Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XI.—April, 1851—Vol. II.. Various

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      All amid the summer roses

      In his garden, with his wife,

      Sate the cheerful Thomas Harlowe,

      Glancing backward through his life.

      Woodlarks in the trees were singing,

      And the breezes, low and sweet,

      Wafted down laburnum blossoms,

      Like an offering, at his feet.

      There he sate, good Thomas Harlowe,

      Living o'er the past in thought;

      And old griefs, like mountain summits,

      Golden hues of sunset caught.

      Thus he spake: "The truest poet

      Is the one whose touch reveals

      Those deep springs of human feeling

      Which the conscious heart conceals.

      "Human nature's living fountains,

      Ever-flowing, round us lie,

      Yet the poets seek their waters

      As from cisterns old and dry.

      "Hence they seldom write, my Ellen,

      Aught so full of natural woe,

      As that song which thy good uncle

      Made so many years ago.

      "My sweet wife, my life's companion,

      Canst thou not recall the time

      When we sate beneath the lilacs,

      Listening to that simple rhyme?

      "I was then just five-and-twenty,

      Young in years, but old in sooth;

      Hopeless love had dimmed my manhood,

      Care had saddened all my youth.

      "But that touching, simple ballad,

      Which thy uncle writ and read,

      Like the words of God, creative,

      Gave a life unto the dead.

      "And thenceforth have been so blissful

      All our days, so calm, so bright,

      That it seems like joy to linger

      O'er my young life's early blight.

      "Easy was my father's temper,

      And his being passed along

      Like a streamlet 'neath the willows,

      Lapsing to the linnet's song.

      "With the scholar's tastes and feelings,

      He had all he asked of life

      In his books and in his garden,

      In his child, and gentle wife.

      "He was for the world unfitted;

      For its idols knew no love;

      And, without the serpent's wisdom

      Was as guileless as the dove.

      "Such men are the schemer's victims.

      Trusting to a faithless guide,

      He was lured on to his ruin,

      And a hopeless bankrupt died.

      "Short had been my father's sorrow;

      He had not the strength to face

      What was worse than altered fortune,

      Or than faithless friends – disgrace.

      "He had not the strength to combat

      Through the adverse ranks of life;

      In his prime he died, heart-broken,

      Leaving unto us the strife.

      "I was then a slender stripling,

      Full of life, and hope, and joy;

      But, at once, the cares of manhood

      Crushed the spirit of the boy.

      "Woman oft than man is stronger

      Where are inner foes to quell,

      And my mother rose triumphant,

      When my father, vanquished, fell.

      "All we had we gave up freely,

      That on him might rest less blame;

      And, without a friend in London,

      In the winter, hither came.

      "To the world-commanding London,

      Came as atoms, nothing worth;

      'Mid the strift of myriad workers,

      Our small efforts to put forth.

      "Oh, the hero-strength of woman,

      When her strong affection pleads,

      When she tasks her to endurance

      In the path where duty leads!

      "Fair my mother was and gentle,

      Reared 'mid wealth, of good descent,

      One who, till our time of trial,

      Ne'er had known what hardship meant.

      "Now she toiled. Her skillful needle

      Many a wondrous fabric wrought,

      Which the loom could never equal,

      And which wealthy ladies bought.

      "Meantime I, among the merchants

      Found employment; saw them write,

      Brooding over red-lined ledgers,

      Ever gain, from morn till night.

      "Or amid the crowded shipping

      Of the great world's busy hive,

      Saw the wealth of both the Indies,

      For their СКАЧАТЬ