While the Virtues thus enweave
Mildly soft the thrilling song,
Winter's long and lonesome eve
Glides unfelt, unseen, along.
Thus when life hath stolen away
And the wintry night is near,
Thus shall Virtue's friendly ray
Age's closing evening cheer.
A lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to Henry, and when he returned them to her, she discovered an additional Stanza, written by him at the bottom of the Song here copied.
Tell her, that wastes her time on me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die, that she
The common fate of all things râre
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair
[Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ;
And teach the Maid
That Goodness Time's rude hand defies;
That Virtue lives when beauty dies.]
"I AM PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD."
WHEN twilight steals along the ground,
And all the bells are ringing round,
One, two, three, four, and five,
I at my study-window sit,
And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit,
To bliss am all alive.
But though impressions calm and sweet
Thrill round my heart a holy heat,
And I am inly glad,
The tear-drop stands in either eye,
And yet I cannot tell thee why,
I am pleased, and yet I'm sad.
The silvery rack that flies away
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray,
Does that disturb my breast?
Nay, what have I, a studious man,
To do with life's unstable plan,
Or pleasure's fading vest?
Is it that here I must not stop,
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top
Must bend my lonely way?
No, surely no! for give but me
My own fire-side, and I shall ba
At home where'er I stray.
Then is it that you steeple there,
With music sweet shall fill the air,
When thou no more canst hear?
Oh, no! oh, no! for then forgiven
I shall be with my God in heaven,
Releas'd from every fear.
Then whence it is I cannot tell,
But there is some mysterious spell
That holds me when I'm glad ;
And so the tear-drop fills my eye,
When yet in truth I know not why,
Or wherefore I am sad.
Ir is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow,
It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is that I am all alone.
In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.
Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallow'd hairs and symphonies
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.
The autumn leaf is sear and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!
The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;
I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh, to sigh with me.
Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's flown,
I weep that I am all alone.
Ir far from me the Fates remove
Domestic peace, connubial love,
The prattling ring, the social cheer,
Affection's voice, affection's tear,
Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart,
To me your iron aid impart!
O teach me, when the nights are chill,
And my fire-side is lone and still;
When to the blaze that crackles near,
I turn a tired and pensive ear,
And Nature conquering bids me sigh,
For love's soft accents whispering nigh;
O teach me, on that heavenly road,
That leads to Truth's occult abode,
To wrap my soul in dreams divine,
Till earth and care no more be mine.
Let bless'd Philosophy impart
Her soothing measures to my heart;
And while with Plato's ravish'd ears
I list the music of the spheres,
Or on the mystic symbols pore,
That hide the Chald's sublimer lore,
I shall not brood on summers gone,
Nor think that I am all alone.
FANNY! upon thy breast I may not lie!
Fanny thou dost not hear me when I speak!
Where art thou, love?-Around I turn my eye,
And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek.
Was it a dream? or did my love behold
Indeed my lonely couch ?-Methought the breath Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold And hollow, and the livery of death
Invested her pale forehead.-Sainted maid!
My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, Through the long wintry night, when wind and
Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid.
Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore
Of better promise; and I know at last,
When the long sabbath of the tomb is past,
We two shall meet in Christ-to part no more.
These Fragments are Henry's latest composition; and were, for the most part, written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the few moments of the last year of his life, in which he suffered himself to follow the impulse of his genius.
SAW'ST thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and paused:
Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream
That skirts the woods it for a moment play'd.
Again, more light it gleam'd,-or does some sprite
Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams,
And lamp far-beaming through the thicket's gloom,
As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice
Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness,
Keeps in their lights at this unwonted hour!
No sprite deludes mine eyes, the beam now glows
With steady lustre.---Can it be the moon,
Who, hidden long by the invidious veil
That blots the heavens, now sets behind the woods?
No moon to night has look'd upon
Of clouds beneath her, answer'd Rudiger,
She has been sleeping with Endymion.
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