Remembrance! as we glide along, For him suspend the dashing oar, And pray that never child of Song May know his freezing sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound, The dripping of the oar suspended!
--The evening darkness gathers round By virtue"s holiest powers attended.
[3] Collins"s Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his life-time. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
"Why William, on that old grey stone, "Thus for the length of half a day, "Why William, sit you thus alone, "And dream your time away?
"Where are your books? that light bequeath"d "To beings else forlorn and blind!
"Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath"d "From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your mother earth, "As if she for no purpose bore you; "As if you were her first-born birth, "And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, And thus I made reply.
"The eye it cannot chuse but see, "We cannot bid the ear be still; "Our bodies feel, where"er they be, "Against, or with our will.
"Nor less I deem that there are powers, "Which of themselves our minds impress, "That we can feed this mind of ours, "In a wise pa.s.siveness.
"Think you, mid all this mighty sum "Of things for ever speaking, "That nothing of itself will come, "But we must still be seeking?
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, "Conversing as I may, "I sit upon this old grey stone, "And dream my time away."
THE TABLES TURNED; AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks, Why all this toil and trouble?
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you"ll grow double.
The sun above the mountain"s head, A freshening l.u.s.tre mellow, Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! "tis a dull and endless strife, Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music; on my life There"s more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
And he is no mean preacher; Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless-- Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by chearfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man; Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; --We murder to dissect.
Enough of science and of art; Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
OLD MAN TRAVELLING; ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY, A SKETCH.
The little hedge-row birds, That peck along the road, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression; every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought--He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten, one to whom Long patience has such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing, of which He hath no need. He is by nature led To peace so perfect, that the young behold With envy, what the old man hardly feels.
--I asked him whither he was bound, and what The object of his journey; he replied "Sir! I am going many miles to take "A last leave of my son, a mariner, "Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth, And there is dying in an hospital."
THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN
[_When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the Desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other Tribes of Indians. It is unnecessary to add that the females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, _Hearne"s Journey from Hudson"s Bay to the Northern Ocean_. When the Northern Lights, as the same writer informs us, vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise. This circ.u.mstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the following poem._]
Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away!
In sleep I heard the northern gleams; The stars they were among my dreams; In sleep did I behold the skies, I saw the crackling flashes drive; And yet they are upon my eyes, And yet I am alive.
Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away!
My fire is dead: it knew no pain; Yet is it dead, and I remain.
All stiff with ice the ashes lie; And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire; But they to me no joy can give, No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie; Alone I cannot fear to die.
Alas! you might have dragged me on Another day, a single one!
Too soon despair o"er me prevailed; Too soon my heartless spirit failed; When you were gone my limbs were stronger, And Oh how grievously I rue, That, afterwards, a little longer, My friends, I did not follow you!
For strong and without pain I lay, My friends, when you were gone away.
My child! they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my babe they took, On me how strangely did he look!
Through his whole body something ran, A most strange something did I see; --As if he strove to be a man, That he might pull the sledge for me.
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a little child.
My little joy! my little pride!
In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me; I feel I must have died with thee.
Oh wind that o"er my head art flying, The way my friends their course did bend, I should not feel the pain of dying, Could I with thee a message send.
Too soon, my friends, you went away; For I had many things to say.
I"ll follow you across the snow, You travel heavily and slow: In spite of all my weary pain, I"ll look upon your tents again.
My fire is dead, and snowy white The water which beside it stood; The wolf has come to me to-night, And he has stolen away my food.
For ever left alone am I, Then wherefore should I fear to die?
My journey will be shortly run, I shall not see another sun, I cannot lift my limbs to know If they have any life or no.
My poor forsaken child! if I For once could have thee close to me, With happy heart I then would die, And my last thoughts would happy be, I feel my body die away, I shall not see another day.