which his health now began to require. Instead of going chose for his re to the sea-coast, as was expected, he treat the village of Wilford, which is situated on the banks of the Trent, and at the foot of Clifton Woods. These woods had ever been his favourite place of resort, and were the subject of the longest poem in his little volume, from which, indeed, the volume was named. He delighted to point out to his more intimate friends the scenery of this poem; the islet to which he had often forded when the river was not knee-deep; and the little hut wherein he had sate for hours, and sometimes all day long, reading or writing, or dreaming with his eyes open. He had sometimes wandered in these woods till night was far advanced, and used to speak with pleasure of having once been overtaken there by a thunder-storm at midnight, and watching the lightning over the river and the vale towards the town. In this village his mother procured lodgings for him, and his place of retreat was kept secret, except from his nearest friends. Soon after the expiration of the month, intelligence arrived that the plans which had been formed in his behalf had entirely failed. He went immediately to his mother: "All my hopes," said he, "of getting to the University are now blasted; in preparing myself for it, I have lost time in my profession; I have much ground to get up, and as I am determined not to be a mediocre attorney, I must endeavour to recover what I have lost." The consequence was, that he applied himself more severely than ever to his studies. He now allowed himself no time for relaxation, little for his meals, and scarcely any for sleep. He would read till one, two, three o'clock in the morning; then throw himself on the bed, and rise again to his work at five, at the call of a larum, which he had fixed to a Dutch clock in his chamber. Many nights he never lay down at all. It was in vain that his mother used every possible means to dissuade him from this destructive application. In this respect, and in this only one, was Henry undutiful, and neither commands, nor tears, nor entreaties, could check his desperate and deadly ardour. At one time she went every night into his room, to put out his candle: as soon as he heard her coming up stairs, he used to hide it in a cupboard, throw himself into bed, and affect sleep while she was in the room; then, when all was quiet, rise again, and pursue his baneful studies. "The night," says Henry, in one of his letters, "has been every thing to me; and did the world know how I have been indebted to the hours of repose, they would not wonder that night-images are, as they judge, so ridiculously predominant in my verses." During some of these midnight hours he indulged himself in complaining, but in such complaints that it is to be wished more of them had been found among his papers. ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 1. COME, Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad; Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine. 2. Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye, the ling'ring knell, That tells her hopes are dead; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. 3. Come, Disappointment, come! Though from Hope's summit hurl❜d, To wean me from the world: To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 4. What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 5. Oh, what is beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all O'er beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 6. The most belov'd on earth Not long survives to-day : So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, But now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. 7. Then since this world is vain, And volatile and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat? Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? 8. Come, Disappointment, come! Thou art not stern to me; A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee. From sun to sun My race will run, I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done! On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the freshness of his disappointment. |