While musing here I sit in shadow cool, I ask what warrant fixed them (like a spell Their peace, perhaps, our lightest footfall marred; Thus, and unable to complain, they fared, While not one joy of ours by them was shared. Is there a cherished bird (I venture now To snatch a sprig from Chaucer's reverend brow)-Is there a brilliant fondling of the cage, Though sure of plaudits on his costly stage, Though fed with dainties from the snow-white hand But gladly would escape; and, if need were, Into strange woods, where he at large may live The snail the house he carries on his back; All ranks! What Sovereign, worthy of the name, But most the Bard is true to inborn right, Lark of the dawn, and Philomel of night, Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch For the dear blessings of a lowly couch, A natural meal-days, months, from Nature's hand; That life-the flowery path that winds by stealth--- Attuned to verse that, crowning light Distress Give me the humblest note of those sad strains In a deep vision's intellectual scene, Such earnest longings and regrets as keen Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade; A doleful bower for penitential song, Where Man and Muse complained of mutual wrong; And antique towers nodded their foreheads high, But Fortune, who had long been used to sport The remnant of his days at least was true; You, Muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest! Far happier they who, fixing hope and aim On the humanities of peaceful fame, Enter betimes with more than martial fire The generous course, aspire, and still aspire ; Stifle the contradictions of their fate, And to one purpose cleave, their Being's godlike mate! Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid brow * 1829. * There is now, alas no possibility of the anticipation, with which the above Epistle concludes, being realised: nor were the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom they were intended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, on her way from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply lamented by all who knew her. Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast; and her great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in the difficult path of life to which she had been called. The opinion she entertained of her own performances, given to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was modest and humble, and, indeed, far below their merits: as is often the case with those who are making trial of their powers, with a hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quality, viz., quickness in he motions of her mind, she had, within the range of the Author's Acquaintance, no equal. XXXVIII. INCIDENT AT BRUGÈS. IN Brugès town is many a street A harp that tuneful prelude made The measure, simple truth to tell, Though from the same grim turret fell The shadow and the song. When silent were both voice and chords, The strain seemed doubly dear, Yet sad as sweet,-for English words Had fallen upon the ear. |