Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Hampstead
HAMPSTEAD.
Come out to Hampstead. For 't is beautiful
To 'scape the city's atmosphere of smoke,
Which, like an inky curtain, wrappeth it,
And drink the breezes of this vale of health.
'T is beautiful to view the broad expanse,
County on county stretching, till at last
The fading outline, like a misty dream,
Blends with the blue horizon.
Yon wide heath,
From which the prospect opens, oft hath lured
The truant spirits of the neighboring school
To leave their restless bed, and scale the walls,
Stealing a starlight ramble. Fancying oft
A vengeful usher in each prickly bush,
Whose intercepting arms their path oppose,
They snatch a trembling taste of liberty,
Dashed with the dregs of fear. Ah, happier then
Deem they the cottage child, who wakes at morn
Unvexed by thistly learning, uncondemned
To pore o'er lexicons, oft drenched in tears,
But at its simple leisure free to roam,
Filling its pinafore with furzy flowers,
Or now and then some rough and sparkling stone
Making its prize.
But greater wealth I found
Than richest flowers, or diamonds of the mine,
Beneath a quiet roof. For she was there,
Whose wand Shaksperian knew to touch at will
The varying passions of the soul, and chain
Their tameless natures in her magic verse.
Fast by that loving sister's side she sat,
Who wears all freshly, mid her fourscore years,
The beauty of the heart.
He, too, was there,
The tasteful bard of Italy, who crowned
Memory, with wreaths of song, when life was new;
So she with grateful love, doth cherish him,
And for his green age from her treasure-hoard
Gives back the gifts he gave. 'T is wise to make
Memory our friend in youth, for she can bring
Payment when hope is bankrupt, and light up
Life's evening hour with gladness. There they sat,
Plucking those fruits of friendship, which by time
Are mellower made, and richer. And I felt
It was a pleasant thing to cross the sea
And listen to their voices. There they sat,
Simply serene, as though not laurel-crowned,
And glad of heart, as in their youthful prime,
A trio, such as I may ne'er expect
To look upon again.
Whene'er I think
Of rural Hampstead, and would fain recall
Its lovely scenes, their brightest tinture falls
Off like a mantle, and those forms alone
Stand forth and breathe, their lips still uttering sounds
Like music.
Such eternity hath mind
Amid the things that perish.
Friday, March 19, 1841.
It was both a pleasure and a privilege to see Miss Joanna Baillie, at her residence in Hampstead. She is above the common height, erect and dignified in her person, and of truly cordial manners. On my arrival, she had just returned from a long walk to visit the poor, and though past the age of seventy-six, and the day chill and windy, she seemed unfatigued, and even invigorated by the exercise. She resides with a sister several years older than herself, and who retains a beaming and lovely countenance.
With them was Rogers, the veteran poet, who has numbered his eightieth winter, but still keeps a perpetual smile of spring in his heart. His polished manners make him a favorite in the higher circles, while the true kindness of his nature is attractive to all. Many from my own land can bear witness to his polite attentions, and to the exquisite collection of the fine arts, which his house in London exhibits; and among all the masters of the lyre in foreign realms, there is none of whom I now think with such deep regret, that I shall see their faces no more on earth. Miss Baillie is well known to be a native of Scotland, and sister to the late celebrated physician of that name, whose monument is in Westminster Abbey. Whether it was the frankness of her nation, touching the chords of sympathy, I know not, but it was painful to bid her farewell. The sublimity of her poetry is felt on both sides of the Atlantic; yet there is no sweeter emanation of her genius than a recent birthday tribute to the sister of whom we have spoken, the loved companion of her days. Surely the readers of these pages, however familiar they may be with that effusion, will thank me for a fragment of it.
"So here thou art, still in thy comely age
Active and ardent. Let what will engage
The present moment, whether hopeful seeds
In garden-plat thou sow, or noxious weeds
From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore
In chronicle, or legend rare, explore,
Or on the parlor-hearth with kitten play,
Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way
To gain with hasty step some cottage door,
On helpful errand to the neighboring poor,
Active and ardent,—to my fancy's eye
Thou still art young, in spite of time gone by.
Oh, ardent, liberal spirit! quickly feeling
The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing
With sorrow and distress, forever sharing
The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caring,
Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day
An unadorned, but not a careless lay."