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JAMES THOMSON ("B.V.")

Thou wert the poet-laureate of Despair,
And much I mourned o'er thy unhappy fate,
Which in its toils so cruelly did snare
Thy soul, by death and grief made desolate:
But now that more than twenty years have passed
No longer does the thought of thee bring pain,
For that same fate that so thy life did blast,
Is now thy friend and shall thy friend remain.
Time to a precious pearl hath turned thy woe,
Britain at length shall glory in thy name,
Thy fame shall ever with the ages grow,
And none shall censure thee but to their shame;
Not Omar's—or FitzGerald's—name shall shine
More brightly in the years to come than thine!

 

WRITTEN AFTER READING A MEMOIR OF CLOUGH

Arthur Hugh Clough! How pleasant sounds the name!
What wholesome thoughts and memories it doth wake!
How clear of every shadow is its fame,
(Not clearer thine, dear Artist-Poet Blake!)
Tis such as he restore our faith in man,
When human baseness makes us most despair,
Lifting our thoughts—how few are those who can!—
Into purer and diviner air.

Sincerer soul on earth was never known;
Content where knowledge might not be to stay—
Without vain murmur, or unmanly moan—
In the soul's twilight, clamouring not for day.
Whene'er with cheerless thought too much oppressed
His memory gives my troubled spirit rest.

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