Part 29 (1/2)

”How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains!

It sounds like stories from the land of spirits If any man obtain that which he merits Or any merit that which he obtains.”

REPLY TO THE ABOVE

For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain!

What would'st thou have a good great man obtain?

Place? t.i.tles? salary? a gilded chain?

Or throne of corses which his sword had slain?

Greatness and goodness are not _means_, but _ends_!

Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? _three_ treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT, And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath: And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH!

Morning Post, Sept. 23,1802.

INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH

This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,-- Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy The small round basin, which this jutting stone Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring, Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath, Send up cold waters to the traveller With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page, As merry and no taller, dances still, Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.

Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss, A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.

Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.

Drink, Pilgrim, here! Here rest! and if thy heart Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound, Or pa.s.sing gale or hum of murmuring bees!

1802.

INSCRIPTION FOR A TIME-PIECE

Now! it is gone.--Our brief hours travel post, Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How:-- But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost To dwell within thee-an eternal NOW!

? 183O.

A TOMBLESS EPITAPH

'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!

(So call him, for so mingling blame with praise And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends, Masking his birth-name, wont to character His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal) 'Tis true that, pa.s.sionate for ancient truths, And honouring with religious love the Great Of older times, he hated to excess, With an unquiet and intolerant scorn, The hollow puppets of an hollow age, Ever idolatrous, and changing ever Its worthless idols! Learning, power, and time, (Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 'tis true, Whole years of weary days, besieged him close, Even to the gates and inlets of his life!

But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm, And with a natural gladness, he maintained The citadel unconquered, and in joy Was strong to follow the delightful Muse.

For not a hidden path, that to the shades Of the beloved Parna.s.sian forest leads, Lurked undiscovered by him; not a rill There issues from the fount of Hippocrene, But he had traced it upward to its source, Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell, Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and culled Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone, Piercing the long-neglected holy cave, The haunt obscure of old Philosophy, He bade with lifted torch its starry walls Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame Of odorous lamps tended by Saint and Sage.