And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging,
Did meet us with unaltered face,
Though we were changed and changing- If, then, some natural shadows spread Our inward prospect over,
The soul's deep valley was not slow Its brightness to recover.
Eternal blessings on the Muse,
And her divine employment!
The blameless Muse, who trains her sons For hope and calm enjoyment;
Albeit sickness, lingering yet,
Has o'er their pillow brooded;
And care waylays their steps-a sprite Not easily eluded.
For thee, O Scott! compelled to change Green Eildon Hill and Cheviot For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes; And leave thy Tweed and Teviot For mild Sorrento's breezy waves; May classic fancy, linking With native fancy her fresh aid, Preserve thy heart from sinking!
O, while they minister to thee, Each vying with the other, May health return to mellow age,
With strength, her venturous brother; And Tiber, and each brook and rill Renowned in song and story, With unimagined beauty shine, Nor lose one ray of glory!
For thou, upon a hundred streams, By tales of love and sorrow, Of faithful love, undaunted truth, Hast shed the power of Yarrow; And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, Wherever they invite thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call With gladness must requite thee.
A gracious welcome shall be thine- Such looks of love and honor As thy own Yarrow gave to me When first I gazed upon her- Beheld what I had feared to see, Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days The holy and the tender.
And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen, Memorial tribute offer?
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self- Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice
That hourly speaks within us?
Nor deem that localized romance Plays false with our affections: Unsanctifies our tears-made sport For fanciful dejections.
Ah, no! the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling Life as she is our changeful life, With friends and kindred dealing.
Bear witness, ye, whose thoughts that day In Yarrow's groves were centred; Who through the silent portal arch
Of mouldering Newark entered; And clomb the winding stair that once Too timidly was mounted
By the "last Minstrel" (not the last!), Ere he his tale recounted!
Flow on for ever, Yarrow stream! Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future bards should chant For simple hearts thy beauty;
To dream-light dear while yet unseen, Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine!
"WITH sacrifice, before the rising morn, Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; And from th' infernal gods, 'mid shades forlorn Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required; Celestial pity I again implore ;-
Restore him to my sight, great Jove, restore!"
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, Her countenance brightens and her eye expands; Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature And she expects the issue in repose. [grows;
Oh terror! what hath she perceived? oh joy! What doth she look on?-whom doth she be- Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy? [hold? His vital presence? his corporeal mould? It is if sense deceive her not-'tis he! And a god leads him-winged Mercury!
Mild Hermes spake-and touched her with his wand
That calms all fear: "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,
Laodamia! that at Jove's command Thy husband walks the paths of upper air; He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space. Accept the gift, behold him face to face!""
Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to Again that consummation she essayed; [clasp; But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp As often as that eager grasp was made. The phantom parts-but parts to reunite, And reassume his place before her sight.
Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone! Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice: This is our palace-yonder is thy throne; Speak! and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. Not to appal me have the gods bestowed This precious boon, and blest a sad abode."
"Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave His gifts imperfect-spectre though I be, I am not sent to scare thee or deceive; But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my worth obtain ; For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.
"Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
Should die; but me the threat could not with- A generous cause a victim did demand; [hold- And forth I leaped upon the sandy plain; A self-devoted chief, by Hector slain." "Supreme of heroes! bravest, noblest, best! Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, Which then, when tens of thousands were de- prest
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore; Thou found'st (and I forgive thee), here thou art, A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.
"But thou, though capable of sternest deed, Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave; And he whose power restores thee hath decreed Thou shouldst elude the malice of the grave; Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
"No spectre greets me-no vain shadow this; Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side! Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss To me, this day a second time thy bride!" Jove frowned in heaven; the conscious Parcæ Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. [threw
"This visage tells thee that my doom is past; Nor should the change be mourned, even if the Of sense were able to return as fast [joys And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys Those raptures duly-Erebus disdains; Calm pleasures there abide-majestic pains.
"Be taught, O faithful consort to control Rebellious passion: for the gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul; A fervent, not ungovernable, love. Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn When I depart, for brief is my sojourn-"
Ah, wherefore?-Did not Hercules by force Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb. Alcestis, a reanimated corse,
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom? Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, And Eson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.
"The gods to us are merciful, and they Yet further may relent; for mightier far Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's
"But if thou goest, I follow." "Peace!" he said. She looked upon him and was calmed and
The ghastly color from his lips had fled; In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive, though a happy place.
He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away-no strife to heal- The past unsighed for, and the future sure; Spake of heroic arts in graver mood Revived, with finer harmony pursued ;
Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams; Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. [day
Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned That privilege by virtue.-"Ill,” said he, "The end of man's existence I discerned, Who from ignoble games and revelry Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, While tears were thy best pastime, day and night;
"And while my youthful peers before my eyes (Each hero following his peculiar bent) Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise By martial sports-or, seated in the tent, 'Chieftains and kings in council were detained, What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.
"The wished-for wind was given;-I then reThe oracle, upon the silent sea; [volved
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be The foremost prow in pressing to the strand- Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
"Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife! On thee too fondly did my memory hang, And on the joys we shared in mortal life- The paths which we had trod-these fountains, flowers--
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.
He through the portal takes his silent way, And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay.
Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, She perished; and, as for wilful crime, By the just gods, whom no weak pity moved, Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.
-Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, As fondly he believes.-Upon the side Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died; And ever, when such stature they had gained That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, The trees' tall summits withered at the sight; A constant interchange of growth and blight!
"SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT."
SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament: Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn- A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too:
Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature, not too bright or good For human nature's daily food- For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death: The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill: A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light.
SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye! -Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh! The difference to me!
GEORGE CANNING was born in London, April | He was hardly a poet, but he wrote two pieces 11, 1770. He was educated at Oxford, where of humorous verse which seem to be immortal. he excelled in the classics. He entered Parliament in 1793, as a supporter of Pitt, and had a long and generally successful political career, being several times a member of the cabinet.
The "Knife-Grinder" was written to ridicule the new philosophy of the French republicans. Canning died August 8, 1827, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
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