All things through thee take nobler form, The mill-round of our fate appears Me too thy nobleness has taught The fountains of my hidden life Of such is your spirit's comrade, HOWARD ARNOLD WALTER ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PORTRAIT O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, But gladly, as the precept were her own: A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, Life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss. Ah, that maternal smile! it answers "Yes." I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was; where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished I long believed, Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, "T is now become a history little known That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Not scorned in heaven though little noticed here. Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? But no what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. And now, farewell! Time unrevoked has run And while the wings of Fancy still are free, WILLIAM COWPER A MAN (For My Father) I LISTENED to them talking, talking, It seemed that furtive things began to crawl, The petty jealousies, the smiling hates Shot forth their venom as they passed the plates, And hissed and struck again, aroused, alert; Using their feeble smartness as a screen To shield their poisonous stabbing, to divert From what was cowardly and black and mean. Then I thought of you, Your gentle soul, Your large and quiet kindness; You could not think that falsehood was untrue, Nor that deceit would ever dare betray you. |