time.

Hither he came, a wan and weary guest, 17 A softening balm for many a wound to crave; And wooed the suns.h.i.+ne to his aching breast, Which now seems smiling on his verdant grave!

He heard the whispering winds that now I hear, 18 As, boding much, along these hills he pa.s.sed; Yet ah! how mournful did they meet his ear On that sad morn he heard them for the last!

So sinks the scene, like a departed dream, 19 Since late we sojourned blythe in Wykeham's bowers,[20]

Or heard the merry bells by Isis' stream, And thought our way was strewed with fairy flowers!

Of those with whom we played upon the lawn 20 Of early life, in the fresh morning played; Alas! how many, since that vernal dawn, Like thee, poor RUSSELL, 'neath the turf are laid!

Joyous a while they wandered hand in hand, 21 By friends.h.i.+p led along the springtide plain; How oft did Fancy wake her transports bland, And on the lids the glistening tear detain!

I yet survive, now musing other song, 22 Than that which early pleased my vacant years; Thinking how days and hours have pa.s.sed along, Marked by much pleasure some, and some by tears!

Thankful, that to these verdant scenes I owe 23 That he[21] whom late I saw all drooping pale, Raised from the couch of sickness and of woe, Now lives with me these mantling views to hail.

Thankful, that still the landscape beaming bright, 24 Of pendant mountain, or of woodland gray, Can wake the wonted sense of pure delight, And charm a while my solitary way.

Enough:--through the high heaven the proud sun rides, 25 My wandering steps their silent path pursue Back to the crowded world where fortune guides: Clifton, to thy white rocks and woods adieu!

[16] Afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.

[17] Bristol.

[18] From a latin prize poem, by W. Jackson--

"Et lacerum Pectus zephyri mulcere tepentes."

[19] The Rev. Thomas Russell, Fellow of New College, Oxford, author of some beautiful sonnets, died at the Hotwells 1788, in the twenty-sixth year of his age. His poems were first published by Mr Howley, with whom we wooed the Muses together on the banks of Itchen. Headley was a pupil of Dr Parr.

[20] Winchester College.

[21] The Rev. Dr Howley, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.

MONODY ON HENRY HEADLEY.

To every gentle Muse in vain allied, In youth's full early morning HEADLEY died!

Too long had sickness left her pining trace, With slow, still touch, on each decaying grace: Untimely sorrow marked his thoughtful mien!