THE RECLUSE. A FOUNTAIN issuing into light, Flowers on its grassy margin sprang, Flies o'er its eddying surface play'd, Birds midst the alder-branches sang, Flocks through the verdant meadows stray'd; The weary there lay down to rest, And there the halcyon built her nest. 'Twas beautiful, to stand and watch The fountain's crystal turn to gems, And from the sky such colours catch, Yet all was cold and curious art, That charm'd the eye, but miss'd the heart. Dearer to me the little stream, Whose unimprison'd waters run, Wild as the changes of a dream, By rock and glen, through shade and sun; Its lovely links had power to bind In welcome chains my wandering mind. So thought I, when I saw the face -Her name and date from me conceal'd, But not her story ;—she had been 1829. She cast her glory round a court, From din, and pageantry, and strife, Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains, She treads the paths of lowly life, Yet in a bosom-circle reigns, No fountain scattering diamond showers, Once born, the moment dies not, While all is change beneath the sky, Fix'd like the sun, as learned sages prove, Though from our moving world he seems to move, There is no past; from nature's birth, And, having reach'd it late or soon, Caught from the fountain-light of noon, Time is not progress, but amount; Of wealth untold, to clime nor class confined, For ever spending, never spent, Th' august inheritance of all mankind. Though history, on her faded scrolls, Fragments of facts, and wrecks of names enrols, Time's indefatigable fingers write Men's meanest actions on their souls, In lines which not himself can blot : These the last day shall bring to light, Though through long centuries forgot, When hearts and sepulchres are bared to sight. Then, having fill'd his measure up, Amidst his own assembled progeny, (All that have been, that are, or yet may be,) Before the great white throne, To Him who sits thereon, Time shall present th' amalgamating cup, In which, as in a crucible, He hid the moments as they fell, More precious than Golconda's gems, 1833. Though to our eyes they seem'd to pass Of millions multiplied by millions, none All shall appear at once, all shall appear as one. Ah! then shall each of Adam's race, In that concenter'd instant, trace, Upon the tablet of his mind, His whole existence in a thought combined, -As in the image-chamber of the eye, Then shall be shown, that but in name TO A FRIEND, WITH A COPY OF THE FOREGOING LUCUBRATION. MAY she for whom these lines are penn'd, THE RETREAT. Written on finding a copy of verses in a small edifice so named, at Raithby, in Lincolnshire, the seat of R. C. Brackenbury, to whom the author made a visit in the autumn of 1815, after a severe illness. A STRANGER sat down in the lonely retreat ;— What ails thee, O stranger! but open thine eye, The sun in full glory is marching on high The woods, in their wildest luxuriance display'd, Are stretching their coverts of green, While bright from the depth of their innermost shade, Yon mirror of waters is seen. There richly reflected, the mansion, the lawn, By nature's own pencil enchantingly drawn, The birds seem to fly in a concave below, The current, unrippled by volatile airs, |