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Or blight that fond memorial;—the trees grew,
FILIAL PIETY. On the Wayside between Preston and Liverpool. UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold; Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth; That Pile of Turf is half a century old : Yes, Traveller ! fifty winters have been told 5 Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 'Gainst him who raised it,—his last work on
earth: Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, Through reverence, touch it only to repair 10 Its waste.—Though crumbling with each breath
of air, In annual renovation thus it standsRude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there, And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare.
TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT. Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq.,
for St. John's College, Cambridge. Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath
Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy
place; And, if Time spare the colours for the grace Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt, Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms
melt And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream, And think and feel as once the Poet felt. Whate'er thy fate, those features have not
grown Unrecognised through many a household tear More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of
dew By morning shed around a flower half-blown; Tears of delight, that testified how true To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!
Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold II Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow ’Mid its own bush of leafless eglantineSpeak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
TO B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE ON THE ISLAND OF ST.
HAYDON! let worthier judges praise the skill .
And before him doth dawn perpetual run.
June 11, 1831.
A Poet !-He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand-must
laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, 5 And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free 10 Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
XXVIII. The most alluring clouds that mount the sky Owe to a troubled element their forms, Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye We watch their splendour, shall we covet storms, And wish the Lord of day his slow decline s Would hasten, that such pomp may float on
high? Behold, already they forget to shine, Dissolve—and leave to him who gazed a sigh. Not loth to thank each moment for its boon Of pure delight, come whensoe'er it may, 10 Peace let us seek,-to stedfast things attune Calm expectations, leaving to the gay And volatile their love of transient bowers, The house that cannot pass away be ours.
ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON
UPON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON. By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse
stand On ground yet strewn with their last battle's
wreck ; Let the Steed glory while his Master's hand Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck; But by the Chieftain's look, though at his side 5 Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a
Is given to triumph and all human pride!. Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy
speck In his calm presence! Him the mighty deed Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's rest, 10 As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame In Heaven; hence no one blushes for thy name, Conqueror, ʼmid some sad thoughts, divinely blest!
Aug. 31, 1840.
COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838. LIFE with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide; And sullenness avoid, as now they shun Pale twilight's lingering glooms,—and in the
XXXI. Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like
trance, One upward hand, as if she needed rest