“‘I can make lords of you every day, but I cannot create a Titian,’ said the Emperor Charles V. to his courtiers, who had become jealous of the hours and the half hours which the monarch stole from them, that he might converse with the man of genius at his work.”—D’Israeli’s Literary Characters.
Who ply your task, in one unceasing toil;
Your books, the sweet companions of the hour,
That have a silent and all-winning power,
The world scarce knows of, in your brooding cell,
Whose mental alchemy hath powerful spell,
The crucible that brings forth purest gold,
Is yours, ye sons obscure, of genius mould;
Yet little heeded, in your great employ,
Who labour still with soul-ennobling joy;
The same divine, immortal spirit reigns,
As moved Apelles, or a Titian’s pains;
As drew the spark that flash’d from Milton’s breast,
Or fired a Pindar, and was Goethe’s guest;
That bade our own immortal Shakspere soar
On roaming Fancy’s wing, new worlds explore.
Sons of seclusion, why should ye repine?
Your toil is noble, and the work divine:
A true nobility awaits his name,
Who presses on th’ ascent that leads to fame;
And tireless tracks the eagle flights of mind—
Arts, science, teach, a blessing to mankind.
How poor the heraldry of noble birth,
Compared with yours, ye great ones of the earth;
Undying honours, that ennoble man—
A regal splendour, that makes theirs but wan;
Mind is the gem, that hath the truest worth,
This the rich diamond—theirs the dross of earth.
What ardour kindles in the studious soul,
Borne, on the car of knowledge, to the goal,
In emulation, ’midst the gifted throng,
Is soul-rapt poesy, divine in song;
Music, all-thrilling, as the airs of heav’n;
Painting and sculpture, like to Phidias giv’n;
And there deep sage, Philosophy, in sight,
With bright Urania soars the stars of night,
Castalia’s nymphs, a fair celestial band,
That in the mazy dance join hand in hand,
Yours gifted race, the Athenian’s sacred hours,
The fount whence flows the stream from Learning’s bowers;
Nurtured in climes, though wide as zone from zone,
Congenial spirits vibrate to one tone;
As mountain’s spring flows murm’ring under ground,
Its goal, vast ocean, in its depths profound,
So ye, your sinuous course, unruffled sped,
And pour your tribute’s store, by Science led.
CORN FIELDS.
That undulates, with waving richness fraught,
’Neath every breeze, that sweeps the bending stalk;
Denotes that harvest has again arrived,
To bless the fruitful land;—and echo joy
From thousand thankful hearts, spontaneous felt;
And who but owns the rich provision sent,
Sent undeserved, by kindly Providence
To man bestowed, too thankless for the grant!
How lowly cottager, now smiles content,
And should have cause, when such abundance pours
From plenty’s fruitful barn:—so lavish spread:
The sun-burnt swain, his shining sickle plies,
And the full sheaf falls heavy from his hand,
Scattering the grain, let fall for gleaner’s use;
They round the reapers hang, the boon to catch,
And, Ruth-like, bear the gathered treasure home;
Perchance, an aged parent’s eye to cheer,
That glistens more at thought of filial love;
What sight more pleasing to an English breast,
Than fields of British growth, embrowned with corn;
Full eared and large, that speak abundant crop;
When fear of short supply is far removed,
And all a farmer’s hopes are crowned at once;
Whose barns in prospect sees well stored with wheat:
The sheaves to bind, a busy group attend,
To gather and dispose the graceful heap;
While slowly drags along, the creaking wain,
High piled, that groans beneath the precious load:
Such sights enlivening, every where abound
At this glad season of the bounteous year;
And Albion glories, is her son’s employ,
To bring her native growth, mature and ripe,
Safe housed in granary, or securely stacked.
But other lands partake the joy, as well
As England’s peasant, whom his corn fields cheer;
So rustic labourer of the German States,
And Poland’s breadth of land, ’neath harvest smiles,
With fruitful Spain, that pours her thousands forth
To gather in the produce of her soil;
A rich luxuriance spreads each distant shore,
And far Canadia swells with ripening grain,
While “Harvest Home” resounds through every land,
A joyous and exhilarating sound,
That wafting should man’s gratitude bespeak;
If others are unconscious of the gift,
At least let Britain’s thanks responsive rise
To Heaven!—such meed of praise she owes,
Her flowing fields attest, of waving corn,
Dispersed; thro’ length and breadth of her rich vales,
In golden seasons, thrice prolific shed,
O’er England’s happy isle! so prosperous blest.
THE APPROACH.
The snow-drop peeps forth from the ground;
And the violet blue, from its odorous bow’r,
Wide scatters its fragrance around.
Return’d to his dreary domain;
And the wood-bird again resumes her sweet lay,
While verdure enlivens the plain.
And hawthorn its sweetest perfume;
I marvel indeed, when dull worldlings confess,
They observe not Spring and its bloom.
As she warbles mellifluous song;
Or the insect, that flutters rejoicingly by,
A lesson might teach to the throng.
While mountains and streams are made glad:
And say, should not man with all Nature combine,
When earth blooms an Eden o’erclad?
ON MY NEW-BORN SON.
How did my beating heart rejoice
To think the hour of peril past,
Thou and thy mother safe at last;
And anxious fear thus giv’n place
To beaming joy, at thy sweet face,
To view a mother smile on thee,
And list thy cry with ecstacy,
While thousand joys unknown before
Swell at her breast, and beat the more.
My boy! those words come like a spell;
Who does not love that sound full well?
What father hears but feels its sway,
Or turns to th’ innocent to play,
And pat its dimpled cheek the while,
And cast a fond endearing smile.
My boy! what can I hope for thee,
Shouldst thou be spared, ah! spared to me?
A parent’s wish might hope each stage
Of rugged life’s dark pilgrimage
O’erstrewn with flowers, to cheer the way,
In place of wilds that lead astray.
Thy little bark’s advent’rous sail,
Oh! may it meet no adverse gale—
No treach’rous calm around it play,
But Providence direct its sway!
But should thy path with thorns o’erspread,
Or tempests gather o’er thy head,
Then, oh! my child, may grace be giv’n
To seek the fostering care of Heav’n;
To “Jacob’s God” for succour flee,
Who shall, my child, deliver thee!
FIRESIDE MUSINGS.
In heavy gusts like distant thunder,
Lorn spirits of the howling hill,
I list safe housed in speechless wonder;
The winter blasts of gustful days,
They make, my love, my hearth’s bright blaze.
Recalls both days and years fast fleeting,
The spring-time, when I was a child,
All vanished with their bright-morn greeting;
Pale wasting Time his glass doth raise,
Advancing, as I watch the blaze.
AN ADDRESS TO THE DAISY.
Just peering ’bove the ground in lowly guise,
With lifted stem half shrinking with surprise,
To be so bold to tend thy offering,
Graceful in form, thou coy and lovely thing,
Why screen thy head, o’erstreaked with crimson dyes,
From man’s too ardent gaze; soft vernal signs
Through yonder brake, with whispering cadence fling
Their wafted sweetness on the breezes borne;
Or fan thy cheek, or kiss the tremulous dew
Hung pearl-like on thy petals seen at morn.
Yon burnished-coated insect he doth sue,
When found thy lone retreat with wooing horn,
Ah! why, thou bonny gem, hide from our view.
I’VE BEEN A-MUSING.
Lonely and pensive by a river’s side,
Half-dreaming sunk, my moody self a-losing,
List’ning the waters tinkling as they glide;
So hasteneth on, methought, life’s passing tide.
Sky-soaring warbler thrill’d the air above;
The osiers dank ’neath breezes light were moving:
Scarce stirr’d the stream, whose haunts the scale tribe rove,
The trem’lous trout it paused, the rushes move.
The playful trout hath glided far away;
Blithe lark has ceas’d the note of her fond choosing,
And hushed the sweet pipe of her am’rous lay,
Thus speedeth earth’s delights that will not stay.
A lovely child came bounding forth in glee;
I dwelt upon its happiness perusing,
Embrace I thought while you can happy be,
Ah! yes the roseate hours take wings and bird-like flee.
There cross’d my sight a youth of noble air,
With bold light step, that told of courage rising;
His eagle eye glanced bright renown to share;
He sought proud fame, which proved delusion’s snare.
A fair and tim’rous one, with virgin grace,
Came tripping soft, her presence show’d so pleasing;
A crimson blush suffused her lovely face;
How soon, methought, will years its bloom efface.
Yon form’s athletic sun-burnt features tell
Of manhood’s prime, glory all vain devising,
And anxious thought that doth his bosom swell,
They lead but to the grave where all must dwell.
An aged sire I saw with stray locks gray,
The heat and burden borne of life now closing;
I watched his features as he knelt to pray,
His spirit fled serene as sun’s last ray,
Lonely and pensive by a river’s side,
In rev’ry sunk my moody self a-losing,
List’ning the waters tinkling as they glide.
Ah! such is life, methought, a passing tide.
London:
Printed by Stewart and Murray,
Old Bailey.
January, 1845.
A
Catalogue
OF
INTERESTING WORKS,
IN THE PRESS OR RECENTLY PUBLISHED BY
SMITH, ELDER AND CO.,
65, CORNHILL, LONDON.
Preparing for Publication.
OBSERVATIONS IN THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE,
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By Sir John Herschel, Bart., F.R.S., &c.
To be Illustrated by numerous Plates.
JUST PUBLISHED,
In One Volume, post 8vo., cloth,
THE DUTIES OF JUDGE ADVOCATES.
Compiled from Her Majesty’s and the Hon. East India Company’s Military Regulations, and from the works of various writers on Military Law.
By Captain R. M. Hughes,
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JUST PUBLISHED,
In One Volume, post 8vo., price 10s. 6d., cloth, with a Portrait of Author,
CHRISTMAS FESTIVITIES: TALES, SKETCHES, AND CHARACTERS.
WITH BEAUTIES OF THE MODERN DRAMA,
IN FOUR SPECIMENS.
By John Poole, Esq.,
Author of “Paul Pry,” &c. &c.
Now publishing in Quarterly Volumes,
THE WORKS OF G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
Price 8s. cloth,
Handsomely printed in medium 8vo, and Illustrated.
This new and attractive series of Mr. James’s works commenced on the 1st of July with the “Gipsey,” and was followed, on the 1st of October, by “Mary of Burgundy.” The future volumes will be published Quarterly, each containing a complete work. The whole of this edition has been carefully revised by the author, and is got up in that superior style and agreeable size of type which render it fit for every age and for every library.
Vol. 3, containing the “Huguenot,” a Tale of the French Protestants, will be published on the 1st January, 1845, and will contain, in addition to the usual Illustration, a new and highly-finished Portrait of the Author.
“Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co., of Cornhill, have just published the first volume of a New Edition of the works of this gentleman, which has the advantage of the latest revisions and corrections of the author. The writings of James are so well-known to the readers of fiction that it is unnecessary to call their attention to them, or to say anything as to their merits or defects, which previous criticism may have left unsaid. The present edition is well got up, there are few errata, the type is clear, sharp, and legible, and the size of the volumes convenient for the reader and appropriate for the shelves of a book-case. The frontispiece of the first volume illustrates that scene in the novel of the Gipsey, in which Lord Dewry is astounded in the prosecution of his villanous plot to destroy Pharhold, by the unexpected appearance of the person who passes under the name of Sir William Ryder. The book, as it is, will form a pleasing addition to the collections of readers of modern literature, of the class to which it belongs.”
Times, August 17, 1844.
“We are glad to see our prognostication respecting the New Edition of Mr. James’ Works, more than fulfilled by the rapid absorption of a very large first edition, and a second in the course of speedy disappearance. This is as it should be, with a writer whose vraisemblance is always so perfect; and even what he invents so like truth, that we can never fancy we are reading fiction, nor, indeed, are we, in the historical portions of his publications,—and these form the far greater division,—which are all drawn from diligent research, deep study, and elaborate comparison.”
Literary Gazette, August 8, 1844.
“Mr. James is a pure and pleasing writer, and we are glad to see that his Works are now to be thrown into a handy, handsome, and accessible shape.”
Scotsman, July 13, 1844.
“This is a most admirable edition of the Works of this popular author, convenient in size, and handsome in appearance. It, moreover, possesses the advantage of being revised and corrected by the author,—no small recommendations, since, the generality of Mr. James’ Works being connected with history, a careful perusal of his productions, increases their value, and renders them a source of amusement, through the medium of instruction.”
Atlas, October 20, 1844.