John Meldrum's wish.—Conclusion.
How cheerly sound the bells! my charmer, come,
Expand your heart, and know yourself at home.
Sit down, good John;"—"I will," the old man cried,
"And let me drink to you, Sir, and the bride;
My blessing on you: I am lame and old,
I can't make speeches, and I wo'nt be bold;
But from my soul I wish, and wish with pain,
That brave good gentlemen would not disdain
The poor, because they're poor: for, if they live
Midst crimes that parents never can forgive,
If, like the forest beast they wander wild,
To rob a father, or to crush a child,
Nature will speak, aye, just as Nature feels,
And wish—a Gilbert Meldrum at their heels."
SHOOTER'S HILL.
[Footnote: Sickness may be often an incentive to poetical composition;
I found it so; and I esteem the following lines only because they remind
me of past feelings which I would not willingly forget.]
Health! I seek thee;—dost thou love
The mountain top or quiet vale,
Or deign o'er humbler hills to rove
On showery June's dark south-west gale?
If so, I'll meet all blasts that blow,
With silent step, but not forlorn;
Though, goddess, at thy shrine I bow,
And woo thee each returning morn.
I seek thee where, with all his might,
The joyous bird his rapture tells,
Amidst the half-excluded light,
That gilds the fox-glove's pendant bells;
Where, cheerly up this bold hill's side
The deep'ning groves triumphant climb;
In groves Delight and Peace abide,
And Wisdom marks the lapse of time.
To hide me from the public eye,
To keep the throne of Reason clear,
Amidst fresh air to breathe or die,
I took my staff and wander'd here.
Suppressing every sigh that heaves,
And coveting no wealth but thee,
I nestle in the honied leaves,
And hug my stolen liberty.
O'er eastward uplands, gay or rude,
Along to Erith's ivied spire,
I start, with strength and hope renew'd,
And cherish life's rekindling fire.
Now measure vales with straining eyes,
Now trace the church-yard's humble names:
Or, climb brown heaths, abrupt that rise,
And overlook the winding Thames.
I love to mark the flow'ret's eye,
To rest where pebbles form my bed,
Where shapes and colours scatter'd lie
In varying millions round my head.
The soul rejoices when alone,
And feels her glorious empire free;
Sees GOD in every shining stone,
And revels in variety.
Ah me! perhaps within my sight,
Deep in the smiling dales below,
Gigantic talents, Heav'n's pure light,
And all the rays of genius glow
In some lone soul, whom no one sees
With power and will to say "Arise,"
Or chase away the slow disease,
And Want's foul picture from his eyes.
A worthier man by far than I,
With more of industry and fire,
Shall see fair Virtue's meed pass by,
Without one spark of fame expire!
Bleed not my heart, it will be so.
The throb of care was thine full long;
Rise, like the Psalmist from his woe,
And pour abroad the joyful song.