EXTRACT FROM A PREFACE TO A FORMER EDITION. I THANK the readers of my two first volumes. They are, I believe, mostly poor people, who would have bought more of my books, if they had not wanted bread; and the sale, I have no doubt, will keep pace exactly with their progress in knowledge, virtue, and freedom. I know not whether my publisher is satisfied--I trust he is; but for myself, I am sufficiently rewarded, if my poetry has led one poor despairing victim of misrule from the ale-house to the fields; if I have been chosen of God to show his desolated heart, that, though his wrongs have been heavy and his fall deep, and though the spoiler is yet abroad, still in the green lanes of England the primrose is blowing, and on the mountain top the lonely fir pointing with her many fingers to our Father in heaven-to Him, whose wisdom is at once inscrutable and indubitable, and to whom ages are as a moment to Him who has created another and a better world for all who act nobly or suffer unjustly here; a world of river-feeding mountains, to which the oak will come in his strength, and the ash in her beauty of chiming streams, and elmy vales, where the wild flowers of our country, and, among them, the little daisy, will not refuse to bloom. HYMN WRITTEN FOR THE PRINTERS OF SHEFFIELD. LORD! taught by Thee, when Caxton bade A grave for tyrants then was made, Then crack'd the chain which yet shall break. For bread, for bread, the all-scorn'd man, When first the might of deathless thought The fraud and force of many an age! Pale wax'd the harlot, fear'd of thrones, The pow'r He grasp'd let none disdain ; It conquer'd once, and conquers still ; By fraud and force assail'd in vain, It conquer'd erst, and ever will. It conquers here! the fight is won! We thank thee, Lord, with many a tear ! For many a not unworthy son Of Caxton does thy bidding here. We help ourselves, thy cause we aid ; THE PRIMROSE. SURELY that man is pure in thought and deed, Erect he moves, by truth and beauty led, And climbs his throne, for such a monarch meet, To gaze on valleys, that, around him spread, Carpet the hall of heav'n beneath his feet. How like a trumpet, under all the skies Blown, to convene all forms that love his beams, O'er dizzy rocks and woods, and headlong streams! To her beloved, of love and constancy, Into his soul, mix'd with the throstle's song Oh, thou bring'st blissful childhood back to me ! If to earth's demigods 'tis vainly given? Answer me, sinless sister! Thou hast speech Though silent. Fragrance is thy eloquence, Beauty thy language; and thy smile might teach Ungrateful man to pardon Providence. SPENSERIAN. SUN of Destruction; ne'er again arise Casts o'er his deathless page the light of suns gone down. SPRING. AGAIN the violet of our early days Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom! |