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 PR 5807. W7Z6 
 
 The brothers Wiffen: memoirs and miscell 
 
 3 1924 013 570 530 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013570530 
 
THE BROTHERS WIFFEN: 
 
 temoxrs antr Miscellames. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 SAMUEL ROWLES PATTISON, 
 
 Author of 
 
 " On the History of Evangelical Christianity" '* New Facts aytd 
 
 Old Records." etc. 
 
 m\t\ CtDO pattcaitti. 
 
 HODDER AND STOUGHTON, 
 27, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 MDCCCLXXX. 
 
Printed by Hazell, Watson, and Viney, London and Aylesbury. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 A S it is a work of Charity to build resting 
 places for the weary Pilgrims along Eastern 
 roads, so must it be deemed meritorious to pro- 
 vide shelters for the combatants in the intervals 
 of the Battle of Life. The wear and tear of 
 mind and heart need the solace of quiet sympathiz- 
 ing thought. Such will be found in the lives and 
 writings of the two Brothers here presented : men 
 whose pursuits, though not dazzling to their fellow- 
 travellers, were yet connected with the real progress 
 of society, as well as its quiet enjoyments; for we 
 agree with Mr. Carlyle, who says, that man's 
 function " is not to taste sweet things, but to do 
 noble and true things." The reader will find the 
 two Wiffens to have been men whose deep and yet 
 wide views, and graceful thoughts, in advance of 
 their generation in their own society, are worthy of 
 permanent record for the future use and pleasure 
 
 of society. 
 
 S. R. P. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE LIFE OF JEREMIAH HOLMES WIFFEN. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. THE poet's birthplace — HIS FATHER AND MOTHER — 
 
 EDUCATION AT ACKWORTH AND EPPING. 1792 — 181I . I 
 II. LIFE AT WOBURN.' l8ll — 1819 . . . 16 
 
 III. ASPLEY WOOD — " AONIAN HOURS" — SOUTHEY — WORDS- 
 
 WORTH. 1819—1820 . . . . 18 
 
 IV. GARCILASSO AND TASSO. 182O — 1824 . 43 
 V. HOME LIFE AT FROXFIELD. 1828 . . • 5^ 
 
 VI. HISTORICAL MEMOIRS OF THE HOUSE OF RUSSELL. 1 833 66 
 VII. SUNSET AT NOONDAY. 1836 . . . -72 
 
 r 
 
 THE LIFE OF BENJAMIN BARRON WIFFEN. 
 
 CHAP. 
 I. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 1 794 — 1836. FIRST FRIENDSHIP 
 
 II. "THE QUAKER SQUIRE" — THE SECOND FRIENDSHIP 
 
 IH. SPANISH AFFAIRS— THIRD FRIENDSHIP 
 
 IV. SPANISH TRAVEL 
 
 V. BOOK HUNTING — AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 VI. JUAN VALD£S 
 
 VII. CORRESPONDENCE: DEATH OF DON LUIS . 
 
 VIII. SUMMARY AND CLOSE OF LIFE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 79 
 89 
 93 
 99 
 106 
 
 143 
 151 
 177 
 
 POEMS BY JEREMIAH HOLMES WIFFEN 
 POEMS BY BENJAMIN BARRON WIFFEN 
 
 . 18s 
 . 265 
 
I. 
 
 THE LIFE OF 
 
 JEREMIAH HOLMES WIFFEN, 
 
 BY 
 
 HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 11. 
 
 THE LIFE OF 
 
 BENJAMIN BARRON WIFFEN, 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL ROWLES PATTISON. 
 
SUNSET AT NOONDAY. 
 
 THE 
 
 MEMOIR AND POETICAL WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 JEREMIAH HOLMES WIFFEN, 
 
 Member of the Royal Society of Literature, and of the Cymrodorion Society ; Corre- 
 sponding Member of the Society of Antiquaries of Normandy ; Member of the 
 Royal Academy of Madrid, etc., etc. Translator of the Poems of Garcilasso de 
 la Vega, and of Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered." Author of " Aonian Hours ; ' 
 "Julia Alpinula ; " " The Captive of Stamboul," and other Poems ; and " The 
 Historical Memoirs of the House of Russell." 
 
 BY HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
ERRATUM. 
 P. 57. For "some verra^«tf Ofies' read "some verra/Mr^ ore." 
 
 At p. 5, see footnote. The "Sketch of Life of Elizabeth Wiffen " is not inserted 
 in this volume. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE poet's birthplace — HIS FATHER AND 
 
 MOTHER EDUCATION AT ACKWORTH AND 
 
 EPPING. 1792 1 8 II. 
 
 " Poetry is not to be obtained but by devout prayer to that Eternal 
 Spirit tliat can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends 
 His seraphim with the hallowed fire of His altar to touch and purify 
 the lips of whom He pleases." — Milton. 
 
 NESTLED among glorious pine woods, which 
 stand golden green in the sunlight, dark 
 misty blue in the shadow, lies the little town of 
 Woburn in Bedfordshire. 
 
 Reposing under the shadow of the ancestral lions 
 of the Ducal House of Bedford, the hum and stir of 
 restless modern life are not permitted to penetrate 
 thereto. 
 
 Half a century ago, it wore a different, aspect. 
 
 One of the principal stages on the high road 
 between London and the North, it was then wide 
 awake and astir with the life and bustle which sixty 
 coaches passing up, and sixty coaches passing down, 
 day and night, would inevitably bring. 
 
 Its ancient hostelry, in those days called "The 
 
 I 
 
2 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 George Inn," now " The Bedford Arms Hotel," was 
 the centre of life and animation. 
 
 The merry notes of the guard's horn faintly heard 
 in the distance along the London Road, coming 
 nearer and nearer, — the echoing footfalls of the 
 horses prancing down the street till they drew up 
 in a rush all together at the door of the hotel, where 
 stood the hospitable landlord and his portly landlady, 
 ready with welcome and entertainment for all who 
 came ; the steaming horses led away to rest, the sleek 
 shining ones brought out, and put to, in inimitable 
 quick-as-lightning style; parcels handed up, parcels 
 handed down, coming from the great metropolis, con- 
 taining perhaps the last Waverley novel, or the new 
 poem by Rogers, or Byron, or Campbell, eagerly waited 
 for, and reverently treasured up, for months after ; or a 
 box of millinery for the head " milliner and mantua 
 maker," with the latest fashions from town for the 
 Mte at the next public ball ; friends come to meet 
 their friends — the parting of those who set forth on 
 their long journey into the unknown land of the 
 North, the expectant stir of " the coach coming," 
 the pathetic, lingering looks after the "coach is 
 gone,'' the dying echoes of the horses' footfalls, and 
 farewell blast of the guard's horn borne back on the 
 breeze, as, passing out of the little town, the coach 
 wound its way along the high road, and entered the 
 deep wooded ravine which has Aspley Wood on the 
 right, and the Brickhill Woods on the left, all formed 
 a picture which indelibly imprinted itself on the 
 
THE POET'S BIRTHPLACE. 3 
 
 mind, and in its grave reality of the stern duties and 
 business of life, contrasts strongly with the modern 
 " playing at coaches " which exists now. 
 
 Nor did the little town of Woburn lack apprecia- 
 tion of mind and intellect ! 
 
 A graceful act of respect and courtesy to a Poet is 
 told of the landlord of the George. 
 
 On one occasion, the Poet Cowper, passing through 
 Woburn, stayed to dine at the George Inn. On call- 
 ing for the account, the master himself came forward, 
 and stated that he could not think of accepting 
 payment : the honour of having entertained so great 
 a Poet at his establishment was more than sufficient 
 recompence ! 
 
 In the house next door to the George Inn, 
 (now the Bedford Arms Hotel,) Jeremiah Holmes 
 Wiffen was born, on the 30th day of December, 
 1792. 
 
 He was the eldest son of John Wiffen, and of 
 Elizabeth his wife, who were members of the Society 
 of Friends, and were engaged in business as iron- 
 mongers. 
 
 Here also their second son was born, Benjamin 
 Barron Wiffen, who became in after-life the Spanish 
 scholar. His name is known in connection with "The 
 Reformistas Antiguos Espanoles," in the Libraries 
 and Universities of England, and in those of the 
 continents of Europe and America. 
 
 Their two elder daughters, Mary and Sophia, died 
 unmarried. 
 
4 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 The youngest daughter, Priscilla * herself a Poetess 
 and writer, married the Poet Alaric A. Watts. 
 
 There was also another son, John Joyce, who died 
 in infancy. 
 
 THE poet's father. 
 
 John Wiffen was descended from the old family 
 of Wimpffen.f who settled in Norfolk. It is not 
 known when this branch of the family became Friends, 
 but the name occurs in the Quaker registers of 
 Norwich monthly meeting, variously spelt (as Wiffen, 
 Wifin, Wifen, Whiffen), back to 1736. 
 
 John Wiffen was an intelligent man, of great con- 
 versational powers and poetical taste. When travelling 
 on his business journeys, he carried with him volumes 
 of a miniature edition of the Poets, (Pope, Dryden, 
 Akenside, Churchill, and translations of Homer and 
 Virgil,) in saddle-bags slung across his horse, in the 
 style of travellers of that day, when such a taste was 
 not general, and usually restricted to the learned. 
 
 He died at the age of forty years, at Woburn, 
 leaving his six children to the care of his widow. 
 
 the poet's mother. 
 Elizabeth Wiffen (maiden name Pattison) J was a 
 
 * See " Memoir of B. B. Wiffen." By S. R. Pattison, Esq. 
 
 + "No doubt of German origin. There is a town called \A'inipfen on 
 the Neckar, and a family Von Wimpffen still flourishes." (Professor 
 Boehmer in " Bibliotheca Wiffeniana.") 
 
 \ She was also a Friend, descendant of a Quaker family who lived at 
 Wellingborough in Northamptonshire, whose names occur in various 
 generations on the Friends' registers, down from Ephraim and Ann 
 Pattison, who died in 1670. 
 
THE POETS MOTHER. 5 
 
 woman of superior abilities, of devout spirit and 
 religious mind, gifted with great industry and energy 
 of character. Left a widow alone, with six children 
 to bring up and educate, her spirit bravely rose to 
 the emergency. 
 
 She transmitted to her sons the principles which 
 regulated her own daily life — self-reliance, unswerving 
 honesty and integrity, and practical faith in the 
 superintending providence of the all-seeing and Al- 
 mighty God. 
 
 They in their day and generation left this impress 
 on the minds of their fellow-men ! 
 
 The noblest monument that can be raised to the 
 memory of such a woman is this : " She was the 
 mother of good and honourable sons." * 
 
 EDUCATION. 
 
 From his earliest years, Jeremiah Holmes Wiffen 
 evinced a predilection for poetry. He committed to 
 memory, with ease, long poems, which, though ex- 
 ceedingly beautiful in themselves, could scarcely have 
 been impressed on the mind of so young a child, 
 had he not possessed intuitive perception of the 
 melody and charm of song. 
 
 This inclination was assiduously cultivated by his 
 father, who, himself an admiring student of the great 
 Poets, carefully fostered in his children a similar 
 taste. His early death, however, when his eldest 
 
 * See" Memoir of B. B. Wiffen," by S. R. Pattison, Esq., for sketch 
 of the life of Elizabeth Wiffen, by her son, B. B. Wiffen. 
 
6 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 son was yet a child, left that taste to be developed 
 under less favourable circumstances than the guiding 
 influence of a father's mind. 
 
 J. H. Wiffen received the earliest rudiments of 
 education in his native town, at Dame White's school. 
 He also for a short time attended schools at Ampthill 
 and at Hitchin. 
 
 Ampthill, a few miles distant from Woburn, is 
 situated in the midst of a lovely sylvan neighbour- 
 hood : the undulating park is noted for its magnificent 
 ancient oak trees, and Ampthill House is known to 
 history as the residence for some years of the unfor- 
 tunate Queen Catharine of Arragon.* 
 
 To this period of his childhood, the poet after- 
 wards refers, in the lines which he wrote on the 
 occasion of Lord Holland planting the Alameda, or 
 walk of lime trees, at Ampthill, for the recreation of 
 its inhabitants. 
 
 " Farewell ! in childhood's careless prime 
 It soothed to list the hum of bees ; 
 To pluck wild flowers and lisp wild rhyme, 
 Beneath thine immemorial trees, 
 Sweet Ampthill." 
 
 ACKWORTH SCHOOL. 
 
 When about ten years old, he was sent to the 
 Friends' Public School at Ackworth, near Pontefract, 
 in Yorkshire. 
 
 " Ackworth is a neat agricultural village, situate 
 
 * Catharine of Arragon introduced the manufacture of pillow lace 
 first into the neighbourhood of Ampthill. 
 
ACK WORTH SCHOOL. 7 
 
 about three miles from Pontefract, and closely bor- 
 dering on the great Yorkshire manufactories. It is 
 so completely removed from any great line of road, 
 either of the old system or the new, that but for the 
 world-wide celebrity it has obtained in the Society 
 of Friends, from its association with their school, it 
 is probable that it would have slumbered in undis- 
 turbed repose, amidst the well-cultivated acres by 
 which it is surrounded." * 
 
 The school buildings, with eighty-four acres of 
 land adjoining, were purchased in 1777 by Dr. John 
 Fothergill, an eminent physician of London, a man 
 of much influence in the Society of Friends, and a 
 few of his friends. The property was afterwards 
 transferred to trustees appointed by the Friends' 
 Yearly Meeting, and the institution established as a 
 public school. 
 
 Amongst the names of its scholars who have 
 distinguished themselves in politics, science, and 
 literature, are those of John Bright; James Wilson, 
 late Financial Secretary of India ; William Allen 
 Miller, Vice-President of the Royal Society, Pro- 
 fessor of Chemistry at King's College, etc. ; William 
 Howitt, the Poet and writer ; and the brothers 
 Jeremiah and Benjamin Wiffen. 
 
 Although in the present day, Ackworth School 
 has greatly enlarged the range of its studies, in 
 order to meet the requirements of the age, its 
 
 * From "History of Ackworth School," by Thomas Pumphrey. 
 
8 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 routine originally comprised only the acquirements 
 of an English education. 
 
 The qualities of the young poet's mind and dis- 
 position, soon developed themselves in the ardour 
 and diligence which he displayed in the pursuit of 
 knowledge, so as to attract the favourable notice of 
 his masters, as well as the love and admiration of 
 his fellow-pupils. Here he acquired that style of 
 penmanship for which his autographs are remarkable, 
 and which rendered his letters and MSS. specimens 
 of clear and legible writing. 
 
 Here also he commenced a practical acquaintance 
 with the arts of etching and wood-engraving, cutting 
 seals, and other small devices in wood. 
 
 By his skill in wood-engraving at that early age, 
 he obtained occasional supplies of pocket-money, 
 which he laid out in the purchase of books ; and 
 the acquisition of this art enabled him afterwards, to 
 appreciate the merit, and to direct the execution, of 
 the beautiful woodcuts, designed by Corbould and 
 Hayter, which adorn the pages of his " Tasso." 
 
 There was a bookseller in the neighbouring town, 
 whose literary stores were a great attraction to the 
 young boy. On holidays he would walk over there, 
 and the kind master of the shop, struck by the great 
 interest he displayed, allowed him to look at and 
 turn over his treasures, and aided him in the sale of 
 his wood engravings. 
 
 On one occasion J. H. Wiffen was much taken 
 by the title of one of the old-fashioned sensational 
 
ACK WORTH SCHOOL. 9 
 
 romances, and wished to purchase it ; but the worthy 
 old bookseller, considering the moral tone of its 
 melodramatic pages, filled with escapades of dark 
 villains and murderous plots, to be very unsuitable 
 for so youthful a mind, dissuaded him from this 
 purpose. He showed him in its place a volume of 
 Percy's " Old English Ballads," especially recom- 
 mending to his notice the fine old ballad of " Chevy 
 Chase!" This was instantly seized, carried off in 
 triumph, read and re-read with avidity. This cir- 
 cumstance doubtless laid the foundation for his love 
 of ballads, and for the success with which, in after 
 years, he wrote his own elegant ballad poems. 
 
 In the long summer twilight evenings, when the 
 boys were accustomed to retire to rest before 
 darkness fell, he would delight those in his room 
 by reciting " The Hermit of Warkworth," or other 
 long ballad or poem. When the novelty of these 
 wore off, he invented thrilling romances of his own, 
 peopled with heroes of incredible valour, and heroines 
 of impossible loveliness. These he would place in 
 all kinds of adventures, and having worked up the 
 attention of his auditors to the most thrilling point 
 of interest, he would suddenly leave off, and no 
 persuasion or entreaty could prevail upon him to 
 continue further at that time. Thus night after 
 night, he held them all entranced by his fascinating 
 narrations, and boys from the other rooms would 
 quietly steal in, to listen to these tales in the 
 mysterious twilight. One romance in particular, 
 
lo THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 which he called " The Black Brigand of the Forest," 
 excited great interest, and was listened to, through 
 many nights, in speechless awe and admiration. 
 
 A schoolfellow, Isaac Candler, gives the following 
 reminiscences of him at Ackworth School : — 
 
 "Jeremiah's fondness for poetry began at school. 
 The old ballads about Robin Hood and his merrie 
 men, and Chevy Chase pleased him much, but his 
 especial favourite was Dr. Percy's ' Hermit of Wark- 
 worth,' every line of which he could, I believe, repeat 
 from memory. What, however, appeared to give 
 him a desire to become a poet himself, was Dryden's 
 ' Palamon and Arcite,' a copy of which he for a long 
 time carried in his pocket, and of which his first 
 attempt, consisting, as near as I remember, of about 
 fifty lines, was in imitation. I call this his first 
 attempt, all his former ones being only those doggrel 
 rhymes of which schoolboys are so fond, and I speak 
 with some degree of confidence, as he was accustomed 
 to show me whatever he wrote. At a later period, 
 Campbell's ' Pleasures of Hope ' took that place in 
 his estimation formerly occupied by ' Palamon and 
 Arcite ; ' and I remember remarking to him, on hear- 
 ing him repeat one of his compositions, that it was 
 too close an imitation of Campbell's style. 
 
 " Fond, however, as he was of poetry, he was not 
 neglectful of his regular studies, in proof of which I 
 may m.ention that he was the best penman in the 
 school, and that few surpassed him in mathematics. 
 He employed much of his time in wood-engraving, 
 
AT EPPING. II 
 
 an art in which he attained so much skill, that some 
 of his blocks were bought by a bookseller, I think 
 at Leeds, for an edition of ^sop's Fables. 
 
 "The above are all the particulars which I deem it 
 necessary to communicate, as his career in after-life 
 is better known to others ; but I may add that in 
 my various interviews with him he always manifested 
 amiability of disposition, and that when I was at 
 Woburn, he bestowed his hospitality in the kindest 
 manner." 
 
 AT EPPING. 
 
 When he left Ackworth School, at the age of 
 fourteen, J. H. Wififen apprenticed himself to Isaac 
 Payne, schoolmaster at^^Epping. In this situation, 
 he hoped to be able, in connection with his official 
 labours, to promote his own intellectual improve- 
 ment, and acquire a knowledge of foreign languages. 
 
 Many obstacles were, however, placed in his^ way, 
 and his daily occupations, and the duties of his 
 position, left him little opportunity for the cultivation 
 of his mind. 
 
 Nothing daunted, however, he did not give way 
 to the disappointment, but with the steady persever- 
 ance and invincible determination which characterized 
 him throughout his life, he rescued time from sleep ; 
 and he was thus induced to begin a practice of 
 midnight study, which by long habit became natural 
 to him ; but there is too much reason to fear that it 
 tended to undermine his constitution. In the depth 
 
12 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 of winter, even, it was his practice, whilst at Epping, 
 to rise from his bed, and pace his chamber (a blanket 
 wrapped round his shoulders), reciting the classical 
 stores, he had been enabled to acquire at intervals 
 during the avocations of the day. 
 
 With a mind thus thirsting for knowledge, and 
 alive to all the intellectual interests of the day, eager 
 to see and criticise each new book that came forth, 
 he taught by day, the dull routine of elementary 
 school knowledge, to ordinary schoolboy minds, and 
 learnt by himself at night. He not only wrote 
 letters of gentle and kindly sympathy to his mother, 
 and young sisters, and brother at home, and kept up 
 a correspondence with some of his old schoolfellows 
 and friends ; but he began to write short poems, 
 which were favourably received by the editors of 
 several of the magazines of the day. 
 
 Ossian's Poems had made great impression on his 
 youthful fancy, and on the second of the first month, 
 1808, he sends to his schoolfellow, Isaac Candler, the 
 copy of — 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE EVENING STAR, VERSIFIED FROM 
 OSSIAN'S POEMS. 
 
 " Hail, lonely beam ! star of ascending night ! 
 Fair gleams in western skies thy paly light ; 
 As from thy cloud that shades the mountain's brow 
 Thou look'st superior on the plain below. 
 As thro' the regions of the sullen air 
 Thou stalk'st, serenely bright ; what seest thou there 1 
 The storm no longer whistles o'er the heath, 
 No more the ghost resounds the shrieks of death ; 
 
AT EP PING. 13 
 
 By the grey stream is sunk his gleaming shade, 
 Where lightnings flashed, and the red meteors played. 
 O'er the steep cliff the tumbling torrents war ; 
 Their murmuring waters echoing from the shore. 
 But thou, sweet beam, dissolv'st in clouds away. 
 And bath'st in ocean's realm thy cheerful ray. 
 Farewell then ; go illume the darkened skies, 
 And let the light of Ossian's soul arise." 
 
 He adds : " This address I sent to the editor of 
 the European Magazine ; it appeared in that publi- 
 cation for October. I composed an ' Ode to Medi- 
 tation,' which was sent to the Political Review, 
 published monthly by B. Flower ; it made its 
 appearance in print last month. ' Lines on Epping 
 Forest' is in the hands of the editor of the Mojithly 
 Magazine, and I suppose will come out next month, 
 with an account and engraved plate of Broxbourne 
 Church, in the Gentleman's Magazine, by J. H. 
 Wiffen. 
 
 " The charade in the 'Minor's Pocket Book,' signed 
 
 J. H. W n, is mine, and others of my productions 
 
 that may have appeared in similar publications. I 
 am quite become an author, and have thoughts of 
 publishing a 'Key to Homer.' I am afraid, however, 
 that thou wilt think I am possessed of too great a 
 portion of egotism, so shall forbear saying anything 
 more on that head. 
 
 " Had I known what it was, to be apprentice to 
 a schoolmaster, I never should have entered into 
 that situation. I have undergone a great many 
 troubles, but — 
 
H THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFE EN. 
 
 " What though my winged hours of bhss have been 
 Like angel visits, few and far between ? 
 Hope's musing mood shall every pang appease 
 And charm, when pleasures lose the power to please.'' 
 
 In March of the same year, 1808, his "Address 
 to an Early Violet" appeared in the Political Reviciu. 
 On April 17th, 1808, writing to his friend, James 
 Baldwin Brown, of the Inner Temple, he remarks — 
 
 " I have designed and engraved two pieces from 
 Thomson's ' Seasons' at thy request, and intend to 
 perform others. The plate of the hare is taken 
 from these lines — 
 
 ' Poor is the triumph o'er the timid hare 
 Scar'd from the corn, and now to some lone seat 
 Retired.' Autumn. 
 
 " The horse from the following — 
 
 ' Oft too the horse, provoked, 
 O'erleaps the fence, and o'er the field effused. 
 Darts on the gloomy flood with stedfast eye. 
 And takes the fountain at redoubled draughts.' 
 
 Sutn}ner." 
 
 "Epping, irdof\2th Month, 1807. 
 
 " Dear Sister, 
 
 " As I have written to my mother, I have 
 not much to communicate to thee. Thou wilt learn 
 from mother, that I have written some poems which 
 have appeared in print. The following is reserved 
 for Spring, which will then appear more congenial 
 to the subject. It is — 
 
AT EP PING. IS 
 
 TO A VIOLET EARLY IN SPRING. 
 
 Hail ! lone companion of the rising year, 
 Why droop thy honours in the misty gale ? 
 Why does thy head refuse the pearly tear 
 That robes the vernal tresses of the vale ? 
 
 Is it stern Winter overspreads the plain, 
 That clothes the mountain in its azure hue ? 
 Art thou a stranger to the pelting rain, 
 Or shrinks thy bosom from the evening dew ? 
 
 But cease to mourn : pale Winter's lowering gloom. 
 Her frowns, her shackles, soon will disappear : 
 Soon will gay Spring restore thy vivid bloom, 
 And give new fragrance to the dancing year. 
 
 Thus though the night wind wafts my rising sighs, 
 Soon may my soul wing to its native skies. 
 
 " Accept the love of thy affectionate brother, 
 
 "J. H. WIFFEN." 
 
1 6 THE LIFE OF J. H. IV IF FEN. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AT WOBURN. 
 
 " It is the mind that mal<eth good or ill, 
 That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poor : 
 To some that hath abundance at his will, 
 Hath not enough, but wants in gi-eatest store ; 
 And other that hath little, asks no more, 
 But in that little is both rich and wise ; 
 For wisdom is most riches ; fools therefore 
 They are, which fortunes do by vows devise ; 
 Since each unto Miiiself his life may fortunize.'' 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 IN the year 1 81 1, at the age of nineteen, J. H.Wiffen 
 left Epping, and returned to Woburn. Here he 
 took a house on the Leighton Road, and opened a 
 school for the sons of Friends. It was a comfort- 
 able house, with a pleasant garden at the back, and 
 the view from it, and from the windows on that 
 side, stretched away over a green plain of fields, to 
 the belts of dark pine trees, and the feathery beechen 
 glades of the distant Brickhill woods. 
 
 In this responsible position, he won the regard 
 and esteem of his pupils. He worked hard day 
 and night, unceasingly and unremittingly. In the 
 day-time, his energies were devoted to the instruction 
 and oversight of his scholars, whilst far on into the 
 
AT WOBURN. 17 
 
 midnight, and early dawn, his student lamp was 
 constantly burning. He prosecuted his classical 
 studies, and attained considerable proficiency, not 
 only in Latin and Greek, but also in Hebrew, and 
 in the French, Italian, and subsequently the Spanish 
 and Welsh languages. 
 
 Yet still, throughout these sterner studies, and 
 amidst the increasing cares of the business of life. 
 Poetry flung over her spell-bound votary, the magic 
 of her divine mantle. 
 
 He possessed also great taste for music. He 
 acquired some knowledge of it, and several of his 
 songs were set to music. 
 
 He enjoyed mathematics, and drawing had always 
 a great interest for him. Many of his delicate 
 pencil sketches from Nature, attest the tenderness 
 of his feeling for her beautiful traceries. 
 
 To him, with the keen, inner, spiritual eyesight of 
 poetic temperament, the beautiful was everywhere, 
 and the constant feeling of his heart arose in aspi- 
 ration to Heaven. 
 
 " Oh ! if so much of beauty doth reveal 
 Itself in every vein of life and nature, 
 How beautiful must be the Source itself, 
 The ever Bright One ! " Tegner. 
 
 In 1 8 1 2 he united with his friends, James Baldwin 
 Brown, Esq., of the Inner Temple, and the Rev. 
 Thomas Raffles, of Liverpool, in publishing a volume 
 entitled " Poems by Three Friends," which was 
 favourably reviewed. 
 
1 8 THE UFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 ASP LEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 1819, 1 820. 
 " AoNiAN Hours," "Julia Alpinula," " Captive of Stamboul," 
 
 ETC. 
 
 " Poetry has been to me ' its own exceeding great reward ; ' it has 
 soothed my afflictions ; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments ; it 
 has endeared solitude ; and it has given me the habit of wishing to 
 discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds 
 me. " — Coleridge. 
 
 WHO that has wandered in childhood and youth, 
 through the arched recesses and arcadian 
 avenues of Aspley Wood, can ever cease to remember 
 the delight of its beechen groves, and fir-clad heights } 
 What pictures of its rich woodland beauty, remain 
 indelibly stamped by memory, on the mind ever- 
 more ! 
 
 In spring, the moss-covered banks, the greensward 
 white with the wood anemone, golden with prim- 
 roses, and blue with the fairy bells of the hyacinth, — 
 whilst hidden in dewy recesses of the leafy under- 
 wood, lie whole beds of the fragrant lily of the valley. 
 In summer, the festoons of sweet wild woodbine 
 flung hither and thither in perfumed luxuriance, the 
 
ASPLEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 19 
 
 varied carpet of yellow cistus, purple foxglove, blue 
 harebell, white wild strawberry flower, and scarlet 
 strawberry fruit, and tracts of bilberry bushes with 
 the blue purple bloom on their juicy berries. In 
 autumn, the banks of purple heather and ling, and 
 sweeping fronds of bracken fern, — the brilliant glow 
 of colour over all, — golden, and crimson, and green, 
 over beech tree and oak, — scarlet, and yellow, on 
 sycamore, plane tree, and maple, — whilst unchanged 
 through all, rises the dark green shadow of the 
 cedars and pine trees, through whose gently waving 
 branches, the autumn wind murmurs soothingly, as it 
 whirls the sere leaves in rustling masses to one's feet. 
 In mid-winter, on a bright frosty day, how beautifully 
 does the frosted tracery of dark firs, gleam out 
 against the cold blue sky, whilst on the ground, 
 around their red branching roots, lies the track of the 
 wild rabbit, or forest squirrel, over the new fallen 
 snow. 
 
 Through these sylvan scenes, the young poet loved 
 to wander. Hither would he resort on summer even- 
 ings, sometimes in company with a merry group of 
 his sisters, and their young friends ; when, choosing 
 some sequestered nook of mossy turf, with the "green 
 boughs arching overhead,'' they would pass pleasant 
 social hours, in the reading of the last new poem by 
 Campbell, or Rogers, or talk over the characters and 
 points of interest, of the latest " Waverley," till the 
 last ray of setting sunlight, gleamed red on the stems 
 of pine tree and cedar, and they wended their way 
 
20 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 homewards in the gloaming, or tarried yet later 
 
 until — 
 
 " Calmly shone the moonshine pale, 
 On glade and hillock, flower and tree, 
 And sweet the gurgling nightingale, 
 Poured forth her music wild and free.'' 
 
 More often he would wander forth alone through 
 the woodland paths, and flinging himself down at the 
 foot of his favourite old Pine tree, give free scope to 
 the fancies of his imagination. 
 
 In his poem on " Aspley Wood," he thus describes 
 the influence of Nature upon his spirit : — 
 
 III. 
 " O Nature I woods, winds, music, valleys, hills. 
 
 And gushing brooks, — in you there is a voice 
 
 Of potency, an utterance which instils 
 
 Light, life, and freshness, bidding I\Ian rejoice 
 
 As with a spirit's transport : from the noise. 
 
 The hum of busy towns, to you I fly ; 
 
 Ye were my earliest nurses, my first choice. 
 
 Let me not idly hope, nor vainly sigh ; 
 Whisper once more of peace— joys — years long vanished by ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 To you I fled in childhood, and arrayed 
 Your beauty in a robe of magic power ; 
 Ye made me what I am and shall be, made 
 My being stretch beyond the shadowy hour 
 Of narrow life,— ye granted me a dower 
 Of thoughts and living pictures, such as stir 
 In the eye's apple ; to the breathing bower. 
 Here where bright chesnut weds the towering fir. 
 Recall fair Wisdom back, that I may dwell with her." 
 
 "Aspley Wood," is the principal poem, in a volume 
 containing several, published by J. H. Wiffen in 1819 
 
ASPLEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 21 
 
 under the title " Aonian Hours," a second edition of 
 which was called for in the following year. It is 
 dedicated to his brother. 
 
 to 
 B. B. WIFFEN, 
 
 IN RECREATION AND IN STUDY, 
 
 IN GLADNESS AND IN TRIAL, 
 
 THE COMPANION, THE BROTHER, AND THE FRIEND, 
 
 THIS POEM 
 
 is affectionately inscribed by 
 
 The Author. 
 
 A few selected stanzas will present the beauty of 
 the woodland scenery, and its charms for a poetic 
 nature. 
 
 XXVII. 
 " But I thereon in the warm luxury 
 
 Of an Italian sky will fling me down 
 
 Unscrupulously, lightly envy I 
 
 The cowled monk's scapulaire or hermit's gown 
 
 Woven of sackcloth, and a bed of down 
 
 I scorn as lightly ; but on Nature's breast, 
 
 'Mid flowers and ferns and freshness all her own, 
 
 And soft airs giving sweetness sweeter zest, 
 O who could slight such charms ? who shun so pure a rest ? 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The far-extended prospect — the dim spire 
 Which bounds the blue horizon— white walls seen 
 In glittering distance — wreathing from the fire 
 Of pastoral huts, ascending smoke — the sheen 
 Of hamlets humming in the morn — the green 
 
THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 And beautiful hue of youth on every flower, 
 And herb where spring's betraying steps have been- 
 The bright leaves sparkling in a sunny shower, — 
 Music on every bough, and life in every bower. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 He who hath ne'er invested Solitude 
 With an undying beauty, ne'er hath knelt 
 In worship when her sceptre brought the mood 
 Of melancholy o'er him, hath not felt 
 Sweetness in sorrow — is not used to melt 
 With the humanities of life, nor hears 
 The whispered lore, the music which is dealt 
 Invisibly around us from the spheres. 
 The tender, bright, and pure — the Paradise of tears. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The ineffably serene, the kind regret 
 Which speaks without upbraiding, the mild gloom 
 Of thought without austerity, but yet 
 Heavy with pensiveness, — our future doom 
 Seen without fear, presages which assume 
 The features of an Angel — feelings grand 
 Grand and of incommunicable bloom. 
 The growth of Eden ; O he hath not spanned 
 The soul's infinitude with an Archangel's hand ! 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Look on that flower— the daughter of the vale. 
 The Medicean statue of the shade ! 
 Her limbs of modest beauty, aspect pale. 
 Are but by her ambrosial breath betrayed. 
 There, half in elegant relief displayed. 
 She standeth to our gaze, half-shrinking shuns ; 
 Folding her green scarf like a bashful Maid 
 Around, to screen her from her suitor suns, 
 Not all her many sweets she lavisheth at once. 
 
ASPLEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 23 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 That pageant past, comes the quick Squirrel forth 
 From his high cedar with a burst and bound, 
 To sport upon the warm grass of the earth 
 Feeding, and wave his graceful brush around. 
 And pause, — and prick his ears, and at each sound 
 List in a breathless attitude, and start 
 If far away intruding steps resound : 
 With feet already raised to spring, to dart 
 On to the nearest pine, but claims a moment's part. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Anon he cowers upon a branch, and thence 
 Looks deeply down on his pursuer's shape. 
 And yet alarmed, on his glad eminence 
 Stamps wrathfuUy, then looks a laughing ape. 
 Playing his thousand pranks o'er an escape 
 Almost too lofty for our eye to reach 
 Through the thick gloom, then hies he to the rape 
 Of the pine's cones, or to his nest, the pleach 
 Of many a wilding bough in the next giant beech. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 This his spring life — e'en when the October wind 
 His firm beech rocks with a sea-murmur loud. 
 That squirrel the same merry mime I find — 
 A mariner on his vibrating shroud : 
 Though darkly glooms the burning thunder-cloud. 
 And rends with sulphurous bolt some mighty tree. 
 He hears the roar as fearlessly and proud 
 As a Fleet-admiral when dark-alee, 
 The fiery battle joins, and chaos shakes the sea." 
 
 Another favourite resort, was the grove of pines 
 within the gates of Woburn Park, called " The Ever- 
 greens." There, fir-crowned heights, and piny glades 
 
24 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 rise in dark masses along the lake, " Drakelow," and 
 are reflected in its still placid waters. The timid 
 moorfowl dart in and out of the sedgy banks, or rush 
 over to the surer protection of its island with the 
 Chinese temple. 
 
 There is one group of grand old cedars of Lebanon, 
 some of the first which were naturalised in England. 
 The Duke of Bedford gave strict orders that whenever 
 the young trees should arrive at Woburn, they were 
 to be planted immediately. 
 
 They arrived at Midnight ! The orders were too 
 stern to be disobeyed, and the nursling cedars were 
 accordingly planted at that hour. 
 
 An old man, living at Ridgmount not long since, 
 used to tell the story to my uncle. His great- 
 grandfather, then a little boy, held the lantern 
 during the performance. 
 
 Not content with daylight experience of Nature, 
 the young poet and his brother, sought the revelation 
 of her arcana, at times, " 'neath the pale light of 
 stars."* 
 
 * Benjamin B. Wiffen makes allusion to these moonlight expeditions 
 with his brother in the following lines and note, in canto third of his 
 poem, ' ' The Quaker Squire. " 
 
 " And on the other side, a border made 
 Rows of tall pines in cloistered colonnade, 
 Ancestral and columnar trunks, whose high 
 And fretted tops, roofed out the star-lit sky. 
 A solemn temple to the ear and sight, 
 In the wind's sobbings and the dusk moonlight ; 
 Nature's cathedral ! pillared and increased 
 By shadowy styles, and wanting not the priest. 
 
ASPLEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 25 
 
 In 1820, appeared the volume of poems con- 
 taining "Julia Alpinula," "The Captive of Stamboul," 
 " The Russell," some smaller pieces, sonnets, etc., 
 which also passed into a second edition. This 
 volume he dedicated, in some pleasing stanzas, to 
 his brother-in-law, Alaric A. Watts, then Editor of 
 the New Monthly Magazine. 
 
 Of this work, the author writes to a friend : — 
 
 " I was glad to find ' The Legend of the Statue ' 
 pleased thee. Montgomery copied it into his Iris. 
 
 " The monthly reviewers this month, have given 
 me a stunning box on the ear. I may now break 
 all my lutes, viols, and other stringed instruments, 
 and take up Bion's motto, — " Let us all be unhappy 
 together." 
 
 In the summer vacation of 18 19, the brothers 
 took a long anticipated journey together, to the 
 
 When autumn gales along the ceiling go, 
 Like fiineral dirges mixed with gusts of woe, 
 When the black arches, on the earthy floor 
 Inscribe strange tablets to the ' gone before, ' 
 Around their shafts, the moonbeams flit and flee, 
 And show like Beings we must shortly see ; 
 And every footfall that we take, invades 
 Like foreign travel, their strange world of shades. " 
 " This description will not appear exaggerated, to any one who has 
 walked in autumn, along a pathway shadowed by aged firs, under a 
 morning moon, before the earliest day breaks. Owing to the longer 
 departure of the evening twilight, the shadows are blacker, the lights by 
 contrast brighter, than during the evening or earlier hours of the night. 
 The reflection of the lingering rays of twilight, has then completely 
 passed away, and it is darkest before the earliest dawn. If the moon be 
 in full, the ground is then mapped in the strongest geography of light 
 and shade." 
 
26 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 English Lakes. Extracts from J. H. Wiffen's diary, 
 will give the principal features of interest. Part of 
 the time, they were accompanied by their artist 
 friend, Louis Pardz, who took sketches of the 
 mountain scenery, 
 
 " In the morning of the 29th, we walked over Greta 
 Bridge to Keswick Church, at the distance of half a 
 mile from the town. It is a neat white building, 
 with a square tower. The monuments were many of 
 them most tastefully engraved. The church is backed 
 by Skiddaw, which seems on this side of compara- 
 tively easy ascent. Cawsey Pike, a bold eminence, 
 lay to the west, its base varied with white villas and 
 woods. Returning, we called upon Southey. Our 
 boatman of the evening before, said much of him, 
 and told of his virtues with enthusiasm ; that he 
 often used to row him on the lake, but not frequently 
 since the death of his son Herbert. There is not a 
 more pathetic composition than his letter to Neville 
 White, on this most mournful of all events, to the 
 hopes of a fond father. It may be placed by the 
 side of the affecting epitaph over Julia Alpinula, 
 quoted by Lord Byron, in the notes to the third 
 canto of ' Childe Harold.' It has been observed, 
 that true sorrow is always concise in its expression, 
 a truth which is here livingly pourtrayed. 
 
 •'i7/>4 April, 1816. 
 ' My dear Neville, 
 
 ' I should not deal with you as you deserve, 
 
ASPLEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 27 
 
 if I left you to be informed of my affliction, by 
 any other hand than my own. The severest of all 
 afflictions has fallen upon me. I have lost my dear 
 son Herbert, my beautiful boy, — beautiful in intel- 
 lect and disposition, — he who was everything which 
 "my heart desired. God's will be done ! Do not 
 write to console me. I look for consolation to 
 the only source, and find it there. 
 
 ' Edith has supported herself, with exemplary 
 fortitude, through this long and most painful trial. 
 I, on my part, am not wanting. We have yet 
 abundant cause to be thankful, for the blessings 
 which are left us. Perhaps, we were too happy 
 before, and this visitation was required, to wean our 
 hearts from the world. 
 
 ' God bless you, Neville. 
 
 ' Your afflicted friend, 
 
 'Robert Southey.' 
 
 " Mr. Southey's house stands at an easy distance 
 from the town, on an eminence embosomed amid 
 fruit trees. We reach the house, through beds laid 
 out in a nursery of young firs, yews, box, oak, etc., 
 into a second garden, laid out in a grass-plat, sur- 
 rounded by beds of flowers. In a few moments we 
 were in his study, and he advanced to meet us, 
 giving us a kind welcome, as we mentioned the 
 name of Mrs. White, saying, he was most happy to 
 see any one from her. Of her, and her family, he 
 made many particular enquiries ; and then diverged 
 
28 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 to our own tour, descanting with much animation 
 on the loveHness of the scenery, and sketching 
 out for us an excursion up Langdale, which he 
 described, as possessing considerable interest. He 
 regretted the introduction of manufactories, into 
 Keswick, as productive of the most baneful effects, 
 in producing pauperism, and in withering the bloom 
 of the soul. We spoke of the frankness, and 
 independence, and comfort, of the Cumberland 
 cottagers ; and he drew a picture of their manners, 
 and habits, and mode of life, and contrasted the 
 appearance of the country, and of English agriculture, 
 with those of France, Switzerland, and Germany. 
 He then took up the subject of velocipedes, and of 
 the state of roads throughout the nation, looking 
 forward to a period of society, when the iron Rail- 
 road would be used with advantage, throughout the 
 country, and adverting to the period, when the iron 
 trade of the country was' so stagnant, as having been 
 the most suitable time for the Government to have 
 adopted it ; — a measure, which he argued, would both 
 have relieved the • distress of that branch of trade, 
 and have given to national travel, a rapidity, and 
 certainty, suited to the growth of civil society, and 
 the accelerated improvements, which distinguish 
 the present age. From this topic, he passed on to 
 Mr. Owen's system, of improving the situation of 
 the poor, and characterised him as a man of 
 unbounded benevolence, but deprecated his non- 
 admission of religion, as a measure fraught with 
 
ASPLEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 29 
 
 mischief. He spoke of Lord John Russell's antici- 
 pated work, with curiosity and expectation ; him, he 
 characterized, as a young man of talent. He was at 
 Woburn Abbey, when news of the battle of Leipzig 
 was brought. He liked the Duke, (John, sixth Duke,) 
 as a most amiable man, and accomplished nobleman, 
 and spoke of his former wife, the late Duchess, in 
 terms of high estimation, and applause. Lady 
 William was a lovely, a most beautiful woman. He 
 had, in his youth, walked through Bedfordshire, from 
 Oxford to Cambridge, and yet remembered with 
 delight, the 'pleasure he had felt, from the distant 
 sight of our woods, and villages. He thought the 
 Ouse, if traced along its banks, would disclose many 
 lovely spots. With this and the like conversation, 
 three-quarters of an hour was soon spent, and we 
 arose to take our leave. He offered his hand with 
 much cordiality at parting, and hoped to see us 
 again if we returned to Keswick ; then accompanying 
 us to his garden, bade us another kind farewell. 
 He is in manners, a gentleman, affable and courteous ; 
 fluent in conversation, pouring forth a perpetual flow 
 of ideas, sinking his tones to the close, in a cadence 
 quite low ; in conception, quick and vivid, acute and 
 copious ; his features varying with his subject, 
 indicative of feeling, creative power, energy, and 
 sensibility ; hair flexible, nose decisive and original, 
 smile radiant, lips persuasive and plastic, forehead 
 nothing peculiar, complexion dark, stature neither 
 short nor tall. His study was surrounded with 
 
30 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 books ; two oncries stood in the windows ; his table 
 of manuscripts before him ; a sofa beside, on which 
 we sat. Above the fireplace, his own portrait in 
 profile, and Edith Southey, with blue eyes and 
 chesnut hair, Coleridge, his Mother, Kirke White, 
 a pencil profile of William Wordsworth, and a 
 miniature of three of his beautiful daughters, taken 
 in their childhood. 
 
 On Seeing the Miniature Portraits of Three 
 Infant Daughters of Robert Southey, Esq. 
 
 ' O ! yet upon those speaking eyes, 
 Ye lovely Graces, let me look ! 
 Where all of peace and beauty lies, 
 Three leaves in Nature's virgin book. 
 
 Spotless as snow on Skiddaw-fell, 
 
 The dark-eyed Bertha grave with thought ; 
 
 And little laughing Isabel 
 
 As though she had a sunbeam caught. 
 
 Whilst placed 'twixt Pensiveness and Play, 
 So full of both the third appears, 
 She knows not which she should obey. 
 So keeps the smile, and loves the tears. 
 
 To those serene spiritual orbs, 
 
 The glance of life is surely given, 
 
 A charm which every thought absorbs, — 
 
 They are so pure and full of heaven. 
 
 The same sweet Ught, too, on your lips, 
 Which, angel-like, illumined Eve, 
 Ere shrouded in that dark eclipse, 
 In which we share, for which we grieve. 
 
 And then that whiteness of the will. 
 The meekness of the soul so blest, 
 It does not, cannot think of ill. 
 But lies like ocean waves at rest. 
 
ASPLEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 31 
 
 O ! o'er your heads, ye beauteous Three ! 
 No wave shall swell, no whirlwind blow, 
 To bear you from the Armit Tree, 
 Where flowers and fruit all fadeless grow. 
 
 You should be like the bird which flies. 
 And feeds but on celestial dew. 
 And when blue calms forsake the skies 
 For heaven take wing, and follow too ! 
 
 My hopes are cold, my wishes vain. 
 Yet would kind heaven the boon bestow, 
 I'd pray that you might aye remain 
 For ever such as you are now ! ' 
 
 " The study of the Poet, looks on one side down 
 upon a grass-plat in his garden, surrounded by 
 roses, and other flowering shrubs, and trees, and 
 looks out upon Keswick, and a glimpse of its lake; 
 of this, a fine view might be created, by felling one 
 or two trees, whose boughs hang over the window ; 
 but this, he said, he was not inclined to do, as he 
 should be unwilling to lose their noontide shadow. 
 On another side, it commands a prospect of Cawsey 
 Pike and its brotherhood of mountains." 
 
 It is difficult to personify, or to properly describe 
 Grasmere. Coniston is beautiful, Ullswater is beau- 
 tiful, Derwentwater is pre-eminently so ; but a dif- 
 ferent style of grace, distinguishes this water from 
 all others. Its waters, sparkling and pellucid, its 
 beautiful villas, its white church at the head em- 
 bowered in the greenest trees, its gentle slopes, or 
 its abrupter acclivities, alike covered with wood in 
 every form and mass of elegance — and, above all, 
 the spirit of repose which pervades its whole horizon, 
 
32 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 — give to its shores, a charm which none other can 
 emulate, and mark it out, as that Temple to which 
 two elegant minds would love to retire, and where, 
 amid the loveliness of valleys, woods, and waters, at 
 a distance from the distractions of the world, they 
 might strike the lyre, or give eloquence to the 
 canvas, and thus consume life in beloved remem- 
 brances of the Past, in the philosophic repose of 
 the Present, and bright anticipations of the Future. 
 Grasmere, is the last impression of the seal of taste. 
 It is, as if, 
 
 " When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain. 
 Sprang on the viewless winds to heaven again," 
 
 they had soared from Grasmere, and that yet their 
 footprints remained. At the end of Grasmere, Rydal 
 Water opens with a new character. It is seen to 
 great advantage from the eminence near the slate 
 quarries. Being considerably smaller, it might seem 
 at first sight, and by the side of its sister lake, to 
 have little interest for any one coming from Gras- 
 mere. But this consciousness is soon forgotten, as 
 a sense of its delicacy comes upon the mind. In its 
 centre, is an island hung with sylvans to the edge, 
 and around it, the glad waves sparkling with light 
 and joy. Nearer, between the eye and the lake, a 
 wood of various trees intervenes, and an eminence 
 of dark firs to the right of it, as keeping guard 
 over the scene. Mountains around, their immediate 
 summits only naked. Whilst sitting amid ferns, and 
 flowering thyme, on the hill-top, a blast, (as we 
 
ASPLEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 33 
 
 conjecture), took place in the slate mine : the mighty 
 sound, passed grandly from hill to hill, reverberated 
 by each, and died away behind us. At the edge 
 of the water, beneath some ample beech trees, and 
 almost in front of the island, many fine water-lilies 
 were unfolding their beautiful chalices to the sun ; 
 with difficulty, we cropped a couple, and hastened 
 on to Rydal Mount, to our anticipated interview 
 with Wordsworth, — the spirit who pervades the spot, 
 and where all things speak, of the talisman which he 
 has wielded, with so much magnificence, and power, 
 in " The Excursion." On reaching the first few 
 houses, a road turns hastily to the left, leading to 
 Lady Fleming's grounds and mansion, near which is 
 the celebrated fall of Rydal. 
 
 Coming to a brotherhood of firs, a gate opens into 
 the grounds of the Poet. The house is most elegantly 
 hung with climbing shrubs, which flower around the 
 windows, and aspire to twist themselves together, in 
 a mass upon the roof. We knocked at the glass 
 door, through which I saw the Poet pass, mentioned 
 our name to the servant, and were shown into a 
 parlour, by Mrs. Wordsworth, — a lady past the prime 
 of womanhood, dressed in a purple silk pelisse, and 
 straw bonnet. We seated ourselves on a sofa, and 
 expected the appearance of him, whose name had 
 been held up to so much ridicule, and praise, by the 
 two poetical factions, in the republic of letters. He 
 came, loosely, carelessly dressed, in white pantaloons, 
 and a short coat ; his bosom open, a countenance 
 
 3 
 
34 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 dark and furrowed, a hawk's nose, very similar to 
 Southey's, and drooping eyes, which seemed weak, 
 as a green shade was lying on the table. I apolo- 
 gized for our intrusion, ascribing it to the desire we 
 had, of seeing the author of a Work, to which we 
 had owed many hours, of pleasing and of elevated 
 thought. He set us immediately at ease, entering 
 directly, into affable conversation on the lakes, the 
 birds which frequent them, the plants peculiar to 
 them, the season favourable for visiting them, and 
 then on streams, woods, waters, mountains, clouds, 
 fields, torrents, and all that constitute the elements 
 of poetry. He made a beautiful remark : the lapse 
 of a river seen gleaming at a distance, harmonized 
 with the heaven which seemed to come down, and 
 blend with it in harmony of light and colour. His 
 sister, an elegant lady in white, entered the room 
 as we conversed, with an eye and ear bespeaking 
 curiosity. She is much younger than he, and has a 
 figure of symmetry. Mrs. Wordsworth informed me 
 the little mountain flower, which I admired so much, 
 was the bee-hyacinth. Wordsworth, shortly after, 
 conducted us over his grounds, laid out with much 
 art, and commanding, through its shrubs, delightful 
 scenes. He sketched out more precisely, our intended 
 walk through Langdale, and informed us, it was there 
 he had placed his Solitary — whose cot near Blea 
 Tarn was now dismantled. At parting, he shook 
 hands amicably, enquired our names, applauded the 
 plan of our tour, and the spirit with which we had 
 
ASPLEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 35 
 
 executed it, saying we were deserving of a visit to 
 their floods, and fells, in contradistinction to those, 
 who, without aught of enthusiasm, hurried over 
 scenery the most attractive, and concluded by a 
 general invitation to tea, whenever our time and 
 inclination concurred with his desire. As we accom- 
 panied him into the road, we saw his son, a boy 
 about nine years old, very much like his father. 
 William Wordsworth, both in appearance and con- 
 versation, has nothing of that character, that love of 
 puerile simplicity which shines throughout his earlier 
 writings. There is, on the contrary, a manly sense 
 and vigour of conception, joined with much frankness 
 and facility of manners. . . . Landing at the ferry, 
 we winded by the road to a rustic cottage, requesting 
 admittance to the " Station " — a summerhouse so 
 called. The portals of the garden were thrown 
 open, and in our circuitous ascent, we had leisure to 
 admire the admirable union of art, and nature, here 
 exhibited, in which neither too much preponderated. 
 Over the sloping rocks, flowers and ferns inter- 
 mingled, the rose, and the blue hare-bells, heath, 
 and London pride, the foxglove, and the pink, the 
 broom, and the pansy. We ascended the structure, 
 up a flight of steps, and were ushered into a large 
 room, commanding through its windows, the most 
 delightful views of the adjacent scenery. Its walls 
 were hung with coloured etchings, of some beautiful 
 scenes in Wales, and several of the panels in the 
 subordinate windows were stained of different colours, 
 
36 THE LIFE OF J. H. IVIFFEN. 
 
 which gave to the scenery without, respectively, the 
 appearance it presents under the sky of the four 
 Seasons, The delicate greenness of Spring, the 
 golden lights of Summer, the purple benevolence of 
 Autumn, and the hoar austerity of Winter, were all 
 centred in a span ; the sight was new and curious. 
 Looking through the principal window of the temple, 
 a scene at once varied and beautiful, Windermere, 
 formed otie glassy and transparent expanse, for miles 
 on either hand, its shores, now sweeping in graceful 
 undulating lines, and now broken by wooded pro- 
 montories, on whose slopes, and in whose valleys, 
 sheep were feeding, and amidst whose trees, half 
 obscured by the rosy light of the clear morning, 
 arose structures in accordance with the quiet repose 
 of the spot, some pastoral, some elegant, and all, 
 adorning the bank, with the image of placid enjoy- 
 ment. . . . 
 
 Rydal, looked as lovely by the still noon, as it had 
 done, in the freshness of morning, and from our 
 present point, the disposition of its trees, its two 
 islands, and its amphitheatre of hills, were much 
 more picturesque. We flung ourselves down, upon 
 the mountain's breast, upon ferns, and blossoming 
 thyme ; a grove was before us, and the lake, below, 
 from whose blue waters, reflecting the unclouded 
 face of heaven, the breeze wafted freshness to our 
 throbbing temples. 
 
 There is not a greater pleasure, than thus in the 
 heat of noon, after a fatiguing walk has rendered 
 
ASP LEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 37 
 
 rest a blessing, to throw yourself carelessly down 
 between earth and sky, to close your eyes, and 
 perceive, when you open them, the glittering of 
 waters at your feet, and a summer valley, with 
 here, and there, a villa half seen amongst bowers, to 
 remind you that others are as happy as yourselves, 
 in selecting this, as the spot of their meditations 
 and repose. Now, and then, a fly brushes past you 
 with its indolent wing ; the grasshopper sings drow- 
 sily in the thyme ; the shrill cry of the mountain 
 swallow is heard, flying in action over the lake ; the 
 sunbeam is intercepted by a thin cloud ; or the axe 
 of the woodman is repeated by the echo, which 
 resides in the recesses of the hills. You forget the 
 cares of the distant city, and all its fluctuating 
 passions, and feel that it would be a happiness, ever 
 to be wrapped round, by the quiet shades, and valleys 
 of nature. Nor, are there wanting high thoughts, 
 and devotional feelings, which make us regret that 
 we cannot always divest ourselves, of the vain 
 attractions of sense, and grow fixed, in the sunshine 
 of heavenly hopes, and contemplations, which bor- 
 row from the sky which excites them, its purity 
 and hue. 
 
 The spell cannot long last: though " half deity,'' 
 we are also " half dust," and are summoned down to 
 clay again, and to continue a pilgrimage, the pur- 
 port of which we were beginning to forget. 
 
 It was six o'clock, when, divesting ourselves of 
 our travelling accoutrements, we sat down to tea 
 
38 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 with William Wordsworth, his wife, and a nephew 
 and niece residing with them. I turned the conver- 
 sation, which had set in at first rather strongly 
 upon politics, into the channel of Poetry, by en- 
 quiring if he had seen Campbell's " Specimens," 
 and from his reply, I gathered that he read few 
 new books, and that he thought himself too old 
 to derive profit from critiques of any kind, or from 
 any quarter ; that, settled into perfect complacency, 
 with his own system of opinions, he was altogether 
 unsolicitous, and reckless, of that of others, and made 
 intellectual reflection, his principal literary employ- 
 ment and enjoyment. Of Campbell, as a Poet, he 
 seemed to think very lightly, and blended his name 
 with the nameless productions of other modern 
 writers, whose extravagant fables, and guilty heroes, 
 would be hid in oblivion in the next age, when the 
 glare of novelty was worn off, and men found out 
 that those conceptions were unnatural. I think, 
 when he made this remark, he had in his eye, Scott, 
 and Lord Byron. Of Crabbe, he spoke in terms of 
 almost unmingled praise, conceiving that his works 
 would be turned to, with curiosity, and pleasure, when 
 the rapid march of improvement, in another century 
 had altered the manners, and situation, of the pea- 
 santry of England, referring, in proof of his propo- 
 sition, to the delight we have, in tracing, in the 
 characters of Shakspeare, the customs and rites of 
 times, now obsolete. Whilst agreeing with him in 
 this sentiment, I could not avoid opining, that even 
 
ASPLEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 39 
 
 those extravagant fables, and heroes of crime, would 
 continue to amuse, and interest, from the love of 
 stirring emotion, which is natural to the human 
 mind, and from those strong agitations, which may- 
 continue, as they have long continued, to convulse 
 the political world, giving to every eye, an anxious 
 observation, and to every ear in Europe, an ear of 
 curiosity, open to the changes which may be rung, 
 throughout her States, and Kingdoms. He agreed 
 with me to some extent, but still thought they would 
 be left, for more natural creations, and domestic 
 incident. It is evidently, upon these opinions, that 
 he has built his poetical structures. He cannot 
 scruple, to give "Peter Bell," to the world; if laughed 
 at, in the present age, he cares not — the future will 
 see in it, a correct description of the costume of 
 present times, and will accord it their approbation 
 and, perhaps unmingled, sympathy. This may be, 
 but this, I think, is no argument, why he should not 
 select, a more dignified hero for his tale, preserving 
 the usages of the country, equally correct, in his 
 descriptions. Interest was never lost, by leaving 
 vulgarity for neatness, and coarseness, for elegance 
 of expression. It is no argument, why he should 
 content himself, with exerting his great powers upon 
 trivial subjects, when he might command, a far 
 wider field of energy and applause, and have instead 
 of a domestic coterie, a nation for his admirers. 
 
 In his conversation, he was remarkably clear in 
 argument, fond of abstract idea, somewhat positive 
 
40 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 in enforcing his sentiments, and fonder of speaking 
 than of listening ; but yet the transparency of his 
 language, and the brightness of his imagery, made it 
 a pleasure to listen to him. His prose style is a 
 perfect specimen of his conversation. He is fond of 
 the mythological fictions of the ancients, notwith- 
 standing the severe decretals he has issued, against 
 those fine ones of Ossian, even if we disbelieve the 
 authenticity of these Highland reliques. The sun 
 was now nearly setting, and we walked to his Mount 
 to enjoy the noble view of the valley, which it 
 commands. The sunbeams, intercepted by the 
 mountains behind us, in the vicinity of Rydal Water, 
 divided the valley, beautifully, into two parts. The 
 Mount, whereon we stood. Lady Fleming's noble 
 elms, to whose verdurous bowers, the rooks were 
 returning with loud cries, a naked grey crag, and a 
 large part of the vale itself, were in shade. The 
 line of sunshine, took in part of a grove of firs, and 
 the mountains on the east, and illuminated a great 
 part of the far valley, embosomed in bowers. — through 
 which the distant town of Ambleside, faintly ap- 
 peared — on to the villas, on the banks of Windermere, 
 and that part of the Lake itself, which was revealed 
 to sight. It was, without comparison, the finest 
 summer vision I ever beheld ! All was brightness, 
 tranquillity, and pleasurable repose. Wordsworth 
 was absorbed in it ; he stood, with folded arms 
 in a reverie, which, judging of his enjoyment by 
 my own, he had not often felt. Long time, we 
 
ASPLEY WOOD AND EARLY POEMS. 41 
 
 observed the growth of the huge shadows over the 
 vale ; we were at length, mindful of prosecuting our 
 journey, and received from the Poet, and his family 
 with pleasure, the proposal to walk with us to 
 Ambleside. As we went, I sounded him with 
 regard to Ossian. I was chagrined to find, that he 
 was denounced, as a disgusting imposture, the man- 
 ners, and imagery, designated as false, and unreal, 
 condemned in toto, yet to the blind Bard himself, 
 he had some relentings. He was evidently satisfied 
 with the image of the aged Harper, left the last of 
 his race, and giving his griefs, to the echoes of the 
 hills ; but all beyond, — the touching tenderness, and 
 beauty, of the characters delineated, the lively de- 
 scription of mountain scenery, and the ethereal spirit 
 of melancholy, which pervades those singular com- 
 positions, were abandoned without a sigh. How 
 stands the taste of Wordsworth in this point } 
 
 As we advanced, the sun sank, and a warm flush 
 of bright carnation lighted up the sky around ; it 
 reminded me of the sunset scene in the "Excursion," 
 and I told Wordsworth so ; he said he had never 
 before seen so fine a one. Mrs. Wordsworth fancied 
 a lion rampant in the clouds, and contrasted the 
 transient colours of those lovely skies, with the 
 permanent repose of the ever-during crags, round 
 which they floated. At the town we parted. I 
 shall never revert to the day, without a feeling of 
 serene pleasure. We walked along Winander Mere 
 to Low Wood, and at noon the next day, reached 
 
43 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 Kendal. Thus then, July 8th, we left with regret 
 the region of lakes and mountains. We had been 
 gratified beyond our expectation, whilst lingering 
 among them ; we were attached to them, by hours 
 of joy, and of fatigue, passed in their solitudes ; we 
 were charmed, by the simplicity of manners, and the 
 benevolence of their peasantry; and we could not 
 bid farewell to them, without emotion. 
 
 " In the land of the south, their remembrances shall 
 rise, and bring with them a gladness to the heart." 
 
 In the summer of 1821, J. H. Wiffen was ap- 
 pointed Librarian, at Woburn Abbey, by the Duke 
 of Bedford. 
 
TASSO'S "JERUSALEM DELIVERED." 43 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 TASSO'S "JERUSALEM DELIVERED." 
 
 " For once, once more, must Palestine 
 See banners reared, and hosts arrayed, 
 And fierce, beyond the First, must shine 
 The terrors, of that Sealed Crusade." 
 
 What future Tasso shall that strife 
 Big with the world's last fates inspire. 
 
 When Judah shall be roused to life. 
 And Prophecy, with Time expire ! " 
 
 THE melody, and charm, of Italian Poetry, had 
 early seized on the fancy, and imagination, of 
 the young poet. The idea was first suggested to him, 
 by his brother, to translate into English verse, " La 
 Gerusalemme Liberata," the great Epic, 
 
 " Which sainted Tasso writ with pen inspired." 
 To resolve, was to achieve. Inspired by the grandeur 
 of the Poem, and its subject, he pursued the work, 
 with the ardour, and perseverance which distinguished 
 him through life. As he proceeded, his interest in- 
 creased, until the enchanting Poem became for the 
 time the delight of his life, and he thus apostrophises 
 it, in his L'Envoi : 
 
 " My pride at noon, my vision of the night. 
 My hope at morn, my joy at lonely eve." 
 
44 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 The pious heroism of the Champion of the First 
 Crusade, Godfrey de Bouillon, as delineated by the Poet 
 of the Cross, excited the admiration, and exercised an 
 elevating influence, upon the spirit of the translator. 
 
 Tasso's representation of his virtues, is borne out 
 by history. In him, "the gentlest manners were 
 united to the firmest spirit, the amiableness of virtue, 
 to its commanding gravity. He was alike distin- 
 guished, for political courage, and personal bravery. 
 His lofty mind, was capable of the grandest enter- 
 prises. His deportment was moral ; his Piety was 
 fervent. He regretted the stern necessity which drew 
 him from the immediate service of God ; but when in 
 arms, he was a Hero ; and his martial zeal in the cause 
 of Heaven, was always directed by prudence, and 
 tempered by philanthropy."* 
 
 " In proof of his unfeigned Piety, it should never 
 be forgotten, that whilst, under the mask of religion, 
 his brother Baldwin, gratified his worldly ambition, 
 Bohemond, his pride, and Raymond, his avarice, the 
 Duke of Lorraine, faithful to his first simple wish 
 of becoming the Defender and advocate of the Holy 
 Sepulchre, and pressed as he was by the voice of 
 all the Crois6s, refused to wear a diadem, in the 
 City, where his Saviour, had worn the Crown of 
 thorns, "t 
 
 To the Poet of the Cross, Torquato Tasso, was like- 
 wise offered an earthly crown. 
 
 * Mill's "History of the Crusades," vol. i., pp. 83, 84. 
 f See Ibid, vol. i., p. 266. 
 
TASSO'S " JERUSALEM DELIVERED.'' 45 
 
 The fervent and sincere Piety of his soul, also, esti- 
 mated worldly honour at its true value, as it passed 
 before his dying gaze. 
 
 On receiving the warning from his physician, that 
 his last hour was at hand, he " thanked him for tidings 
 so agreeable, and raising his eyes to heaven, returned 
 tender and devout thanks to his Creator, that after so 
 tempestuous a life. He had now brought him to a calm 
 haven." He acknowledged with humihty, and grati- 
 tude, the "plenary indulgence in remission of his 
 sins," granted to him, by the pontiff Clement, saying, 
 "that this, was the chariot upon which he hoped to 
 go crowned, — not with laurel, as a Poet to the Capitol, 
 but with glory as a Saint to heaven." 
 
 " Uniting, as he did, the exercise of virtue, to the 
 ardour of devotion, the duties due to his Creator, and 
 to his fellow-men, we may hope, with his Italian 
 biographers, that God, the bountiful Remunerator, 
 called him to Himself, before his earthly coronation, to 
 adorn him with a more true and incorruptible Crown, 
 in the heavenly Jerusaleni."* 
 
 The example of these heroic Characters, their deeds 
 and their works, stimulated, and ennobled, all the 
 energies of the translator. 
 
 His delight in the Poem itself, in its heroes, in 
 the researches for the Life of Tasso, his interest in 
 the engravings, and designs, for the embellishment of 
 the work, the hours it occupied, the untiring labour 
 which he bestowed upon it, that all should be as 
 * See "Life of Tasso." 
 
46 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 complete, and perfect, as possible, now occupied his 
 thoughts for some few years. 
 
 In the period between the commencement, and 
 completion, of his Tasso, J. H. Wiffen, also rapidly- 
 advanced, in the study of the Spanish language, and 
 gave to the world, his translation of the Works of 
 Garcilasso de la Vega, surnamed the Prince of Castilian 
 Poets, with a Critical and Historical Essay on Spanish 
 Poetry, and a Life of the Author. 
 
 The Essay on Spanish Poetry, charms the reader 
 by its elegance of diction, and by the depth of research, 
 and knowledge of the Spanish poets therein displayed. 
 The Life of Garcilasso de la Vega, is of much interest. 
 Whether considered, as the cultivated spirit, who, 
 shaking from the Spanish lute the dust of ages, 
 imparted to it, by the force of his genius, a more 
 harmonious string, and a more polished tone ; or 
 whether, "as a young warrior, brought up in the court 
 of the most celebrated prince of his age, qualified 
 both by birth, and education, to take part, and actually 
 taking part, in that prince's enterprises, till doomed 
 to fall the victim of his too rash valour, his story is 
 calculated to strike forcibly the attention, and to 
 touch the springs of admiration, and of sympathy, in 
 no common degree. The character of the times in 
 which he lived, of the monarch whom he served, 
 (Charles V.), his own adventures, his deep devotion 
 to the Muses, during the few hours of leisure, which 
 alone, he was able to snatch, from the hurry, and 
 alarm, of war, the amiable qualities, and classic taste;, 
 
TASSO'S " JERUSALEM DELIVERED." 47 
 
 developed in his writings, and the new impulse which 
 these writings gave to Spanish poetry — all offer to 
 the biographer, a theme more fertile, than usually falls 
 to his lot, in recording the lives of Poets." But, " the 
 pen of his contemporaries, was unemployed in the 
 record of his actions, and centuries were suffered to 
 elapse, before any of his countrymen, set themselves 
 to the task. . . . And it must always remain a sub- 
 ject of regret, that we know so little of him, who has 
 ever been considered by his countrymen, as one of 
 their most elegant writers, as the one, in short, who 
 contributed most, to the polish, and refinement, of 
 their language." (Life of Garcilasso.) 
 
 In 1823, J. H. Wiffen's Translation of the Works of 
 Garcilasso de la Vega, appeared, dedicated — 
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN, DUKE OF BEDFORD, 
 
 IN PUBLIC LIFE, 
 
 THE STEADY FRIEND AND ASSERTER OF OUR LIBERTIES ; 
 
 IN PRIVATE LIFE, 
 
 ALL THAT IS GENEROUS, DIGNIFIED, AND GOOD ; 
 
 THIS TRANSLATION, 
 
 IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE LITERARY EASE 
 
 THAT HAS LED TO ITS PRODUCTION, 
 
 IS WITH DEEP RESPECT AND ADMIRATION 
 
 INSCRIBED 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Writing to a friend from Woburn Abbey, 5 th 
 month, 4th, 1823, after requesting his friend's ac- 
 
43 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 ceptance of a copy of this work, J. H. Wiffen, 
 goes on to observe : " The presentation copies have 
 been admired ; everybody that has seen it calls 
 it a beautiful book. Jerdan, Bovvring, Lord and 
 Lady Holland, Blanco White, alias Don Lencadio 
 Doblado, and those whom I was most ambitious 
 to please, the Duke and Duchess, have expressed 
 themselves highly interested in their copies. I am 
 about sending others to Jeffrey, and Lockhart, and 
 into Spain, to Quintana, and the Spanish Academy." 
 
 "6th month, isth, 1823. I send thee specimens of 
 the Tasso, the sized type, and paper, that will be used 
 in the printing. I shall have wood engravings, from 
 designs by Corbould and Hayter, at the head of each 
 canto, which will cost two hundred guineas ; but as it is 
 my intention, to lay out all the subscription money, to 
 produce a couple of splendid volumes, that may stamp 
 the work as standard, I shall be able to compass this 
 if I obtain about forty more names, which I do not 
 doubt of receiving, with the exertions of my friends. 
 Sir Thomas Lawrence, and Lord Spencer, have just 
 sent me their names, and I have now full 160. I am 
 about the nineteenth book. 
 
 " I shall commence with the printer, so soon as the 
 types are ready, which he has ordered to be struck. 
 I purpose having an entire Canto set up at a time, 
 and to send proofs of it, to Lord John Russell, Rogers, 
 and Foscolo, for their critiques, as Stewart Rose did 
 with his Ariosto, the first volume of which, is just 
 published. 
 
TASSO'S ''JERUSALEM DELIVERED." 49 
 
 " I shall in the Life, elucidate as much as possible, 
 Tasso's passion for Leonora, by translations of the 
 pieces from his ' Rime,' which were addressed to 
 her, and vary the biography, by other beautiful little 
 gems, like the following : — 
 
 TO TARQUINIA MOLZA. 
 
 I. 
 
 The green earth of its wealth displays 
 
 White violets, and the lovely sun 
 Its sparkling crown of rosy rays 
 
 O'er shaded vale and mountain dim. 
 
 II. 
 You, lady, for your sign of wealth. 
 
 Of genius, beauty, thought sublime, 
 Fling forth in glorious show by stealth 
 
 The riches of unfading rhyme. 
 
 III. 
 
 And whilst your laurels, charmed from blight. 
 Thus greenly mock the passing hours. 
 
 Your verses all are rays of light, 
 Your living thoughts ambrosial flowers. 
 
 " The finest of Tasso's poetry, is, in fact, to be met 
 with, in his 'Rime.' It is possible, I may pubHsh 
 hereafter, a third volume, containing translated speci- 
 mens, of his most beautiful smaller, verses, and most 
 interesting letters." 
 
 To the Rev. C. Fletcher. 8 mo., 25, 1823 : — 
 " I shall sleep to-morrow night, at Mansfield, and 
 take from thenee the earliest morning coach after 
 
 4 
 
50 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 breakfast, and pass one night at Nottingham, which 
 will be, I much fear, all that I can compass. I 
 promise myself, however, much pleasure from the 
 interview; and we shall be able, I do not doubt, 
 to talk over many things in that short space of 
 time. 
 
 " I shall bring with me, a valuable original painting 
 of Tasso, which Mr. Roscoe has presented me with, 
 the sight of which I am sure will please thee, as it 
 must once, have been in the possession of Paulus 
 Jovius, historian to Charles V. of Germany, who was 
 contemporary with the Italian Poet, and it is, besides, 
 a really fine and authentic head. Corbould, is drawing 
 me, some most beautiful designs for the poem, which 
 I hope to put to press next month. . . . 
 
 " The Duke has introduced me to Sir T. Lawrence, 
 Wilkie, and Calcott, and to Young the tragedian." 
 
 In another letter, written at this time, to the 
 same correspondent, he says : " When I went to 
 London, to make arrangements for publication, I 
 received much gratification, from the society of Mr. 
 Bowring, and of Sir Thomas Lawrence. With the 
 former, I had corresponded, but had never before 
 seen him. His great eloquence, and his knowledge in 
 Spanish, and Italian, Uterature, charmed me during 
 dinner. There was a conversazioni in the evening, 
 attended by many Spanish deputies of the late 
 Cortes, to whom I was introduced, as the Trans- 
 lator of Garcilasso, and with whom, I had much 
 conversation on the Spanish Muses. Sir Thomas, 
 
TASSCyS ''JERUSALEM delivered:' 51 
 
 had wished an introduction on a visit he had pre- 
 viously made, to Woburn Abbey ; but a forgetfulness 
 of the artist who undertook to do so, prevented 
 it at that time. I breakfasted with him, and was 
 charmed with his elegant manners, his acquaintance 
 with our English Poetry, and the productions of 
 his delicious pencil. Rogers, I visited more than 
 once; Campbell, was from home. Whilst in town, I 
 received from the Royal librarian the King's name 
 to " Tasso," which he had been authorized to com- 
 municate. 
 
 " I have discovered, amongst some literary rubbish, 
 an old black-letter, MS. Chronicle of England, written 
 apparently, by one of the monks of the abbey. I 
 am reading it — no easy matter — by the Duke's desire. 
 It is very curious, and may possibly be published by 
 the Society of Records." 
 
 When on the eve of completion, a fire broke out 
 at the printing office; the copies of Tasso were 
 consumed, and the labours of years, in an hour, 
 destroyed. 
 
 About this time J. H. Wiffen visited Cambridge. 
 
 On Planting a Slip from Milton's Mulberry Tree, 
 
 IN THE Grounds of Woburn Abbey, Presented 
 
 BY Dr. Thackeray, of Cambridge. 
 
 The mulberry mourns in its changed hue, the doom 
 Of love-lamented Thisbe, and the fond 
 Stripling she ruined ; but a charm beyond 
 That elder story, henceforth shall allume 
 
52 THE LIFE OF J. H. W IFF EN. 
 
 The song which chaunts its praise ; for in the bloom 
 Of life, celestial Milton from the throng 
 Of verdurous sylvans, chose it to prolong 
 His memory here. He slumbers in the tomb, 
 But this is yet unfading. Chose he not 
 Thy frame, dark tree, to shadow forth his woe 
 For those diviner lovers whom his verse 
 Wept for, cast forth from Eden? The dire blot 
 Makes us yet weep ; but all sweet leaves below 
 And holiest blossoms sanctify his hearse. 
 1824. 
 
 B. B. Wiffen, on visiting Cambridge University, 
 writes, 10 mo. 17, 1840, to Mrs. Wiffen : — 
 
 " I called on Dr. Thackeray. He inquired about 
 thee and the family. He told me of how his 
 acquaintance with J. H. Wiffen began. He was 
 entering the Public Library, when he noticed a 
 Friend, coming out, with chagrin depicted on his 
 face. Having, as he told me, a respect for the 
 Society, he inquired if there was any service which 
 he could render him. J. H. replied that he wanted 
 to search some books, but had been refused, being a 
 stranger. Dr. Thackeray took him in, and entered 
 his name, and left him for a time : when he came 
 in again, he found he had selected forty books for 
 reference. He wanted to take them to his inn to 
 copy his extracts ; as this could not be permitted, 
 Dr. Thackeray invited him to his own house, where 
 he stayed a week. I told Dr. Thackeray of the care 
 which is taken, (at Woburn Abbey,) of the slip of 
 Milton's mulberry tree, which he gave J. H., with 
 which he seemed pleased. . . . 
 
TASSO'S "JERUSALEM DELIVERED." 53 
 
 " I went into the gardens of Christ College, and 
 saw the original tree which was planted by Milton's 
 own hands. It is two hundred years old, is leaning 
 towards the earth, and very fruitful ; one side of 
 the trunk is decayed, and carefully preserved from 
 the weather by a covering of lead. It was a grateful 
 sight to me, both as connected with so great a man 
 as Milton and with dear J. H. Milton's bust very 
 appropriately adorned the grounds, and those of 
 Sanderson, the great mathematician, and Cudworth, 
 author of ' The Intellectual System ;' a monument to 
 Mead, the great physician, is also there." 
 
 In a letter to a friend J. H. Wiffen says : — 
 
 " I must not forget to tell thee, before I conclude, 
 that I had lately a visit from Arguelles, the celebrated 
 constitutionalist of Spain, the most eloquent, dis- 
 tinguished, and patriotic member of the late Cortes. 
 Arguelles, is rather tall, with a pale face, marked with 
 the small-pox ; his features overspread with a. deep 
 melancholy, except when under the excitement of 
 conversational feelings, when his eye grows vivid, 
 and his face expressive. He is very eloquent in 
 conversation, and the tone of his voice, and the 
 movement of his lips, have a music correspondent 
 when he talks. 
 
 " He speaks good English, having once before 
 been in England. We conversed on Spanish subjects, 
 Garcilasso, Quintana, Melendez, Quevedo. He spoke 
 with regret, and admiration, of Garcilasso, and com- 
 plimented me on my translation. He spoke of the 
 
54 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 sublimity, of Herrera and Rioja, but he seemed par- 
 ticularly charmed, with the taste, and elegance, of 
 Melendez, whom he styled, the regenerator of their 
 poetry. He spoke of Spain, as in a ' state of siis- 
 pense,' and as it seemed, though with much depression 
 of spirits, without hopelessness. ■ He has not his 
 books with him in England, but he has two of mine, — 
 the " Garcilasso," which, directed to Quintana, and the 
 Spanish Academy, reached him, as Minister of State, 
 with Admiral Jobat's despatches, as he was embarking 
 for England, and which he promises to send to their 
 destination when he can safely. I asked after authen- 
 tic portraits, of Garcilasso, and Boscan. He questioned 
 the authenticity, of those of Columbus, and Cortes. 
 I asked him after the memorials of the former. He 
 assured me there were several, in the archives of 
 Seville, relating to Indian affairs, but that the jealousy 
 of the old Government, prevented their being con- 
 sulted by literary persons. It would have been dif- 
 ferent, he said, had the Constitutionalists prevailed. 
 These were some of the heads of our discourse. 
 He shook me politely by the hand, and I bade him 
 farewell, with a tenderness, and regret, which I have 
 rarely felt fer a stranger ; my heart bleeding at the 
 idea, that one of the warmest patriots, of the best, 
 the most amiable, and the most talented men in all 
 Spain, should be thus compelled to self-exile from 
 her enslaved shores, and to trust to a foreign nobility 
 for the sympathy, and small enjoyment, which is left 
 him as a solace, for the vain regrets, and humihating 
 
TASSO'S "JERUSALEM DELIVERED." 55 
 
 remembrances, which he cannot but keenly feel, 
 when he thinks of the Country he would have made 
 free. 
 
 " But I prattle away finely, and shall be too Jate 
 for the coach. 
 
 " Farewell, and believe me ever 
 
 " Thy faithful friend, 
 
 "J. H. WiFFEN. 
 
 "Tasso has of course slumbered on the shelf, but 
 the printing is to be re-commenced next week." 
 The dedication of Tasso, was — 
 
 TO 
 GEORGIANAj DUCHESS OF BEDFORD. 
 
 I. 
 Years have flown o'er since first my soul aspired 
 
 In song the sacred Missal to repeat, 
 Which sainted Tasso writ with pen inspired, — 
 
 Told is my rosary, and the task complete : 
 And now, 'twixt hope and fear, with toil untired, 
 
 I cast the ambrosial relique at thy feet ; 
 Not without faith that in thy goodness thou 
 Wilt deign one smile to my accomplished vow. 
 
 Not in dim dungeons, to the clank of chams. 
 Like sad Torquato's, have the hours been spent 
 
 Given to the song, but in bright halls where reigns 
 Uncumbered Freedom, — with a mind unbent 
 
 By walks in woods, green dells, and pastoral plains, 
 To sound, far off, of village merriment ; 
 
 Albeit, perchance, some springs whence Tasso drew 
 
 His sweetest tones, have touched my spirit too. 
 
56 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 III. 
 O that, as happier constellations bless 
 
 My studious life, my verses too could boast 
 Some happier graces, {should I wish for less ?) 
 
 To atone for charms unseized and splendours lost ! 
 No ! the rich rainbow mocks the child's caress. 
 
 Who can but sorrow, as his fancy's crossed, 
 That e'er so beautiful a thing should rise, * 
 To elude his grasp, yet so enchant his eyes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 On the majestic Sorrentine I gazed 
 With a familiar joy — methought he smiled ; 
 
 But now the vigil's past, I stand amazed 
 At the conceit, and sorrow like the child. 
 
 What second hand can paint the scenes that blazed 
 In Tasso's brain, with tints as sweet and wild ? 
 
 As much the shapes that on his. canvas glow, 
 
 Their birth to Frenzy as to Genius owe. 
 
 V. 
 Yet may I hope o'er generous minds to cast 
 
 A faint reflection of his matchless skill ; 
 For here his own Sophronia, unaghast. 
 
 Flings firm defiance to her tyrant still ; — 
 Clorinda bleeds ; lovelorn Erminia fast 
 
 Hies through the forest at her steed's wild will ; 
 And in these pages still Armida's charms 
 Strike the rapt heart, and wake a world to arms. 
 
 VI. 
 Thus then, O Lady, with thy name I grace 
 
 The glorious fable ; fitly since to thee 
 And thine the thanks are due, that in the face 
 
 Of time and toil the Poet's devotee 
 Has raised th' enchanted structure on its base. 
 
 And to thy hand now yields th' unclosing key, — 
 Blest if in one bright intellect like thine 
 He wins regard, and builds himself a shrine 1 
 
TASSO'S "JERUSALEM DELIVERED:' 57 
 
 A visit to Brighton, and its baths, in the early 
 summer of this year (1825) enabled J. H. Wiffen to 
 regain much of his former strength, which had ebbed 
 away in the severity of an attack of rheumatic fever. 
 He writes to the Rev. C. Fletcher, of the feelings of 
 loneliness, and desolation, which come over him, when 
 his Tasso, the joy and delight of years, was finished, 
 and he bade farewell to the — 
 
 " Harp of the south ! the stirring of whose strings 
 Has given by power of their melodious spell 
 Such pleasant speed to Time's else weary wings." 
 
 In the-"Noctes Ambrosianse," the Ettrick Shepherd 
 says, after praising the Howitts, Bernard Barton, etc., 
 "The best scholar among a' the Quakers, is Friend 
 Wiffen, a capital translator. Sir Walter tells me, o' 
 poets wi' foreign tongues, sic as Tasso, and wi' 
 original vein, too, sir, which has produced, as I opine, 
 some verra fine ones." 
 
58 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE poet's home. 
 
 " 'Tis sweet to hear the watch dog's honest bark 
 Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home, 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come ! " 
 
 OVER the night of desolation, which enshrouded 
 the author, when the completion of Tasso, 
 ended the entrancing occupation of years, arose the 
 star of hope and " the dawning of new day." 
 
 Especially fitted, by his sensitive nature, and affec- 
 tionate disposition, for domestic happiness, the charm 
 of life, " conjoined and kindred to the sound of home," 
 early attracted him. But his ideal Love married an- 
 other, and the disappointment weighed heavily upon 
 his spirit. She died ! and after her death, when time 
 had assuaged his sorrow, J. H. Wiffen found in Mary 
 Whitehead, (who became his wife,) the realization of 
 his youthful hopes, and poetic aspirations. 
 
 In the L'Envoi, to the first edition of Tasso, in 1824, 
 he apostrophises her as Ida, and the last two verses 
 of the L'Envoi, to the third edition, in 1830, present a 
 picture of their home life at Froxfield. 
 
THE POET'S HOME. 
 
 59 
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 I. 
 Fare-thee-well, soul of sweet romance- ! farewell, 
 
 Harp of the south ! the stirring of whose strings 
 Has given, by power of their melodious spell. 
 
 Such pleasant speed to Time's else weary wings, 
 That, rapt in spirit to the Delphic cell, 
 
 'Midst its green laurels and prophetic springs. 
 The tuneful labours of past years now seem 
 A brief indulgence, — an enchanted dream. 
 
 II. 
 My pride at noon, my vision of the night, 
 
 My hope at morn, my joy at lonely eve! 
 Now that thy tones of magical delight 
 
 Are o'er, do I not well to droop and grieve ? 
 To what new region shall the muse take flight. 
 
 What pictures fashion, what fresh numbers weave. 
 When all that else had charmed, must now appear 
 Tame to the eye, and tuneless to the ear .' 
 
 III. 
 Much shall I miss thee, when in calm repose 
 
 The Summer moon upon my casement shines ; 
 Much, when the melancholy Autumn strows 
 
 With leaves, my walk beneath the o'erarching pines : 
 Nor less when Spring, 'twixt shower and sunshine, throws 
 
 Abroad the sweet breath of her eglantines ; 
 And Winter deepens, with his stormy din, 
 The quiet charm of the bright hearth within. 
 
 IV. 
 If with no vulgar aim, no selfish view, 
 
 I sought to give thy foreign chords a tongue, 
 Let not my hopes all pass like morning dew. 
 
 When on thy cypress bough again thou'rt hung,* 
 
 * " In che ne vai in Pindo, 
 
 Ivi pende mia cetra ad un Cipresso, 
 
 Salutala in mio nome, e dille poi 
 
 Ch' io son dagli anni e da fortuna oppresso." 
 
 Fime del Tasso. 
 
6o THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 But sometimes whisper of me to the few 
 
 I love, the fond, the faithful, and the young ; 
 And those who reverence the wronged soul that planned 
 Thy world of sound, with archangelic hand. 
 
 V. 
 Hear how the strings, dear Ida, sound abroad 
 
 The grief and glory of that matchless mind ! 
 What ardour glows in each seraphic chord ! 
 
 How deep a pathos Echo leaves behind ! 
 Yet was he wretched whom all tongues applaud, — 
 
 For peace he panted, for affection pined : 
 Be thou, whilst thy mild eyes with pity swim, 
 More kind to me than Aura was to him ; — 
 
 VI. 
 
 Else shall I little prize the indulgent praise, 
 Which some may lavish on a task so long ; 
 
 Else shall I mourn that e'er my early days 
 Were given to feeling, solitude, and song ; 
 
 But thee no light capricious fancy sways, 
 
 To doubt thy truth would be the heavens to wrong ; 
 
 Peace to thy spirit with the closing spell ! 
 
 And thou, Hesperian harp, farewell, farewell ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thus went the verse : and thou art now to me, 
 All that the cherished Muses were of yore. 
 
 And, glassed in other eyes than thine, I see 
 Fair visions rise, but dimly traced before. 
 
 This peaceful home, this garden, where the bee 
 Hums of Hymettus, and these woods, have more 
 
 Of stirring music than those old day-dreams 
 
 Of airy fame and praised Pierian streams. 
 
 VIII. 
 To him who lives as Wisdom would require, 
 As Duty woos, and as the Virtues clairii. 
 
THE POETS HOME. 6i 
 
 Time, if it robs the Poet of his lyre, 
 
 Bestows a bliss beyond the wealth of fame, — 
 
 Fruits, that refresh the spirit, and inspire 
 The immortal yearning, and that purer flame. 
 
 To quicken which, until they blend with heaven. 
 
 The mortal Poet and the Lyre were given. 
 
 Froxfield, /^th mo., ibth, 1830. 
 
 A little beyond the top of Stump Cross Hill, 
 passing out of Woburn Park by the Froxfield lodge, 
 the small hamlet of Froxfield, is reached. 
 
 Here stood the "peaceful home," of the poet, and 
 his " garden, where the bee hums of Hymettus," to 
 which he brought his bride, the Ida of his poetic 
 dreams, and here, as years went on, the patter of tiny 
 feet and the echo of infantine voices, amused and 
 soothed his hours of leisure. 
 
 On the 28th, day of November, 1828, Jeremiah 
 Holmes Wiffen, was married to Mary Whitehead, 
 at the Friends' Meeting House, in Leeds. 
 
 Mary Whitehead, descended from the line of 
 Hollinshed the Chronicler, possessed by inherit- 
 ance, a taste for literature, and intellectual ability 
 of no common order. She took great interest in 
 all movements for the enlightenment, and progress, 
 of the human race, and possessed a love of know- 
 ledge for its own sake. She personally engaged in 
 the work of the Bible Society, and Peace Society, 
 of her native town of Nottingham, and entered 
 warmly into the missions of mercy, organized by 
 Elizabeth Fry, and other great philanthropists of 
 the day. 
 
62 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 She read the Old and New Testament in their 
 original languages, and was conversant with the best 
 Latin, and French, authors. She drew, and painted in 
 oil, and water-colour, and was acquainted with the 
 various details of domestic life, the knowledge of 
 which, constitutes the mistress, ''who looketh well to 
 the ways of her household." 
 
 In all his literary labours, after their marriage, she 
 ever gave to her husband, her ready, and practical 
 sympathy. Whilst he was writing, " The Historical 
 Memoirs of the House of Russell," she would often, 
 with one of her infant children asleep on her knee, 
 write to his dictation, sometimes, until far on, into the 
 night. 
 
 To her, as " Ida," he addressed many of his sweetest 
 verses. 
 
 On the 1 6th day of September, 1829, came the 
 first little daughter, to gladden the peaceful home at 
 Froxfield. 
 
 She was named, Ida Margaret, and inherited her 
 father's poetic talent, and literary taste. 
 
 Like him, also, her sun was destined to set at 
 noonday. 
 
 A Poet's Firstborn, she was welcomed into the 
 world by the Poet's benediction. 
 
THE POET'S HOME. 63 
 
 TO A NEW VISITANT ON A SEPTEMBER EVENING. 
 
 " One that from some unknown sphere 
 Brings strange thoughts and feelings here ; 
 Dreams of days gone out of mind. 
 Hints of home still left behind ; 
 Spring's fresh pastime, Winter's mirth. 
 Smiles of heaven, and tears of earth." 
 
 Welcome, dear Child, with all a father's blessing, 
 
 To thy new sphere of motion, light, and life ! 
 After the long suspense, the fear distressing. 
 
 Love's strong subduing strife. 
 
 Sealed with the smile of Him who made the Morning, 
 
 Though to the matron charge of Eve consigned, 
 Com'st thou, my radiant babe, the mystic dawning 
 Of one more deathless mind. 
 
 'Tis a strange world, they say, and full of trouble. 
 
 Wherein thy destined course is to be run ; 
 Where joy is deemed a shadow, peace a bubble, 
 And true bliss known to none. 
 
 Yet to high destinies it leads, — to natures 
 
 Glorious, and pure, and beautiful, and mild. 
 Shapes all impassive to decay, with features 
 
 Lovelier than thine, fair child. 
 
 To winged Beatitudes for ever tending. 
 
 Rank above rank, to the bright Source of bliss, 
 And in ecstatic vision tranced, still blending 
 
 Their grateful love with His. 
 
 Then, if thou'rt launched in this benign direction, 
 
 We will not sorrow that thy porch is past ; 
 Come ! many a picture waits thy young inspection. 
 Each lovelier than the last. 
 
 What shall it be ? On Earth, in Air, in Ocean, 
 
 A thousand things are sparkling, to excite 
 Thy hope, thy fear, joy, wonder, or devotion. 
 Heiress of rich delight ! 
 
64 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 Wilt thou, when Reason has her star implanted 
 
 On thy fair brow, with Galileo soar ? 
 Rove with Linnaeus through the woods, or haunted 
 Be by more charmed lore ? 
 
 Shall sky-taught Painting, with her ardent feeling. 
 
 Her rainbow pencil to thy hand commit ? 
 Or shall the quivered spells be thine, revealing 
 The polished shafts of Wit ? 
 
 Or to thy fascinated eye, her mirror 
 
 Shall the witch Poesy delight to turn. 
 And strike warm to every brilliant error 
 
 Glanced from her magic urn ? 
 
 Heed her not, darling ! she will smile benignly, 
 
 So she may win thine inexperienced ear ; 
 But the fond tales she warbles so divinely 
 
 Will cost thee many a tear. 
 
 She has a Castle, where, in death-like slumbers, 
 
 Full of wild dreams, she casts her slaves ; some break, 
 After long hurt, their golden chains ; but numbers 
 Never with sense awake. 
 
 She it was, dear, who in Greek story acted 
 
 Such tragic masques ; who in the grape's disguise 
 Choked sweet Anacreon, Sappho's soul distracted, 
 And seared old Homer's eyes. 
 
 Tasso she tortured, Savage unbefriended ; 
 
 O'er Falconer's bones the matted seaweed spread; 
 Chatterton poisoned, Otway starved, and blended 
 White with the early dead ! 
 
 She, too, with many a smile thy sire has flattered. 
 Promising flowers, and fame, and guerdons rare. 
 Till youth was past, and then, he found, she scattered 
 Her vows and wreaths in air. 
 
 Shun, then, the Siren ; spurn her laurelled chalice. 
 Though the bright nectar dance above the brim ; 
 Lest she should seize thee in her mood of malice, 
 And tear thee limb from limb ! 
 
THE POET'S HOME. 65 
 
 But to selecter influences, my beauty, 
 
 Pay thy young vows, — to Truth, that ne'er beguiles, 
 Virtue, fixed Faith, and unpretending Duty, 
 
 Whose frowns beat Fancy's smiles. 
 
 Look on me, love, that in those radiant glasses 
 Thy future tastes and fortunes I may trace ; 
 O'er them alternate shade and sunshine passes, 
 Enhancing every grace. 
 
 Peace is there yet, and purity, and pleasure ; 
 
 With a fond yearning o'er the leaves I look ; 
 But the lid falls — farewell, the enchanting treasure, 
 Qosed is the starry book ! 
 
 Two other daughters, afterwards completed the 
 family circle. 
 
66 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HISTORICAL MEMOIRS OF THE HOUSE OF 
 RUSSELL. 1833. 
 
 " Hence taught that Empire stands no mose 
 
 On the brute Legion's charging shock, 
 
 Nor Persian gold, Chaldean lore. 
 
 Nor Porch where graceful cynics flock — 
 
 May he on Righteousness, the Rock, 
 
 Fix Freedom's ark, and Britain's fame. 
 
 For blessings to far times bequeathed 
 
 With amaranth be his forehead wreathed, 
 
 And Russell be his name ! " 
 
 Temple of Liberty. 
 
 IN the midst of the disappointment, and delay, 
 involved in the conflagration of the Tasso, 
 J. H. Wiffen, commenced, " The Historical Memoirs 
 of the House of Russell," which occupied eight years 
 in arranging, writing, and completing. The prepara- 
 tion for this, included a journey into Normandy, and 
 the adjacent provinces of France — the examination 
 of Records, and Libraries, there, an occupation fully 
 congenial to the poet, and which he described, with 
 great fulness, in his correspondence. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE HOUSE OF RUSSELL. 67 
 
 Extracts of Letters, to the Rev. C. 
 Fletcher. 
 
 Soon after his return from Normandy, at the 
 beginning of the year 1827, he writes: — 
 
 "WoBURN Abbey. 
 
 " I have had the unsolicited offer of the degree of 
 LL.D. from Aberdeen. The Duke offered to pay the 
 twenty guinea fee, for the diploma, but various con- 
 siderations have led me to decline it at present. 
 
 " I have done a little more to the Russell history 
 since my last; but until I am truly settled, I can 
 adhere to nothing, with my wonted tenacity of 
 purpose. As to Poetry, though I do not forswear 
 it, I am content to place it perfectly in abeyance, to 
 more necessary, if not higher pursuits ; and I think 
 it very improbable, that I shall ever publish, or even 
 write, another volume of it, but I make no vow. 
 
 " I met Bowring, at dinner with Alaric. I have 
 twice dined, and passed the night, with Sir James 
 Mackintosh, at Ampthill Park lately, and highly 
 enjoyed his surprising conversational powers, and 
 varied information on all started subjects. 
 
 " I breakfasted with Rogers in town. He is coming 
 out by-and-by with a new volume, which is to be 
 illustrated in the manner of the annuals, with an 
 immense number, as I understand, of beautiful en- 
 gravings; and high report says he has printed ten 
 thousand copies, which I think not improbable, as 
 he must perceive the popular taste for illustrated 
 
68 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 works. Moore, and Murray, have made up their 
 differences, and the former is to produce a Life, to 
 redeem Lord Byron, from what they consider the 
 unworthy representations of Leigh Hunt. Hunt's is, 
 with all its faults, however, a very amusing volume, 
 but his self-importance peeps from every page, and 
 has had its effect in colouring his views, of Lord 
 Byron's conduct and character. Thou hast, of course, 
 seen Moore's caustic lines, on the lion and , puppy- 
 dog!" 
 
 After eight years of patient research and investiga- 
 tion, "The Historical Memoirs of the House of 
 Russell" were completed, and were published by 
 Messrs. Longman and Co. in the year 1833. 
 
 " It is a reverend thing to see an ancient castle or 
 building not in decay, or to see a fair timber-tree 
 sound and perfect; how much more to behold an 
 ancient noble family, which hath stood against the 
 waves and weathers of time ! " was the motto selected 
 by the author for this his last work. An extract 
 from the preface gives his feelings of interest in the 
 prosecution of the necessary researches, and his delight 
 in the success which crowned his labours : — 
 
 " It is nearly nine years since the notice in the 
 British Museum of some valuable original letters 
 of Sir John Russell to Henry VIII., and Cardinal 
 Wolsey first suggested to me the idea of collecting 
 together all the records I could find, connected with 
 the Russell family, in Normandy and England. I 
 was attracted to this task by the veneration which 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE HOUSE OF RUSSELL. 69 
 
 from my very early youth, I had cherished for the 
 memory of that admirable Patriot of their line, to 
 whom the British nation is so deeply indebted for 
 the vindication, and perpetuity, of its inherent liberties 
 and rights. This feeling alone, would not indeed 
 have justified an undertaking like the present ; but 
 during the prosecution of long and very laborious 
 researches, the various incidents and correspondence 
 which I met with, particularly of the first two Earls 
 of Bedford, presented so many features of interest, 
 and were so intimately connected with the history 
 of the times in which they flourished, as to furnish 
 me, upon deliberation, with a sufficient warrant and 
 inducement, for employing my best powers both of 
 industry, and perseverance, in gathering together, and 
 embodying in a systematic narrative, the most me- 
 morable actions of the Family, from the earliest 
 known period, that could now be gathered, from the 
 keep of time. I flattered myself, that the survey 
 would, in some degree at least, give back an image 
 of those past ages, manners, and achievements, which 
 at all times, strongly excite our curiosity, and interest ; 
 and that there might be a value, and utility, which 
 ' posterity would not willingly let die,' found couched 
 in the records of a House, the members of which have 
 borne an almost uninterrupted and conspicuous part 
 in British story, from the time of the Norman Dukcg 
 to the Tudors, from the Tudors to the Stuarts, and 
 from the domination of that intolerant, and repudiated 
 dynasty, to the latest constitutional benefits effected 
 
70 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 under the more congenial Sceptre, of the House of 
 Hanover. The indulgence of this conviction, will 
 perhaps appear to some, to savour too strongly, of 
 partiality, as the hope of doing justice to the subject 
 may wear to others, the appearance of presumption ; 
 but it is certain, that little can be accomplished, that 
 is worthy of enduring, which is not actuated by a 
 love of the subject selected, and sustained in its 
 execution, by the studious care, arising from the desire 
 of success. 
 
 " It is unnecessary here, to recite, by what slow but 
 certain steps, based always upon authentic Records, 
 I was enabled to complete, in an unbroken line, the 
 chain of family descent, and to ascertain the precise 
 spot whence the House derived its surname. 
 
 " Little satisfied with the meagre account which 
 even the great Dugdale, gives of the early history 
 of the Russell family, I, for two years, applied solely 
 to this portion of the work ; and left no chartu- 
 lary, roll, or record unexamined, that promised to 
 add the least tittle of evidence, to that already 
 gleaned from other sources. At the end of this 
 period, after a close examination of the Fine and 
 Close Rolls, in the Tower, the Pipe Rolls, at Somerset 
 House, and chartularies in our public libraries, I com- 
 municated the object of my pursuit, to the Duke of 
 Bedford, who, after opening a communication with 
 the venerable Abbe de la Rue, charged me with a 
 mission into Lower Normandy for the further dis- 
 covery of family evidences ; and it is to his liberality 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE HOUSE OF RUSSELL. 71 
 
 in this particular, that I have been enabled, to throw 
 so much certain light, on his first progenitors. 
 
 " In the muniment-room of the prefecture at Caen, 
 and in the Tower of Matignon at St. Loo, I revelled 
 in a perfect mer noire of abbey charters, those of the 
 whole department of Calvados, having been safely 
 deposited in the former, during the Revolution that 
 swept away the abbeys and their riches, and those 
 of all La Manche, being with equal convenience 
 gathered in the latter receptacle. There, every bundle 
 which I opened, disclosed some note, or memorial, of 
 the surnames most renowned, in Norman, or in English 
 story — Cliffords, Percies, Clintons, Byrons, Mortimers 
 and Bruces, besides those of equal lustre, which are 
 now only to be met with, in the extinct baronage ol 
 England. 
 
 " The pleasure which I derived from my researches 
 amidst this most interesting mass of deeds, of the 
 feudal, and chivalric ages, I shall not soon forget. I 
 went upon a tour of four weeks ; I stayed as many 
 months ! 
 
 * * » # * 
 
 "Dated, Froxfield, 4th month, i8th, 1833." 
 
72 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SUNSET AT NOONDAY. 1 835, 1 836. 
 
 " But, above all, believe it, the sweetest canticle is 'Nunc Dimittis,' 
 when a man hath obtained worthy ends and expectations. Death hath 
 this also — that it openeth the gate of fame, and extinguisheth envy." 
 
 Bacon. 
 
 THE Pale Messenger, bearing the banner inscribed 
 " Nunc dimittis," was nearing with rapid strides 
 the peaceful home of the Poet. No foreshadowing 
 cloud darkened the air. No spell of illness came as 
 precursor of the event. To his brother, he had, at 
 times, complained of difficulty of breathing ; but con- 
 sidering it merely a temporary feeling, and not wishing 
 to bring, even the shadow of anxiety, over his Wife, to 
 her, he had not spoken. 
 
 But his thoughts were evidently much occupied 
 with the life of the Hereafter, and his spirit liked to 
 linger in contemplation of that Home, to which this 
 earth life, is but the journey. Thus, to a spirit already 
 attuned to celestial harmony, death could only appear 
 in the guise of the loving Angel, who tenderly uncloses 
 the portals, draws back the dark veiling curtains, and 
 leads the soul gently in, to the realm of that Glory 
 which is unrevealed to mortal eyesight. 
 
SUNSET AT NOONDAY. 73 
 
 In one of the last letters, to his friend, the Rev. C. 
 Fletcher, occurs the following passage : — 
 
 " Poor Jane T still lingers out her life. But 
 
 why should I call her poor ? She is rich in consola- 
 tion, and in the anticipation of the final change. She 
 declares, that she has nothing now to do, but die ; 
 that she is so happy, that she would not change 
 situations, with any living being. Her brothers, have 
 both been, to take leave of her. She is, I understand, 
 shrunk to a very small figure, and lies like one of wax 
 in resemblance — ^beautiful already as one of the re- 
 deemed spirits — amongst whom, we trust, she will 
 very shortly mingle. 
 
 " I think, the witnessing of these triumphs of the 
 soul, over the weakness of mortality, through the 
 infinite mercy, of our God, and our Redeemer, has a 
 very strong tendency, both to wean us from the world, 
 and to diminish our dread, of that change, which 
 must before very long, come upon ourselves, also. 
 It strengthens our weak faith ; it realizes to our 
 mind, the glories, and the peace, of Immortality ; and 
 serves, in some small degree, to stimulate us, to 
 'press forward to the mark of our (own) high 
 calling, in Christ Jesus.' I hope to make a little 
 progress, in this course — the only one, really worth 
 living for; for here, we have no continuing city, 
 and our years pass literally, 'like a tale that is 
 told.' " 
 
 J. H. Wififen, died suddenly, in the night of May 
 2nd, 1836, in his forty-third year. 
 
74 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 A friend, thus gives the account, in a letter to his 
 daughter: — 
 
 " We are now on a melancholy visit, to our 
 very dear, and very old friend, Mrs. Wiffen, who 
 has lost her husband, in the most sudden, and 
 afflictive manner, in which bereavement can take 
 place. No illness — no notice — but between ten and 
 eleven o'clock at night, he woke, and said he felt 
 very poorly. Mrs. Wiffen got up directly, and went 
 for the nursemaid. When she returned to their 
 room, Mr. Wiffen was standing at the foot of the 
 bed, and said he had great difficulty in breathing. 
 He begged them to send for Mr. Parker, the doctor 
 at Woburn, who had attended him many years ago 
 in a bad rheumatic fever. They then got him into 
 an arm-chair, and his feet in hot water, but — in 
 about half an hour from that time, he ceased to 
 breathe. 
 
 " Seldom, very seldom, were superior minds united, 
 or dispositions, and pursuits, more adapted to each 
 other. Sublunary happiness, and consistency of high 
 principle, and exemplary conduct, were realized in 
 that pair, to an extent rarely to be witnessed ; but 
 they enjoyed the world together, only eight years. 
 Mr. Wiffen was saying to me in August, 1834, (the 
 last time we were here,) when riding together in the 
 park, ' how he wished he had known Mary Whitehead 
 ten years earlier.' Ah, dear man ! such gentle, 
 courteous, and unassuming manners, and mode of 
 speech to every one, poor or great, and such good 
 
SUNSET AT NOONDAY. 75 
 
 conversation, and mellifluous words, that flowed from 
 his tongue ! " 
 
 The end was so sudden, and without any previous 
 apparent illness, so altogether unlooked for, that at 
 first many of his friends (especially those at a distance) 
 would not credit the report of his death. When the 
 sad truth was realized beyond doubt, the sorrow was 
 universal. Expressions of heartfelt sympathy, and 
 affectionate regret, came alike from all classes to the 
 sorrow-laden home at Froxfield, so lately the abode 
 of domestic happiness. 
 
 How distinctly do I, even now, recollect the funeral ! 
 the brilliance of that May morning, as it passed across 
 Woburn Park ; and how, along the entire length of 
 the road, from Woburn, to the Friends' Burial Ground 
 at Woburn Sands, (a distance of two miles,) each side 
 of the road, was thronged with people, who had come 
 forth, from far, and near, to pay the last tribute of 
 affection and regret. For he was greatly respected, 
 and much beloved. 
 
 There in his last resting-place, he was laid, in the 
 sunshine of the Sabbath morn. May 8th, 1836. The 
 poet, and scholar, — the true son, brother, friend — the 
 loving husband — the tender father. 
 
 His brother, B. B. Wiffen, passed away in March, 
 1867, having completed his life-work, the republication 
 of the " Reformistas Antiguos Espanoles." 
 
 Side by side, with the rest of their family, lie the 
 two brothers. 
 
76 THE LIFE OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 " They lie together in that lonely Ground, 
 Far from the din of Human Life ; — and Spring 
 Festoons their resting-place with violets sweet. 
 With pitying hand, along the waving grass, 
 A veil of clustering harebells Summer flings. 
 Drooping their heads, in token of the grief, 
 Which swept the souls who loved them, when they passed. 
 The Autumn wind, sighing through the dark Pine trees, 
 Murmurs for aye, their sad and solemn requiem ; 
 And Winter, tender in her sternest moods, 
 Drifts there a mantle of her whitest snow. 
 But earth no longer holds them, for they tread 
 The Crystal Sea of glass — before the Throne, 
 With the Redeemed of countless ages past ! 
 All that they have and are laid lowly down 
 In humble reverence at the feet of Him 
 Whom far off here they worshipped." 
 
BY 
 
 BENJAMIN BARRON WIFFEN. 
 WITH A MEMOIR. 
 
' ' What lovelier garland can affection bring, 
 What nobler tribute admiration pay, 
 What sweeter requiem can the poet sing 
 To hallow man, ' the pilgrim of a day, ' 
 Than this : ' He sorrowed, worshipped, passed away. 
 And harmonized,' as thou sweet spirit hast, 
 ' With those whose life was truth, their name a ray, 
 A guiding star, a beacon of the past. 
 Souls in the glorious mould of mental grandeur cast ' ? " 
 
 J. H. WiFFEN. 
 
'MyCCYI^UAAj (/J li/MJ-^' 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 1 794 — 1 836. 
 
 " We think of the faithful life, 
 
 Whose age was the crown of his youth 
 Lowly in service, lofty in aim, 
 Unflinchingly true to truth." 
 
 Mrs. Charles. 
 
 /^^N the south-western edge of Bedfordshire, the 
 ^^ rich levels of the Midlands are exchanged, for 
 a rolling district, abounding in sandy knolls, covered 
 with forests, in which the Fir predominates. In the 
 midst of this, is the Ducal domain of Woburn Abbey. 
 In spite of the withering denunciations of Burke, in 
 his celebrated " Letter to a Noble Lord," this fine 
 property, has, in the hands of its owners, the Russells, 
 been of continuous benefit to the nation, owing to the 
 series of experiments, in Forestry, and Agriculture, 
 which successive Dukes of Bedford, have carried on 
 there. Added to which, they have accumulated, and 
 liberally opened to all, the treasures of a rich Library, 
 Gallery of Sculpture, and the beauties of a glorious 
 Park — elements of Poetry existing in a world of 
 Prose. 
 
 On one side of the Park, stands the little town of 
 
8o . THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 Woburn, on the other, the scattered upland village of 
 Aspley Guise, embosomed in swelling hills, amidst 
 the thick foliage of tall trees. 
 
 At the uppermost end of Aspley Guise, is the 
 hamlet of Mount Pleasant ; on the verge of this, 
 towards Woburn, hard by a clump of venerable 
 Scotch Firs, and overlooking a valley of corn-fields, 
 edged by the woods of Woburn Park, is a small 
 brick-built cottage. Creeping plants adorn the front, 
 a little space of shrubbery separates it from a private 
 roadway, an old-fashioned flower " knot," leads to a 
 crowded fruit orchard, and beyond this, the fields. In 
 the field, at the front, is the fir-crowned knoll, and from 
 this, close to the house, is a view which must at all 
 seasons be beautiful. In the distance, all around, are 
 ancient woodlands ; a few openings, disclose other 
 woods beyond. Within this belt, lie open fields, with 
 one or two farms. An air of tranquillity, reigns over 
 the scene, to which the vast extent of cloud-land, and 
 the distant solemn girdle of trees, contribute. From 
 the knoll, a country path invites you forward, alortg 
 the ridge, which commands the broken ground of the 
 green-sand, on the one side, and the wide sweep of 
 Woburn woods, on the other. The hidden charms of 
 Aspley Guise, are now becoming known, and new, yet 
 secluded, villas, are rising, to testify to the pure taste of 
 those who choose retirement, and select this spot. 
 
 One of those, who made this selection, was Benjamin 
 Barron Wiffen, a name scantily known to fame, 
 and deserving wider recognition. 
 
THE BROTHERS. 8i 
 
 In the recently published work, " Bibliotheca 
 Wiffeniana," there is a brief biography, and a graceful 
 memoir, of Mr. Wiffen, by his niece, Isaline Wiffen. 
 
 The Annual Obituary of the Society of Friends, for 
 1867, also contains a short notice of him, from the 
 same hand.* We shall be doing good service, by 
 attempting to give a wider circulation, to the short 
 and simple annals of this good man's life, than is 
 accorded by these publications. 
 
 It was known to a few scholars, in Germany, to a 
 very small circle of . sympathizers, in Spain, and to 
 a scarcely larger circle, even, of his own Society of 
 "Friends," in Britain, that a man of retired life, 
 dwelling in a Bedfordshire village, was devoting his 
 life to the sole object of rescuing from oblivion, the 
 deeds, and writings, of the early Spanish' religious 
 reformers. Like another "Old Mortality," he tra- 
 versed the land to restore dead reputations ; but 
 in lieu of bringing to light faded inscriptions, he 
 unearthed immortal Truth, and thus added to the 
 records of true glory on the earth. 
 
 Mr. Wiflfen, was a small, pale, keen-eyed man, 
 possessing a delicate organization, with a brave, stout 
 heart, uncommon perseverance, and an indomitable 
 love of justice and truth. He had a good fund of 
 humour, which at first scarcely seemed in harmony 
 with his emaciated form, and plain Quaker garb ; but 
 the smile which often stole over his features, indicated 
 the wise and loving spirit dwelling within. 
 
 • " Annual Monitor " for 1868, or "Obituary " for 1867, p. 236. 
 
 6 
 
82 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 In society, his presence was a continued testimony 
 for truth, gentleness, and justice. He was charmingly 
 human, and a poetic temperament, gave grace to his 
 sympathy with all knowledge ; but he was so 
 enamoured with his chosen study of the Spanish 
 reformers, that he would not long be diverted from 
 communion, with these " dead but sceptred sovereigns 
 who still rule our spirits from their urns." The 
 sacredness of his settled purpose, gave him always a 
 quiet dignity, and his charming manners, and innocent 
 wit, were favourable introductions to the subjects of 
 his constant enthusiasm. His devotion to these, was 
 determined by love for the men, whose names he 
 restored to fame, and love for the Truth which they 
 held unto death, and on a determination that the 
 world, in these after ages, should know who had been 
 its benefactors. B. B. Wiffen, was the son of John 
 and Elizabeth Wiffen, of Woburn, and was born there 
 in the year 1794. His father, was a man of superior 
 culture and taste ; the family was originally from 
 Norfolk, and his more remote ancestors from Germany, 
 where they were Von Wimpffens. His mother, was a 
 woman of strong character, a memoir of whom, 
 written by B. B. Wiffen, appears in a subsequent 
 portion of these volumes. 
 
 The elder brother of B. B. Wiffen, was Jeremiah 
 Holmes Wiffen, librarian to the Duke of Bedford, at 
 Woburn Abbey, and the translator of Tasso, into 
 elegant English verse. The brothers went together, to 
 the " Friends' " school at Ackworth, in Yorkshire. After 
 
THE BROTHERS. 83 
 
 this, the elder followed the bent of his inclination, and 
 entered the field of literature, whilst Benjamin, with his 
 mother and sisters, carried on the trade of an iron- 
 monger, the largest of the kind, in the small, quiet 
 town of Woburn. Although Mr. Wiffen was habitually 
 gentle, he was stern in requiring the fulfilment of 
 common obligations ; he loved accuracy as well as 
 truth, and in his business relations, he was the terror 
 of all slovens ; in his municipal duties, he enforced the 
 utmost economy, and the strictest fidelity, to the 
 public. One of his contemporaries, assures me, that 
 excuses in such matters, were of no use with him ; he 
 would pass nothing, that was not properly authorized 
 and vouched, and he was in all respects a useful citizen. 
 Notwithstanding his continuous, industrious, pursuit of 
 the daily, dull routine of such business, he found time 
 to cultivate Literature, and occasionally to woo the 
 Muses. 
 
 At an early period, Wiffen appears to have passed 
 through, one of those severe mental conflicts, which 
 are not unusual in the religious life of the youthful 
 Christian ; for in a letter to a friend, after the lapse of 
 forty-six years, he recurred to it with vivid remem- 
 brance, and related that after fighting in anguish with 
 the tempter, a whole summer's day, he "went out at 
 dew-fall, and kneeling on the grass under the open 
 sky, found victory and peace, which have not been so 
 challenged since." 
 
 As years rolled on, his views became exceedingly 
 clear on the practical fitness of the great truths of 
 
84 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 Christianity for the comfort, and happiness, of the 
 believer. He expressed regret, that Christians did 
 not live more, " by the faith of the Son of God!' * 
 His religious life, was passed somewhat in the se- 
 questered shade of great truths, which yielded him 
 deep, but not dazzling delight. He belonged to a 
 Society, which, if not absolutely declining, was rela- 
 tively so. It had borne its testimony against the 
 errors of the age, nobly, and conscientiously, but the 
 world would not receive it. In the chosen path of 
 social progress, other reformers had marched past 
 them with drums and banners, and reaped the harvest 
 of their sowing. Although the " Friends," had dis- 
 played remarkable force, intensity, and perseverance 
 in their tenets, yet they have declined in numbers, at 
 the rate of about one per cent, per annum, during the 
 present century. 
 
 There is something extremely mournful, in the slow 
 decay of an institution, from within, going on, whilst 
 its outer form remains, and commands respect. It is, 
 however, to be remarked, that, concurrently with this 
 decline, there was a gradual approximation in public 
 opinion towards them, arising from the adoption by 
 others, of many of the sentiments, once peculiar to the 
 " Friends." This fact has not escaped the observation 
 of Mr. Wiffen, who has expressed his apprehensions 
 and opinions, in the little poem, called "The Church 
 in Decay," which will be found in another part of 
 these volumes. The reflective mind, and poetic tem- 
 
 * Obituary for the year 1867, in "Annual Monitor" for 1868. 
 
THE BROTHERS. 85 
 
 perament of Wiffen, found refreshment, and food, in 
 the sylvan glades of Woburn Park, at all times open 
 to him, and close at hand. He absolutely declined 
 the collisions, and contentions, of ordinary social life ; 
 he lived at first, amidst the ideal creations of the 
 romantic school of poetry, but latterly with the noble 
 Spaniards, who had hailed the dawn of the Reforma- 
 tion, and whose high inspiration, had been savagely 
 checked by ruthless persecution. His sense of justice 
 found unvarying exercise, in the attempt to make 
 restitution, for undeserved neglect. 
 
 Down to the year 1839, until he had reached the 
 age of forty-three, Mr. WifFen was engaged in business 
 in the house at Woburn, next to the Bedford Arms 
 Hotel, which is still occupied in the same manner. 
 He, however, found time for the cultivation of his 
 poetic taste, as the following letter, written at this 
 time to a friend, who had lent him some books, 
 shows : — 
 
 " Moore, so long kept, is returned ; he is a writer 
 after my own heart. Oh that I could hive every 
 drop of his honey in my heart ! it would indeed be a 
 continual feast, and, like that of Hymettus, create a 
 sweet delirium. Anacreon is detained ; if you want it 
 early, say so. How luxurious it is at night to sit 
 down to his song, and there give up the heart to 
 its influence ; to relieve all thoughts, and fill the 
 whole soul with only a passive sensation of delight ! 
 do you understand me .? Perhaps you cannot. / have 
 a poetical pulsation, a poetical bubbling of the blood 
 
86 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 unconnected with any cogitation, without any action of 
 the thinking principle, except a passive consciousness. 
 This is no metaphysical abstraction, but is tried by 
 the test and tact of the senses. 
 
 " ' The Lyre of Love ' goes back in this parcel, 
 because I am afraid it is kept too long. I am like 
 Smug the joiner, a man slow of study. In your next 
 send Dryden, and anything else you may have : you 
 know my taste ; whatever you administer to it, you 
 feed me with honey'' 
 
 The romance, and indeed the reality, of his seques- 
 tered life, lay in his fraternal association, with his 
 brother Jeremiah. The Brothers, were tenderly at- 
 tached to each other, and were united in thought 
 and taste. Jeremiah, dedicated his first volume of 
 poems, to his brother, as follows : — 
 
 TO 
 
 BENJAMIN BARRON WIFFEN, 
 
 IN RECREATION AND IN STUDY, 
 
 IN GLADNESS AND IN TRIAL, 
 
 THE COMPANION, THE BROTHER, THE FRIEND. 
 
 The Brothers went together to the Lake District, 
 and by their log-book appear to have walked 307 
 miles out of that journey of 785 miles. In the course 
 of their journey they visited Wordsworth and Southey, 
 and were kindly received by both. J. H. Wiffen, 
 died in the year 1836, at the age of forty-three, and 
 thus was unexpectedly closed the first source of 
 
THE BROTHERS. 87 
 
 solace, and sympathy, enjoyed by the survivor. 
 Years afterwards, he refers to this wound as still 
 fresh, and thus gives dignity, and grace, to his 
 sorrows : — 
 
 " Ye groves, whose sweep my unveiled windows view. 
 Not e'en Frascati bears the palm from you. 
 If there Italian skies in radiance glow. 
 Here deeper verdure lights the turf below. 
 Dear classic glades ! where he who late took down 
 Tasso's sweet lyre, and made its echoes known. 
 Formed his pure taste, and made with graceful ease 
 Italian sense, in Saxon music please. 
 That lyre, alas ! with all its chords unstrung, 
 Is on the cypress bough again uphung. 
 How oft at dewfall, when the setting sun 
 Told that the labours of the day were done, 
 In that sweet sense, accomplished duty brings. 
 When Time himself, takes rest upon his wings. 
 Here have we met, and walked uncounted hours, 
 While verse, sweet verse ! strewed all the way with 
 
 flowers. 
 The twilight lake, the woods, the drowsy birds, 
 E'en solemn midnight, witnessed of our words. 
 There, on our own, how oft the starry eyes 
 Of the bright Pleiades, glistened from the skies.. 
 I will not question, of their spheres to tell 
 What Memory chants in her eternal cell ; 
 To her, whilst wet with ink this paper lies, 
 A Brother's hand inscribes a Brother's sighs. 
 His after scholar in the art divine, 
 How late to learn, how rough in every line ! 
 Not touched to music by his graceful hand. 
 How rude, as written, must these verses stand ! " 
 
 Several years afterwards, on meeting in an album 
 with some lines written by his brother, he thus refers 
 
88 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 to the undying friendship, and his own habits of 
 study : — 
 
 " I hung over them a good while. Each one 
 brought some remembrance to my mind. I brought 
 up to town Mungo Park, and took it to Murray's. 
 What hopes and fears ! It was politely refused. I 
 remember his reading me the lines written at Haugh- 
 ton, after his return. The lines written at Pr6 Mill 
 were familiar to me, and yet so strange to see them 
 in such a collection, and in his own handwriting. 
 Although dead, he seemed alive, as when we sat 
 and drank coffee at midnight, and during the early 
 morning ; and I strove to forget, in the amenities of 
 literature, the anxieties of the coming day. How 
 often, when I have seen the black of night, whitening 
 in the twilight of the morning, have I wished I could 
 stop the dayspring in its course, and stay my fears 
 for a few hours more." 
 
89 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " THE QUAKER SQUIRE." — THE SECOND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 " Others, too. 
 There are, among the walks of homely life. 
 Still higher ; men for contemplation framed, 
 Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase ; 
 Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink 
 Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 ' I "HERE have never been wanting, among the 
 -*- " Friends," men who have mingled Literature 
 with their exercise of Philanthropy, and have shown 
 by example, how the two may well be pursued together. 
 A distinguished philosophical Historian of the present 
 day * is only the successor of a numerous line ; nor 
 have the accomplishments of Poetry and Art been 
 wanting, in the records of the thoughtful, reflective 
 race, whose existence has ever been, a standing testi- 
 mony for invisible things, and a protest for right 
 against might. 
 
 At Aspley, amidst the shade of tall trees, and the 
 decorations of ample lawns, and flower-beds, rises a 
 light cheerful dwelling ; spotless within, and without, 
 
 * Mr. Frederick Seebohen. 
 
90 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 displaying comfort, taste, and competence. This is 
 the home of the Hows, and is now held by Mrs. 
 Lucy How, the widow of William F. How. Richard 
 How, the second, received a liberal education, and 
 devoted himself to the collection, and enjoyment, of 
 the books forming the Library, still in being, and 
 cared for with reverence by Mrs. Lucy How. 
 Richard How, began his collections in early life ; he 
 accumulated above iive thousand volumes. He was 
 not a mere collector, but a diligent student. He 
 wrote a critical, laboured defence, of Lord William 
 Russell, against the charges of Dalrymple, the his- 
 torian. He obtained permission, of the Duke of Bed- 
 ford, to edit the Letters of Lady Rachel Russell, then 
 in MS. at Woburn Abbey ; and it is owing to him, 
 that these incomparable, and popular, Epistles, saw 
 the light. By a note in his handwriting, in his own 
 first copy of the Letters, it appears that the first 
 Edition, was published in quarto, on May i8th, 1773, 
 of five hundred copies ; the second, of five hundred, on 
 June 1 5th the same year ; the third, of one thousand, 
 in 1776; and their popularity still attests the judg- 
 ment of the worthy librarian. Among the treasures 
 in this Library, are many MSS. : a notable MS. of the 
 Romaunt de la Rose ; a unique and deeply interesting 
 Manuscript, on fine vellum, forming a handsome, 
 stout, quarto volume, in early English, " The Lyfe of 
 Kateryne of Siena, written by a Brother of Sion ; " 
 an exquisite pocket Bible, written in Latin, on the 
 purest vellum, not thicker than a bank note; a 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 91 
 
 perfect, and beautifully preserved English New Tes- 
 tament, published in 1534, by William Tyndale; and 
 the first printed English Bible, by Miles Coverdale, 
 1535; a series of early English Bibles, Grafton's, or 
 the Great Bible — curious editions of that faithful 
 Translation, made by our pilgrim Forefathers, who fled 
 to Geneva, to escape the cruelties of the English State 
 Church ; also a series of Works, illustrating the noble 
 art of Printing, from the Coburgers, Aldines, and 
 Elzevirs, to the Foulises and Baskervilles. A fine 
 Catalogue, beautifully written, and very elegantly 
 ornamented, with uncial letters, and arabesque borders, 
 and ornaments in gold and colours, by Mrs. Lucy 
 How and her niece, Miss Thorp, is the key to this 
 valuable collection. 
 
 The Founder of the Library died in 1800, leaving 
 Richard Thomas How, his successor, who lived at 
 the same place, and was a man of most refined taste 
 and good attainments. He was of a very retired 
 disposition, naturally shy, and possessing a dislike to 
 publicity, which increased with age ; but he was not 
 a recluse, for urbanity, characterized his address, and 
 hospitality, reigned in his dwelling. B. B. Wififen 
 was attracted to him, by his love of Poetry and re- 
 tirement, and Mr. How, acquired that genial and 
 good influence, which an elderly man of thought, and 
 observation, and attainments, always wins, on a much 
 younger man, possessed of kindred tastes, and some 
 literary aspirations. Thus originated the Friendship, 
 which ended only with the life, of Richard Thomas 
 
92 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 How, and was celebrated, in the Poem of " The 
 Quaker Squire," now for the first time published. 
 "The Quaker Squire," will remind the reader, both 
 of Crabbe, and Cowper ; the accuracy of the former, 
 and the poetic ideality of the latter, are combined in 
 this production. An incident in their common life, 
 led to the determination of all Wiffen's future career. 
 He referred to it in after years, as follows : — " While 
 my time was occupied in business, I had occasion to 
 journey to a distant religious meeting, with an aged 
 Quaker friend, who possessed an ancestral, and neg- 
 lected Library, in the neighbourhood where I resided. 
 As we jogged on together, in his little pony-chaise, 
 my conversation turned, upon what would be done 
 with his books, after his death, for he had no children 
 to succeed him ; and as I questioned him, about the 
 rareness, and value, of some of them, he mentioned 
 that the library contained one old work, by a Spaniard, 
 which represented essentially, the principles of George 
 Fox. Nothing could be further from my thoughts 
 at that time, than that I should have to do, with 
 ancient Spanish literature ; but years having rolled 
 on, I was, from physical weakness, thrown into a state 
 of leisure, and wanted occupation." 
 
93 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SPANISH AFFAIRS. — THIRD FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 " O Spain, thou wert of yore 
 The wonder of the realms ; in prouder years 
 Thy haughty forehead wore 
 What it shall wear no more, 
 The diadem of both the hemispheres." 
 
 Bryant. 
 
 WIFFEN, after the death of his brother, and his 
 own retirement from business, in 1838, took 
 his mother, and sisters, to reside in the cottage at 
 Mount Pleasant. The Brothers had at first, together, 
 cultivated the art of Poetry ; but Benjamin, finding 
 that its pursuit was likely to lead him astray, from 
 the stern requirements of necessary business, deli- 
 berately abandoned it, and committed most of his 
 previous efforts to the flames. He afterwards wrote 
 a few occasional verses only. About the year 1836, 
 there was living at Madrid, with his wife, a Spanish 
 nobleman of middle age, Luis de Usoz y Rio, a 
 man of learning, leisure, and fortune, and possessing 
 liberal and enlightened sentiments. Like most of his 
 countrymen, he was proud of the writings of their 
 great Poet, Garcilasso de la Vega ; and he learnt 
 with interest, that a Translation of his favourite writer 
 
94 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 had been made into English, by a Quaker, J. H. 
 Wiffen. At this time, he was offered by a bookseller 
 a copy of " Barclay's Apology," the manifesto of the 
 Friends, in Spanish. He obtained, and read it with 
 interest, and resolved to ascertain their doctrines 
 more fully. Don Luis, came to London ; he was 
 taken by George Borrow, to a committee meeting of 
 the British and Foreign Bible Society, and there 
 introduced to Mr. Forster, one of the best known of 
 the Quakers. He inquired of him, for J. H. Wiffen, 
 and learnt that he was dead. Mr. Forster told 
 B. Wiffen of Don Luis's inquiry, and asked him to 
 call on the stranger. Mr. Wiffen, felt, on the one 
 hand, reluctant to do this, owing to his natural reserve 
 and timidity ; on the other hand, he was impelled by 
 love to his brother's memory, to honour one who had 
 sought to honour him. The latter feeling prevailed. 
 He says of the interview, " I found him residing with 
 his wife, at lo, Jermyn Street. He was erect, and 
 rather tall, in person, with thick black hair, close- 
 cropped, according to the Spanish mode; his coun- 
 tenance was grave, and dark-complexioned, yet mild 
 in expression, and his eyes were dark and animated ; 
 in fig'ure, and in features, he was spare. He was 
 modest, and had an air of polite reserve. After a 
 time passed in general conversation, as I had to 
 proceed further, he put on his hat, and accompanied 
 me. While we walked along the street, our conver- 
 sation continued ; and in order to correct what I 
 thought, was an erroneous view entertained by people 
 
SPANISH AFFAIRS. 95 
 
 who travel in foreign countries, to view the pro- 
 ductions of the Fine Arts, I made the remark, that I 
 did not think, it was by pictures, statues, and vases 
 that the civih'zation of nations, was advanced ; but 
 that religious liberty, the real freedom, of moral and 
 religious thought, and action, was the only basis of 
 true civilization. The heartiness, with which he ex- 
 pressed his concurrence with this sentiment, showed 
 me that it was no new thought, but one familiar to 
 his mind. I believe that our friendship, which lasted 
 for the remainder of life, was then begun, while 
 walking the streets of London." Henceforward 
 Spain, took entire possession of Mr. Wiffen. Don 
 Luis, was the Editor, of the " Reformistas Antiguos 
 Espafioles," ("The Early Spanish Reformers,") of 
 which a series of twenty volumes has been printed. 
 He had attained the age of fourteen years, ere he 
 even saw a Bible. When he entered the Central 
 University, at Madrid, to study Hebrew, the chair 
 was occupied by Don Antonio Puigblanch, known to 
 English readers by William Walton's translation of 
 his " Inquisicion sin Mascara," (" The Inquisition 
 Unmasked,") 2 vols., 8vo. 
 
 The study of Hebrew, introduced Don Luis; to the 
 Old Testament Scriptures, in which that most ancient, 
 and venerable of languages, is preserved, and, as it 
 were, embalmed. Henceforth, Don Luis, becam.e, not 
 only an ardent and critical student of Scripture, but 
 he became also, devotedly attached to its important 
 verities ; and indeed, so far did his talents, and affec- 
 
96 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 tions lead him, that he afterwards came to be elected, 
 to fill the Professor's chair of Hebrew, in the University 
 of Valladolid. To the close of his life, he continued 
 to pursue, that course of religious and critical investi- 
 gation of Scripture, which he had thus begun, as a 
 youth, nor was he diverted from it, by his varied 
 literary avocations, which, proscribed as they were, by 
 the rulers of the day, must have aw'dWe in him, feelings 
 consciously akin, to those pourtrayed by Dr. Johnson, 
 as Milton's, in relation to his " Paradise Lost," which 
 was decried, both under the reign of Charles II. and 
 afterwards. Johnson says, "He surveyed the silent 
 progress of his work, and marked its reputation 
 stealing its way, in a kind of subterraneous current, 
 through fear and silence." 
 
 In the year 1839, Mr. Wiffen, accompanied Mr. 
 Alexander, to Spain, on a deputation to promote the 
 abolition of the Slave trade. Don Luis, entirely 
 sympathised with them, and they happily succeeded 
 in attaining their object. This journey, gave still 
 greater strength, to B. Wiffen's Spanish inclinations. 
 His letters show, what an immediate, and permanent 
 impression, his whole nature received, from the people 
 and scenery. He loved them, with the ardour of 
 personal attachment. Even the inconveniences of 
 travel, only stirred his poetic temperament ; he says, 
 " I dipped my hands, in every river I passed, and 
 gathered memorials from every memorable spot." 
 Writing to a friend, some years afterwards — " How 
 pleasant it is, at the earliest morning before sunrise. 
 
SPANISH AFFAIRS. 97 
 
 to jog along the mysterious country, through strange 
 villages, enveloped in a fragrant atmosphere of burn- 
 ing lavender, and to notice the melting colours of 
 the sky, from the deepest purple, almost black with 
 intensity, the vermilion, and gold, unequalled in 
 purity of colour, by anything seen in these moister 
 northern latitudes, and at night, the stars are really 
 like lamps hung in heaven ; for the air being so dry 
 and pure, the eyes seem to look beyond, and see the 
 other side of them." 
 
 Some of these impressions of beauty, and thoughts 
 suggested by them, he embodied, after his return 
 home, in a Poem called " The Warder of the Pyre- 
 nees," which was published in Finden's Tableaux 
 edited by his sister, Mrs. Alaric Watts ; others will be 
 found recorded in the next chapter. 
 
 In 1841, Don Luis, and his wife, visited Wififen at 
 Aspley Guise. Then, they formed the common pur- 
 pose, to rescue from oblivion the Works of the early 
 Spanish Reformers. Don Luis, gives the following 
 account of the commencement of this peculiar work : 
 " There is a sort of literary proselytism which is 
 exercised unconsciously, and which, in relation to 
 these, has come to be one of the sources of my wealth. 
 Years ago, conversing with an Englishman, in the 
 corridor of the hotel, at Seville, where we were stay- 
 ing, about Spanish literature, I spoke to him of this 
 branch of it, casually showing him an ancient copy 
 of Carrascon, which I had in my hand. That 
 Englishman, was my friend, Benjamin B. Wiffen, who 
 
 7 
 
98 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 was acquainted with our poet Garcilasso, but who 
 did not, at that time, know the book which I then 
 showed to him, nor any of its companions in misfor- 
 tune, stupidly registered in our Expurgatory Indexes. 
 Without acknowledging it at that time, Benjamin 
 Wiffen, was at once made a literary proselyte, as un- 
 expectedly to himself, as to me. And looking at it 
 more closely in the sense, which I attach to the word, 
 I shall call him too, an indispensable proselyte. For 
 being a Spaniard, and drugged with no small dose of 
 indolence, or Spanish slowness, and resident in our 
 hard Spain, where to seek these, my loved books, is 
 almost as vain, as it is dangerous, it was necessary for 
 me, to have a friend out of Spain, some person, as 
 inuch a friend to myself, as to these books. Wiffen 
 was that friend, and the consequence of our conversa- 
 tion at Seville, was, that it concentrated his thoughts 
 and studies, in the search for the Works of those 
 Spanish writers, who were persecuted for their attach- 
 ment to Christian liberty." 
 
99 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SPANISH TRAVEL. 
 
 " I would not escape from memory's land 
 For all that the eye can view ; 
 For there's dearer dust in memory's land 
 Than the ore of rich Peru." 
 
 Miss HoLFOiD. 
 
 ON his first journey into Spain, in the year 1840, 
 Mr, Wififen wrote a description of the scenery 
 and its associations, in the shape of rhyming letters, 
 supposed to have been addressed by his companion to 
 his wife at home, with copious notes. The greater 
 facility of access to Spain now enjoyed, the changes 
 in the political situation, and the diffusion of the 
 excellent guide book of Richard Ford, have deprived 
 the bulk of these descriptions of the charm of novelty, 
 yet a few of these first impressions are deserving of 
 preservation. 
 
 The travellers entered by the diligence road from 
 Bayonne, and encountered the fresh marks of the 
 bloody warfare, then apparently expiring, carried on 
 by the partisans of Don Carlos. This had overlaid, 
 but not effaced, the traces of Wellington and Soult 
 throughout the same picturesque wild district. After 
 accomplishing their errand at Madrid, they went on 
 
100 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 to Andalusia, and viewed the wonders of busy Seville, 
 poverty-stricken Cordova, Granada superb in ruins, 
 and the lovely Mediterranean, coming out vid Bar- 
 celona and Perpignan. The rhyming letters describe 
 some of these scenes, but we take from the one day's 
 
 doings only. 
 
 Barcelona, ist month, 3, 1841. 
 
 A Day in Spain. 
 In the diligence, on the coast of the Mediterranean, 
 in Valencia, and Catalonia. 
 
 The Dawn. 
 Roused from short dreams of home by noisy rackage, 
 
 Tramping of mules, quick call, and busy shout. 
 Boxed in the coupe, with a motley package. 
 
 Ere earliest dawn, behold us on the route, 
 
 With long-drawn team, and " lantern dimly burning," 
 
 Making night visible, in doubt and fear, 
 Through blindfold streets, round many a rapid turning. 
 
 Till past the Sea-gate and the causeway clear, 
 
 Sniffing fresh air, betwixt the trot and amble 
 The mules' lithe feet, how cheerily they play ! 
 
 Firm is the road. Now thought has leave to ramble, 
 Or take its long arrears of sleep till day. 
 
 I call not feathery slumber to restore me. 
 While the strange features of this unknown land 
 
 Lie in the mystery of hope, before me 
 The waste, the fair, the ancient, and the grand. 
 
 Religion's, Poesy's, and History's pages 
 Are all around this mid-sea's bowers spread ; 
 
 I follow in their wake the Roman ages, 
 Where Paul, the Apostle, much desired to tread. * 
 
 * Romans xv. 24 — 28. 
 
SPANISH TRAVEL. loi 
 
 On Albaracire's head, Orion pillows 
 His flaming limbs, distending o'er the north. 
 
 While hangs in chains of light, o'er ruby billows 
 The gentle Star that leads the shepherd forth. 
 
 Short hour till dawning, and meanwhile I wander 
 
 Far from myself in thought away, away. 
 O'er all these old historic scenes to ponder. 
 
 Each spot made classic by some poet's lay. 
 
 Morning. 
 
 Fling me a feather from thy deep-dyed pinion, 
 O Morn, fresh rising from Italian plains. 
 
 Flushed with imperial ensigns of dominion. 
 To picture truly what I write of Spain's. 
 
 Language may paint, yet in a master's power 
 
 'Tis an imperfect servant of the mind's ; 
 Can words speak sight, but for one little hour .' 
 
 Or pens write radiance, by their inky lines ? 
 
 I need Castile's rich tongue, and words Virgilian, 
 To warm our Saxon, and pourtray the hues, 
 
 The lustrous yellows of her sun's pavilion, 
 The glory of her morn's intensest blues ; 
 
 Whose delicate purples, whose divine carnations 
 Stream from the seaborn sun's uprising place : 
 
 Those glorify the mountains' desolations. 
 These burn upon the billows' blushing face. 
 
 Whose cheeks are twofold coloured as the turtle's 
 Bosom and neck ; for hither as they flow, 
 
 Their shoreward curves give back the mountain's purples. 
 Their crests vermilion and carnation glow. 
 
 Sure 'twas a truthlike fable, that Aurora 
 Led seaborn beauty from the deep's repose, 
 
 Grace's perfection ! and the airs before her 
 Wreathed the blue locks of ocean with her rose. 
 
102 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 Such they behold of artist Nature's order 
 Morning by morning, ever new to be, 
 
 Who track till noontide, Spain's romantic border, 
 Beside the margin of her eastern sea. 
 
 Noon. 
 Noon in such splendour as is rarely given 
 
 To northern climate, and our shaded sky ; 
 Light fills the whole circumference of heaven. 
 
 So pure, it seems but to expand the eye. 
 
 What sights the road-track shows, where'er it follows 
 The lines which her so lovely ocean shapes, 
 
 Now, trending inland, winding heathery hollows. 
 Now, flinging terrace round her marble capes ; 
 
 Now, by the cities of Phoenician story. 
 
 Existing vouchers of historic truth, 
 By time-gray monuments grown bald in glory, 
 
 And old when Hanno was himself a youth ; 
 
 Now, by the sea, that like the dolphin speckles 
 Its fluid scales of vermeil, green, and gold ; 
 
 Now, over ferries, where the south wind freckles 
 Their yellow waters, like a silken fold. 
 
 Then, over fragrant moors, by old round towers 
 Built to arrest the Arab pirate's path, 
 
 O'er wastes of lavender and lily flowers, 
 Sweet fuel for the lowly peasant's hearth ; 
 
 Then, thro' her green huertas, and the valleys 
 Rich in the fruits our northern merchant seeks ; 
 
 Now o'er the sands, where Carthaginian galleys 
 To land Hamilcar,* drove their haughty beaks. 
 
 Shown in her atmosphere's unstained perfection 
 Stands the remotest convent, to the sight 
 
 Distinct, unhazy, every intersection 
 And gable glowing in excess of light. 
 
 * Barcelona claims to have been founded by Hamilcar. 
 
SPANISH TRAVEL. _ 103 
 
 Her air is fluid essence, circumfusing 
 
 Earth from the sharp Sierras, to the plains ; 
 
 Sweet ichor to our northern lungs, transfusing 
 The poetry of motion through the veins. 
 
 Her veins run quicksilver, her sands are marbles. 
 Upon whose shelves, harmoniously clear, 
 
 Her sea's ^olian undulation, warbles 
 Arion's music, to the classic ear. 
 
 All the hot noon, the panting wave caresses 
 The ancient grottos of the marble rocks. 
 
 Where still the sea-nymphs seek their shy recesses. 
 There still old Proteus, drives his scaly flocks. 
 
 Such they behold, who loiter on, and pardon 
 
 The slow-paced mules, where nature smiles to show 
 
 Her charms unveiled, and lavishes her guerdon 
 Where Atalanta's golden apples grow. 
 
 Here can we read each legend, by the feature 
 Which struck the lively and impassioned Greek, 
 
 Who but personified, the forms of nature, 
 And gave them presence, as the senses speak. 
 
 Evening. 
 
 But now the bright and broad effulgence, hovers 
 Round the bold Cape, where late the journey lay ; 
 
 The glow of a celestial evening covers 
 The swelling bosom of the glassy bay. 
 
 For handmaid Eve, tempers the noon's hot glory, 
 Heaven's shining portals opening from above. 
 
 Where radiance circles, story above story. 
 
 Flushed o'er, and blended by the smile of love : 
 
 One hand, the tinted robes of daylight folding 
 O'er the warm south ; towards the colder north 
 
 The other moves, with dewy fingers holding 
 The Vesper lamp, that leads the maiden forth. 
 
I04 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 Pause in thy chariot, vestal Eve, and sprinkle 
 Balm on the hearts of multitudes, whilst they 
 
 Pace the Paseos, smoothing every wrinkle 
 Graved by the arrowy fervours of the day ; 
 
 Scatter thy dewy balm on all the senses, 
 Cool down the passions, whatsoe'er they be. 
 
 To join the general Vesper, that dispenses 
 A worship brooding over land and sea. 
 
 Till queenly Night, at princely Day's resigning. 
 Walks to her throne in ether's blue abyss. 
 
 Whose stars are suns, but more remote and shining, 
 AH radiant, burning in their focuses ; 
 
 Beauty in depth, depth, beauty more revealing ; 
 
 So to dark eyes, when beauteous woman brings 
 The light of mind, all eloquent with feeling 
 
 They talk of spirits, and of heavenly things. 
 
 Such they behold of nature's sweet adorning, 
 Who setting northward, fair Valencia leave. 
 
 Rocked in the diligence from night to morning. 
 From glorious sunrise to resplendent eve. 
 
 Land of the Evening, the stranger's wonder,* 
 
 At once a glory and a mystery, 
 Upon thy west, they hear the Atlantic thunder, 
 
 While on thine east, Hesperia's charms they see. 
 
 * " Handalucia, the Land of the Evening, is the Arabic name for the 
 whole of Spain, though limited by the Spaniards to the province of 
 Andalucia, the province longest retained in possession of the Moorish 
 conquerors, and the latest recovered from them. Hesperia, is the 
 Grecian name, and Tarshish, that of Scripture, for the south and east. 
 On the coast towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the keys of their 
 ancestors' houses in Spain, to which country they still express their 
 hopes of one day returning, and again planting the Crescent on the 
 ancient walls of the Alhambra." — Scott's " Travels in Morocco and 
 Alsiers" 
 
SPANISH TRAVEL. 105 
 
 Spain is yet oriental ; earliest ages 
 
 Gave her an Asian beauty, which is set 
 Brighter in Syrian, than in Roman pages, 
 
 And less in Gothic, than Arabian yet. 
 
 Tyre, Carthage, Greece and Rome, have each contended, 
 
 The Visigoth, and polished Saracen, 
 For charms, her riches, and her beauty, blended, 
 
 And the last, asks her for his home again. 
 
 'Tis said e'en now, the wealthy Moor of Tunis 
 Teaches his daughters, her sonorous tongue, 
 
 Believing Prophecy's benignest boon is 
 
 To yield them back the land, from whence they sprung.* 
 
 Vain hope ! for lo, the dawning Future, ruddy 
 
 With purer light, and liberty, for Spain, 
 With robes indeed, disordered all and bloody, 
 
 Has yet a heart that will not pant in vain." 
 
 * ' ' This I was told in Spain. " 
 
io6 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BOOK HUNTING — AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 "They lived unknown 
 Till persecution dragged them into fame, 
 And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flewf 
 No marble tells us whither.'' 
 
 WE are able to narrate, in Mr. Wiffen's own 
 words, the story of his successful searches, 
 which resulted in the discovery of materials largely 
 contributing to the great work of Don Luis, the 
 "Reformistas Antiguos Espanoles" and overflowing 
 into the continuation edited by Dr. Boehmer, under 
 the appropriate title of " Bibliotheca Wiffeniana." Al- 
 though the bulk of this, has been previously published 
 in the form of notes, to that work, yet we shall be 
 doing good service, in reproducing it in the present 
 form. 
 
 In the autumn of 1841, Luis, and his wife, returned 
 to Spain. Early in the following spring, I was invited 
 by my friend, G. W. Alexander, a second time to 
 accompany him, to that country, and in the course 
 of our journey, I met my friends again at Sevilla. 
 Luis, has himself, reported his own impressions of 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 107 
 
 this interview, in the twentieth volume of his "Re- 
 formistas Antiguos Espafioles" (p. 156). 
 
 On my return home, from this second visit to 
 Spain, I found in a bookseller's catalogue a tract in 
 English entitled "The Reformed Spaniard," by Juan 
 de Nicholas Sacharles. I sent it to Luis ; it was 
 unknown, even by name, to him. He translated it 
 into Spanish, and inserted it, with the title "El 
 Espanol Reformado," in the eighth volume of the 
 " Reformistas Antiguos Espafioles." The author of 
 the work wrote at first in Latin, a copy of which is in 
 the Library of the British Museum, with several others, 
 of which I have not been able to purchase one. 
 
 Perceiving in this incident, a certain aptitude in me 
 which might facilitate his object, Luis remitted a 
 small sum of money, with a request that I would 
 send him certain books, of a general character, and 
 all others, of this special nature, that I could discover 
 and procure. 
 
 When Luis, was in London, he had become ac- 
 quainted with the Canon Riego, a Spanish refugee, 
 the brother of the patriot Riego. He knew that 
 the Canon possessed certain books which he highly 
 valued, and which he had not succeeded in purchas- 
 ing of him, whilst he remained in London ; he now 
 wrote to me to obtain them, if the owner could be 
 persuaded to sell them. They were "Valera's Calvino," 
 (1597,) "Juan Perez's Psalms," (15 57,) and the "Epistola 
 Consolatoria," (1560,) an unknown work also by Juan 
 Perez. I took an opportunity to see the Canon about 
 
THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 them. I found him occupying two upstairs rooms, in 
 a house, kept by a shoemaker in Seymour Street, 
 Camden Town ; the front room was crowded with 
 books, chiefly Spanish, for he was a dealer, and 
 combined love of money, with love of books ; the 
 smaller back room, served him for chamber, and 
 kitchen, where he slept, and prepared his food, leaving 
 space that barely sufficed for a chair for himself, and 
 another for a guest. He was shy to me about his 
 books. I candidly avowed my object, at the same 
 time manifesting my respect to him ; for indeed I 
 felt pity for his misfortunes, and sympathy with the 
 cause that produced them. I did not, however, urge 
 my wishes, and went away unsuccessful. After a 
 lapse of some months, taking a niece of mine with 
 me, I called upon him again, and repeated my 
 desire to purchase the books, and asked permission 
 at least to look at them. He showed me two of 
 the books, and for the third, " The Epistola," he 
 -substituted a written copy of his own for the printed 
 one. I had been informed that he would certainly 
 try to expunge some oifensive passages from the 
 work, and been warned to be careful, that it 
 was not mutilated, or rendered imperfect. This 
 interview therefore, ended unsuccessfully. About half 
 a year afterwards, I called upon him a third time. I 
 avowed the same purpose, and the old man yielding 
 somewhat to more familiar acquaintance, some- 
 what to my perseverance, perhaps forgetful of his 
 caution, showed me the little book itself. I had it 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 109 
 
 in my hands but a few moments, and was looking 
 through the leaves, when he passionately snatched 
 it away, and this third interview passed like the 
 previous ones, with the addition of a little troubled 
 feeling between us. He had expressed his desire 
 that the Psalms, of Juan Perez, should be printed, 
 and I had avowed my own wish for the " Epistola." 
 I waited again an interval of some months, and then 
 wishing to remove any unfavourable impressions 
 that might remain on his mind from our last meeting, 
 my residence being at a distance from London, I 
 wrote to him kindly, and asked him once more 
 whether he was willing that I should have the books. 
 He replied promptly that he was willing, and that for 
 a certain sum he would send them. I answered I 
 would give him a high price ; and now aware that I 
 was not to be put off with a copy, he sent the three 
 printed books down to me. On examination, I found 
 that he had obliterated a long passage in the "Epistola." 
 I regretted to see this, not only for the literary injury, 
 but for the flaw in the Canon's moral integrity, the 
 more so, because he had many times declared to me 
 how much he loved and honoured the book and its 
 author, saying, that while the sentiments of the book 
 were Protestant, they were however not Lutheran. 
 The passage, as I afterwards found, was one in which 
 he had a deep personal interest : it strongly condemned 
 the folly, and idolatry, of the reverence, or worship paid 
 to relics ; and Riego himself was a Canon of the 
 church at Oviedo, where, of all places in the kingdom 
 
no THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 of Spain, are preserved at this day, the most absurd 
 and monstrous collection, of these remains of humanity. 
 I have a list of them purchased on the spot, and the 
 Canon Riego, himself, shared in the gain, derived from 
 the ignorant and superstitious devotees. I returned 
 all the books, with a letter written rather sharply, 
 but indeed not unkindly, charging him with having 
 perpetrated a falsehood to posterity, upon an author 
 and a book, he had declared, he so much admired 
 and loved. I judged it better to sacrifice the books, 
 so that I might awaken his moral integrity. He 
 wrote me an angry letter in return, and here seemed 
 an end of the affair. I deemed the books entirely 
 lost to me, and endeavoured to forget them. After 
 some time, a strong impulse came over me, that the 
 Canon, who was an aged man, would soon die, and 
 that if I were ever likely to obtain the books, I 
 ought to write to him again. I knew by his former 
 letter, that he had felt my remarks, and that was 
 enough. I wrote to him, therefore again in a friendly 
 manner, asking him if he would let me have the 
 books ; he replied in the same tone, saying that if I 
 would send him a draft he would return the books, 
 and that he had moreover restored the passage he 
 had obliterated, adding that it would give him much 
 pleasure to assist, me in printing it, by the correction 
 of the press. I had the books but about a week, 
 when the Canon was found one morning, in his bed 
 speechless and dying ; — his heart chilled by the first 
 frosty nights of October, 1846, had ceased to beat. 
 
BOOK HUNTING. in 
 
 Luis printed in Spain, in 1847, the curious and 
 witty book called " Carrascon," which he had bought 
 of a parish priest in the country, prefixing to it an 
 introduction of seventy-two pages. It is composed 
 in a gay and graceful style, with a charming mixture 
 of wit and seriousness. As much as £\2 had been 
 given for a copy in London. This was the first 
 attempt to carry out his main desire. The author 
 was unknown. I had no part in the preparation 
 of this book. A good deal of curiosity had been 
 shown by learned refugee Spaniards to discover the 
 author's name, but without success. After it had 
 been printed I searched and discovered the author's 
 name, plainly avowed, as Ferdinando de Texeda. I 
 found him mentioned by the same name, in Hackett's 
 Life of the Chancellor Archbishop Williams, as the 
 translator into Spanish, of the English Liturgy. He 
 is mentioned again, in Browne Willis's Survey of 
 Cathedrals, as being Canon of Hereford, and he 
 was incorporated at Oxford, by the same name. 
 I drew up a succinct statement of these evidences. 
 It was afterwards printed as a second appendix, 
 yet doubtless some copies were circulated before it 
 could be added. Carrascon is the first volume of 
 the series of " Reformistas Antiguos Espafioles." 
 
 The next book treated, was the " Epistola Consola- 
 toria," of Juan Perez. I was unwilling to risk the little 
 book of the Epistola Consolatoria, by sending the only 
 copy, that I then thought remained in existence, to a 
 oreign country, and in addition to this, jealous of the 
 
112 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 loss of it, to my own. I felt an anxious desire, that it 
 should be multiplied, and secured by the press, before 
 it went. I therefore formed a design, inexperienced 
 as I was, to print it. I first made a literal translation, 
 and then I wished to present with it, also some account 
 of the author. I searched M'Crie, the only work I 
 knew of, for what I could find in him, and I gathered 
 afterwards from Llorente, and from another source, 
 particulars not known to M'Crie. These I arranged 
 and embodied in an introductory notice, which, in 
 order to serve two purposes, I thought to give in 
 English and Spanish, as my friend Luis gladly 
 translated it into his own language. This labour, 
 although so briefly told in words, was only ac- 
 complished gradually, at intervals, in the course of 
 several years. My means did not enable me to 
 incur the expense myself, and several of my friends, 
 to whom it was mentioned, at once rendered their 
 assistance. I had taken M'Crie, as my text book, 
 and searched for every reformer's work, in which he 
 had gathered his information. The work of Montes 
 was one of the chief; and turning over a small waste 
 catalogue, which I picked up on the floor of an attic 
 in London, I found the title of his " Sanctae Inquisi- 
 tionis." I immediately went to the bookseller's in an 
 obscure street near Leicester Square. The master 
 had died, the book could not be found, it had probably 
 been sold, and the rest of the books would in a few 
 days be swept away to receive another tenant. The 
 keeper promised to search all the shelves, and return- 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 113 
 
 ing next day, he having found the book, presented me 
 with a mean, dirty copy ; part of the margins had 
 been deeply burnt, the text, however, was but little 
 injured. This mean and mutilated volume he asked 
 I OS. for. If I grumbled at the price, it was not with- 
 out a certain degree of pleasure I carried the book 
 away, and on the earliest occasion sent it to Luis. 
 He had no acquaintance with it, nor covild he find it in 
 his own country. The obtaining possession of this 
 volume was important ; it led to the translation of this 
 interesting work, for the first time into Spanish, by 
 Luis, as also to his new edition of the Latin original. 
 
 Next in order, is the discovery of a work by Juan 
 Vald^s. As I sat beside the winter fire, in the very 
 parish, where Richard How's old library was kept, and 
 when the search to find books of the early Reformers 
 had become an interesting object to me, the long- 
 forgotten conversation with my old friend, recurred to 
 my recollection. I now called to mind, that a book 
 containing principles like those of the Quakers, and 
 written by a Spaniard, was actually existing within 
 arm's length, as it were, in the library of my friend. 
 The library still remained in the same state, though he 
 himself, had died several years before. I procured the 
 catalogue, written in a most minute hand, and in it I 
 found the name of John Valdesso. This I supposed to 
 be the volume, my friend had mentioned, but there was 
 no indication in what part of the Library, it could be 
 found. Determined not to leave it doubtful, at last I 
 fixed upon the upper corner of one of the sides of the 
 
114 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 large apartment. I took down every book that came 
 in order, reading its title, resolved to leave nothing in 
 uncertainty. When, after two or three days, I had 
 looked over about four- fifths of the whole, I came 
 upon the book itself, and with the owner's permission 
 brought it home to read. This was my first acquaint- 
 ance with Juan de Valdds. It was a book quite 
 unknown to Luis, who, however, at this time, possessed 
 an original copy of the " Didlogo de Mercurio." This 
 discovery, like the finding of the work of De Montes, 
 led thereafter to the restoration, of the various and 
 unknown works of Vald& ; not only of the " Dos 
 Didlogos," viz., the " Didlogo de Mercurio i Caron " 
 and the " Dialogo entre Lactanzio y un Arzediano," 
 but of the " Alfabeto Christiano," the " CX. Considera- 
 ciones,'' and the "Commentaries;" and these furnished 
 us both, with delightful and interesting work, down 
 to the termination of my friend's valuable life ; not 
 merely arising from literary admiration of his writings, 
 but also because, peculiar as some of his sentiments 
 seemed to be, they accorded intimately with the 
 sentiments of us both. One incident, however, I may 
 be excused for relating, since it has reference to a 
 name which has filled all Europe — I mean that of the 
 Duke of Wellington. In the year 1858, I purchased 
 at Sotheby's, at the sale of the library of Dr. Bliss, 
 the Editor of Wood's " Athenae Oxonienses," and 
 Registrar of the University, Felix Antonio Alvarado's 
 " Liturgia Ynglesa, edicion segunda, 1715, 8vo." It 
 was a choice copy, bound in blue morocco, and with 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 115 
 
 the edges gilt. Its value was increased by MS. 
 notes, etc., which I found in it, placed there by Dr. 
 Bliss. The following original letter, addressed by the 
 Duke of Wellington, after he had become Chancellor 
 of the University of Oxford, to Dr. Bliss, and an addi- 
 tional note by the latter, relate the circumstances : — 
 
 " London, May 31st, 1837. 
 
 "My dear Sir, 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for the account 
 of the (Spanish) Prayer Book. It was given me by 
 Lady Elinor Butler, and Miss Ponsonby, of whom you 
 may have heard, who resided at Llangollen, in North 
 Wales. It probably descended to Lady Elinor, from 
 her ancestor, the Duke of Ormond, who, I believe, 
 resided in Spain after his attainder. Has it ever been 
 printed by the University i^ The translation is so 
 good, that I am astonished that you should not print 
 an edition of it. I beg you will keep it, till you will 
 have satisfied yourself, that you have attained all the 
 information that can be got. 
 " Believe me, 
 
 " Ever yours most faithfully, 
 "Wellington. 
 " The Rev. P. Bliss." 
 
 Note by Dr. Bliss, on the flyleaf : — 
 
 " When the Duke of Wellington, first went to Spain, 
 he had, from adverse winds, a much longer passage 
 than usual, during which, with a copy of this liturgy 
 and a common Spanish grammar, he made himself 
 
n6 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 master of the language, so much so, that, as his 
 Grace himself told me, he was surprised to find that 
 he could make out, nearly the whole of a speech 
 addressed to him, on landing, by the principal officer 
 of the port, at which he, and the troops under his 
 command, disembarked. The Duke, being anxious to 
 know something of the book and the translator, sent 
 it to me in 1837, when I made out the best account I 
 could, and forwarded it with the volume which his 
 Grace had given to a lady." 
 
 Dr. Bliss, had subjoined other notes respecting the 
 Spanish translator, which it were needless to repeat 
 here. The volume came afterwards, by gift or other- 
 wise, into the possession of Dr. Bliss, and was sold 
 with his library. I sent it to my friend Luis, with all 
 its contents, as the best copy of its kind, adding some 
 notes of my own. 
 
 About this time, I went to visit some family relations 
 living in the village of Waterbeach, on the border of 
 the fens, five miles from Cambridge. I took this 
 opportunity to enlarge my knowledge of books, for 
 the librarian of Trinity College, since deceased, was 
 somewhat related to my host. It was delightful in 
 the early summer mornings, to walk over to Cam- 
 bridge, and while the yellow sunshine streamed in at 
 the long gallery window on the statue by Thorwaldsen 
 of the Poet of the age, how charming was it when 
 turning over the leaves of the catalogue, to fall first 
 on one, and then upon another, of the books of 
 this class, to me before unknown. I remembered, 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 117 
 
 too, how my late Brother, the translator of Tasso, h^d 
 trodden the same steps, in pursuit of materials for his 
 work, and had been turned back with denial because he 
 was an unknown man, and had brought no introduction, 
 while I, the more unworthy, introduced, so may I say, 
 by the honour of his name, and the memory of his 
 character, received at once a kindly welcome, and a 
 ready acquiescence, with all my wishes. I was allowed 
 to carry away, a selection of several books and papers, 
 that I wished to examine, and copy at leisure. My 
 host gave me a little upper chamber, at the back of his 
 house, whose open window looked out upon no single 
 object, save a garden of apple trees. Here, I spent 
 all the hours of the day, copying out the tracts of 
 Texeda, and the " Diilogo de Lactanzio " of Valdds, 
 the same which is reprinted in the " Dos Dialogos." 
 These, I sent at once, to Luis, by the post, as the sheets 
 were written in Trinity library. I found the Com- 
 mentaries of Vald^s, and, what was especially to my 
 purpose, since I had become acquainted with the " CX. 
 Considerations," the Italian version of them. This, 
 however, did not then engage my labour, being 
 entirely occupied with others ; but, after my return 
 home, finding how rare those " CX. Consideraciones " 
 were, and despairing to hear of any copy for sale, I 
 requested the loan of the volume, to occupy the 
 lengthening hours of the evenings, in the autumn of 
 1850. I copied it literally, page for page, line for 
 line, fifteen thousand lines, finishing it about the 
 anniversary of my sixtieth year. I had the transcript 
 
ii8 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 well bound, a portrait of Giulia Gonzaga inserted, and 
 sent the MS. volume to Luis. He considered it a 
 pledge of duty, to the labour I had taken, not to 
 be sparing of his own, and he began to translate it 
 gradually into the language in which the author had 
 written it at first, but the MS. of which had perished, 
 having never been printed. Luis, printed it in 1855, 
 being the ninth volume, of the " Reformistas." I have 
 in this, anticipated their strict chronology, not to 
 break the thread of narration. When I went to the 
 Library of the British Museum in the winter of 1849, 
 I' was prepared with a list compiled from an old 
 catalogue, at Woburn, of some definite objects to seek 
 for. Here, I found treasures before unexpected : the 
 earliest writings of Antonio del Corro, the original 
 Carrascon, a work of Valera's entirely unknown, the 
 Italian edition of the " CX. Considerations," and various 
 editions both in Spanish, and Italian, of the " Dialogo 
 de Mercurio," and of the " Didlogo de Lactanzia." 
 I reported these books to Luis in a letter of eight 
 leaves, and on the reverse of each of them, I placed 
 a fresh title, copied as much as might be in fac simile. 
 I had, as before mentioned, sent him the MS. of the 
 " Didlogo Lactanzio ; " he now wished for a copy of 
 the black-letter edition in the Museum library, which 
 I had reported to him, in order to compare the read- 
 ings of the two editions, and he made arrangements for 
 reprinting the " Dos Dialogos." A learned Spaniard, 
 an ardent lover of ancient literature, who now sought 
 his acquaintance, and to whom he communicated his 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 119 
 
 design, offered to conduct the printing, and correction 
 of the press, while Luis, was left with the responsi- 
 bility of preparing the whole MS., and of the entire 
 expense. He placed the MS. of both " Dialogues," 
 prepared in his own beautiful writing, in the gentle- 
 man's hands, and deposited £60 worth of paper in the 
 printer's possession. He heard no more of the gentle- 
 man, and his MSS. ; the paper lay unused at the 
 printer's, nor did Luis make a stir for the recovery 
 of its value, knowing that he should thereby stir up a 
 hornet's nest. He loved his author too well, how- 
 ever, to be discouraged by the circumstance, although 
 he lamented the waste of time. He prepared another 
 MS., writing it with his own hand, for he could not 
 venture upon an amanuensis ; other paper was pro- 
 cured; it went to the press under his own superin- 
 tendence, and issued in a handsome and correct 
 volume, perhaps the most valuable of the series of 
 the " Reformistas," as vol. iv., in the year 1850. 
 
 I reprinted the "Epistola Consolatoria," in the 
 summer of 1848. Having heard of the valuable 
 library possessed by George Offor, of Hackney, I 
 called upon him at that time, to enquire whether any 
 of this class of books, were to be found in it. He 
 possessed none, nor had he the least knowledge of 
 them, for he had never cared about the Spanish 
 language nor its literature. He recommended me, 
 however, in rather positive terms, (his usual manner,) 
 to call upon an acquaintance of his, and ask him 
 about them. I felt unwilling at first, to go and intrude 
 
120 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 upon a stranger, for purposes of my own ; but being 
 urged by him, I threaded my way, through the 
 purlieus of Bethnal Green, and Whitechapel, and 
 turned at last, into a dingy, and doubtful back street, 
 in the neighbourhood of the Tower, into which, I 
 think, the sunbeams never descended direct from 
 the skies, and would only be caught by reflection. 
 Passing through a little office, I found a respectable 
 and amiable-looking gentleman, and his middle-aged 
 son, sitting at the tea-table. I made my business 
 known to them, with some hesitation, which they 
 quickly dispelled, by asking me to take refreshment 
 with them. Their kindness, and their refreshment, 
 for I was very much fatigued, with the heat, and the 
 length of the way, both served as elixirs to my 
 spirit. He had no knowledge of books, said the 
 younger, but he had bought two little volumes, with 
 a miscellaneous lot of other things; and these, said 
 he, if you wish I will show you. He brought out 
 two little volumes bound in vellum, and placing them 
 in my hand, said, "The little one, sir" (and it was a 
 very small one), " I will give you ; for the other you 
 may give me what you think its value. The larger 
 one I well knew, for it was the "Dos Tratados" of 
 Valera ; the little one I had never seen nor even heard 
 of. I at once, however, perceived its nature ; for it 
 was identical in its size, in its letter, in its appearance, 
 yet anonymous, with the Spanish original of the 
 " Epistola Consolatoria," of which I had this same 
 summer, finished the reprint. I soon perceived it was 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 121 
 
 also like an unknown book by Juan Perez ; it was the 
 "Breve Tratado de Doctrina," of 1560. I retained 
 the book some time, in order to have it bound, and 
 to discover, if possible, some notices in reference to 
 its origin, for I thought, I perceived, by its arrange- 
 ment, and style, that a great part of it, was an 
 expanded translation, of some other earlier work. 
 I found the original draft, of it in the works of 
 Urbanus Rhegius. In his tract, " Novae Doctrinse ad 
 Veterem Collatio per Urbanum Rhegium, MDXXXI.," 
 Perez, has made it a valuable book of controversial 
 doctrine, by additions of his own. I sent it to Luis, 
 with notes of all that I could learn about it, and of 
 the manner in which it was found. He reprinted it, 
 prefixing a dedication, delicately Avritten and addressed 
 to myself, in the year 1852, forming the seventh volume 
 of the " Reformistas." 
 
 Our labours were thus intertwined, as in a garland 
 together ; for as he had discovered and pointed out to 
 me, the unknown book of the " Epistola Consolatoria," 
 in the hands of the Canon Riego, which I procured and 
 printed, so had I discovered the " Breve Tratado," also 
 unknown, and by the same author, and having sent it 
 to him, he performed the like service by printing it in 
 this year. Thus, I printed a book, that he pointed 
 out to me, and he printed a book, which I introduced 
 to him ; each of them, was by the same author, and 
 each of them, had been unrecorded before. 
 
 I had found two unacknowledged Tracts, by Valera, 
 in the Museum library, and obtained copies of them. 
 
122 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 A tract, the " Reformed Spaniard," by Juan de 
 Nich61as,* the first of the class, I purchased, and 
 sent to Luis, being in English, for I have never 
 found the Latin for sale. He translated it into 
 Spanish, placed it as a companion with the two 
 treatises by Valera, and they were printed in the 
 year 1854, in one volume, forming the eighth of the 
 " Reformistas." 
 
 I have already mentioned, that Luis, had made a 
 Spanish translation of the Italian version, of the " CX. 
 Consideraciones " of Vald^s. He printed it well, and 
 on fine paper, for it was a book he loved, in the 
 year 1855, ^"d this forms the ninth volume of the 
 " Reformistas." 
 
 Every day, and not merely every year, showed 
 advance in this labour of Luis's afifections ; for not a 
 day was allowed to pass by, without many lines ; 
 and in the year 1855, he had prepared copies of the 
 two Commentaries of Vald^s on the Epistle to the 
 Romans, and the Epistles to the Corinthians, with 
 explanatory notes occupying sixty pages, which he 
 placed at the end of the " Commentary on the First 
 of Corinthians." Though appended to one, his notes 
 comprised remarks on both Commentaries, and he 
 united them in one volume, which was completed in 
 the year 1856, exactly three centuries after the first 
 
 * "Tratado para confirmar en la Fe Cristiana,'' etc. Publicado el A 
 1594. "Aviso a los de la Yglesia Romana sobre jubileos," etc. 
 Publicado el A 1600. "El Espaiiol Reformada" Publicado el A 
 1621. 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 123 
 
 publication of the Commentary on the Romans, form- 
 ing the volumes 10 and 11 of the " Reformistas." 
 
 Acquainted with what M'Crie, and Gerdes, had 
 written about Francisco de Enzinas, I earnestly- 
 sought in books, whatever related to him. Gerdes 
 had mentioned in his Florilegium — a book with a 
 French title written by him — besides his New Testa- 
 ment, which I knew contained the narrative of his 
 imprisonment for printing the same. I found also 
 that Fox, the Martyrologist, had read it in Latin, the 
 book, as he says, remaining in the hands of John 
 Oporin, of Basle. From this book, as he calls it, 
 which was not indeed a printed book, but the auto- 
 graph written by the author in Latin for Melancthon, 
 Fox drew the information about Dryander (Enzinas) 
 that he inserted in his Martyrology. I availed myself 
 of all opportunities of enquiry for this work, whether 
 printed, or in MS., by correspondence abroad, at 
 home, and by personal services of the few friends 
 whom I could interest in my object. Among these 
 was James Hurnard, a " Friend," of Colchester, who has 
 served me in this, and in various other ways. He, 
 going about this time to Paris, to attend the Peace 
 Congress held there, combined these my enquiries, 
 with his other engagements there. He was led by- 
 chance, to a bookseller's in the Palais Royal, and 
 made enquiry for books of this class. The master 
 of the shop engaged to seek for them ; and on a 
 second visit to him, he produced a small volume, 
 entitled, "Histoire de I'Etat du Pays-Bas, 1558." 
 
124 THE LIFE OF B. B. W IF FEN. 
 
 This did not seem to be one of the kind he sought, 
 being in French, nor was it one of the titles with 
 which I had furnished him. The master of the shop 
 remarked, either by way of reprobation or recom- 
 mendation, " It is a bad book, Monsieur, written 
 against the Pope, and the Church, and the author 
 was a bad man enough." This was sufficient to 
 decide my friend's doubts, although the bookseller 
 asked what seemed to him an extravagant sum for 
 it. He, however, laid down the sum, resolving to 
 present the book to me, that if it should prove worth- 
 less, at least it should not tax my pocket to pay for it. 
 I answered his letter, informing me of his purchase, 
 by sending the money to pay for it, with expressions 
 of gratitude, for it proved to be a French translation 
 of a work I had earnestly sought for, in Latin, and 
 Spanish. It was this French translation, Dryander's 
 Latin narrative of his imprisonment at Brussels, that 
 furnished Gerdes, with his information, from whom 
 M'Crie drew it on his part. 
 
 Continuing my enquiry, now more frequently, for 
 the Latin MS., I found its existence mentioned so 
 lately, as about the year 1740. I was at length 
 informed, by Dr. Ewald, director of the Library, at 
 Gotha, that a Latin MS. of it, continued to be pre- 
 served in the Library of the Johanneum at Altona. 
 I lost no time in procuring, through the courtesy of 
 
 Dr. , a careful transcript of it. I found that some 
 
 leaves at the beginning of it, were lost, and that it was 
 not the author's autograph, but a copy. In other 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 125 
 
 respects, it was complete and tolerably correct. A 
 copy of the French book, had been found in the 
 Royal Library at Brussels, by M. Ch. Al. Campan ; 
 and because it had reference to the history of Belgium, 
 la Socidtd de I'Histoire de la Belgique, commis- 
 sioned him to edit it for publication. He procured 
 a copy of the Latin MS., and carefully edited the 
 French, and Latin, with notes, in two volumes, 8vo, 
 1862-1863. There were other works by Enzinas, yet 
 to be discovered. I had found in the catalogue of 
 La Serna Santander, the anonymous title of "Lasdos 
 Informaziones." * This volume was reported to me 
 existing in the Library of the University of Gottingen, 
 by Dr. Hoeck, the curator. With ready courtesy, 
 and a confidence for which I shall ever feel grateful, 
 he sent it to the Hanoverian Secretary of Legation, 
 in .London, for my use. I at once copied it in my 
 usual manner, page for page, and line for line, 
 speedily returning the original to Gottingen, through 
 the same channel, and forwarding my copy of it, 
 with notices and remarks, to my friend Luis. I 
 perceived that the work, had been edited, and enlarged 
 by the well-known hand, of Juan Perez, and I believed 
 that the character of it, evidenced the talents of 
 Franzisco de Enzinas. Luis, edited, and printed, the 
 copy I sent him, occupying 326 pages, enlarged by 
 documents, and observations, corroborative of the 
 subject to an extent almost equal to the text, in the 
 
 * Dr. Boehmer has lately discovered the Latin original of this, by 
 Sleidan. 
 
126 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 year 1857. This forms the twelfth volume of the 
 " Reformistas." 
 
 By degrees, I gathered a large mass of the author's 
 letters, some printed, and scattered, in various books, 
 the larger portion, however, yet remaining in MS. 
 Copies of these letters, were obtained mostly from 
 the autograph letters preserved in the archives of 
 the Libraries of Zurich, Gotha, and the Protestant 
 Seminary at Strasburg. How pleasant it is to me 
 here, to mention the kind and laborious zeal, of Dr. 
 Chas. Schmidt, Professor of Strasburg, in one of the 
 very earliest schools of Learning, founded by the 
 Protestants, at the time of the Reformation, who 
 made the copies with his own hands. To him I owe 
 also, letters unpublished of Juan Diaz, of which I shall 
 have to speak afterwards. 
 
 The Spanish translation of de Montes was printed as 
 No. 5 of the " Reformistas ; " the two previous Latin 
 editions were not to be got — perhaps I may say not 
 to be found — in Spain. Luis, who had passed through 
 six universities in Spain and in Italy, was eminently 
 fitted for the undertaking. He executed it, as he did 
 every literary work, with scrupulous care and accuracy. 
 He added about fifty pages of Spanish notes, and 
 issued the volume, in the same year, as that in which 
 he had issued the "dos Informaziones," in 1857; it 
 forms No. 1 3 of the series of the " Reformistas." 
 
 One of the three books, I had obtained, from the 
 Canon Riego, was the translation of Calvin's " Insti- 
 tutes,'' by Valera, printed by Ricardo del Campo 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 127 
 
 (Richard Field, 1597); it is frequently found on the 
 shelves of the large Public Libraries. 
 
 I had stated, in the prefatory notice to the " Epistola 
 Consolatoria," reprinted in 1848, that my view in re- 
 storing such long-forgotten books, would be mainly 
 addressed to the multiplication of copies, and the 
 preservation of them, in Public Libraries of this, and 
 foreign countries, where they might remain in security, 
 from the waste of time, and carelessness. There, they 
 should be found, when the activity of enquiring minds 
 might be excited to call for them, and bring them 
 into popular use. No merely sectarian, or proselytising 
 motive, had suggested this course, but something of a 
 love of books, and literature, and a feeling, (call it 
 obstinate, or generous, as you will) that the persecuted 
 victims of Literature, should find a voice in after ages, 
 and protectors, from the cruelty, and bigotry, of the 
 ruling powers of their own times ; in short, that the 
 fires which had consumed the bodies of men, should 
 not be so absolutely successful, as to burn out the 
 teachings of their minds, from the earth, so that it 
 might be said — 
 
 " For every tome of price destroyed, 
 A double volume fills the void 
 
 Of nobler pages. 
 Burn on, ye zealots of a day, 
 For so ye herald freedom's way, 
 
 And speed the ages ! 
 
 With these views, it has long been my wish that the 
 unique copy, of the " Alfabeto Christiano," should be 
 multiplied by others, and that these should be pre- 
 
128 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 served for later times. I have mentioned before, in 
 the introduction to the " Reformistas," the manner 
 of its discovery, the delight with which I read it. 
 Cherishing such views as these, in relation to the 
 "Alfabeto Christiano;" I desired to have the unique 
 copy of it, which I possessed, reproduced, by reprint- 
 ing it in numerous copies, enriched and illustrated, 
 with notes from the pen of my talented coadjutor, 
 Don Luis. I have related, in my preface to my 
 English translation, of the "Alfabeto Christiano," the 
 incidents and mode of its discovery ; and well did 
 I recall the pleasure, with which I first read it, pen in 
 hand, jotting down each sentence as it passed through 
 my mind. In that preface, I tell of the solicitude, I 
 felt, when about to expose this unique copy, to all the 
 perils of travel, in transmitting it to Don Luis, at 
 Madrid. I have said, I parted with the book, I so 
 much loved, sending it on the uncertainties of foreign 
 travel, to my friend Luis ; for I had made it a rule of 
 my conduct, to sacrifice the choicest object to him, 
 whose superior talents, and learning, I was well per- 
 suaded, would make better use of it than I could. I 
 only laid upon him a desire, not a requisition, that the 
 Italian original might be literally reprinted. Years 
 passed on, expecting that some time or other he 
 would find opportunity to do this, increasing the 
 value of his work by well-furnished notes. As the 
 volume demonstrated to a certainty, a point upon 
 which doubts had been thrown, namely, the intimate 
 intercourse of Valdes with Giulia Gonzaga, I took 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 129 
 
 every occasion to increase my information about her, 
 drawing it only from sources of the first authority. 
 The chief Librarian of the British Museum, directed 
 me to the magnificent work of Count Litta, " Memorie 
 delle celebri famiglie Italiane," and Trenco Affo's 
 " Memorie di tre Principesse." In the account of 
 the "Memorie di tre Principesse," I found what I 
 desired, given with indispensable authority. Luis, had 
 despaired of being able to reprint the book, in his own 
 country. If other obstacles were not in the way, he 
 wished to obtain a fac-simile reprint, and he knew of 
 no printer who could execute it. However, he wrote, 
 asking me, if I could undertake it, stating the diffi- 
 culties he was under. I shrank from the responsibility, 
 yet my desire, overcame my doubts, and hesitation. 
 I replied, that I would do it, and as it would be in 
 England, it might be accompanied by an English 
 translation, which I had already roughly prepared 
 when I first read the book. I wished also, that some 
 information should be added, respecting the personages 
 mentioned in the volume. My answer satisfied him. 
 He had his Spanish translation ready, and the reprint 
 might go out, together with the two translations, as 
 an evidence of our love of the author, and of our 
 mutual friendship. He prepared, and sent me over 
 by the post, a beautiful transcript of the Italian, done 
 by his own hand. He objected to run the risk, of the 
 transmission of the original ; I was obliged, therefore, 
 to adopt his transcript. This was so beautifully 
 written, however, that I grudged to sacrifice it to the 
 
 9 
 
I30 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 compositor's effacing fingers. I sat down, and made 
 yet another transcript from his. I found realized, 
 what I doubted, and feared ; his scrupulous exactness 
 had not preserved him, from the omission, in some 
 few instances, of whole lines of similar expressions 
 to the preceding ones, as I found by comparing my 
 English copy. Convinced by the report of this, Luis 
 afterwards trusted the precious volume to a private 
 conveyance, as soon as such an one occurred. The 
 original arrived safely. I put the transcript, into the 
 hands of Messrs. Spottiswoode and Co., who employed 
 a new fount of italic letter for the purpose. This 
 induced him, afterwards, to impose upon me the care, 
 of producing his improved translation of the " CX. 
 Considerations,'' by the same printer, in the same 
 character. He had sent me his Spanish translation 
 of the "Alfabeto," in parts. I had proceeded with 
 revising, and preparing a fresh copy of my English 
 version, and with the preparation of a notice of 
 Vald^s, and Giulia Gonzaga. I wrote the composi- 
 tion five times, and whether the effort, to do the 
 subject justice, issued at last, in a manner worthy 
 of the time, and labour, it absorbed, is not for me to 
 determine. It was satisfaction to me, at the conclu- 
 sion, to learn, that it more than satisfied my friend, 
 who repeatedly expressed it in his letters, and even 
 his admiration of the volume. At the same time, that 
 the Polyglot was printed, a hundred extra copies of 
 the English only were taken off for publication, and for 
 presents to friends. This work now completed, and 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 131 
 
 executed entirely at the cost of LuiSj except as to 
 my personal share in it, the precious original was 
 again sent back to him in safety. 
 
 The Polyglot edition of the " Alfabeto Christiano" 
 constitutes No. 15 of the "Reformistas." Of the 
 " ex. Considerations," of 1550, I had succeeded in 
 procuring from Augsburg, a copy of the Italian ori- 
 ginal, cind had sent it to Luis. Thinking that some 
 of the Spanish Reformers' books, might be preserved 
 in Holland, I ventured to write a letter of inquiry to 
 Frederick Miiller of Amsterdam, who referred my 
 letter to his son, a very intelligent, antiquarian, book- 
 seller. My letter, gave him the scent of game, and 
 he hunted, as he literally said, for me in the purlieus 
 of the city. As the result, he sent to me a copy of 
 the same original which I now possess, and which 
 belonged to Acronius, a Frisian, who occupied the 
 chair of Mathematics, and Medicine, at Basil, at the 
 time it was printed, and who must have known its 
 editor, Curione I thought the sum of £2 Sj, a 
 moderate price for the acquisition of such a book, and 
 unexpectedly received from Frederic Seebohm., author 
 of "The Oxford Reformers," an offer to furnish at 
 once, the requisite funds. I communicated this to Dr. 
 Boehmer, asking him to do it for love, not money, 
 save for the printer's expenses ; he readily embraced 
 the proposal. With alacrity, he caused another tran- 
 script to be made, by the hand of an intelligent 
 Italian, who modernized the orthography, while Dr. 
 Boehmer, with the characteristics of a critical German 
 
132 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 mind, edited and passed it through the press. I re- 
 quested Dr. Boehmer, to add increased value to his 
 labour, by affixing a memoir, or notice of Valdds. 
 With great industry, and research, he produced as an 
 appendix to the " CX. Considerations," his " Cenni 
 Biografici sui Fratelli Giovanni e Alfonso de Valdesso." 
 It is a valuable production, calculated for the student 
 rather than the general reader, and needs an index 
 to assist his reference. Only 300 copies were printed, 
 not quite half of them for sale. It issued in 1861, 
 and does not form one of the series of the " Refor- 
 mistas," yet, like the work of Enzinas, by M. Campan, 
 it stands in intimate relation to that series, and I 
 may be said to have somewhat assisted in their 
 compilation. 
 
 When I printed the "Epistola Consolatoria," in 
 1848, I entertained the opinion, that the book might 
 be unique. It is a common mistake, of book-hunters 
 with limited knowledge, to think that any book that 
 has been printed, is unique, because they do not know 
 of a second copy. The research of a friend, to whom 
 I had given the title, found in an obscure place in 
 Edinburgh, a second copy. He sent it to me by post, 
 demanding a shilling for its price ; but what was 
 more, the volume contained not one, but three trea- 
 tises by Juan Perez. First, stood the " Breve Tratado," 
 1560. In the middle, was "Epistola Consolatoria," 
 defended on the other side, by a new and unknown 
 tract of the same author's, "The Breve Sumario." 
 With the first two, I had already furnished my friend, 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 133 
 
 and they had been printed. I had learnt from the 
 preface, of an ancient English translation, of the 
 " Epistola," that the translator, John Daniel, had also 
 translated another tract from the Spanish. The 
 title of this, I had found in Maitland's catalogue of 
 such English books, as were printed before the year 
 1600, in Lambeth library. I went to Lambeth ; I was 
 allowed to copy it, and after the transcript had lain 
 by me for some years, I now found the Spanish 
 original, of the English tract of John Daniel, in the 
 " Breve Sumario," the before unknown tract, at the 
 end of this long-despised and neglected volume, which 
 seemed to fly, as it were from utter destruction, into 
 my hands for preservation. I wished to retain this 
 volume, the only copy I knew of, in this country, 
 having first supplied my friend. I prepared to reprint 
 the " Breve Sumario," thinking to add John Daniel's 
 English translation, and had even drawn up an intro- 
 duction, which was to have been inserted in English 
 and Spanish. I fell, however, into a state of chronic 
 ill-health, when just on the point of beginning, and 
 now despaired of accomplishing the design. There 
 lived in my neighbourhood, a village maiden, the 
 only child of her aged parents, whom I had instructed 
 in the manner, of making fac-similes, of the titles of 
 books. She took so readily to the art, and executed 
 it with such fidelity, and grace, that the Librarian 
 of Woburn Abbey, having seen the collection I had 
 rudely made for myself, conceived the idea of col- 
 lecting all books, which were dedicated to the Russell 
 
134 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 family, in order to illustrate its history, and to make 
 a collection of the Titles and Dedications of them in 
 fac-simtle. This village maiden, executed them with 
 skill almost unrivalled. He did not, however, live to 
 see them finished ; they were completed under his 
 successor, and bound together, form a volume truly 
 beautiful and unique. She had owed the thought, 
 the art, to me. The art, however, was truly in herself, 
 mine was but the pointing out the way for its exercise. 
 She readily made for me, a fac-simile of the " Breve 
 Sumario," part of which being printed in a minute 
 letter, required more than usual precision, and clearness 
 of vision. It was indeed beautifully done, and was 
 a gem, when bound as a small quarto, in green 
 morocco. I sent it together with my introduction 
 and notes. This beautiful, and tasteful, village girl 
 married very respectably, and died in her first con- 
 finement, and this record of the event, is not written 
 without a sigh to her memory. 
 
 Luis, edited the tract, re-writing my introduc- 
 tion, and adding to it other interesting information, 
 particularly, a long intercepted letter, of Antonio del 
 Corro to Cassiodoro de Reyna, relating to the printing 
 of the Spanish Bible, preparing to print it at an old 
 castle in Navarre. It was printed in a very small size 
 in 1862, as much as could be in fac-simile; it forms 
 No. 1 8 of the series of " Reformistas." 
 
 Gregorio Maydns, had published in the year 1737, 
 in his "Origines de la Lengua Espafiola," the Dialogo 
 de las Lenguas, from a MS. in the National Library, at 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 135 
 
 Madrid. The MS. is anonymous ; it has since been 
 ascertained to be the composition ofVald^s. Luis, 
 who possessed a large paper copy of the Origines, 
 one of those printed by Mayans, for his friends, wished 
 to verify some passages in it, from the MS. He had 
 a careful and exact copy made, by which he found 
 that the errors, and alterations, made by Maydns, were 
 numerous. He collated the whole, with scrupulous 
 labour, finding no less than 1089 variations, etc. This 
 little work, gives incidentally, some important refer- 
 ences, to the particulars of Vald^s' life, and it was 
 very desirable, that a correct edition, faithful to the 
 text, should be printed. Another MS. was said, in 
 the notes to the Spanish translation of Ticknor's 
 "History of Spanish Literature," to exist in the Library 
 of the British Museum. Upon examination, however, 
 this was found to be a modern copy, most likely that 
 which Mayins had prepared. The ancient MS. in 
 the Library at Madrid, was not in the handwriting of 
 Vald6s himself, but a copy. As no other could be 
 discovered, it was necessary to rely upon this. A 
 preface of fifty pages, and an appendix of seventy, 
 were added by Luis. A new and very correct edition 
 was printed in i860. It was not incorporated in the 
 series of " Reformistas," because it was a philological, 
 not a religious work ; yet being composed by Valdes, 
 in speaking of the incidents of his life, it could scarcely 
 be out of place amongst them. I furnished nothing 
 but the substance of the appendix, and some slight 
 notices in the preface. 
 
136 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 The Hamburg MS. of the "CX. Considerations," had 
 furnished fresh readings, and given a different turn to 
 the sense of some sentences, by the different way in 
 which the ancient author, understood some of the 
 parenthetical clauses, of the Italian, of Vald6s. Luis 
 became dissatisfied with his translation, of 1855 : he 
 made an improved version, and determined to have 
 it printed, in the italic letter, he so much admired. 
 This could only be done in this country, and he wrote 
 to me to take the superintendence of it. My years 
 had advanced, to the going down of the dial. Not 
 expecting that my sun, like Hezekiah's, could be 
 retarded in its setting, I was very unwilling to accept 
 the responsibility, apprehensive that life might fail me 
 in the middle of it. Persuaded, however, to think 
 more of the author, than of myself, I accepted the 
 duty, in the winter of 18C1-2. The corrected copy 
 was sent to me, and was put into the hands of the 
 printer, early in the summer of 1862. At this oppor- 
 tunity of producing a new edition, I earnestly desired 
 that it should be accompanied by a life of Valdes, 
 especially as seen from the Spanish side. I requested, 
 I repeated the request, I urged my friend to prepare 
 it. He knew all about Vald6s, that I knew, for I had 
 kept his information, from time, to time, up to my 
 own, and he had a familiar knowledge, of whatever his 
 countryman had written. 
 
 Practised in study, and in criticism, the habit of his 
 mind was fixed, it could make selections, draw con- 
 clusions, and resolve points of critical accuracy, but 
 
BOOK HUNTING. I37 
 
 the mind, could not direct Its thoughts, into a current 
 of continuous narrative. I had found myself, in the 
 notice to the " Alfabeto Christiano," how difficult this 
 was to do, with regard to the interrupted incidents 
 of a biography, of which so little could be known. 
 I saw, that it was beside his" way of thought, to do 
 this. I requested him, however, to select all the 
 correspondence of the Brothers Valdes with Erasmus, 
 and to gather any other documents, which might 
 serve for materials for the future use of any one, 
 who might undertake to execute the main purpose 
 I had in view. The volume was finished in the 
 autumn of 1863. It was greatly admired by Luis : 
 this vol. is No. 17 of the " Reformistas." 
 
 As early as the year 1842, Luis had procured at 
 Lisbon, the "Suma de Doctrina," Sevilla, 1551, by 
 Dr. Constantino. The book is not Protestant, in its 
 sentiments, but it is Scriptural, and truthful, and 
 endeavours to enforce the sincerity of piety. It was 
 written in a simple form of the purest Spanish, by 
 one of the best preachers of the age. Luis, desired 
 greatly to reprint it He found other works of 
 Dr. Constantino mentioned by Nicolas Antonio, and 
 the "Confession of a Sinner," in "Gerdes' Miscel- 
 lanea Groningana," but in French. He requested 
 me to seek for these books, and especially the 
 "Confession," in Spanish. I found in the Bodleian 
 Library, the " Doctrina Cristiana, primera parte, 
 Anvers, 1554," and a copy of it had been sold by 
 C. J. Stewart to Archdeacon Churton. This is not 
 
138 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 the same as the "Suma de Doctrina." It was planned 
 for a larger work, on Christian Doctrine, never com- 
 pleted, because the author, too sincerely virtuous for 
 the period he lived in, became suspected by the 
 Inquisition, and perished in its dungeons at Seville. I 
 procured a copy of this "Doctrina Cristiana," An vers, 
 1 5 54, from Augsburg, and sent it to Luis. I now 
 made inquiry amongst the foreign Libraries, and 
 fortunately found preserved, in the Royal Library at 
 Brussels, an earlier edition of the "Suma," namely, 
 one printed in Seville, 1545 ; and what was more to 
 the purpose, the " Catezismo Cristiano," with " Confe- 
 sion de un Pecad6r," in one vol^ 1556. A copy of 
 these was procured and sent. Another mutilated 
 edition, of the "Suma de Doctrina" was found in 
 Trinity Library, Dublin, from which a copy of the 
 Sermon on the Mount was made, in order to correct 
 the readings of the other. The Suma, Sermon, Cate- 
 zismo, and Confesi6n, were carefully edited with 
 critical notes, and observations upon the author, as an 
 appendix. I supplied fac-simile titles, and it was 
 printed in 1863, forming No. 19 of the " Reformistas." 
 Pursuing my search, for books of this class, I 
 introduced myself, as early as 1848, by correspond- 
 ence, to a gentleman, who occupied an official 
 appointment, in one of the Government departments 
 in London. He had directed his attention to the 
 literature of Elizabeth's reign, more especially to 
 pamphlets. He had a wonderful collection of these, 
 bundles, containing some thousands, yet had no know- 
 
BOOK HUNTING. 139 
 
 ledge of the class- 1 sought for, though he had written 
 many quires of titles, taken from Ames, and Dibdin, 
 the British Museum, and Bodleian catalogues. How- 
 ever, in the year 1850, I think, he sent me down by 
 the benevolent book post, a Latin book, without its 
 covers ; it was " Historia Vera de Morte Sancti Viri 
 Joannis Diazii Hispani," 1546. I immediately sat 
 down and copied it in my usual way, page for page, 
 line for line. I had scarcely finished it, when I 
 observed that I was writing, and had continued to do 
 so, with the same pen that I had begun with. I then 
 recollected a rhyme in Butler's exercises, that had 
 struck my fancy when a schoolboy at Ackworth : — 
 
 " With one sole pen I wrote this book,. 
 Made of a grey goose quill ; 
 A pen it was when first I took, 
 A pen I leave it still." 
 
 I had no expectation, that my correspondent would 
 part with the book, but I had hoped that a more 
 favourable opportunity, might find me another copy. 
 I soon returned it to him. I had copied it, and 
 expressed my wishes by this doggrel : — 
 
 " Go, little book, go, mournful book. 
 The sigh thou leav'st behind thee 
 Will make me look in every nook, 
 And ask my friends, by hook, by crook, 
 To seek again to find thee." 
 
 Startled, I think, by such unusual language, my 
 friendly correspondent, immediately presented me 
 with the same copy, accompanied by a kind and 
 
I40 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 graceful letter, saying that he was ashamed to have 
 caused me the labour of transcribing it. I had the 
 book choicely bound in green morocco. I sent it 
 together with my transcript to Luis, inserting the 
 following slipshod stanza : — 
 
 " Go, little volume, on thy destined way 
 To a far country, to a distant clime ; 
 Learn thou to speak a foreign tongue, and say 
 1 send thee as a gift for future time. 
 Its literature to grace, and to convey 
 Knowledge of useful deeds, and thoughts sublime. 
 Say this, and add, I was sent here to speak 
 Hope to the fainting heart, and solace to the meek." 
 
 I sent it by the hands of William Forster, a Quaker 
 minister, who was going to Spain, in order to remon- 
 strate with the authorities on their continuance of that 
 abomination, the slave trade — the purpose that had 
 led my friend G. W. Alexander and myself to that 
 country. The messenger whom I used on this occa- 
 sion afterwards laid down his life, as a martyr to his 
 labours for the slave, in the State of Tennessee, 
 America. 
 
 While searching for the letters of Francisco de 
 Enzinas (Dryander), I found unpublished letters by 
 Juan Diaz himself, addressed to Ochino, to Enzinas, 
 and Calvin, with other letters making mention of him, 
 and I procured an excellent portrait of him, engraved 
 on wood, after the one in Beza's Icones, 1580. A 
 later copy of the book, we found from Enzinas' 
 letters, to have been edited, if not composed, by 
 Enzinas; Senarclaeus (Claude Senarcle) might have 
 
BOOK HUNTING. Hi 
 
 furnished him with the details of the tragedy, he 
 having particulars about Diaz, with whom he was a 
 personal friend, from other sources. Luis, translated 
 the Historia, into Spanish, the letters, etc., he printed 
 in Latin and Spanish ; he wrote observations of about 
 forty pages upon them, adding an index. He printed 
 the volume handsomely in 1865, a few months before 
 his death : it forms No. 20 of the " Reformistas." He 
 died on the 17th August, in that year, and with this 
 event terminated the course of our interesting labours, 
 expressed by the mutual services of an endeared 
 friendship. With the exception of one of them, the 
 twenty volumes of the series were executed solely at 
 his cost, but were prepared by our joint labours. His 
 was the first conception of the project. It was carried 
 out, not by any plan or scheme of arrangement, but 
 simply as circumstances arose, to favour its develop- 
 ment. The learning was his, the talent, the ex- 
 pense were his ; mine, the advantages of liberty and 
 free action, and residence in a country which furnished 
 the readiest means for the acquisition of this kind of 
 knowledge. We both were favoured with leisure, we 
 both had the simple and independent means of live- 
 lihood ; we wanted no more. We both repudiated 
 the thought of accepting assistance from any society 
 or association, for our views were not mercenary, 
 neither were they directed to immediate, but future 
 results, because we firmly believed that these results, 
 would manifest themselves, long after we had ceased 
 to live. 
 
142 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 The reprint of the original Italian, of the " CX. 
 Considerations," was executed at Halle^ and did not 
 itself form one of the series of the " Reformistas." 
 The translation was the work of John T. Betts. 
 Wiffen wrote the Hfe of Valdes, prefixed to the 
 translation, and added thirteen titles in fac simile of 
 the " CX. Considerations," and an index, and had a 
 portrait of Giulia Gonzaga, executed on wood, for 
 private copies. Mr. Betts, took the responsibility of 
 publishing the joint work. It was published at the 
 close of the year 1865. 
 
 The second volume of the " Reformistas Antiguos 
 Espafioles" had appeared in 1848, privately printed 
 by Wiffen. It also contains a list of the works of 
 Spanish Reformers, then known to Wiffen, with 
 indications of the places where they might be found. 
 The Religious Tract Society of London printed in 
 1 866, for circulation in Spairi, from this second volume, 
 the "Epistola Consolatoria," of Juan Perez. 
 
JUAN VALDES. 143 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 JUAN VALDES, 
 
 " O fruitful past ! exhaustless treasure-house' 
 Of untold wealth ! prolific soil, in which 
 The present sov/s itself, and out of which 
 There comes not one brief harvest, but a long 
 And blessed reaping for the sons of men ! " 
 
 H. BONAR. 
 
 BB. WIFFEN continued to occupy himself in 
 seeking diligently, by correspondence with 
 learned men and booksellers throughout Europe, 
 to obtain any writings of Spanish Reformers, that 
 might have escaped the flames of the Inquisition. 
 The ruthless completeness of the persecution, by 
 which they, and the cause, were destroyed in Spain, 
 extended to their writings. The latter had to be re- 
 discovered, to be ferreted out, from the forgotten 
 corners of Libraries, in distant countries. It was this 
 task, then still difficult, as well as dangerous, which 
 was undertaken by Don Luis, and his English sympa- 
 thiser, and correspondent, Wififen. The ardour re- 
 quired for such a pursuit, was something far beyond 
 the love of fame, or of contemporary applause. It 
 was eminently a work of faith ; it had " respect unto 
 
144 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 the recompence of reward ; " its motives were altogether 
 in the unseen world. In the year 1843, he again 
 accompanied G. W. Alexander on a mission to Spain, 
 on the errand of Slave Emancipation ; he pursued his 
 Spanish studies, and sought everywhere for his hidden 
 favourites. 
 
 These researches were not undertaken from anti- 
 quarian motives, nor from mere admiration of the 
 great men, whose writings were thus brought to light, 
 but from true sympathy with a cause, which, however 
 subject to hindrances, and even apparent extinction, 
 is immortal, and must be ultimately victorious over 
 all opposition and evil. There lay the conviction, too, 
 in the mind of Don Luis and Wiffen, that the present 
 is irrevocably linked with the past, and that even the 
 darkest days of modern Spain, were thus ministering 
 to a glorious Future, by the bringing forward the 
 transactions of the heroic, but well-nigh forgotten, 
 men of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. They 
 toiled under pressure of the loftiest and most un- 
 selfish motives, and their good work will be held in 
 higher esteem as time advances. 
 
 In the year 185 1, Mr. Wiffen found, in the col- 
 lection of a bookseller at Brighton, the "Alfabeto 
 Christiano," a work of Juan Valdes, unknown to 
 modern times. It details the subject of conversation 
 between Valdes and Giulia Gonzaga. He made a 
 translation of this interesting volume, and by the 
 aid of a few friends, he published, in 1861, a hundred 
 copies for private circulation. An extract from the 
 
JUAN VALDES. 145 
 
 dedication, will serve to show the two men, whose 
 friendship we now chronicle : — 
 
 " To whom, can I address the translation of this 
 interesting dialogue, with greater propriety, than to 
 him, who, by first directing my thoughts into this 
 channel of literary research, may almost be considered 
 to have been its discoverer ? A friendship, whose 
 sincerity, seeks no compliment, and whose freedom, 
 asks no favours save those which advance the common 
 object of our pursuit, might of itself, afford a sufficient 
 motive. Yet to these considerations, may be added 
 the fact, that his liberality has furnished the means 
 also, to give the work to the press." 
 
 In 1863, Wiffen, wrote to Dr. Boehmer, concern- 
 ing the " ex. Considerations " : "I hope we are all 
 animated with a portion of his own generous mind ; I 
 may acknowledge that I have yet found no book which 
 so truly accords with my mind." * Juan Vald6s was 
 certainly the ideal of Mr. Wiffen's mind, as Don Luis 
 was of his heart. Mr. Wiffen was drawn to Vald6s 
 not only, or chiefly, by the consideration of the in- 
 justice done him by the oblivion of the literary world, 
 but by a deep intellectual and moral sympathy. It 
 may be observed, that in his preface to the English 
 translation of the " CX. Considerations," dated Octo- 
 ber, 1865, he claims for the Work, that the principles it 
 teaches, are almost as much in advance of the present 
 times, as they were, in the days of its first translation 
 in 1638. Wiffen, in common with the majority of his 
 
 " Spanish Reformers," vol. i., p. 61. 
 
 10 
 
h6 the life of b. b. wiffen. 
 
 fellow-religionists, held to the doctrine of an inner 
 light, leading to happiness and God, attainable by all, 
 but only realized by a few. In his preface, to the 
 " ex. Considerations," he says : " It has also been my 
 wish, to represent the truth and depth of his Christian 
 profession, exalted to the simplicity of the Gospels, 
 grounded and settled in the faith of the heart, which 
 Valdes endeavoured to practise himself, and to teach 
 to other-s." Again he thus speaks of him : " With a 
 masterly power over his whole nature, Valdes sought 
 to apprehend Truth, through the just medium of feeling 
 as well as reason. He brought an earnest affection 
 for right Wisdom, to the bar of reason, and a well- 
 regulated understanding, and tried it by the test of 
 his own experience, and the declarations of the New 
 Testament. When he found Scripture, experience, 
 the heart, and the understanding, all concurring to 
 elucidate the truth he sought to find, he delivered his 
 mind to absolute trust in it, and at once gave it life 
 by applying it to the conduct of life. This ought to 
 remove the objection of Mysticism from his writings 
 and character ; and the same reason should remove 
 it, as a charge, from a body of Christians in the pre- 
 sent day who, in consequence of carrying out their 
 reasonable religious convictions into daily practice, 
 have not inaptly been styled the most English of the 
 English, that is, the most practical in all their pur- 
 poses. And after all, when more intimately con- 
 sidered, how can the religious relations, although 
 clearly known to himself, between the spirit of a man 
 
JUAN VALDES. i47 
 
 and the Divine Spirit, in which relations the essential 
 quality of real religion consists, be otherwise than 
 mystical to others, who yet wear their own mystery, 
 if they also have any essential religious sentiments ? 
 To Vald^s, the internal word of Inspiration was not 
 mystical. He knew, that the Word of God, within, 
 earnestly sought for, patiently believed in, and obe- 
 diently complied with, was also the highest reason ; 
 and that its commands were practicable, just in pro- 
 portion, to the degree of the reliance of faith, reposed 
 in them."* 
 
 Curione, his contemporary, has described Juan 
 Vald^s, as " a noble Knight, by the grace of 
 Caesar, but a more noble Knight, by the grace of 
 Christ." 
 
 Karl Benrath, one of the most recent biographers 
 of the men of that epoch, depicts him in language 
 singularly appropriate to B. B. Wiffen, as well, when 
 he says : " Everything united in him, to insure him an 
 irresistible, personal influence ; his pale, delicately cut 
 countenance, in which was reflected the invisible 
 world, in the contemplation of which he was im- 
 mersed ; his frail body, that seemed only to live 
 at the behest of his potent spirit ; his courtly bearing, 
 the charm of his speech, and the spotless purity of 
 his life in a dissolute age. Curione says he seemed 
 appointed by God, as a teacher of noble and distin- 
 guished men, although he was so good, that he served 
 even the humblest and least cultivated with his en- 
 
 * " Life of Valdes, " prefixed to 'CX. Considerations," p. 174. 
 
148 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 dowments, and was all things to all men, to gain all 
 for Christ."* 
 
 The writings of Juan Valdds, probably Nicholas 
 Ferrar's translation of the " CX. Considerations," had 
 influence in forming the character and guiding the 
 actions of John Wesley at a critical point in the 
 history of his inner life, determining him to a thorough 
 pursuit of a holy life. In a remarkable letter to his 
 father from Oxford, and dated December lo, 1734, 
 written "when he was earnestly pressed" by his 
 father " to accept a cure of souls," he explains why 
 he preferred for so many years, a University life before 
 any other. He says : " The far greatest part of the 
 conversation I meet with abroad, even with the better 
 sort of men, turns on points that are quite wide of 
 my purpose, that no way forward the end of my life. 
 Now, if they have time to spare, I have not. Tis 
 absolutely needful for such an one, as I, to follow, 
 with all possible care and vigilance, that wise advice 
 of Mr. Herbert— 
 
 ' Still let thy mind be bent ; still plotting how 
 And when and where thy business may be done.' 
 
 And this, I bless God, I can in some measure do, 
 while I avoid that bane of all religion, the company 
 of good sort of men, as they are called, persons who 
 have a liking to, but no sense of, religion. But these 
 insensibly undermine all my resolutions, and steal 
 away what little zeal I have, so that I never come 
 
 * "Bernardino Ochino of Siena." By Karl Benrath. Translated by 
 Helen Timmem. Nisbet & Co., 1876. 
 
JUAN VALDES. 149 
 
 from among these saints of the world {as John 
 Valdesso terms them) faint, dissipated, and shorn of 
 all my strength, but I say, ' God deliver me from a 
 half-Christian.' " * 
 
 Mr. Wiffen's friend and fellow-communionist, Mr. 
 Frederic Seebohm, with other friends, had generously 
 furnished the means of publishing at Halle, under the 
 care of Dr. Boehmer, the " CX. Considerations " in the 
 original Italian edition. In connection with this, there 
 occurred the third great Friendship, in the life of our 
 recluse. It happened on this wise. One of the per- 
 sons whom Mr. Seebohm enlisted as a subscriber to 
 the fund for the publication of the volume in ques- 
 tion, was Mr. J. T. Betts, afterwards of Pembury, in 
 Kent, but then living near Welwyn, in Herts. Mr. 
 Betts, being skilled in Italian, and . unaware of the 
 origin of the work, began to translate it into English, 
 and sought the acquaintance of Mr. Wiffen, to express 
 his thanks, for the contribution he had made, to the 
 literature of Christianity. Thus was originated a kind 
 of prepared succession to Don Luis, whom he was so 
 soon to lose. He thus, writes : " When John Betts 
 became acquainted with the origin of the Itahan 
 reprint, he sought my acquaintance. He had then 
 done about a third of the work, and proceeded with 
 alacrity with the remainder, assisted by his intelligent 
 and skilful wife as amanuensis. I had striven to 
 obtain an authentic account, of the two Brothers 
 Valdds, from two or three more able writers than 
 
 * John Wesley's Journal, 1739. 
 
ISO THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 myself, and had been dissatisfied with the attempts. 
 Another opportunity now presented itself. The trans- 
 lator, unfamiliar with the sources of information from 
 which I drew my own knowledge, necessarily devolved 
 the labour of this task upon me, which I saw could 
 not be avoided if it were now to be done at all. 
 Aided by the same excellent amanuensis, I sketched 
 out the plan with her, nor had I occasion once to vary 
 from it. I had but to fill it up, in order to complete 
 it. Every day witnessed our pleasant progress. The 
 hours of composition, of study, or of writing, were only 
 interrupted by charming drives, in the romantic neigh- 
 bourhood of Tunbridge Wells ; for we were settled 
 for the summer months at a cottage in a primitive 
 village, almost within sight of that fashionable town." 
 
DEATH OF DON LUIS. 151 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE : DEATH OF DON LUIS. 
 
 " But by friendship, I suppose you mean the greatest love and the 
 greatest usefulness, . . . and the greatest union of minds, of which 
 brave men and women are capable. But then I must tell you, that 
 Christianity hath new christened it, and calls this Charity." 
 
 Jeremy Taylor. 
 
 ABOUT the year 1854, Mr. Wiffen commenced a 
 correspondence with Mr. John Macray, Librarian 
 of the Taylor Institution, Oxford, and a literary friend- 
 ship sprung up, which was fruitful in interchange of 
 good offices, respecting early Reformation literature. 
 Most of the letters, relate to the book-treasures of 
 Oxford : we make a few extracts, where other matters 
 are mixed up, with the details of book-hunting. 
 
 '^ 2nd mo., 16, 1856. 
 "... Salig's (Christ.) is a work of such standard 
 importance in Eccles. history in Germany, that it 
 should (ought to be) be found in such Libraries of 
 general use, as the Bodleian, and British Museum, but 
 I think they are both deficient in the chief Lutheran 
 Ecclesiastical Historians ; a stricter communication 
 having been formed with the chfefs of the Swiss 
 
152 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 Churches by our Reformers, than with the Germans; 
 and the adoption of strong Calvinistic opinions by the 
 second generation of our Reformers, tended to ccfn- 
 tinue this exclusive connection. Hence, whilst the 
 works of Calvinistic writers are common here, those of 
 Lutherans are few. Will it be troublesome to turn to 
 Galluzzi, and note what documents he gives, respecting 
 the life, trial, and condemnation of Carnesecchi, 1550 
 — 1556, (a friend of Giulia Gonzaga's,) other than two 
 letters of the Pope, to Duke Cosmo, which I have 
 seen elsewhere, one requesting the surrender of Carne- 
 secchi, and the other thanking him for the deed of 
 unusual baseness, for he permitted his arrest, whilst 
 sitting at dinner with himself. Carnesecchi was at 
 Naples, in 1 541, at or soon after the death of Valdes. 
 He wrote letters to Giulia. This correspondence was 
 discovered by his papers, and brought her twice under 
 the notice of the Inquisition. Hence the great families 
 and writers of Italy, down to nearly the present time, 
 were interested in throwing a cloud over her inter- 
 course with Valdes, and destroying his books, espe- 
 cially one which expressly treats of a conversation 
 on religion which they had together. I think it is a 
 flourish of French gallantry by Brantome, that has 
 invented the story that Barbarossa made the attack 
 on Fondi, in order to capture Giulia for the Sultan's 
 seraglio. I do not believe the motive to have been 
 other than common brigandage ; it is certain, how- 
 ever, that sailing by Naples in the twilight, he came 
 before the town of Fondi, twenty miles north, at 
 
DEATH OF DON LUIS. 
 
 IS3 
 
 midnight, landed suddenly, and gained possession of 
 the town, before Giulia was alarmed from sleep at 
 the castle. Awaked from the clamour of the town 
 below, she hastily escaped by a bridge from the 
 fortress, mounted in haste, and rode off into the 
 country. The pirates re-embarked with their plunder, 
 having missed the ransom of her person. The chief 
 inn of the town attests to this day the fact of the 
 inroad by the name of Fondi di Barbarossa. Ippolito 
 di Medici, who had solicited her consent to (a second) 
 marriage in vain, hearing the tidings of her danger at 
 Rome, set off with a band of horsemen for her pro- 
 tection. On this occasion he obtained her consent 
 to allow her portrait to be taken, and on his return 
 he despatched Sebastian del Piombo from Rome, 
 attended by a guard of four cavaliers, to Fondi. He 
 employed himself there a month, and returned with 
 the portrait, 'which was a divine picture.' {LanzL) 
 This picture is in the National Gallery, London ; the 
 artist has thrown a nimbus over her head, to make 
 the picture appear as of a Saint, being placed in the 
 gallery of a cardinal. There is another picture in the 
 National Gallery, representing the cardinal paying 
 the artist, probably for this picture. A few years 
 afterwards he went again to Fondi, from Naples, to 
 see Giulia; she was not there. He spent the day 
 straying about the place, indulging ' thoughts of the 
 past, when life itself was new, and the heart promised 
 what the fancy drew.' Returning to Naples, he took 
 fever, and died in two or three days, yet young. He 
 
154 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 translated the second book of the Eneid, addressing 
 it to Giulia Gonzaga, and had it printed. He and 
 another gentleman each translated a book of the 
 Eneid, addressing them each, to a lady of their 
 choice ; they were printed together. A pretty fancy 
 of intellectual young men. I have had both these 
 books. Giulia had no children, and the line of the 
 Gonzagas of Sabbionetta became extinct about 1575. 
 Isabella Gonzaga was Giulia's step-daughter, who 
 caused her much trouble. ... A German translation 
 (by Tischendorf) has appeared of Paleario's ' Benefit 
 of Christ's Death,' with the Italian annexed." 
 
 "Near Woburn, Beds, 
 " 2,rd mo., 13, 1857. 
 "Juan de Valdds, the earliest and best of nine 
 authors, wrote a tract, ' In qual maniera se doverebbono 
 instituire i figliuoli de Christiani nei principii della 
 religione Christiana! P. P. Vergerio translated this 
 into Latin, (as before mentioned,) under the title of 
 ' Lac Spirituale,' and addressed it as his own to the 
 eldest son of the Duke of Wurtemberg. C. S. Curione, 
 in his letters, accused Vergerio of -plagiarism of this 
 piece. Will thy son (at the Bodleian) have the kind- 
 ness to look at ' Corte Opere,' vol. xv., at Notizie in- 
 iorno, P. Paulo Vergerio, and see what is said about 
 this affair, and whether it goes into the subject, or 
 dismisses it in few words only, and what he says of 
 Vald6s, or Valdesio, as he is named. . . . The Spanish 
 book I sent, ' Ziento i diez Considerazionesl contains 
 
DEATH OF IX>N LUIS. 15S 
 
 essential Quakerism, a hundred years before George 
 
 Fox." 
 
 "()th mo., 26, i860. 
 
 " I should be very ready to oblige thee with regard 
 to the interesting subject of thy cousin's book, as far 
 as the will goes, but I really have not the power, and 
 at this time, it is much engaged in what I find a 
 difficulty to accomplish. Besides, it is very difficult 
 to show a negative, and to show clearly why things 
 were not. From a few broad facts it is necessary to 
 reason, deduce consequences, and to apply them in 
 many points of view, and this requires a ready and 
 varied exercise of the reasoning faculty, which I have 
 little of, upon paper. One cause of the peculiar and 
 national characteristic of the Spanish Inquisition, was 
 covetousne&s. The rude Spanish chieftains envied the 
 superior civilization, and richly cultivated possessions, 
 of their Moorish conquerors, cupidity excited their 
 chivalry and bigotry, until they obtained them for 
 themselves, and then they readily concurred with the 
 Inquisition, as a means of keeping the Moors subject. 
 It thus grew up as a national and individual interest, 
 until it obtained such universal sway, that its tyranny 
 continued for centuries to oppress the springs of social 
 life throughout, and has inflicted an instinct in the 
 Spanish mind, which still exists, and will long continue 
 to exist, though the institution itself has been sup- 
 pressed since forty years. (See the conclusion of an 
 article, in Notes and Queries, August 19th, 1854, p. 13.8.) 
 Another cause is, that while the Gothic, or more pro- 
 
IS6 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 perly the Celtic, (for the Northern Spaniards were 
 Visi-Goths,) portion of the Spaniards, possessed them- 
 selves of the cities and lands of the more civilized 
 Moors, the moral characteristics of the civilized mind 
 transfused themselves into those of the conquerors, 
 such has been the silent operation of superiority of 
 mind. The Spanish people, are even at this day 
 essentially Asiatic, (not to say Moorish,) and whoever 
 does not look at them through their (I may say 
 present) Orientalism, will not rightly understand Spain. 
 The firmer Teutonic mind loves reality and truth ; 
 the Coptic, Celtic, and Asiatic loves show and artifice. 
 The Reformation therefore made good its way in the 
 northern nations of Europe, leavened partially those 
 of a mingled population, but it lost itself among the 
 genuine Celts. Hence, too, these prefer the stories 
 of the Arabian Nights, Boccaccio, and Don Quixote, 
 to the Scriptures of Truth. 
 
 " The early converts to the Reformation in Spain 
 and Italy were chiefly the noble and educated persons. 
 They had much to sacrifice, and to lose under perse- 
 cution, many of them, more than simply to lose their 
 lives — their fortune, name, and the degradation of their 
 whole race, as though Moorish, or Jewish, and they 
 preferred to hide their convictions, like Erasmus, under 
 the shadow of the Church, than to protest, in the 
 lion's den, like Luther. They were not fortified m 
 the Bible ; they had softer minds, they were not of 
 the people, nor backed by them. All these thoughts, 
 and many more, will have occurred to thy cousin, who 
 
DEATH OF DON LUIS. 157 
 
 has had the subject under consideration so long, and 
 I have no doubt, he is familiar with works on the 
 subject, M'Crie, De Castro's recent book, R. G. 
 Montanus, Sandoval, etc., for the circumstances of the 
 ' Suppression of the Reformation in Spain.' I should 
 have said at the beginning of my letter that my 
 attention has been more turned to the Works of the 
 Reformers, than to the History of the Reformation, in 
 Spain." 
 
 "Near Woburn, 9 mo. 6, '5i. 
 
 " I was rather turned away by the childish stories 
 of Hugh Miller, but the manner in which he writes 
 his episodical descriptions, his imaginative and won- 
 derful clearness of memory and richness of illustration, 
 are charming, as admirable specimens, of artistic 
 writing. My early schoolfellow, Wm. Howitt, began 
 this class of boy narratives ; they are now refined 
 and improved into a class, and what were designed 
 by Howitt, for little more than boys or youths, are, 
 with Hugh Miller and others, made to inform and 
 instruct older and reflective men." 
 
 When Mr. and Mrs. Betts, went into Spain in 1864, 
 they carried letters of introduction to Don Luis, and 
 a precious book, which Mr. Wiffen, had entrusted to 
 their charge. On calling, after first being duly re- 
 ported by a servant, who in customary fashion 
 received their cards, and letters, through a small 
 grating, they were welcomed into a plain room with 
 little furniture, and without either ornament, or book. 
 Mrs. Betts, describes Don Luis, as having dark hair 
 
158 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 closely cropped, a brilliant black eye, with most gentle 
 manners. His dress, a blue coat, with velvet collar, 
 and black satin tie, was somewhat old-fashioned, but 
 plain and handsome. A hearty pressure of the hand, 
 and tear in the eye, welcomed the friends of his best 
 friend, of whose welfare he was so tender, he scarcely 
 liked us to have left him alone. She says of a second 
 visit, "He introduced us to his Library, and to his 
 wife. Dona Maria Sandalia, a motherly, quaker-like- 
 looking woman, older than Luis, tenderly attached to 
 him, and sympathising with his work, so as to help 
 with her fortune, to defray the immense expenses of 
 printing, which he lived to incur. She read French 
 evangelical books, though she had never made any 
 outward profession of renouncing Romanism." 
 
 Mr. Betts, asked Don Luis what Spanish work he 
 would advise him to translate, now that the "Con- 
 siderations " were finished, and he immediately replied 
 that he should like^ Dr. Constantino's " Confession of 
 a Sinner," put into English, which, if he would do, he 
 would himself, pay the expenses of printing it. Mr. 
 Betts began it at once, and finished it when they were 
 at an hotel in the Alhambra. Mr. Wiffen afterwards 
 dictated the charming little memoir of the author 
 prefixed to the " Confession." 
 
 The printing of the "Reformistas Espanoles," was 
 done so judiciously, and secretly, at Madrid, that it 
 was rumoured that Mr. Wiffen had a secret printing 
 press, at Aspley Guise, where the work was done. 
 Don Luis lived, too, so quietly and wisely, that perse- 
 
DEATH OF DON LUIS. 159 
 
 cuting authority seemed not to know how to lay hands 
 on him, even to exile him ; but we know he was a 
 marked man for years, and Spanish spies visited 
 B. B. Wiffen at Mount Pleasant, to learn what they 
 could of the connection between Don Luis and his 
 friend, in order, if possible, to incriminate the former. 
 A few extracts of letters written by Wiffen to the 
 travellers will serve to show the character of his corre- 
 spondence. 
 
 On the Death of his Sister. 
 
 ^^ November, 1864, Evening. 
 " Though 'tis but weakness of one's self to speak, 
 And the true Christian ought not to be weak, 
 Should I not mourn a sister and a friend, 
 Life's first companion, constant to the end ? 
 Now left alone, my solitude I keep, 
 While all things weep her loss, or seem to weep. 
 
 Without her pet plants in the garden blow, 
 A languid, drooping, undelightful show ; 
 My unskilled fingers train up every stem. 
 They feel the duty is not given to them 
 To nurse their weakness, all my skill is vain ; 
 Affection chills them from a heart in pain. 
 
 Within my lamp, and book, and overwrought 
 The fainting fancy's unproductive thought. 
 These lines betray a sadly pensive gloom, 
 From the mind's colour, shadows all the room. 
 The table spread, untasted is the cheer ; 
 My hearth is joyless, for she is not here." 
 
 " November 22,rd, 1 864. 
 " I wrote to Luis yesterday, so he has my latest 
 thoughts. Although he had not told me, I thought 
 
i6o THE LIFE OF B. B. W IF FEN. 
 
 it well to express my thoughts about Dr. Capados6's 
 request to him, and to say I think he does well not 
 to comply with it unless his own conscience should 
 by its constant or continual requirement demand it of 
 him (and I think it will not). Why should he, who 
 is daily professing Christ, and continually seeking to 
 attain to His image, make a confession of a sect of 
 Christ, and adopt the smallness for the largeness .' 
 It may even be an advantage to growth in true grace, 
 not to know Protestantism as we know it — fighting, 
 oath-taking, priest-following, self-honouring. 
 
 "There is a failing I had remarked belonging to 
 good and spiritual men, and chiefly, to the most good 
 and spiritual ; it is, that having been required by their 
 consciences to take up the cross, in some particular 
 mode, they think that other men's consciences ought 
 to be bound to take it up in the same mode. Not 
 believing (in reality) that what a tender conscience 
 has most reluctance to yield up, is that on which the 
 Searcher of hearts will lay the cross, and require 
 Obedience and Patience in bearing it ; and as men's 
 hearts differ, so does their mode of bearing the cross, 
 required of them by Him. He alone is the true Cross 
 Layer, and the Giver of faith, to carry it. Now Dr. 
 C. was a Jew, one of a sect denying the coming of 
 Christ, not Christian, but anti-Christian; when he 
 came to believe in Christianity, the cross, the greatest 
 cross to a Jew, was laid upon him to make confession 
 of it. This he did, in a land where he found plenty 
 to welcome him, to countenance, and to comfort him. 
 
DEATH OF DON LUIS. i6i 
 
 He obeys his conscience, it was pacified, and this 
 comforted him. 
 
 " That which in his repugnance was a rod, now 
 became a staff to quicken his journey heavenward. 
 Thus reading his own most sure experience, he 
 applies it to another person, not taking into view the 
 difference of the circumstances, and not knowing the 
 mode of the cross which the true Cross Layer has 
 already given that other person to bear. If I incite 
 any person to take up a particular cross, can I also 
 give him faith to bear it.' Can I supply him with 
 diverse comfort and consolation for his obedience ? 
 This laying the cross upon others comes from a kind 
 of selfism inherent in our nature, and this mode of it 
 is that which infests the very best men." 
 
 He now completed, and passed through the press, 
 his most elaborate and continuous work, "The Life 
 of Juan Vald^s," prefixed to Mr. Betts's translation 
 of the "CX. Considerations," published by Quaritch, of 
 Piccadilly. This writing is a picture of contempora- 
 neous history, in which all the figures, and events, 
 are grouped around Vald^s, who moves through his 
 brief career as the solemn representative of unceasing 
 evangelical truth. It opens to us a complete inven- 
 tory of the religious thought of the period, and 
 yields in interest to no representation of any time, in 
 regard to spiritual lofty contemplation, mingled with 
 application to the morals of actual life. Hence- 
 forward the constant kind offices of his friends at 
 Pembury sustained him in his solitary labours in 
 
 II 
 
1 62 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 completing the work which Don Luis had carried 
 on. He had seized the standard, his friend had 
 relinquished only at death ; and in his cottage at 
 Aspley Guise, or in his chosen resort at Pembury, he 
 carried on the holy enterprise, in communion with 
 God, and with the spirits of the just made perfect, 
 whose names are written in heaven. 
 
 In 1866, he writes : — 
 
 "... I had an hour or two with F. Seebohm at 
 night, and in the morning, he read to me the four 
 chapters of his John Colet, Erasmus, and Thomas 
 More.* I heard it with delight, for being read in the 
 best manner by the writer himself, the mind could 
 receive it all in the easiest manner. I admire the 
 plan of it greatly; the train of thought and the style 
 are quite lifelike, not so much bringing the characters 
 out to the reader, as setting the reader down with 
 them, and making him a hearer in company with 
 them. As Sever's edition of the Fortnightly Magazine 
 said, ' It is as interesting as a novel ; ' but I say more 
 so ; the analyses of subjects introduced are capitally 
 done, in rapid yet ample summary, full, but not 
 tedious, that especially, of Erasmus' ' Praise of Folly,' 
 dedicated to More. These four chapters form the 
 half; the whole will consist of eight chapters. They 
 will only be carried down in detail, to the death of 
 Colet, and then by a summary to that of More. 
 Colet's is shown to be the master mind ; it is more 
 
 * Seebohm's work is entitled "The Oxford Reformers, John Colet, 
 Erasmus, and Thomas More." 
 
DEATH OF DON LUIS. 163 
 
 physiological than the others, hence it influences their 
 deeper feelings. It was known before that Colet, and 
 of a purpose, determined Erasmus to the study of 
 sacred letters. Colet saw the nature of his soul and 
 of his intellectual talents, how prepared they were, 
 only wanting direction from a mind who could attract 
 them and point them. And we know, and yet feel, 
 the result. 
 
 . "... Turning over some loose papers last evening, 
 I fell upon a little piece that I copied some twenty 
 years ago, when working at the British Museum. 
 I now copy it, because it seems almost as if the 
 writer had in her mind, at the time, the first stanzas 
 of the Canzone, by the Duchess of Amalfi. It runs 
 thus : — 
 
 " From a manuscript of the time of Queen Elizabeth, 
 in the British Museum : — 
 
 'Sweet Jhesu ! who shall lend me wings 
 Of peace and perfect love, 
 That I may rise from earthly things, 
 To rest with Thee above ? 
 
 For sin and sorrow overflow 
 
 All earthly things so high. 
 That I can find no rest below. 
 
 But unto Thee I fly. 
 
 For there the joys are firm and fast. 
 
 Where no one can lament ; 
 But here are toys from first to last 
 
 All mortal men repent. 
 
 Wherefore my soul doth loathe the things 
 Which gave it once delight, 
 
1 64 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFE EN. 
 
 And unto Thee, the King of kings, 
 Would mount with all her might. 
 
 And yet the weight of flesh and blood 
 
 Doth so my wings restrain. 
 That oft I strive and gain no good. 
 
 But rise to fall again. 
 
 Yet when this fleshly misery 
 
 Is mastered by the mind, 
 I cry, " Avaunt, all vanity ! 
 
 And, Satan, stand behind ! " 
 
 So thus, sweet Lord ! I fly about, 
 
 In weak and weary case. 
 Like the lone Dove which Noah sent, 
 
 And found no resting-place. 
 
 My weary wings, sweet Jhesu ! mark, 
 
 And when Thou thinkest best, 
 Stretch forth Thy Arm from out the Ark, 
 
 And take me to Thy rest.'" 
 
 Extracts from Letters to Mrs. Betts. 
 
 " My hyacinth is full of large white blossoms, and 
 looks so happy, shining in the morning sun. Is it 
 foolish to invest it with feeling 1 It has an organised 
 life of its own, and having no other living nature with 
 me, why may not my consciousness go forth to it } 
 The beauty of its life reaches to mine. This is senti- 
 ment ! And it is also metaphysics in psychology. 
 ''March, 1866." 
 
 " yd mo. 29, 1865. 
 
 " Dear Friend, — Thy letter of the 21st I received 
 on the 28th March. This morning the whole land- 
 
DEATH OF DON LUIS. 165 
 
 scape is covered with snow, like midwinter, with the 
 wind south and south-west. What pleasanter occupa- 
 tion can I have, than to sit by the fire and answer thy 
 letter ? Indeed, I find it best and easiest to reply to 
 letters immediately, while their contents are fresh on 
 the mind, than to recall them while fading. This 
 makes me get praise for what I don't deserve, and to 
 be called a ' punctual correspondent ; ' and again, 
 having no one to speak a word with, I seem at least 
 to talk upon paper whilst I am writing, and I mentally 
 say a great deal to my friends that the fingers are far 
 too slow and formal to express to them. Thy men- 
 tion of the Portrait induced me to write to the engraver 
 to request him to 'do it justice,' and to encourage 
 him I sent him one of Bernardo Tasso's sonnets, in 
 order that he might not content himself merely with 
 conveying the features, but that he should also transfer 
 to the wood, 'the mind, the music breathing from the 
 face.' That which Bernardo Tasso saw and acknow- 
 ledged, that, too, which formed the essence of Plato's 
 philosophy, namely, that expressed beauty is the 
 effluence of the Divine intelligence, such to Petrarch 
 was Laura, and it became his laurel, and such it is 
 to many more. . . . S. Grellet* reasoned with slave- 
 owners of wisdom, justice, and judgment to come, forty 
 years ago, at the very places now, 1865, beleagured by 
 American armies, and was heard patiently by them, 
 
 * Stephen Grellet, born 1773, at Limoges, a French nobleman, 
 became an eminent Christian Missionary, representative of the Society 
 of Friends. 
 
1 66 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 but not unto obedience, and now the judgment has 
 come. Last First day, the 94th Psalm came in course 
 of our breakfast reading, and it seemed to me particu- 
 larly appropriate to this subject ; notice the concluding 
 verses of it. At the same time, I had received a note 
 for £\o from a Spaniard, (not Luis,) for the relief 
 of the destitute, Free, American slaves. When I was 
 at Barcelona, I saw a splendid pile of buildings, erected 
 by a man who got his gains by Slavery in Cuba, and 
 I saw a slaver building in the stocks, which I believe was 
 afterwards captured in her cruises. I heard of Malaga, 
 but did not go there. Dear friends, do not let the 
 blandishments of society, of riches, nor even of the 
 cultivated, beguile your imagination, if you know 
 they have partaken of this worse than heathen 
 abomination." 
 
 " i^h tno. 18, 1865. 
 "... I, too, have heard the nightingale ; we rarely 
 say a nightingale. As Dryden after Chaucer says : 
 
 ' So full, so clear, so various her note, 
 It seemed the music melted in the throat.' 
 
 And have you heard the cuckoo in your strange land .-' 
 I fancy not, not there 
 
 ' The schoolboy wandering through the wood, 
 To pluck the primrose gay. 
 Starts at thy well-known voice to hear, 
 And imitates thy lay.' 
 
 This is too English ! 
 
 " Hodgkins' indignation would rise at the iniquitous 
 
DEATH OF DON LUIS. 167 
 
 war with Morocco by Spain, but England's opium 
 war, with the Chinese, is worse. The weaker one 
 was provoked to go to war, and then mulcted for the 
 cost of it. Cobden testified against this, and threw 
 out Lord Palmerston upon it, with the aid of the 
 Tories. 
 
 " I have long been aware that the Boston Unitarians 
 have a higher evangelical character than the English, 
 and then they have not been persecuted (scandalized) 
 by opinion as the English are, and the English seem 
 the worse because they are amongst us. 
 
 " Granada must look very grand and strange, or 
 rather 'wonderful,' by moonlight, — the Xenil, the 
 Vega, and snow-covered mountains. I have only 
 seen these from the other side, at a distance. 
 
 "... The Friends are very active now, collecting 
 for the destitute Free people of colour in America. 
 Yesterday we had here the confirmation of the taking 
 of Petersburg and Richmond by the Federals. To 
 me that war reads like a modern repetition of the 
 judgments of the Bible, and it is so. The battle was 
 like the battle of Armageddon. On the very spots 
 where S. Grellet preached, and warned the slave- 
 masters in 1824-5, about their crimes and the coming 
 judgments, there the battles raged with greatest in- 
 tensity. Where S. Grellet sat the Yearly Meeting, at 
 Gravelly Run, near Petersburg, Virginia, the dying 
 were laid down at the door, where the pious friends 
 mourned and suffered with part of the sufferings of 
 Christ over Jerusalem, and, Hke Him, entreated His 
 
i68 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 long-suffering Father. He, I think, has mercy in store 
 for the black race in America, for He restrained them 
 from taking their cause into their own hands, as in 
 the affair of the black, saying, 'Vengeance is mine! 
 I will repay, ye shall not:' and when iniquity was 
 ripe, He made the slaveholders repay the vengeance 
 upon themselves. And notice, every party in this 
 country, as well as there, has been plagued with 
 punishment, in proportion as it has partaken of the 
 gains of slavery. 
 
 " To the Unitarians of Boston belongs the praise of 
 having gone through the martyr age of the United 
 States, in these early efforts for the abolition of slavery." 
 
 To his Sister-in-law : — " My mind has been almost 
 continually with thee since I left thee, and my spirits 
 low. They are more refreshed this morning, and I 
 hope thine too partake of the same reviving influence. 
 The past is gone beyond recall, and we as Christians 
 ought not to wish it otherwise. It is our part to look 
 upwards, and to look forward with hope, to number 
 our remaining blessings, and to be very grateful to 
 the great Giver of them all, for what He has hitherto 
 lent, and for what He yet permits us to use. Let 
 our thought be : Bless the Lord, O my soul, and 
 forget not all His benefits." 
 
 " Ith mo. 2, 1865. 
 To Mrs. Betts :— 
 
 " Thine of the 24th April, from Granada, I received 
 on the 30th, and at the same time thy journal : they 
 
DEATH OF DO A LUIS. i6g 
 
 are both pleasantly written ; they carry the mind 
 with them, on the current of agreeable enjoyment, 
 making for the time, distant things present, and the 
 feelings of others your own. Thus the mind is taken 
 possession of, and you yield it up for a time, to be led 
 about at will by your correspondent. To hold the 
 rein of one's self tightly always is at least tiring. I 
 have five letters to write this morning ; to thee this 
 is as nothing, but to me it is much. 
 
 " It is my duty to write to thee first of all. A sour 
 word this duty, but only to the non-obedient ; to me 
 it has become palatable, and, like some medicine, the 
 appetite grows upon it, for its issues are pleasant, 
 even ' rest, sweet unborn rest.' 
 
 " I regret to notice the failure, or weakness of thy 
 sight ; I hope it is only from the effects of general 
 relaxation, caused by the southern clime, which may 
 be braced up by return northward, and that it is not 
 a defect of the organ of vision itself Does it come 
 from a mind too intense, overstraining the sense by 
 whatever it looks upon .' This can be by even the 
 objects of nature herself. Mountains are very exciting 
 to a lowlander, so are ruins, and their memories and 
 associations. I remember what I suffered by my first 
 view of the pictures of the Royal Academy, by their 
 'gay vermilions and their splendid blues.' Thou 
 sayest 'life is a discipline;' it is, indeed, if rightly 
 conducted : to the too active, quietness submitted to, 
 is discipline ; to the too passive, action is discipline ; 
 the restraint of ^very ext reme, of - w hatever kind, is 
 
I70 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 discipline, Heavenly discipline, and keeps us to the 
 truth, a just measure of things, remembering Him who 
 said, ' I am the truth,' not merely in doctrine, but also 
 in everything else." 
 
 " ith mo. 29, 1865. 
 " Don Luis is disinclined to do anything to improve 
 his health, but to rely wholly upon Providence. I 
 can say that I think this is the best thing, but not 
 the only thing ; Providence gives us judgment and 
 discretion, we should use them. Don Fernando de 
 Brunet, another faithful Spanish friend and corre- 
 spondent, who greatly assisted the two friends in 
 their literary pursuits, characterizes him to me in 
 these words : ' Although I am sorry that he is so 
 oldened, stricken (as he says) with a mortal malady, 
 and so, to all appearance, to remain but a short 
 time in his body, I am awed with the sight, and 
 touch, (intercourse i') of this singular man. And 
 yet he is so modest, so simple, so tender, so ineffa- 
 bly excellent, that all his wealth and vast learning 
 are as nothing to his holy life and Christian con- 
 versation. To have such a man in Spain is a great 
 marvel. And to me to enjoy his kindness for these 
 twenty-three years, I think an inestimable privilege, 
 for which I must be ever thankful, and responsible to 
 the end of my account' I seem to read in these 
 words the love that Valdes explains ; that — beyond 
 the affection of common brotherhood, which he com- 
 pares to Twinship, the tenderest affection of a Twinship 
 of Faith in Christ. How beautiful it is even now, and 
 
DEATH OF DON LUIS. 171 
 
 in Spain, to see a living illustration of Vald^s' senti- 
 ment ! and to think that the sentiment of his works 
 has had its influence in producing it." 
 
 The illness of Don Luis, and its probably fatal termi* 
 nation, now colours with sadness the correspondence. 
 
 "... I told thee of the two serious haemorrhages 
 that Luis has had from the lungs. . . . Under these 
 circumstances, and with the prospect of the approach- 
 ing end of all things human, his heart is at rest, and 
 his mind tranquil, and I have trust that the Prophet's 
 words will be realized to him : ' Thou wilt keep him in 
 perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee, because 
 he trusteth in Thee.' In this, I have much hope for 
 him ; for myself, I am very, very sad and depressed 
 with the thought of the end, and the things dependent 
 on it ; we know not, however, when, and it may 
 possibly be some time yet. Indeed, some have lived 
 for years after such symptoms. ' Hope springs im- 
 mortal in the human breast,' and the actual future of 
 life is hidden from us." 
 
 Don Luis died on the 17th August, 1865 ; he had 
 worked in secret for the cause of Christ in his beloved 
 country, and just as the Sun of Gospel Liberty was 
 about to rise there, he departed for the Blessed 
 Country, where there is " no night" at all. Mr. Wiffen 
 writes : " My eyes fill with tears whilst I write, and 
 my heart feels as though it has an arrow in it. My 
 strength and my faith seem to melt in the heat — not 
 indeed for him, but for myself. If I had better learned 
 the lessons of his example, I should be less unmanned 
 
172 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 than I feel I am. His pleasant and instructive Friend- 
 ship for twenty-five years, has been the charm of my 
 life. It softened, almost sweetened, my constitutional 
 melancholy ; in all depressions of spirit, there were a 
 pleasant friend and pleasant subjects to turn to that 
 always answered with kind good will. He completed 
 his Literary Works with his ' Isaiah,' and the twentieth 
 volume of the ' Reformistas,' and with him all our 
 work seems ended." 
 
 The character of Don Luis, is a refreshing instance 
 of greatness and simplicity, associated together and 
 maintained, rather than displayed, through a consistent 
 life. 
 
 Mr. Wiffen again writes : — " A pious writer has 
 said, ' The soul partakes of the constitutional nature 
 of the body ; he who is languid in a state 'of nature 
 is languid in a state of grace,' and I find it so : in vain 
 we give the body food, unless it has the power of 
 digesting and assimilating the nourishment ; so, too, 
 unless the soul has its appetite and forces in a healthy 
 state, it cannot take and apply its desired consolations. 
 Age, which weakens the natural part, ought to ripen 
 in proportion the inner life of the Christian, and it 
 does ripen it. It makes it mellow, indeed, but does 
 not toughen it, so to speak, against the shocks of this 
 present life. A Christian may lawfully feel sorrow at 
 his trouble, but he should not, as Valdes would say, 
 resent it — i.e., continue to feel sorrow — for that is to 
 reject the dispensations of the Almighty, for they 
 ought to be accepted with alacrity, of whatever kind 
 
DEATH OF DON LUIS. 173 
 
 they be. I would wish to do so even in this trial, but 
 the waters of the heart repeatedly rise up into the 
 eyes. 
 
 "Fernando de Brunet, after his death, writes me 
 this concerning him : ' He is gone, but his works 
 remain; his mouth spoke as his pen wrote, for his 
 speech was as fluent, sweet, and Christian as his 
 writings : in fact, he was a living book. His mouth is 
 silent, his works finished. Our loss is heavy ; it is 
 not our own only, it is an irreparable national loss.' 
 Another correspondent describes him thus : ' During 
 the long period of our acquaintance I had occasion 
 to observe his diligence and solicitude to instruct 
 himself, his singular mode of thought, and view of 
 things, his passion for truthfulness and the extirpation 
 of abuses, which he did not live to see corrected, his 
 modest conduct in his elevated position in life, and 
 his beautiful inclination to favour the necessitous. 
 These marks of true Virtue ought to dwell in our 
 grateful remembrance.' " 
 
 In the preface, to the English edition of the " CX. 
 Considerations," Mr. W. says of Don " Luis, that he 
 was by birth a gentleman, and a person of sound and 
 exact learning, of great simplicity and modesty, of 
 genuine truthfulness, both in his life and in his 
 writings. He loved his country, lamented its his- 
 torical decline, and disinterestedly sought its highest 
 welfare. With the exception of two, the twenty 
 Volumes of the ' Reformistas,' besides other writings 
 not included in the series, were edited by his own 
 
174 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 labour during twenty-five years, and with the excep- 
 tion of a single small volume, they were printed 
 entirely at his sole cost and charge, without con- 
 nection with any society or association, religious or 
 literary; and one private friend alone aided him to 
 procure the recondite materials." * 
 
 " \st mo. 13, 1864. 
 
 " I am obliged by thy letter with the information 
 about Gongora [Luis]. I wished to know, because I 
 shall have occasion to write to Archdeacon Churton 
 by-and-by. Gongora, has suffered the usual lot of 
 lyrical poets, which are always too much imitated, 
 and have those points that may be graceful and 
 natural in themselves — i.e., an artificial kind of nature, 
 rendered by their admirers into views of style, because 
 wholly artificial. There is much that is pleasing in 
 Shenstone's Ballads, and the 'Wanderer of Switzer- 
 land,' in themselves ; but oh ! the imitations of them. 
 I suppose it has been so with Gongora. I think you 
 have D. E. de Vedia's Translation of Gray's Elegy. 
 I send the enclosed notice of his death, (De Vedia's,) 
 to be inserted in it. I much respected him." 
 
 " ^th mo. 5, 1866. 
 
 " I am obliged by thy letter. I had wished to 
 know who my ' Saturday Reviewer,' was. The opinion 
 of it expressed to thee, is quite correct ; and it is not 
 unsatisfactory to understand, that the Work deserves 
 
 * Preface, ii. 
 
DEATH OF DON LUIS. 175 
 
 more appreciation than it gets. The world will not 
 find itself deceived by what is offered to it, as it often 
 does. Besides, I think no truly good book, like no 
 truly good man, finds its value in its own immediate 
 age. Personally, my best hopes are set on the Future, 
 and so they are for the book. I should like, if thou 
 canst find time to read it leisurely, for thee to do so, 
 and note down, and tell me, where there are any errors 
 or want of clearness in the style, or want of nice con- 
 nection in the paragraphs, etc. I know that a re- 
 viewer must read as he runs, and I wish to make the 
 style clear even to him. I received a polite acknow- 
 ledgment from Dr. Farrar, for the present of the 
 volume. He knew by book something about the 
 Huntingdonshire family, yet is not connected with 
 it. I have the notices of Vald^s in the Baptist 
 Magazine, Saturday Review, Evangelical Magazine, 
 British Quarterly, Spurgeon's Magazine, and briefly 
 in the Athenceum, which I have not yet seen. The 
 weather here, has had the breath of winter, with the 
 face of summer, and wrings all our nerves, smiting 
 and pinching. I have endured the changes as well 
 or better than others. 
 
 " I have been very much — I may say, day and night, 
 occupied not only with the common ills of the body, but 
 with an overwhelming sense of fear and responsi- 
 biUty ; without power to lift a hand to avert it, and 
 without the Christian's reliance on God to carry me 
 through it. How often have I sighed, in the sense, 
 and sometimes in the words, of Job (ch. vi. ver. 8-13), 
 
176 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 ' Oh that I might have my request, and that God 
 might hasten my expected end ! ' 
 
 " . . . . When the finger of the Almighty touches 
 me, oh, how Httle faith I find I have ! Hence I do 
 right not to talk much about Christian or religious 
 things to others, as though I had already attained 
 something in them." 
 
SUMMARY AND CLOSE OF LIFE. 177 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 SUMMARY AND CLOSE OF LIFE. 
 
 " I would not be a leaf, to die 
 Without recording sorrow's sigh. " 
 
 H. K. White. 
 
 JAMES HURNARD, a Colchester " Friend," who 
 about this time paid a long visit to Mr. Wiffen, 
 and kindly acted as his amanuensis, describes his host 
 in lines which, though quaint, are not inapt to our 
 present purpose : — 
 
 " I tried the ocean shore, I tried the city, 
 And then I tried the charms of rural life, 
 The guest of Wiffen, in his pleasant cottage 
 O'erlooking Woburn's noble ducal park. 
 The only man of letters in my lifetime 
 Who deemed me worth his notice and regard, 
 And sought me out in my obscurity ; 
 A total stranger, patted me on the back, 
 Cheered me with praise, and offered me his friendship ; 
 A heart-warm kindness never to be forgotten. 
 Profoundly learned in the history 
 Of the great Protestant movement in old Spain, 
 Three hundred years ago, which was stamped out 
 By the dread office of the Inquisition. 
 He brought to light their interdicted writers, 
 Juan de Valdds and his followers. 
 
 12 
 
lyS THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 Printing again their works for modern use — 
 Not least the Alfabeto Christiano — 
 Which Valdds wrote for Giuha Gonzaga. 
 With the old Poet and philosopher 
 I held delightful converse day by day, 
 Roaming with him thro' Aspley's classic woods, 
 Listening unconsciously to dying words ; 
 Or by his fireside, from his own dictation. 
 Penning each day his learned narrative. 
 Snatching it, as it were, from the grave's mouth. 
 For so he yielded to my warm request." * 
 
 During a visit which I made to him at Aspley, at 
 this time, I urged him to publish the facts which he 
 had aheady collected, concerning his Christian heroes, 
 and not to wait for greater fulness of information 
 concerning all their works. He replied, that owing 
 to the destruction effected at the time, when all 
 expressions of Evangelical Truth were proscribed 
 throughout Spain, the particulars of the sayings 
 and doings, of these worthies, could only be dis- 
 covered by slow careful research. He showed me 
 numerous compartments made in his kind of escri- 
 toir in his book-room, on each of which, was placed 
 an honoured name, from the illustrious roll ; and 
 everything that came to hand concerning each, was 
 here duly deposited, to be brought forth is soon 
 as the process could be deemed to be reasonably 
 complete. I still remonstrated, and pleaded, but he 
 dismissed my entreaties with the remark, that I was 
 too much accustomed to the imperfections of current 
 
 " The Setting Sun.'" A Poem in seven books. By James Hurnard. 
 1870. 
 
SUMMARY AND CLOSE OF LIFE. 179 
 
 life, of which so much was properly perishable, to 
 pronounce concerning work that was to be enduring. 
 The pigeon-holes, with their contents, are the origin 
 of the instructive notices, appended to the writings of 
 each Author, in the " Bibliotheca Wiffeniana," * the 
 outcome of the enthusiasm, and efforts, of the Hermit 
 of Aspley, or, as Don Luis styled him, " El Solitario 
 de Monte-grato." 
 
 This was a work of great labour, and prosecuted 
 with scrupulous accuracy. The result, is a Gallery of 
 Portraits, of which any Nation might well be proud, 
 autographs of men truly noble, learned, and heroic. 
 
 He declined very gradually in strength, during 
 
 the winter of 1866-7. Friends would wiUingly have 
 
 gathered around him, but he preferred seclusion, and 
 
 at the end of March, 1867, the end came without 
 
 observation. The obituary notice in the " Annual 
 
 Monitor "for 1868, thuS relates the closing scene: — 
 
 " It seems to have been his wish that he might ' slip 
 
 away unobsei^ved.' And this was the case. He was 
 
 gone before most of his relatives and friends knew 
 
 that he was ill. He does not appear to have spoken 
 
 much during his last illness; but what little he said, 
 
 implied his firm trust in the atoning sacrifice of our 
 
 Lord and Saviour ; and we believe that he has entered 
 
 upon an eternal rest in Jesus. He peacefully departed 
 
 * "Bibliotheca Wiffeniana," Spanish Reformers of two centuries, 
 from 1520, their Lives and Writings, according to the late Benjamin 
 B. Wiffen's plan, and with the use of his materials. Described by 
 Ed. Boehmer, D.D., Ph.D., Ordinary Trofessor of the Romance Lan- 
 guages to the University of Strasburg. Triibner, 1874. 
 
i8o THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 about six oclock, on the evening of Second day, the 
 1 8th of 3rd month, 1867." The Funeral took place in 
 the Friends' Burial Ground at Woburn Sands, on the 
 24th March, 1867; there was a large presence of 
 Friends, and neighbours in the little enclosure. For 
 an account of this, we may refer the reader to a letter 
 written by Mr. Theodore Harris, to Santiago Usoz y 
 Rio, brother of Don Luis, published in Miss Wiffen's 
 life.* 
 
 The Burial Ground, although of late years more 
 surrounded by roads and dwellings, and hard by 
 the busy railway, has not lost its original character 
 of isolation, and seclusion. The garden of a rustic 
 cottage, surrounded, and well nigh covered, with 
 flowers, (one end of which is the " Friends' " ancient, 
 homely Meeting-house,) conducts to a green plot, 
 occupied by a few solemn Fir trees of remarkable 
 age, and growth. Hillocks of uniform size, and in 
 even rows, express the incognito desired by the bulk 
 of the occupants ; a row of gravestones, all of one 
 pattern, memorialise the Families of How, and Wiffen, 
 and a few others. The solemn, homely, spot, amidst 
 deep woods, and yet so near to great highways, is 
 most impressive. 
 
 In a review of his Life, it is very noticeable, how 
 his successive Friendships were arranged, to minister 
 to his comfort, and usefulness. 
 
 In early life, the example, and stimulus, of his 
 Brother, were absolutely needful to him to satisfy the 
 
 * "Spanish Refoimers," vol. i., p. 21. 
 
SUMMARY AND CLOSE OF LIFE. i8i 
 
 needs of his soul, and counterwork the toil of his 
 daily life ; in mature years, the noble qualities, and 
 large scholarship, of Don Luis, rendered the second 
 stage of his life, one of rare importance ; and in his 
 declining years, the fraternal care, and warm practical 
 sympathy, of his two friends at Pembury, were ad- 
 mirably suited to his need. Each in turn, served to 
 draw out his mind, direct his efforts, and console his 
 heart. Mrs. Betts, writes, " I should like to describe 
 the close friendship, and profitable intercourse, of the 
 five years, during which I acted as Mr. Wiffen's 
 amanuensis. Our friendship, beginning when on a 
 visit to us at Hastings, in 1864, supplied me with 
 quiet work, and a new impulse to live, at a time when 
 deprived of the power for activity in other forms. 
 His mind was so clear, we seemed never to have to 
 alter a word ; and the whole scheme of Juan de Valdes' 
 life, was so vividly seen by him mentally, that its 
 arrangement had simply to be carried out in writing. 
 As he worked, my husband translated bits from 
 Latin, Italian, or Spanish, especially from Don Luis' 
 notes to Valdes' " CX. Considerations," which Mr. 
 Wiffen, wished to introduce into the work. He was 
 intensely industrious, and yet worked with a frame 
 which always seemed worn, and weary. He would 
 sometimes walk so fast, that we called aloud to him 
 to know why he was thus rushing along. ' I suppose,' 
 he would reply, 'because I wish it over, and to rest.' 
 He used to say, he could not understand women 
 leaving the ' Society of Friends,' for they were the 
 
1 82 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 only people who assigned to her the highest position, 
 as equal with man in ministry. He had a most 
 exalted idea of the true female Christian character, 
 hence his almost romantic worship of Giulia Gonzaga. 
 He was a lover of nature, but he rested not in 
 observation; he allied all that he saw, with the Unseen, 
 the end, and design, of human life, and of society ; 
 he dwelt on its poetical, and not scientific aspect ; 
 he connected landscape with the moral purpose and 
 goodness of God, and the duty and happiness of 
 man. 
 
 His constant advice was, " Cultivate quiet commu- 
 nion," " Make haste slowly." He had an acute discern- 
 ment of character, knew so well what was mere 
 physical defect, and what was moral or religious. 
 Morbid states of the mind, he was especially alive to, 
 and urged that bodily labour, and fresh air, would not 
 fail to afiford a panacea. 
 
 Mr. Wififen concentrated all his efforts, on the one 
 pursuit, to which he gave his affection, the result has 
 helped to redeem our Age from the charge of super- 
 ficiality in Literature, sometimes brought against it. 
 In these hurrying days, it is indeed refreshing, to 
 contemplate the example of one, who, by withdrawing 
 from general society, and exploring his own chosen 
 field, made permanent addition to the world's stock, 
 of intellectual, and spiritual wealth. 
 
 One of his sisters, Priscilla, married the Poet, Alaric 
 A. Watts, who won her heart whilst visiting her 
 native town. Love prevailed, ending in a marriage. 
 
. SUMMARY AND CLOSE OF LIFE. 183 
 
 against the views of her family, because opposed to 
 the practice of the " Society of Friends." 
 
 Mrs. Watts, was herself a sweet Poetess, and worked 
 with her husband, writing pieces which have survived 
 the popularity of the " Annuals," in which they ap- 
 peared, and have become perennial. Her son Alfred, 
 married Anna Mary Howitt, the gifted and charming 
 Authoress of "Art Life in Munich," and the eldest 
 daughter of William, and Mary Howitt. 
 
 Mr. Wiffen's unmarried sister, Sophia, lived with 
 him until the year 1864; her death is alluded to 
 by Ticknor, the celebrated American author, in one 
 of his letters just published in " The Life and Cor- 
 respondence." 
 
 Jeremiah Holmes Wiffen, his Brother, left three 
 daughters, the eldest of whom, Ida, who died young, 
 was a very accomplished scholar. The Friends' 
 "Annual Monitor," contains a short account of her. 
 Isaline, the writer of the Memoir, in " Bibliotheca 
 Wiffeniana," lives to care for the youngest and most 
 delicate of the sisters. 
 
 The hope of the writer is, that through the exposi- 
 tion of a life here attempted, some of the gentle, 
 truthful, thoughtful influences of the original, will 
 enrich posterity. The effect of a good example 
 works in the dark, but sooner or later develops itself 
 in light, and benefits the coming age. 
 
 Since Mr. Wiffen's death, the only literary disco- 
 veries to be added to his own, are those reported by 
 Dr. Boehmer, of a " Commentary on St. Matthew," 
 
i84 THE LIFE OF B. B. WIFFEN. 
 
 and fragments of a " Commentary on the Psalms," 
 by Juan Vald^s. These have been sent to Madrid 
 for publication. 
 
 A poem written for the recent Centennial Com- 
 memoration at Ackworth School, thus gracefully 
 alludes to the Brothers : — 
 
 " Also by Him who felt the powerful spell 
 Of the Italian Muse, and bade her sing 
 In our more rugged English ; while the Muse 
 Of Christian History claimed his Brother's pen, 
 And fired his spirit to recount the deeds 
 Of Spain's Reformers." 
 
POEMS 
 
 J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 . 189 
 
 192 
 194 
 197 
 
 I. 
 
 FUGITIVE VERSES, 1807 to 1836. 
 
 Ode to Meditation. ...... 
 
 Lines written in Epping Forest. .... 
 
 To Miss M. Raffles. ..... 
 
 To a Lady, on her Marriage. .... 
 
 To a Lady, with a Sprig of Cypress. 
 
 On receiving an Autograph Poem- by Henry Kirke White, from his 
 
 Sister. ....... 199 
 
 To Dr. Joseph Thackeray. . . . . . .201 
 
 On planting a slip from Milton's Mulberry Tree, in the Gardens at 
 
 Wobum Abbey. Presented by Dr. Thackeray, of Cambridge. 201 
 To my Friends. ....... 202 
 
 The Inquisition of the Year. ..... 203 
 
 To Mary and Hannah, on leaving their Garden. . . . 206 
 
 A Farewell. ....... 208 
 
 To a Lady in Affliction, with a Rose. . . . .211 
 
 Ode. . . . . . . . .211 
 
 Lines written in an Album. . . . .212 
 
 The Echo of Antiquity, written in York Minster. . . . 214 
 
 " I Need no More." ...... 218 
 
1 88 CONTENTS. 
 
 I'ACK 
 
 Sonnet to M. D. D'Isigny. ...... 220 
 
 To the Rose. From the Spanish of Don Francisco de Rioja. . 221 
 To the Jessamine. From the Spanish of Gongora. . . 221 
 
 On a Ring — sent as a memento of his friend I. D. Stnitt, who died 
 
 abroad. ....... 222 
 
 Sensations under the influence of Nitrous Oxide described. . 223 
 
 To Ida. " Enough of history and romance.' . . . 224 
 
 Evening Reverie. ....... 225 
 
 To Ida. " Oh what were all this weary world." . . . 228 
 
 The Oaken Bough. I. ..... . 230 
 
 The Oaken Bough. II. . . . . . . 233 
 
 On a leaf from Milton's Mulberry Tree. .... 237 
 
 To the Cuckoo in the Vale of Cuawg. (From the Welsh of 
 
 Llywarch Hen). ...... 237 
 
 To Maenwyn. (From the Welsh of Llywarch Hen). . . 238 
 
 '■ I Crossed in its Beauty thy Dee's Druid Water." . . 239 
 
 Sonnet to George Hayter, Esq., M.A.S.L., etc., etc. . . 240 
 
 The Abbot's Oak, in Wobum Park. .... 241 
 
 To Samuel Fox (with a copy of Tasso). .... 241 
 
 To my Wife. ....... 242 
 
 Verses on the Alameda at Ampthill Park. .... 243 
 
 II. 
 BALLADS. 
 
 I. The Luck of Eden Hall. .... 249 
 
 II. The Prophecy of Barden Tower. . . . 256 
 III. The Raid of the Redeswire. .... 260 
 
iSg 
 
 ODE TO MEDITATION. 
 
 " Sic ego secretis possum ben6 vivere silvis, 
 Quk nulla humane fit via trita pede. 
 Tu mihi curarum requies, tu nocte vel atra 
 Lumen, et in solis Cu mihi turba locis." Tibullus. 
 
 Come, Meditation, Heaven-bom Power ! 
 
 Seek with me the shady bower, 
 Where classsic Science spreads her eagle wing ; 
 
 Or at mellow Music's shrine. 
 
 Sweep with the tuneful Nine, 
 Upborne on Fancy's car, the warbling lyre ; 
 While the fair Dryads join the festive choir. 
 And on the light toe, form the sportive ring. 
 
 But where conceaPd art Thou ? 
 
 On Appenina's head of snow, 
 
 'Mid storms of elemental war. 
 The mountain-torrent murmuring from afar ? 
 
 Or in some sylvan glade. 
 
 Where the Genius of the shade. 
 
 Warbles deep the Doric reed, 
 
 By some mossy fountain's side. 
 
 As the lonely moorhen sits. 
 
 Screaming o'er the sedgy tide ; 
 Or rid'st on the still clouds of starless night, 
 That roll in sullen gloom, impervious to the sight ? 
 
 Methinks beneath yon pile I see Thee lie. 
 Yon Gothic Abbey woos Thy wandering feet ; 
 O'er whose torn height, the screech owl's ivied seat. 
 The moon resplendent rides athwart the sky. 
 The sheeted dead, in Fancy's eye. 
 
 Stalk along the gloomy aisle ; 
 
 And melancholy heaves the sigh. 
 
 Bending o'er the sainted pile. 
 
igo POEMS. 
 
 Low at the rifted column's base, 
 Ravenous Ruin holds his place ; 
 And giant Desolation from his bower, 
 Shakes the dismantled wall, and storms the tottering tower. 
 
 But leave the dim, monastic cells. 
 Where baleful superstition dwells ; 
 
 And seek Thy dripping cave, 
 
 Beside the curling wave. 
 Here, undisturbed, but by the murmuring gale, 
 
 That slowly wafts along the evening tide, 
 
 Thou sittest, thoughtful Maid, and by thy side, 
 Virtue and Truth thy vesper sighs inhale. 
 Here too, sweet Poesy, her mild head rears. 
 And scatters from her brow Parnassian bays ; 
 Her upraised arm grasps the Eolian lyre, 
 While soft she breathes her tuneful lays 
 
 In Thy attentive ear, 
 O Thou, the Maid, whose HeaVn-directing Power, 
 With gifted Truth inspired the Athenian Sage ! * 
 He, nursed by Thee in Virtue's sacred bower, 
 Illumed the darkness of an erring age, 
 And piercing doubt with eagle eye, 
 Revealed the visions of Futurity. 
 O Meditation ! let me dwell 
 For ever in Thy halcyon cell, 
 Where by Thy heavenly Spirit led. 
 To hold high converse with the dead, 
 The hallowed tracks I may explore. 
 Which he, Thy loved Athenian, trod before. 
 1807. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EPPING FOREST. 
 
 " Man loves the forest." — Gisbourne. 
 
 H.\IL, awful thickets ! dark umbrageous bowers, 
 Spangled with morning mist ! ye waning woods ! 
 Where Nature, ever gay, spontaneous reigns 
 
 * Socrates. 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN EPPING FOREST. tgr 
 
 In wild luxuriance, throwing from her lap 
 
 Ambrosial fragrance in the humid air. 
 
 To you I flee ; your deep embowering shades 
 
 Invite my wandering steps. Each bushy glade 
 
 Teems with new life, as the light sunbeams float 
 
 Across the shade, rousing the timid deer. 
 
 From their green bed ; while on the whispering breeze, 
 
 The distant sheep-bell swells its warning sounds. 
 
 Yon broom-clad vale spreads forth a waste of flowers. 
 
 Sprinkling the mossy bank ; the primrose pale 
 
 Expands its modest head, and violet tinged 
 
 With deepest purple ; and concealed beneath 
 
 The briery copse, the lily of the vale 
 
 Its peerless head upraises ; cowslips fair 
 
 Wave to the passing gale, and every bush 
 
 Echoes with melody : thus balmy morn 
 
 Quick passes, and the sun on high, serene. 
 
 Darts vdth his rays, pierces the forest gloom. 
 
 And beams a brighter lustre ; the gay fly 
 
 In beauty's tints arrayed, sips every sweet. 
 
 And in his smile rejoices ; till the hand 
 
 Of some rude stripling robs it of its charms, 
 
 And then to death consigns it. Now no sound 
 
 Disturbs the peaceful quiet of the grove, 
 
 Save the low murmurs of the shady trees 
 
 That rustle o'er my head, as 'neath reclined, 
 
 I view their mossy trunks, incrusted o'er 
 
 By mouldering time ; where myriad insects lie 
 
 Enwrapt in embryo shade. The parting clouds 
 
 Fly through the air, and show the orb of day 
 
 Shrined in majestic splendour : how his rays 
 
 Illume yon tower,* dim-twinkling through the glade ! 
 
 There from its ivied bosom screams the stare. 
 
 The wild bee murmurs, and the hooting owl 
 
 Seeks a still deeper shade. What scenes appear 
 
 Amid the landscape ! here dark woods ascend. 
 
 Skirting the green hill's side, and half concealed 
 
 • Epping Church. 
 
192 POEMS. 
 
 By the grey mists that e'er amusive play 
 Around its tufted summit : there o'erhung 
 By arching shade, rich vales and meads extend, 
 Till in the slcy the widespread prospect fades. 
 
 Still the sun rages ; still direct he shakes 
 Th' effulgent glory from his burnished throne. — 
 Now let me leave the forest's skirts, and plunge 
 Deep in sequestered gloom, where frowning oaks 
 Fling their black shade across the narrow vale. 
 Here let me wander, rapt in thought profound, 
 Till sober eve her dusky mantle spreads, 
 Dim o'er the fading landscape : till the moon 
 Ascends her silver car, and casts o'er all 
 
 A languid gleam 
 
 1807. 
 
 TO MISS M. RAFFLES.— CETAT. III. 
 
 Mary, the flow of youth is in thy veins, 
 
 The roses of thy infancy are bright 
 And beautiful as Spring's, when from the chains 
 
 Of winter bursting, she enthrals the sight. 
 
 Loveliness beams around thee, — a delight 
 Haunts thee as thine own essence — and a charm 
 
 Dwells in those eyes of circumfusing light. 
 Radiant as suns, when skies are blue and warm. 
 When vanished are the clouds, and far off rolls the storm. 
 
 Thy heart is as Heaven's temple, when of thoughts 
 That cast o'er life their image, there is none 
 
 But brings thee a new glory from the grots 
 Of Fancy, than the dreams of Helicon 
 More pure and more enchanting. Thou, like one 
 
TO MISS M. RAFFLES. 193 
 
 Of the Celestial Shapes who come and go 
 
 On angel messages, dost rest upon 
 Our love — with spirit spotless as the snow 
 Which swathes the' air-piercing Alps, too bright to dwell below. 
 
 III. 
 And but to hear the music of thy lips 
 
 Framing to speech thy soul's imaginings, — 
 To see thy smile, like light o'er an eclipse, 
 
 Illumining thy face, — to touch the strings. 
 
 The pulse of thy delights, when on the wings 
 Of buoyant hope, though with diminutive feet. 
 
 Thy soul to meet my gratulation springs ; — ■ 
 Oh, this were bliss to me, more bright and sweet 
 Than seems that glowing line where suns with oceans meet. 
 
 But thou to me art but a heavenly Star, 
 Which yet the seaman views not o'er the main. 
 
 Shed its white lustre — lovely, but afar. 
 An unfelt joy in an expanse of pain, 
 Shrined in thine own solitude — my strain 
 
 Though absent, would speak to thee through the veil 
 Which separates loved existences. 'Tis vain : 
 
 The curtains of thy mind — they are not frail ; 
 
 I can but breathe a sigh, and bid thy spirit hail. 
 
 I can but bid thee hail to this our earth. 
 The blessed Saviour welcomed forms like thee ; 
 
 Thou art the shadow of a purer birth, 
 A type of the inborn Divinity, 
 Glassed in whose everlasting face, we see 
 
 Things as they are not unto others. Blest 
 In this thy pilgrim's sojourn mayest thou be. 
 
 And Heaven's all-tranquil haven be thy quest. 
 
 In Jesus to repose, and lie in Abraham's breast. 
 %th month, ls(, 1817. 
 
 13 
 
194 POEMS. 
 
 TO A LADY, ON HER MARRIAGE. 
 
 I. 
 When first the changing moon begins, 
 
 Nightly to tread her azure path, 
 Through clouds her struggling way she wins, 
 
 And tempests compasi her in wrath ; 
 But soon she casts the veil away, 
 And shines with full, unclouded ray. 
 
 II. 
 When first the summer rose prepares 
 
 To burst her buds and charm the eye, 
 A thousand tears of dew she wears, 
 
 To glad or grieve the passer-by ; 
 But soon she flings those tears aside, 
 And spreads her fragrance far and wide. 
 
 III. 
 When on her annual course, young Spring 
 
 Flies like the Dove of Noah forth, 
 The news of joy and peace to bring. 
 
 Dark Winter wakes the slumbering north, 
 To spoil her golden flowers, soon fled, — 
 Suns shine, and zephyrs breathe instead. 
 
 IV. 
 So if perchance, unheeded tears. 
 
 As at the altar late you stood. 
 Or tremulous sighs, and virgin fears, 
 
 Disturbed your soul's beatitude. 
 Like clouds before the orbdd moon, 
 They melted into gladness soon. 
 
 V. 
 
 And in your young rejoicing eyes, 
 
 Delight's impassioned rainbow shone, 
 
 Lovelier than e'er in summer's skies 
 Was borrowed from her idol sun ; 
 
 Since to your long, long wish was given 
 
 The daystar of your future heaven. 
 
TO A LADY, ON HER MARRIAGE. 195 
 
 VI. 
 
 Bright may that star of pleasure be 
 
 Before you ; in its daily rise 
 Awaking on life's shifting sea, 
 
 The long-lost light of Paradise ; 
 And blending every ray that binds 
 In harmony consenting minds. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Gliding with glassy foot, the surge 
 
 Shall waft you to your blissful rest ; 
 Your little vessel gently urge 
 
 To the calm islands of the blest, 
 . Where dwell the Great, the Good, the Sage, 
 Of every clime, of every age. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 How will your heart exult to see 
 
 Each virtuous name of ancient story! 
 There myrtle-crowned Penelope 
 
 With loved Ulysses walks in glory. 
 Like the twin stars whose gladdening light 
 Spangles the embroidered veil of night. 
 
 IX. 
 
 There Portia, with her Roman lord, 
 
 Him who his country's chains would sever 
 
 All nobly with his potent sword. 
 Dwells charactered in light for ever. 
 
 Fearing, on that untroubled shore, 
 
 The tyrant and his chain no more. 
 
 There Arria, who serenely stern, 
 Thy yielding heart, O Poetus, steeled, 
 
 When pride and valour ceased to burn. 
 Triumphant o'er th' Elysian field 
 
 Wanders, and with him shares the bliss 
 
 Of that pure world — denied in this. 
 
196 POEMS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then she who, on her icy shore, 
 For years bewailed her Ajut, whom 
 
 The swift and eddying river bore 
 Away to meet his fatal doom ; 
 
 Clasps him again to her fond heart, 
 
 No more to weep, no more to part. 
 
 XII. 
 There she, whom Milton's fancy wooed 
 
 In slumber, whose angelic grace 
 The enthusiast of the lyre pursued 
 
 To her Italian dwelling-place. 
 Mocks him no more, but to his strings 
 A seraph in concordance sings. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And there, whilst angel hands aspire 
 
 The amaranth round their brows to twine, 
 
 Listening her Surrey's golden lyre. 
 Entranced sits lovely Geraldine, 
 
 Fair mute, unknowing to express 
 
 Her sainted spirit's blessedness. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 There, too, if e'er my driving sail 
 Anchors those Eden isles among. 
 
 You and your consort may I hail. 
 For ever happy, ever young ; 
 
 Compassed by bards who love to swell 
 
 Your loved Montgomery's holy shell. 
 
 XV. 
 
 But oh, what angel form, what fair, 
 My wingfed hours shall stoop to bless ? 
 
 Methinks, if uncompanioned there, 
 Eden will be a wilderness; 
 
 But if to me such love were given, 
 
 Earth's very wilderness were Heaven ! 
 1817. 
 
TO A LADY, WITH A SPRIG OF CYPRESS. 197 
 TO A LADY, WITH A SPRIG OF CYPRESS. 
 
 O Lady ! wear this Wreath for me, 
 Though gathered from the Cypress-tree ; 
 The Rose's bud would grace your bloom, 
 More sweet the Lily shed perfume. 
 The Myrtle on your breast or brow. 
 Would livelyhope and love avow ; 
 The Heath-flower with its azure bell, 
 Your modest worth and virtues tell ; 
 But ill such emblems were designed, 
 To mark devotedness of mind : 
 Then, Lady, wear this Wreath for me. 
 Though gathered from the Cypress-tree. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Roses, though in beauty born, 
 Are circled by the searching thorn ; 
 Their fragrant leaves, ere summer 's done. 
 On earth fall faded, one by one ; 
 And suns and tempests may bereave 
 The Lily of its sweets ere eve ; 
 The Heathbell and the Myrtle flower 
 Will wither in noon's sultry hour ; 
 Alone in sunshine, storm, and snows, 
 Unchangeably the Cypress grows ; 
 Then, Lady, wear this Wreath for me, 
 Fresh gathered from the Cypress-tree. 
 
 III. 
 
 O'er ruined shrines and silent tombs 
 The weeping Cypress spreads its glooms, 
 In immortality of woe. 
 Whilst other shrubs in gladness blow. 
 And fling upon the passing wind 
 Their liberal treasures unconfined ; 
 
198 POEMS. 
 
 And well its dark and drooping leaf 
 May image forth the gloom and grief, 
 Which, when we parted, gave reply 
 From heaving heart and dewy eye ; 
 Then, Lady, wear this Wreath for me, 
 Plucked from the faithful Cypress-tree. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Unchallenged, let the Warrior wear 
 The Laurel in his gleaming hair. 
 Deceit the Monkshood : Pity, dear. 
 The Primrose, wet with morning's tear ; 
 On Pride's emblazoned forehead tower 
 The Tulip or the Poppy flower ; 
 Timidity, of all afraid. 
 Her wreath of the Mimosa braid ; 
 But ill their garlands would become 
 Fair Friendship in her martyrdom 
 Of joy : then. Lady, wear for me 
 The droopings of the Cypress-tree. 
 
 V. 
 Time was that, in the mutual flow 
 Of joy, our spirits learned to glow ; 
 When all too soon the golden day 
 Sm eve's oblivion died away ; 
 When morning but more closely drew 
 Our ties of life and feeling too ; 
 And time perchance shall blend again 
 Our tide of pleasure, or of pain ; 
 Till then, for like the Cypress leaf. 
 In absence, peril, joy, and grief. 
 Affection blooms eternally, — 
 Wear, Lady ! wear this Wreath for me ! 
 February 18M, 1S18. 
 
ON AN AUTOGRAPH POEM. 199 
 
 ON RECEIVING AN AUTOGRAPH POEM BY HENRY 
 KIRKE WHITE, FROM HIS SISTER. 
 I. 
 The years which o'er the relics pass 
 
 Of one for ever fled, 
 But deepen in reflection's glass 
 
 The expressive lights they shed ; 
 Of dear departed days they tell. 
 Still whisper they a fond farewell 
 
 When all beside is dead ; 
 Ev'n from the dead they rise, they speak, 
 What to pourtray, all words are weak. 
 
 II. 
 But fancy images the tale. 
 
 And chronicles in light 
 Those features, which destruction's veil 
 
 Has long removed from sight ; 
 And thus where Henry's hand has been. 
 Some spirit tears away the screen, 
 
 Which wraps thy form in night ; 
 And thou, in thought, awak'st to gaze 
 Upon the rites a stranger pays. 
 
 III. 
 As once I bent above thy tomb. 
 
 And thought upon the brow 
 Which sickness wrapt in early gloom, 
 
 So bend I to thee now : 
 Beside the dim communion-rail 
 I knelt amid the twilight pale. 
 
 In secret to avow — 
 By fond affection's silent tear, 
 And sigh, that thou indeed wert dear. 
 
 IV. 
 
 If then my footstep echoed not 
 
 Upon the sullen ground. 
 If then the arches of the spot 
 
 Gave back no sorrowing sound. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 It was not coldness — was not wrong- 
 To jealous grief there does belong 
 
 A stillness so profound, 
 No uttered tones it will employ, 
 They are too much alhed to joy. 
 
 V. 
 
 I could but with a holy awe 
 Thy stone in sorrow steep. 
 And view, without a wish to draw. 
 
 The curtains of thy sleep ; 
 I would not wish thee to return 
 To new existence from thy urn. 
 
 Though we should cease to weep : 
 So gloriously thy being ran. 
 The Angel triumphed o'er the man. 
 
 It seemed whilst o'er thy life I bent, 
 That then I knew thee well. 
 
 And since so newly shrined a saint. 
 For love I sought thy cell ; 
 
 That whilst I saw thee rise to bliss, 
 
 The mantle of thy pensiveness 
 Upon my spirit fell ; — 
 
 Oh then, young Lover of the Lyre ! 
 
 Oh for thy steeds and car of fire ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 But though far vanished into Heaven, 
 
 Enough remains behind 
 Of thy sweet influences to leaven 
 
 Our gloominess of mind. 
 The vigils which thy heart has kept. 
 The holy harp which thou hast swept 
 
 Till music filled the wind, 
 And thousand happy souls adored 
 The stir of each Elysian chord. 
 
TO DR. JOSEPH THACKERAY. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 These to the many ; and to me 
 
 One melancholy leaf, 
 Traced by thy viewless hand, shall be 
 
 My comforter in grief. 
 If thou who mov'st in glory now. 
 To Marah's bitter wave couldst bow, 
 
 My woes may be as brief ; 
 And boughs rent by thy sister's arm 
 May turn the wormwood into balm ! 
 1822. 
 
 TO DR. JOSEPH THACKERAY. 
 
 Thackeray ! whose heart and hand are evermore 
 
 Engaged in offices of pure good-will 
 
 To man, most blest when most like some sweet rill, 
 
 Unseen, thy generous sympathies run o'er 
 
 In undiscovered bounties, by thy store 
 
 Of classical endowments ; by thy proud 
 
 Supremacy in Science o'er the crowd 
 
 That round her altars throng the hallowed floor, 
 
 Beheve me, with glad heart would I salute 
 
 Thy thrice-beloved Penates, and the glass 
 
 Of gaiety pass round with festal glee ; 
 
 But that a tribe of duties here dispute 
 
 My path to wished indulgence, and, alas ! 
 
 Their voice must be obeyed, in wrong to thee. 
 
 ON PLANTING A SLIP FROM MILTON'S MULBERRY 
 
 TREE IN THE GARDENS AT WOBURN ABBEY. 
 
 PRESENTED BV DR. THACKERAY, OF CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 The Mulberry mourns in its changed hue the doom 
 Of love-lamented Thisbe, and the fond 
 Stripling she ruined ; but a charm beyond 
 That elder story henceforth shall allume 
 
^02 POEMS. 
 
 The song which chaunts its praise — for in the bloom 
 
 Of life celestial, Milton from the throng 
 
 Of verdurous sylvans chose it to prolong 
 
 His memory here — he slumbers in the tomb, 
 
 But this is yet unfading. Chose he not 
 
 Thy frame, dark Tree, to shadow forth his woe 
 
 For those Diviner Lovers whom his verse 
 
 Wept for, cast forth from Eden — the dire blot 
 
 Makes us yet weep — but all sweet leaves below. 
 
 And holiest blossoms, sanctify his hearse. 
 1824. 
 
 TO MY FRIENDS. 
 
 ' ' That joy was always dearest to my soul. 
 Which had a touch of grief." 
 
 I. 
 
 We are met, and on my spirit press 
 Delights long lost, forgotten long. 
 
 The thrilling smile, the kind caress. 
 And lettered talk and social song. 
 
 II. 
 Come ! send Wit's silver slipper round. 
 
 And give enjoyment chase ; tho' men 
 We'll deem ourselves on Childhood's ground, 
 
 And taste its fairy sports again. 
 
 III. 
 But what, when all is done ? Time's waves 
 
 Will sweep me like the seaweed back 
 To drift again, in Memory's caves 
 
 O'er Sorrow's lone and blighted track. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then silent let us sit, and sigh 
 
 Like Mourners at a funeral feast ; 
 O, what has bliss to do but die. 
 When Hope, Love's sister, lies deceased ! 
 10 mo. 10, 1824. 
 
THE INQUISITION OF THE YEAR. 203 
 
 THE INQUISITION OF THE YEAR.* 
 
 ' Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge." 
 
 Psalm xix. 2. 
 
 I. 
 
 Gone is another year ! 
 And on the brow severe 
 Of chill November the funereal yew, 
 Holly and lauristine, 
 And ivy, whose sad vine 
 Loves the lorn ruin, wreathe a green adieu 
 To the sweet hours of Autumn, and the play 
 Of jocund feeling passed, like leaves, to swift decay. 
 
 II. 
 What makes me sad ? the swell 
 Of that lone Curfew Bell 
 Heard in the lapses of the moaning wind. 
 Tolling with voice profound 
 Of darkness gathering round. 
 Or, it may be, of Death with woe combined ? 
 No! I have loved, long loved to hear its dirge 
 Ring through these sable Pines, across the weltering surge. 
 
 III. 
 What makes me sad 1 the rain 
 Beating the wintry pane, 
 Murmuring of peace, and flowers, and sunshine fled ? 
 No ! for my lamp is lit, 
 And the bright page of Wit, 
 History, and Song before my mind is spread, 
 And passing well its minute echoes chime 
 With the hght laugh of wit, the gay romance of rhyme. 
 
 IV. 
 
 No ! tis the serious Scroll, 
 These speeding hours unroll 
 To the clear view of busy Conscience prest 
 
 An introductory Poem for the twelfth Volume of "Time's Telescope." 
 
204 POEMS. 
 
 To look with glance austere 
 
 Through the departed Year, 
 On the past thoughts and passions of my breast ! 
 What we have done, what toiled for, since the knoll 
 Of the last Christmas Bell sent sweetness to the soul. 
 
 V. 
 
 What have we toiled for ? Fame ? 
 The echo of a name, 
 To be forgot with easy unconcern. 
 When the quick flame, whose ray 
 Illumes our thinking clay, 
 Fades, and we shrink into the quiet urn. 
 No more on this poor stage to smile or sigh 
 At Woman's flattering voice, or Man's ascetic eye ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Power ? Riches ? see we not 
 Rank's gilded sceptres rot. 
 Like the churl's staff, and the delusive gleam 
 Of gold melt off and leave 
 The soul it would deceive. 
 Dark and alarmed, as in a feverish dream,' 
 We sometimes feel ourselves, till on her rack 
 Fancy can bear no more, but shrieks the vision back t 
 
 VII. 
 
 Or have we placed our pride 
 In a fair false outside, 
 Masking our better thoughts lest they should be 
 Obnoxious to the throng 
 With whom we sport along. 
 More like the simple fly than noble bee. 
 Whose golden toils endure? Why should we joy 
 In what the first rude breath of sickness will destroy? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Mark but that fleeting thing. 
 The thistle's down, whose wing, 
 Whirled by the light breeze, fluctuates here and there; 
 
THE INQUISITION OF THE YEAR. 205 
 
 Now on the wave, the hill, 
 The house-top — never still, 
 But in each eddy of the vagrant air 
 Circling abrupt ! Are we, who have our birth 
 From heaven, for ever thus to make a toy of earth ? 
 
 IX. 
 Alas ! if so we tread 
 This dwelling of the dead ! 
 This globe, whose dust is peopled with the spoils 
 Of twice two thousand years ! 
 Some serious thoughts and tears 
 Rise at the image, and Reilection coils 
 Into a little ring, to make what one 
 More year may make of us, ere half its course be run. 
 
 X. 
 Alas ! if so we waste 
 The springs of Duty, graced 
 As they have been, and are, with such a flow 
 Of innocent delight. 
 When wrong would yield to right. 
 Should we then spurn the inward dictate ? No ! 
 Duties, like wayside flowers, but grow to do 
 The freeborn gatherer good, and cure the ills we rue. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Flow forth then — let me weep 
 That I have lulled asleep 
 So many glorious promptings, such desires 
 After Immortal things. 
 Some Seraph with spread wings, 
 Fluttering from Eden, sure my soul inspires 
 Henceforth to strike with zeal the tempter down. 
 He best may brook the Cross, whose eye regards the 
 Crown ! 
 
 XII. 
 What is the unceasing roll 
 Of Years to him whose soul 
 Looks back rejoicing on a life well spent, 
 
2o6 POEMS. 
 
 And forward with the trust, 
 
 That when his mortal dust 
 Blends with the disregarded element 
 Of air or earth, itself shall reach a Clime 
 That mocks at once the scythe and Telescc^e of Time ? 
 
 XIII. 
 Haste, then, stern Charioteer 
 Of Earth ! though in thy rear 
 The wreck of human schemes and hopes lie strewn, 
 Temples, and towers, and thrones. 
 And melancholy bones 
 Of generations dead, and sceptres hewn 
 To odious dust, — before thee. Faith and Joy, 
 Wait, with uplifted arm, thy triumphs to destroy. 
 
 XIV. 
 But Thou, at whose right hand 
 The hours obedient stand : 
 Ancient of Days ! to gentle mercy won, 
 Send down thy blameless Dove, 
 To fill us with Thy Love. 
 Breathe in our breasts the Spirit of Thy Son ! 
 For without this, the Year will leave again 
 Relics alone of guilt, and moumfulness, and pain ! 
 Woburn Abbey, 1824. 
 
 TO MARY AND HANNAH, ON LEAVING THEIR 
 GARDEN. 
 I. 
 Let us away ! the grot, the bower 
 
 Have lost their former power to please ; 
 A tear-drop hangs on every flower, 
 A gloom on all the fading trees. 
 
 II. 
 It is not that decay alone 
 
 Is busy with the flower and leaf. 
 But moss invades the mouldering stone. 
 
 The breeze's sighs are those of grief, 
 
TO MARY AND HANNAH. So; 
 
 III. 
 And the sweet rose that pines to death 
 
 Upon its lorn untended stalk, 
 Spreads sadness in its very breath 
 
 Of fragrance o'er the cold damp walk. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was not thus, belovtJd Maids, 
 
 When hither first I strayed with you ; 
 
 Then beauty clad the greenwood shades, 
 
 And heaven's calm vault was bright and blue. 
 
 V. 
 Then every living thing was gay, 
 
 Then music thrilled from brake and bough. 
 Alas ! the Memory of that day 
 
 Is like the lonely garden now ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 It comes back on my soul, to make 
 
 The scene yet drearier than before, 
 And calmness only for your sake 
 
 Keeps feeling's springs from gushing o'er. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But let them flow — what can I do ? 
 
 Despair and I have long been brothers ; 
 Rather, I'd rather weep with you — 
 
 Yes, weep with you — than smile with others ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 At such a time perchance as this, 
 
 With tears of tenderness and truth, 
 Did pensive Orpah stoop to kiss 
 
 The sweet cheek of her sister Ruth, — 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ere yet she left their father's land, 
 
 Their happy and familiar home. 
 At strong Devotion's mild command, 
 
 In loveless solitudes to roam. 
 
?o8 POEMS. 
 
 X. 
 
 She went — was blessed ! so may, so shall, 
 It be with You, where'er you rove ; 
 
 The spoiler has not rifled all 
 Your garden, whilst it leaves you Love. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Whilst heart to heart, whilst tear to tear, 
 Whilst smile to radiant smile replies, 
 
 Your home is in your own fond sphere 
 Of loving looks and answering eyes. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then leave the weeds o'er bower and grot 
 
 To darkly trail without control ; 
 What care we, so they cumber not 
 
 The lovelier blossoms of the soul 
 
 XIII. 
 Like myrtles live, whose leaves replete 
 
 With strength, when crushed more fragrant grow. 
 No sacrifice to Heaven so sweet 
 
 As that which Duty wrings from Woe ! 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 I. 
 
 Yes, we must go ; must leave behind each steep and greenwood 
 
 shade, 
 Where oft our youthful steps have roved, our infant feet ha\e 
 
 played ; 
 The garden which we loved to tend, the flowers we loved to rear. 
 And, more than all, the hearts and eyes that made our fireside 
 dear. 
 
 II. 
 'Tis grief in Childhood's joyous hours to leave the cherished 
 
 scene. 
 Where the sought primrose freshest blows, the rosebud grows 
 most green ; 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 209 
 
 'Tis grief to leave the endearing smile on which we oft have hung, 
 And change for others the sweet sounds of each familiar tongue. 
 
 III. 
 
 But hours pass by, new springs come on, the primroses expand ; 
 We crop the rose, it smells as sweet as in that happier land ; 
 Each smile we see, each voice we hear, to us have all the truth, 
 Erewhile of those we loved so much ; it is not so with youth. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It is not so, it ne'er can be, when what we leave behind 
 Has with our whole existence long, long years been intertwined ; 
 Endeared by Joy, by Memory much, and much by Hope, but O ! 
 Far more than all by buried Love, and Love's twin-sister. Woe. 
 
 The sun can never rise so bright, the evening fall so still 
 To us, as on the caverned brow of our grey Castle hill ; 
 Nor can the passing flower we cull, to us have half the scent 
 Elsewhere, as in sweet Clifton Grove, beside the murmuring 
 Trent. 
 
 VI. 
 Smile on as heretofore, brave hill ! glide on, romantic stream ! 
 To us you soon will be but as some wild bewildering dream ; 
 The thrush will still your precincts haunt, and still St. Mary's 
 
 bell 
 Ring round, but marked by other ears ; to us farewell, farewell ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 We would not you should lose one note of joy, though we be fled, 
 As pleasant be the bowers you pace, the paths we used to tread ! 
 We would not sadness should creep round, what used to charm 
 
 us so. 
 Save a few tears in some fond eyes, for whom our own will flow. 
 
 VII r. 
 But sigh not so, dear, sigh not so, 'twill soon be past ; the seal 
 Of silent change is stamped on all, we witness, mourn, and feel ; 
 
 14 
 
210 POEMS. 
 
 So has it been since first the tear stained Eve's pale cheek ; so 
 
 will 
 It be, till every heart is hushed, and every voice is still. 
 
 IX. 
 Life has some blessings still in reach, perchance some joys in 
 
 store. 
 But thinking on the past may well make grief's checked tide 
 
 flow o'er. 
 O Morn, for ever to be loved ! O Noon, to be deplored ! 
 The leaf that shaded us is sere, the worm is in our gourd ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Less bitter sure those waters were, which Israel bowed to taste 
 
 At Marah, in the hideous depth of wild Arabia's waste, 
 
 Than those which night and day we two, have drunk without the 
 
 stem, 
 The bough by Moses rent, which made the wormwood sweet for 
 
 them. 
 
 XI. 
 Before us wide the Desert spreads ; come. Dearest, hand in hand 
 We'll journey on in Hope and Faith across its pathless sand. 
 And when to some green spot we come, beside still fountains, 
 
 there 
 We'll kneel beneath the shadowy Palm, and say our evening 
 
 Prayer. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Come, ere the cloud collects and falls ; we soon perchance may 
 
 find 
 A refuge from the gathering rain, a shelter from the wind ; 
 Some cleft within the steep rough rocks, where we may shun the 
 
 blast, 
 Till the dark Heaven again shines clear, the thunderstorm be 
 
 past. 
 
 XIII. 
 There at a distance from the strife of tongues we may respire. 
 Chastise for Earth each sanguine hope, for Heaven sublime desire, 
 And with the exercised Chaldee, learn gratefully to say. 
 Blest be the Lord in what He gives, and what He takes away. 
 Woburn Abbey, ii, 27, 1824. 
 
ODE. 
 
 TO A LADY IN AFFLICTION, WITH A ROSE. 
 
 The sweetest flower that earth can nurse, 
 
 When it has bloomed a day. 
 Or flourished in some casual verse, 
 
 Like this must pass away. 
 
 But still the stem on which it grew 
 Survives through sun and shower, 
 
 To yield erewhile, when skies are blue, 
 As sweet and fresh a flower. 
 
 III. 
 
 So is it with our joys below ; 
 
 Yet, fast though these depart. 
 The cup remains, ere long to show 
 
 Fresh flowers within its heart. 
 Woburn, 9 mo. 17, 1825. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Art Thou desponding ? I will make a strain 
 
 Sprightly as Pan's, when with his reedy flute 
 He makes the mountain pines bow to the plain. 
 And charms the Oreads mute. 
 
 Art Thou delighted ? I will take a tone 
 
 Of gentle woe, which makes delight more dear. 
 Like that which Philomel, when buds are blown. 
 Pours in Night's serious ear. 
 
 Art Thou solicitous ? My song shall flow 
 
 Easy and voluble, as waves that wind 
 Down the green vale, and leave where'er they go 
 A track of light behind. 
 
12 POEMS. 
 
 Whate'er thy mood, but speak ; Thou shalt be armed 
 
 With airs to soothe, transport thee, or beguile. 
 For both my heart and harp to thee are charmed 
 By spell of thy sweet smile. 
 9 mo. 27, 1825. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 I WOULD my lyre w^s as it was 
 
 In days of other years. 
 Ere grief had dimmed the magic glass 
 
 Of fancy with my tears. 
 I would my passive soul had took 
 No tint but of this virgin book. 
 
 All white as it appears ; 
 Then might I fitly hope to gain 
 Forgiveness for the page I stain. 
 
 But hfe's a strange bewildering stream. 
 
 And 'tis not oft we find 
 That following far our favourite dream 
 
 Leaves no blank ebb behind. 
 Renown or love, gold, titles, stars, 
 Whate'er our chase, it deeply mars 
 
 That music of the mind 
 To which, when life was smiling yet. 
 Its thousand stirring strings were set. 
 
 III. 
 
 But there the discord grows which turns 
 
 Our gladness into gloom. 
 And hearts, like rose-leaves cast in urns, 
 
 Yield but a faint perfume. 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 213 
 
 I can restring the lyre no more, 
 I cannot to the flower restore 
 
 The beauty of its bloom. 
 My flower is gathered, and my Ljrre 
 Is warm with no Celestial fire. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet when in twilight of the spring 
 
 The south wind freshly blows. 
 It sometimes wakes the tuneless strings, 
 
 And waves the withered rose, 
 Till both the flower and instrument 
 Give forth a music and a scent 
 
 Diviner from repose ; 
 Ev'n thus my spirit from its thrall 
 Awakes at thy love-chanting call. 
 
 But, Mary, there's a sweeter voice, 
 
 A lovelier breeze abroad, 
 To bid the wilderness rejoice. 
 
 And tune the lifeless chord ; 
 It is the still small whisper heard 
 In the soul's solitude — the Word 
 
 And Spirit of the Lord, 
 Which as it vibrates round us brings 
 All Eden on its healing wings. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Come, Dove Divine, Immortal Breath 
 
 Of Mercy, make descent ; 
 Speak life to the dull earth in death, 
 
 And Peace to our lament. 
 Restring the broken cords ; chastise 
 To gladness the lost soul that lies 
 
 In misery unmeant ; 
 And for the blest Redeemer's sake. 
 Our living hearts Thy album make. 
 
214 POEMS. 
 
 THE ECHO OF ANTIQUITY. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN YORK MINSTER. 
 
 " And thou shalt be brought down, and shalt speak out of the ground, and thy 
 voice shall be as of one that hath a familiaf spirit, and thy speech shall whisper out 
 of the dust." — ISA. xxix. 4. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Sabbath of the year once more 
 Is come : Toil sleeps on Plenty's breast ; 
 His shout among the sheaves is o'er, 
 And all on earth is joy and rest ; 
 A golden light from east to west 
 Reigns o'er the noontide world ; perfume 
 Yet haunts the lingering rose, though weak. 
 And yellow leaves all round me speak 
 Of Winter's hasting gloom. 
 
 The Minster's melancholy bells 
 Chime sweet — we'll pace the solemn pile ; 
 Hark to the organ's glorious swells 
 Through sweeping arch and columned aisle ! 
 Illumined Angels round me smile, 
 And rich from tinctured windows swim 
 Hues such as those enchantment lends. 
 Whilst loud from many a voice ascends 
 The Hallelujah hymn. 
 
 III. 
 
 Praise to our God ! since Time had birth. 
 Since Euphrates through Eden ran. 
 Still has His bounty compassed earth, 
 His pitying smile spoke peace to man ; 
 Still, as of old, His rainbows span 
 The storm— Truth quickens, guilt decays : 
 Not always shall the curse of sin 
 Cling to us — happier times begin : 
 Praise to our God, sing praise ! 
 
THE ECHO OF ANTIQUITY. 215 
 
 IV. 
 
 But not the organ's tuneful surge, 
 Nor chanted hymn, though sweet they be. 
 So melt my spirit as the dirge. 
 Dear, pious Bird ! that flows from thee ; 
 Who, in a sacred rivalry 
 Of choir and instrument, dost make 
 Thy mellow warblings heard above 
 Their loudest peals, as though with love 
 Thy little heart would break.* 
 
 At thy blest call, remembrance starts 
 From death, and, in bewildering train. 
 The earliest joys that thrilled our hearts 
 In Childhood's morn come round again ; 
 When by the brook that through the glen 
 Ran wild, we paced in happy quest 
 Of Spring's first Primrose, and, beguiled 
 By hallowed superstitions, smiled 
 To view Thy crimson breast. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Since then, what have not all sustained ? 
 What guilt or toil, what loss or woe ! 
 Hopes wrecked, vows laughed at, feelings chained 
 To ice, when tenderest in their flow, — 
 Love, injury, hatred, scorn ! and O 
 That flattery of the heart, when bloom 
 Tints some beloved companion's cheek, 
 With hues, which, whilst they charm, bespeak 
 Sure union with the tomb. 
 
 VII. 
 
 They're past, the hours when Pleasure threw 
 Her nameless spell o'er slightest things ; 
 
 * A Robin Redbreast that had found its way into the Minster, and sang during 
 the Anthem. 
 
2i6 POEMS. 
 
 The Primrose blows as then it blew, 
 But Where's the charm that made us kings 
 When all was won ? O Time, thy stings 
 Are like the serpent's ! whilst we tread 
 Thy steps, and taste the fruit that woos, 
 Grief's fatal sentence quick pursues. 
 And strikes Illusion dead. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Our ancient Fathers, where are they ? 
 And the blest Prophets, do they live 
 For ever ? Pomp ! give ear, and say 
 What answer the carved marbles give. 
 The slumbering statues seem to heave 
 With utterance — on the spacious walls 
 The scutcheon shakes — responsive tones 
 Rise from St. Wilfrid's hallowed bones. 
 And Elfric waves his palls. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Shriek not, but hearken ! " We have reigned 
 On Earth, and are not ! " it is well ; 
 Rest, hoary Elder, unprofaned, 
 Within thy dark and narrow cell ! 
 What voice, grim Warrior to the spell 
 Yield'st thou ; who once, in Palestine 
 With CcBur-de-lion, or with Clare, 
 Unfurled thy banners in the air. 
 And kissed the Sacred Shrine ? 
 
 X. 
 
 Speak, for thou hear'st ! " I lived, I loved, 
 I fought, and am not ! " Sheathe thy sword. 
 It is enough ; the Cross, that moved 
 Thy fire and Luther's stands restored ! 
 What speech is thine, O Thou, the Adored 
 Of all ! thy poets, did not they 
 Vaunt thee immortal, and bribe Fame 
 With thousand songs to keep thy name 
 Triumphant o'er decay ? 
 
THE ECHO OF ANTIQUITY. 217 
 
 XI. 
 
 Speak, then, thy history ; unclose 
 Once more thy ruby lips. I bend 
 Above, and round thee strew the rose. 
 Expectant, till thy voice ascend : 
 " I charmed, and am not ! " Heaven befriend 
 Thy gentle shade ! 'tis sooth ! ev'n so. 
 We for whose pleasure Nature showers 
 Her autumn fruits and summer flowers, 
 Like you, but come to go. 
 
 XII. 
 
 On the same antique throne forlorn 
 I sit, where British kings were crowned. 
 And blow the huge old Saxon horn, 
 Which Ulph himself in battle wound, — 
 With which, his grey dogs barking round, 
 He raised the wild wolf from his scaur. 
 And with his blue-eyed heroes quaffed 
 In yellow mead a wassail-draught 
 To Woden and to Thor. 
 
 XIII. 
 Ages on ages have not marred 
 The ivory tusk, the regal chair. 
 But all is passed beside — ^the bard, 
 Chief, maiden, king, where are they, where ? 
 I weep not for them ; earth and air 
 Will do for us what they have done 
 With them. Sing on, thou lonely bird ; 
 Our grateful songs shall yet be heard 
 Above the shining sun ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Earth's aged aspects all may change, 
 Shrines be destroyed, fanes weed-o'ergrown ; 
 Customs and rites wax quaint and strange, 
 And e'en our names no more be known ; 
 What the'n ? the Sacrifice, foreshown 
 
2i8 POEMS. 
 
 By thousand prophecies, has given 
 Just spirits access to the Light, 
 And, in the Book where Angels write 
 Just names, renown in Heaven ! 
 
 XV. 
 Then, though this earthly form decay 
 Like the sere leaf, as soon it must, 
 Not all that wits or sceptics say 
 Shall rob me of my brightest trust ! 
 Time ! raise no marble o'er my dust. 
 To boast of virtues ne'er possessed ; 
 Enough for me, if I but so 
 Live now, as ages hence, to know 
 I Wept, Believed, and Rest ! 
 
 IVobiini Abbey, II, 12 mo., 1825. 
 
 " I NEED NO MORE." 
 
 I. 
 
 My soul is calm, my bosom bright 
 With sunshine such as ne'er till now 
 Rose to chase off the dreary night 
 That gathered round my moody brow, 
 Oh, long-loved tears ! oh, cheerful grief ! 
 Oh, dear frequented glooms that wore 
 So sweet a guise ! your wild relief 
 
 I need no more, 
 n. 
 No tuneful fiction of the brain 
 Wert thou to me, pale-eyed despair ; 
 So long I bent beneath thy chain. 
 Its weight and length seemed light to bear. 
 But now thine adamantine brace ' 
 
 Is broke, thy drear dominion's o'er, — 
 Farewell ! thy scorn of female grace 
 
 I need no more. 
 
/ NEED NO MORE. 219 
 
 III. 
 
 Oft, very oft, when Memory stung 
 
 My heart to agony, I flew 
 
 To fiction's tales, and o'er them hung 
 
 Till fancy half believed them true ; 
 
 But love now lends me sweeter themes 
 
 And thoughts by far, whereon to pore : 
 
 Good-bye, Romance, thy charmdd dreams 
 
 I need no more. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sweet summer flowers ! your cultured blooms 
 Have many an hour my cares beguiled. 
 Till soothed by your divine perfumes 
 I've kissed your rosy cheeks and smiled. 
 But now with hope my bosom beats 
 To win a flower, all flowers before ; 
 Good-bye, your tributary sweets 
 
 I need no more. 
 
 V. 
 And thou, my friend, from first to last, 
 Through good and ill, in weal and woe, 
 Brightener and soother of the past, 
 With all thy laurels round thee, go ! 
 I've loved thee much ; but now, my lyre. 
 What if thy fascination 's o'er ? 
 And what if late eclipsed, thy fire 
 
 I need no more .' 
 
 VI. 
 
 Canst thou repine, if dust devour 
 Thy strings left motionless and mute. 
 When touched by hands of dearer power, 
 My heart is grown the sweeter lute ? 
 Thou'st won me fame, thou'st won me praise, 
 Take them ; my aspirations soar 
 Loftier than this — thy tuneful lay 
 
 I need no more. 
 
220 POEMS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Did e'er thy voice, when most it tried, 
 Win me one sigh, I say not tear. 
 From her I loved ? go to ! the pride 
 Of song has cost thy master dear. 
 If praise, if fame's the only meed 
 Of all my love, of all thy lore, 
 Farewell ! thy blandishments I need. 
 
 No more, no more. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 No ! still, if still kind Ida's glance 
 Chide not the vision I pursue 
 With such perversity, — romance, 
 Flowers, lute, and music, all adieu ! 
 But come, young Joy, lead on the hour 
 When Love shall say, " Thy reign is o'er, 
 Good-bye, dear Hope ! thy soothing power 
 
 I need no more." 
 12 mo., 1825. 
 
 SONNET TO M. D. D'ISIGNY. 
 
 Grief hath dealt roughly with us both, perchance 
 In bygone years, D'Isigny ; but 'tis bliss 
 Unmixed, to row on such an eve as this, 
 And see the million waves of ocean dance 
 With glorious music round us ; mark the expanse. 
 How full of life and beauty ! the blue seas 
 Heave like the dolphin, and before the breeze, 
 Red on the sunset, on the horizon dance 
 The fisher's home-returning sails. I, too, 
 Must steal the sea mew's wings, and o'er the brine 
 Pass to my kindred — take my sad adieu ; 
 Yet when a dearer, fairer friend is thine. 
 Whisper sometimes to her of him who prays 
 For cloudless joys on all your future days. 
 1826. 
 
TO THE ROSE. 22 r 
 
 TO THE ROSE. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF DON FRANCISCO DE RIOJA. 
 
 Warm rival of the flame that dyes 
 
 The heavens where morning takes its birth, 
 
 Pure, glowing Rose, how canst thou rise, 
 
 So fresh with joy, so fuU of mirth, 
 
 Whilst conscious that thy gifted charms 
 
 Pass swift as summer's transient gale. 
 
 That neither can thy prickly arms 
 
 Nor purple beauty aught avail. 
 
 An hour, an instant, to delay 
 
 The killing stroke of quick decay ? 
 
 * * jf * * 
 
 Fast pale thy burning wings, fast curl 
 Thy leaves — the blithe bee murmuring round, 
 Strikes them, and, one by one, they whirl 
 Decayed and scentless to the ground. 
 So closely joined thy life appears 
 With thy decay, that scarce I know 
 If sad Aurora, in the tears 
 She weeps for thee, would wish to show 
 Grief for thy birth or for thy death. 
 Sweet creature of celestial breath. 
 
 TO THE JESSAMINE. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF GONGORA. 
 
 From my summer alcove, which the stars this morn 
 
 With lucid pearls o'erspread, 
 I have gathered these jessamines, thus to adorn 
 
 With a wreath thy graceful head. 
 
222 POEMS. 
 
 Their blossoms a host of bees, alarmed, 
 
 Watched over on jealous wing ; 
 Hoarse trumpeters seemed they all, and armed 
 
 Each bee with a diamond sting ; 
 I tore them away, but each flower I tore 
 Has cost me a wound which smarteih sore. 
 
 Now as I these jessamine flowers entwine 
 
 A gift for thy vagrant hair, 
 I must have from those honey-sweet lips of thine 
 
 A kiss for each sting I bear : 
 It is just that the blooms I bring thee home 
 Be repaid by sweets from the golden comb. 
 
 ON A RING. 
 
 (Two hands clasped) sent to J. H. WiFFENas a memento of his friend 
 I. D. Strutt, who died abroad. 
 
 And this, dear I., is all of thee. 
 That to my sight shall e'er again 
 Return in fond fidelity, 
 From sultry clime and heaving main. 
 Oh ! much I feared your ardent soul. 
 Adventurous hopes, or scorn of wrong. 
 Too far, too far, towards danger's goal. 
 Would lead your pilgrim steps along. 
 
 II. 
 
 When your clasped hand I late resigned, 
 You strove to smile away my fear. 
 Yet something sad and undefined. 
 Of future gloom, would whisper near. 
 For one of those sweet songs I prayed. 
 With which you used to cheer so much ; 
 For long will be the time, I said. 
 Ere I again shall hear of such. 
 
NITROUS OXIDE. 223 
 
 III. 
 
 And still at each pathetic fall, 
 One melancholy note repined, 
 Like that which chords Eolian call, 
 From Autumn's wild and wailing wind. 
 Why would you choose so sad a rhyme ? 
 Still, still, the sound to grief compels : 
 I hear your voice in every chime. 
 That murmurs from those evening bells. 
 
 SENSATIONS UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF 
 NITROUS OXIDE DESCRIBED. 
 
 WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER INHALING IT. 
 I. 
 
 Where the sparkling Planets lie, 
 In the lofty chambers of the sky, 
 Away^away — to tear from them 
 Flower, and star, and the diamond gem ; 
 For I grasp the golden talisman strong 
 Of immortal Science, and Heavenly Song ; 
 And when I am there, I will fling you down. 
 The Northern Bear and the glittering Crown ; 
 Then upward, upward, and upward bear 
 Through the Violet vallies of the air. 
 
 II. 
 Onward and on, whilst yet we may. 
 And the Heavenly Spirits my wand obey ; 
 To the awful Sun and the glowing Moon ; 
 On the wings of the wind we shall reach them soon. 
 And I will charm them from their sphere, 
 And send them down to please you here. 
 But higher and higher we yet will soar, 
 To a region never beheld before ; 
 And the dancing hours shall crown me strait, 
 With the blossoms that burst within Eden-gate. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 in. 
 Call to the winds to waft us far, 
 Already in sight is the Morning Star ; 
 The purple Pleiads are now in view, 
 And on me falls their Elysian dew ; 
 And within me breathes a spirit sweet, 
 And in dance and in music my pulses beat. 
 The mist is below, and the rosy cloud. 
 And Ariel's hymn is harping loud. 
 Where beyond the change of time and tide, 
 Celestial Psyche shall be my bride. 
 
 TO IDA 
 I. 
 Enough of History and Romance, 
 Of kingly power and knightly lore. 
 On which my weary eyes just glance, 
 Then give the idle notice o'er. 
 The storied page, the lovely lay, 
 Have little in them left to cheer; 
 They cannot drive the thought away, 
 That thou, dear Ida, art not near. 
 
 II. 
 Enough of painted portraiture, 
 Of jewelled Peeresses and Peers, 
 Whose name could once perchance allure, 
 To tread their course through vanished years. 
 I con them o'er, or pass them by, 
 Without a smile, without a tear. 
 They only wake the fruitless sigh, 
 That thou, dear Ida, art not near. 
 
 III. 
 Farewell the garden's cultured bounds, 
 The trellised bower, the green arcade, 
 They charm me not — those ceaseless rounds, 
 Of song and sunshine, flowers and shade. 
 
EVENING REVERIE. 225 
 
 Why should I longer seek in them, 
 The spirit of the breathing year ? 
 Why pluck the rosebud from its stem, 
 When thou, dear Ida, art not near ? 
 
 IV. 
 No more of walk in croft and grove, 
 The ivied bath, the rustic grange. 
 Time was, I loved thereby to rove, 
 But then each thing seemed sweet and strange. 
 I'm weary of the same dull stroll, 
 The pulseless lake, the unstirring deer ; 
 A Desert more would soothe my soul, 
 If thou, dear Ida, wert but near ! 
 
 V. 
 This silent wandering to and fro. 
 This trifling on from day to day. 
 Till all the freshness, and the glow, 
 Of early life are whiled away'; 
 The rust on Action's shining springs, 
 The pause in Honour's high career, 
 Would pass away on willing wings. 
 If thou, dear Ida, wert but near. 
 
 VI. 
 
 One smile from lips so loved as thine, 
 One ray from thy so gentle eyes. 
 Would light up instantly the Shrine, 
 Whence Feeling's holiest pulses rise. 
 No need of picture, flower, or song. 
 To charm the heart when thou art near ; 
 To Thee all influences belong, 
 Of kind and lovely, sweet and dear ! 
 
 EVENING REVERIE. 
 
 Dear absent Maid ! on whom sad fancies press 
 Past scenes of grief, and feelings of distress : 
 
POEMS. 
 
 To whom the world, with all its pleasures, seems 
 
 One idle round of unsubstantial dreams ; 
 
 With whom the year has lost its pleasant spring, 
 
 Life its warm zest, and hope her charming wing ; 
 
 If nature now has given, to soothe thy woes, 
 
 One Uttle moment of serene repose, 
 
 If no kind forms thy evening steps attend, 
 
 The courteous aunt, mild guest, or soothing friend. 
 
 Take to thy vacant breast the lines that part. 
 
 Free from my tongue, and lively from my heart ; 
 
 Give them a friend's fond privilege, to bound 
 
 Thy thoughts, escaping o'er deserted ground, 
 
 And let them prove the Desert still may own 
 
 Some bowers unblighted and some blooms unblown. 
 
 Alas ! the scenes through which on earth we stray 
 Are but the semblance of an April day ; 
 Tempest to calms, to sunshine showers succeed. 
 Point the strong thorn and nurse the noxious weed. 
 Fast as in thought we reach some happy glade, 
 A cloud comes by, and chills us with its shade ; 
 We rear the Rose, and as it bursts to bloom, 
 The canker kills it, or the frosts consume : 
 On pleasure, pain ; on mirth, dejection treads ; 
 Here Hope allures, and there her nets she spreads ; 
 Charm follows charm, but still, where'er we go, 
 The promised rapture takes the tint of woe. 
 We look behind us, and a mist appears, 
 Veils our gay steps, and fills our path with tears ; 
 We sport, we sigh, smile, weep, and evermore 
 The bliss grows shorter, and the smart more sore. 
 Till Night sets in, and, as her shadows creep, 
 Like wearied babes we moan ourselves to sleep. 
 
 Still there are intervals for all to know 
 A rest from care, a breathing-time from woe ; 
 Not always Sorrow haunts the pilgrim's view, 
 Not always Duty wears its harshest hue ; 
 The storm whirls seldom all our wealth away. 
 
EVENING REVERIE. 227 
 
 Some hopes, some joys, still keep the assaulted spray, 
 Like a few grapes in vintage time — like one 
 Ungathered olive in the autumnal sun, 
 Left on its topmost bough, erewhile to shoot 
 In earth, the germ of more luxurious fruit. 
 
 Look round, and number less what Heaven has reft 
 
 Of thy fair fruits, than what its Love has left : 
 
 Friends, that like scions multiplied, will form 
 
 Thy pride in sunshine, shelter in the storm. 
 
 Some fervid, faithful all, and one beyond 
 
 Misfortune's spite, unutterably fond ; 
 
 Maturing health, tastes cultured and refined, 
 
 Books — guides at once and playmates of the mind ; 
 
 Love — virtuous thoughts, benevolent desires, 
 
 Hope's kindling pictures. Faith's diviner fires ; 
 
 And Duty's pathway, that but followed, leads 
 
 To quiet pastures, to Elysian meads. 
 
 Where, by fresh streams, the Heavenly Shepherd guides 
 
 His noontide flock until the heat subsides, 
 
 And as Night stretches o'er the darkening wold, 
 
 Takes them to rest in His Eternal Fold ; 
 
 Safe from the prowling wolf, the whirlwind's roar. 
 
 To faint, to stray, to hunger Nevermore. 
 
 And oh, my Dearest ! think'st thou there is not 
 Some hidden transport, some congenial lot 
 Reserved for us who now asunder roam, 
 Conjoined and kindred to the sound of Home } 
 Some little seat where, as the Winter blaze 
 Flings round the Earth its sphere of living rays, 
 We, side by side, in sweet familiar style. 
 With many a dulcet word, reflected smile. 
 With hearts, tastes, pulses blended, may engage, 
 Day after day, some philosophic page, 
 To wing the peaceful eve, unmarked, away. 
 And make To-morrow wiser than To-day ; 
 That when the floral Spring peeps forth, no vale 
 Shall lure us, arm in arm, to hear the tale 
 
228 POEMS. 
 
 Told by the turtle as alone she broods 
 O'er her dear young amidst the leafy woods ? 
 Oh, yes ! and haply in the Summer sun, 
 Words shall be lisped and little footsteps run 
 Round us, collecting flowers less sweet and bright 
 Than they, the thoughtless pupils of delight. 
 
 Come, smile ; and if anxiety steal on 
 
 Thy darling bosom, bid the witch begone : 
 
 Life is too short to spend, in sighs and tears, 
 
 Unchecked, the passing noontide of our years. 
 
 O when I come, if but a shade 's descried 
 
 On thy fair forehead, how my lips shall chide ! 
 
 Look to it. Love, and never more offend 
 
 Thy — less than Husband, but thy more than Friend. 
 
 Farewell : my Soul embraces thy benign 
 
 And lovely Spirit — when will it be mine } 
 
 Not yet, not yet ! the powers that so deceive 
 
 My ardent hopes, have given thee a reprieve. 
 
 TO IDA. 
 
 Oh ! what were all this weary World, its trials and its tears, 
 The falsehood of its flattering shows, the quickening of our 
 
 fears. 
 Its dull delights that swiftly pall, its oft succeeding gloom. 
 And the blighting of our youthful hopes just bursting into bloom, 
 Without the smile of those we love to cheer us on our way 
 To the Clime where the Serpent stings no more, and the Rose 
 
 resists decay.' 
 
 II. 
 Thou'rt dear to me, my sweet one, for that when stay was none. 
 And the pleasant pictures of my youth were fading one by one. 
 Thou saw'st my silent sorrow, the darkening of my brow. 
 And thy gentle nature turned not from listening to my vow, 
 
TO IDA. 229 
 
 But gracefully resigned itself to be my guiding ray 
 
 To the Clime where the Serpent stings no more, and the Rose 
 
 resists decay. 
 
 III. 
 The path to that so Glorious Land, though thorny oft it be, 
 Will surely teem with pleasant flowers, thus trod, dear Love, with 
 
 thee ; 
 And if e'er our feet be wounded, Love, we need not dread the 
 
 pain. 
 There's a balm for the weary pilgrim yet, to staunch the bleeding 
 
 vein ; 
 And if here the Night of grief be dark, more brightly breaks the 
 
 Day 
 In that Clime where the Serpent stings no more, and the Rose 
 
 resists decay. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then droop not, dear, then sigh not ; the clouds that dimmed 
 
 our sky 
 Are clearing off in sunshine, as a softer breeze blows by ; 
 For all the storms we've weathered, for the calm we soon may 
 
 share, 
 We will bow our heads in Reverence meet, we will clasp our 
 
 hands in Prayer, 
 That He in whom we fix our trust may still become our stay 
 To the Clime where the Serpent stings no more, and the Rose 
 
 resists decay. 
 
 V 
 
 The Friends whom we have lost on earth, they are but gone 
 
 before ; 
 By a shorter path, or a swifter tide, they pace that Radiant Shore ; 
 And when we have smiled our latest smile, and dropt our final 
 
 tear. 
 And sickness snaps the silver cord that has bound us sweetly 
 
 here. 
 They may be the first to hail us, freed from our phantom shapes 
 
 of clay, 
 To that Clime where the Serpent stings no more, and the Rose 
 
 resists decay. 
 
230 POEMS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For all the Blessings we enjoy, for all we have enjoyed, 
 
 For ev'n our fabrics of delight which His Wisdom has destroyed. 
 
 All Glory to the Father be ! all Glory to the Son ! 
 
 And to the Holy Spirit Praise, whose gracious will be done ; 
 
 That all the Ransomed of the earth may live beneath His sway. 
 
 In that Clime where the Serpent stings no more, and the Rose 
 
 resists decay. 
 Woburn Abbey, 2 mo., 3, 1828. 
 
 THE OAKEN BOUGH. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 [In a contested election for the county of Bedford (1826), a sprig of Oak was worn 
 as an Emblem by the party of the Marquis of Tavistock. This piece was 
 written by J. H. SViffen, and circulated on that occasion.] 
 
 Veluti annoso validam cum robore Quercum 
 
 Alpini Boreae nunc hinc nunc flatibus illinc 
 
 Eruere, inter se certant ; it stridor ; et alte 
 
 Constemunt terram concusso stipite frondes ; 
 
 Ijtsa hiEret scopulisj Vire^. jEn. IV, 441, 
 
 'TlS sweet, whene'er in dim July 
 
 The gathered storm comes sweeping by, 
 
 Or passing hot the hours of Noon 
 
 Wax from the cloudless skies of June, 
 
 To mock the shower and sunbeam, laid 
 
 At ease within some sylvan shade. 
 
 Where hazel, beech, and pine o'erhead 
 
 Their sheltering roof of leaves outspread ; 
 
 But O, at times like these, be mine 
 
 N or spreading beech nor frowning pine,— 
 
 These have had devotees enow ; 
 
 Give me the shade of the Oaken Bough ! 
 
THE OAKEN BOUGH. 231 
 
 'Tis said the Spanish maid most loves 
 
 The gentle gloom of Chestnut groves, 
 
 That most beneath his purple Vines 
 
 The soft Italian sips his wines, 
 
 That still in Greece the Myrtle's shade 
 
 Inspires the sweetest serenade, 
 
 And that the peasant girls of France 
 
 Lead down 'midst Limes the lightest dance ; 
 
 But, trust me, lute, nor dance, nor glass, 
 
 So softly sound, or gaily pass. 
 
 Though winged with love's most melting vow. 
 
 As beneath the leaves of the Oaken Bough ! 
 
 HI. 
 The towering Poplar well may braid 
 Wreaths for the ambitious statesman's head ; 
 Laurels be plucked, at custom's claim. 
 To shrine the warrior in his fame ; 
 Bays crown the poet's sacred sleep ; 
 O'er love's lorn hope gray Willows weep ; 
 Roses the trifler's soul enthral ; 
 Ivies head Folly's bacchic brawl ; 
 But let the Patriot evermore 
 Pass all such symbols heedless o'er. 
 And twine, like Tavistock, his brow. 
 With the glorious leaves of the Oaken Bough ! 
 
 Long years, unchecked. Corruption's hand 
 Has sent her war-dogs through the land, 
 Whene'er the voice of " right divine " 
 Has given the Saturnalian sign, 
 To bark down Virtue, and assail 
 Fair Freedom armed with inward mail ; 
 Now let them come : our gallant stag 
 Shall make the hardiest hunter flag. 
 
232 POEMS. 
 
 And hold the yelling hounds at bay 
 That harass his triumphal way; 
 Nor lash, nor truncheon need we now, — 
 We'll beat them back with the Oaken Bough 
 
 Brave Cceur-de-Lion for his plume 
 
 Erst wore the waving branch of broom ; 
 
 On Syria's plains and Acre's towers 
 
 Was homage paid to its yellow flowers, 
 
 And song and story echo yet 
 
 The praises of Plantagenet ; 
 
 Blood stained those blossoms ; but our fight 
 
 For Civil and Religious Right 
 
 Alone is waged ; a Holier flame 
 
 Shall hence light up our Russell's name, 
 
 And the royal broom its head stoop low 
 
 To the stainless pride of the Oaken Bough ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 When from Granada's marble halls, 
 
 Mosaic courts, and fountain-falls 
 
 The Spaniard drove the Moor, again 
 
 To measure back the Midland Main, 
 
 In memory of the severed yoke 
 
 Navarre her " Order of the Oak" 
 
 Raised for her knightly sons ; but far 
 
 As English ground excels Navarre, 
 
 Shall Fame, when our good knights have sealed 
 
 Their worth on Truth and Freedom's field 
 
 A nobler wreath to them allow. 
 
 And crown them kings with the Oaken Bough 
 
 VII. 
 
 And ev'n if other hope be none 
 Than cheered Mancah's mighty son 
 When, lulled to slumber, on the morn 
 He found his locks and vigour shorn ; 
 
THE OAKEN BOUGH. 233 
 
 We yet, like him, will turn to woe 
 
 The mirth and mockery of the foe, 
 
 And, glorious in our fall, distress 
 
 With ruin his scarce-earned success ; 
 
 Yes ! ev'n in death we'll raise the hymn 
 
 Of love to Tavistock and Pym, 
 
 And leave ev'n Hatred's self to vow 
 
 There's nought like the staunch old Oaken Bough 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Oaken Bough, the Oaken Bough, 
 
 How many a year it has flourished now 
 
 The knights of the Gennet, once so gay, 
 
 The knights of the Thistle, where are they 
 
 The Roses White and the Roses Red 
 
 With all their chivalry are dead ; 
 
 But long as Honesty and Truth 
 
 Inform our yeomen, fire our youth, 
 
 Or Beauty's lip be curled in scorn 
 
 At bigots snared and churls forsworn, 
 
 So long shall Time with life endow 
 
 The Unconquered, Brave old Oaken Bough ! 
 
 THE OAKEN BOUGH. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Read at the Election Dinner at Bedfora, May g, 1831 
 
 '* Ac velut annoso validam quum robore Quercum 
 Alpin Borex nunc hinc nunc flatibus illinc 
 Emiere, inte se certant : it stridor ; et alte 
 Constemunt terram concusso stipite frondes ; 
 Ipsa kteret scopulis," Vir^. j^n. IV. 441. 
 
 I. 
 
 Five years, nor void, nor unrenowned 
 With English hearts, on English ground, 
 Have risen and passed, and on the State 
 Left trace of high and stern debate, 
 
234 POEMS. 
 
 Of triumphs won and victories lost, 
 
 To Freedom's grief, or Faction's cost, 
 
 Since last I sang, in idle song. 
 
 Your deathless war 'twixt Right and Wrong ; 
 
 But steadfast still, 'midst every stroke, 
 
 Has stood the invulnerable Oak ; 
 
 All hail to Tavistock and Payne ! 
 
 The Oaken Bough 's in leaf again ! 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twas then, brave Champions ! that ye taught 
 Your sons the worth of hearts unbought ; 
 Taught them, it needs no aid of gold 
 To storm Corruption's dragon hold ; 
 But hands unsoiled, and souls erect. 
 And calm, considerate self-respect. 
 Lo, now, the Good, the Wise, the True, 
 Ten thousand thousands war with you ! 
 From all her forts is Faction driven. 
 Where'er she strives, where'er you've striven ; 
 Your ancient glories ye regain, — 
 All hail to Tavistock and Payne ! 
 
 III. 
 
 If, as from some bold mountain's brow. 
 Ye cast one patriot glance below, 
 What see ye there ? on every hand 
 Reform or Ruin shakes the land : 
 Before frowns Malice ; but behind 
 Come cheering voices on the wind, 
 Of rights achieved — the abolished Test— 
 Erin, our sister, half redressed ; 
 These urge you on to consummate 
 The vast, bright victory of the State ; 
 Speed, speed it, Tavistock and Payne, — 
 Britain's chafed Lion rears his mane ! 
 
THE OAKEN BOUGH. 235 
 
 IV. 
 
 Of old, when Charles from Worcester fled, 
 
 With shivered sword and helmless head, 
 
 The storied Oak of Boscobel 
 
 Guarded the hapless wanderer well : 
 
 But nobler aid your Oaken Bough 
 
 Yields to a British Sovereign now : 
 
 His generous people burgh-enslaved, 
 
 His councils spurned, his purpose braved, 
 
 Rebellion's watch-fires half revealed, 
 
 To you the undaunted King appealed ; 
 
 Ye answer — " Tavistock and Payne 
 
 Shall guard, brave King, thy crown from stain ! " 
 
 All else shall do as ye have done. 
 
 Till Freedom's field be fought and won ; 
 
 And as a Russell's name prolongs 
 
 The memory of your fathers' wrongs, 
 
 So with your children's rights bequeathed. 
 
 The name of Russell shall be wreathed. 
 
 Poor to the Oak Bough of to-day. 
 
 Show Cressy's palm and Poictiers' bay; 
 
 The star of Azincour grows dim. 
 
 Whilst Fame repeats your conquering hymn,- 
 
 " lo triumphe ! bribes are vain ; 
 
 Attest it, Tavistock and Payne ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 In their resolves to sow the seeds 
 
 Of highborn aims and generous deeds, 
 
 1 ask, When, like the rod whose wire 
 
 Guides safe from man the electric fire, 
 
 Our Sovereign's fiat of Reform 
 
 Shall from the menace of this storm 
 
 Have saved the endangered Isles — how long 
 
 Shall the slave feel the oppressor's thong .■' 
 
236 POEMS. 
 
 If still the Law's relentless ban 
 Shall claini so oft the blood of man, 
 And heaven-born Mercy plead in vain ; 
 Forbid it, Tavistock and Payne ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yes ! whilst the indignant Pole afar 
 Snaps the forged fetters of the Czar, 
 And home to its accustomed lair 
 Drives with free spear each Arctic bear ; 
 Whilst France still triumphs in the blow 
 That laid her tyrant Lilies low. 
 And the wronged Roman champs in froth 
 The snaffle of the modern Goth ; 
 Will ye not seek, with equal rage. 
 Each blot to clear from England's page ? 
 Ye will ! Indifference ne'er shall stain 
 Our choice of Tavistock and Payne ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ye will ! for though the Warrior's spoils 
 Be deemed the fruit of glorious toils ; 
 Though bright the wreath that freemen twine 
 For Patriots' brows round Freedom's sLrir.e 
 The still small voice that Conscience yields 
 From amaranths plucked in Virtue's fields, 
 Speaks, as to Heaven the incense flies. 
 Diviner music to the wise. 
 But here's to those who triumph now 
 Beneath the charm of the Oaken Bough ; 
 And when Freedom's fight is fought again. 
 All hail to Tavistock and Payne ! 
 
TO THE CUCKOO. 237 
 
 ON A LEAF FROM MILTON'S MULBERRY TREE, 
 CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 The elements are gracious ; sun and shower 
 Have nursed with all kind influences, the spray- 
 Whence this young leaf was culled — it seems that they 
 Were fr^iught with love instinctive ; for that power 
 Which speaks by the dear lute, not the famed bower 
 Of the thrice charmed Hesperides could bear, 
 Or fniit more precious, or a leaf more rare 
 Than those I gathered in the noontide hour 
 From Milton's cherished sylvan. Are the dreams 
 Of Faith quite extinct ? is not yet its trunk 
 The haunt of that chaste Virgin whom his lyre 
 Sings of in Comus ? There are wilder themes 
 Yet voiced in page of anchorite and of monk. 
 Guard well the gift, 'tis fraught with kindred fire. 
 1826. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO IN THE VALE OF CUAWG. 
 
 FROM THE WELSH OF LLYWARCH HEN. 
 
 '* Goreiste Ar Vryn, Aerwyn Vy Mryd." 
 
 Llywarch Hen was a British Bard and warrior, who flourished in the sixth century, 
 being contemporary with Aneuiin. He lived to a great age. He was distinguished 
 by his prowess against the Saxons, and had four and twenty sons, all of whom perished 
 in battle against the hated invaders of their country, and all of whom he had the 
 -misfortune to outlive. His poems are extant, and have been edited by Dr. Owen 
 Pughe, 
 
 Sitting on this green hill to rest, my soul is sharply stirred, 
 And yet it does not drive me on, like thee, thou wandering Bird ; 
 My home is sad, my journey short, and life is mere distress 
 To me, when thus the vernal trees put on their pleasant dress. 
 
 I wind no horn, I keep no hound, I move with pain along ; 
 Yet still, whilst it seems good, mild Bird, pursue thy simple song ; 
 Thy loud melodious voice the vales shout duly with the day, 
 " Better the spendthrift than the churl," it says, or seems to say.* 
 
 * The adage which the Bard here introduces bears no resemblance in the original 
 language to the Cuckoo's note. But the Welsh Bards are fond of inculcating moral 
 truth, even where it may, t first sight, appear incongruous. 
 
23S POEMS. 
 
 Hid in the green vale's blossomed trees, yet, yet thou strain'st 
 
 thy throat ; 
 Now Heaven console the sick and sad, who hear thy happy note. 
 The woods and waters shout thy name — there's discord in their 
 
 strain ; 
 Oh, may none sicken at the sound, none mourn like Llywarch 
 
 Hen! 
 
 Have I not listened, by the tree with ivy-wreaths entwined, 
 To the fond Cuckoo, as her note came wafted on the wind ? 
 Has it not caused me before now, a warrior though I be. 
 To hang my broad shield down, entranced in many a reverie ? 
 
 Yes ! every lover thinks of her ; and oft on the lone hill 
 That overlooks the merry oak, till fancy had her fill, 
 For hours I've listened to the tale, but now her charmdd cry 
 I shun : much as I loved it once, the passion shall go by. 
 
 Sweet Bird ! her voice creates desire, do what — but she is gone : 
 It is her fate for evermore, thus, thus to wander on ; 
 All swift and eager as the hawk, o'er castle, lake, and crag, 
 Scuds the lone Cuckoo by the woods and waves of Glen-cu-ag ! 
 
 1826. 
 
 TO MAENWYN. 
 
 FROM THE WELSH OF LLYVtrARCH HEN. 
 
 " Maenwyn Tra vum I'th oed. 
 
 Maenwyn was a young warrior, to whom Prince Maelgwn had entrusted the defence 
 of one of his fortresses against the Saxons. The Bard addresses these pleasant verses 
 to him to confirm him in his allegiance, as he had been commanded to capitulate and 
 deliver up his arms. 
 
 When I was a youth of thy stature, Maenwyn 
 
 My kibes none should have trod on, of foeman or kin ; 
 
 No base Saxon churl should have broken my bounds, 
 
 Or have ploughed, without blood, on my forefathers' grounds. 
 
/ CROSSED IN ITS BEAUTY. 23, 
 
 When I was a youth of thy vigour, Maenwyn, 
 With the rose on my cheek, and the down on my chin, 
 Little loved the proud stranger, the edge of my blade. 
 Which, though borne by a boy, by a hero was swayed. 
 
 Look well to thy target, my bonny Maenwyn, 
 For thy shaft 's of the slenderest, thy bowstring 's owre thin : 
 Shoot but false — and an archer more trusty, full soon. 
 Shall keep watch and ward here for the princely Maelgwn. 
 
 A gift was once mine, in its scabbard concealed, 
 As a thorn it was sharp — in the fire 'twas annealed ; 
 That's the warder for me — the world has not its twin, 
 (Thou must still be my whetstone, my pretty Maenwyn.)* 
 
 It was long, it was sharp : make its temper thine own, 
 And my blessing shall rest on the lonely old crone 
 Who said from the door of her hut by the lynn, 
 " Give not up thy good whittle, my bonny Maenwyn ! " 
 1826. 
 
 "I CROSSED IN ITS BEAUTY THY DEE'S DRUID 
 WATER." 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY JOHN PARRY. 
 
 Air—"CaAa Idris."t 
 
 I. 
 
 I CROSSED in its beauty thy Dee's Druid Water, 
 The waves as I passed rippled lowly and lone ; 
 
 For the brave on their borders had perished in slaughter. 
 The noble were vanished, the gifted were gone ! 
 
 * The Poet here plays on the name of the youth; Maenwyn signifying, "having the 
 hardness of a stone." 
 
 t Caiier Idris, or the seat oildris, is a high mountain near the town of Dolgellan, 
 in Merionethshire. Tradition reports, that Idris was a giant and a sublime astro- 
 nomer, and that he used to contemplate the heaveniy bodies from this mountain. 
 
240 POEMS. 
 
 I passed by thy Pillar* firm rooted to waken 
 Long memory of chiefs that in battle had sunk ; 
 
 But the earthquake of ruin, its basis had shaken, 
 The voice of the thunder had shattered its trunk 
 
 II. 
 I passed by thy Castle,+ once mirthful and splendid, 
 
 Its court was too truly the emblem of thine ; 
 I passed by thy Abbey % — its worship was ended, 
 
 The ivy hung dark over portal and shrine. 
 Yet weep not, fair Cambria, though shorn of thy glory. 
 
 Thy Star shall yet rise in ascendance again ; 
 Song and science are treasuring the leaves of thy story. 
 
 Not a page shall appeal to our bosoms in vain ! 
 
 SONNET TO GEORGE HAYTER, ESQ., M.A., S.L., &c. 
 
 Hayter ! whose heart and hand alike are swayed 
 By Feeling's noblest impulses, from whom 
 The hollow world hath not yet stolen the bloom 
 Of boyish frankness, if I have delayed 
 Too long a garland for thy brows to braid, 
 Pardon the omission ! I, though mute, have been 
 No blind attendant on thy steps, but seen 
 The Future brighten with the light that streams 
 From thy rich canvas : O thou happy heir 
 Of Immortality ! thy painter's dreams 
 Are sweetly drawn from that Elysium, where 
 Titian with Raphael walks, and joys to see 
 Their genius worshipped and sustained by thee. 
 M'oiurn Abbey, January Tflth, 1826. 
 
 * Eliseg Pillar^z. British column, considered one of the most ancient existing; 
 erected by Concerm, to the memory of his grandfather, Eliseg, who was killed in a 
 battle fought with the Saxons near Chester, in 607. The pillar stands in the vale of 
 Crucis, near Llangollen. 
 
 t Chirk Castle. 
 
 * The beautiful abbey of Valle Crucis, ounded about 1200, by Madog at Gryffidd 
 Ulachr. 
 
TO SAMUEL FOX. 241 
 
 THE ABBOT'S OAK. 
 
 [These lines are affixed to a tablet upon the Oak in Wobum Park, whereon the last 
 Abbot was hung in 1537, for refusing allegiance to King Henry VIII.] 
 
 O ! 'TWAS a ruthless deed, enough to pale 
 
 Freedom's bright fires, that doomed to shameful death, 
 
 Those that maintained their Faith with latest breath, 
 
 And scorned before the despot's frown to quail ! 
 
 Yet 'twas a glorious hour when from the goal 
 
 Of papal tyranny the mind of man 
 
 Dared to break loose, and triumph in the ban 
 
 Of thunders roaring in the distant gale ! 
 
 Yes, old Memorial of the mitred Monk, 
 
 Thou livest to flourish in a brighter day, 
 
 With seeming joy that pure and patriot f ows 
 
 Are breathed where superstition reigned. Thy trunk 
 
 Its glad green garments wears, though in decay, 
 
 And pious redbreasts warble from thy boughs. 
 
 TO SAMUEL FOX. 
 
 WITH A COPY OF TASSO'S JERUSALEM DELIVERED. 
 I. 
 
 To thee, dear Friend, whose generous care, 
 So oft benevolent and mild, 
 When doomed its heaviest chain to wear. 
 Disease of half its weight beguiled, 
 
 II. 
 These tomes of my most studious hours 
 The pleasant fruitage I consign ; 
 Happy if e'er, when sadness lowers, 
 They throw the slightest charm o'er thine. 
 
 III. 
 But thou need'st not the tuneful dreams. 
 Which Fiction yields, or Song commands ; 
 Thy thoughts are of Diviner themes, 
 Thy walks in more Celestial lands. 
 
 16 
 
242 POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Where sorrow pines, or anguish bleeds. 
 Thy steps are traced, thy virtues found ; 
 Alert with Pity's sweetest deeds 
 To soothe the grief, to stanch the wound. 
 
 Long to that noble sphere of thought 
 Be thy devoted hours assigned. 
 Where Faith's most glorious fight is fought, 
 And Peace stands near, thy brows to bind. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Engaged in this more blest Crusade, 
 Be thine that Vision from the sky. 
 And the sealed bliss to John displayed. 
 The New Jerusalem on high ! 
 Froxfield, tth mo. ^^th, 1829. 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 ' Thou ask'st me for a strain* 
 Would it were worthier ! " 
 
 To thee, dear Love, who by thy recent vow. 
 
 Hast turned to ceaseless smiles my long, long sighs, 
 
 One fond and simple melody ev'n now 
 
 To Thy dear name shall rise. 
 
 Siclyiess has bound me in her wearying chains. 
 My spirits flag, my mirth is at an end ; 
 But O, how sweetly hast thou soothed my pains. 
 Mine own familiar friend ! 
 
THE ALAMEDA, 243 
 
 III. 
 
 Dearer by far than when thy bridal hand 
 Trembled in mine, thou art and yet shalt be; 
 As by my side thou tak'st thy constant stand 
 In loveliest ministry. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My hand is faint and weak, it cannot do 
 The spirit's bidding on a lyre unstrung, 
 It calls on thee the Echo to pursue, 
 
 And give her sounds a tongue. 
 
 They whisper of untired, untiring love, 
 Nor sickness can disturb, nor pain destroy. 
 Peace be upon thee from thy God above, 
 And joy, Celestial joy ! 
 Nottingham, \2th month, 26th, 1828, 
 
 VERSES ON THE ALAMEDA AT AMPTHILL PARK. 
 
 Unquestioned let the column soar, 
 The vaulted temple rise to tell 
 
 Of deeds which after-times adore — 
 Where patriots lived, or freemen fell ; 
 To meditative minds a spell 
 
 Is in the slightest record placed 
 To honour loved or laurelled names, 
 In duty to the generous aims 
 
 Of genius and of taste. 
 
244 POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 The piles by our first Edward reared. 
 
 In grief for his connubial loss ; 
 The urn to Shenstone's heart endeared, 
 
 And brave Philippa's trophied cross ; 
 
 Sweet Pembroke's pillar, gray with moss, 
 In sound of Eamont's murmuring fall ; 
 
 And Cliiford's fountain, are to me 
 
 Like haunted shrines— there's poesy 
 And pathos in them all ! 
 
 III. 
 But towers, but temples have their own 
 
 Mute griefs, besieged by lorn decay ; 
 And if Heaven's thunder spares the stone, 
 
 'Tis mined by envious Eld away. 
 
 Nature alone subdues to play 
 The warring churl, — her forests fade, 
 
 But to renew for him who loves 
 
 The influence of the breathing groves, 
 Life, music, flowers, and shade. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thus, Holland, shall thy verdant limes. 
 Though oft seared rudely, flourish still, 
 
 And, raised, transmit to distant times 
 The image of thy frank good-will I 
 There, let but Fancy have her fill 
 
 Of thought, and thou shalt hear the talk 
 Of groups blithe-hearted as the best 
 That charm, when Vesper tints the west, 
 
 Seville's own elmin-walk. 
 
 V. 
 There Mirth, there Wit shall lance his shaft, 
 
 And when their wilder voice is mute. 
 Mild echo to thy halls shall waft 
 
 The warblings of some Doric flute. 
 
 No warm debate, no harsh dispute, 
 
THE ALAMEDA. 245 
 
 Shall vex the Dryads' ears, beyond 
 Ingenuous Beauty's tones, that chide 
 The kiss half granted, half denied, 
 
 To lips as pure as fond. 
 
 VL 
 
 There Youth shall urge his vacant sport, 
 
 There Age relax his thoughtful brow. 
 And harassed Toil indulgence court, 
 
 And Care grow glad, unconscious how ; 
 
 And if, as elder bards avow. 
 Scenes where the vanished Great have strayed. 
 
 Still claim their gentle spirits, there, 
 
 In the still twilight, shall repair 
 Full many a storied shade. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Forms that in olden time adorned 
 The jewelled court, the tented camp. 
 
 That life for nobler virtue scorned, 
 
 Or watched by Fancy's charmed lamp; — 
 De Mowbray, with his Red-cross stamp. 
 
 Who won, by Pity's generous lure. 
 The lion to his leash in fight ; 
 And, with his princely bride, the Knight 
 
 That fought at Azincour. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Beauchamp and amorous Seynt-Amand, 
 Whose knightly scutcheon none could blot. 
 
 Borne pure in many a dauntless stand 
 'Gainst Gascon Earl and stalwart Scot: 
 Well knew the archer as he shot. 
 
 From far Sir Almaric's gifted glove, 
 And taxed the bezants on his shield. 
 To prove how well the shafts could yield 
 
 Praise to his ladye-love. 
 
246 ■ POEMS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Nor last, that wondrous Youth, to whom 
 The lute was lovely as the sword, 
 
 Who found on Zutphen's plains his doom, 
 By an admiring world deplored ; 
 And at his side, the Friend that scored 
 
 Such numbers with his curtelax grim, 
 That the foe shunned it as the mace 
 Of that Unearthly One, whose face 
 
 Heaven's bolts have rendered dim. 
 
 X. 
 
 Yes, they shall come, and with them glide 
 The sweet and sad of other days ; 
 
 Sidney's dear Sister, the fond pride 
 
 Of Spenser's strains, and Jonson's praise ; 
 And, soothed perchance by Walpole's lays. 
 
 And Ossory's pillar that prolongs 
 
 Her fame, there Katharine too shall rove. 
 And Jose, in thine Elysian Grove, 
 
 All memory of her wrongs. 
 
 XI. 
 
 What though for her there pass not by 
 The proud and portly alguazil. 
 
 The water-carrier's languid cry, 
 Or mantled Matador's appeal. 
 Nor touched guitar nor seguidille 
 
 Danced to the clinking Castanet, — 
 No veiled Senora's flirting fan, 
 Nor sun-kissed fruit-girl's darted scan 
 
 From eyes of sparkling jet ; — 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet groups and customs shall ye trace 
 Of happier arts and brighter times, 
 
 And courtesies that give not place 
 
 To the forced growth of warmer climes ; 
 For ne'er beneath thy shading limes 
 
THE ALAMEDA. 247 
 
 Shall the hired Bravo stand, to aim 
 At patriot worth, nor Monk command 
 Deeds such as now make Spanish land 
 
 A synonym for Shame, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 No, ne'er ! but in their stead the wise 
 And dauntless lineage of the free, — 
 
 Some Foscolo, whose lettered sighs 
 Are all for bleeding liberty ; 
 Or olive-crowned Arguelles, — he 
 
 Whose image like a key unlocks 
 
 The portal of proud thoughts and aims, 
 Glorious as to our theme the names 
 
 Of Mackintosh and Fox. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Some mild Licentiate, whom thine arm 
 Has saved perchance from bigots' cells ; 
 
 Some Bard, in whose pure breast the charm 
 Of memory's evening sunshine dwells; 
 Whilst, listening to the distant bells 
 
 That sound from Milbrook's rural tower. 
 By Wit, by Song, by Loveliness 
 Made blithe, thou too ofttimes shall bless 
 
 The beauty of the bower ! 
 
 .XV. 
 
 For fresh with ripening years, and green 
 The boughs shall spread, the umbrage fall. 
 
 As in poetic page is seen,* 
 Within the alluring castle-wall, 
 Where lavish Idlesse deals to all 
 
 Delicious ease, divine repose. 
 And rosy dreams that none may tell. 
 But they that walk thy woods, or dwell 
 
 In happy Vallombrose. 
 
 Vide Thomson's '* Castle of Indolence." 
 
248 POEMS. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 No fairer Grove shall have o'erspread 
 
 The crowd that to the Laughing Sage 
 Gave ear, or bowed the approving head 
 
 O'er Theophrast's didactic page ; 
 
 Not that, where Plato would engage 
 His guests on themes, pure, grave, and high; 
 
 Nor where sweet Clio, with her style 
 
 Prompted Thucydides to smile 
 On deeds that ne'er can die. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 No lovelier Grove, if Poet's vow 
 
 Still float to deep EXodona's shrine. 
 Shall song to earth call down than now 
 
 My tuneful prayers create of thine ; 
 
 Its guardians be the sacred Nine ! 
 Its voice by night, its guest by day. 
 
 The warbling nightingale and dove ; 
 
 Its spirit peace, its look be love, 
 Its breath perpetual May ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Farewell ! in childhood's careless prime 
 It soothed to list the hum of bees. 
 
 To pluck wild flowers, and lisp wild rhyme 
 Beneath thine immemorial trees. 
 Sweet Ampthill ! and for joys like these 
 
 'Tis fit I strike an idle chord, 
 To sing these rising Groves of thine. 
 And in thy grateful service twine 
 
 One laurel for thy Lord ! 
 
THE LUCK OF ED EN HALL. 249 
 
 THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 
 
 A FAIRY LEGEND. 
 
 It is currently believed in Scotland, and on the Border, that he who has courage 
 to riish upon a Fairy festival, and snatch away the drinking -cup, shall find it prove to 
 him a cornucopia of good fortune, if he can bear it in safety across a running stream. 
 A Goblet is still carefully preserved in Eden Hall, Cumberland, which is supposed to 
 have been seized at such a banquet, by one of the ancient family of Musgrave. The 
 Fairy train vanished, crying aloud, — 
 
 "If that glass either break or fall. 
 Farewell the luck of Edenhall." 
 
 From this Prophecy the Goblet took the name it bears, "The Luck of Edenhall." -• 
 Minstrelsy of tfie Scottish Border. 
 
 On Eden's wild romantic bowers 
 The summer moonbeams sweetly fall, 
 
 And tint with yellow light the towers, 
 The stately towers of Eden Hall. 
 
 There, lonely, in the deepening night, 
 
 A Lady at her lattice sits, 
 And trims her taper's wavering light, 
 
 And tunes her idle lute by fits. 
 
 But little can her idle lute 
 
 Beguile the weary moments now. 
 And little seems the lay to suit 
 
 Her wistful eye and anxious brow : 
 
 For as the chord her finger sweeps, 
 Ofttimes she checks her simple song. 
 
 To chide the froward chance that keeps 
 Lord Musgrave from her arms so long ; 
 
 And listens as the wind sweeps by. 
 
 His steed's familiar steps to hear. 
 Peace, beating heart ! 'twas but the cry 
 
 And foot-fall of the distant deer. 
 
25° POEMS. 
 
 In, Lady, to thy bower ! fast weep 
 The chill dews on thy cheek so pale ; 
 
 Thy cherished hero lies asleep, 
 Asleep in distant Russendale ! 
 
 The noon was sultry, long the chase. 
 And when the wild stag stood at bay, 
 
 Burbek reflected from its face 
 The purple light of dying day. 
 
 Through many a dale must Musgrave hie. 
 Up many a hill his courser strain. 
 
 Ere he behold, with gladsome eye, 
 His verdant bowers and halls again. 
 
 But twilight deepens, — o'er the wolds 
 The yellow moonbeam rising plays, 
 
 And now the haunted forest holds 
 The wanderer in its bosky maze. 
 
 No ready vassal rides in sight ; 
 
 He blows his bugle, but the call 
 Roused Echo mocks : farewell, to-night, 
 
 The home-felt joys of Eden Hall ! 
 
 His steed he to an alder ties, 
 His limbs he on the greensward flings. 
 
 And, tired and languid, to his eyes 
 Woos sorceress slumber's balmy wings. 
 
 A prayer, a sigh, in murmurs faint, 
 He whispers to the passing air ; 
 
 The Ave to his patron saint. 
 The sigh was to his lady fair. 
 
 'Twas well that in that Elfin wood 
 He breathed the supplicating charm. 
 
 Which binds the Guardians of the good 
 To shield from all unearthly harm. 
 
THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 251 
 
 Scarce had the night's pale lady stayed 
 
 Her chariot o'er th' accustomed oak, 
 Than murmurs in the mystic shade, 
 
 The slumberer from his trance awoke. 
 
 Stiff stood his courser's mane with dread. 
 His crouching greyhound whined with fear, 
 
 And quaked the wild fern round his head, 
 As though some passing ghost were near. 
 
 Yet calmly shone the moonshine pale. 
 
 On glade and hillock, flower and tree. 
 And sweet the gurgling nightingale 
 
 Poured forth her music wild and free. 
 
 Sudden her notes fall hushed ; and near 
 Flutes breathe, horns warble, bridles ring, 
 
 And, in gay cavalcade, appear 
 
 The Fairies round their Fairy King. 
 
 Twelve hundred Elfin knights and more 
 
 Were there in silk and steel arrayed ; 
 And each a ruby helmet wore. 
 
 And each a diamond lance displayed. 
 
 And pursuivants with wands of gold. 
 And minstrels scarfed and laurelled fair, 
 
 Heralds with blazoned flags unrolled, 
 And trumpet-tuning dwarfs were there. 
 
 Behind, twelve hundred ladies coy, 
 
 On milk-white steeds, brought up their Queen 
 
 Their kerchiefs of the crimson soy. 
 Their kirtles all of Lincoln green. 
 
 Some wore, in fanciful costume, 
 
 A sapphire or a topaz crown ; 
 And some a hern's or peacock's plume. 
 
 Which their own tercel-gents struck down. 
 
252 POEMS. 
 
 And some wore masks, and some wore hoods, 
 Some turbans rich, some onches rare ; 
 
 And some sweet woodbine from the woods, 
 To bind their undulating hair. 
 
 With all gay tint? the darksome shade 
 Grew florid as they passed along, 
 
 And not a sound their bridles made. 
 But tuned itself to Elfin song. 
 
 Their steeds they quit, — the knights advance, 
 And in quaint order, one by one. 
 
 Each leads his lady forth to dance, — 
 The timbrels sound — the charm's begun. 
 
 Where'er they trip, where'er they tread, 
 
 A daisy or a bluebell springs. 
 And not a dewdrop shines o'erhead. 
 
 But falls within their charmed rings. 
 
 " The dance lead up, the dance lead down. 
 The dance lead round our favourite tree ; 
 
 If now one lady wears a frown, 
 A false and froward shrew is she ! 
 
 " There's not a smile we Fays let fall. 
 But swells the tide of human bliss ; 
 
 And if good luck attends our call, 
 'Tis due on such sweet night as this. 
 
 " The dance lead up, the dance lead down, 
 The dance lead round our favourite tree ; 
 
 If now ev'n Oberon wears a frown, 
 A false and froward churl is he !" 
 
 Thus sing the Fays. Lord Musgrave hears 
 Their shrill sweet song, and eager eyes 
 
 The radiant show, despite the fears 
 That to his bounding bosom rise. 
 
THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 253 
 
 But soft ! the minstrelsy declines ; 
 
 The morrice ceases, sound the shawms ; 
 And quick, whilst many a taper shines. 
 
 The heralds rank their airy swarms. 
 
 Titania waves her crystal wand, — 
 
 And underneath the greenwood bower, 
 Tables and urns and goblets stand, 
 
 Metheglin, nectar, fruit, and flower. 
 
 " To banquet, ho ! " the seneschals 
 Bid the brisk tribes, that, thick as bees 
 
 At sound of cymbals, to their calls 
 Consort beneath the leafy trees ; 
 
 Titania by her King, each knight 
 
 Beside his ladye love ; the page 
 Behind his scutcheoned lord, — a bright 
 
 Equipment on a brilliant stage. 
 
 The monarch sits ; all helms are doffed. 
 
 Plumes, scarfs, and mantles cast aside. 
 And, to the sound of music soft. 
 
 They ply their cups with mickle pride. 
 
 Or sparkling mead, or spangling dew, 
 
 Or livelier hippocras they sip ; 
 And strawberries red, and mulberries blue. 
 
 Refresh each elf's luxurious lip. 
 
 With " nod, and beck, and wreathdd smile," 
 
 They heap their jewelled patines high ; 
 Nor want their mirthful airs the while 
 
 To crown the festive revelry. 
 
 A minstrel dwarf, in silk arrayed. 
 
 Lay on a mossy bank, o'er which 
 The wild thyme wove its fragrant braid, 
 
 The violet spread its perfume rich ; 
 
254 POEMS. 
 
 And whilst a page at Oberon's knee 
 Presented high the wassail cup, 
 
 This lay the little bard with glee 
 From harp of ivory offered up : 
 
 " Health to our Sovereign ! fill, brave boy. 
 Yon glorious goblet to the brim ! 
 
 There's joy — in every drop there's joy. 
 That laughs within its charmed rim ! 
 
 " 'Twas wrought within a wizard's mould. 
 When signs and spells had happiest power. 
 
 Health to our King by wood and wold ! 
 Health to our Queen in hall and bower ! " 
 
 They rise, the myriads rise, and shrill 
 The wild wood echoes to their brawl, — 
 
 " Health to our King by wold and rill ! 
 Health to our Queen in bower and hall ! " 
 
 A sudden thought fires Musgrave's brain, — 
 So help him all ye Powers of Light, — 
 
 He rushes to the festal train. 
 And snatches up that goblet bright ! 
 
 With three brave bounds the lawn he crossed, 
 The fourth it seats him on his steed ; 
 
 " Now, Luath ! or thy lord is lost — • 
 Stretch to the stream with lightning speed !" 
 
 'Tis uproar all around, behind, — 
 
 Leaps to his selle each screaming Fay ; 
 
 " The charmed cup is fairly tined, 
 Stretch to the strife, away ! away !" 
 
 As in a whirlwind forth they swept, 
 The green turf trembling as they passed ; 
 
 But, forward still good Musgrave kept, 
 The shallow stream approaching fast. 
 
THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 255 
 
 A thousand quivers round him rained 
 Their shafts or ere he reached the shore ; 
 
 But when the farther bank was gained, 
 This song the passing whirlwind bore : 
 
 " Joy to thy banner, bold Sir Knight ; 
 
 But if yon goblet break or fall, 
 Farewell thy vantage in the fight, 
 
 Farewell the Luck of Edenhall !" 
 
 The forest cleared, he winds his horn — 
 
 Rock, wood, and wave return the din ; 
 And soon, as though by echo borne, 
 
 His gallant squires come pricking in. 
 
 'Tis dusk of day. In Eden towers 
 
 A mother o'er her infcuit bends. 
 And lists, amid the whispering bowers, 
 
 The sound that from the stream ascends. 
 
 It comes in murmurs up the stairs, 
 
 A low, a sweet, a mellow voice. 
 And charms away the Lady's cares. 
 
 And bids the Mother's heart rejoice. 
 
 " Sleep sweetly, Babe," 'twas heard to say ; 
 
 " But if the goblet break or fall, 
 Farewell thy vantage in the fray. 
 
 Farewell the Luck of Edenhall !" 
 
 Though years on years have taken flight. 
 Good fortune 's still the Mus'grave's thrall : 
 
 Hail to his vantage in the fight ! 
 All hail the Luck of Edenhall ! " 
 
J56 POEMS. 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF HARDEN TOWER. 
 
 Barden Tower is situated on the Wharfe, not far from Bolton Abbey, amidst fells, 
 cascades, and woods. 
 
 " Now the Countess of Cumberland was truly religious, devout, and conscientious, 
 even from her very childhood ; and did spend much time in reading the Scriptures, 
 in Heavenly meditations, and in prayers, fastings, and deeds of charity, especially 
 for some fourteen or fifteen years before her death ; and of such an elevated mind 
 was she to all goodness, as any may truly say she had in many things a kind of a 
 prophetic spirit in her ; in particular, she would often tell her only daughter, the Lady 
 Anne Clifford, that the ancient lands of her father's inheritance would at last come to 
 be hers, what opposition soever was made to hinder it, although it would be very 
 long first ; which many years after came to pass. And she was the rather induced to 
 believe it by reason of a strange kind of divining dream or Vision that appeared to 
 her in a fearful manner in Barden Tower, in Craven, when she was great with child, 
 with her third child, which told her she should be delivered a little while after of a 
 daughter, who should be the only child to her parents, and live to inherit the lands 
 of her ancestors ; which after proved to be true, though at that time both the 
 countess's sons were living ; but the elder of them died a month after the Vision, and 
 the younger of them when her daughter was a year and four months old. Which 
 strange Vision we are the rather induced to set down, because undoubtedly, whilst she 
 lived here in the world, her spirit had more converse with Heaven and Heavenly con- 
 templations than with earthly matters." — Memorials of the Cliffords. Harl. MSS. 
 
 The Lady Anne Chfford became afterwards Countess of Pembroke, Dorset, and 
 Montgomery. 
 
 O, HAVE ye e'er the noon beguiled 
 
 On lonely Wharfe's romantic border? 
 Where ivied cliffs on cliffs are piled, 
 
 By woods o'erwaved in rich disorder ; 
 The vale, with many a solemn sigh, 
 
 Responding as the waters rolled. 
 Half drowned the cushat's plaintive cry. 
 
 Half heard the sheep-bell from the fold, 
 Nor owned that there the chastening hours 
 
 Might glide most gently with the Good ; 
 And oft from worlds more blest than ours 
 
 Bring Faith's prophetic mood. 
 
 As fair a form, as chaste a mind, 
 
 Hath sought its sacred calm to borrow, 
 
 As e'er to Duty bowed resigned, 
 
 Or drooped beneath the touch of Sorrow ; 
 
THE PROPHECY OF BARDEN TOWER. 257 
 
 Who, doomed to see her house despoiled, 
 
 To swell a kinsman's haughty state, 
 By Power opposed, yet onward toiled. 
 
 With hope untired, and heart elate. 
 Yes ! kings may frown, they cannot bend 
 
 The inborn strength that stands erect. 
 Girt for the watch, till Heaven shall end 
 
 Th' ungenerous world's neglect. 
 
 From Barden Tower the Lady gazed— 
 
 Earl Bedford's own high-minded daughter — 
 O'er all that wild enchanted waste. 
 
 The umbered wood, the tinted water. 
 Her heart was thronged with doubts and fears, 
 
 Whilst brooding on the babe she bore ; 
 And he who should have soothed her tears 
 
 Was dallying round each bright Azore. 
 The cheek he praised, so fresh of old, 
 
 Wore grief's white roses, sad to see ; 
 The Book of Grace, unclasped in gold, 
 
 Lay resting on her knee. 
 
 She mused on deeds of distant days, 
 
 The Patriarch's rest, the Bond-slave's story, 
 When hopeless tears proved springs of praise. 
 
 The gloomy wild a gate of glory. 
 Its peace the living text inbreathed, 
 
 A hallowed feeling, pure and calm. 
 And Eve her influences bequeathed. 
 
 Low, dying tones, and breath of balm. 
 There came a murmur from the fell. 
 
 From bowery Wharfe a whisper rose, 
 And sealed her spirit with the spell 
 
 Of undisturbed repose. 
 
 She saw in sleep a banquet spread. 
 
 Rich wine in many a golden flagon : 
 The feast was o'er her warrior dead. 
 
 The hall his hall of proud Pendragon. 
 
 17 
 
2S8 POEMS. 
 
 Twice twenty knights of high degree, 
 
 All mail-clad chieftains, there had place ; 
 And, by his shield's emblazonry 
 
 Well known, a Clifford on the dais. 
 The tapers, as the hall she paced. 
 
 Cheered by her presence, blazed more bright ; 
 A Harper hoar her left hand graced, 
 
 A Seneschal her right. 
 
 She took, to greet them, from the board, 
 
 A cup, and pledged them ere she parted ; 
 When lo ! at Clifford's nod each sword 
 
 In anger from its scabbard started. 
 But wondrous succour was at hand — 
 
 Her Guardian herald forward prest, 
 And shivered with his ruby wand 
 
 The weapons brandished at her breast ; 
 And as before his eye of fire 
 
 Unsinewed stood the daunted throng, 
 Mysterious from the Minstrel's wire 
 
 Broke forth the unstudied song : 
 
 " Rest, Vipont, rest ! peace, Vescy, peace ! 
 
 Nor idly beard the Russell lion. 
 Blest by the gracious Pleiades, 
 
 And banded with the bright Orion ! 
 Round Salem's towers ye've seen him prey, 
 
 O'er Ulster's heathy mountains bound, 
 And sternly, grimly, hold at bay 
 
 The Gallic hunter's eager hound. 
 Him Love — the child — with ease may guide ; 
 
 But let Power touch his bristling mane, 
 Ye've seen him dash his darts aside, 
 
 And snap his spears in twain. 
 
 " Drink, Lady, drink ! the cup's thine own. 
 Nor sorrow for thine infant burden ; 
 
 For though thy seed in tears be sown, 
 Yet rich shall be thy final guerdon. 
 
THE PROPHECY OF BARDEN TOWER. 259 
 
 The babe that in thy lap erewhile 
 
 Shall sleep to many a murmured song, 
 A girl — shall bear a kinsman's guile, 
 
 A woman — ^brave a warrior's wrong. 
 Yet hers shall still be flood and fell. 
 
 And hers shall yet be tower and town, 
 How long soe'er the Armed repel, 
 
 Howe'er the Sceptred frown. 
 
 " To all the honours of her race 
 
 Restored beyond the reach of malice. 
 What beal-fires on the hills shall blaze. 
 
 What flutes resound in pastoral valleys ! 
 Their state in Her ancestral towers 
 
 The household Virtues shall resume. 
 And Hospitality the hours 
 
 With many a festal light relume. 
 Her memory shall the wise and good 
 
 Embalm in some perennial verse. 
 And thousand tears and flowers be strewed 
 
 Late on Her holy hearse.'' 
 
 He ceased — She started, for the Two 
 
 Shone hke transfigured Saints before her . 
 Wondering She rose ; fast fell the dew, 
 
 The stars of heaven were gathered o'er her. 
 But Wharfe, when many a year had rolled, 
 
 And proud Pendragon witness bore, 
 That all the Vision had foretold. 
 
 Was strangely sooth as Gospel lore. 
 Nor marvel, thou who hear'st the strain, 
 
 That such Prophetic sense were given, 
 For spirits purged by fire from stain, 
 
 Walk less in Earth than Heaven. 
 
26o ■ POEMS. 
 
 THE RAID OF THE REIDSWIRE. 
 
 A LAY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. 
 
 On the last day of June, 1575, Sir John Forster and Sir John Carmichael, deputy- 
 warden or Iteeper of Liddesdale, met at Hexpath gatehead, and agreed to hold a 
 day of truce at Remelpeth on the 7th July. The Incidents here narrated are drawn 
 from the Earl of Huntingdon's original despatches to the English court, which are 
 to be seen among the Cottonian MSS. 
 
 O SWEET on Alnwick's towers at morn 
 
 The woodbine shakes its scented bells ; 
 And stately stands at gaze the fawn 
 
 That haunts their cloistered holts and dells. 
 But sweeter than the scented flower, 
 
 And statelier than the woodland hind, 
 Who yet in th' Abbey's oriel tower 
 
 Stands wooed by morn's mellifluous wind ? 
 
 O, 'tis not that the wind blows free, 
 
 That there the Lady Julian stands ; 
 It is 'twixt sigh and smile to see 
 
 Her gallant sire's departing bands. 
 For Scotland holds a truce to-day, 
 
 And though the Tynedale ranks are good, 
 Yet Liddesdale lads may drive a prey, 
 
 And Howes or Fenwicks fall to feud. 
 
 From Solway Moss to Berwick Law 
 
 No nobler marchmen e'er were seen. 
 Of all that traverse moor or shaw. 
 
 Or drive the deer in forest green. 
 There wind they through the braes and brooms. 
 
 And by the light that sunrise flings, 
 To her,— 'midst mantles, scarfs, and plumes,— 
 
 They seem a clan of star-crowned kings. 
 
 Of all their chieftains marked she One, 
 
 ■Who following with reverted eye. 
 Unfurled his pennon to the sun, 
 
 And tossed his gentle goshawk by. 
 
THE RAID OF THjE RPIDSWIRE. 261 
 
 His base and surcoat grained with gold, 
 
 Of lofty lineage spoke the youth ; 
 But more the bearing, frank and bold, 
 
 And dauntless brow of manly truth. 
 
 Her heart went with him, for she knew 
 
 That dark-eyed bird with golden bells. 
 And lion gules that ramped to view. 
 
 Beneath his stainless scallop-shells. 
 She watched him o'er the braes with woe — 
 
 She watched him through the brooms with pride— 
 Then sudden closed her bower window, 
 
 And kissed her slumbering child and sighed. 
 
 Already bound for Carter Fell, 
 
 Carmichael's Scottish clans convene. 
 With jack, with spear, with pennoncelle. 
 
 And Jeddart-axe borne far between . 
 From Swire and haugh, from cairn and cross, 
 
 From Allan water bright and blue. 
 Young Walter Scott o'er moor and moss. 
 
 Brought up the spears of brave Buccleuch. 
 
 The Armstrongs bold from Blackburnside, 
 
 In moonlight raid ne'er known to fail. 
 And Elliot, with his sons of pride. 
 
 Brought down the rest of Liddesdale. 
 Then Teviotdale sent to her powers 
 
 Boonjeddart with his tough black bills, 
 Cranstone and Gladstone from their bowers. 
 
 The Douglas from his heathy hills. 
 
 O'er Hawick and Rule- water, loud 
 
 The TrumbuUs raise their gathering cry. 
 And, led by Rutherford the proud. 
 
 Old Jedburgh's brawny sons reply ; 
 And thither came the Laird of Mow, 
 
 Huntley and earnest Ederstain, 
 Hunthill considerate of his vow. 
 
 And Bethrule in his wintry wane. 
 
262 POEMS. 
 
 But whoso gazed o'er Coquet head, 
 
 Saw sooth to say a braver sight — 
 The princely clans by Forster led, 
 
 So mild in peace, so fierce in fight. 
 There mustered Glendale's hardy sons. 
 
 From Cheviot to far Etal bower ; 
 From Rosedean Edge the Ildertons, 
 
 And Claverings from Callaly tower. 
 
 And Eslington obeyed the call. 
 
 And Edlingham his bugle blew ; 
 The Rodhams came scarce armed with all. 
 
 Round whom the Russell lion flew. 
 Nor guile nor war the Shaftons feared. 
 
 Of those whom pastoral Redesdale sent. 
 But lingered as the prey appeared. 
 
 And flew their falcons as they went. 
 
 'Twas different with the Fenwick clan, 
 
 They had their honour to maintain. 
 If e'er the Crayser's feud began. 
 
 Or flouted Aynsley and Lorraine. 
 And many a bow and many a blade, 
 
 Old Tynedale's merry marchmen bare. 
 Albeit no pennons were displayed. 
 
 Nor shout nor clangour rent the air. 
 
 With all their chivalry in selle, 
 
 The crested chiefs come cheerly in. 
 Whence frowns the fir o'er Halton dell, 
 
 Whence foams the wave o'er Hareshaw Linn,- 
 Thirlwall, and Fetherstone, and Carr, 
 
 The Nevilles high, the Charltons hot. 
 And Heron, seamed with many a scar. 
 
 In battle with the border Scot. 
 
 Yet met they as in bower or hall, 
 
 For plumes were vailed, and greetings paid ; 
 
 The merchant spread their packs, and all 
 Went merry as a masquerade. 
 
THE RAID OF THE REID SWIRE. 263 
 
 And still thronged in from down and dale, 
 
 The Kirkstones there, the Selbies here. 
 Like flocks of muir-fowl on the gale, 
 
 Or herds of Albyn's dark-brown deer. 
 
 The wardens sat,— the bills were tried, — 
 
 And some were speered, and some were sped. 
 Till Robson, on the English side. 
 
 Was called, and entered " sair bested." 
 " Ye swear him sick ! " exclaimed the Scot, 
 
 " Then yield the forfeit writings here." 
 " Now, nay," said Forster ; " spare the blot ; 
 
 Next tryst-day shall the knave appear." 
 
 " Ye play me false," Carmichael cried, 
 
 And sternly touched his sworded hilt. 
 " Let kerns," the Forester replied, 
 
 " Tax fair with foul, and truth with guilt. 
 Know justice fares in Tynedale chase. 
 
 As amply as on Liddesdale lea, 
 And sorely might he rue the case, 
 
 Dare cast a stain on mine or me." 
 
 " Albeit his bride were an Earl's sister. 
 
 And mine but the slip of a belted knight, 
 Beshrew me, but my sword, fair sir, 
 
 Should set the challenged reckoning right ! " 
 O, wrathful waxed the Keeper then ; 
 
 His eye flashed fire, he fumed, he frowned. 
 " What ! makes he menace ? " cried his men, 
 
 And seized their bills and gathered round. 
 
 Their slogan shout was " Jedworth ho ! " 
 
 The Grsemes and Craysers raised the yell ; 
 First Martin strung his tough yew bow, 
 
 And sternly smiled as Fenwick fell. 
 His stepson next the shaft essays. 
 
 Hoarse twangs the string, the feather flies, 
 And all is uproar and amaze. 
 
 Where Russell bleeds and Shafton dies. 
 
264 POEMS. 
 
 " Off ! off ! " our warden cried amain ; 
 
 Strike down yon banner, still your brawls ! 
 " 'Tis vain," the Russell sighed, " 'tis vain ; 
 
 See Chipchase widowed — Heron falls ! " 
 The knight his weapon grasped a space, — 
 
 Just chid his murderer with a sigh, — 
 Then ashy grew his manly face, 
 
 And dark his late illumined eye. 
 
 He took Sir John Forster by the hand. 
 
 And laid his head upon Russell's knee ; 
 " Farewell," said he, " Northumberland ! 
 
 I have lived, and loved, and bled for thee ! 
 His lady looks out at her high hall door, 
 
 His children sport in the birken field ; 
 But Sir George Heron is now no more. 
 
 He sleeps afar on his stainless shield ! 
 
 A mingled shout of rage and woe 
 
 Broke forth from all that mustered band. 
 " Now, Tynedale, bid thy bugles blow, 
 
 And up for high Northumberland ! " 
 With bill, with spear, with bended bow, 
 
 They ply the terrible attack, 
 Strike many a haughty marchman low. 
 
 And beat the Liddesdale archers back. 
 
 Athwart the swire they turn, they flee. 
 
 And climb the heathery brae pell-mell ; 
 Five hundred footmen there they see 
 
 Come pacing down the ash-tree deU. 
 " Now toss your bonnets to the skies. 
 
 Our Jedworth blades shall turn the scales ; 
 And of a truth, yon knaves are wise, 
 
 They stoop to truss the pedlar's bales ! " 
 
 No rest ; no ruth ; they raise the shout ; 
 
 " Fye, Tynedale, to it ! Jedburgh 's here ! 
 And bows are bent, and bills are out, 
 
 And booming bullets stun the ear. 
 
THE RAID OF THE REIDSWIRE. 265 
 
 Who stands must strive, who strives must fall ; 
 
 The plunderer leaves his rifled hoard, 
 For round him is the marksman's ball, 
 
 Behind the red revenging sword. 
 
 A false game then Carmichael played, 
 
 As captive on the moor he stood ; 
 He heard the slogan cry, and prayed 
 
 To still the tumult, quell the feud. 
 " But let me with Boonjeddart hie. 
 
 And if I have my own good will, 
 I'll shortly stint their savage cry. 
 
 And hang a hundred on the hill." 
 
 " But out on him for a traitor vilde ! 
 
 Woe worth the hour, woe worth the day ! 
 He has driven our merrymen over the wild. 
 
 And carried our bravest knights away. 
 And though unscathed they do not ride. 
 
 Since Mow is lamed and Symstone slain. 
 Yet ne'er shall gallant Heron guide 
 
 His border clans to the tryst again ! " 
 
 Thus spake the page with a face of woe. 
 
 In the arched oriel as he stood. 
 And drew the bonnet o'er his brow. 
 
 To wipe away the stain of blood. 
 The Ladye heaved nor sigh nor groan, 
 
 But bowed until the pang was fled. 
 Then paced apart her lone hearthstone. 
 
 And sadly shook her thoughtful head. 
 
 " My husband and sire in the Scot's countrie, 
 These shall the Morton soon restore ; 
 
 But O, my kinsman kind, for thee 
 My bosom bleeds, my tears run o'er ! 
 
266 POEMS. 
 
 Now moan, now moan, thou good greyhound. 
 And tear thy locks, thou winsome maid ; 
 
 For the noblest knight upon English ground, 
 Is perished in the Reidswire Raid ! " 
 
POEMS 
 
 BENJAMIN BARRON WIFFEN. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Quaker Squire. . . . . . .271 
 
 The Warder of the Pyrenees. .... 309 
 
 The Nun's Lament. ... . . 324 
 
 My Winter Home. ... . . 329 
 
 Lines written on J. H. Wiffen's Translation of G. de Vega. . 332 
 
 My Books and their Uses. .... . 333 
 
 The Church in Decay. ...... 334 
 
 Lines. .... . . 336 
 
 Lines on Cambridge. .... . 338 
 
 Memorial to a Friend. ... . 340 
 
 Lines affixed to a Pedigree. ..... 340 
 
 To the Memory of J. H. Wiffen. ... . 342 
 
 The Friends' Burial Ground at Wobum Sands. . . . 344 
 
 Lines on seeing the Bust of the Phidian Venus. . . 346 
 
 Lines on a Portrait of a Beautiful but unknown Lady. . . 347 
 
 Lines on a November Evening, after the Death of his Sister Sophia. 348 
 Lines on Love and Friendship. ..... 349 
 
 Lines sent with a Collection of Autographs. . . . 350 
 
 The Translator to his Book. ..... 350 
 
 Fray Luis de Leon. . . . . -351 
 
 Retirement ...... . 352 
 
 Invitation and Reply, from the Spanish. . . 355-6 
 
 Hymn of Girolamo Savanarola. . ... 356 
 
 Sonnets by Bernardino Tasso. ..... 358 
 
2yo CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE, 
 
 In Praise of the Ladies, from Castillejo. . . . 359 
 
 Lines ........ 360 
 
 From the Spanish, affixed to Enzina's Translation of the Bible. . 361 
 The Death of Placido. ..... 362 
 
 To God : A Prayer, by Placido. . . 362 
 
 Song of Negro Slaves. . . . 364 
 
 Dante to Albano. ....... 366 
 
 Impromptu on Reading of an Auto da Fe of Books . . 368 
 
 Stanzas from the Duchess of Amalfi. , . . . 369 
 
 The Rise of the Italian Reformation. .... 370 
 
 Lines on Visiting late in Life the Graves of my Forefathers. . 372 
 
POEMS. 
 
 THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 
 
 " Happy, oh happy, he who not aflfecting 
 The endless toils attending worldly cares, 
 With mind composed, all discontent rejecting, 
 With silent pace his way to heaven prepares." 
 
 Anonymous, 1609. 
 
 Canto First. — His Person. 
 
 When Buonarroti laid his colours down,* 
 
 And turned from sainted Graces to his own, 
 
 For Her his sense and juster taste refuse 
 
 Their gay vermilions and their splendid blues. 
 
 For Her the colours on his canvas spread 
 
 Are Nature's hues, that wake to life the dead ; 
 
 To form a whole creation these conspire, 
 
 That gives the flesh, and this th' immortal fire. 
 
 In chaster tints a livelier grace we see. 
 
 His hand more willing, hence its strokes more free ; 
 
 Just to his art, its truthful art is such. 
 
 He paints a feeling where he lays a touch ; 
 
 Round the loved form, in pleasing labour wrought, 
 
 He turns the lines, and every line a thought. 
 
 For memory breathed the freshness of his youth ; 
 
 He called not Beauty for his muse, but Truth. 
 
 * The original one (a drawing said to be by Buonarroti of the portrait of Vittoria 
 Colonna) is now (1858) in the possession of Mr. Wellesley, Master of New Inn Hall, 
 Oxford. 
 
272 POBMS. 
 
 She led his heart, the heart the hand improved, 
 The work complexioned to the thoughts he loved ; 
 Truth gave it voice — to hers the notes are strung, 
 A lovely poetn, speaking every tongue — 
 For not a land is foreign to the reach 
 Of graceful Painting's universal speech. 
 
 O might my hand a like expression lend 
 
 To the loved form of one departed Friend ! 
 
 The same its purpose, if my work succeed, 
 
 To warm the bosom or the mind to feed ; 
 
 For these my touches in each speaking line 
 
 Are Truth's and Nature's, and not merely mine. 
 
 The same sweet Muse fills all my breath, but then 
 
 Mine is a picture painted by the pen. 
 
 And pardon, though upon my task I stay 
 
 To mark each feature with a fond delay, 
 
 'Tis line on line that paints the truthlike cheek, 
 
 Touch upon touch that makes the marble speak. 
 
 So may the Poet make the lettered word 
 
 Live as a Spirit, through another's heard. 
 
 The pen, interpreting the Mind that stpers 
 
 The circling globe and swift revolving spheres, 
 
 Transmits the message down from age to age, 
 
 A speaking voice upon a silent page. 
 
 An ancient Village 'midst converging hills. 
 Shut from the world, a sylvan hollow fills 
 Unfading pines the higher summits crown. 
 Rich orchards hang the verdant slopes adown, 
 While gardens, grassy crofts, and groves fill up 
 The waving circles of this shady cup. 
 Eastward a hamlet's modern growth looks down 
 From the hill's ridge upon a distant town. 
 O'er a sweet vale that fields and flocks adorn, 
 That bends its breast to greet the glorious morn ; 
 And other villages and woods descries, — 
 A wider world where broader spread the skies. 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 273 
 
 The sky upon the basin's western bound 
 Expanding, spreads with large horizon round, 
 O'er corn and pasture, till the boundless view 
 On distant counties melts in shadowy blue. 
 
 Screened in deep groves from the regard of men, 
 In shadiest nook of all this shady glen, 
 Where smaller slopes an inner depth enclose. 
 And where the valley's waters find repose ; 
 Where spread the trees so leafy, green the bowers, 
 The sun can scarcely tinge the grain of flowers. 
 There dwelt a man, content to be unnamed, 
 Who walked with nature, and was not ashamed, 
 Who lived a life retired, and from the crowd 
 Kept far aloof, nor to their idols bowed, 
 Held to the manners of his father's age. 
 Revered the precepts of the Scripture page, 
 Engraved upon his heart the love it taught. 
 And made his life a sermon on his thought. 
 A village Squire, he lived with quiet aim 
 And simple life, and Richard was his name ; 
 His sect of those who forms and styles deny. 
 And rule their course with Barclay, Penn, and Fry. 
 
 Let me pourtray his person ; let me tell 
 What some who read may yet remember well. 
 Methinks I see him on the earth again. 
 And thou shalt see him, or I write in vain. 
 Not like the dreamy vision of a night, 
 But as a presence beaming on the sight. 
 
 ever near ! for but in death I see 
 
 The veil that falls between thy face and me. 
 
 1 was as yet in childhood's early age. 
 
 As he to manhood ripened grave and sage. 
 I was a youth, his years advancing grew 
 To life's meridian when my friend I knew ; 
 I was a man in some experience proved, 
 Ere I had tried his worth, and felt and loved ; 
 
 18 
 
274 POEMS. 
 
 Before my later mind could apprehend 
 
 His worth, the noon of life had passed my friend, 
 
 And set him forward on his calm career 
 
 So far, that Heaven, his evening home, seemed near. 
 
 As Adam fiiU formed from his Maker came, 
 A child in nature, though a man in frame. 
 So that mysterious sense which youth endears. 
 Grew liveliest in my friend's declining years, — 
 So like a child in heart, though common clay 
 Would call him Man, and sprinkle him with grey. 
 The lines of thought, ere thought avowed its birth. 
 Were slightly ploughed in mild and pregnant earth. 
 Around the mouth ; the lips, themselves compressed, 
 Were warders to the motions of the breast, 
 "Yet round them ever glowed the welcome smile. 
 Ready and prompt to greet a friend the while ; 
 But when in fixed repose, his air was such, 
 Reflection cast, and yet not over-much ; 
 And if sometime remained a longer shade 
 Than childhood loved, or thoughtfulness had made, 
 'Twas like a cloud that, rising from the west. 
 Melts into moisture, and the flowers are blest. 
 There's nothing great or good, sublime or holy. 
 Without a tinge of heaven-born melancholy. 
 So hoar by time, some tower upon the steep. 
 Cut off and wave-lashed by the stormy deep, 
 Marks where the land to seaward stretched before, 
 And what the main has swallowed of the shore ; 
 Looks up on high as if the skies to greet, 
 And treads the moon-swayed waters at its feet. 
 
 Jocose was he, and innocently gay. 
 
 He loved on words and turns of speech to play ; 
 
 Though grave, yet cheerful, — complaisant, though shy. 
 
 Wit smiling waited in his glistening eye ; 
 
 Yet by the town's society controlled. 
 
 His manners distant seemed, and dry and cold. 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 275 
 
 And unrefined to those who could not feel 
 The just degrees of gentle and genteel, 
 Although none have so little claim to rate 
 The little vulgar as the vulgar great. 
 
 Well could he deal his points as others dealt, 
 Yet, kind of purpose, seldom niade them felt ; 
 And quick of sense and keen of thought to know. 
 When solid worth was sacrificed to show. 
 Would thus to his remarks expression lend. 
 Dropped in the ear of some confiding friend. 
 " O what a toil is pleasure in its birth ! 
 How much false feeling takes the place of worth ! 
 How large the efforts for an aim so small ! 
 The head grows giddy just before a fall ; 
 Ah, then how bitter are the tears to shed. 
 For lips, though rosy, will demand their bread. '' 
 To his young friends and simpler, he would play 
 In softer speech and in more sportive way ; 
 He used it, youthful fancy to beguile, 
 And lead to settle in a graver style. 
 So the vine-dresser trains the running shoot, 
 To give the growing grape a nobler fruit ; 
 The grapes, complexioned by a touch divine, 
 Blush purple, and burst forth in virgin wine ; 
 The swelling vintage crowns his wise employ, 
 And heaps the abundance of his bosom's joy. 
 
 Such were his outward modes of thought ; his best 
 Lay deep, and anchored in his breast had rest, 
 And who would know the treasures of his mind 
 Must seek indeed, but they were sure to find. 
 So on the surface of the waves the light 
 Sparkles and flashes on each orb of sight, 
 But all the priceless gems of pearly seas 
 Are formed in deeps unbroken by a breeze. 
 
 To conquer in the Spirit's warfare trained. 
 His balanced mind its harmony retained. 
 
276 POEMS. 
 
 He hushed each rising passion of the breast, 
 And the face witnessed to the bosom's rest. 
 Few are at all times clear, and some are seen 
 With Michael and the' apostates — strife within ; 
 For might we see to apprehend the whole, 
 There's " war in Heaven '' with man's devoted soul 
 Expelled of yore from the Celestial plain, 
 The strife in other fields they yet maintain, 
 On lower spheres are their dread flags unfurled. 
 For every soul is to itself a world. 
 But not a friend's familiar eye could trace 
 The shock of Spirits imaged on his face ; 
 Thought sat retired, collected, yet unbent, 
 Like Abram watching Angels from his tent, 
 When over Syrian sands the dusky night 
 Brooding, from mansions of essential Light, 
 They brought the messages of Love and Power 
 To Faith and Conscience in the twilight hour. 
 
 Full of his parts in business and in books, 
 The virtues hardened in his Father's looks ; 
 Where Judgment only held the scales and swayed. 
 The cherub Mercy trembled and obeyed. 
 But Richard to the Mother's weakness clung. 
 Approved when old what he had felt when young. 
 Few were her years with him, and yet the tone 
 Of her so gentle nature grew his own. 
 As river-feeders different courses run, 
 And form the stream when mingled into one. 
 They who observed him in his course could trace 
 Which was the mother's, which the father's grace ; 
 The mingled currents in his bosom beat 
 With even pulse, but with unequal heat ; 
 The Father's warmed the intellectual part. 
 While all the Mother's glowed around the heart. 
 
 How early Time's cold touches freeze the flow 
 In human minds of what they merely know .' 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 277 
 
 How late it is ere Time's oblivious seal 
 Is set on that which youthful bosoms feel! 
 
 Richard was one of those whose single lot 
 
 The wedded pity as a thing forgot ; 
 
 They little thought how oft his wit denied 
 
 To probe the troubles that they fain would hide. 
 
 Thus would he speak when these he saw, the while 
 
 Played round his lips a half-misgiving smile, 
 
 A flash so faint as doubtful left the sight, 
 
 The shadow of a red rose on a white. 
 
 " Good is our lot, my friend, for truly we, 
 
 What other griefs we have, at least are free, — 
 
 Free from the cares of multiplying shoots. 
 
 Who canker life by life's degenerate fruits, — 
 
 Free from divided wishes, toils, and pains, 
 
 'Tis theirs to envy what our choice maintains." 
 
 Half sadly smiling as he spoke, my view 
 
 In silence questioned which of these were true. 
 
 His words or smile, and now it were no less 
 
 As vain to question as 'tis vain to guess. 
 
 On what was then uncertain light and shade, 
 
 Death has but now another shadow laid. 
 
 And yet from out the dimness of the past. 
 
 One lively figure is before me cast. 
 
 Tall is her form, and with enquiring tread. 
 
 She seems to seek the presence of the dead, 
 
 Not in the place of graves ; he is not there, 
 
 But at the rustic bower — the garden chair, 
 
 Amidst his home-loved flowers and sweet familiar air. 
 
 Now by green alleys, where retreating light 
 
 Down long-drawn vistas imitates the night ; 
 
 Now on the slope, where to each bloom is given 
 
 To drink the sun, and bathe in dews of heaven ; 
 
 Now by the lake, where thickest shades abound, 
 
 She pauses to the wind's and water's sound, 
 
 Stops at each well-known trunk the grove contains, 
 
 The lofty limes, the oriental planes, 
 
278 POEMS. 
 
 The beech tree, Nature's column, sculptured o'er 
 
 With names of generations now no more ; 
 
 Winding the Mount, her gliding footstep tends 
 
 The rising path, and o'er an urn she bends : 
 
 Oh, is he there ? for now emotion more 
 
 Glows on that face than thought had stirred before. 
 
 For on the changing cheek the alternate rose. 
 
 All lily white and crimson, comes and goes. 
 
 And goes and comes, — repeating like my tale, 
 
 The fainter red to settle in the pale. 
 
 And yet a glow across her features flies. 
 
 Yet not of this world's brightness, and the eyes 
 
 Show entrance to that Kingdom where the soul. 
 
 Freed from the body, lives a perfect whole. 
 
 They look as though the vision they confest 
 
 Of him the sainted in his Heaven-felt rest. 
 
 Death re-awakened, life anew recast, 
 
 More dear, more pure, more tender than the past. 
 
 But, no ! I will not lift the veil to trace 
 What I have read in one yet living face. 
 Ah, no ! I will not make those echoes start 
 Which have a voice in one. yet beating heart. 
 Ah, no ! I will not search the sacred spheres 
 For what had birth, yet lay concealed in fears. 
 But for his own my gentle sorrows shed, 
 And hallowed keep the silence of the dead. 
 Forget ye not what promises of truth 
 Swayed your young bosoms in believing youth ! 
 Earth-formed yet born of heaven, as like with like 
 In kindred natures kindred virtues strike ; 
 Thoughts unconfessed, held ever in control. 
 They form no less a portion of the soul. 
 They nurse the faculties while they expand 
 And draw to Heaven, although not hand in hand. 
 Man is not all of earth it seems to say. 
 Nor woman fashioned but of finer clay ; 
 Unbreathed on earth, on high its name shall shine, 
 And that be Love — all holy — all divine ; 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 279 
 
 Light of that flame which shall n* cease to burn, 
 
 Though flesh depart and clay to clay return, 
 
 A tenant of the temple of the skies. 
 
 Till the graves crumble and the dust arise ; 
 
 When reunited, holier than before. 
 
 No sigh shall pain, and death divide no more. 
 
 Canto Second.— His Walks. 
 
 * * More sweet than odours caught by him who sails 
 Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, 
 A thousand times more exquisitely sweet 
 The freight of holy feeling which we meet 
 In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales 
 From fields where good men walk, or bowers wherein they rest." 
 
 Wordsworth's Ecclesiastical Sketches^ xxxiL 
 
 Hail, Poesy ! thou daughter of the morn. 
 
 And darling music, man's coeval bom, 
 
 Thou earliest handmaid of the human mind. 
 
 The fair as light, the free as mountain wind. 
 
 The buoyant as the bounding fountain's play. 
 
 The beautiful — as flowers in dewy May ! 
 
 The musical — as when with warbling flute 
 
 Winds, waters, birds, and bending branches, suit 
 
 Their tones to chide the lips for being mute. 
 
 I ask not of thy place, to all belong 
 
 Some flutterings of the harmonies of song. 
 
 Wide as the scope of universal mind. 
 
 To no fair scene is Poesy confined, — 
 
 No fount of Castaly, no one choice spot 
 
 Where some may drink at, and the rest may not, 
 
 No golden cloud round one loved mountain curled, 
 
 But a broad glory compassing the world. 
 
 Who gives the sense will not to place refuse 
 
 The inspiration of the Holy Muse, 
 
 And nature's works and ways are all as plain 
 
 On Lomond's ridge as by the banks of Seine. 
 
 Hast thou e'er sailed on the unstable sea, 
 Nor made the land thy whole geography ; 
 
28o POEMS. 
 
 Ready to rest and yet content to roam, 
 And take the wide world circle for a home ? 
 Or hast thou paused to watch at close of day 
 From cloud to cloud the summer lightnings play, 
 And when their flashing fires upon the plain 
 Lanced from on high in " beautiful disdain," 
 Long lingering stood to danger all awake, 
 Yet loved the danger for the beauty's sake ? 
 Hast thou e'er gazed upon the mountain snows. 
 And watched them catch the colour of the rose, 
 Or marked the light's first tints their tops adorn. 
 Intensely purple by the rising morn. 
 Or down their clefts its mid-day glories rolled 
 A kindling flood of azure, green and gold, 
 And turned and turned again upon the spot 
 To fix their features, ne'er to be forgot ? 
 Thine is the Poet's feeling — though his power 
 May not be thine, nor thine the auspicious hour. 
 To use at will his instrument of thought 
 To paint to others what thy mind has wrought. 
 
 Eternal Nature thus affects our minds. 
 
 And strikes their chords, and so an echo finds ; 
 
 Varied her touches are as varied each ; 
 
 And this is poetry, though wanting speech. 
 
 Nor less the pulse of Poesy is warm 
 
 To Nature's feelings than to Nature's form. 
 
 How have I heard near old Saguntum's towers 
 
 Valencian maidens animate their hours, 
 
 Whose jet-black eyes would scarce permit to trace 
 
 The sunbrown beauties of each pensive face. 
 
 There have I heard to Moorish music wild 
 
 The Spanish mother lull her infant child, 
 
 I watched its eye sink into soft eclipse 
 
 As the slow tones were warbled from the lips ; 
 
 From Nature's lips the breathing accents part, 
 
 And strike their way to infant Nature's heart ; 
 
 For ere the Cantarcillo had a close. 
 
 Its heaving bosom breathed serene repose. 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 2S1 
 
 So poet's thought in sweetest language drest, 
 
 Is Nature's voice that thrills through Nature's breast. 
 
 The world too breathless on its course to stay, 
 
 Too deaf to listen on its noisy way, 
 
 Knows not how many a heart that ne'er appears. 
 
 Thrills to this sweetest music of the spheres, 
 
 Where Poesy, " like Una's heavenly face, 
 
 Makes the true sunshine in the shady place." 
 
 Such was my friend's ; from wood and valley lone 
 
 He heard her language in her sweetest tone ; 
 
 Such was my friend's, to human feelings true. 
 
 The charm to others from himself he drew : 
 
 To no false power were his fond vows addressed ; 
 
 That was his muse — " the man within the breast." 
 
 And if to some he seemed to do a wrong 
 
 To them the prompters of the lettered song, 
 
 Nor gave just honour to their rightful claim 
 
 By praise profuse, or dwelt upon a name ; 
 
 Yet oft at breezy mom and twilight dim 
 
 Flowed from his lips sweet verse or serious hymn ; 
 
 Untrimm'd the language, so the thoughts might please, 
 
 In simple form and in such strains as these : — 
 
 The Christiatis Rest. 
 
 Whilst beneath his lower dome 
 Can the Christian feel at home ? 
 Formed of atoms, every one 
 From the world he treads upon — 
 With the atmospheres of earth 
 Fed to an immortal birth. 
 By the breaths of every day 
 Loosed, to be dissolved away. 
 Hourly something from him stealing. 
 Changing, body, mind, and feeling 
 Lapsing to all life's relations 
 Constant but to variations, 
 Whilst below the heavenly dome 
 Can the Christian find his home ? 
 
282 POEMS. 
 
 But upon the' Eternal Shore 
 Rest is rest, and not before. 
 Does the Spirit shun the view 
 Of a state he never knew ? 
 Shrinks he from Celestial scenes, 
 At the gulf that intervenes ? 
 Every wasting grain of flesh, 
 Every pulse that pains afresh, 
 Every agony of Faith, 
 Every conflict, every breath 
 Of the least confiding prayer 
 Plumes the wing to waft him there ; 
 Once on the Celestial Shore, 
 Rest is rest for Evermore. 
 
 Richard had early learned that Order laid 
 
 A rule on all things, and its law obeyed ; 
 
 He had his stated seasons for his talk 
 
 With his poor neighbours, and his country walk. 
 
 At briefest noon to yon warm slope he goes, 
 
 When on the pine branch sway the winter snows ; 
 
 The oak wood sees him in its mossy dells, 
 
 When the first lily shakes its dewy bells. 
 
 Ere yet its scent is breathed upon the morn, 
 
 To tell the woodlands that a bud is born. 
 
 Again when summer's sun is hasting fast 
 
 To fade the flower, he seeks and finds the last. 
 
 When morning waking late doth cast its eye 
 
 On windy clouds that glare and hurry by. 
 
 He turns his steps while yet the gales arise 
 
 To where the lake 'midst thickest pine wood lies. 
 
 The lights, the melancholy winds, the roar 
 
 Of the sad waters on the pebbly shore. 
 
 Fill all his mind, and his reflections raise 
 
 To grand religious thoughts, sweet awe, and solemn 
 
 praise. 
 Till peace grows deeper from the rage of storms. 
 And worship draws from stern material forms. 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 28 j 
 
 There too, again when summer daylight fades 
 O'er the calm lake, adown the cedar glades, 
 He seeks, at dewfall of the eve, to trace 
 The lovelier charms of Nature's smiling face, 
 With her conversing as she leads along — 
 Remembered forms, the absent and the young. 
 
 Ye groves whose sweep my unveiled windows view. 
 
 Not e'en Frascati bears the palm from you ; 
 
 If there, Italian skies in radiance glow. 
 
 Here, deeper verdure lights the turf below. 
 
 Dear classic glades where He who late took down 
 
 Tasso's sweet Lyre, and made its echoes known, 
 
 Formed his pure taste, and made with graceful ease, 
 
 Italian sense in Saxon music please ; 
 
 That Lyre, alas ! with all its chords unstrung. 
 
 Is on the cypress bough again uphung.* 
 
 How oft at dewfall, when the setting sun 
 
 Told that the labours of the day were done. 
 
 In that sweet sense accomplished duty brings. 
 
 When Time himself takes rest upon his wings. 
 
 Here have we met and walked uncounted hours, 
 
 While Verse, sweet Verse ! strewed all the way with flowers. 
 
 The twilight lake, the woods, the drowsy birds. 
 
 E'en solemn midnight, witnessed of our words : 
 
 There on our own how oft the starry eyes 
 
 Of the bright Pleiads glistened from the skies. 
 
 I will not question of the spheres to tell 
 
 What Memory chants in her eternal cell ; 
 
 To her, while wet with ink this paper lies, 
 
 A Brother's hand inscribes a Brother's sighs — 
 
 * Not in dim dungeons, to the clank of chains, 
 Like sad Tarquato's, have my hours been spent, 
 Given to the song ; but in bright halls, where reigns 
 Uncumbered freedom with a mind unbent. 
 By walks in woods, green dells, and pastoral plains. 
 To sound far oft of village merriment. 
 Albeit perchance some springs whence Tasso drew 
 His sweetest tones have touched my spirit too. 
 
 J. H. WiFFEN, Tasso Dedication. 
 
284 POEMS. 
 
 His after-scholar in the art divine, 
 How late to learn, how rough in every line. 
 Not touched to music by his graceful hand, 
 How rude as written must these verses stand. 
 
 When frosty nights first check the summer buds, 
 
 And tinge the leafy honours of the woods, 
 
 Deep green to amber turning, and the blaze 
 
 Of the hot sun yields to the shortening days, 
 
 Ere gehd Autumn's tinting fingers reach 
 
 The yellow maple and the blood-red beech, — 
 
 Ere she their now embrowning mast began 
 
 To peel and scatter with her windy fan, — 
 
 While yet the oak the advancing season mocks. 
 
 And swells his fruits, and shakes his verdant locks ; 
 
 Then, when some sunny afternoon imbues 
 
 The mind with memory's contemplative views, 
 
 In annual visit Richard turns his way 
 
 To wh^re the Roman urn was brought to-day. 
 
 To trace in contrast that lone pastoral spot, 
 
 The heath's wild borders, and the woodman's cot. 
 
 To mark the little paddock, sheltered round 
 
 By loneliest woods, where first the urn was found, 
 
 And ask, too, how the peasant sire obtained 
 
 The prize from earth, and what the jar contained ; 
 
 Some coal-black dust, the small remains of whom ? 
 
 Some friend of Caesar's — some great son of Rome ? 
 
 Some Chief, perhaps, with wreath of laurel crowned, 
 
 Whose martial honour passed familiar round. 
 
 Was there no finger to write " memory " on, 
 
 One brazen medal, or one sculptured stone ? 
 
 Thus Richard asked and paused, and thoughtful then 
 
 Mused upon fame, and sighed o'er martial men. 
 
 Ah, sure, where mind has been may mind return. 
 To sway our spirits from the mouldering urn, 
 To wave a sceptre by a shadowy hand 
 - That points and beckons to the mystic Land, 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 285 
 
 To speak that language none but spirits know, 
 And heard the loudest when the pulse beats low, 
 When full, not frequent ; where its currents meet, 
 The heart makes time to pause at every beat, 
 And every beat re-echoes turn by turn 
 Its one bound nearer to the silent urn. 
 
 He knew in lonely heath -glens where to find 
 
 Birds wild of wing, and forms of curious kind ; 
 
 The secret spots where native medicines grew. 
 
 And much-sought plants in shy recesses ; knew 
 
 Their forms, their names, and where the sun and shower 
 
 Best fed their growth and earliest forced the flower ; 
 
 And ever 'twixt his fingers might you see 
 
 The season's blooms, all simple though they be. 
 
 Earliest and latest, — month by month they showed 
 
 How the sun travelled on his heavenly road, 
 
 A lively emblem of his thoughts and hours, 
 
 A sweet perpetual almanac of flowers. 
 
 Oft would he walk when the sun's sinking ray 
 Gave glorious signs of the departing day, 
 To where a grassy terrace, on the brow 
 Of a steep hill, o'erlooked the plain below; 
 A grove of pines screened off the frigid east, 
 A valley opened all the north and west. 
 Boundless the scene, or only bounded by 
 The power of vision in the enchanted eye. 
 There would he watch across the vast expanse 
 The sun roll downward and the mists advance, 
 First lightly shaded, so as to assume 
 The hue and softness of a downy bloom, 
 Next whitening into fleeces where the dews 
 Grew dense along the curves of Cowper's Ouse, 
 Last surging upward the whole column spreads 
 The hills' tall shoulders, and invades their heads, 
 And all the vision melts before the sight. 
 As snow in water ceases to seem white. 
 
286 POEMS. 
 
 These are Thy works, Eternal and Adored ! 
 
 Great Source of being ! man and nature's Lord ! 
 
 From Thee the talent is derived to turn 
 
 Earth to man's food, and it should upward burn : 
 
 From Thee the Earth her fruitfulness receives, 
 
 And strength to generate the good she gives. 
 
 Each blade of her green mantle points the source 
 
 Of mind on high, whence she derives her force. 
 
 Thus human thoughts should ever, ever tend 
 
 To its first Cause, true Centre, and best End; 
 
 Show from the life, when in the body here. 
 
 Our source ancestral from a nobler sphere, 
 
 Taste sweet communion to pure Spirits given, 
 
 Eat Angels' food, the antepast of Heaven, 
 
 And plume our eager wing, and upward soar 
 
 To Life Eternal, boundless, evermore. 
 
 Such noble thoughts in loneliest walks supplied 
 
 The converse solitude had else denied. 
 
 Then home returning, seated by his fire, 
 
 Shut in — tea, books, and all he could desire. 
 
 The pleasant sense of close retirement wrought 
 
 The feeling fancy forms into the thought, — 
 
 " Though the wide plains abounding beauty fills, 
 
 Mine be a home — a home amongst the hills. 
 
 And honoured be the Providence that laid 
 
 My happy seat within this secret shade ; 
 
 Slow wears my pulse, yet never let me be 
 
 Divorced, sweet Nature ! from my books and thee.'' 
 
 Oft in his walks would he acquaintance make 
 
 With his poor neighbours, and their cares partake ; 
 
 Sometimes, as chance directed, would he call, 
 
 Set up his stick against the white-washed wall. 
 
 Accept a seat, and taking off his hat. 
 
 Spend hour by hour in kind familiar chat. 
 
 At times more studied, he would send and say, 
 
 I come at such an hour on such a day. 
 
 And " William, William ! simply to the Dame 
 
 Convey the message and as kindly frame, 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRM. 2S7 
 
 And call it not a visit, lest I lose 
 
 The heart's true welcome which the lowly use. 
 
 Formality would turn the grace aside, 
 
 And close the heart, and spread the board for pride." 
 
 At times select for good when Richard strays, 
 
 The old to cherish and the abject raise, 
 
 E'en so his serious vision stoops to share 
 
 Their earth-turned feelings, wishes, wants, and care, — 
 
 Stoops to the line where lower nature gives 
 
 The food of Ufe, and the meek spirit lives ; 
 
 Then soars above this world of hopes and fears. 
 
 Its darkness, doubtings, struggles, sighs, and tears, 
 
 Ascends the Sphere — where Light its home has made. 
 
 And the soul's motions never cast a shade, 
 
 Reflecting grace — so gracious Heaven allowed. 
 
 He leaves a sunshine where he found a cloud. 
 
 Thus by his hands his Heavenly Master sends 
 
 To the poor neighbours whom he calls " his friends." 
 
 Lo, there he goes I not by the public way. 
 
 He seeks the field-path, where his steps may stray. 
 
 The shrubbery gate, for private exit made, — 
 
 For Charity, like Sorrow, loves the shade, — 
 
 A cottage hearth receives him for a guest, 
 
 To cheer its tenant and to take his rest. 
 
 The aged widow's tremulous fingers haste 
 
 To spread her lowly cates with cleanly taste : 
 
 The armchair set, her labours put aside. 
 
 The bobbins that from mom to eve she plied. 
 
 Carefully covered, — what the fancy earned 
 
 Or friendship gave, — the vacant hourglass turned, 
 
 Fresh fuel on the sinking embers cast. 
 
 The stand let down, its little catch made fast, 
 
 The tea-board, like a looking-glass before, 
 
 Its face so bright, receiving one rub more. 
 
 Her mother's fractured china— useful still, 
 
 Drilled and brass-tied by gipsy artist's skill, 
 
 The spoons — of marriage gifts the last and best, 
 
 Some snow-white sugar, kept for such a guest, 
 
2S8 POEMS. 
 
 The little loaf, by wayside baker made, 
 
 And richly sweet, by her last sixpence paid, 
 
 Ranged in due course, and some few minutes gi\en 
 
 To heartfelt silence, breathing up to Heaven, 
 
 Heard without speech, conversing Angels say, 
 
 It is accepted, for in truth they pray. 
 
 So Abram prayed at dying daylight's close, 
 
 And heard responses ere the Temple rose ; 
 
 So pilgrims pray, on voiceless deserts thrown, 
 
 And they who journey o'er blue ocean blown ; 
 
 Two are a church, when He the third is there. 
 
 Whose gracious office is to answer prayer ; 
 
 Say, is it heard for being breathed aloud ? 
 
 Is incense sweeter offered in a crowd ? 
 
 The happy dame, now talkatively free, 
 
 Forgets her lot in virtue's dignity. 
 
 Cup after cup unconsciously he sips. 
 
 And drops sweet counsel from. his gentle lips. 
 
 Talks of the days when life was trust and truth. 
 
 And sheds o'er twilight age the glow of youth ; 
 
 Assures her fears, reanimates her hope. 
 
 Expands her lowly mind with larger scope ; 
 
 Exalts her thoughts from daily cares to rise. 
 
 And plumes her pinions to ascend the skies ; 
 
 Tells how their Lord, when on the earth He walked, 
 
 Was poor Himself, and with poor people talked ; 
 
 Left for a time His throne and diadem. 
 
 To feel their natures and to visit them ; 
 
 Worked, hungered, wept, and bled, not to prefer 
 
 The wise and rich, — He did all this for her. 
 
 His pleasant words much more than money charm, 
 
 Though the white silver warms her frosty palm. 
 
 Tongue-tied with gratitude, a rising store 
 
 Of blessings bigger than the heart run o'er. 
 
 Her pale grey eyes a dewlike moisture cheers, 
 
 Age and approaching Heaven deny them tears. 
 
 Emerging thence, behold his sober face 
 Glows with the light of Eden's early grace : 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 289 
 
 As the rich bow at summer's evening hours 
 Hides in its glory the receding showers, 
 Heaven's beaming sign upon his brow appears, 
 Whose radiant lustre has dispersed the tears. 
 
 If small the gift, the kindliness was such. 
 The poor in spirit ever thought it much. 
 Theirs was his smile when dark affliction tried. 
 And none but God and he were on their side; 
 Friendless and spiritless he saw them stand, 
 And, like Lot's Angels, drew them by the hand. 
 
 Canto Third. — His Garden. 
 
 ** A garden was the scene of man's fall ; 
 A garden was the scene of Christ's passion ; 
 A garden was the place of Christ's hurial. 
 And it was in a garden where Christ rose ; 
 No wonder that I have such a love for a garden." 
 
 Life of Mrs. Cameron^ p. 459. 
 
 Who love to live in Gardens? is it they 
 That seek the business of the world's highway ? 
 Where mind to mind dexterity imparts 
 In commerce, curiosity, and arts. 
 Who read our life as written by the pen 
 Of their ill genius on the hearts of men — 
 A book of smiles, of sorrows, and of spots. 
 If fair unfrequent, frequent but in blots. 
 Who learn mankind by their malignant star, 
 Less as they " ought to be than as they are," 
 Who sharper grow by years, as wines at length 
 Rise into tartness as they sink in strength. 
 Such loathe to live in gardens, for the strife 
 And grind of cities is their joy and life. 
 Who love to live in Gardens ? is it they 
 Who learn of Heaven, and listen, and obey. 
 Who track with trustful hope and eye elate 
 The peaceful glories of man's first estate .' 
 Glad to unlearn the agitating things 
 That evil knowledge to acquaintance brings; 
 
 19 
 
290 POEMS. 
 
 Thoughtful of Peace, who seek the cherub guest, 
 
 And find the Paradise within the breast ; 
 
 Who viewing Man, his thoughts and manners, see 
 
 Less what he " is than what he ought to be.'' 
 
 These love to live in gardens — still retreats, 
 
 Far from the City's throng, embowered in Nature's sweets. 
 
 Flowers are our links to Eden ! they in sooth 
 
 Were old when Babylon was in its youth ; 
 
 Yet are they young, though scarcely fame recalls 
 
 The hanging gardens on her mighty walls.' 
 
 Formed for his Median queen, who stormed the towers 
 
 Of Zion, mindful of her infant bowers; 
 
 For mountain-nursed in Nature's sylvan reign, 
 
 Her spirit languished on the mountain plain. 
 
 The Tamarisk, scion of the one she set. 
 
 Links her fond thoughts to human feelings yet. 
 
 And bears ours backward to behold unfurled 
 
 The rosy daybreak of an infant world. 
 
 To her green monument remembrance clings, 
 
 While towers and temples are forgotten things. 
 
 Such I believe was the first rose's hue, 
 
 Which at God's word in beauteous Eden grew; 
 
 That Heaven's own light had pencilled and engrained. 
 
 Ere sinful fingers touched them, and profaned; 
 
 Which Adam saw with worship and surprise, 
 
 And Eve beheld, but with her ■virtuous eyes. 
 
 Fresh from His courts ethereal odours melt. 
 
 And all their Maker's was the bliss they felt. 
 
 Flowers were the grace of Eden ; they impart 
 
 The loveliest lessons to the mind of art. 
 
 The broken Lily, with its marble bells,'' 
 
 Faints on the tomb, and of its tenant tells. 
 
 When gorgeous Solomon his Temple graced, 
 
 Inspired from Paradise he formed his taste. 
 
 Cherubs and palms and open flowers all o'er 
 
 Panelled each sacred ceiling, wall, and door. 
 
 The gourds and opening flowers the beams unrolled. 
 
 Smelt sweet in cedar, and grew ripe in gold: 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 291 
 
 Yet was the work as nothing to Thy hand, 
 O heavenly Artist, who the patterns planned. 
 
 Flowers were the joy of Eden, and of all 
 Least show the marks of sorrow and the fall — 
 Nay, nought of Sorrow ; as their race began, 
 It lives, and Sorrow is reserved for man. 
 
 Flowers were the pomp of Eden; O what dyes 
 Awoke to rapture Eve's delighted eyes ! 
 Blooms heavenly hues had pencilled and engrained 
 Ere sinful fingers touched them and profaned 
 Resplendent lustres from His radiant sight. 
 From whom all Spirits drink their primal light. 
 As youthful Adam in his garden strayed. 
 And the first friendships in Creation made. 
 While all companionless he walked, nor he 
 Had thought to touch the interdicted tree ; 
 When Eve was not, and he to Nature's breast 
 The o'erflowing fulness of his own expressed, 
 And day by day in that sweet garden wrought 
 To fiU the heaven-born mind with what it taught; 
 To hold such converse with the sense of man. 
 In Nature's speech, ere languages began. 
 Such converse Richard held, and hence he drew 
 A wisdom simple, infantile, and new; 
 For by the light of her intelligence 
 He read the spirit of her inner sense ; 
 He made a true acquaintance with his plants, 
 To learn their structure, properties, and wants. 
 To feed upon their beauty with an eye 
 Large, yet unsated by their vast supply. 
 
 " How sweet it was at summer's eve to walk 
 
 In his small garden and to hear him talk;" * 
 
 To hearken to his poetry of prose, 
 
 Till.Hesper glistened, and the moon arose. 
 
 And earth, in the dim magic of the night. 
 
 Seemed sown with stars, the skies with flowers of light. 
 
 * Crabbe. 
 
292 POEMS. 
 
 Glancing as Venus at those shadowy hours, 
 Clear as the moon, and varied as the flowers. 
 A lively wit he mingled with his speech, 
 With sacred wisdom the young mind to reach. 
 There is a music in the lips of truth, 
 There are such motions in the breasts of youth, 
 Felt, though untold, that walk their silent way 
 Throughout life's journey, and its progress sway. 
 'Tis but a word perchance that strikes the key. 
 And yet it echoes through Eternity. 
 Yes, then his voice seemed mellowed to a sound 
 More sweet than Virgil's on Italian ground, 
 And every lesson, every turn he drew. 
 Fell on the heart, and melted in like dew. 
 " So sweet was it at summer's eve to walk 
 In his small garden, and to hear him talk."* 
 
 There, in true emblem of his life and him. 
 The garniture was quaint, antique, and trim ; 
 The Virtues and the Vices were descried. 
 How true in morals, growing side by side. 
 Heartsease, and London Pride, and Mignonette, 
 And Honesty, with sullen Monkshood set ; 
 Proud of her spire of bells, the Foxglove tall. 
 The golden Stonecrop on the crumbhng wall, 
 Along whose ridge the live Nasturtiums chase, 
 Moist Ferns and Mosses creep along its base. 
 The Houseleek and pale Wallflower grow between, 
 And love the ruins that they bloom to screen. 
 Seeking support, the Honeysuckles clasp 
 The mossy rosebuds in their wiry grasp ; 
 Th' impatient bud seeks liberty to spread. 
 Breaks forth and blushes a diviner red. 
 Blush and fear not ; 'mongst modem beauties seen, 
 The Rose, the Rose is still the garden's Queen. 
 There Love-lies-bleeding mourns unmarried state ; 
 The Crown Imperial by the garden gate, 
 
 • Crabbe. 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 293 
 
 The Fuchsia gay, the Fraxinella fair, 
 
 Bow their slight stalks to every breath of air. 
 
 The golden Moneywort, and at its side 
 
 The Snakeroot Lily, called the mourning bride. 
 
 Tears in her cup ; the bee from year to year 
 
 To sweetest honey crystallized the tear, 
 
 Whose finer essences, like sorrow's sighs. 
 
 On earth unknown, are gathered in the skies. 
 
 There the Lobelia, with the scarlet hues. 
 
 And Gentianella, deepest of the blues. 
 
 And snow-white Harebells, and of uncouth sound 
 
 Stark-naked Robin in the spot abound,' 
 
 Whose name has meaning, for its mother earth, 
 
 From her bare bosom to its bloom gives birth. 
 
 And naked of one verdant leaf displays 
 
 When first the robins trill their autumn lays.* 
 
 But time would fail to tell, and short the hour, 
 
 Of every wildling slip, sweet Pink and Gillyflower. 
 
 Shy mosses shunning sunshine fringed the walks. 
 Moist walls, and garden seats, and shrubby stalks ; 
 Tall trees the alleys hide, each branching spray 
 O'erhung the walks, to intercept the day. 
 They had been young with him, and he was loath 
 To use the hatchet to repress their growth ; 
 They were his father's friends, nor could he spare 
 A single object of his father's care. 
 
 Close to the house upon the dexter hand 
 A grassy slope banked up the higher land ; 
 A grateful relic of the antique taste, 
 It formed a terrace, whence the eye embraced 
 A narrow range of mansions, fields, and trees. 
 In varied sweeps and colours and degrees. 
 A trim alcove upon a gentle mound 
 Above the terrace overlooked the ground ; 
 On either side, a pace or two before, 
 A spiry box tree ushered to the door ; 
 A solid wall of close-clipped yew behind, 
 Fenced out intrusion and the northern wind. 
 
294 POEMS. 
 
 In front, the rising sun, though faintly, still 
 
 Struggled through woods that waved upon the hill ; 
 
 Through old ancestral Pines the sunbeams played. 
 
 Around their boles fantastic figures made. 
 
 Till rising o'er their tops the midday blaze 
 
 Shot down its full divinity of rays. 
 
 As riding onward to his radiant place, 
 
 " He clustered light to fill his glorious face."* 
 
 Within the' alcove a legend met the sight, 
 In letters black upon a ground of white. 
 And this the burden the inscription bore. 
 The same that Cowper's " Mosshouse" had before: 
 " Here, far from riot's hated noise. 
 Be mine the calmer, purer joys 
 
 A book or friend bestows. 
 Far from the storms that vex the great, 
 Contentment's gale shall fan my seat, 
 And sweeten my repose." 
 
 Small was the plot ; his garden's narrow bounds 
 On one side joined the village Rector's grounds. 
 And near the belfry poured its deafening sounds ; 
 But on the other side a border made. 
 Rows of tall Pines in cloistered colonnade. 
 Ancestral and columnar trunks, whose high 
 And fretted tops roofed out the azure sky. 
 When twilight hovered over wood and dell, 
 There its first tint and deepest umber fell, 
 A solemn temple to the ear and sight 
 In the wind's sobbings and the dusk moonlight. 
 Nature's cathedral, pillared and increast 
 By shadowy styles, and wanting not the priest 
 When autumn winds along the ceiling go 
 Like funeral music mixed with gusts of woe. 
 When the black arches on the earthy floor 
 Mark out strange tablets to the " Gone before ; " 
 Around their shafts the moonbeams flit and flee. 
 And show like Beings we must shortly see, 
 
 * Jeremy Taylor. 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 295 
 
 And every footfall that we take invades 
 Like foreign travel their strange world of shades.'^ 
 We who have shared the converse of the Dead ; 
 Their heart's best feelings and the books they read, 
 Thought wrought in thought with them, their mind 
 
 yet wears 
 A part of ours, as ours a part of theirs. 
 We know those voices on the winds, — the glooms 
 Show life's loved features rising from the tombs. 
 To earth return in life's familiar spot, 
 Are they not near us when we heed them not ? 
 
 But other forms the avenue receives. 
 And other sounds at spring's delicious eves, 
 When gentle airs breathe over fields and woods, 
 Scents from the bitters of the new-born buds, 
 And on the winds the Nightingale's clear note, 
 A liquid tear-drop gurgling in her throat. 
 Swells, O how sadly sweet ! and tones the part 
 Of Nature's music in the spring-like heart. 
 In pensive talk the village maidens strayed. 
 Here arm-in-arm their youthful friendships made ; 
 Blind to the world, in all the trust of youth, 
 They vowed to constancy perpetual truth, 
 To seek the glories of the Heavenly state. 
 And walk through life right up to Eden's gate. 
 How often Richard in his thoughtful mind 
 From his near garden half their thoughts divined ! 
 Alas, how later, in the world's wide way 
 He watched them walk divided and astray ! 
 Grieved by the daily cares that want attend, 
 Without a guide or comforter or friend. 
 Oft have I heard his gentle tongue prepare 
 Hope's sweet preludings to thine heart, Despair ! 
 Oft have I seen his ready hand bestow 
 The gift that seemed to lighten half their woe ; 
 No chiding boon to bleeding misery thrown. 
 Pity's proved grace, as to the hound the bone, 
 
296 POEMS. 
 
 But such as strengthens self-respect to stand, 
 Gives feet to Virtue and uplifts the hand, 
 That if they doubted Providence before, 
 So like His message, they can doubt no more. 
 
 He was a kind excuser of the faults 
 
 That weakness yields when fainting nature halts, 
 
 He loved to think that Mercy might avail 
 
 The sliding heart, for that his own was frail. 
 
 And if sometimes he chose a wise delay, 
 
 'Twas but to mark the point, and cross their wandering way. 
 
 He hailed them by a message soon or late. 
 
 And turned them back to knock at Eden's gate. 
 
 Near was a school, whence many a frolic boy 
 
 With truant mischief wrought him much annoy ; 
 
 They knew his nature kind, and at their wish 
 
 They rob his orchard or they snare his fish. 
 
 The seeds of future ill he clearly saw. 
 
 He chid their deeds, yet frustrated the law. 
 
 Caught in the fact, he for their sorrows grieved ; 
 
 He heard their promise, though he disbelieved ; 
 
 His gentle bosom pitied all their pain, 
 
 Though early birch had made them honest men. 
 
 Yet manhood may recall the words he spoke, 
 
 For oil can soften what resists the stroke. 
 
 And kindliness used for its proper end, 
 
 Melt down the stony heart that would not bend, 
 
 And true forgiveness penitence inspire, 
 
 And love — well sprinkled — become drops of fire. 
 
 He felt for all that felt, and owned as good 
 
 Great Nature's universal brotherhood, 
 
 For they are fed and fashioned by the same 
 
 Almighty Hand from whence his being came ; 
 
 To whom is nothing great or small, whose state. 
 
 Alike how awful in the small as great ! 
 
 He saw creative skill no less design 
 
 Life in the atom than the' extended line ; 
 
 He knew who moves the molecule's living point, 
 
 Who frames the wing, who fashioneth the joint. 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 257 
 
 Who warms with subtilest blood the lively heart 
 
 With separate functions serves each separate part, 
 
 Gives it a mind proportioned to its span, 
 
 And willed it happy, if 'twere not for man ; 
 
 A miracle for every insect's sake, 
 
 Each worth a world — it cost as much to make.* 
 
 Perhaps a feeling touched his breast, that all 
 
 Which shared not Adam's sin, yet shared his fall. 
 
 Kind was his breast to all that waved the wing, 
 
 Brute beast, blind worm, and every insect thing. 
 
 As conscious of its safety as his guest, 
 
 In the box bush the Whitethroat built its nest ; 
 
 In the young pine its home the Blackbird knew, 
 
 The annual Chaffinch in the archway yew. 
 
 In cypress screened, the Golden-crested Wren 
 
 Warbled each spring beside the nursing hen ; 
 
 From the near pine the Missel's music rang, 
 
 Within the' alcove the Goldfinch sat and sang; 
 
 And not unmindful of its wintry pelf. 
 
 The Robin brooded on the comer shelf. 
 
 He watched their habits, while he left unstirred. 
 
 Though eye met eye with his, the sitting bird. 
 
 The birds held converse by familiar song. 
 
 And taught his friendship to their tender young ; 
 
 The young, not wanting in an equal mind. 
 
 The sense expanded to their fellow-kind. 
 
 The good man's eye all smilingly surveyed 
 
 How vast a sum of happiness he made. 
 
 Thus he who sows one seed of real good 
 
 In self-devotion or in brotherhood. 
 
 The fruitful virtue doubling as it runs, 
 
 From man to man descending through his sons. 
 
 Who calculates the total yet to come 
 
 May multiply by millions for the sum. 
 
 Above, around, the woods and paths dispose 
 A calm enchantment, a divine repose ; 
 
 * " L'insecte vaut un monde— il ont autant coute." — Lamartine. 
 
298 POEMS, 
 
 It seemed as though a presence whispered near, 
 " All strife abandon, ye who enter here." 
 The master spread o'er all the pleasant ground 
 The peaceful charm that in his breast he found. 
 There, with his books, how might he love to dwell, 
 Those fir-crowned heights, that sweet embosomed dell. 
 O that my verse could make my readers share 
 In all my thoughts while I behold him there ! 
 
 Note I, page 290. Sir John Hobhouse discovered an Englishman's residence on 
 the shores of the Hellespont by the kind of his shrubs and flowers. 
 
 Napoleon used to say he should know his father's garden in Corsica, blindfold, by 
 the smell of the earth. 
 
 When Omai, Cowper's "gentle savage," brought frojn Tahiti by Captain Cook, 
 saw the banana growing in the Jardins des Plantes at Paris, he sprang forward, and 
 clasping his arms round it, cried, " O my country, my dear country ! " 
 
 Why should we not speak of the Plane trees of Plato, Young's Elm-walk at Welwin, 
 Shakspeare's and Milton's Mulberry, Pope's Willow, Byron's Elm, Howard's Pine 
 trees at Cardington ? Why not imagine Cicero in his Tusculum, Pitt at Ham 
 Common, Evelyn at Wotton, Walpole at Houghton, Grenville amongst his Pine 
 trees at Dropmore? Should we not dwell on Bacon's little tufts of Thyme, Fox's 
 Geraniums? " Talke of perfecte happinesse or pleasure," says old Gerard, "and 
 what place is so fit as the garden place, wherein Adam was set to be the herbalist?" 
 — Quarterly RericWy etc- 
 
 Note 2, Page 290. TJu broken Lily. A broken Lily, on a white marble tablet 
 fixed on the wall, is seen in Chenies church. It was placed there by Lord John 
 Russell, in memory of his first wife, interred in the vault of the Bedford family. In 
 Catholic countries, the white Lily is considered an emblem of the Virgin. It is fre- 
 quently represented in Her hand by Italian painters. It is a religious symbol at 
 Seville. 
 
 " Of all the sweets that groves and gardens yield, 
 Christ marked the Lily, and to that appealed. " 
 
 On its celebrated Cathedral is one made of metal, of immense size, yet of beautiful 
 proportions. The Order of the Blessed Lily was instituted by Garcias IV., King of 
 Navarre, August 1558 : he died on the 2sth of September, Legend says that a Lily 
 sprang from his grave, and that it was gathered and placed in the Church of St. Just, 
 on the borders of Navarre and Castille. The Greeks had a legend that the Lily 
 sprang from Juno's milk, dropped from the mouth of the infant Hercules. In relation 
 to this story, the Lily is used in the wedding ceremonies of the modern Greeks. The 
 priest is furnished with two chaplets of lilies, and of ears of corn, which he places on 
 the heads of the bride and bridegroom. 
 
 The Romans regarded the Lily with equal admiration with the Greeks. It was 
 preserved and placed in baskets. They steeped the roots in wine, to produce purple 
 flowers. Pliny speaks of the Lily as second only to the Rose in beauty. 
 
 Flowers. He heard Charlemagne, writes a French author, a legislator, and a 
 philosopher, from the summit of his western throne, recommend the holy cultivation 
 of flowers to his people. We may even enter into the lively tenderness that Xerxes, 
 according to Elian and Herodotus, felt for a plane tree ; pressing it in his arms, 
 sleeping with delight under its shade, decorating it with bracelets and necklaces of 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 299 
 
 gold^ and overwhelmed with grief when obliged to quit it. Of Wilberforce, it is 
 said, "he loved flowers with all the simple delights of childhood. He would hover 
 from bed to bed over his favourites ; and when he came in, even from his shortest 
 walks, he deposited the few that he had gathered safely in his room before he had 
 joined the breakfast-table. Often would he say, as he enjoyed their fragrance, 
 ' How good is God to us ! Lovely flowers are the smiles of His goodness.' " — Life, 
 by kis sons. 
 
 Note 3, page 293. Stark-naked Robin, is the autumn crocus, whose natural economy 
 is curious ; the flowers opening so late in the year, when seeds could not be ripened 
 by exposure to the sun and air, the fructification takes place under ground. In the 
 following spring the seed vessels rise to the surface, accompanied by leaves, which do 
 not appear with the flower which blooms in the autumn. 
 
 Note 4, page 293. *' When first the robins trill their autumn lays.'' These are the 
 young male robins, hatched in the preceding spring. Their clear, sharp, vigorous 
 notes, short but loud, cheer us as the days shorten and the early frosts despoil our 
 gardens of flowers. These are their earhest efforts at melody. 
 
 Note s^ pa^e zgS. "And every footfall." This description will not appear exag- 
 gerated to any one who has walked in autumn along a pathway shadowed by aged 
 pine trees, before the earliest daybreak, under a morning moon. Owing to the 
 longer departure of the evening twilight, the shades are blacker, the lights by contrast 
 brighter than at evening or during the earlier hours of the night. The reflection of 
 the lingering rays of twilight has then completely passed away, and it becomes darkest 
 immediately before the earliest dawn. If the moon be bright and at the full, the 
 ground is then mapped out in the strangest geography of light and shade. When 
 sorrow of heart drives thee from man to seek the medicine of Nature, her conso- 
 lations are never more effectual than when they are administered from scenes the 
 most quiet, and from the most uncommon to our every-day pursuits. 
 
 Canto Fourth. — His Home and Death. 
 
 " The death-bed of the just is yet undrawn 
 By mortal hand — it merits a Divine ; 
 Angels should paint it, — angels ever there, — 
 There on a post of honour and of joy ! " Young. 
 
 Ere that dread moment when the mandate flies, 
 Seal up the book and bear it to the skies, 
 Ere the Recording Angel, o'er the bed, 
 Closes the finished register in red, 
 Unseen of others, while the closing sight, 
 Half purged to spirit, waits to see him write 
 While human still, the mind in dread sublime. 
 Poises upon the precipice of Time, 
 " Looking before and after," as it lies 
 Swayed on the point of two eternities. 
 Wouldst thou desire to learn thy natural end ? 
 Mark well the course down which thy feelings tend. 
 
300 POEMS. 
 
 As thy disease, so is it rough or calm, 
 Sickness is nature's poison, dew, or balm ; 
 The flowers of Heavenly Hope beneath her shade, 
 Or brighter blossom, or more darkly fade ; 
 Calm smiles consumption on the placid cheek, 
 While the red fever leaves the faith more weak. 
 The Christian has not a peculiar cure 
 For nature's laws, yet his reward is sure. 
 Our varied tempers differing grace receive, 
 Like John to love, like Peter to beUeve; 
 The yielding mind partakes the body's mood, 
 As weak or strong, elastic or subdued ; 
 Like Paul, some prophesy in tongues, and some. 
 The clear in vision, are in language dumb ; 
 And some the fearful — and I write to them — 
 Who touch the garment only by the hem. 
 
 Think not your pathway through this world should be 
 
 Thomless and plain and flowery and free ! 
 
 Why should we ask through Eden to be led. 
 
 Brooks by the way, and roses for a bed .' 
 
 If well we read what Holy Writ records. 
 
 Why should our path be smoother than our Lord's ? 
 
 His day of triumph was a day of fears. 
 
 And His fresh laurels were bedewed with tears ; 
 
 He tasted Sorrow as His daily food. 
 
 His Prayer was Agony, His sweat like blood. 
 
 When He could shrink, whose Sacred body, nursed 
 
 In human form, was Heaven-derived at first; 
 
 When He a prisoner of hope could lie, 
 
 Who captive led a world's captivity; 
 
 When e'en He failed the Comforter to find. 
 
 Who shared the purpose of th' Eternal mind ; 
 
 When He could use the language of despair, 
 
 Who knew His Father ever heard His prayer; 
 
 When in the throes His Sacred nature bore. 
 
 The flesh gave up, and could endure no more ; 
 
 When shrank e'en He who left the courts above 
 
 To make Himself a Sacrifice for Love, — 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 301 
 
 Ye who are strong may well forgive a heart 
 That bleeds and trembles o'er the weaker part. 
 Poor fluttering thing ! let this thy counsel be, 
 " He knows thy feelings, for He felt like thee. 
 There is no pang can agitate thy frame, 
 But He must know it who has proved the same." 
 There is no sigh that stirs thy breast, Despair, 
 But breathed to Him becomes prevailing prayer. 
 
 Why should my hand upon the lyre awake 
 
 Such trembling tones as cause the breast to ache .'' 
 
 'Tis that its voice, though breathed with sighs, might grant 
 
 To some that solace that myself may want. 
 
 'Tis that my voice its echoing strains would send 
 
 Beyond this sphere to my departed friend. 
 
 'Tis that our faith, when waning, weak, and dim, 
 
 Might gather strength while we remember Him, 
 
 And that like Him I would my verse delay 
 
 To feed the frail that faint upon the way. 
 
 Death sent his herald in the Spring, yet stayed 
 His coming till the Autumn flowers decayed. 
 Then pause we ere the wintry shadows close, 
 Fold over fold, the curtain of repose, 
 And Memory seals her record to recall 
 The graphic forms of Richard's house and hall, 
 So like himself, whilst in himself you see 
 The flower in bloom of calm antiquity. 
 
 Up the small porch the scented Jasmine climbs. 
 
 While three tall, branchy, and majestic Limes 
 
 Arose so near, that through the open door 
 
 Their chequered shadows carpeted the floor ; 
 
 So thick their interlacing branches grew. 
 
 The yellow moonlight scarce could struggle through. 
 
 So short a compass his horizon spreads. 
 
 The Northern Bear reposed upon their heads, 
 
 And as the night winds wave them to and fro. 
 
 They brush the starlight as they come and go. 
 
302 POEMS. 
 
 Our minds partake their fluctuating tone, 
 
 As the winds whisper or are harsher blown, 
 
 Read their own changes in the flickering strife. 
 
 The lights and shadows of our real life. 
 
 The periwinkle bUnds with its blue stars 
 
 The area grate, and trails between the bars ; 
 
 Climbing the window-sill, the jasmine gains 
 
 Above the frame, and shoots along the panes. 
 
 Those little squares with lines of lead between 
 
 The ancient crystal, delicately clean. 
 
 Where, in a comer, with a trembling hand 
 
 And diamond's point engraved, together stand 
 
 Names childish, once of men who now are not, 
 
 While the green runners cluster round the spot. 
 
 The grateful flowers they set a garland give. 
 
 To keep their memory green, and make it live. 
 
 Within his little hall I see his chair 
 
 By the hearth-side ; the small round table there, 
 
 On which his Father's best of books he lays. 
 
 Filled with stored marks for texts of prayer and praise. 
 
 Cruden, the Vulgate, and the Greek, and on 
 
 Puwer's large tomes lies German Mendelssohn. 
 
 He gathered day by day sustaining bread, 
 
 Nor loathed the manna upon which he fed ; 
 
 For well he loved to trace the Sacred word, 
 
 Down to the root, through languages unheard. 
 
 And upward thence return the warm pursuit. 
 
 Through aU its branches, till he gained the fruit. 
 
 And there's no text in Scripture, take it all 
 
 And shake it largely, but some fruit will fall. 
 
 Strung to the wall, a pendant shelf behind 
 
 Held his small volumes of the daily kind. 
 
 Beside the entrance door were neatly ranged 
 
 Some heavier tomes, well used and rarely changed ; 
 
 But all his Father's learndd treasures lay 
 
 In larger building, and across the way. 
 
 Large was their sum ; unstudied, yet with care. 
 
 As he received them, he preserved them there, 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 303 
 
 And scarce increased save when some cottage dame 
 
 Brought him a smoke-dried tome to spell its name. 
 
 Some tattered lore, its own neglect to speak, 
 
 Some crampt black letter which she said was Greek, 
 
 Some learned clerk's Herodotus, which she 
 
 Great Hercules's Bible thought to be, 
 
 A dragon clasped, wood bound, mysterious book, 
 
 The household Idol of the chimney nook. 
 
 Scored with strange hieroglyphics, to the view 
 
 And like a mummy — of unearthly hue ; 
 
 Some heavy tome of controversy hot, 
 
 Embalmed in school dust, buried and forgot. 
 
 In time-bored coffer, its decaying bed, 
 
 Ah-eady wormed, and smelling of the dead ; 
 
 Or Barbour's Bruce, descending from an age 
 
 That honoured printing, and preserved the page. 
 
 To serve at once the parlour and the hall, 
 The clock ticked smartly by the party wall. 
 And when it spoke, as drawing breath and loath 
 Of double duty, told the hour to both. 
 
 Two well-drawn Miniatures, suspended nigh. 
 With sad expression, caught the gazer's eye : 
 The patriot Russell, martyred in the cause 
 Of England's freedom and unfettered laws ; 
 And she whose " Letters " melting pity reads, 
 His Lady Rachel in her widow's weeds. 
 The' originals of those that in the book 
 Affect the reader and engage his look ; 
 For 'twas his Father's taste and judgment brought 
 Forth to the world those records of her thought. 
 While pilgrims to her sorrows, worth and fame 
 His labours honour, all unknown his name. 
 He brought her forth who gave the Russells birth, 
 A public pledge and model of their worth. 
 He brought her forth to cheer the future race 
 In virtuous aims, and animate their pace. 
 
304 POEMS. 
 
 And worthy of their country may they show 
 The grace and virtue that to her they owe. 
 
 Some few choice toys his larger stores produce, 
 And some for ornament, and some for use ; 
 The jar for scents, for shade the Indian screen. 
 The well-pieced bowl, and moon-faced mandarin, 
 And little China slippers, formed to suit 
 Nankin's fair maids or Cinderella's foot ; 
 Large walnut chairs, claw-fashioned legs upbore. 
 Their ample seats with damask flourished o'er ; 
 The like the' adjacent parlour gave to view, 
 Those flowered in yellow — these, in fading blue. 
 The bureau doors large looking-glasses faced. 
 And grateful contrast, simple wild flowers graced 
 The small round stand in window corner placed. 
 With grateful grasses, when their bloom they bear, 
 The brome, the poa, and the maiden hair. 
 For Nature's true and unaffected part 
 Fills with pure grace a higher taste than Art. 
 To each and all a pleasant memory clings, 
 And with sweet sadness, visits absent things. 
 O'er each and all nice care, and yet there lay 
 Marks of a gentle and serene decay. 
 So have I seen just when the glowing face 
 Joins youth's young crimson to maturer grace. 
 The shining eye, and fixing red begin 
 To show the grave lamp is lit up within. 
 
 It came at length — Time's long-resisted flood 
 Heaved up its bounds, and would not be withstood. 
 My friend looked forth, not to surprise betrayed. 
 And not a hero or a coward made ; 
 Sent his calm eye o'er all the scene to range, 
 Then gathered up his mantle for the change. 
 I marked his looks, sick heart, and failing limb. 
 And watched three generations sink in him. 
 
 I pass the varying seasons while decay 
 Cast in her seeds and watered day by day, 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 305 
 
 Long healthy years prepared the soil to feed 
 
 The ripe luxuriance of the bitter weed, 
 
 That struck a root through every vital part, 
 
 But most the fibres clung around the heart. 
 
 I pass the sunset memories that divide 
 
 The clouds made radiant on their Heavenward side, 
 
 Where faith's own glories from the Sphere Divine 
 
 As through the fringes of a curtain shine. 
 
 The morning languor, the reviving air, 
 
 The journeys taken in the wheeUng chair, 
 
 The same a generation past, that knew 
 
 His father's weakness, 'twas his hand that drew. 
 
 The calls, the questions, and the hopes, so clear. 
 
 They hope belie, and intimate but — fear. 
 
 I pass the sleep when dreaming Faith must fight 
 
 With mighty forms, and all but infinite — 
 
 The waking damps that cool the feverish head, 
 
 The Angel strengthening, and the Tempter fled. 
 
 I pass the love that looketh from afar. 
 
 And yearns to keep the lips of life ajar. 
 
 To fan with freshening airs the fainting breath. 
 
 And stir the pulse from the cold touch of death ; 
 
 When gentle Woman every joy forsakes, 
 
 The long dread office of the watcher takes. 
 
 Whose weaker frames attain superior powers 
 
 To walk familiar with the ghost-trod hours ; 
 
 Nurse of the frame's decay and Spirit's growth. 
 
 High Heaven's ambassadress at once to both. 
 
 Watcher ! what shapes across thy sight appear ? 
 What sounds from silence strike upon thine ear .? 
 
 Through the veiled shades — adown the solemn way 
 I mark a multitude in long array. 
 A murmur comes, not to the ear addrest. 
 But to the Seer that hearkens in the breast. 
 In that pale form, on the lone couch I see 
 All that have been, or is, or yet shall be. 
 In his low sighs — preluding death — the mind 
 Hears the mysterious march of human-kind, 
 
 20 
 
3o6 POEMS. 
 
 The living generations and the dead, 
 
 In ordered marching like an army's tread 
 
 All this way walking in the countless sum 
 
 Of races gone, and passing, and to come, 
 
 Absorbing in their ranks, as by they bend, 
 
 Our loved in life — the mother, sister, friend, 
 
 All clothed alike, the just and the unjust, 
 
 With Immortality on forms of dust. 
 
 There to thy view what boots my tongue to show ? 
 
 But thy Friend saw them, so perchance dost thou." 
 
 The same small chamber where his infant breath 
 
 Drew its first sigh, received it back in Death. 
 
 If in that hour when the live Spirit here 
 
 Shakes off its mantle, naked to appear. 
 
 When sounds the' inexorable Voice, a thrill 
 
 Through the deaf organs exquisitely shrill. 
 
 When vainly Nature calls her powers to arms, 
 
 Each through its province hears its own alarms, 
 
 When its white bowl the brain no more fills up 
 
 The red wine curdUng in the royal cup. 
 
 When short and shorter sways the failing breath. 
 
 That avpful pendulum of Hfe and death, 
 
 When the fine silver nerves relax their tone. 
 
 When the lithe muscle stiffens to the bone. 
 
 When rigid in extremity of pain 
 
 The purple rings draw close on every vein, 
 
 As through the chambers of the heart, the woe 
 
 Of the doomed city hurries to and fro. 
 
 And in the sighings that its people make 
 
 The ivory arches of the palace shake ; 
 
 When Soul, the' all-conscious Soul, for weal or woe, 
 
 Flutters upon one pulse to stay or go. 
 
 Doubtful the' unheard-of mysteries to meet. 
 
 Fly without wings, and travel without feet, 
 
 Speak without words a language yet untold. 
 
 Feel without nerves, and without eyes behold, 
 
 Die but to live to Being more intense, 
 
 And without senses, Soul in every sense ; 
 
THE QUAKER SQUIRE. 307 
 
 To be — what momently he knows he must, — 
 To man, but shadow, — to the worm, but dust, 
 And to himself himself, a thing, but oh ! 
 What each one only for himself can know. 
 
 If such decisive moment blanched his cheek, 
 His heart was humble, sickness made it weak. 
 Then recollecting that his healthful years 
 Confirmed his faith, though sickness brought him fears. 
 All that his humble faith for him professed. 
 And on what Saviour such a hope had rest. 
 " I know in whom I have believed," he cried, 
 And launched the gulf, and God Himself was guide. 
 Ask not for more, nor scorn the little scope 
 In this confession of his hope of hope, 
 Clear to my breast that single speech affords 
 More confidence than all the wealth of words. 
 Self with a little good can much display ; 
 Those who best know their hearts have least to say. 
 Enough was told in that expiring breath 
 That his Faith lived e'en in the pangs of Death ; 
 Tried, timid, trusting Faith ! shall I, shall I 
 Hold fast that anchor in the hour I die, 
 N,or turn to mortal succour in the strife 
 Ot the Soul's question of Immortal Life 1 
 At that amazing hour, will such a plea 
 Be mine ? If mine, will it avail for me ? 
 ****** 
 
 A change has come o'er all things, and the place 
 
 Reflects no more the features of his face. 
 
 His generation ended, all is o'er ; 
 
 That well-known spot can know him never more. 
 
 With an eye fixed on that where all things tend. 
 
 He walked in youth as looking to the end, 
 
 And mindful of his origin in truth, 
 
 In age he journeyed as he walked in youth. 
 
 His was no gallant bark to drive its prow 
 Across mid ocean, where the rude winds blow ; 
 
3o8' POEMS. 
 
 The merchant's glory to depart the land, 
 
 Sails filled, well freighted, with its decks well manned. 
 
 No risks he shared to watch the' uncertain gale. 
 
 To guess its fate, with none to tell the tale. 
 
 His — all unheeded while in port it rides, 
 
 Uncheered while dropping down the falling tides ; 
 
 No toil-gained wealth to chance in one sole ^vreck, 
 
 Or lives turn pale upon the crowded deck. 
 
 Close to the shore his little pinnace plies, 
 
 Nor trusts the flattery of changing skies ; 
 
 If slow, yet sure ; and if not daring, wise. 
 
 True to its mark, a gentle course it bore. 
 
 And spread no sail, but ever plied the oar. 
 
 The constant year still saw it on its way. 
 
 Rounding each cape, and coasting every bay. 
 
 The tempting breezes and the cloudy shade 
 
 Nor sped it onward, nor its course delayed ; 
 
 It gained the object of its life-long quest. 
 
 Rocked in the Haven of untroubled rest. 
 
 With trembling skill I also ply my oar 
 
 Where Faith persuades me he has gone before. 
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 Reader ! when he who writes is parted hence, 
 To worlds beyond the atmosphere of sense. 
 Keep with sweet thoughts his memory green and young. 
 And may his words be frequent on thy tongue ; 
 Some pensive phrase, unlifelike, yet Divine, 
 Some truthful maxim, some melodious line. 
 Some happy verse that paints thy thought like sight, 
 Some sigh that tells thee what he wished to write. 
 The thought that lies embodied in the breast. 
 To minds alike revealed, though unexpressed. 
 And when a friend, the sharer of thy heart, 
 Before thine hour is summoned to depart, 
 Beside his grave some evening minutes pass, 
 And in thine album place its seeding grass. 
 Not without thought that He who gave him grace 
 May smile on thee, and let thy prayer have place. 
 
THE WARDER OF THE PYRENEES. 309 
 
 And when the voice goes forth which all must own, 
 " Pilgrim, ungird thee, and thy staff lay down," 
 May one loved friend thy funeral garland twine, 
 And do for thee what I have done for mine. 
 
 THE WARDER OF THE PYRENEES. 
 
 " Such is the patriot's wish, where'er he roam, 
 The heart's best country ever is at home." 
 
 Scene, the southern ascent of the Pyrenees, from Figueras to Jonquera and 
 Belleguarde on the summit ; changes to Beam, Les Landes, Guienne, Tours. 
 
 At the western extremity of the Pyrenees, the boundary line between the two great 
 monarchies of France and Spain, is the middle of the little river, Bidasoa, between 
 St. Jean de Luz and Irun. From whichever side the traveller arrives, he may 
 quietly walk half-way over the wooden bridge, but no farther, until his passport has 
 been certified and his baggage cleared. French and Spanish guards are stationed at 
 each end, and he is prevented passing the remaining part of the bridge, except with 
 the diligence. While he stands upon the bridge, he may pause a few minutes to ob- 
 serve the undulating strata of the bare limestone rocks, forming the right or French 
 bank of the river, and admire a fine example of the upheaving of the mountains. 
 
 But at the eastern extremity, on the side of Perpignan, that described at the 
 opening of the following poem, the entrance of the two countries is through a 
 mountain pass. A stone pillar is set up at the limit of the respective territories. It 
 is at a short distance on the Spanish side of the summit. The pass itself is therefore 
 possessed by the French, and it is defended by a modem fortress of immense extent. 
 This, the new fortress of Belleguarde, is on a lower eminence than the ancient one, 
 whose extensive remains are still seen far above, blackened by the elements of many 
 seasons. 
 
 On the Spanish side, the road has a long and very gradual ascent, almost from 
 Figueras ; below and above Jonquera, skirting a pretty pastoral stream, fed by two 
 or three others from ravines on the left, bordered by a belt of green meadow ground, 
 browsed by the small bullock, goat, and jet-black sheep. As the road draws near 
 the small French village of Belleguarde, set in the throat of the mountain, it becomes 
 steeper at every turn, and is commanded, as well as the pass, by the citadel. 
 
 This is on the left ; to the right hand, about two hundred yards from the road, 
 stands a small square fortress, built of brickwork. 
 
 A French sentinel is stationed here, whose daily or nightly duty is to pace his 
 monotonous circuit outside the tower. He paused in the clear sunshine from the 
 tedium of his round ; he placed the butt end of his musket on the earth, leaning 
 with both his hands on its glittering tube ; he watched intently the track of the 
 slowly moving cavalcade of mules, heavy diligence, and travellers walking on foot 
 up the long and toilsome ascent, at noon. 
 
 jst month, 12th, 1841. 
 
 The Warder paced around his tower, 
 In silence of the midday hour, 
 And upward cast his frequent gaze, 
 To mark the sun's declining blaze. 
 
jio POEMS. 
 
 The snow-crowned peak his dial made. 
 
 Its ample longitude of shade 
 
 Swept the horizon, whose degrees 
 
 It measures off by provinces. 
 
 And shows the hour, and points the date, 
 
 And marks them in a foreign state. 
 
 Alike beneath the yellow moon, 
 
 And in the glow of summer noon, 
 
 The mountain's mighty shade descends. 
 
 To him its finger is a friend's ; 
 
 It marks on rock, ravine, or tree, 
 
 His hours fulfilled, and sets him free ; 
 
 An engine, simple yet sublime, 
 
 And working from the birth of Time. 
 
 Ascending up tlie southern side, 
 
 Where Spain's so restless sons reside, — 
 
 The valley narrowing to a pass, 
 
 By pleasant grades, from Figueras, 
 
 Along where pastoral waters wind, 
 
 The fig and olive left behind, — 
 
 And gardens, where gay Nature sees 
 
 E'en now the true Hesperides ; 
 
 The cactus and the aloe fence. 
 
 Sweets, passing sweet, to every sense ; 
 
 Where orange bowers all gold and green, 
 
 In flower, in leaf, in fruit, are seen ; 
 
 E'en winter hours at once behold 
 
 Their mingling white and green and gold ; 
 
 And wild, where Zucar streams meander, 
 
 The fanpalm and the oleander, 
 
 Cistus and gladiola fair, 
 
 And desert leagues of lavender ; 
 
 And where the scent of myrtle breathes 
 
 O'er wastes of Andalusian heaths; 
 
 These left, and those of Moorish state, 
 
 The algaroba and the date. 
 
 And cork-tree oak, and poplar shade, 
 
 And climbing goat and mountain maid. 
 
THE WARDER OF THE PYRENEES. 
 
 And narrow belt of tenderest green, 
 Like waving ribbon, trailed between 
 The small swift streamlet and the blocks, 
 The herbless granite of the rocks. 
 Still gathering steepness by the way. 
 And double toil where Jonquera 
 Sits at the valley's head and sees 
 The gorges of the Pyrenees. 
 
 High on the left, in stainless white, 
 
 The mountain snows reflect the light, 
 
 Where dwell in ether's richest blue 
 
 The awful steeps of Canigou, 
 
 And near their topmost summits lie 
 
 Old Belleguarde, buried in the sky; 
 
 For oft the Warder's eyes behold 
 
 The clouds around its bulwarks rolled, 
 
 Red lightnings flash about the walls. 
 
 Or kindle in its airy halls. 
 
 Now all is fair — the sweet sun shines. 
 
 And figures its remotest lines, 
 
 Their time-black points relieved and clear 
 
 Upon a silvery atmosphere. 
 
 Up to the right, — small toil to seek 
 
 The point of yon commanding peak, — 
 
 Soon the delighted vision hails 
 
 The waters of the gulf, Marseilles ! 
 
 Whose blue and tideless ripples run 
 
 Like' silken folds before the sun. 
 
 The wind blows warmly, for it roves 
 
 From loved Italia's myrtle groves, 
 
 And to this Spanish shore complains 
 
 Of her so mutilated fanes. 
 
 Sad are the messages it brings. 
 
 The tales of old historic things. 
 
 Of ruin and the wrecks of war 
 
 By Gonsalvo and Mendoza, 
 
 Of ravine, wrack, and fire and flood. 
 
 Carnage, impiety, and blood. 
 
312 POEMS. 
 
 When Bourbon to the sack of Rome 
 
 Poured Spanish wolves o'er Hadrian's tomb,* 
 
 While vainly Michael, the adored 
 
 Archangel, waved his guardian sword. 
 
 The Warrior Saint to whom was given 
 
 To scatter rebel hosts from Heaven, 
 
 Failed here one moment to delay 
 
 The savage stormers from their prey; 
 
 And Clement from the Vatican 
 
 Held up his rusty cross in vain, 
 
 And shook his keys before their eyes, 
 
 And locked the gates of Paradise. 
 
 Now on her wounds, yet green to feel, 
 
 The Austrian stamps his iron heel. 
 
 And multiplies the mind of woe 
 
 In many a gentle Pellico. 
 
 The listless Neapolitan 
 
 Stifles the dignified in man. 
 
 And Rome with priestly cap and bells, 
 
 Rome ! her own degradation tells. 
 
 And to the nations bruits her fall 
 
 In Satumalian carnival. 
 
 With pagan rites in Christian name. 
 
 Regardless of Italia's shame. 
 
 Thou, Lady of the Nations, found 
 
 With thy sea-girdle all unbound. 
 
 Thy mountain breastplate pierced, and gored 
 
 Thy beauteous bosom with the sword. 
 
 Vain steel thy garb for courtly silk, 
 
 Thy life-blood mingled with the milk ; 
 
 A purple stain the current runs, 
 
 To nourish and baptize thy sons. 
 
 And those that are of dovelike brood 
 
 Are nourished by the Eagle's food. 
 
 The very gale that blows to me 
 Is loaded with thy memory; 
 
 ' The tomb of Hadrian, now the Castle of St, Angelo, is surmounted by a gilt 
 •statue of the Archangel Michael, 
 
THE WARDER OF THE PYRENEES. 313 
 
 Ah ! heavily laden are its wings, 
 
 The sighs of centuries it brings ; 
 
 Wet are the messages it bears 
 
 To Spain, with fair Italia's tears. 
 
 Bear me quick, bear me back, O breeze, 
 
 Unto the farthest Cyclades ; 
 
 Or if more eastward thou arise. 
 
 To sacred Zion near the skies. 
 
 That fainting faith may hope again 
 
 Italian slaves shall yet be men. 
 
 But call we now the fancy back, 
 
 To turn it on our mountain track, 
 
 Where he, the Warder, leans intent 
 
 Upon his warlike implement. 
 
 Scarce thrice the distance that the bow 
 
 Or slinger's well-knit arm can throw. 
 
 Or rifle strike the wolf or deer, 
 
 Or gossip voices reach the ear. 
 
 Upon a mount of freshest green 
 
 A smaller citadel is seen. 
 
 Of ancient brickwork, less to guard 
 
 By force of strength, than watch and ward. 
 
 The single Keeper's duty calls 
 
 His daily rounds without the walls. 
 
 'Tis here the northern traveller sees 
 
 The Warder of the Pyrenees. 
 
 He holds the keys of mighty states. 
 
 And watches at their mountain gates. 
 
 Here paced he round his lonely tower. 
 In silence of the noonday hour. 
 Where e'en the sunbeams seemed to sleep 
 On the grey walls and rocky steep. 
 Yet flashed in sparkles from the gun 
 He for a moment leaned upon, 
 To while the tedium of his day 
 By watching up the mountain way 
 The mule's long train and slow delay. 
 
314 POEMS. 
 
 Too swift for him — he would have bought 
 Their heavier pace to feed his thought 
 And ease his solitary cares, 
 Though adding double toil to theirs. 
 'Tis his in silence to remain 
 A prisoner, though without a chain. 
 A beggar with his staff and scrip 
 Had been to him companionship. 
 Deep in the vale the hamlet's smoke 
 The cheer of friendly neighbours spoke. 
 Whose human sounds he well might miss ; 
 The eagle's and the wolf's were his. 
 But rarely is the Warder found 
 Beyond the measure of his round ; 
 The skyey peak, the quiet spot 
 Of unsunned valley tempt him not ; 
 Blank are such beauties all, and dim 
 Nature's sublimities to him. 
 For now his vision cannot stray 
 From travellers toiling up the way. 
 'Tis all unstirring ; and he seems 
 Like one absorbed in waking dreams ; 
 He thinks perchance may be the lot 
 Of one to journey near the spot, 
 Where in gay town or woody dell 
 His mother and his sisters dwell. 
 The memories of joyous youth, 
 Stamped with reality and truth, 
 In shadowy vividness are brought. 
 To fill his heart, his sight, his thought. 
 
 Bearn. 
 
 Methinks his soldier eye runs o'er, 
 For oh ! his heart is gone before, — 
 His youthful recollections turn 
 Adown the pastoral vales of Bearn, 
 Where in her girlhood to their cotes 
 His sister leads the milking goats. 
 
THE WARDER OF THE PYRENEES. 315 
 
 And duly from its shed at morn 
 
 The little bullock by the horn, 
 
 To pasture 'mongst the maize, and nigh 
 
 Sits down her distaff small to ply, 
 
 And trills their old provincial tune 
 
 To while away the hour till noon. 
 
 In strains scarce conscious what they mean, 
 
 Of Ronsard or of Goudelin. 
 
 While not to pass his fancy by, 
 
 I give the verse, and amplify. 
 
 Goudelin. 
 
 Un cop yeu premio la frescuro 
 A soulel coule, sur la berdero, 
 E'countro le roussignoulet, 
 Fazio tindse moun flajoulet ; 
 Tant que sur I'herbeto pradiero 
 Mous'els se dounaon carriero, 
 Quand Amour, qu'ero plus en la 
 Qu'augio I'un € I'autre fiula, 
 Ben doussamen coumo qui pano, 
 
 qui camino sur de lano, 
 E'tout d'assietous costo jou 
 Bol jutja qui fara milhou ; 
 Mds yeu laissi sur sa bengudo 
 Nostro querelo remetudo ; 
 
 Tapauc, 
 Tapauc yeu n'eri pas ta fol 
 De pensa que le roussignol, 
 Nou randesso mous fredous mudis, etc., 
 Goudelire Abenturse Amorosee. 
 
 Annette la Bearnaise. 
 
 One warm spring sunset on the grass 
 
 1 sat, a pleasant hour to pass. 
 And made my flageolet prevail 
 In echoes with a nightingale. 
 
3i6 POEMS. 
 
 The gentle bird to hear his note 
 RepUed to from another throat, 
 To louder gurglings strained his bill, 
 While I blew softer, softer still. 
 
 One star came out so bright, so mild, 
 
 It seemed the skies looked down and smiled 
 
 On valley, water, field, and tree, 
 
 They smiled upon my bird and me. 
 
 Mine eyes enchanted wandered round 
 The groves and flowery meadow ground. 
 Thinking the very blossoms heard 
 My passion for my darling bird. 
 
 When Clement, happening within reach 
 To hear us warbling each to each, 
 Came softly up, with mischief full, 
 Softly as one who treads on wool, 
 And, sitting by me, asked to be 
 The umpire of our rivalry. 
 
 I stopped my pipe ; I was not so 
 Simple a girl as not to know 
 That he, schooled by the alphabet. 
 Could pass both bird and flageolet ; 
 
 For 'twixt my flageolet and bird 
 Our music passed, but not a word 
 To tell to, as it came and went, 
 Each other what the music meant. 
 
 We sat not long, for when the dew 
 Moistened the daisy, I withdrew, 
 And homeward loitering all the way. 
 His tongue had something more to say. 
 
 And then he told me, as I found. 
 My heart went in the music's sound, 
 And better than the bird, that he 
 Could answer what it ought to be. 
 
THE WARDER OF THE PYRENEES. 317 
 
 Now I the next time must take care 
 I fall not into such a snare, 
 That he should think my sunset hjonn 
 Was not my bird's, but meant for him. 
 
 For ah ! I lost by his fine tale 
 My flageolet and nightingale ; 
 For on his tongue, in troth, in troth, 
 I quite, I quite forgot them both. 
 
 The chanson to her feelings true 
 
 Upon her lips is ever new, 
 
 And what with smiles and tears that start. 
 
 Gives ease to a too joyous heart, 
 
 That with life's sweetness from its core 
 
 Like David's cup is running o'er. 
 
 Yet starts she when her thoughts intrude 
 
 The legend of " Red Riding Hood." 
 
 For well she recollects the night, 
 
 When waking by the cold moon's ligh 
 
 She shuddered with amazement dread, 
 
 To see a wild wolf's hairy head, 
 
 With ears aback and staring grin, 
 
 Red with the hungry fire of sin, 
 
 At midnight through the casement glare 
 
 Upon her little pallette there. 
 
 And frightened by her screams retire 
 
 With the long bowlings of desire. 
 
 In that gay land where manners reign 
 From city belle to country swain. 
 In childhood and in youth they both 
 Are adults, but of smaller growth. 
 He sees her now with kerchief red. 
 Bound tastefully about the head. 
 The smooth hair parted on her brows. 
 Black eyes that wander like the roe's, 
 High cheeks sun-touched as if by stealth. 
 Round in the ruddiness of health ; 
 
3i8 POEMS. 
 
 Her ears large drops of gold bedeck, 
 A swan-white collar binds the neck, 
 A scarlet hood with velvet faced, 
 And folded arms with mittens graced 
 A little shawl of creamy dye. 
 Close pinn'd in front, and rosary. 
 On jaunty feet, whose tiptoe springs, 
 Like angels', seem upborne by wings, 
 To mountain chapel see the lass 
 On f^te day trip to early mass ; 
 Mark how the Warder's features play 
 To greet her in the narrow way. 
 Till kneeling in the antique fane. 
 She joins with infant heart the strain. 
 Awhile the anthem, sweetly clear, 
 Swells on his own believing ear. 
 In notes rebounded by the breeze. 
 Along the eternal Pyrenees. 
 
 Les Landes. 
 
 Or was his home the barren sands 
 
 And piny forests of Les Landes ? 
 
 The home, too, so old legends ran, 
 
 Of " Barbebleu " and of " Sister Anne ; ' 
 
 Whose woful tale translated here. 
 
 Shakes childhood with remembered fear. 
 
 Boiled he the pitch, or tapped the pine. 
 
 To draw the yellow turpentine .'' 
 
 Or went he with his sire in quest 
 
 Of honey from the wild bees' nest, 
 
 To raise — high aim — his youthful tax 
 
 To commerce ? of their plastic wax, 
 
 With cottage stores, shipped off to shine 
 
 In tapers at St. Dennis' shrine. 
 
 Or pleased with manly axe to work. 
 
 Peeled from the standing tree the cork. 
 
 Whose sap with lively vigour rolls 
 
 Up through their black and barkless boles, 
 
THE WARDER OF THE PYRENEES. 319 
 
 Unchecked to all their oaklike sprays, 
 Green in midwinter as tbe bay's, 
 And six short summers see renewed 
 The bark again upon the wood. 
 
 Large is the peasant's home ; it holds 
 His varied stores from woods and wolds, 
 His crop of cork, his goats for milk, 
 His wild bees' wax, his worms for silk. 
 His steer for labour kept, — but here 
 Wealthy is he who keeps a steer ; 
 The grain his sandy wastes supply, 
 Some barebone barley, pulse, or rye. 
 His pine-tree torches giving light. 
 As tapers in the winter's night. 
 And one large shelter covers all 
 The f.eld-store, granary, and stall. 
 Tiled in deep channels is the roof, 
 'Gainst thunder-storms for waterproof, 
 Far-shelving and wide-spreading, made 
 Alike to shoot the rain, and shade, 
 Along the wall the summer seats 
 Of household labour from the heats. 
 His mother here, her day toil done, 
 Sits shaded from the evening sun, 
 Where the vine spreads her verdant wiles 
 To mask the rough, deep-channelled tiles. 
 And with her tendril fingers weaves 
 
 The edges of o'erarching eaves, 
 
 And into hanging curtains shoots 
 
 Her pensile runners, leaves, and fruits. 
 
 He carves her sabots smart and slim. 
 
 She pranks the f6te-day vest for him. 
 
 He shapes the basket, bowl, or spoon. 
 
 She spins until the cooler moon. 
 
 With chat and legendary lay, 
 
 They close the summer's sultry day. 
 
 As ices on the mountain's brow 
 Melt in and to their valle)ttflow 
 
320 POEMS. 
 
 As stubborn stone cannot resist 
 
 The sapping moisture of the mist, 
 
 As universal dews that fall 
 
 To bathe the weed upon the wall, 
 
 The scenes of youth subdue the mind 
 
 Down to the tender calm and kind, — 
 
 The martial man, no longer steel, 
 
 Bows to the law that all should feel. 
 
 For these familiar things arise 
 
 So real to the Warder's eyes. 
 
 That granite rocks seem widespread sands, 
 
 The ridge that high before him stands, 
 
 A pine-tree forest in Les Landes. 
 
 GUIENNE. 
 
 Fair 'tis to see the sweeping train 
 
 Of Tarn, of Indre, or the Seine, 
 
 Yet fairer vales Guienne can show, 
 
 Where down her lovely rivers flow. 
 
 Westward to track the setting sun 
 
 Their deep indented courses run. 
 
 Small space for fields their banks supply. 
 
 But hills, clear waters, and blue sky. 
 
 Where wider reach the shore displays 
 
 Its rich alluvions and clays, — 
 
 With maize and flax the peasant tills, 
 
 And vines upon the limey hills. 
 
 Not asking aid, or trailing low. 
 
 Like those that to the northward grow, 
 
 With these e'en they but meanly shine 
 
 Along thy banks, romantic Rhine. 
 
 Here tall and strong, in rows they pleach, 
 
 The tops close twisted each to each. 
 
 The' admiring stranger walks between 
 
 Endless long alldes arched in green, 
 
 While pendant from the sides and crown 
 
 Hang the large purple clusters down. 
 
 And all a rich relief receives 
 
 Of graceful garnish from the leaves. 
 
THE WARDER OF T^HE PYRENEES. 321 
 
 The sparry stalactites so shine, 
 Depending in the mountain mine, — 
 So to the ground of the blue space. 
 The Crescent owes her sweetest grace. 
 Such glowing scenes the vineyards show, 
 Where dwell thy wealthy sons, Bordeaux. 
 Did here the Warder scarp the soil 
 With huge broad hoe in grateful toil. 
 And daily through the vintage fed 
 On the ripe clusters and his bread, 
 And slaked the summer's feverish beam 
 In the wide Garonne's rushing stream ? 
 His youth elastic, gay, and bright. 
 One long, long summer of delight ! 
 
 Or where the juicy grape is grown. 
 Along thy borders, clear Dordogne, 
 Where'er thy glassy waters track 
 Their way to Bourg from Souillac, 
 The slopes of purple vineyards lay 
 Throughout the river's winding way ; 
 Here, as his boyish fancies suit. 
 Swims he the stream, or plucks the fruit, 
 Or sails between its verdant bowers. 
 With wines to Cubzac's spacious towers ? 
 Where modern art has dared to raise 
 A structure as of fairy days, — 
 A bridge of wondrous breadth and length. 
 Of little wires of strawlike strength. 
 And flung the elfin toil on high, 
 Between the water and the sky. 
 
 Tours. 
 
 Or are his pleasant day dreams laid 
 
 At noon beneath the walnut shade 
 
 Of princely Tours ? Whose daughters dance 
 
 Upon the Richmond hill of France, 
 
 21 
 
POEMS. 
 
 As there we mark the graceful bowers, 
 And home of Pope's melodious hours, 
 So here, who love the Lyre survey 
 The famed and living Bdranger. 
 
 The lilied Loire, like silver Thames, 
 
 Flows softly by her branchy elms,— 
 
 The river and the radiant skies 
 
 Are classic in our English eyes. 
 
 Here Goldsmith, wandering in their shade. 
 
 Sat down, and to the peasants played ; 
 
 His pipe their starlit dances led, 
 
 And music won a welcome bed : 
 
 No wonder that his skill was such 
 
 Their nature's sentiments to touch, 
 
 His own "Deserted Village" brought 
 
 The tenderest elements of thought ; 
 
 Its deep regretful gushes swell 
 
 A sense they ask not words to tell, 
 
 For the heart's inspiration floats 
 
 In deeper science than the notes. 
 
 It well might rise, as scents of flowers. 
 
 Spontaneous float at dewy hours. 
 
 So Delamartine, when he draws 
 
 The Tribune to assert the laws, 
 
 The phrase so fitly quoted stands 
 
 Great Nature's poetry, not man's. 
 
 And we may gather from his tone 
 
 They have a Poet of their own, 
 
 Whose strains his fellow-people teach 
 
 The compass of their country's speech. 
 
 And echo to our English shore 
 
 The music Goldsmith lent before. 
 
 Round Richmond's heights the water sweeps 
 
 The spot where " Nature's poet" sleeps, 
 
 And here adown the vale below 
 
 The river winds with ripples slow. 
 
 Where elms and poplars grow between 
 
 The Loire's rich margin and the green, 
 
THE WARDER OF THE PYRENEES. 
 
 Whose windings, woods, and hills convey 
 The raptured senses far away, 
 To read and treasure up the grace. 
 The poetry of Nature's face. 
 
 Well may the Warder drop one tear 
 For life's sweet morning breathed in here, 
 Our parents' life-red current runs 
 Its twofold tides within the son's. 
 The father's fills the heroic part. 
 But all the mother's swells the heart. 
 
 Here roved he with his little pet. 
 His Julie, or his Antoinette, 
 And plucked for her the serried ranks 
 Of water-lilies on its banks, 
 And tuned by fits his simple quill. 
 To charm her labours up the hill. 
 The willow pipe her fancy suits, 
 But his is in the martial flutes ; 
 His bounding heart-pulse ebbs and flows, 
 To that his high-toned townsman blows ; * 
 But now he mourns the fatal charms 
 That stirred his youthful breast to arms. 
 
 Have we not read his thoughts aright ? 
 For see ! he follows us in sight. 
 And, statue-like, still leans upon 
 The.barrel of his glittering gun, 
 And strains around the rocky bend 
 To watch the latest traveller wend. 
 Thus oft when simple feelings yearn, 
 A stranger's heart you may discern ; 
 You know that such will be the tone 
 Of his, because you read your own. 
 And hence, if rightly read, is brought 
 The wealth of the new worlds of thought, 
 
 * B^ranger formerly resided at Tours. 
 
324 POEMS. 
 
 Where still the richest jewels rest, 
 Unfound, unfathomed, unconfessed. 
 
 And now at eve, midst woods and flowers, 
 
 From travel turned to homefelt hours. 
 
 Full oft my backward fancies fly. 
 
 To where old Belleguarde's bulwarks lie, 
 
 And still my waking vision sees 
 
 The Warder of the Pyrenees. 
 
 THE NUN'S LAMENT. 
 
 " The Nun's Lament " is the translation of a singular little poem in Spanish, en- 
 titled " Las doze Coplas Moniales," — a curious relic of antiquity, having been written 
 in the early part of the Sixteenth Century antecedent to the Reformation. It was 
 glossed and sung, and it obtained great celebrity in its day. It describes to the life, 
 the grief of an unfortunate Recluse, constrained by her family, at an early age, to 
 become a Nun, whose affecting lamentation tells the story of many such victims who 
 have faded away prematurely in the shades of conventual seclusion, unregarded and 
 unknown. The Poem is remarkable for its tone of reality, and the touching, yet 
 simple pathos of its language. Indeed, the bare simplicity of the original, not always 
 attained in the translation, is one of the charms of this singular piece ; for the actual 
 intensity of sorrow never waits upon the artificial graces of style. 
 
 Its air of quaint antiquity and depth of feeling is increased by the interweaving 
 of the metrical Latin lines, nor do these militate against its consistency of keeping. 
 They lead the rather, upon a little reflection, to ratify its truth and fidelity to 
 nature. For, being used in the prayers and chants of the daily Latin services of 
 the Church, such reiterated passage must, on the lips of Nuns, have become more 
 familiar io them than " household words." How natural does it seem, for a mind too 
 intelligent for a cloister, to find in the expression of grief of the Saviour and the 
 Psalmist an echo as it were to itself ! so that whilst chanting their sufferings in the 
 ancient language of the ritual, the heart would give a covert yet audible utterance to 
 its own. It would find in this manner a momentary solace to its pain in the unsus- 
 pected melody of its own passionate anguish. 
 
 And it is this application to the inward sensibilities of our common nature, especially 
 in affliction and sorrow, which gives a peculiar force and universality to the meaning 
 of Scripture itself; and it is when Scripture is thus applied to the inward sensibilities 
 of our common nature, especially in affliction and sorrow, that we discover its peculiar 
 force, and the universality of its meaning. 
 
 Composed in an age when the arts of reading and writing were acquirements only 
 of Ecclesiastics and a few learned Professors, the inference naturally arises that the 
 author of the piece must have been a Confessor of Nuns, one to whose unavailing 
 
THE NUN'S LAMENT. 325 
 
 compassion these irremediable sorrows were confided. These sorrows appear in- 
 finitely deepened, and swell to a note of agony with the pathetic sentiment, that this 
 constrained seclusion in a cloister, by raising all the feelings of Nature in rebellion 
 against its discipline, would infiict on her an exclusion hereafter from the felicity of 
 the Blessed ; and more, that it is even more the cause, by a premature declme and 
 death, of hastening the advance of the coming condemnation. 
 
 When the individual example of the " Lament " under these considerations is so 
 touching, how much more affecting will it become when we also consider it as the 
 type of a class reproduced throughout a succession of ages in a series not yet extinct. 
 Even now the last stanza, rendered almost word for word from the original,' seems 
 from the mysterious distance of more than three hundred years and of ten generations 
 of mankind to utter a cry of human feeling down even to the present period ; — 
 
 ye m^ds, who list and wander 
 Round about this traitor's gate, 
 
 1 conjure you that ye ponder, 
 Never ill that bows you under. 
 
 Equals this my lost estate, etc. 
 
 Larger than the language lent, 
 Is the least my grievance borrows, 
 
 For to watch in discontent 
 
 How my mournful years are spent 
 Is a lineage of sorrows. 
 Solatia misera mea. 
 Clausa sunt undique porta. 
 
 As my wishes never bound me, 
 
 How distinctly they surround me 
 To my greater grief I see. 
 
 And the secret of the whole 
 
 Is what now can purge my sin. 
 Grave, and touching to the soul, 
 Rising to the lips within, 
 Derelicta sum captiva, 
 Jnflorentiatate mea, 
 Wan, afflicted, and unshriven 
 Must she live while life is given. 
 In this stony prison see her. 
 
 Buried here henceforth do I 
 
 Wretched Maiden ! meet the morn, 
 Dying daily till I die. 
 
326 POEMS. 
 
 Free, and of free mother bom, 
 Who has bound me here forlorn ? 
 Sensi nata paucos annos 
 Fortunam iratam Deam ; 
 My own parents and my brothers ! 
 At their will, and not another's, 
 Diviserunt vestem meam. 
 
 Thus left here on convent ground, 
 
 Of my damage unperceiving. 
 As my maiden years come round 
 The fierce rankle of the wound 
 Clamours at my soul's deceiving. 
 Anima mea desert a, 
 Tristis erit usque ad mortem; 
 Thousand other troubles suit 
 Over it to draw dispute, 
 
 Et super earn miserunt sortem. 
 
 Hence it is that to my sorrow 
 
 I am sunk in such abyss, 
 Years of anguish cannot borrow 
 
 Lines to sound what depth it is. 
 Mortis urget me cupido 
 Thedio compungor ab isto. 
 When oblivion I can drink of, 
 
 Life itself I seem to bear ; 
 But, ah ! when I turn to think of 
 
 Christ and virtue, I despair. 
 
 Other troubles without number 
 
 Have my frame and vigour shaken, 
 For with them I go to slumber. 
 And with them at mom awaken. 
 CurcB, mei cordis, heredes. 
 Dies in noctem verterunt. 
 Night, a double night indeed is. 
 In so many grates and gratings, 
 
THE NUN'S LAMENT. 327 
 
 WallSj that gloomy make the mornings 
 Dies mei declinaverunt. 
 
 What shall I say of contentions. 
 
 And anxieties increasing ; 
 Grave and bitter reprehensions, 
 
 Burthens still the more increasing, 
 Disciplines and castigations, 
 And the spirit's sore temptations ; 
 
 Quibus in vita resisto ? 
 As I walk the way He trod, 
 
 In ten thousand toils I languish, 
 
 Watchings, scourgings, thorns, and anguish 
 Make me like the Son of God. 
 
 Friends whom my young heart selected, 
 
 Faithful never were, nor true ; 
 Who could give me faith expected ? 
 Since I feel it was rejected 
 By the breast whose milk I drew ? 
 
 Cupiditate 7ionfida, 
 
 Me parentes tradiderent. 
 Now, alas ! in lifelong measure 
 Tears are left — my life's sole pleasure 
 
 Quempro numinis vendiderunt. 
 
 Wishing to increase my pain, 
 
 Like some merciless Confessors, 
 Not sufficient is a chain. 
 But in prison to remain ; 
 
 So avenged are my oppressors. 
 
 Supplicio, perfidi, meo, 
 
 Hunc dolorem addiderunt, 
 Here where other eyes must shun me, 
 More to wreak their will upon me 
 
 Mantis et pedes fcederunt. 
 
 Now I see my sad position 
 Can, alas ! no deeper go. 
 
328 POEMS. 
 
 Veriest wretches' lost condition 
 Never, never sank so low, 
 
 Since my voice, by weakness dying, 
 
 Fails to sound my plaints and sighing. 
 Similata semper aquo 
 Judicata mortis rea. 
 
 This strange torment day by day. 
 Fears, anxieties, and yearnings. 
 Labours, injuries, and mournings. 
 
 Waste my very bones away ; 
 
 So that I can truly charge 
 
 This my state to its beginning. 
 Since I might have lived at large 
 Without pain of mortal sinning. 
 Natam captarunt parentes 
 Vinculis ligarunt earn; 
 Selfish nuns, the end discerning, 
 For my toys and trinkets burning, 
 Diviserunt vestem meam. 
 
 ye maids ! who list and wander 
 Round about this traitor gate, 
 
 1 conjure you that ye ponder. 
 Never ill that bows you under. 
 
 Equals this my lost estate. 
 Yours are treasures — freedom's pleasures, — 
 I can only anguish know ; 
 Vos habetis libertatem 
 Ego vim potior hicfortem 
 Till conflicting woes and errors 
 Hasten death's untimely terrors. 
 And above me overflow. 
 And engulph me down below. 
 Et super me miserunt sortem. 
 
 The following circumstance is related in the Memoirs of Stephen Grellet, vol. xi., 
 p. 404. (London : Bennett, i860. Demy 8vo.) Valencia. — The Physician [who 
 was his interpreter during his visits to the public institutions of that city] told us that 
 about a year since (namely, 1832) he was sent for into a Nunnery, to visit, as a medica' 
 man, a female who was ill. As he stood by her she appeared to wish to speak to him. 
 
MY WINTER HOME, 329 
 
 but not to be able to raise her voice above a whisper. He put his ear to her mouth ; 
 she placed a paper in his hands, unobsenxd by those that were near, and whispered 
 in his ear, " I have no bodily disease, but distress of mind." The contents of the 
 paper were to entreat him to devise some means to rescue her from that horrible place. 
 She was a young woman of fortune in Italy ; and after her father's decease, her 
 brother contrived to get possession of her estate, and, through the agency of some 
 priests, to have her removed to Spain, and shut up in this convent. Very soon after 
 this, and before anything could be done for her rescue, the physician himself was 
 imprisoned, and he has not been able to hear anything of her since. 
 
 MY WINTER HOME. 
 
 " And Winter deepens with his stonny din 
 The quiet charm of the. bright Hearth within." 
 
 J. H. WlFhEN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Gay and ever green to see, 
 
 Shines the glossy Holly tree. 
 Spring can show us flowers more sightly, 
 Summer's moments trip more lightly. 
 Autumn fruits blush out more brightly, 
 
 Winter still has charms for me. 
 Rains descending, tempests blowing. 
 Clarion gusts, to music growing, 
 Clouds a solid twilight snowing, 
 Frost his gemlike mantle throwing 
 
 Over blade and shrub and tree 
 
 Nature's changes, grandly free. 
 
 Winter's charm's the charm for me. 
 
 Home of thought, as it should be, 
 
 In the quiet family. 
 Soaring high and sinking lowly, 
 Dear " divinest Melancholy," 
 Sad and nunlike, grand and holy. 
 Worth an age of simpering folly. 
 
 Prophecy thou leadest with thee. 
 Deep and deeper feeling follows, 
 
330 POEMS. 
 
 Sounds the heart through all its hollows, 
 Flute ! that Nature's breathings swallows, 
 To break forth in melody. 
 Such I understand to be 
 Echoes of thy voice in me. 
 
 III. 
 
 O, the thoughts that come to me ! 
 
 O, the feelings of the free ! 
 Free from toil and careful trouble, 
 Present peace no fancied bubble, 
 Shared to others added double ; 
 
 Doubt it not, but come and see ! 
 Mind on flowers of mind reposes, 
 Intellect what autumn closes. 
 Reason, Reason has her roses. 
 
 Cropped the sweeter all to be. 
 
 Reading, Mocha, verse and tea 
 
 Cheer the quiet family. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Gracious feasts for Memory 
 
 In the thoughtful family. 
 Morals brings her purest pleasures. 
 History his antique treasures, 
 Poesy her sweetest measures, 
 
 Dear and darling Poesy! 
 Writers from the depth of ages 
 Heap their variegated pages, 
 Stoled Philosophy her Sages 
 
 Brings to bear us company. 
 
 All to read their works to me 
 
 In the thoughtful family. 
 
 V. 
 
 O, the charms in books that be ! 
 
 Lights of life ! what duteous knee 
 Would deny you honour duly ! 
 Winter hours are yours most truly, 
 
MY WINTER HOME. 331 
 
 Prized, admired, and loved as newly 
 
 As when light broke in on me. 
 Visitors are ye in sickness, 
 Noble counsellors in weakness, 
 Kind upbraiders, who when meekness 
 
 Bows too low, give energy. 
 
 All — and more than these to me 
 
 Are the thoughts in books that be. 
 
 VI. 
 
 E'en such heartfelt joys we see 
 
 In many an English family. 
 Far from these be fashion's phases, 
 Foreign frippery and laces, 
 All that tinsel glory chases. 
 Barbarous honours, pert grimaces. 
 Gloss that truth of heart debases, 
 
 English virtues all for me ! 
 Constant love's domestic faces, 
 Angel aids towards heavenly places, 
 Quaker mind in Saxon races, 
 English forms with nature's paces, 
 
 Island Queen ! from sea to sea. 
 AVhat are statues, pictures, vases, 
 To the worth thy reahn embraces ? 
 Freedom's refuge — Eden's traces. 
 Household morals, loves, and graces, 
 . Draw the whole world's gaze on thee. 
 
 1842. 
 
332 POEMS. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Presented to Augustine Arguelles, Guardian of Isabella II. of Spain, 
 with a copy of J. H. Wiffen's translation of the works of Garcilasso 
 de la Vega, surnamed the Prince of Spanish Poets. 
 
 "For mind can never be thought of too highly; it is God's highest work: His 
 mirror and . , . representative ; His book, in which he writes His epistles to the soul 
 of man." — Channing. 
 
 Spain's sweetest Bard's undying numbers 
 
 Lie here in Saxon music drest, 
 But He who woke their southern slumbers 
 
 With Gothic Lyre, is gone to rest. 
 Ask not where now his head reposes, 
 
 In what far region rests his dust: 
 If crowned with amaranth or roses, 
 
 The sculptor's skill belie his bust. 
 
 The tongueless Marble 's a crumbling pleader. 
 
 The Medal faithless to its trust ; 
 But the thought that stirs the thought 6f a reader, 
 
 That essence of motion, cannot be dust. 
 Did not Mind, at the first formation. 
 
 Axle this planet and kindle the void ? 
 The Thought that moves thought strikes a light in creation, 
 
 Young fire of a sphere that will not be destroyed. 
 
 How small is the meed of Brass or Column 
 
 To that which the Pen to itself imparts ! 
 How sullen the Minister's dirge, though solemn. 
 
 To the pages that sound through Human Hearts! 
 The Book that our innermost mind engages. 
 
 Makes part of its nature and destiny ; 
 Its rounds of thought are the links of ages. 
 
 They fashion the chain of Eternity. 
 
 Such — the pen of the Poet's glory ! 
 
 Such — the translator's from shore to shore ! 
 Such — the meed of the page before me. 
 
 Of the Dead who have written and gone before. 
 
MY BOOKS AND THEIR USES. 333 
 
 The Spirit of Love, the bosom that trembles 
 
 To tenderest feeUng's smile and tear, 
 Here read how each the other resembles, 
 
 For both their monuments are here. 
 Madrid, \zth mo. i^th, 1840. 
 
 MY BOOKS AND THEIR USES. 
 
 I HAVE ever a book on my table, 
 
 And my cabinet 's rich with a score ; 
 I read them whenever I'm able, 
 
 And then for my ease give o'er. 
 Their tedium never can tease me, 
 
 For they open and close at my call ; 
 That which censures, but censures to please me. 
 
 And that pleases me most of them all. 
 
 I read in my youth of a rhymer 
 
 Neglecting his care to engross. 
 Who soared into regions sublimer, 
 
 The soul of his father to cross. 
 Not the hours of that evening were fleeter 
 
 Than the flames on my rhymes, — yet I call 
 ■ The pain of that sacrifice sweeter 
 
 Than the honour of printing them all. 
 
 They are lost! yet they leave me this token 
 
 In the languor of age, that I find 
 'Tis a duty for duties unbroken, 
 
 To taste now of the wine of the mind. 
 Kind reprover ! what once were rebelling 
 
 Now not done would be duty at strife ; 
 For I owe thee this cottage I dwell in. 
 
 And a song in the autumn of life. 
 
 I remember Miss Edgworth's " To-morrow," 
 And the blush on my cheek as I read : 
 
 That saved me from want and from sorrow, 
 And twined me a garland instead. 
 
334 POEMS. 
 
 Dear Reprovers ! the sweet recollection 
 Comes now towards the close of my days ; 
 
 You have gained me these years for reflection, 
 And this leisure to write in your praise. 
 
 Lights of life ! and the formers of ages ! 
 
 Our volumes, the grace of our shelves, 
 Minds embalmed and embodied in pages 
 
 Become as our own other selves. 
 Our own not alone are receiving 
 
 For this life what you give them to feel ; 
 But the features you fashion as living. 
 
 Eternity sets with her seal. 
 
 THE CHURCH IN DECAY. 
 
 What greater evil can pursue 
 A church that flourished, once the true. 
 Than thus to perish, day by day. 
 In unoblivious decay? 
 
 Grey ruin shakes the " holy place," 
 On pillars, crumbled at the base, 
 A vegetative ravin crawls 
 In leprosy along the walls. 
 
 Once fragrant incense filled the room. 
 Soft unction mingled with perfume : 
 The flight of time has borne this hence. 
 And worms are in the frankincense. 
 The canker frets the Judge's dress, 
 The moth the robes of righteousness ; 
 The Priests are dead, the Censer sold, 
 The Lamp gone out, the Altar cold. 
 
 And Jealousy, an image fair,* 
 Is standing on its topmost stair ; 
 The verdicts of the Judgment rise 
 Already in her two bright eyes. 
 
 * £zek. vili. 
 
THE CHURCH IN DECAY. 335 
 
 The Presence past, the ejders mourn, 
 All few, forsaken, and forlorn ; 
 While works the progress of decay 
 Without the power to stem or stay. 
 
 For Death, who plucked the ripened fruit, 
 Leaves them with scarce an after-shoot ; 
 And seeds that should a forest yield 
 Are scattered by the winds, and peeled. 
 
 The spot, once favoured of the skies. 
 Is now but rich in memories ; 
 And chronicles record alone 
 The Fathers' virtues all their own. 
 
 Relenting Time, who something saves. 
 Leaves them now little but their graves ; 
 A second death is on his wing, 
 For even these are vanishing. 
 
 Unlike the silent sense of those 
 Who watch in luminous repose. 
 Their troubled worship vibrates still 
 Between the affections and the will. 
 
 Forth from the past no answers come, 
 And Prophecy herself is dumb ; 
 Or they lament the former things 
 In anguish of the word she brings. 
 
 And if, perchance, some stranger voice 
 Bids their long silent roof rejoice. 
 The sounds that fill its listening scope 
 Are but the very sighs of Hope. 
 
 The words of Ministry and Prayer 
 Evaporat^'to common air, 
 And souls that would in worship rise 
 Expire upon the sacrifice. 
 
 In tears there might be some relief. 
 For strength itself can grow in grief ; 
 They cannot weep, the heart appears 
 Too spiritless for even tears. 
 
336 POEMS. 
 
 Call it not Martyrdom to feel 
 The Inquisition's fire and steel ; 
 This cold and heartless waste at home 
 Is Truth's most bitter Martyrdom. 
 yd mo. 2yd, 1847. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 I. 
 Reader, or writer, or whosoe'er 
 
 Thou art who look'st these pages through, 
 Pause, and a few brief moments spare 
 
 To conscious introspection due. 
 Art thou a mourner? ask thy heart ; 
 
 Could Moore's gay trifles satisfy 
 An aching void ; the tears that start, 
 
 Can Scott's fictitious pages dry? 
 
 II. 
 
 Will Campbell's hope, Montgomery's sigh, 
 
 Or all that pensive Rogers writes. 
 When dark affliction passes by. 
 
 Nerve thee to kiss the hand that smites ? 
 Mistrust the lay that deeply charms ; 
 
 All is not truth that's sweetly told, 
 Nor fancy's flash the fire that warms, 
 
 Nor every glittering 'scutcheon gold. 
 
 III. 
 Though fancy's lights round fiction glow, 
 
 And fiction warbles fancy's lyre, 
 The one impugns the truths we know. 
 
 The other wakes a wandering fire. 
 Is the mind healthy ? Does it need 
 
 Such food, nor will it ask for more ? 
 On Truth's pure Scriptures will it feed 
 
 With sweeter relish than before ? 
 
LINES. 337 
 
 IV. 
 
 When the mind's eye is all awake, 
 
 Night's curtain round — the world apart — 
 Will such things profit ? Will they make 
 
 Thy memories pleasant ? Ask thy heart. 
 Its beating pulses seem to say, 
 
 Time calls — Life hastens — Duty pleads — 
 The next may be the final day 
 
 Of him who writes, or thee who reads. 
 
 V. 
 How steep the mark ! how high the end ! 
 
 How easily the sweetest minds 
 From square-drawn verity descend 
 
 To yielding beauty's bending lines ! 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 I would not lightly chill a mind 
 
 Because it echoes not to mine : 
 The spice that warms thy gentle blood 
 
 Might fan a fever's flame in mine ; 
 And rightly tried when on thy side, 
 
 The sense of truth is clearly cast ; 
 Think not that hour is misapplied 
 
 Which leads thee onward to the last. 
 
 Part H. 
 
 At mom or eve, when thought grows still. 
 
 The sauntering hours that slowly move 
 Let Sewell's Martyr-history fill. 
 
 Or holy Fletcher's life of Love ; 
 On Pity's records fix thine eye, 
 
 To acts of Christian labour turn. 
 With Woolman's tender spirit sigh. 
 
 With Missionary Martyrs mourn. 
 
 So Peace be thine, nor what ensues 
 The thought that misspent time employs ; 
 
 Thine be the powers whose present use 
 Refines the dull, the lost restores, 
 
 22 
 
338 POEMS. 
 
 Broad waters be around thy shores, 
 The throne by sovereign Truth possest 
 
 And never gallant ship with oars 
 Invade the kingdom of thy rest. 
 
 LINES ON CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Where classic Camus pours his sedgy urn, 
 
 The sighing Dryads and the Wood nymphs mourn ; 
 
 Long spiry rushes fringe his sullen banks. 
 
 And sapling willows stand in martial ranks. 
 
 The brook is here unknown — each sullen flood 
 
 With slimy footsteps treads a path of mud. 
 
 No flowing daughters their swift tributes bring 
 
 O'er shining sands, and as they bear them sing, 
 
 To yield their burthen, and forgotten be 
 
 In the far nobler flood which bears them to the sea. 
 
 Here intersecting "drain cuts" bear about 
 
 The unclean humours which the earth casts out. 
 
 Pregnant with feverish airs which sing at strife, 
 
 And make that deathlike which would yet be life. 
 
 Here Engines work to give our sweet soil ease. 
 
 And free her furrows of their wet disease. 
 
 Thus may we see in Esculapian halls, 
 
 Where skilful Cooper hastes when Science calls. 
 
 The figure lovely late in life, but now 
 
 Death sits triumphant on its livid brow. 
 
 What noxious airs infect the crowded room. 
 
 And sow the young seeds of disease to come. 
 
 In those who listen with a silent breath 
 
 To learn his lessons, how to war with death ; 
 
 And thus his ready blade the form divides, 
 
 Where life so panted, and disease resides. 
 
 His skill exhibits it to sight, and draws 
 
 The peccant humour, foe to Nature's laws. 
 
 His silver tongue, with the sad scene at strife. 
 
 Teaches from Death to gain the love of Life. 
 
LINES ON CAMBRIDGE. 339 
 
 A loathsome art, and yet we bless the skill 
 Which lengthens life almost at human will. 
 
 The deathlike region boundless crops supplies 
 Of bread for man, where'er the prospects rise ; 
 Where greedy Commerce ploughs the land for gain. 
 Abundance loads till it can scarce sustain ; 
 Of loads of grain this right ungrudging yields. 
 While five per acre vex our burdened fields. 
 Few pastoral herds abound, the lowing kine 
 In poorer pastures than are ours, repine ; 
 Scant are the dairy's luscious sweets, and all 
 The products of distended udders small ; 
 The fleecy flock to various greens they drive. 
 Upon its scanty browsing slowly thrive ; 
 Sold off in more inviting vales to feed. 
 With fatter increase to supply our need. 
 
 Wealthy the masters are, and pursey-bounds 
 Of large expanse confine their spacious grounds ; 
 Which fill, in favouring years, with sums untold 
 Their almost bursting bags with ruddy gold ; 
 Yet sordid are their minds, and run to waste. 
 In evening's leisure hours, for want of taste 
 To cultivate and to enlarge its wing. 
 To rise from Earth like the sweet lark, and sing ; 
 For purer spirits exaltation know. 
 The grosser matter only sinks below. 
 
 These are Thy gifts. Eternal and Adored ! 
 Great Source of being ! Man and Nature's Lord ! 
 From Thee the talent is derived — to turn 
 Earth to Man's food — and it should upward burn ; 
 From Thee the Earth her fruitfulness receives. 
 And strength to generate the good she gives ; 
 Each blade of her green mantle points the source 
 Of mind on high, whence she derives her force ; 
 Thus human thought should ever, ever tend 
 To its first Cause, true Centre, and best End ; 
 Prove from the life, whilst in the body here, 
 Its ancestry drawn from a nobler sphere ; 
 
34° POEMS. 
 
 Join a communion to kind Spirits given, 
 Take Angels' food, a rich foretaste of Heaven ; 
 And plume its ardent wings, away to soar 
 In Bliss Eternal, Boundless, Evermore ! 
 
 MEMORIAL TO A FRIEND. 
 
 I. 
 Oh, yes 1 She was dear to us all, and in dying 
 
 Her love was more tenderly twined in the breast ; 
 For she looked like a Saint from this cold region flying, 
 
 To wing her glad way to the halls of the Blest. 
 
 II. 
 We will mourn not nor weep, for her pathway of light 
 
 Through a wearisome world was not cloudlessly fair, 
 To her Heavenly Home hath she taken her flight. 
 
 And no shadow can sully her happiness there. 
 
 III. 
 Who can say, had the will of Omnipotence spared 
 
 Her young days, that their course had been spotlessly trod? 
 E'en the Angels of Light, when they foolishly dared 
 
 To repose on themselves, were forsaken of God. 
 
 IV. 
 Yes ! Affection and Friendship shall cease to repine 
 
 At the loss which hath left them benighted and dim ; 
 For she dwells in the soul-soothing light of His Shrine, 
 
 Offering up evermore grateful incense to Him. 
 
 LINES AFFIXED TO A TABLE OF PEDIGREE SENT 
 TO A DISTANT COUSIN. 
 
 *' We all do fade as a leaf." 
 
 Time waj-^when these were strong and fair. 
 
 And life's glad path was green, 
 When journeyed hand-in-hand the pair, 
 
 And Pleasure walked between. 
 
LINES AFFIXED TO A PEDIGREE. 341 
 
 Time -was — to human nature true, 
 
 And youthful passion's power, 
 Our fruit as early blighted grew, 
 
 Or faded in the flower. 
 
 Time is — that lowly, lowly laid. 
 
 Their records are forgot ; 
 Its shadow casts a deepening shade. 
 
 To teach us they are not. 
 
 Time is — that conscious of the need 
 
 To prize the short'ning day. 
 Alive to its alarming speed, 
 
 We labour, faint, and pray. 
 
 Time shall be — when the trumpet's sound 
 
 Will wake their second birth, 
 And mouldering forms from sleep profound 
 
 Disturb the heaving earth. 
 
 Time shall be — when our state, Uke theirs, 
 
 So seeming cold and strange, 
 Will fix the forming characters, 
 
 To take no after change. 
 
 Oh ! will they tremble to the sense 
 
 That quickens to condemn? 
 Or know in lowly confidence 
 
 A Saviour lives for them? 
 
 O Thou who hear'st the sinner plead 
 
 The sacrifice He gives, 
 Permit us in Thy smile to read, 
 
 For us a. Saviour lives. 
 
 Thus one united Family, 
 
 All ended human care. 
 Within heaven's circle may we stand. 
 
 Nor one be wanting there. 
 1th mo. 1th, 1840. 
 
342 POEMS. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF J. H. WIFFEN. 
 
 Written in a copy of his translation of Tasso's " Jerusalem Delivered," 
 sent to a friend at Toronto, in Upper Canada. 
 
 * Tu che ne vai in Pindo, 
 
 Ivi pende mia cdtra ad un cipresso 
 Salutala in mio nome e dille poi 
 Ch'io son dagli anni e da fortuna oppresso." 
 
 Rime del Tasso. 
 
 " If with no vulgar aim, no selfish view, 
 
 I sought to give thy foreign chords a tongue. 
 Let not my hopes all pass like morning dew. 
 When on the cypress bough again thou'rt hung." 
 
 iindvol.,page 548, yd ed. 
 
 Go, little Volume, wheresoe'er 
 Thy yet untravelled course may be. 
 
 In the far Western World, and bear 
 A Brother's sighs along with thee. 
 
 Thy Lyre uphung, beneath the shade, 
 No more thy master's hand may try; 
 
 His recent form is lowly laid. 
 His soul is in the infinite sky. 
 
 By clustering Holly fenced around, 
 Where soft the aged Fir-tree sighs. 
 
 In quiet and forgotten ground. 
 
 The Historian, Friend, and Poet lies.* 
 
 Nameless the Christian Martyr there 
 
 Reposes by his sleeping side ; 
 'Tis meet the Muses should not share 
 
 The meed to martyred Faith denied, t 
 
 His house and garden, where the bee 
 Hums of Hymettus' thymy steeps 
 
 Smile unremembered now — whence She, 
 His loved in life, goes forth and weeps. 
 
 * The Society of Friends at that time admitted no memorial stones in their 
 places of interment. 
 
 t William Albright and other Friends at Wobum suffered under the persecuting 
 edicts of the Stuarts, for Religious Liberty the true basis of civil freedom. 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF J. H. WIFFEN. 343 
 
 Then go, thou Volume, wheresoe'er 
 Thy yet untravelled course may be, 
 
 In the far Western World, and bear 
 A Brother's tears along with thee. 
 
 For to a rising hemisphere 
 
 His tuneful memory shall depart, 
 
 And Bedford's name shall there be dear, 
 And Ida's cling around the heart.* 
 
 When Spring is pranked in leafy bowers, 
 And Autumn joins her stormy din. 
 
 And Winter veils in flaky showers 
 
 " The glow of the bright hearth within.'' 
 
 Unconscious to his youthful mind, 
 Another Crown shall Tasso wear; 
 
 His wondering Muse shall smile to bind 
 The wreath so foreign, strange, and fair.t 
 
 Then go, thou Volume, wheresoe'er 
 Thy yet untravelled course may be. 
 
 In the far Western World, and bear 
 A Brother's sighs along with thee. 
 
 Young Founder of a future race, 
 
 In thy posterity I see 
 The sunny glow of female grace. 
 
 The vigour of the wise and free. 
 
 Some— shall the Senate's toils employ, 
 Some — harvest the rich year's increase. 
 
 Some — Ministers of Heaven's own joy, 
 To sin's returnings proffer Peace. 
 
 And One perchance, the warm and young. 
 
 His silent Lyre redeeming kiss. 
 As he o'er Sainted Tasso's hung, 
 
 So inspiration draw from his. 
 
 • See the poetical dedication to Georgiana, Duchess of Bedford, and the 1 Envoi, 
 in the third Edition, two poems distinguished by the applause of one of the sweetest 
 writers of modem times ; but he is the Poet of Memory's Pleasures. 
 
 t Tasso was crowned after death in the Vatican, 1595. 
 
341 POEMS. 
 
 Then go, thou Volume, wheresoe'er 
 
 Thy yet untravelled course may be, 
 In the far Western World, and bear 
 A Brother's sighing heart with thee! 
 \st mo. Is/, 1837. 
 
 THE FRIENDS' BURIAL GROUND AT WOBURN. 
 
 The Burial-ground of the Society of Friends of Woburnis situated 
 two miles north-west of that town, at the foot of a considerable 
 range of hills on the edge of the county, and about one hundred 
 yards from the road to Nottingham and Leeds, Manchester and 
 Liverpool, — one of those highways which, like palpitating arteries, 
 convey the tide of never-ceasing circulation between the metro- 
 polis and the great commercial towns of the north and north-west. 
 It is a little plot of table-land standing almost alone. Beside 
 the border of one of its great thoroughfares, yet separated as it 
 were from the hurry of life, its seeming solitude is heightened 
 by an extensive Heath and a long line of Forest, which clothes 
 the boundary hills of the two counties. A long building, of 
 cottage-like appearance, without the peculiarities, yet bearing 
 the marks, of age, having been erected in the time of Charles I., 
 or the Commonwealth, with a circular grass plot in front, and 
 thickly peopled Burial-ground, backed by a narrow slip of garden 
 behind, constitute the premises. The whole is shut in from 
 outward observation by a noble fence of Holly, ever green ; three 
 lofty and aged Fir Trees, the lingering remnants of an early race, 
 add solemnity to a spot — 
 
 " Where holy men to worship God 
 Might wander for an hour." 
 
 It seems a place selected by the missionary spirit of the early 
 Friends, near enough to the market-place of men for their invita- 
 tions to be overheard . " Ho ! every one that thirsteth, come ye 
 to the waters, and he that hath no money ; yea, come, buy wine 
 and milk without money and "without price." 
 
 The walls have rung with the warnings, invitations, and 
 consolations of unbought Truth, dehvered by plain, holy, self- 
 devoted men. At this place in early times were " great gatherings 
 
FRIENDS' BURIAL GROUND AT WO BURN. 345 
 
 of the people," and its thickly set Burial-ground proves the 
 number of their converts and the constancy of their principles. 
 There, as in other old places of interment of this people, they 
 opened the groimd nearest to the dwelling-house, as if to draw 
 together as closely as might be the two states of the existence 
 of man, only separated, as they really are, by the thin veil of 
 momentary vitality ; or, as they were bound in proverbial 
 brotherhood to one another by a community of suffering for their 
 peculiar principles, as if the sympathies of faithful Friendship 
 united the living to the Dead in endearing and reverential 
 connection. 
 
 Who, that has witnessed a Funeral in one of these retired 
 country places, has not felt the touching simplicity of their practice 
 of this solemn rite ? No pall nor feathers ; no bands nor hoods ; 
 their every-day dress a symbol of the unchanging sincerity of affec- 
 tion. The body borne by the Friends of the Departed, the slow 
 gathering round its spot of rest, the heartfelt hush of the company, 
 deepened at intervals by the breathings of Nature — such as the 
 sigh of the autumn wind, or the stifled twittering of the summer 
 bird — sober the mind down towards a true and oftentimes 
 unwelcome estimate of its own daily state and habits of thought. 
 So deep is the silent solemnity, that the very pulse of the heart 
 is audible, travelling onward apace to the termination of life. 
 Conscience, more clean at such an hour as this, takes a breathing 
 time from the contending influences of a passing world to renew 
 its covenant with Life Immortal, whilst opportunely, perhaps^ 
 the voice of some Minister of grace and power corroborates the 
 testimony of the witness within. 
 
 Time has trodden down the little mounds which once dis- 
 tinguished the narrow dwellings ; many of them are nameless 
 and forgotten ; but the Memory of some of the silent tenants is 
 still dear to the bosoms of a few who admire their Christian 
 courage, and revere their Virtue. 
 
 The pious of all parties owe a debt of gratitude to the Editor 
 of the Letters of Lady Rachel Russell. In that ground his body 
 lests. His ever active, learned, and diligent mind admired, 
 edited, and procured the publication of the popular series of 
 Lady Russell's Letters, whose widowed sorrows have been the 
 edification of many. A widow, too, was the exemplar of his 
 
346 POEMS. 
 
 virtues, who with his grandsire, his father, and his son, sleeps 
 by his side. He collected the existing Library, and planted the 
 aged Fir Trees which grace with solemnity the spot. Dear be 
 the Memory of his son, who finished his well-aged course to rest 
 with him. He was the friend of many who had no other friend. 
 His silent virtues spoke out in the sighs of the poor, who followed 
 with their children, not indeed " afar off," to witness the last of 
 One whom tradition may chronicle in the distance of years by the 
 surname of " the Good." His affable, discursive, investigating 
 mind flowed in an undercurrent of retiring bashfulness, through- 
 out a long life of kind offices, cheerful hopes, living sympathies, 
 and innocent wit. The scenes of Nature never spoke to his 
 heart in vain ; it expanded at the view of her beauties with the 
 feelings of Faith and Love, and glowed with the sensibilities of 
 Youth in the time of old Age. 
 
 And here, last and latest, was gathered the Historian and the 
 Poet, whose lyre 
 
 " Is on the cypress bough again uphung," 
 
 and whose recording pen has raised a Monument to a Noble 
 Family, — to use his own words respecting the Biographer of 
 Howard, " more honourable and enduring than the ornature of 
 marble." 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING A BUST OF THE 
 PHIDIAN VENUS. 
 
 Divinity in Stone ! yet glowing 
 Warm to the eye, supremely fair ! 
 
 Beauty a sense like odour throwing. 
 As though the spirit harboured there. 
 
 Upon that brow, so pure, so soft, 
 Immortal Love hath set his seal, 
 
 And left in kinder mood than oft, 
 The sign we cannot choose but feel. 
 
 'Tis true those full and fix^d eyes, — 
 They cannot move or glow with fire, 
 
 Or herald, as the wishes rise. 
 The thoughts the bosom would respire; 
 
ON THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL LADY. 347 
 
 But lo ! those lips, those eloquent lips ! 
 
 So full of Love, and Peace, and all 
 Which suffered such a dark eclipse 
 
 When erring woman wrought our fall. 
 
 And knowing this, say who can look 
 
 Upon that marble, nor prefer 
 
 That Man the fatal apple took 
 
 And Eden left, to live with Her ? 
 1819. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SEEING THE PORTRAIT OF A 
 > BEAUTIFUL BUT UNKNOWN LADY. 
 
 Upon Her cheek the eye may trace 
 
 The lineaments of Heavenly grace, 
 
 A tender streak of ruddy Light, 
 
 Which strikes at once, and holds the sight. 
 
 It is not brilliant — is not gay, 
 
 It is not Pleasure's dazzling ray. 
 
 It does not wildly flash and burn, 
 
 Like rich winds in a sparry bowl, 
 
 But softly beams and shines, as roll 
 
 Sweet waters from a crystal urn. 
 
 It makes, albeit he strive in vain. 
 
 The gazer turn to gaze again. 
 
 It seems to speak in tender tone. 
 
 Of childhood's happier moments flown. 
 
 When pleasure like the buds of roses, 
 
 At every change new sweets discloses. 
 
 And we, like bees with all the flowers, 
 
 In dalliance spend the laughing hours. 
 
 On the smooth brow the chestnut hair 
 
 Descends, and makes a twilight there, 
 
 So softly shadowed and so sweet, 
 
 As that when light and darkness meet. 
 
 And purple ocean, round his isles. 
 
 In Heaven's own aspect looks and smiles. 
 
248 POEMS. 
 
 On that pure tablet grief hath laid 
 Her hand, but not one furrow made ; 
 On that unsullied page as yet, 
 No impress of her seal is set ; 
 From those rich tresses to the view, 
 That dark eye takes a darker hue ; 
 Full, glassy, brilliant, there the mind 
 Sits like the Deity enshrined ; 
 Within its pupil works a spell 
 Which fills the breast — we know not why — 
 With scenes on which the thoughts must dwell, 
 Of vanished hours of peace gone by. 
 Of visions clear, to eye and ear, 
 Which Heaven bestowed in its revealing, — 
 Of Her the lost, the loved, the dear, 
 Who poured the first warm tide of feeling. 
 We gaze and grieve, and still we gaze 
 Upon the soul-appealing token. 
 And mourn that Time can never raise 
 One flower like those his touch hath broken. 
 Woburn, May l<)tk. 
 
 A NOVEMBER EVENING. 
 
 Written after the Death of His Sister Sophia. 
 
 Though 'tis but weakness of one's self to speak, 
 And the true Christian ought not to be weak, 
 Should I- not mourn a Sister and a friend. 
 Life's first companion, constant to the end ? 
 Now left alone, my solitude I keep, 
 While all things weep Her loss, or seem to weep. 
 
 Without — Her pet plants in the garden blow, 
 A languid, drooping, undelightful show . 
 My unskilled fingers train up every stem, — 
 They feel the duty is not given to them. 
 To nurse their weakness all my skill is vain. 
 Affection chills them from a heart in pain. 
 
"LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP." 
 
 Within — my lamp and book, and overwrought 
 The fainting Fancy's unproductive thought 
 These hnes betray ; a sadly pensive gloom 
 From the mind's colour shadows all the room ; 
 The table's spread, untasted is the cheer, — 
 My hearth is joyless, for She is not here. 
 iiM mo. i2tA, 1864. 
 
 349 
 
 WRITTEN IN A VOLUME ENTITLED "LOVE AND 
 FRIENDSHIP." 
 
 Be still, thou beating heart, be still, 
 Nor stem the thoughts of other days, 
 
 When " Love and Friendship " led at will 
 Thy course through hope's delusive maze. 
 
 Recall not Memory — instead. 
 
 Grow cold thyself, for pity's sake ; 
 For " Love and Friendship " both are fled, 
 
 And thou art left alone to ache. 
 
 Alas ! 'tis useless to deny, 
 Though good the counsel, 'tis in vain ; 
 
 The very effort to comply 
 
 But makes thee more alive to pain. 
 
 The injured beech, when spring comes round. 
 Spreads its green garlands wide and far, 
 
 And last and less the early wound 
 Betrays it by a smoother scar. 
 
 But age that joins thy parted rind, 
 
 For " Love and Friendship " but reveals 
 
 The scar that they have left behind, 
 To mark a wound that never heals. 
 4M mo. 25, 1865. 
 
350 POEMS. 
 
 LINES SENT WITH A COLLECTION OF 
 AUTOGRAPHS TO A FRIEND. 
 
 The Poet's verse, the Statesman's thought 
 Speak here, once more, of life, as when 
 
 The paper wet with ink was brought^ 
 Instinct with reason from their pen. 
 
 Yet they are cold ! and Genius claims 
 For many a one the passing tear, 
 
 Whose very fingers traced the names 
 That we behold recorded here. 
 
 How small the touch ! yet glory's bound 
 
 Were large to occupy the half 
 When names that made the world resound 
 
 Are shrunk into an Autograph. 
 
 Yet me they teach ! the bolt that smites 
 
 Uplifted now a moment spares ; 
 This head that thinks, this hand that writes. 
 
 Will shortly lie as cold as theirs. 
 
 Yet if some one with thoughtful eye, 
 Turning these treasured pages o'er. 
 
 Awake to the reality 
 
 Of mind he had not gained before. 
 
 To such an one does this appeal. 
 
 It has a guerdon — more than fame — 
 If it but makes her think and feel. 
 And love the lines that want a name. 
 1847. 
 
 THE TRANSLATOR TO HIS BOOK. 
 
 Farewell, dear Prize of many hopes and fears 1 
 My task was love, and now with fond regret 
 
 I look upon thy finish. Fruit of years 
 And food of thoughts I never should forget ; 
 For well didst thou repay the growing debt 
 
FRAY LUIS DE LEON. 351 
 
 Of carefiil toil. Go forth, my Book, and trace 
 Thy destined course, whilere my sun be set, 
 
 No more to glisten on my pallid face ; 
 For lo ! I watch the shadows gathering o'er 
 My evening path,— then go thee forth before ! 
 
 For we must part upon the Border-land, 
 Where man from all his works shall separate. 
 
 And frail and good take up on either hand 
 The places of their judgment, soon or late. 
 Why should I linger then, or seem to wait 
 
 For other bidding ? for with Thee the close 
 Of life seems wound up but to dedicate 
 
 Its last calm days to that Divine repose 
 Which the sweet doctrines of thy pages tell 
 In gentle style. Go, then, and fare-thee-well ! 
 Near fVbium, Beds, 186 1. 
 
 FRAY LUIS DE LEON. 
 (Printed in the "British Friend.") 
 
 Fray Luis de Leon is one of the sweetest and most graceful of the Spanish Poets. 
 He was bom in Andalusia, and flourished during the latter half of the sixteenth 
 century. Studious and learned in all the dialects of the Peninsula, in Latin, Greek, 
 and Hebrew, he gained by competition from seven opposing candidates a profes- 
 sorship in the University of Salamanca, in which he displayed such admirable talents 
 for teaching, that he was soon advanced to the head professorship of Scripture expo- 
 sition. But neither his piety, learning, and assiduity — nor his gentle dispositiont 
 amiable mind, and retiring nature — could protect him from the enmity of some, and 
 the envy of many, his inferiors. He had translated into Latin, and afterwards into 
 Spanish, the Song of Solomon, adding to it brief explanatory comments for the use 
 of one of his friends ; this little work was printed and read with delight by many 
 throughout the country. The Inquisition, however, had enjoined that no book of the 
 Holy Scriptures should be given to the people in their own language ; and in this 
 the enemies of Fray Luis de Leon found a ready occasion to denounce him to the 
 tribunal of the Holy Office, whose familiars arrested him in its name, and cast him 
 into a prison where hope seldom came, and where he passed five long, weary years, 
 under protracted examinations and many deprivations. He was not, however, denied 
 he use of the pen, and the following gives us a natural and touching expression of 
 his thoughts and expressions at this period, from the dungeon of the Inquisition : — 
 
 Here falsehood and malignity 
 In darkness have imprisoned me ; 
 
352 POEMS. 
 
 O happy is the humble state 
 
 Of him, the wise, who from the great 
 
 And vicious world can rusticate ! 
 
 If lowly be his household shed, 
 
 And meanly is his table spread. 
 
 His joyful life alone he passes 
 
 Among the fields, the flowers, the grasses, 
 
 Unenvied and unenvying found, 
 
 With God's sole presence compassed round. 
 
 Led on that higher life to see 
 
 By Solitude and Liberty.* 
 
 During his confinement he wrote some religious works, and softened the dreary hours 
 of his captivity by the composition of several of his best Poems, thus enjoying, by 
 the exercise of his exquisite imagination, at least some of the brief gratifications of 
 retirement from the world of envy, falsehood, and oppression — a state he so ardently 
 longed for, but which his lot throughout his life denied him. His day of liberation 
 at length came, and restored him to his dignity and professorships. His countrymen 
 remark that he took up his lecture to the students at the very point he had left it, 
 when interrupted several years before by his arrest, without making any or the least 
 allusion to the long interval of time between, something in this manner: "Senores, 
 as you have heard me expound the subject to the third proposition, our lecture pro- 
 ceeds with the fourth," etc. ; so profound were the dread and the secrecy induced by 
 the power of the Inquisition. 
 
 As a Poet, for tenderness and delicacy of sentiment, melody of diction, and simpli ■ 
 city, Fray Luis de Leon ranks second to Garcilasso de la Vega. He transfused the 
 charms of the Roman Poets with the CastiUan language, as Garcilasso did those of 
 the Italian ; the one imitated the Pastorals of Virgil and Odes of Horace, and the 
 other the refined grace of the sonnetti and canzoni of Petrarch. He lived in the time 
 of our Queen Elizabeth, and was coeval with Spenser. The following is a free trans- 
 lation of a poem on Retirement, and is an example of his general style of thought and 
 sentiment :— 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 " Que de descausada vida ve.'" 
 
 How calm a life is theirs who leave 
 The road where millions toil and grieve, 
 And follow, unobserved to view, 
 The path of those, the wise, the few, 
 Who early from the world withdrew ; 
 
 Whose breasts untroubled by the state 
 And honours of the rich and great, 
 
 The last tw© lines are not in the original Spanish. 
 
RETIREMENT. 353 
 
 Ask no gay palace for a home, 
 No jasper shafts, no arching dome, 
 With gold and arabesques inlaid, 
 By the wise Moorish artist made. 
 
 They had no care that noisy Fame 
 Should chant with fickle voice their name, 
 Or Poet's pen should deck and dress 
 What Truth herself could not confess. 
 
 Tho' Fame's vain finger makes the sign. 
 What profit to this peace of mine. 
 If praises written upon air 
 I seeking find, and finding, share 
 Undying fear and mortal care ? 
 
 Hills, rivers, woods, ye glorious sights ! 
 
 secret and secure delights ! 
 
 1 seek from tempests long and rude. 
 Heart-aching, strengthless, and subdued, 
 Your soul-reviving solitude. 
 
 O for one dream ! one life-long day ! 
 To pass the rest of life away ! 
 In others' breasts I will not pry, 
 Vainly severe to judge and try. 
 Who rank and money glorify. 
 
 The birds shall wake me up to thought 
 By anthems tasteful, though untaught. 
 Nor ever waking fears instil. 
 That have the spirit to fulfil 
 The slavery of another's will. 
 
 Free from all love, from hatred free, 
 Hopes, wishes, zeal, and jealousy ; 
 Self in myself, O might I live 
 To taste the good the heavens can give 
 To Peace, for mortal angel fit, 
 And but myself to witness it. 
 
 Where slopes from yon green hill the land. 
 An orchard with my own glad hand 
 There have I made, which yearly, Spring, 
 With infant blossoms covering, 
 
 23 
 
354 POEMS. 
 
 Will into swelling beauty shape 
 The promised citron, fig, and grape. 
 
 Beyond, as longing to behold 
 The fruitage grow in green and gold. 
 On high an airy Fount shall spring 
 And to the spot haste warbling. 
 
 Till lulled, encircling tree and tree. 
 Fed with fresh lymph in due degree, 
 Where spreads the level land shall make 
 The circle of a silver lake ; 
 With blossomed turf shall overspread 
 The borders of its lilied bed. 
 
 Freshen the air to cool the flowers, 
 New scents creating at all hours. 
 With murmuring wings to fan the trees, 
 That wealth and power shall cease to please, 
 Lost in forgetfulness and ease. 
 
 Let them have treasures who confide 
 Their mercies to the wind and tide ; 
 I shall not know the sighing yoke 
 Of fear they feel when storms provoke 
 The North to bluster in their cloak. 
 
 Their vessel leaks — in blackest night 
 Daylight declines — the heavens affright 
 With voices wild, and the next seas' 
 Resounding clamour joins with these. 
 
 Me, the meanwhile, of viands spare, 
 Enough will seraph Peace prepare ; 
 The gold-chased winecup his may be. 
 Who leans upon the fickle sea. 
 
 Whilst he is miserably burning 
 With thirst of riches unretuming. 
 My length along the green turf laid, 
 I chaunt these verses in the shade. 
 Beneath the leaves my brows I bind 
 With laurel, by green ivy twined. 
 My pen and voice attune the' accords 
 Of harmony to prompting words, 
 
A MEI,ODY. 355 
 
 Till Angel ranks look down to find 
 The Poet and the Lyre combined ; 
 Seraphs who feel their heavenly mirth, 
 Increased by bliss like theirs on earth, 
 There low on twilight's clouds recline. 
 And mix melodious hymns with mine. 
 5M mo. i%th, 1849. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. A MELODY. 
 
 " Ven, Ninfer ! adonde el ecclamor floresie." 
 
 Come, Maid, where the pomegranates flower. 
 Fenced round by the ivy's green shade. 
 
 Where the cedars and cypresses tower 
 To the growth that the abfele has made. 
 
 This retreat, circled round by the river. 
 Come, O come for the spot is all mine ; 
 
 And its gift, to make richer the giver. 
 When thou comest, darling Maid, will be thine. 
 
 Why linger ? what fortune detains thee ? 
 
 Why still in suspension and fear 
 Keep the hope that does nothing but pain me 
 
 Till thou, darling Maid, shalt appear 1 
 
 A garland, a garland of roses, 
 Kept cool on the bough of the tree. 
 
 And white lilies, white lilies in posies. 
 Darling girl, have been waiting for thee. 
 
 Even now, where the pomegranates flower. 
 Fenced in by the ivy's green shade, 
 
 Where the cedars and cypresses tower, 
 Even here, comes my own darling Maid ! 
 dth mo., 1849, 
 
356 POEMS. 
 
 THE REPLY. 
 
 I COME where the pomegranates flower, 
 Fenced round by the ivy's green shade, 
 
 Where the cedars and cypresses tower, 
 I come as thy own trustful Maid. 
 
 What wonder if something delayed her ! 
 
 O call it not doubting or fear ; 
 'Twas the rush of the heart that betrayed her, 
 
 When it beat that the moment was near. 
 
 Like the barque to all winds, with precision 
 Man varies his course and concerns. 
 
 Her centre is woman's decision, 
 Round that her futurity turns. 
 
 What are gifts to be lavished upon her 
 
 With nobility only his own, 
 Where his wisdom, truth, virtue, and honour 
 
 Are the jewels she asks for her crown. 
 
 If his love be not yon flowing river, 
 
 Fresh, constant, and flushed to the brim. 
 
 His gifts ! they return to the giver. 
 But she has lost all things in him ! 
 dtk vio., 1849. 
 
 HYMN.* 
 (^Y GIROLAMO SAVANAROLA, WRITTEN ABOUT MCCCCXCV.) 
 
 *' Viva, viva in nostro core, 
 Cristo re duce, e signore ! " 
 
 " Hail I all hail ! in heart adored, 
 Christ, our gentle King and Lord ! " 
 
 I. 
 
 Let each one his understanding 
 
 Cleanse, and in his will resign 
 Earthly toys and vain affections ; 
 
 Let him melt in love divine. 
 
 *" Version made for R. R. Madden, writing the life of Savanarola. 
 
HYMN. 3S7 
 
 Look to Christ, our King, regarding 
 
 All His bounties, old and new, 
 So with fasting and repentance 
 
 Deeds and inmost heart renew. 
 
 II. 
 
 If you wish that Jesus triumph 
 
 By His grace your heart above, 
 All its hatred and disdaining 
 
 Changed for gentle, gentle love. 
 Every hateful feeling banished, 
 
 Such their inborn peace can tell ; 
 Here in heart, and there in Heaven, 
 
 Jesus loves with them to dwell. 
 
 III. 
 Gentle Jesus, O how blessed 
 
 He who turns the world away ! 
 His the breast whose daily state is 
 
 Ever pleasant, calm, and gay. 
 Therefore are my feelings troubled, 
 
 That for dust and chaff abroad 
 We should lose not that sweet guerdon. 
 
 Which is Jesus Christ our Lord. 
 
 IV. 
 Rouse thee, then, O thou Benign One ! 
 
 'Gainst the world-wide Pharaoh's might, 
 Casting down the old red dragon. 
 
 Evil turn to swanlike white. 
 Rouse e'en now thy royal lion. 
 
 With the tribe of Judah's sword. 
 Whom to look upon is horror. 
 
 Where thy vial has been poured. 
 
 V. 
 
 Blessed be the Virgin Mother, 
 
 Blessed Jesus Christ our love. 
 Blessed be the gracious Pastor 
 
 Of the Sacred hosts above, 
 
358 POEMS. 
 
 Who to those that sat in darkness 
 Caused the Light to break — e'en thus 
 
 Let us call for, living, dying, 
 Christ to dwell Himself with us. 
 yd mo., 1853. 
 
 SONNET OF BENARDO TASSO TO GIULIA GONZAGA. 
 
 (ABOUT 1536.) 
 " Donna real ! la rui belt^ infinita." 
 
 With His own hand the ever-blest Creator, 
 
 O Royal Lady ! fashioned Thee to shine, 
 A radiant presence, that to Him, thy Maker, 
 
 Thou shouldst draw many in the Life Divine. 
 Thine eyes' calm lustre chastest love uniting 
 
 With actions worthy of perpetual name, 
 Show an example evermore inviting 
 
 Where Beauty leads along the paths of fame. 
 
 Virtue with mind, power with gentleness, 
 
 Go with Thee forth, as with the day the sun, 
 Or as the stars in galaxy possess 
 
 Their shining field, and heavenly circles run. 
 The step, the smile, the intellect, the speech — 
 Beauty in motion ! — with emotion teach 
 What Beauty's highest graces are in each . 
 8</( mo. nth, 1863. 
 
 BERNARDO TASSO TO GIULIA GONZAGA.* 
 (about 1550.) 
 
 " Pellegrina gentil, che questa e quella." 
 
 O GENTLE Pilgrim, seeking where to find 
 The truth and goodness of the Perfect Mind, 
 To make thine own more lovely and refined; 
 
 * Sonnet 15s, Rime, ed. 1749, t. i, p. 113. 
 
IN PRAISE OF THE LADIES. 359 
 
 Star of the Morning, whose resplendent glow, 
 To guide us from this world of shades below, 
 Lights the safe path in which our steps should go ; 
 Gem, where the Image of thy God, in clear 
 And lovely impress is displayed, and near 
 Each form of glory and of goodness here. 
 Divine Idea, Goddess-like to be 
 Glass of His Truth, our Supreme Good to see ; 
 Blest is the Soul that yearns in sighs for Thee ! 
 ith mo. loth, 1863. 
 
 IN PRAISE OF THE LADIES. 
 Imitated from the Spanish of Castillejo. 
 
 This world would be to pleasure closed. 
 And poor without the Ladies, — 
 
 A mart where goods lie unexposed, 
 And poverty displayed is. 
 
 Without them, life were but a scroll, 
 
 A town of consternation, 
 A body heartless, and a soul 
 
 Lost on the wind's gyration; 
 
 A tree that flower and fruit has none, 
 
 A barque without conductor, 
 A castle without corner-stone 
 
 To bear the superstructure. 
 
 What worth are we, with all our toils ? 
 
 What are we, or what merit. 
 If Woman's wiles and Woman's smiles 
 
 Are not with us to share it ? 
 
 To whom we dedicate the end 
 Of all our thoughts and actions. 
 
 On whom attend, towards whom we bend 
 Our cares and satisfactions. 
 
36o POEMS. 
 
 Who guides the charge both small and large 
 
 Of family and chattel, 
 Of purse and shop, of hearth and crop. 
 
 Of provender and cattle ? 
 
 Who is the cause that shining eyes 
 
 A love to ours can proffer ; 
 That brightest prize which earth and skies 
 
 Can promise or can offer? 
 
 When thicken all adversities, 
 Sickness, and care, and labour. 
 
 When from the coming sorrow flies 
 The brother, friend, and neighbour, — 
 
 O, what so certain, prompt, and nigh. 
 
 Above dissimulation, 
 As pity's dew in Woman's eye, 
 
 And her sweet consolation? 
 
 From Her proceeds whate'er we call 
 The good that man possesses, — 
 
 Herself the garland of it all. 
 Who gives it and who blesses. 
 
 What is the guard, the soul, the worth. 
 
 The sum of all that's human, 
 The glory of created earth ? 
 
 A NOBLE-MINDED WOMAN ! 
 
 And when she lays her foibles by. 
 
 And bows the heart to Duty, 
 A soul sits in her glorious eye. 
 
 Of MORE than humaft beauty. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Oh, duke Suspiro mio ! 
 No quisiera dicha mas, 
 Que quando a Dios te vas 
 Hallarme donde te envio. 
 
LINES. 361 
 
 Go, gentle Sigh ! go, gentle Sigh ! 
 While low in prayer I bend me. 
 And I will ask no more reply, 
 Or sweeter bliss 
 Than this, than this. 
 To find me where I send thee. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Printed at the beginning of the Spanish New Testament of Francisco de 
 Enzinas, being the first Spanish translation from the Greek. 1543. 
 
 " Christ, once a mortal man — again 
 Immortal — speaks to mortal men." 
 
 He is no Heir of Mine, who shuns 
 The Testament I leave my sons, 
 Nor seeks, as legatee, to read 
 The rich provisions of the deed ; 
 Much less so he who would defer 
 To be My Will's executor. 
 Too many such ; and there are those 
 Who reading still remain My foes, 
 And show by blood of Mine they shed, 
 How iU, alas ! they've profited. 
 
 But thou who readest, ponder here 
 My name. My nature — Love and Fear ! 
 For thee I suffered, wept, and died. 
 The Cursed, the Scourged, the Crucified ; 
 Now Crowned, and One with Deity 
 I pour my daily prayer for thee. 
 
 Would'st thou, then, join Me in the skies. 
 Learn from this fading world to rise ; 
 Turn daily o'er, with heart intent, 
 This volume of My Testament, 
 With lowly mind and willing hands, 
 Reading, and doing My commands. 
 
362 POEMS. 
 
 THE DEATH OF PLACIDO, THE CELEBRATED 
 CUBAN POET. 
 
 Letters from Matanzas and the Havana announce the condemnation, by the 
 council of war, of eleven criminals-j~other accounts say twenty — alleged to have been 
 concerned in the recent conspiracy of negroes and Mulattos. Amongst them is Gabriel 
 de la Concepcion Valdes, the celebrated Poet known by the name of Placido, who in 
 his last hours exhibited extraordinary courage. 
 
 Placido was born with great natural genius, and was beloved and appreciated by 
 the most respectable young men of the Havana, who united to purchase his freedom 
 from Slavery. His enemies assert that he was intended for king in the last con- 
 spiracy, and that he was one of its principal instigators. He was apprehended, 
 and after a long examination sentenced to death. It was rumoured that he would 
 proceed along with others to the Capilla, the chapel- of the condemned. At the 
 expected time a large crowd was assembled, and Placido was seen walking along 
 with singular composure, and saluting with graceful ease his numerous acquaintance. 
 The unfortunate victims are conducted into a chapel hung with black and dimly 
 lighted. A succession of priests attend to chant in sepulchral voices the service of 
 the dead. Here they remain four and twenty hours. Placido manifested during the 
 whole time a serenity truly admirable. He came out of the chapel calm and undis- 
 mayed. On his way to execution he carried a Crucifix in his hand, and recited in a 
 loud, plaintive, yet firm, voice a beautiful prayer in verse, composed in his solitary 
 moments, which thrilled upon the hearts of the attentive masses of people who lined 
 the road as he passed along. According to persons who were present, the last stanza 
 was uttered just as he reached the place of death. On arriving at the fatal place he 
 sat down on a bench, with his back turned, as ordered by the military. Rapid pre- 
 parations were then made for his death. It is well known that in some affecting 
 poems, written by Placido in prison, he had said it would be useless to seek to kill 
 him by shooting his body — they must strike his heart to make it cease its throbbings 
 And now the dread moment arrived. At the last he arose, and said, " Adios mundo ! " 
 — "Adieu, world ! " — and sat calmly down. The word was given. Five balls entered 
 his body. Amid the murmurs of the horror-struck spectators, he got up. He turned 
 his look upon the shrinking soldiers, his face wearing the expression of superhuman 
 courage, he said, " No hay piedadparami !" — " There is no pity forme." " Soldados* 
 fuego !"— " Soldiers, fire ! " pointing to his heart. At that instant two balls pierced 
 his breast, while his last words yet rung in the ears of the beholders. 
 
 He died at six o'clock in the morning of sixth month, 1844, a victim to Slavery. A 
 noble mind was cut off from the earth. Such, by the confession of his enemies, was 
 the extraordinary courage he exhibited in his latest hours. 
 
 TO GOD. A PRAYER. 
 
 BY PLACIDO, THE CUBAN POET. 
 
 Recited by him as he walked to the place of execution. 
 
 From the Spanish. 
 
 " Ser de immensa bonda^, Dios Poderoso." 
 
 Soul of Eternal Goodness, God Almighty, 
 In grief to Thee, my best resource, I cry ; 
 
A PRAYER. 363 
 
 Put forth Thine arm omnipotent and lightly 
 
 Strip off the painted mask of Calumny; 
 Wipe with Thy radiant fingers this disgrace 
 With which the world would blot me in the face. 
 
 Listen and hear. 
 
 King over kings, God of my grey forefathers ! 
 
 My sole defender, and my hope, O Lord ! 
 Thine is green Ocean full of life, Thou gather'st 
 
 Flames in the Sun, the dayspring fling'st abroad. 
 Warming with life the flowers, the North congealing. 
 Ruling the Rivers' flow, the fiery whirlwinds repelling. 
 
 Hear me, oh hear ! 
 
 All things exist by Thee ; all fade, yet cherish 
 
 A seed of resurrection sown by Thee ; 
 
 All is as nothing out of Thee, to perish, 
 
 Gulfed in unsoundable Eternity ? 
 
 Yet e'en the void obeys Thee like the whole. 
 
 For out of it Thou mad'st a human soul. 
 
 Hear its last cry. 
 
 I cannot gloze Thee, God of clemency. 
 
 And since Thou seest with Thine all-piercing eyes 
 
 Clear as the air my soul's transparency. 
 
 Prevent calumnious men, nor let them rise 
 
 To charge Thy Majesty with their offence. 
 
 And clap their hands o'er murdered innocence. 
 
 Hear and prevent ! 
 
 But if it better glorify Thy power 
 
 That Truth should perish, and that I should die. 
 
 And my cold reliques in an evil hour 
 
 Be outraged with malign complacency ; 
 
 Speak, Lord, the word, and finish and fulfil 
 
 In me the triumph of Thy Glorious Will. 
 
 Speak, and I die ! 
 8 mo. 24, 1844. 
 
364 POEMS. 
 
 SONG OF THE NEGRO PLANTATION SLAVE, 
 
 Being the conclusion of a Ballad sung about the streets of Madrid in 
 the year 1850. It was noticed by the Government, and prohibited. 
 
 " Dulce Patria de mi vida, 
 Cuinto me acuerdo de ti, 
 Donde libre respiraba, 
 Esclavo me ves aqui." 
 
 " Sweetest memories turn to thee. 
 Dearest spot, my native land ; 
 There I breathed, the loved, the free ; 
 Here, a heart-struck slave I stand." 
 
 How impossible appears 
 What before mine eyes I view ! . . . 
 By our fellow-men enslaved, 
 Having but a darker hue. 
 
 Dulce Patria de mi vida, 
 
 Cudnto me acuerdo de ti, 
 
 Donde libre respiraba, 
 
 Esclavo me ves aqui. 
 
 He who formed the white man's skin. 
 When He wove and fashioned mine, 
 Made He to be bom a sin, 
 Where His sunbeams hotter shine ? 
 
 Sweetest memories turn to thee. 
 
 Dearest spot, my native land ; 
 
 There I lived, the loved, the free ; 
 
 Here, a fettered Slave I stand. 
 
 Though my country's farthest bound 
 Burns with summer from above. 
 Ripe upon its soil are found 
 Hearts of virtue, truth, and love. 
 
 Dulce Patria de mi vida, 
 
 Cudnto me acuerdo de ti, 
 
 Donde libre espiraba, 
 
 Esclavo me ves aqui. 
 
SONG OF NEGRO PLANTATION SLAVE. 365 
 
 When the white man journeys there, 
 Young and old refresh him so ; 
 Bed, and food, and hut they share. 
 Free to come, and stay, and go. 
 
 Sweetest memories turn to thee, 
 
 Dearest spot, my native land ; 
 
 There I dwelt, the loved, the free ; 
 
 Here, an abject Slave I stand. 
 
 Only for our colour still 
 
 Must they hold us Slaves. Ah, why, 
 
 Without reason, at their will 
 
 Do we suffer, toil, and sigh 1 
 
 Dulce Patria de mi vida, 
 
 Cudnto me acuerdo de ti, 
 
 Donde libre espiraba, 
 
 Esclavo me ves aqui. 
 
 Ever when they give commands, 
 'Tis with threatening look and word ; 
 Frequent through the shrinking band. 
 Strokes of punishment are heard. 
 
 Sweetest memories turn to thee, 
 
 Dearest spot, my native land ; 
 
 There I dwelt, the loved, the free ; 
 
 Here, an abject Slave I stand. 
 
 Brethren, to your lots conform; 
 God and Patience you shall see 
 Things impossible perform. 
 They will work our liberty. 
 
 Dulce Patria de mi vida 
 
 Cuinto me acuerdo de ti, 
 
 Donde libre espiraba, 
 
 Esclavo me ves aqui. 
 
 Sweetest memories turn to thee, 
 Dearest spot, my native land ; 
 There I lived, the glad, the free ; 
 Here, a heart-struck Slave I stand, ' 
 ; mo. 22, 1854. 
 
366 POEMS. 
 
 DANTE TO ALBANO. 
 
 {Printed in the "British Friend," 1850.) 
 
 Letter from a new Christian, secretly a Jew, in Spain, to Antonio 
 
 Henriques Gomez, a literary Spanish Jew who had fled the country, 
 
 and resided as refugee, sometimes in France, sometimes in Amsterdam. 
 
 A. de Castro's '■ Historia de los Judios en Espafia." Cadiz, 1847. 
 
 Friend of my heart, once more I pen 
 
 The lines of hope, and breathe again ! 
 
 Trust me, my dread, now undeceived. 
 
 Can speak of all that is believed ; 
 
 For every hour, 'twixt hope and fear, 
 
 Since thy departure seemed a year, 
 
 Imagining thy flight would bring 
 
 My instant ruin on the wing. 
 
 My memory became a void. 
 
 Without thy presence unenjoyed ; 
 
 My former friends I shunned or crost. 
 
 Thinking by thee that all was lost. 
 
 How terrible to me that day. 
 Which drew thee from thy home away ! 
 To quit this sea of stormy waves. 
 Where thought is tombed in living graves. 
 Yet prudently thy flight thou bent 
 From torture, and I praise the' intent, 
 Since faithfully hast thou redeemed 
 The fate that wasted me, or seemed. 
 At thy departure such a shock. 
 As ocean hurls against the rock. 
 Was given, and still the breakers fret, 
 And the proud sea is heaving yet. 
 This is no land that freedom loves, 
 But like the main unstable moves. 
 Moves without gale to stir the ocean, 
 And feels, in apathy, commotion. 
 The glassy calm conceals the shoals 
 Where love is wrecked, and perish souls. 
 Where momently engulphed descend 
 Worth, fortune, family, and friend. 
 
DANTE TO ALBANO. 367 
 
 For every word, however plain, 
 
 A covert enemy you gain, 
 
 His neighbour every neighbour fears, 
 
 Unless a witness overhears. 
 
 Here lust of lordly power obtains 
 
 A blessing, and securely reigns. 
 
 While greediness of lucre buys 
 
 The soul, and sells as merchandise. 
 
 Proud tongues of glory boast, and they 
 
 Accomplish not the good they say, 
 
 Who speaks the truth for honour dies, 
 
 He noble is who smiles and lies. 
 
 The sharper, who the falsest plays, 
 
 And ■mitts, is honoured with the praise, 
 
 Who gilds his garments at the' expense 
 
 Of honesty and common sense. 
 
 There is a company of grave 
 
 And reverend jugglers that we have, 
 
 Who in their lust of power and pelf 
 
 Hoodwink Hypocrisy herself. 
 
 Gayer than Spring they turn the hours, 
 
 Engarlanding their games with flowers ; 
 
 But not the evil ones can wait 
 
 More watchful at the snares of fate. 
 
 Two lines of their most secret pen 
 
 To ashes burn the hearts of men, 
 
 Not locust swarms on flowers of May 
 
 Have hydra heads so fierce as they. 
 
 Like Deities they sit on high, 
 
 And deal the verdicts of the sky. 
 
 The calm which follows their appeal 
 
 Makes venerated reason reel. 
 
 Their footsteps thread the crowded street, 
 
 All seeming slow, yet softly fleet ; 
 
 Clouds of mysterious incense hide 
 
 The recognition of their pride. 
 
 These enemies that wrought thy pain 
 
 Divide thy half of life from Spain, 
 
368 POEMS. 
 
 Yet let not thy rejoicing be 
 " If others suffer, I am free." 
 Unsatisfied with half thy store, 
 They turn to peel the many more. 
 Guard well our secrets, nor reveal ; 
 Thy friends may be the first to feel. 
 ***** 
 
 Thrice happy thou who couldst retire 
 From mulct, from prison, pains, and fire. 
 Now eastward passing with a name. 
 Wreathed by the grateful hands of fame. 
 So cruel is the age, and strong. 
 Truth is reversed, and right is wrong, 
 That, envying the serene repose 
 Thy venturous resolution knows. 
 In liberty and peace to rest. 
 Enshrouded in the distant West, 
 The example thou hast left I see. 
 And gird my feet to follow thee. 
 Surely a miracle Divine 
 To happy pilgrimage drew thine. 
 To find, in foreign lands, a birth 
 To new relations, friends, and earth. 
 Now, I shall be the next to roam 
 From kindred, country, hearth, and home ; 
 For when Religion wrongs His laws. 
 The Deity Himself withdraws. 
 10 tno. i6, 1850. 
 
 IMPROMPTU ON READING A RELATION OF AN 
 AUTO DA FE OF BOOKS. 
 
 Burn Books ! burn Thought ? unthinking men, 
 
 Not your control 
 Can kill — the Spirit of the Pen 
 
 Is still the Soul. 
 
STANZAS FROM THE DUCHESS OF AMALFI. 369 
 
 What through the pile and flame be brought, 
 
 And more, and higher ! 
 The lightnings of electric thought 
 
 Return in fire. 
 
 Thou Pen ! the quick' ner of the worth 
 
 Of man to be ! 
 Thou, multiplying Mind, on earth ! 
 Avouching its Celestial birth, 
 
 Shalt make it free. 
 
 For every tome of price destroyed, 
 A double volume fills the void 
 
 Of nobler pages. 
 Burn on ! ye wise ones of a day, 
 For so ye beacon Freedom's way. 
 
 And speed the ages. 
 12 mo., 1850. 
 
 STANZAS FROM THE ITALIAN OF SIGNORA DONNA 
 COSTANZA D'AVALO, DUCHESSA DI AMALFI. 
 
 O HEAVENLY Love, O Light divine ! 
 From this dark world of noise and strife, 
 My spirits flee direct to Thee, 
 And languish for immortal life. 
 
 My heart e'en now enjoys the day 
 When Love his bounteous banquet brings, 
 And spurns away this weight of clay 
 To mount upon seraphic wings. 
 
 No whirlwinds there, no tempests dare 
 To trouble that Celestial scene ; 
 For my true Sun becalms the air, 
 And makes my every hour serene. 
 
 24 
 
37° POEMS. 
 
 If, covered in a mortal veil, 
 My Saviour suffered, not in vain 
 Unbarred the portal Adam closed, 
 And back through Eden guides again 
 
 Why was I in such anxious haste 
 With wandering feet and far astray. 
 Refusing joys of Heaven to taste. 
 And here on earth to make my stay ? 
 
 For now the fire of Love Divine 
 Demonstrates if with constant heat 
 I hold to Heaven, the world is mine. 
 And conquered lies beneath my feet. 
 
 THE RISE OF THE ITALIAN REFORMATION* ' 
 
 When Germany beheld the light of the Reformation dawTi over 
 the ruins of Christian piety, manners, and knowledge, and kindle 
 the hearts of nations, even Italy did not remain untouched by 
 its heavenly beams. There, where the spirit appeared entirely 
 extinguished under lifeless forms — where the disorders of the 
 priesthood mocked the holy manners of a Christian community 
 — where the "heavenly Corner-stone" was built into the edifice 
 of a worldly hierarchy, until it was not to be discerned — even 
 there the spirit of the German reformation came like a new 
 dispensation into the world, and met with a decided reception 
 in many noble minds and elevated spirits. And never, in any 
 age, have such been entirely wanting under the glowing skies 
 and serene atmosphere of Italy. History has recorded upon 
 her pages many precious names, to whom, in connection with 
 the reformatory movement of Italy at the era of the German 
 reformation, memory clings before all others. They are scat- 
 
 * The Benefit of Christ^ s Death: probably written by Aonio Pakario : reprinted 
 mfac-simile from the Italian edition of 1543, with a French translation printed in 1522, 
 from copies in the library of St. John's College, Cambridge ; to which is added an 
 English version, made in 1548, by Edward Courtnay, Earl of Devonshire, now first 
 edited from a MS. preserved in the library of the University of Cambridge, with an 
 introduction by Churchill Babington, B.D., F.L.S. London Bell and Daldy. 1855. 
 
THE ITALIAN REFORMATION. 371 
 
 tered over the whole country. Scarcely one of the chief cities, 
 scarcely any of the celebrated centres of learning, remained with- 
 out some distinguished disseminator of truth and knowledge, 
 who appeared to have derived his first impulse from Germany. 
 At the court of the Duchess Ren^e, Ferrara saw many of the 
 noblest minds of the time united together, men full of Protestant 
 spirit, of whom we may name, Marcantonio Flaminio, Celio 
 Calcagnini, Bartolomeo Riccio, Fulvio Peregrino Morata, father 
 of the pious and accomplished Olympia Morata. Naples pos- 
 sessed in Juan de Vald^s an undaunted knight for evangelical 
 truth, and Pavia collected her students in jealous veneration 
 round Celius Secundus Curione (who has left us a touching 
 memorial of his four daughters), so early ripe for heaven, to 
 protect him as a shield from the arrows of the Romish court. 
 From the extremest point of Istria went out the pair of brothers 
 Aurelio and Pietro Paulo Vergerio, who esteemed true peace of 
 conscience much more than the cap of the cardinal ; while 
 Antonio Bruciolo, the Florentine, not to mention others, gave 
 the Bible into the hands of his countrymen in their own language 
 as the most powerful protest that could be made against Romish 
 errors and usurpations ; and Bernardino Ochino, of Sienna, 
 preached from state to state his thrilling sermons on Salvation 
 through Faith in Christ. As simple preachers under the monk's 
 cowl, or as professors in the universities, Giovanni Mollio at 
 Bologna, Paolo Ricci at Modena, Pietro Martire Vermigli at 
 Naples, Giulio da Milano at Venice, were men who, learned 
 and earnest, eloquent and open-hearted, gave course to the gospel 
 or good news by word and by writing, and everywhere laboured 
 to promote it. Even the high College of Cardinals at Rome held 
 Caspar Contarini, Morone, and Pole, men in the midst of it 
 who in the earlier years of the Reformation, as friends and 
 favourers of the doctrine of faith, appeared dangerous and sus- 
 picious to the Papal see. 
 
372 POEMS. 
 
 LINES 
 
 On visiting, late in life, the Graves of my Forefathers, in a retired 
 Burial-ground of the Society of Friends, in a distant part of the 
 country. 
 
 " Behold, my family is poor in Manasseh, and I am the least in my father's house." 
 
 Judges vi. 15. 
 
 Side by side, 
 Each to all the rest allied, 
 In this lone, forgotten ground 
 My own people I have found, 
 At the dewy hour which brings 
 Thoughts of long-remembered things. 
 
 Far adown the western sky 
 Venus hangs and Gemini, 
 Towards the South Arcturus turns, 
 Like a far sea-beacon bums. 
 And a blaze in ether throws 
 Where the blue like ocean flows. 
 While, with rising beams increast, 
 Lovely Lyra lights the East, 
 Like an eye we love, at sight, 
 Giving and receiving light. 
 Like the mind of Genius thrown, 
 Gracing all it glances on ; 
 Like the lips which, but once stirred, 
 Leave a voice for ever heard. 
 And a measure hymns to me 
 Of Heaven's unwritten poesy. 
 
 I, a Pilgrim come from far. 
 Led by Memory's twilight star. 
 At what time her evening rays 
 Glimmer through life's gathering haze ; 
 Herald of approaching night, 
 Dewy fair, and coldly bright. 
 Questioning from all the Past 
 How the Future might be cast ; 
 
THE GRAVES OF MY FOREFATHERS. 373 
 
 Whether their Eternal morrow- 
 Tearless, fearless, free from sorrow — 
 Would receive a near allied, 
 Them to join— the Purified, 
 Side by side. 
 
 Side by side. 
 Each to all the rest allied — 
 Ancient grandsires, fathers, mothers, 
 Gentle sisters, generous brothers, 
 Son and daughter, friend and neighbour 
 All their chequered joy and labour 
 Ended, laid there down to rest, 
 Here on Parent Nature's breast. 
 Every one complete of stature 
 From the finished mould of Nature ; 
 Not a child of all the number 
 Prematurely sunk to slumber. 
 
 O'er them Summer shoots her rays 
 Through the twilight's golden haze, 
 Measured in the sun's decline. 
 Even lie they, line by line. 
 Ranged in series as they died, 
 Side by side. 
 
 in. 
 
 Side by side, 
 Distant not an infant's stride. 
 Each to all the rest allied. 
 Ranged in series as they died. 
 Ridge by ridge, from bound to bound. 
 Stretched the file across the ground. 
 Every form in order laid. 
 In its hollow house decayed. 
 
 Here a Martyr, there a Poet, 
 Though no mark is raised to show it. 
 
374 ' POEMS. 
 
 But on one of Death's long muster, 
 Sky-blue harebells swing in cluster, 
 Side by side^ — side by side — 
 To one common root allied ; 
 Nought to human culture owing. 
 But of gracious Nature's sowing ; 
 Fed of sweetest earth and air. 
 Sure a gentle heart lies there ! 
 One with whom I do inherit 
 Kinship less of blood than Spirit ; 
 One who was discovered by, 
 Not the bloom, but fragrancy ; 
 One whose natural unfolding 
 Fixed the heart in the beholding. 
 In whose cup the dew of sorrow 
 Turned to beauty on the morrow ; 
 Where e'en evil lost its malice, 
 Changed to virtue in the chalice ; 
 Flower of human-kind ! while they, 
 Formed in Adam's firmer clay. 
 Rested as our near allied, 
 
 Side by side. 
 
 Side by side. 
 Softest shadows casting wide. 
 Fir trees rise in pleasing grace. 
 Round about at equal space. 
 Save that here and there between 
 Spreads the beech trees' broader green, 
 By the rising night airs swayed. 
 Chequered move their light and shade. 
 Was it not that something gave 
 Like a heaving to each grave ? 
 For where'er my footsteps tread 
 Seems a stirring of the Dead ! 
 And I feel as though I found 
 Mind in motion underground ; 
 
THE GRAVES OF MY FOREFATHERS. 375 
 
 That the circling current ran 
 Through the dust that once was man, 
 Through each being ranged apart 
 Round to my own beating heart. 
 For the soul's reciprocations 
 Move in Nature's tremulations. 
 
 Is it that their spirits come, 
 Each one to his former home ? 
 Is it that my own is wrought 
 To the prophecy of thought ? 
 Is it that they move to meet 
 Him who makes the line complete ? 
 Is it . . . but I turn again 
 To the common life of men. 
 Least and latest of my race, 
 My lone footsteps I retrace, 
 Whilst o'er all the west wind sighs,— 
 Voices round the precincts run, 
 " We have yet a place for one ! " 
 O, how loud my heart replies : 
 " Kindred spirits ! near to view, 
 I almost am one of you ; 
 For the knowledge that I yearn 
 Now to know, I soon shall learn.'' 
 And indeed, not far behind 
 Moves the march of all mankind, 
 To one common lot allied. 
 Side by side ! side by side ! 
 ^th mo., 1846. 
 
 Hazel), Watson, and Viney, Printers, London and Aylesbury.