.

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Raising their little hands when grace is said;

      Whilst she who taught them to lift up their hearts

      In prayer, and to "remember, in their youth,"

      God, "their Creator," mistress of the scene

      (Whom I remember once as young), looks on,

      Blessing them in the silence of her heart.

      And we too bless them. Oh! away, away!

      Cant, heartless cant, and that economy,

      Cold, and miscalled "political," away!

      Let the bells ring – a Puritan turns pale

      To hear the festive sound: let the bells ring —

      A Christian loves them; and this holiday

      Remembers him, while sighs unbidden steal,

      Of life's departing and departed days,

      When he himself was young, and heard the bells,

      In unison with feelings of his heart —

      His first pure Christian feelings, hallowing

      The harmonious sound!

      And, children, now rejoice, —

      Now, for the holidays of life are few;

      Nor let the rustic minstrel tune, in vain,

      The cracked church-viol, resonant to-day

      Of mirth, though humble! Let the fiddle scrape

      Its merriment, and let the joyous group

      Dance in a round, for soon the ills of life

      Will come! Enough, if one day in the year,

      If one brief day, of this brief life, be given

      To mirth as innocent as yours! But, lo!

      That ancient woman, leaning on her staff!

      Pale, on her crutch she rests one withered hand;

      One withered hand, which Gerard Dow might paint,

      Even its blue veins! And who is she? The nurse

      Of the fair mistress of the scene: she led

      Her tottering steps in infancy – she spelt

      Her earliest lesson to her; and she now

      Leans from that open window, while she thinks —

      When summer comes again, the turf will lie

      On my cold breast; but I rejoice to see

      My child thus leading on the progeny

      Of her poor neighbours in the peaceful path

      Of humble virtue! I shall be at rest,

      Perhaps, when next they meet; but my last prayer

      Is with them, and the mistress of this home.

      "The innocent are gay,"36 gay as the lark

      That sings in morn's first sunshine; and why not?

      But may they ne'er forget, as life steals on,

      In age, the lessons they have learned in youth!

      How false the charge, how foul the calumny

      On England's generous aristocracy,

      That, wrapped in sordid, selfish apathy,

      They feel not for the poor!

      Ask, is it true?

      Lord of the whirling wheels, the charge is false!37

      Ten thousand charities adorn the land,

      Beyond thy cold conception, from this source.

      What cottage child but has been neatly clad,

      And taught its earliest lesson, from their care?

      Witness that schoolhouse, mantled with festoon

      Of various plants, which fancifully wreath

      Its window-mullions, and that rustic porch,

      Whence the low hum of infant voices blend

      With airs of spring, without. Now, all alive,

      The green sward rings with play, among the shrubs —

      Hushed the long murmur of the morning task,

      Before the pensive matron's desk!

      But turn,

      And mark that aged widow! By her side

      Is God's own Word; and, lo! the spectacles

      Are yet upon the page. Her daughter kneels

      And prays beside her! Many years have shed

      Their snow so silently and softly down

      Upon her head, that Time, as if to gaze,

      Seems for a moment to suspend his flight

      Onward, in reverence to those few gray hairs,

      That steal beneath her cap, white as its snow.

      Whilst the expiring lamp is kept alive,

      Thus feebly, by a duteous daughter's love,

      Her last faint prayer, ere all is dark on earth,

      Will to the God of heaven ascend, for those

      Whose comforts smoothed her silent bed.

      And thou,

      Witness Elysian Tempe of Stourhead!

      Oh, not because, with bland and gentle smile,

      Adding a radiance to the look of age,

      Like eve's still light, thy liberal master spreads

      His lettered treasures; – not because his search

      Has dived the Druid mound, illustrating

      His country's annals, and the monuments

      Of darkest ages; – not because his woods

      Wave o'er the dripping cavern of Old Stour,

      Where classic temples gleam along the edge

      Of the clear waters, winding beautiful; —

      Oh! not because the works of breathing art,

      Of Poussin, Rubens, Rembrandt, Gainsborough,

      Start, like creations, from the silent walls;

      To thee, this tribute of respect and love,

      Beloved, benevolent, and generous Hoare,

      Grateful I pay; – but that, when thou art dead

      (Late may it be!) the poor man's tear will fall,

      And his voice falter, when he speaks of thee.38

      And witness thou, magnificent abode,

      Where virtuous Ken,39 with his gray hairs and shroud,

      Came, for a shelter from the world's rude storm,

      In his old age, leaving his palace-throne,

      Having no spot where he might lay his head,

      In all the earth! Oh, witness thou, the seat

      Of his first friend, his friend from schoolboy days!

      Oh! witness thou, if one who wanted bread

      Has not found shelter there; if one poor man

      Has been deserted in his hour of need;

      Or one poor child been left without a guide,

      A father, an instructor, and a friend;

      In him, the pastor, and distributor40

      Of СКАЧАТЬ