RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.

[These sonnets, written in the months of April, May, and June, were intended, together with the Records of the Autumn of 1834, to form a continuation of the series entitled “Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial.”]

A VERNAL THOUGHT.

O festal Spring! midst thy victorious glow,
Far-spreading o’er the kindled woods and plains,
And streams, that bound to meet thee from their chains,
Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe
For human hearts, and in the exulting flow
Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone,
Were we of mould all earthly—we alone,
Sever’d from thy great spell, and doom’d to go
Farther, still farther, from our sunny time,
Never to feel the breathings of our prime,
Never to flower again! But we, O Spring!
Cheer’d by deep spirit-whispers not of earth,
Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth,
As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and sing.

TO THE SKY.

Far from the rustlings of the poplar-bough,
Which o’er my opening life wild music made,
Far from the green hills with their heathery glow
And flashing streams whereby my childhood play’d;
In the dim city, midst the sounding flow
Of restless life, to thee in love I turn
O thou rich Sky! and from thy splendours learn
How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and blow.
With thee all shapes of glory find their home,
And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome!
By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove
Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest,
That Nature’s God hath left no spot unbless’d
With founts of beauty for the eye of love.

ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS.[432]

Oh! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those
Who, richly dower’d for life, are call’d to die
Ere the soul’s flame, through storms, hath won repose
In truth’s divinest ether, still and high!
Let their mind’s riches claim a trustful sigh!
Deem them but sad, sweet fragments of a strain,
First notes of some yet struggling harmony,
By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain
Of many inspirations met, and held
From its true sphere,—oh! soon it might have swell’d
Majestically forth! Nor doubt that He,
Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve
Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve
Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts made free!

[432] Written after reading some of the earlier poems of the late Mrs Tighe, which had been lent her in manuscript.

ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A SKYLARK.

Upward and upward still!—in pearly light
The clouds are steep’d! the vernal spirit sighs
With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies
Woo thee, O bird! to thy celestial height.
Bird, piercing heaven with music! thy free flight
Hath meaning for all bosoms; most of all
For those wherein the rapture and the might
Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn,
For their high place. O heirs of genius! learn
From the sky’s bird your way! No joy may fill
Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won
To bless your songs, ye children of the sun!
Save by the unswerving flight, upward and upward still!

A THOUGHT OF THE SEA.

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound,
Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main!
The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound
In my lone being, made thy restless plain
As the vast, shining floor of some dread fane,
All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep!
Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep,
Never to thee did love with silvery chain
Draw my soul’s dream, which through all nature
sought
What waves deny,—some bower of steadfast bliss,
A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought,
As with sweet flowers. But chasten’d hope for this
Now turns from earth’s green valleys, as from thee,
To that sole changeless world, where “there is no more sea.”[433]

[433] [The sight and sound of the sea were always connected in her mind with melancholy associations; with

“Doubt, and something dark.
Of the old sea some reverential fear;”

with images of storm and desolation, of shipwreck and sea-burial: the last, indeed, was so often present to her imagination, and has so frequently been introduced into her poetry, that any one inclined to superstitious presentiments might almost have been disposed to fancy it a foreshadowing of some such dark fate in store either for herself or for some one dear to her. These associations, like those awakened by the wind, were perfectly distinct from any thing of personal timidity, and were the more indefinable, as she had never suffered any calamity at all connected with the sea: none of those she loved had been consigned to its reckless waters, nor had she ever seen it in all its terrors, for the coast on which her early years were passed is by no means a rugged or dangerous one, and is seldom visited by disaster.

“Are all these notes in thee, wild wind! these many notes in thee? Far in our own unfathom’d souls their fount must surely be; Yes! buried, but unsleeping there, thought watches, memory lies, From whose deep urn the tones are poured through all earth’s harmonies.”

In one of her later sonnets on this subject, a chord is struck which may perhaps find an echo in other bosoms:—

——“Yet, O blue deep!” etc.

The same feeling is expressed in one of her letters:—“Did you ever observe how strangely sounds and images of waters—rushing torrents, and troubled ocean-waves, are mingled with the visionary distresses of dreams and delirium? To me there is no more perfect emblem of peace than that expressed by the Scriptural phrase, ‘There shall be no more sea.’”

How forcible is the contrast between the essential womanliness of these associations, so full of “the still, sad music of humanity,” and the “stern delight” with which Lord Byron, in his magnificent apostrophe to the Sea, exults in its ministry of wrath, and recounts, as with a fierce joy, its dealings with its victim, man!

——“The vile strength he wields
For earth’s destruction, thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray,
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth—there let them lay.”
Childe Harold.]

DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT EVENING.

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain-dale,
Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard,
Thy swell, thou deep! when evening calls the bird
And bee to rest; when summer-tints grow pale,
Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil;
And peasant-steps are hastening to repose,
And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close
To the last whisper of the falling gale.
Then midst the dying of all other sound,
When the soul hears thy distant voice profound,
Lone worshipping, and knows that through the night
’Twill worship still, then most its anthem-tone
Speaks to our being of the Eternal One,
Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might.

THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES.

O Cambrian river! with slow music gliding
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin’d towers;
Now midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding,
Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers;
Long flow’d the current of my life’s clear hours
Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my dream,
Tho’ time and change, and other mightier powers,
Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth stream!
Art winding still thy sunny meads along,
Murmuring to cottage and gray hall thy song,
Low, sweet, unchanged. My being’s tide hath pass’d
Through rocks and storms; yet will I not complain,
If, thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain,
Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at last.

ORCHARD-BLOSSOMS.

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight
Of orchard-blooms upon the mossy bough?
Doth their sweet household-smile waft back the glow
Of childhood’s morn—the wondering, fresh delight
In earth’s new colouring, then all strangely bright,
A joy of fairyland? Doth some old nook,
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book,
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak’d blossoms white
Shower’d o’er the turf, and the lone primrose-knot,
And robin’s nest, still faithful to the spot,
And the bee’s dreary chime? O gentle friend!
The world’s cold breath, not Time’s, this life bereaves
Of vernal gifts: time hallows what he leaves,
And will for us endear spring-memories to the end.
8th May.

TO A DISTANT SCENE.

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing,
O far-off, grassy dell?—and dost thou see,
When southern winds first wake their vernal singing,
The star-gleam of the wood anemone?
Doth the shy ringdove haunt thee yet? the bee
Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell
To their wild blooms? and, round my beechen tree,
Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell?
Oh, strange illusion! by the fond heart wrought,
Whose own warm life suffuses nature’s face!
My being’s tide of many-colour’d thought
Hath pass’d from thee; and now, rich, leafy place!
I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene,
Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow’d by what hath been.

A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE.[434]

O vale and lake, within your mountain-urn
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep!
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,
Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep
With light Elysian; for the hues that steep
Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote,
Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep
Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene,
Most loved by evening and her dewy star!
Oh! ne’er may man, with touch unhallow’d, jar
The perfect music of thy charm serene!
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear
Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer.

[434] It would have been very dear to her, could she have foreseen the delicate and appropriate commemoration awarded to her by Mr Wordsworth, in the elegiac stanzas which record the high names of some of his most distinguished contemporaries, (Scott, Coleridge, Lamb, Crabbe, and Hogg,) summoned in quick succession “to the land whence none return:”—

“Mourn rather for that holy spirit,
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep,
For her who, ere her summer faded,
Has sunk into a breathless sleep.”

THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES.

Trees, gracious trees!—how rich a gift ye are,
Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes!
How doth the thought of home, in lands afar,
Link’d with your forms and kindly whisperings rise!
How the whole picture of a childhood lies
Oft midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep!
Till, gazing through them up the summer skies,
As hush’d we stand, a breeze perchance may creep,
And old, sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world
Where memory coils—and lo! at once unfurl’d,
The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight
Spreads clear; while, gushing from their long-seal’d urn,
Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers return,
And a lost mother’s eye gives back its holy light.

THE SAME.

And ye are strong to shelter!—all meek things,
All that need home and covert, love your shade!
Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs,
And nun-like violets, by the winds betray’d.
Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath play’d
With his first primrose-wreath: there love hath sought
A veiling gloom for his unutter’d thought;
And silent grief, of day’s keen glare afraid,
A refuge for her tears; and ofttimes there
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer,
A native temple, solemn, hush’d, and dim;
For wheresoe’er your murmuring tremours thrill
The woody twilight, there man’s heart hath still
Confess’d a spirit’s breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.

ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILDHOOD.

O gentle story of the Indian isle!
I loved thee in my lonely childhood well
On the sea-shore, when day’s last, purple smile
Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell
And dying cadence lent a deeper spell
Unto thine ocean-pictures. Midst thy palms
And strange bright birds, my fancy joy’d to dwell,
And watch the southern cross through midnight calms,
And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless’d
Thy vision of sweet love—kind, trustful, true,
Lighting the citron groves, a heavenly guest,
With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew.
Even then my young heart wept o’er this world’s power
To reach with blight that holiest Eden-flower.

A THOUGHT AT SUNSET.

Still that last look is solemn! though thy rays,
O sun! to-morrow will give back, we know,
The joy to nature’s heart. Yet through the glow
Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze
Tracks thee with love half-fearful: and in days
When earth too much adored thee, what a swell
Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays,
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell,
O sun of Greece! O glorious, festal sun!
Lost, lost!—for them thy golden hours were done,
And darkness lay before them! Happier far
Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain’d,
Not thus for thy last parting unsustain’d—
Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star.

IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE.

Calm scenes of patriarch life! how long a power
Your unworn pastoral images retain
O’er the true heart, which in its childhood’s hour
Drank their pure freshness deep! The camels’ train
Winding in patience o’er the desert plain—
The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock,
The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock—
Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain,
And in the influence of its touch how bless’d,
Are these things link’d, in many a thoughtful breast,
To household-memories, thro’ all change endear’d!
—The matin bird, the ripple of a stream
Beside our native porch, the hearth-light’s gleam,
The voices, earliest by the soul revered!

ATTRACTION OF THE EAST.

What secret current of man’s nature turns
Unto the golden East with ceaseless flow?
Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns,
The pilgrim-spirit would adore and glow;
Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint, and slow,
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind,
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know
Where pass’d the shepherd-fathers of mankind.
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far
Still points to where our alienated home
Lay in bright peace? O thou true Eastern star!
Saviour! atoning Lord! where’er we roam,
Draw still our hearts to thee, else, else how vain
Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain!

TO AN AGED FRIEND.[435]

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard,
Servant of God!—thy day is almost done;
The charm now lingering in thy look and word
Is that which hangs about thy setting sun—
That which the meekness of decay hath won
Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense
Of life immortal—progress but begun—
Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence,
That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline;
And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell
Of more than vernal glory seem to tell,
By thy pure spirit touch’d with light divine;
While we, to whom its parting gleams are given,
Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven.

[435] The sonnet “To an aged Friend,” first published in Mrs Hemans’s Poetical Remains, was addressed to Dr Perceval of Dublin. The sonnet “To the Datura Arborea,” in the same volume, was written after seeing a superb specimen of that striking plant in Dr Perceval’s beautiful greenhouse at Annefield.

Dr Perceval died 3d March 1839, equally respected for his talents and virtues.

A HAPPY HOUR.

[“The ‘Thoughts’ were published in the New Monthly Magazine for March 1835. They are intensely individual. One of them, on Retzsch’s design of the Angel of Death, was suggested by an impressive description in Mrs Jameson’s ‘Visits and Sketches.’ In another, she speculates earnestly and reverently upon the direction of the flight of the spirit when the soul and body shall part; in others again, she recurs tenderly to the haunts and pleasures of childhood, which had of late been present to her memory with more than usual force and freshness. To these the following sonnet refers, dated 21st May 1834, which, as far as I am aware, has not hitherto been published.”—Chorley’s Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 339-40.]

Oh! what a joy to feel that, in my breast,
The founts of childhood’s vernal fancies lay
Still pure, though heavily and long repress’d
By early-blighted leaves, which o’er their way
Dark summer-storms had heaped. But free, glad play
Once more was given them: to the sunshine’s glow,
And the sweet wood-song’s penetrating flow,
And to the wandering primrose-breath of May,
And the rich hawthorn-odours, forth they sprung.
Oh! not less freshly bright, that now a thought
Of spiritual presence o’er them hung,
And of immortal life! a germ, unwrought
In childhood’s soul to power—now strong, serene,
And full of love and light, colouring the whole blest scene.

FOLIAGE.

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive
The joy of verdure! See! the honey’d lime
Showers cool green light o’er banks where wild-flowers weave
Thick tapestry, and woodbine-tendrils climb
Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme.
The rich deep masses of the sycamore
Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime;
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar,
Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale
That sweeps the boughs: the chestnut-flowers are past,
The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail,
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast
From every hedge. Oh! never may we lose,
Dear friend! our fresh delight in simplest nature’s hues!
2d June.

A PRAYER.

Father in heaven! from whom the simplest flower,
On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown,
Draws not sweet odour or young life alone,
But the deep virtue of an inborn power,
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour
With thoughts of Thee—to strengthen, to infuse
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues
That speak thy presence! oh, with such a dower
Grace thou my song!—the precious gift bestow
From thy pure Spirit’s treasury divine,
To wake one tear of purifying flow,
To soften one wrung heart for thee and thine;
So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain
Be as the meek wild-flower’s—if transient, yet not vain.

PRAYER CONTINUED.

“What in me is dark,
Illumine; what is low, raise and support.”—Milton.
Far are the wings of intellect astray
That strive not, Father! to thy heavenly seat;
They rove, but mount not, and the tempests beat
Still on their plumes. O Source of mental day!
Chase from before my spirit’s track the array
Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care,
In troubled hosts that cross the purer air,
And veil the opening of the starry way,
Which brightens on to thee! Oh, guide thou right
My thought’s weak pinion; clear my inward sight,
The eternal springs of beauty to discern,
Welling beside thy throne; unseal mine ear,
Nature’s true oracles in joy to hear;
Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn.

MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION.

Yes! all things tell us of a birthright lost—
A brightness from our nature pass’d away!
Wanderers we seem that from an alien coast
Would turn to where their Father’s mansion lay;
And but by some lone flower, that midst decay
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone,
Revealing dimly, with gray moss o’ergrown,
The faint, worn impress of its glory’s day,
Can trace their once-free heritage, though dreams,
Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams
Flash o’er their souls. But One, oh! One alone,
For us the ruin’d fabric may rebuild,
And bid the wilderness again be fill’d
With Eden-flowers—One mighty to atone!
27th June.[436]

[436] [For this corrected chronology of these sonnets, we are indebted to the Rev. R. P. Graves, Bowness; as also for some improved readings, and the MS. of “A Happy Hour.”]

RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.

THE RETURN TO POETRY.

Once more the eternal melodies from far
Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning,
Through fitful clouds, the pure majestic star
Above the poet’s world serenely burning,
Thither my soul, fresh-wing’d by love, is turning,
As o’er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest,
For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning,
Whence glorious minds o’erlook this earth’s unrest.
Now be the Spirit of heaven’s truth my guide
Through the bright land!—that no brief gladness, found
In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound,
May lure my footsteps from their aim aside:
Their true, high quest—to seek, if ne’er to gain,
The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain.
9th September.

TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING HIS “PRIGIONE.”

There are who climb the mountain’s heathery side,
Or, in life’s vernal strength triumphant, urge
The bark’s fleet rushing through the crested surge,
Or spur the courser’s fiery race of pride
Over the green savannahs, gleaming wide
By some vast lake; yet thus, on foaming sea,
Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free
Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified
By thy brave suffering. Thou from its dark cell
Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude,
Filling the dedicated solitude
With God; and where His Spirit deigns to dwell,
Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie,
There throned in peace divine is liberty!

TO THE SAME, RELEASED.[437]

How flows thy being now?—like some glad hymn
One strain of solemn rapture?—doth thine eye
Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim

O’er the crown’d Alps, that, midst the upper sky,
Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy?
Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound
Unto these dear, parental faces bound,
Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by,
Haunting thy prison-dreams? Where’er thou art,
Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart!
Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod,
For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent
Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent
Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God!

[437] In reference to these two sonnets, Mrs Hemans thus remarks in a letter to a friend;—“I wrote them only a few days ago (almost the first awakening of my spirit, indeed, after a long silence and darkness,) upon reading that delightful book of Pellico’s,[438] which I borrowed in consequence of what you had told me of it. I know not when I have read any thing which has so deeply impressed me: the gradual brightening of heart and soul into ‘the perfect day’ of Christian excellence through all those fiery trials, presents, I think, one of the most touching, as well as instructing pictures ever contemplated. How beautiful is the scene between him and Oroboni, in which they mutually engage to shrink not from the avowal of their faith, should they ever return into the world! But I could say so much on this subject, which has quite taken hold of my thoughts, that it would lead me to fill up my whole letter.”

In another letter she spoke further of this book, as a “work with which I have been both impressed and delighted, and one which I strongly recommend you to procure. It is the Prigioni of Silvio Pellico, a distinguished young Italian poet, who incurred the suspicions of the Austrian government, and was condemned to the penalty of the carcere duro during ten years, of which this most interesting work contains the narrative. It is deeply affecting, from the heart-springing eloquence with which he details his varied sufferings. What forms, however, the great charm of the work, is the gradual and almost unconsciously-revealed exaltation of the sufferer’s character, spiritualised through suffering, into the purest Christian excellence. It is beautiful to see the lessons of trust in God, and love to mankind, brought out more and more into shining light from the depth of the dungeon-gloom; and all this crowned at last by the release of the noble, all-forgiving captive, and his restoration to his aged father and mother, whose venerable faces seem perpetually to have haunted the solitude of his cell. The book is written in the most classic Italian, and will, I am sure, be one to afford you lasting delight.”

[438] “Le mie Prigioni.”

ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE.[439]

’Twas a bright moment of my life when first,
O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing!
That temple-chamber of thy glory burst
On my glad sight! Thy pebbly couch lay glowing
With deep mosaic hues; and, richly throwing
O’er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn’s vest,
High bloom’d the heath-flowers, and the wild wood’s crest
Was touch’d with gold. Flow ever thus, bestowing
Gifts of delight, sweet stream! on all who move
Gently along thy shores; and oh! if love—
True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught—
Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to thee,
Then full of kindness let thy music be,
Singing repose to every troubled thought!

[439] A beautiful valley in the county of Wicklow.

ON THE DATURA ARBOREA.

Majestic plant! such fairy dreams as lie,
Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip’s bell,
Are not thy train. Those flowers of vase-like swell,
Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill’d from high,
And in their monumental purity
Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw
Visions link’d strangely with that silent awe
Which broods o’er sculpture’s works. A meet ally
For those heroic forms, the simply grand
Art thou: and worthy, carved by plastic hand,
Above some kingly poet’s tomb to shine
In spotless marble; honouring one whose strain
Soar’d, upon wings of thought that knew no stain,
Free through the starry heavens of truth divine.

ON READING COLERIDGE’S EPITAPH,

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

“Stop, Christian passer-by! stop, child of God!
And read with gentle breast:—Beneath this sod
A Poet lies, or that which once seem’d he:
Oh! lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.!
That he, who once in vain, with toil of breath,
Found death in life, may here find life in death:
Mercy, for praise—to be forgiven, for fame—
He ask’d and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same.”
Spirit! so oft in radiant freedom soaring
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined,
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind,
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring;
And oft such strains of breezy music pouring,
As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs,
Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring
Awhile that freshness left in Paradise;
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal?
What the rich fruitage to man’s kindred soul
From wealth of thine bequeathed? O strong and high,
And sceptred intellect! thy goal confess’d
Was the Redeemer’s Cross—thy last bequest
One lesson breathing thence profound humility!

DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE.

They float before my soul, the fair designs
Which I would body forth to life and power,
Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines
Portray majestic buildings:—dome and tower,
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower
Points to th’ unchanging stars; and high arcade,
Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made
For holiest rites. Meanwhile the waning hour
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o’erwrought,
I sink. O friend! O link’d with each high thought!
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain
All I may grasp; until thou see’st fulfill’d,
While time and strength allow, my hope to build
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane!
18th October.

HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH NATURE.