Howl round his home, but he remembers it, And thinks upon the suffering mariners.
Three dreadful nights and days we drove along: The fourth the welcome rain came rattling down: The wind had fallen, and through the broken cloud Appeared the bright dilating blue of heaven. Emboldened now, I called the mariners :- Vain were it, should we bend a homeward course, Driven by storm so far: they saw our barks For service of that long and perilous way Disabled, and our food belike to fail. Silent they heard, reluctant in assent; Anon, they shouted joyfully,-I looked And saw a bird sailing slowly over-head, His long white pinions by the sun-beam edged As though with burnished silver;-never yet Heard I so sweet a music as his cry!
Yet three days more, and hope more eager now, Sure of the signs of land,-weed shoals, and birds Who flocked the main, and gentle airs that breathed, Or seemed to breathe, fresh fragrance from the shore. On the last evening a long shadowy line
Skirted the sea;-how fast the night closed in I stood upon the deck, and watched till dawn. But who can tell what feelings filled my heart, When, like a cloud, the distant land arose Grey from the ocean,-when we left the ship, And cleft with rapid oars the shallow wave, And stood triumphant on another world!
AN AUTUMNAL DAY IN AMERICA.
THERE was not, on that day, a speck to stain The azure heaven, the blessed sun, alone,
In unapproachable divinity,
Careered, rejoicing in his fields of light. How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky, The billows heave! one glowing green expanse, Save where along the bending line of shore
Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst, Embathed in emerald glory. All the flocks Of ocean are abroad: like floating foam, The sea-gulls rise and fall, upon the waves; With long protruded neck the cormorants Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. It was a day that sent into the heart
A summer feeling: even the insect swarms From their dark nooks and coverts issue forth, For one day of existence more, and joy; The solitary primrose on the bank,
Seemed now, as though it had no cause to mourn Its bleak autumnal birth; the rocks and shores, And everlasting mountains, had put on
The smile of that glad sun-shine,-they partook The universal blessing.
Stranger. Whom are they ushering from the world, with all This pageantry and long parade of death?
Townsman. A long parade, indeed, Sir, and yet here
You see but half; round yonder bend, it reaches
A furlong farther, carriage behind carriage.
S. 'Tis but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp
Tempts me to stand a gazer.
T. Yonder schoolboy,
Who plays the truant, says the proclamation Of peace was nothing to the show, and even The chairing of the members at election Would not have been a finer sight than this;
* This voluminous biographer and original and vigorous poet, Dr. Southey, Poet Laureat, died, at his residence near Keswick, on the 21st of March. 1843, aged 69. The " Alderman's Funeral," though the production of his early muse, and somewhat sarcastic, may be regarded as a fair specimen of the Laureat's peculiar style of versification. The dialogue, though not so smooth and harmonious as the two preceding selections from "Madoc," is nevertheless exceedingly well adapted for recitation.
Only that red and green are prettier colours Than all this mourning. There, Sir, you behold One of the red-gowned worthies of the city,
and the boast of our exchange,
Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half million, Screwed down in yonder hearse.
S. Then he was born
Under a lucky planet, who to-day Puts mourning on for his inheritance.
T. When first I heard his death, that very wish Leapt to my lips; but now the closing scene Of the comedy, hath wakened wiser thoughts: And I bless God, that, when I go to the grave, There will not be the weight of wealth like his To sink me down.
S. The camel and the needle,
Is that then in your mind?
Is Gospel wisdom. I would ride the camel,— Yea, leap him flying through the needle's eye, As easily, as such a pampered soul
Could pass the narrow gate.
S. Your pardon, Sir,
But sure this lack of Christian charity Looks not like Christian truth.
T. Your pardon too, Sir,
If, with this text before me, I should feel
In the preaching mood! But for these barren fig-trees, With all their flourish and their leafiness,
We have been told their destiny and use, When the axe is laid unto the root, and they
Cumber the earth no longer.
S. Was his wealth
Stored fraudfully, the spoil of orphans wronged, And widows who had none to plead their right? T. All honest, open honourable gains, Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages, Ships to the East and West.
S. Why judge you then so hardly of the dead? T. For what he left
Undone; for sins, not one of which is mentioned In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him,
Believed no other Gods, than those of his Creed: Bowed to no idols,—but his money-bags;
Swore no false oaths, except, at the Custom-house: Kept the Sabbath idle: built a monument To honour his dead father :- :-
Never picked pockets: never bore false witness: And never, with that all-commanding wealth, Coveted his neighbour's house, nor ox, nor ass. S. You knew him then, it seems ? T. As all men know
The virtues of your hundred-thousanders; They never hide their lights beneath a bushel. S. Nay, nay, uncharitable Sir! for often Doth bounty, like a streamlet, flow unseen, Freshening and giving life along its course.
T. We track the streamlet by the brighter green And livelier growth it gives; but as for this- This was a pool that stagnated and stunk, The rains of Heaven engendered nothing in it But slime and foul corruption.
S. Yet even these
Are reservoirs whence public charity Still keeps her channels full.
T. Now, Sir, you touch
Upon the point. This man of half a million Had all these public virtues which you praise, But the poor man never rung at his door; And the old beggar, at the public gate, Who, all the summer long, stands, hat in hand, He knew how vain it was to lift an eye To that hard face. Yet he was always found Among your ten and twenty-pound subscribers, Your benefactors in the newspapers.
His alms were money put to interest In the other world,—donations to keep open A running charity-account with heaven :- Retaining fees against the last assizes,
When, for the trusted talents, strict accounts
Shall be required from all, and the old Arch-Lawyer
Plead his own cause as plaintiff.
S. I must needs
Believe you, Sir; these are your witnesses,
These mourners here, who from their carriages Gape at the gaping crowd. A good march wind Were to be prayed for now, to lend their eyes Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute Bears not a face blanker of all emotion, Than the old servant of the family!
How can this man have lived, that thus his death Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief?
T. Who should lament for him, Sir, in whose heart Love had no place, nor natural charity?
The parlour-spaniel, when she heard his step, Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside With creeping pace; she never raised her eyes To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine. How could it be but thus ! Arithmetic Was the sole science he was ever taught. The multiplication table was his Creed, His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue. When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed The open air and sunshine of the fields, To give his blood its natural spring and play, He in a close and dusky counting-house Smoke-dried, and seared, and shrivelled up So, from the way in which he was trained up, His feet departed not; he toiled and moiled,
Poor muckworm! through his three-score years and ten, And, when the earth shall now be shovelled on him,
If that which served him for a soul were still
Within its husk, 'TWOULD STILL BE, DIRT TO DIRT! S. Yet your next newspapers will blazon him
For industry and honourable wealth
A bright example.
T. Even half a million
Gets him no other praise. But come this way
Some twelve months hence, and you will find his virtues
Trimly set forth in lapidary lines,
Faith, with her torch beside, and little Cupids Dropping upon his urn their marble tears!
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