A Poet’s Aspiration.
When silent in the grave I lie
May some fond hearts remember me;
’Twould be a double death to die
To fall from life and memory!
I would not have a hero’s fame,
His wreath of laurel soiled with blood,
Though shouting nations hailed my name
As age succeeding age ensued.
I would not have a poet’s praise,
Though sounded loudly through the earth,
If serpent-vice lurked in my lays
Or impious thoughts attained a birth.
Ah! who can touch the poet’s lyre,
And not its sounds his breast inflame,
With glowing, ardent, fond desire,
To gain the lasting meed of fame?
My hand has strayed amid its chords!
Oh could I from its strings ring forth
Some passioned lay, whose deathless words
The distant times might deem of worth!
Some feeling song to touch the heart,
To prompt to virtue—teach to live,
Religion’s sweetest truths impart,
And hope beyond the grave to give.
Should this be mine—should any come
In after days to gladly strew
A votive offering on my tomb,
And pay a tribute deemed as due;
Then may they view the resting-spot
Of one, whose deeds and life have given
A hope assured his earthly lot
Was ended in the rest of heaven.
When silent in the grave I lie,
If thus fond hearts remember me,
’Twould be but half a death to die
To own so fair a memory.
1839
Lines
Suggested by a Review in the “Hull Packet.”
I bear a hope that I may yet become
A bard not fameless—but, oh, be that fame
The meed for songs, whose melody is taught
To sweetly warble the Creator’s praise,
To tell of virtue, happiness, and truth,
And seek the good of man! A laurel wreath
To me seems brighter than a crown of gold,
The diadem of monarchs; and my hand
Would rather strike the silver-chorded lyre
Than wield a kingly sceptre. From above
All power descends, all talents are derived,
And if the Great Disposer give me skill
I shall out-reach my highest fondest hope;
If he deny—my aspiration’s vain,
My harp is tuneless, and my tongue is mute.
To Thee, O God, I lift mine orison,
And would implore, with deep humility,
Thy blessing. May my labours and mine aim
Prove no abortion, but repay with fruit;
And, above all things, may thy Spirit dwell
Within my heart, form it to purity,
And sanctify it as thine own abode.
1840