Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance,
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.
The old man still stood talking by my side,
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard, nor word from word could I divide ;
And the whole body of the man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream,
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength by apt admonishment.
My former thoughts returned-the fear that kills,
And hope that is unwilling to be fed ;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills,
And mighty poets in their misery dead.
Perplexed and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
'How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"
He with a smile did then his words repeat,
And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travelled, stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the pools where they abide.
'Once I could meet with them on every side,
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere and find them where I may.'
While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The old man's shape and speech-all troubled me: In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.
And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit man so firm a mind.
'God,' said I, 'be my help and stay secure ;
I'll think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!' 140
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE,
SEPT. 3, 1802.
EARTH has not anything to show more fair;
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty.
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will.
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep,
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
'IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea.
Listen! the mighty being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder everlastingly.
Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine.
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN
REPUBLIC.
ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee
And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.
She was a maiden city, bright and free,
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And, when she took unto herself a mate,
She must espouse the everlasting sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay?
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day.
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once was great is passed away.
TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.—LONDON, 1802.
TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den—
O miserable chieftain, where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee-air, earth, and skies ;
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee. Thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802.
O FRIEND, I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest
For show-mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,
Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
The wealthiest man among us is the best;
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry, and these we adore;
Plain living and high thinking are no more;
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.
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