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YE whom I leave unnam’d, ye other Worthies of Britain,
Lights of the Georgian age, ... for ye are many and noble,
How might I name ye all, whom I saw in this glorious vision? ...
Pardon ye the imperfect tale! Yet some I beheld there,
Whom should I pretermit, my heart might rightly upbraid me,
That its tribute of honour, poor though it be, was withholden.
Somewhat apart they came, in fellowship gather’d together,
As in goodly array they follow’d the train of the worthies.
Chosen spirits were these, of the finest elements temper’d,
And embodied on earth in mortality’s purest texture;
But in the morning of hope, in the blossom of virtue and genius,
They were cut down by death. What then, .. were it wise to lament them,
Seeing the mind bears with it its wealth, and the soul its affections?
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| 40 | THE YOUNG SPIRITS. |
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What we sow, we shall reap; and the seeds whereof earth is not worthy
Strike their roots in a kindlier soil, and ripen to harvest.
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Here were the gallant youths of high heroic aspiring,
Who, so fate had allow’d, with the martial renown of their country
Would have wedded their names, for perpetual honour united;
Strong of heart and of mind, but in undistinguishing battle,
Or by pestilence stricken, they fell, unknown and confounded
With the common dead. Oh! many are they who were worthy,
Under the Red Cross flag, to have wielded the thunders of Britain,
Making her justice felt, and her proper power upholding
Upon all seas and shores, wheresoever her rights were offended,
Many are they, whose bones beneath the billows have whiten’d,
Or in foreign earth they have moulder’d, hastily cover’d,
In some wide and general grave.
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Here also were spirits
To have guided, like Cecil of old, the councils of
England;
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| THE YOUNG SPIRITS. | 41 |
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Or have silenced and charm’d a tumultuous Senate, like Canning,
When to the height of his theme, the consummate Orator rising,
Makes our Catalines pale, and rejoices the friends of their country.
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Others came in that goodly band whom benigner fortune
Led into pleasanter ways on earth: the children of Science
Some, whose unerring pursuit would, but for death, have extended
O’er the unknown and material, Man’s intellectual empire,
Such their intuitive power; like Davy, disarming
destruction
When it moves on the vapour; or him, who discovering
the secret
Of the dark and ebullient abyss, with the fire of Vesuvius
Arm’d the chemist’s hand: well then might Eleusinian Ceres
Yield to him, from whom the seas and the mountains conceal’d not
Nature’s mystery, hid in their depths.
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Here lost in their promise
And prime, were the children of Art, who should else have deliver’d
Works and undying names to grateful posterity’s keeping,
Such as Haydon will leave on earth; and he who,
returning
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| 42 | THE YOUNG SPIRITS. |
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Rich in praise to his native shores, hath left a remembrance
Long to be honour’d and loved on the banks of Thames and of Tiber:
So may America, prizing in time the worth she possesses,
Give to that hand free scope, and boast hereafter of Allston.
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Here too, early lost and deplored, were the youths whom the Muses
Mark’d for themselves at birth, and with dews from Castalia sprinkled:
Chatterton first, (for not to his affectionate
spirit
Could the act of madness innate for guilt be accounted):
Marvellous boy, whose antique songs and unhappy story
Shall, by gentle hearts, be in mournful memory cherish’d
Long as thy ancient towers endure, and the rocks of St. Vincent,
Bristol! my birth-place dear. What though I have chosen a dwelling
Far away, and my grave shall not be found by the stranger
Under thy sacred care, nathless in love and in duty
Still am I bound to thee, and by many a deep recollection!
City of elder days, I know how largely I owe thee;
Nor least for the hope and the strength that I gather’d in boyhood,
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| THE YOUNG SPIRITS. | 43 |
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While on Chatterton musing, I fancied his spirit was with me
In the haunts which he loved upon earth. ’Twas a joy in my vision
When I beheld his face ... And here was the youth of Loch
Leven,
Nipt, like an April flower, that opens its leaves to the sunshine,
Bright emanations they! And the Poet, whose songs of childhood
Trent and the groves of Clifton heard; not alone by the Muses
But by the Virtues loved, his soul in its youthful aspirings
Sought the Holy Hill, and his thirst was for Siloa’s waters.
Was I deceived by desire, or, Henry, indeed did thy
spirit
Know me, and meet my look, and smile like a friend at the meeting?
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