“Son of my buried Son, while thus thy hand Is clasping mine, it saddens me to think How Want may press thee down, and with thee sink Thy Children left unfit, through vain demand Of culture, even to feel or understand 5 My simplest Lay that to their memory May cling;--hard fate! which haply need not be Did Justice mould the Statutes of the Land. A Book time-cherished and an honoured name Are high rewards; but bound they Nature’s claim 10 Or Reason’s? No--hopes spun in timid line From out the bosom of a modest home Extend through unambitious years to come, My careless Little-one, for thee and thine!”[408][409] [407] “The foregoing” was the Sonnet named _A Plea for Authors, May 1838_.--ED. [408] 1836. Son of my buried Son, whose tiny hand Thus clings to mine, it {saddens} me to think {troubles} That thou pressed down by poverty mayst sink Even till thy children shall in vain demand {Culture and neither feel nor} understand {Culture required to feel and} {My simplest lay that to their memory} {My least recondite lay, which memory} {Perchance may cleave}; hard fate, which need not be {May keep in trust } Did justice mould the statutes of the land. {A book time-cherished} and an honoured name {A cherished volume } Are high rewards, but bound not {Reason’s} claim. {Nature’s} No--hopes {in fond hereditary line } {and wishes in a living line} Spun from the bosom of a modest home Extend thro’ unambitious years to come, My careless Little-one, for thee and thine! MS. [409] The author of an animated article, printed in the _Law Magazine_, in favour of the principle of Serjeant Talfourd’s Copyright Bill, precedes me in the public expression of this feeling; which had been forced too often upon my own mind, by remembering how few descendants of men eminent in literature are even known to exist.--W.W. 1838. This sonnet was not addressed to any grandson of the Poet’s.--ED. 1840 ON A PORTRAIT OF I.F., PAINTED BY MARGARET GILLIES[410] Composed 1840.--Published 1850 We gaze--nor grieve to think that we must die, But that the precious love this friend hath sown Within our hearts, the love whose flower hath blown Bright as if heaven were ever in its eye, Will pass so soon from human memory; 5 And not by strangers to our blood alone, But by our best descendants be unknown, Unthought of--this may surely claim a sigh. Yet, blessèd Art, we yield not to dejection: Thou against Time so feelingly dost strive; 10 Where’er, preserved in this most true reflection, An image of her soul is kept alive, Some lingering fragrance of the pure affection, Whose flower with us will vanish, must survive.