The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2. Bowles William Lisle

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      As dews on the cold turf! And witness thou,

      Marston,41 the seat of my kind, honoured friend —

      My kind and honoured friend, from youthful days.

      Then wandering on the banks of Rhine, we saw

      Cities and spires, beneath the mountains blue,

      Gleaming; or vineyards creep from rock to rock;

      Or unknown castles hang, as if in clouds:

      Or heard the roaring of the cataract,

      Far off, beneath the dark defile or gloom

      Of ancient forests; till behold, in light,

      Foaming and flashing, with enormous sweep,

      Through the rent rocks – where, o'er the mist of spray

      The rainbow, like a fairy in her bower,

      Is sleeping, while it roars – that volume vast,

      White, and with thunder's deafening roar, comes down.

      Live long, live happy, till thy journey close,

      Calm as the light of day! Yet witness thou,

      The seat of noble ancestry, the seat

      Of science, honoured by the name of Boyle,

      Though many sorrows, since we met in youth,

      Have pressed thy generous master's manly heart,

      Witness, the partner of his joys and griefs;

      Witness the grateful tenantry, the home

      Of the poor man, the children of that school —

      Still warm benevolence sits smiling there.

      And witness, the fair mansion, on the edge

      Of those chalk hills, which, from my garden walk,

      Daily I see, whose gentle mistress droops42

      With her own griefs, yet never turns her look

      From others' sorrows; on whose lids the tear

      Shines yet more lovely than the light of youth.

      And many a cottage-garden smiles, whose flowers

      Invite the music of the morning bee.

      And many a fireside has shot out, at eve,

      Its light upon the old man's withered hand

      And pallid cheek from their benevolence —

      Sad as is still the parish-pauper's home —

      Who shed around their patrimonial seats

      The light of heaven-descending Charity.

      And every feeling of the Christian heart

      Would rise accusing, could I pass unsung,

      Thee,43 fair as Charity's own form, who late

      Didst stand beneath the porch of that gray fane,

      Soliciting44 a mite from all who passed,

      With such a smile, as to refuse would seem

      To do a wrong to Charity herself.

      How many blessings, silent and unheard,

      The mistress of the lonely parsonage

      Dispenses, when she takes her daily round

      Among the aged and the sick, whose prayers

      And blessings are her only recompense!

      How many pastors, by cold obloquy

      And senseless hate reviled, tread the same path

      Of charity in silence, taught by Him

      Who was reviled not to revile again;

      And leaving to a righteous God their cause!

      Come, let us, with the pencil in our hand,

      Portray a character. What book is this?

      Rector of Overton!45 I know him not;

      But well I know the Vicar, and a man

      More worthy of that name, and worthier still

      To grace a higher station of our Church,

      None knows; – a friend and father to the poor,

      A scholar, unobtrusive, yet profound,

      "As e'er my conversation coped withal;"

      His piety unvarnished, but sincere.46

      Killarney's lake,47 and Scotia's hills,48 have heard

      His summer-wandering reed; nor on the themes

      Of hallowed inspiration49 has his harp

      Been silent, though ten thousand jangling strings —

      When all are poets in this land of song,

      And every field chinks with its grasshopper —

      Have well-nigh drowned the tones; but poesy

      Mingles, at eventide, with many a mood

      Of stirring fancy, on his silent heart

      When o'er those bleak and barren downs, in rain

      Or sunshine, where the giant Wansdeck sweeps,

      Homewards he bends his solitary way.

      Live long; and late may the old villager

      Look on thy stone, amid the churchyard grass,

      Remembering years of kindness, and the tongue,

      Eloquent of his Maker, when he sat

      At church, and heard the undivided code

      Of apostolic truth – of hope, of faith,

      Of charity – the end and test of all.

      Live long; and though I proudly might recall

      The names of many friends – like thee, sincere

      And pious, and in solitude adorned

      With rare accomplishments – this grateful praise

      Accept, congenial to the poet's theme;

      For well I know, haply when I am dead,

      And in my shroud, whene'er thy homeward path

      Lies o'er those hills, and thou shalt cast a look

      Back on our garden-slope, and Bremhill tower,

      Thou wilt remember me, and many a day

      There passed in converse and sweet harmony.

      A truce to satire, and to harsh reproof,

      Severer arguments, that have detained

      The unwilling Muse too long: – come, while the clouds

      Work heavy and the winds at intervals,

      Pipe, and at intervals sink in a sigh,

      As breathed o'er sounds and shadows of the past —

      Change we our style and measure, to relate

      A village tale of a poor Cornish maid,

      And of her prayer-book. It is sad, but true;

      And simply told, though not in lady phrase

      Of modish song, may touch some gentle heart,

      And wake an interest, when description fails.

      PART THIRD

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