I have not been without apprehension lest in dedicating to you a number of poetical compositions, I should hardly be making a suitable offering to a member of a grave profession, which is especially employed in rubbing off the gloss with which imagination and sentiment invest matters of everyday life, and in reducing statements of fact to their legitimate dimensions. And, besides this, misgivings have not unnaturally come over me on the previous question; viz., whether, after all, the contents of the volume are of sufficient importance to make it an acceptable offering to any friend whatever.
And I must frankly confess, as to the latter difficulty, that certainly it never would have occurred to me thus formally to bring together under one title effusions which I have ever considered ephemeral, had I not lately found from publications of the day, what I never suspected before, that there are critics, and they strangers to me, who think well both of some of my compositions and of my power of composing. It is this commendation, bestowed on me to my surprise as well as to my gratification, which has encouraged me just now to republish what I have from time to time written; and if, in doing so, I shall be found, as is not unlikely, to have formed a volume of unequal merit, my excuse must be, that I despair of discovering any standard by which to discriminate aright between one poetical attempt and another. Accordingly, I am thrown, from the nature of the case, whether I will or no, upon my own judgment, which, biased by the associations of memory and by personal feelings, and measuring, perhaps, by the pleasure of verse-making, the worth of the verse, is disposed either to preserve them all, or to put them all aside.
Here another contrast presents itself between the poetical art and the science of law. Your profession has its definitive authorities, its prescriptions, its precedents, and its principles, by which to determine the claim of its authors on public attention; but what philosopher will undertake to rule matters of taste, or to bring under one idea or method works so different from each other as those of Homer, Aeschylus, and Pindar; of Terence, Ovid, Juvenal, and Martial? What court is sitting, and what code is received, for the satisfactory determination of the poetical pretensions of writers of the day? Whence can we hope to gain a verdict upon them, except from the unscientific tribunals of Public Opinion and of Time? In Poetry, as in Metaphysics, a book is of necessity a venture.
And now, coming to the suitableness of my offering, I know well, my dear Badeley, how little you will be disposed to criticize what comes to you from me, whatever be its intrinsic value. Less still in this case, considering that a chief portion of the volume grew out of that Religious Movement which you yourself, as well as I, so faithfully followed from first to last. And least of all, when I tell you that I wish it to be the poor expression, long-delayed, of my gratitude, never intermitted, for the great services which you rendered to me years ago, by your legal skill and affectionate zeal, in a serious matter in which I found myself in collision with the law of the land. Those services I have ever desired in some public, however inadequate, way to record; and now, as time hurries on and opportunities are few, I am forced to ask you to let me acknowledge my debt to you as I can, since I cannot as I would.
We are now, both of us, in the decline of life: may that warm attachment which has lasted between us inviolate for so many years, be continued, by the mercy of God, to the end of our earthly course, and beyond it!
Verses on Various Occasions
I
Solitude
There is in stillness oft a magic power To calm the breast, when struggling passions lower; Touch’d by its influence, in the soul arise Diviner feelings, kindred with the skies. By this the Arab’s kindling thoughts expand, When circling skies inclose the desert sand; For this the hermit seeks the thickest grove, To catch th’ inspiring glow of heavenly love. It is not solely in the freedom given To purify and fix the heart on heaven; There is a Spirit singing aye in air, That lifts us high above all mortal care. No mortal measure swells that mystic sound, No mortal minstrel breathes such tones around— The Angels’ hymn—the sovereign harmony That guides the rolling orbs along the sky— And hence perchance the tales of saints who view’d And heard Angelic choirs in solitude. By most unheard—because the earthly din Of toil or mirth has charms their ears to win. Alas for man! he knows not of the bliss, The heaven that brightens such a life as this.
II
My Birthday
Let the sun summon all his beams to hold Bright pageant in his court, the cloud-paved sky Earth trim her fields and leaf her copses cold; Till the dull month with summer-splendours vie. It is my Birthday;—and I fain would try, Albeit in rude, in heartfelt strains to praise My God, for He hath shielded wondrously From harm and envious error all my ways, And purged my misty sight, and fixed on heaven my gaze.
2.
Not in that mood, in which the insensate crowd Of wealthy folly hail their natal day— With riot throng, and feast, and greetings loud, Chasing all thoughts of God and heaven away. Poor insect! feebly daring, madly gay, What! joy because the fulness of the year Marks thee for greedy death a riper prey? Is not the silence of the grave too near? Viewest thou the end with glee, meet scene for harrowing fear?
3.
Go then, infatuate! where the festive hall, The curious board, the oblivious wine invite; Speed with obsequious haste at Pleasure’s call, And with thy revels scare
