I feel almost at times as I have felt In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks, Which do remember me of where I dwelt, Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, My heart with recognition of their looks; But something worthier do such scenes inspire. For much I view which I could most desire, And, above all, a lake I can behold Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. Oh, that thou wert but with me!-but I grow Has lost its praise in this but one regret; I feel an ebb in my philosophy, And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. I did remind thee of our own dear Lake, By the old Hall which may be mine no more. Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore: Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before; Though, like all things which I have loved, they are Resign'd for ever, or divided far. The world is all before me; I but ask Of Nature that with which she will comply-It is but in her summer's sun to bask, To mingle with the quiet of her sky, To see her gentle face without a mask, She was my early friend, and now shall be I can reduce all feelings but this one; And that I would not;-for at length I see Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. The earliest-even the only paths for meHad I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, I had been better than I now can be; The passions which have torn me would have slept; I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. With false Ambition what had I to do? Little with Love, and least of all with Fame; And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, And made me all which they can make-a name. Yet this was not the end I did pursue; My feelings farther.-Nor shall I conceal From life's commencement to its slow decline We are entwined-let death come slow or fast, The tie which bound the first, endures the last! LINES ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL. AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee! And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; Methought that joy and health alone could be Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here. And is it thus ?-it is as I foretold, And shall be more so; for the mind recoils Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold, While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. It is not in the storm nor in the strife We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more, I am too well avenged!-but 'twas my right; Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. Mercy is for the merciful!-if thou Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!- I have had many foes, but none like thee; Hadst nought to dread-in thy own weakness shielded, And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spareAnd thus upon the world-trust in thy truthAnd the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth On things that were not, and on things that are- A monument, whose cement hath been guilt! Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell The means were worthy, and the end is won-- September, 1816. WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. WELL! thou art happy, and I feel Thy husband's blest-and 'twill impart But let them pass-Oh! how my heart I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs, While thou art blest I'll not repine; My heart would soon again be thine. My heart in all-save hope-the same. Yet was I calm: I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime- I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there; One only feeling couldst thou traceThe sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break. November 2, 1808. THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF 66 WAT TYLER.' "A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel! I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.” PREFACE. IT hath been wisely said, that "one fool makes many," and it hath been poetically observed, "That fools rush in where angels fear to tread."-Pope. If Mr Southey had not rushed in where he had no business, and where he never was before, and never will be again, the following poem would not have been written. It is not impossible that it may be as good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance and impious cant, of the poem by the author of "Wat Tyler," are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of himself-containing the quintessence of his own attributes. So much for his poem-a word on his preface. In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed "Satanic School," the which he doth recommend to the notice of the legislature; thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those of an informer. If there exists anywhere, except in his imagination, such a school, is he not sufficiently armed against it by his own intense vanity? The truth is, that there are certain writers whom Mr S. imagines, like Scrub, to have "talked of him; for they laughed consumedly." I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in their individual capacities, have done more good, in the charities of life, to their fellow-creatures in any one year, than Mr Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities in his whole life; and this is saying a great deal. But I have a few questions to ask. 1stly, Is Mr Southey the author of "Wat Tyler?" |