......"gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.”
Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and near,
The poor Old Man is greater than he seems :
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams ;
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.
Rich are his walks with supernatural chear;
The region of his inner spirit teems
With vital sounds, and monitory gleams
Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.
He the seven birds hath seen that never part,
Seen the Seven WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds,
And counted them : and oftentimes will start-
For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS,
Doom'd, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart
To chase for ever, on aërial grounds.
High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you !
Thus in your Books the record shall be found,
“ A Watchword was pronounced, a potent sound,
ARMINIUS !—all the people quaked like dew
Stirr'd by the breeze—they rose, a Nation, true,
True to itself—the mighty Germany,
She of the Danube and the Northern sea,
She rose,—and off at once the yoke she threw.
All power was given her in the dreadful trance —
Those new-born Kings she wither'd like a flame.”
-Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shame
To that Bavarian, who did first advance
His banner in accursed league with France,
First open Traitor to her sacred name !
SONNET,
TO THOMAS CLARKSON,
On the final passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade,
March, 1807.
Clarkson! it was an obstinate Hill to climb;
How toilsome, nay how dire it was, by Thee
Is known,-by none, perhaps, so feelingly;
But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime,
Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime,
Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat,
Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat,
First roused thee.—O true yoke-fellow of Time
With unabating effort, see, the palm
Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn!
The bloody Writing is for ever torn,
And Thou henceforth shalt have a good Man's calm,
A great Man's happiness; thy zeal shall find
Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind !
Once in a lonely Hamlet I sojourn'd
In which a Lady driv'n from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs, with which she mourn’d,
In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, dwelling upon English ground,
Where she was childless, daily did repair
To a poor neighbouring Cottage ; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.
Once did I see her clasp the Child about,
And take it to herself; and I, next day,
Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion out
Such things as she unto this Child might say:
And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess’d,
My song the workings of her heart express'd.
“Dear Babe, thou Daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy Mother!
An Infant's face and looks are thine;
And sure a Mother's heart is mine:
Thy own dear Mother's far away,
At labour in the harvest-field:
Thy little Sister is at play ;-
What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if Thou wouldst be
One little hour a child to me!
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