170. THE ARCHITECTS.
LL are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time;
Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.
For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials fill'd;
Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.
Truly shape and fashion these;
Leave no yawning gaps between ;
Think not, because no man sees,
Such things will remain unseen.
Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time;
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base
And ascending and secure
Shall to-morrow find its place.
Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky.
171. DREAM OF THE CONDEMNED FELON. [From THE BOROUGH.]
ES! even in sleep the impressions all remain,
He hears the sentence and he feels the chain; He sees the judge and jury when he shakes, And loudly cries, "Not guilty," and awakes: Then chilling tremblings o'er his body creep, Till worn-out nature is compelled to sleep.
Now comes the dream again: it shows each scene, With each small circumstance that comes betweenThe call to suffering, and the very deed— There crowds go with him, follow, and precede; Some heartless shout, some pity, all condemn, While he in fancied envy looks at them; He seems the place for that sad act to see, And dreams the very thirst which then will be; A priest attends-it seems the one he knew In his best days, beneath whose care he grew. At this his terrors take a sudden flight; He sees his native village with delight; The house, the chamber where he once arrayed His youthful person; where he knelt and prayed; Then too the comforts he enjoyed at home; The days of joy; the joys themselves are come; The hours of innocence; the timid look Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took, And told his hope; her trembling joy appears, Her forced reserve and his retreating fears. All now are present-'tis a moment's gleam Of former sunshine-stay, delightful dream! Let him within his pleasant garden walk, Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk.
Yes! all are with him now, and all the while
Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile;
Then come his sister and his village friend,
And he will now the sweetest moments spend
Life has to yield: no, never will he find
Again on earth such pleasure in his mind;
He goes through shrubby walks these friends among,
Love in their looks and honour on the tongue;
Nay, there's a charm beyond what nature shows,
The bloom is softer and more sweetly glows ;
Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire
For more than true and honest hearts require,
They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed
Through the green lane, then linger in the mead
Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom,
And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum ;
Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass,
And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass,
Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread,
And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed;
Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way
O'er its rough bridge, and there behold the bay ;
The ocean smiling to the fervid sun,
The waves that faintly fall and slowly run,
The ships at distance, and the boats at hand;
And now they walk upon the sea-side sand,
Counting the number, and what kind they be,
Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea;
Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold
The glittering waters on the shingles rolled;
The timid girls, half dreading their design,
Dip the small foot in the retarded brine,
And search for crimson weeds, which spreading flow,
Or lie like pictures on the sand below;
With all those bright red pebbles that the sun
Through the small waves so softly shines upon;
And those live lucid jellies which the eye
Delights to trace as they swim glittering by;
Pearl shells and rubied star-fish they admire,
And will arrange above the parlour fire.
Tokens of bliss !-Oh, horrible! a wave
Rears as it rises !" Save me, Edward, save,"
She cries.-Alas! the watchman on his way
Calls and lets in-truth, terror, and the day.
172. TRUE GLORY.
[From PARADISE REGAINED.]
OR what is glory, but the people's praise,
And what the people, but a herd confused, A miscellaneous rabble, who extol
Things vulgar, and well weighed, scarce worth the praise?
They praise and they admire they know not what,
And know not whom, but as one leads the other :
And what delight to be by such extolled,
To live upon their tongues, and be their talk,
Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise,—
His lot who dares be singularly good?
The intelligent among them and the wise
Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised.
This is true glory and renown; when God,
Looking on the earth, with approbation marks
The just man, and divulges him through heaven
To all his angels, who with true applause
Recount his praises.
They err, who count it glorious to subdue
By conquest far and wide: to overrun
Large countries, and in fields great battles win,
Great cities by assault: what do these worthies
But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave?
But if there be in glory aught of good,
It may by means far different be attained,
Without ambition, war, or violence :
By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent,
By patience, temperance.
173. ROBIN HOOD.
O! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have Winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
|