Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly Up to its climax, and then dying proudly? Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load? Who let me taste that more than cordial dram, The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram? Show'd me that epic was of all the king, Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring? You too up-held the veil from Clio's beauty, And pointed out the patriot's stern duty; The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell; The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell
Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen Or known your kindness, what might I have been? What my enjoyments in my youthful years, Bereft of all that now my life endears? And can I e'er these benefits forget? And can I e'er repay the friendly debt? No, doubly no;-yet should these rhymings please, I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease; For I have long time been my fancy feeding With hopes that you would one day think the reading Of my rough verses not an hour mispent; Should it e'er be so, what a rich content! Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires In lucent Thames reflected :-warm desires To see the sun o'er-peep the eastern dimness, And morning-shadows streaking into slimness. Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water; To mark the time as they grow broad and shorter; To feel the air that plays about the hills, And sips its freshness from the little rills; To see high, golden corn wave in the light VOL. II.
When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night, And peers among the cloudlets, jet and white, As though she were reclining in a bed Of bean-blossoms, in heaven freshly shed. No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures, Than I began to think of rhymes and measures; The air that floated by me seem'd to say, "Write! thou wilt never have a better day." And so I did. When many lines I'd written, Though with their grace I was not oversmitten, Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd better Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter. Such an attempt required an inspiration Of a peculiar sort,-a consummation; — Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been Verses from which the soul would never wean; But many days have past since last my heart Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart; By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd; Or by the song of Erin pierced and sadden'd: What time you were before the music sitting, And the rich notes to each sensation fitting. Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes That freshly terminate in open plains, And revell'd in a chat that ceased not, When, at night-fall, among your books we got: No, nor when supper came, nor after that,— Nor when reluctantly I took my hat; No, nor till cordially you shook my hand Mid-way between our homes:- your accents bland Still sounded in my ears, when I no more Could hear your footsteps touch the gravelly floor. Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;
You changed the foot-path for the grassy plain. In those still moments I have wish'd you joys That well you know to honour: "Life's very toys, With him," said I, "will take a pleasant charm; It cannot be that aught will work him harm." These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might:-
Again I shake your hand,-friend Charles, good night.
CHATTERTON! how very sad thy fate! Dear child of sorrow-son of misery! How soon the film of death obscured that eye, Whence Genius mildly flash'd, and high debate. How soon that voice, majestic and elate,
Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate. But this is past: thou art among the stars
Of highest heaven: to thy rolling spheres Thou sweetest singest: nought thy hymning mars, Above the ingrate world and human fears. On earth the good man base detraction bars From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.
YRON! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness, As if soft. Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, Its sides are tinged with a resplendent glow, Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail, And like fair veins in sable marble flow. Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.
PENSER! a jealous honourer of thine,' A forester deep in thy midmost trees,
Did, last eve, ask my promise to refine Some English, that might strive thine ear to please.
* I am enabled by the kindness of Mr. W. A. Longmore, nephew of Mr. J. W. Reynolds, to give an exact transcript of this sonnet as written and given to his mother, by the poet, at his father's house
in Little Britain. The poem is dated, in Mrs. Longmore's hand, Feb. 5th, 1818, but it seems to me impossible that it can have been other than an early production and of the especially Spenserian time.
SPENSER! a jealous honour (sic) of thine A Forester deep in thy midmost Trees
Did last eve ask my promise to refine
Some English that might strive thine ear to please But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible
For an inhabitant of wintry earth
To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill
Fire wing'd and make a morning in his mirth
It is impossible to escape from toil
O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting
The flower must drink the nature of the soil Before it can but (sic) forth its blossoming Be with me in the summer days and I Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.
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