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diff --git a/38741.txt b/38741.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..57c7718 --- /dev/null +++ b/38741.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8278 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Isle of Palms, by John Wilson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Isle of Palms + and Other Poems + +Author: John Wilson + +Release Date: February 2, 2012 [EBook #38741] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ISLE OF PALMS *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Josephine Paolucci and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. + + + + + + + + +THE ISLE OF PALMS, + +AND + +OTHER POEMS. + +BY + +JOHN WILSON. + + _Where lies the land to which yon Ship must go? + Festively she puts forth in trim array, + And vigorous, at a lark at break of day,---- + ----Is she for summer suns, or polar snow?_ + +EDINBURGH: + +PRINTED FOR +LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, LONDON; +JOHN BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, EDINBURGH; +AND JOHN SMITH AND SON, GLASGOW. + +1812. + + +TO + +GEORGE JARDINE, ESQ. + +PROFESSOR OF LOGIC, + +AND TO + +JOHN YOUNG, ESQ. + +PROFESSOR OF THE GREEK LANGUAGE, + +IN THE + +UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW, + +THIS VOLUME + +IS RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED + +BY + +THE AUTHOR. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +ISLE OF PALMS. + + Page. + +CANTO I. 1 + +CANTO II. 41 + +CANTO III. 75 + +CANTO IV. 139 + +Angler's Tent 181 + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + +Hermitage 223 + +Lines on Reading the Memoirs of Miss Smith 234 + +Hymn to Spring 246 + +Melrose Abbey 257 + +Extract from the "Hearth" 264 + +The French Exile 269 + +The Three Seasons of Love 277 + +To a Sleeping Child 280 + +My Cottage 290 + +Lines written on the Banks of Windermere, after +Recovery from a dangerous Illness 304 + +Apology for the little Naval Temple on Storrs' Point, Windermere 312 + +Picture of a Blind Man 317 + +Troutbeck Chapel 323 + +Peace and Innocence 329 + +Loughrig Tarn 333 + +Mary 340 + +Lines written at a little Well by the Roadside, Langdale 345 + +Lines written on seeing a Picture by Berghem, of an +Ass in a Storm-Shower 351 + +On Reading Mr. Clarkson's History of the Abolition of the Slave Trade 357 + +The Fallen Oak 362 + +Nature Outraged 366 + +Lines written by Moonlight at Sea 378 + +The Nameless Stream 380 + +Art and Nature 385 + +Sonnet I.--Written on the Banks of Wastwater, during a Storm 388 + +Sonnet II.--Written on the Banks of Wastwater, during a Calm 389 + +Sonnet III.--Written at Midnight, on Helm-Crag 390 + +Sonnet IV.--The Voice of the Mountains 391 + +Sonnet V.--The Evening-Cloud 392 + +Sonnet VI.--Written on the Sabbath-Day 393 + +Sonnet VII.--Written on Skiddaw, during a Tempest 394 + +Sonnet VIII. 395 + +Sonnet IX.--Written on the Evening I heard of +the Death of my Friend, William Dunlop 396 + +Lines sacred to the Memory of The Rev. James +Grahame, Author of "The Sabbath," &c. 397 + + + + +THE ISLE OF PALMS. + +CANTO FIRST. + + + It is the midnight hour:--the beauteous Sea, + Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses, + While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, + Far down within the watery sky reposes. + As if the Ocean's heart were stirr'd + With inward life, a sound is heard, + Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep; + 'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air, + That lies like a garment floating fair + Above the happy Deep. + The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd + By evening freshness from the land, + For the land it is far away; + But God hath will'd that the sky-born breeze + In the centre of the loneliest seas + Should ever sport and play. + The mighty Moon she sits above, + Encircled with a zone of love, + A zone of dim and tender light + That makes her wakeful eye more bright: + She seems to shine with a sunny ray, + And the night looks like a mellow'd day! + The gracious Mistress of the Main + Hath now an undisturbed reign, + And from her silent throne looks down, + As upon children of her own, + On the waves that lend their gentle breast + In gladness for her couch of rest! + + My spirit sleeps amid the calm + The sleep of a new delight; + And hopes that she ne'er may awake again, + But for ever hang o'er the lovely main, + And adore the lovely night. + Scarce conscious of an earthly frame, + She glides away like a lambent flame, + And in her bliss she sings; + Now touching softly the Ocean's breast, + Now mid the stars she lies at rest, + As if she sail'd on wings! + Now bold as the brightest star that glows + More brightly since at first it rose, + Looks down on the far-off flood, + And there all breathless and alone, + As the sky where she soars were a world of her own, + She mocketh the gentle Mighty One + As he lies in his quiet mood. + "Art thou," she breathes, "the Tyrant grim + That scoffs at human prayers, + Answering with prouder roaring the while, + As it rises from some lonely isle, + Through groans raised wild, the hopeless hymn + Of shipwreck'd mariners? + Oh! Thou art harmless as a child + Weary with joy, and reconciled + For sleep to change its play; + And now that night hath stay'd thy race, + Smiles wander o'er thy placid face + As if thy dreams were gay."-- + + And can it be that for me alone + The Main and Heavens are spread? + Oh! whither, in this holy hour, + Have those fair creatures fled, + To whom the ocean-plains are given + As clouds possess their native heaven? + The tiniest boat, that ever sail'd + Upon an inland lake, + Might through this sea without a fear + Her silent journey take, + Though the helmsman slept as if on land, + And the oar had dropp'd from the rower's hand. + How like a monarch would she glide, + While the husht billow kiss'd her side + With low and lulling tone, + Some stately Ship, that from afar + Shone sudden, like a rising star, + With all her bravery on! + List! how in murmurs of delight + The blessed airs of Heaven invite + The joyous bark to pass one night + Within their still domain! + O grief! that yonder gentle Moon, + Whose smiles for ever fade so soon, + Should waste such smiles in vain. + Haste! haste! before the moonshine dies, + Dissolved amid the morning skies, + While yet the silvery glory lies + Above the sparkling foam; + Bright mid surrounding brightness, Thou, + Scattering fresh beauty from thy prow, + In pomp and splendour come! + + And lo! upon the murmuring waves + A glorious Shape appearing! + A broad-wing'd Vessel, through the shower + Of glimmering lustre steering! + As if the beauteous ship enjoy'd + The beauty of the sea, + She lifteth up her stately head + And saileth joyfully. + A lovely path before her lies, + A lovely path behind; + She sails amid the loveliness + Like a thing with heart and mind. + Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair, + Slowly she beareth on; + A glorious phantom of the deep, + Risen up to meet the Moon. + The Moon bids her tenderest radiance fall + On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings, + And the quiet voice of the rocking sea + To cheer the gliding vision sings. + Oh! ne'er did sky and water blend + In such a holy sleep, + Or bathe in brighter quietude + A roamer of the deep. + So far the peaceful soul of Heaven + Hath settled on the sea, + It seems as if this weight of calm + Were from eternity. + O World of Waters! the stedfast earth + Ne er lay entranced like Thee! + + Is she a vision wild and bright, + That sails amid the still moon-light + At the dreaming soul's command? + A vessel borne by magic gales, + All rigg'd with gossamery sails, + And bound for Fairy-land? + Ah! no!--an earthly freight she bears, + Of joys and sorrows, hopes and fears; + And lonely as she seems to be, + Thus left by herself on the moonlight sea + In loneliness that rolls, + She hath a constant company, + In sleep, or waking revelry, + Five hundred human souls! + Since first she sail'd from fair England, + Three moons her path have cheer'd; + And another stands right over her masts + Since the Cape hath disappear'd. + For an Indian Isle she shapes her way + With constant mind both night and day: + She seems to hold her home in view, + And sails, as if the path she knew; + So calm and stately is her motion + Across th' unfathom'd trackless ocean. + + And well, glad Vessel! mayst thou stem + The tide with lofty breast, + And lift thy queen-like diadem + O'er these thy realms of rest: + For a thousand beings, now far away, + Behold thee in their sleep, + And hush their beating hearts to pray + That a calm may clothe the deep. + When dimly descending behind the sea + From the Mountain Isle of Liberty, + Oh! many a sigh pursued thy vanish'd sail; + And oft an eager crowd will stand + With straining gaze on the Indian strand, + Thy wonted gleam to hail. + For thou art laden with Beauty and Youth, + With Honour bold, and spotless Truth, + With fathers, who have left in a home of rest + Their infants smiling at the breast, + With children, who have bade their parents farewell, + Or who go to the land where their parents dwell. + God speed thy course, thou gleam of delight! + From rock and tempest clear; + Till signal gun from friendly height + Proclaim, with thundering cheer, + To joyful groupes on the harbour bright, + That the good ship HOPE is near! + + Is no one on the silent deck + Save the helmsman who sings for a breeze, + And the sailors who pace their midnight watch, + Still as the slumbering seas? + Yes! side by side, and hand in hand, + Close to the prow two figures stand, + Their shadows never stir, + And fondly as the Moon doth rest + Upon the Ocean's gentle breast, + So fond they look on her. + They gaze and gaze till the beauteous orb + Seems made for them alone: + They feel as if their home were Heaven, + And the earth a dream that hath flown. + Softly they lean on each other's breast, + In holy bliss reposing, + Like two fair clouds to the vernal air + In folds of beauty closing. + The tear down their glad faces rolls, + And a silent prayer is in their souls, + While the voice of awaken'd memory, + Like a low and plaintive melody, + Sings in their hearts,--a mystic voice, + That bids them tremble and rejoice. + And Faith, who oft had lost her power + In the darkness of the midnight hour + When the planets had roll'd afar, + Now stirs in their soul with a joyful strife, + Embued with a genial spirit of life + By the Moon and the Morning-Star. + + A lovelier vision in the moonlight stands, + Than Bard e'er woo'd in fairy lands, + Or Faith with tranced eye adored, + Floating around our dying Lord. + Her silent face is saintly-pale, + And sadness shades it like a veil: + A consecrated nun she seems, + Whose waking thoughts are deep as dreams, + And in her hush'd and dim abode + For ever dwell upon her God, + Though the still fount of tears and sighs + And human sensibilities! + Well may the Moon delight to shed + Her softest radiance round that head, + And mellow the cool ocean-air + That lifts by fits her sable hair. + These mild and melancholy eyes + Are dear unto the starry skies, + As the dim effusion of their rays + Blends with the glimmering light that plays + O'er the blue heavens, and snowy clouds, + The cloud-like sails, and radiant shrouds. + Fair creature! Thou dost seem to be + Some wandering spirit of the sea, + That dearly loves the gleam of sails, + And o'er them breathes propitious gales. + Hither thou comest, for one wild hour, + With him thy sinless paramour, + To gaze, while the wearied sailors sleep, + On this beautiful phantom of the deep, + That seem'd to rise with the rising Moon. + --But the Queen of Night will be sinking soon, + Then will you, like two breaking waves, + Sink softly to your coral caves, + Or, noiseless as the falling dew, + Melt into Heaven's delicious blue. + + Nay! wrong her not, that Virgin bright! + Her face is bathed in lovelier light + Than ever flow'd from eyes + Of Ocean Nymph, or Sylph of Air! + The tearful gleam, that trembles there, + From human dreams must rise. + Let the Mermaid rest in her sparry cell, + Her sea-green ringlets braiding! + The Sylph in viewless ether dwell, + In clouds her beauty shading! + My soul devotes her music wild + To one who is an earthly child, + But who, wandering through the midnight hour, + Far from the shade of earthly bower, + Bestows a tenderer loveliness, + A deeper, holier quietness, + On the moonlight Heaven, and Ocean hoar, + So quiet and so fair before. + Yet why does a helpless maiden roam, + Mid stranger souls, and far from home, + Across the faithless deep? + Oh! fitter far that her gentle mind + In some sweet inland vale should find + An undisturbed sleep! + + So was it once. Her childish years + Like clouds pass'd o'er her head, + When life is all one rosy smile, or tears + Of natural grief, forgotten soon as shed. + O'er her own mountains, like a bird + Glad wandering from its nest, + When the glossy hues of the sunny spring + Are dancing on its breast, + With a winged glide this maiden would rove, + An innocent phantom of beauty and love. + Far from the haunts of men she grew + By the side of a lonesome tower, + Like some solitary mountain-flower, + Whose veil of wiry dew + Is only touch'd by the gales that breathe + O'er the blossoms of the fragrant heath, + And in its silence melts away + With those sweet things too pure for earthly day. + Blest was the lore that Nature taught + The infant's happy mind, + Even when each light and happy thought + Pass'd onwards like the wind, + Nor longer seem'd to linger there + Than the whispering sound in her raven-hair. + Well was she known to each mountain-stream, + As its own voice, or the fond moon-beam + That o'er its music play'd: + The loneliest caves her footsteps heard, + In lake and tarn oft nightly stirr'd + The Maiden's ghost-like shade. + But she hath bidden a last farewell + To lake and mountain, stream and dell, + And fresh have blown the gales + For many a mournful night and day, + Wafting the tall Ship far away + From her dear native Wales. + + And must these eyes,--so soft and mild, + As angel's bright, as fairy's wild, + Swimming in lustrous dew, + Now sparkling lively, gay, and glad, + And now their spirit melting sad + In smiles of gentlest blue,-- + Oh! must these eyes be steep'd in tears, + Bedimm'd with dreams of future years, + Of what may yet betide + An Orphan-Maid!--for in the night + She oft hath started with affright, + To find herself a bride; + A bride oppress'd with fear and shame, + And bearing not Fitz-Owen's name. + This fearful dream oft haunts her bed. + For she hath heard of maidens sold, + In the innocence of thoughtless youth, + To Guilt and Age for gold; + Of English maids who pined away + Beyond the Eastern Main, + Who smiled, when first they trod that shore, + But never smiled again. + In dreams is she the wretched Maid, + An Orphan,--helpless,--sold,--betray'd,-- + And, when the dream hath fled, + In waking thought she still retains + The memory of these wildering pains, + In strange mysterious dread. + + Yet oft will happier dreams arise + Before her charmed view, + And the powerful beauty of the skies + Makes her believe them true. + For who, when nought is heard around, + But the great Ocean's solemn sound, + Feels not as if the Eternal God + Were speaking in that dread abode? + An answering voice seems kindly given + From the multitude of stars in Heaven: + And oft a smile of moonlight fair, + To perfect peace hath changed despair. + Low as we are, we blend our fate + With things so beautifully great, + And though opprest with heaviest grief, + From Nature's bliss we draw relief, + Assured that God's most gracious eye + Beholds us in our misery, + And sends mild sound and lovely sight, + To change that misery to delight.-- + Such is thy faith, O sainted Maid! + Pensive and pale, but not afraid + Of Ocean or of Sky, + Though thou ne'er mayst see the land again, + And though awful be the lonely Main, + No fears hast thou to die. + Whate'er betide of weal or wo, + When the waves are asleep, or the tempests blow, + Thou wilt bear with calm devotion; + For duly every night and morn, + Sweeter than Mermaid's strains are borne + Thy hymns along the Ocean. + + And who is He, that fondly presses + Close to his heart the silken tresses + That hide her soften'd eyes, + Whose heart her heaving bosom meets, + And through the midnight silence beats + To feel her rising sighs? + Worthy the Youth, I ween, to rest + On the fair swellings of her breast, + Worthy to hush her inmost fears, + And kiss away her struggling tears: + For never grovelling spirit stole + A woman's unpolluted soul! + To her the vestal fire is given; + And only fire drawn pure from Heaven + Can on Love's holy shrine descend, + And there in clouds of fragrance blend. + Well do I know that stately Youth! + The broad day-light of cloudless truth + Like a sun-beam bathes his face; + Though silent, still a gracious smile, + That rests upon his eyes the while, + Bestows a speaking grace. + That smile hath might of magic art, + To sway at will the stoniest heart, + As a ship obeys the gale; + And when his silver voice is heard; + The coldest blood is warmly stirr'd, + As at some glorious tale. + The loftiest spirit never saw + This Youth without a sudden awe; + But vain the transient feeling strove + Against the stealing power of love. + Soon as they felt the tremor cease, + He seem'd the very heart of peace. + Majestic to the bold and high, + Yet calm and beauteous to a woman's eye! + + To him, a mountain Youth, was known + The wailing tempest's dreariest tone. + He knew the shriek of wizard caves, + And the trampling fierce of howling waves. + The mystic voice of the lonely night, + He had often drunk with a strange delight, + And look'd on the clouds as they roll'd on high, + Till with them he sail'd on the sailing sky. + And thus hath he learn'd to wake the lyre, + With something of a bardlike fire; + Can tell in high empassion'd song, + Of worlds that to the Bard belong, + And, till they feel his kindling breath, + To others still and dark as death. + Yet oft, I ween, in gentler mood + A human kindness hush'd his blood, + And sweetly blended earth-born sighs + With the Bard's romantic extacies. + The living world was dear to him, + And in his waking hours more bright it seem'd, + More touching far, than when his fancy dream'd + Of heavenly bowers, th' abode of Seraphim: + And gladly from her wild sojourn + Mid haunts dim-shadow'd in the realms of mind, + Even like a wearied dove that flies for rest + Back o'er long fields of air unto her nest, + His longing spirit homewards would return + To meet once more the smile of human kind. + And when at last a human soul he found, + Pure as the thought of purity,--more mild + Than in its slumber seems a dreaming child; + When on his spirit stole the mystic sound, + The voice, whose music sad no mortal ear + But his can rightly understand and hear, + When a subduing smile like moonlight shone + On him for ever, and for him alone, + Why should he seek this lower world to leave! + For, whether now he love to joy or grieve, + A friend he hath for sorrow or delight, + Who lends fresh beauty to the morning light, + The tender stars in tenderer dimness shrouds, + And glorifies the Moon among her clouds. + + How would he gaze with reverent eye + Upon that meek and pensive maid, + Then fix his looks upon the sky + With moving lips as if he pray'd! + Unto his sight bedimm'd with tears, + How beautiful the saint appears,-- + Oh! all unlike a creature form'd of clay, + The blessed angels with delight + Might hail her "Sister!" She is bright + And innocent as they. + Scarce dared he then that form to love! + A solemn impulse from above + All earthly hopes forbade, + And with a pure and holy flame, + As if in truth from Heaven she came, + He gazed upon the maid. + His beating heart, thus fill'd with awe, + In her the guardian spirit saw + Of all his future years; + And, when he listened to her breath + So spiritual, nor pain nor death + Seem'd longer worth his fears. + She loved him! She, the Child of Heaven! + And God would surely make + The soul to whom that love was given + More perfect for her sake. + Each look, each word, of one so good + Devoutly he obey'd, + And trusted that a gracious eye + Would ever guide his destiny, + For whom in holy solitude + So sweet an Angel pray'd. + + Those days of tranquil joy are fled, + And tears of deep distress + From night to morn hath Mary shed: + And, say! when sorrow bow'd her head + Did he then love her less? + Ah no! more touching beauty rose + Through the dim paleness of her woes, + Than when her cheek did bloom + With joy's own lustre: something there, + A saint-like calm, a deep repose, + Made her look like a spirit fair + New risen from the tomb. + For ever in his heart shall dwell + The voice with which she said farewell + To the fading English shore; + It dropp'd like dew upon his ear, + And for the while he ceased to hear + The sea-wind's freshening roar. + "To thee I trust my sinless child: + "And therefore am I reconciled + "To bear my lonely lot, + "The Gracious One, who loves the good, + "For her will smooth the Ocean wild, + "Nor in her aged solitude + "A parent be forgot." + The last words these her Mother spake, + Sobbing as if her heart would break + Beside the cold sea-shore, + When onwards with the favouring gale, + Glad to be free, in pride of sail + Th' impatient Vessel bore. + + Oh! could she now in magic glass + Behold the winged glory pass + With a slow and cloud-like motion, + While, as they melted on her eye, + She scarce should ken the peaceful sky + From the still more peaceful Ocean! + And it may be such dreams are given + In mercy by indulgent Heaven, + To solace them that mourn: + The absent bless our longing sight, + The future shows than truth more bright, + And phantoms of expir'd delight + Most passing sweet return. + Mother! behold thy Child: How still + Her upward face! She thinks on thee: + Oh, thou canst never gaze thy fill! + How beautiful such piety! + There in her lover's guardian arms + She rests: and all the wild alarms + Of waves or winds are hush'd, no more to rise. + Of thee, and thee alone, she thinks: + See! on her knees thy daughter sinks: + Sure God will bless the prayer that lights such eyes! + Didst thou e'er think thy child so fair? + The rapture of her granted prayer + Hath breathed that awful beauty through her face: + Once more upon the deck she stands, + Slowly unclasps her pious hands, + And brightening smiles, assured of heavenly grace. + + Oh, blessed pair! and, while I gaze, + As beautiful as blest! + Emblem of all your future days + Seems now the Ocean's rest! + Beyond the blue depths of the sky, + The Tempests sleep;--and there must lie, + Like baleful spirits barr'd from realms of bliss. + But singing airs, and gleams of light, + And birds of calm, all-glancing bright, + Must hither in their gladness come. + --Where shall they find a fitter home + Than a night-scene fair as this? + And when, her fairy voyage past, + The happy Ship is moor'd at last + In the loved haven of her Indian Isle, + How dear to you will be the beams + Of the silent Moon! What touching dreams + Your musing hearts beguile! + Though haply then her radiance fall + On some low mansion's flowery wall, + Far up an inland vale, + Yet then the sheeted mast will tower, + Her shrouds all rustling like a shower, + And, melting as wild music's power, + Low pipe the sea-born gale. + Each star will speak the tenderest things, + And when the clouds expand their wings, + All parting like a fleet, + Your own beloved Ship, I ween, + Will foremost in the van be seen, + And, rising loud and sweet, + The sailor's joyful shouts be heard, + Such as the midnight silence stirr'd + When the wish'd-for breezes blew, + And, instant as the loud commands, + Sent upwards from a hundred hands + The broad sails rose unto the sky, + And from her slumbers suddenly + The Ship like lightning flew! + + But list! a low and moaning sound + At distance heard, like a spirit's song, + And now it reigns above, around, + As if it call'd the Ship along. + The Moon is sunk; and a clouded grey + Declares that her course is run, + And like a God who brings the day, + Up mounts the glorious Sun. + Soon as his light has warm'd the seas, + From the parting cloud fresh blows the Breeze; + And that is the spirit whose well-known song + Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. + No fears hath she;--Her giant-form + O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, + Majestically calm, would go + Mid the deep darkness white as snow! + But gently now the small waves glide + Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side. + So stately her bearing, so proud her array, + The Main she will traverse for ever and aye. + Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast! + --Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last. + Five hundred souls in one instant of dread + Are hurried o'er the deck; + And fast the miserable Ship + Becomes a lifeless wreck. + Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock, + Her planks are torn asunder, + And down come her masts with a reeling shock, + And a hideous crash like thunder. + Her sails are draggled in the brine + That gladdened late the skies, + And her pendant that kiss'd the fair moonshine + Down many a fathom lies. + Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues + Gleam'd softly from below, + And flung a warm and sunny flush + O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, + To the coral rocks are hurrying down + To sleep amid colours as bright as their own. + + Oh! many a dream was in the Ship + An hour before her death; + And sights of home with sighs disturb'd + The sleepers' long-drawn breath. + Instead of the murmur of the sea + The sailor heard the humming tree + Alive through all its leaves, + The hum of the spreading sycamore + That grows before his cottage-door, + And the swallow's song in the eaves. + His arms inclosed a blooming boy, + Who listen'd with tears of sorrow and joy + To the dangers his father had pass'd; + And his wife--by turns she wept and smiled, + As she look'd on the father of her child + Return'd to her heart at last. + --He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, + And the rush of waters is in his soul. + Astounded the reeling deck he paces, + Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces;-- + The whole Ship's crew are there. + Wailings around and overhead, + Brave spirits stupefied or dead, + And madness and despair. + + Leave not the wreck, thou cruel Boat, + While yet 'tis thine to save, + And angel-hands will bid thee float + Uninjured o'er the wave, + Though whirlpools yawn across thy way, + And storms, impatient for their prey, + Around thee fiercely rave! + Vain all the prayers of pleading eyes, + Of outcry loud, and humble sighs, + Hands clasp'd, or wildly toss'd on high + To bless or curse in agony! + Despair and resignation vain! + Away like a strong-wing'd bird she flies, + That heeds not human miseries, + And far off in the sunshine dies + Like a wave of the restless main. + Hush! hush! Ye wretches left behind! + Silence becomes the brave, resign'd + To unexpected doom. + How quiet the once noisy crowd! + The sails now serve them for a shroud, + And the sea-cave is their tomb. + And where is that loveliest Being gone? + Hope not that she is saved alone, + Immortal though such beauty seem'd to be. + She, and the Youth that loved her too, + Went down with the ship and her gallant crew-- + No favourites hath the sea. + + Now is the Ocean's bosom bare, + Unbroken as the floating air; + The Ship hath melted quite away, + Like a struggling dream at break of day. + No image meets my wandering eye + But the new-risen sun, and the sunny sky. + Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapour dull + Bedims the waves so beautiful; + While a low and melancholy moan + Mourns for the glory that hath flown. + Oh! that the wild and wailing strain + Were a dream that murmurs in my brain! + What happiness would then be mine, + When my eyes, as they felt the morning shine, + Instead of the unfathom'd Ocean-grave + Should behold Winander's peaceful wave, + And the Isles that love her loving breast, + Each brooding like a Halcyon's nest. + It may not be:--too well I know + The real doom from fancied woe, + The black and dismal hue. + Yea, many a visage wan and pale + Will hang at midnight o'er my tale, + And weep that it is true. + + + + +THE ISLE OF PALMS. + +CANTO SECOND. + + + O Heavenly Queen! by Mariners beloved! + Refulgent Moon! when in the cruel sea + Down sank yon fair Ship to her coral grave, + Where didst thou linger then? Sure it behoved + A Spirit strong and pitiful like thee + At that dread hour thy worshippers to save; + Nor let the glory where thy tenderest light, + Forsaking even the clouds, with pleasure lay, + Pass, like a cloud which none deplores, away, + No more to bless the empire of the Night. + How oft to thee have home-sick sailors pour'd + Upon their midnight-watch, no longer dull + When thou didst smile, hymns wild and beautiful, + Worthy the radiant Angel they adored! + And are such hymnings breathed to thee in vain? + Gleam'st thou, as if delighted with the strain, + And won by it the pious bark to keep + In joy for ever?--till at once behind + A cloud thou sailest,--and a roaring wind + Hath sunk her in the deep! + Or, though the zephyr scarcely blow, + Down to the bottom must she go + With all who wake or sleep, + Ere the slumberer from his dream can start, + Or the hymn hath left the singer's heart! + Oh! sure, if ever mortal prayer + Were heard where thou and thy sweet stars abide, + So many gallant spirits had not died + Thus mournfully in beauty and in prime! + But from the sky had shone an arm sublime, + To bless the worship of that Virgin fair, + And, only seen by Faith's uplifted eye, + The wretched vessel gently drifted by + The fatal rock, and to the crowded shore + In triumph and in pride th' expected glory bore. + + Oh vain belief! most beauteous as thou art, + Thy heavenly visage hides a cruel heart. + When Death and Danger, Terror and Dismay, + Are madly struggling on the dismal Ocean, + With heedless smile and calm unalter'd motion, + Onward thou glidest through the milky way, + Nor, in thy own immortal beauty blest, + Hear'st dying mortals rave themselves to rest. + Yet when this night thou mount'st thy starry throne, + Brightening to sun-like glory in thy bliss, + Wilt thou not then thy once-loved Vessel miss, + And wish her happy, now that she is gone? + But then, sad Moon! too late thy grief will be, + Fair as thou art, thou canst not move the sea. + --Dear God! Was that wild sound a human cry, + The voice of one more loath to die + Than they who round him sleep? + Or of a Spirit in the sky, + A Demon in the deep? + No sea-bird, through the darkness sailing, + E'er utter'd such a doleful wailing, + Foreboding the near blast: + If from a living thing it came, + It sure must have a spectral frame, + And soon its soul must part:-- + That groan broke from a bursting heart, + The bitterest and the last. + + The Figure moves! It is alive! + None but its wretched self survive, + Yea! drown'd are all the crew! + Ghosts are they underneath the wave, + And he, whom Ocean deign'd to save, + Stands there most ghost-like too. + Alone upon a rock he stands + Amid the waves, and wrings his hands, + And lifts to Heaven his steadfast eye, + With a wild upbraiding agony. + He sends his soul through the lonesome air + To God:--but God hears not his prayer; + For, soon as his words from the wretch depart, + Cold they return on his baffled heart. + He flings himself down on his rocky tomb, + And madly laughs at his horrible doom. + With smiles the Main is overspread, + As if in mockery of the dead; + And upward when he turns his sight, + The unfeeling Sun is shining bright, + And strikes him with a sickening light. + While a fainting-fit his soul bedims, + He thinks that a Ship before him swims, + A gallant Ship, all fill'd with gales, + One radiant gleam of snowy sails-- + His senses return, and he looks in vain + O'er the empty silence of the Main! + No Ship is there, with radiant gleam, + Whose shadow sail'd throughout his dream: + Not even one rueful plank is seen + To tell that a vessel hath ever been + Beneath these lonely skies: + But sea-birds he oft had seen before + Following the ship in hush or roar, + The loss of their resting-mast deplore + With wild and dreary cries. + + What brought him here he cannot tell; + Doubt and confusion darken all his soul, + While glimmering truth more dreadful makes the gloom: + Why hath the Ocean that black hideous swell? + And in his ears why doth that dismal toll + For ever sound,--as if a city-bell + Wail'd for a funeral passing to the tomb? + Some one hath died, and buried is this day; + A hoary-headed man, or stripling gay, + Or haply some sweet maid, who was a bride, + And, ere her head upon his bosom lay + Who deem'd her all his own,--the Virgin died! + Why starts the wilder'd dreamer at the sound, + And casts his haggard eyes around? + The utter agony hath seized him now, + For Memory drives him, like a slave, to know + What Madness would conceal:--His own dear Maid, + She, who he thought could never die, is dead. + "Drown'd!"--still the breaking billows mutter,--"drown'd!" + With anguish loud was her death-bed! + Nor e'er,--wild wish of utmost woe! + Shall her sweet corse be found. + Oft had he sworn with faithless breath, + That his love for the Maid was strong as death, + By the holy Sun he sware; + The Sun upon the Ocean smiles, + And, with a sudden gleam, reviles + His vows as light as air. + Yet soon he flings, with a sudden start, + That gnawing phrenzy from his heart, + For long in sooth he strove, + When the waters were booming in his brain, + And his life was clogg'd with a sickening pain, + To save his lady-love. + + How long it seems since that dear night, + When gazing on the wan moonlight + He and his own betrothed stood, + Nor fear'd the harmless ocean-flood! + He feels as if many and many a day, + Since that bright hour, had pass'd away; + The dim remembrance of some joy + In which he revell'd when a boy. + The crew's dumb misery and his own, + When lingeringly the ship went down, + Even like some mournful tale appears, + By wandering sailor told in other years. + Yet still he knows that this is all delusion, + For how could he for months and years have lain + A wretched thing upon the cruel Main, + Calm though it seem to be? Would gracious Heaven + Set free his spirit from this dread confusion, + Oh, how devoutly would his thanks be given + To Jesus ere he died! But tortured so + He dare not pray beneath his weight of wo, + Lest he should feel, when about to die, + By God deserted utterly. + He cannot die: Though he longs for death, + Stronger and stronger grows his breath, + And hopeless woe the spring of being feeds; + He faints not, though his knell seems rung, + But lives, as if to life he clung, + And stronger as he bleeds. + He calls upon the grisly Power, + And every moment, every hour, + His sable banners wave; + But he comes not in his mortal wrath, + And long and dreary is the path + Of anguish to the grave. + + His heart it will not cease to beat, + His blood runs free and warm; + And thoughts of more composed despair, + Incessant as the waves that bathe his feet, + Yet comfortless as the empty air, + Through all his spirit swarm. + But the weariness of wasting grief + Hath brought to him its own relief: + Each sense is dull'd! He lies at last + As if the parting shock were past. + He sleeps!--Prolong his haunted rest, + O God!--for now the wretch is blest. + A fair romantic Island, crown'd + With a glow of blossom'd trees, + And underneath bestrewn with flowers, + The happy dreamer sees. + A stream comes dancing from a mount, + Down its fresh and lustrous side, + Then, tamed into a quiet pool, + Is scarcely seen to glide. + Like fairy sprites, a thousand birds + Glance by on golden wing, + Birds lovelier than the lovely hues + Of the bloom wherein they sing. + Upward he lifts his wondering eyes, + Nor yet believes that even the skies + So passing fair can be. + And lo! yon gleam of emerald light, + For human gaze too dazzling bright, + Is that indeed the sea? + + Adorn'd with all her pomp and pride, + Long-fluttering flags, and pendants wide, + He sees a stately vessel ride + At anchor in a bay, + Where never waves by storm were driven, + Shaped like the Moon when she is young in heaven, + Or melting in a cloud that stops her way. + Her masts tower nobly from the rocking deep, + Tall as the palm trees on the steep, + And, burning mid their crests so darkly green, + Her meteor-glories all abroad are seen, + Wakening the forests from their solemn sleep; + While suddenly the cannon's sound + Rolls through the cavern'd glens, and groves profound, + And never-dying echoes roar around. + Shaded with branching palm, the sign of peace, + Canoes and skiffs like lightning shoot along, + Countless as waves there sporting on the seas; + While still from those that lead the van, a song, + Whose chorus rends the inland cliffs afar, + Tells that advance before that unarm'd throng, + Princes and chieftains, with a fearless smile, + And outstretch'd arms, to welcome to their Isle + That gallant Ship of War. + And glad are they who therein sail, + Once more to breathe the balmy gale, + To kiss the steadfast strand: + They round the world are voyaging, + And who can tell their suffering + Since last they saw the land? + + But that bright pageant will not stay: + Palms, plumes, and ensigns melt away, + Island, and ship!--Though utter be the change + (For on a rock he seems to lie + All naked to the burning sky) + He doth not think it strange. + While in his memory faint recallings swim, + He fain would think it is a dream + That thus distracts his view, + Until some unimagined pain + Shoots shivering through his troubled brain; + --Though dreadful, all is true. + But what to him is anguish now, + Though it burn in his blood, and his heart, and his brow, + For ever from morn to night? + For lo! an Angel shape descends, + As soft and silent as moonlight, + And o'er the dreamer bends. + She cannot be an earthly child, + Yet, when the Vision sweetly smiled, + The light that there did play + Reminded him, he knew not why, + Of one beloved in infancy, + But now far, far away. + + Disturb'd by fluttering joy, he wakes, + And feels a death-like shock; + For, harder even than in his dream, + His bed is a lonely rock. + Poor wretch! he dares not open his eye, + For he dreads the beauty of the sky, + And the useless unavailing breeze + That he hears upon the happy seas. + A voice glides sweetly through his heart, + The voice of one that mourns; + Yet it hath a gladsome melody-- + Dear God! the dream returns! + A gentle kiss breathes o'er his cheek, + A kiss of murmuring sighs, + It wanders o'er his brow, and falls + Like light upon his eyes. + Through that long kiss he dimly sees, + All bathed in smiles and tears, + A well-known face; and from those lips + A well-known voice he hears. + With a doubtful look he scans the Maid, + As if half-delighted, half-afraid, + Then bows his wilder'd head, + And with deep groans, he strives to pray + That Heaven would drive the fiend away, + That haunts his dying bed. + Again he dares to view the air: + The beauteous ghost yet lingers there, + Veil'd in a spotless shroud: + Breathing in tones subdued and low, + Bent o'er him like Heaven's radiant bow, + And still as evening-cloud. + + "Art thou a phantom of the brain?" + He cries, "a mermaid from the main? + A seraph from the sky? + Or art thou a fiend with a seraph's smile, + Come here to mock, on this horrid Isle, + My dying agony?"-- + Had he but seen what touching sadness fell + On that fair creature's cheek while thus he spoke, + Had heard the stifled sigh that slowly broke + From her untainted bosom's lab'ring swell, + He scarce had hoped, that at the throne of grace + Such cruel words could e'er have been forgiven, + The impious sin of doubting such a face, + Of speaking thus of Heaven. + Weeping, she wrings his dripping hair + That hangs across his cheek; + And leaves a hundred kisses there, + But not one word can speak. + In bliss she listens to his breath: + Ne'er murmur'd so the breast of death! + Alas! sweet one! what joy can give + Fond-cherish'd thoughts like these! + For how mayst thou and thy lover live + In the centre of the seas? + Or vainly to your sorrows seek for rest, + On a rock where never verdure grew, + Too wild even for the wild sea-mew + To build her slender nest! + + Sublime is the faith of a lonely soul, + In pain and trouble cherish'd; + Sublime the spirit of hope that lives, + When earthly hope has perish'd. + And where doth that blest faith abide? + O! not in Man's stern nature: human pride + Inhabits there, and oft by virtue led, + Pride though it be, it doth a glory shed, + That makes the world we mortal beings tread, + In chosen spots, resplendent as the Heaven! + But to yon gentle Maiden turn, + Who never for herself doth mourn, + And own that faith's undying urn + Is but to woman given. + Now that the shade of sorrow falls + Across her life, and duty calls, + Her spirit burns with a fervent glow, + And stately through the gloom of woe + Behold her alter'd form arise, + Like a priestess at a sacrifice. + The touch of earth hath left no taint + Of weakness in the fearless saint. + Like clouds, all human passions roll, + At the breath of devotion, from her soul, + And God looks down with a gleam of grace, + On the stillness of her heavenward face, + Just paler in her grief. + While, hark! like one who God adores, + Such words she o'er her lover pours, + As give herself relief. + + "Oh! look again on her who speaks + To thee, and bathes thy sallow cheeks + With many a human tear! + No cruel thing beside thee leans, + Thou knowest what thy Mary means, + Thy own true love is here. + Open thine eyes! thy beauteous eyes! + For mercy smile on me! + Speak!--but one word! one little word! + 'Tis all I ask of thee. + If these eyes would give one transient gleam, + To chear this dark and dreadful dream, + If, while I kiss thy cheek, + These dear, dear lips, alas! so pale, + Before their parting spirit fail, + One low farewell would speak,-- + This rock so hard would be a bed + Of down unto thy Mary's head, + And gently would we glide away, + Fitz-Owen! to that purer day + Of which thou once didst sing; + Like birds, that, rising from the foam, + Seek on some lofty cliff their home, + On storm-despising wing. + Yes! that thou hear'st thy Mary's voice, + That lovely smile declares! + Here let us in each other's arms + Dissolve our life in prayers. + I see in that uplifted eye, + That thou art not afraid to die; + For ever brave wert thou. + Oh! press me closer to thy soul, + And, while yet we hear the Ocean roll, + Breathe deep the marriage vow! + We hoped far other days to see; + But the will of God be done! + My husband! behold yon pile of clouds + Like a city, round the Sun: + Beyond these clouds, ere the phantoms part, + Thou wilt lean in bliss on my loving heart."-- + + Sweet seraph! lovely was thy form, + When, shrouded in the misty storm + That swept o'er Snowden's side, + The Cambrian shepherd, through the gloom, + Like a spirit rising from the tomb, + With awe beheld thee glide; + And lovely wert thou, Child of Light! + When, gazing on the starry night + Within Llanberris Lake, + Thy spirit felt, in a hush like death, + The fading earth's last whisper'd breath + The holy scene forsake. + Oh! lovelier still, when thy noiseless tread + Around thy aged mother's bed + Fell soft as snow on snow, + When thy heart, from love, repress'd its sighs, + And from thy never-closing eyes + Forbade the tears to flow. + But now unto thy looks are given + The beauty and the power of Heaven: + The sternness of this dismal Isle + Is soften'd by thy saintly smile, + And he, who lay like a madman, bound + In fetters of anguish to the ground, + And heard and saw, in fearful strife, + The sounds and the sights of unearthly life, + Now opens his eyes, that glisten mild + Like the gladsome eyes of a waken'd child, + For the hideous trance is fled; + And his soul is fill'd with the glory bright, + That plays like a wreath of halo-light + Around his Mary's head. + + Most awful is the perfect rest + That sits within her eye, + Awful her pallid face imprest + With the seal of victory. + Triumphant o'er the ghastly dreams + That haunt the parting soul, + She looks like a bird of calm, that floats + Unmoved when thunders roll, + And gives to the storm as gentle notes + As e'er through sunshine stole. + Her lover leans on her saviour breast, + And his heart like hers is still: + Ne'er martyr'd saints more meekly bow'd + To their Creator's will. + As calm they sit, as they had steer'd + To some little favourite Isle, + To mark upon the peaceful waves + The parting sunbeams smile; + As if the lightly feather'd oar + In an hour could take them to the shore, + Where friends and parents dwell:-- + But far, alas! from such shore are they, + And of friends, who for their safety pray, + Have ta'en a last farewell. + + But why thus gleams Fitz-Owen's eye? + Why bursts his eager speech? + Lo! as if brought by angel hands + Uninjur'd on the beach, + With oars and sails a vessel lies: + Salvation from the gracious skies! + He fears it is a dream; that woe + Hath surely crazed his brain: + He drives the phantom from his gaze, + But the boat appears again. + It is the same that used to glide + When the wind had fallen low, + Like a child along its parent's side, + Around the guardian prow + Of the mighty Ship whose shadow lay + Unmoved upon the watery way. + In the madness of that dismal hour, + When the shrieking Ship went down, + This little boat to the rocky Isle + Hath drifted all alone. + And there she lies! the oars are laid + As by the hand of pleasure, + Preparing on the quiet tide + To beat a gladsome measure. + The dripping sail is careless tied + Around the painted mast, + And a gaudy flag with purple glows, + Hung up in sportive joy by those + Whose sports and joys are past. + + So lightly doth this little boat + Upon the scarce-touch'd billows float, + So careless doth she seem to be + Thus left by herself on the homeless sea, + That, while the happy lovers gaze + On her, the hope of happier days + Steals unawares, like Heaven's own breath + O'er souls that were prepared for death. + They gaze on her, till she appears + To understand their grateful tears; + To lie there with her idle sail + Till Heaven should send some gracious gale, + Some gentle spirit of the deep, + With motion soft and swift as sleep, + To waft them to some pleasant cave + In the unknown gardens of the wave, + That, hid from every human eye, + Are happy in the smiling sky, + And in their beauty win the love + Of every orb that shines above. + Fitz-Owen from his dream awakes, + And gently in his arms he takes + His gentle Maid, as a shepherd kind + Brings from the killing mountain wind + A snow-white lamb, and lets it rest + In sleep and beauty on his breast. + And now the gentle fearless Maid + Within the boat at rest is laid: + Her limbs recline as if in sleep, + Though almost resting on the deep; + On his dear bosom leans her head, + And through her long hair, wildly spread + O'er all her face, her melting eyes + Are lifted upwards to the skies, + As if she pray'd that Heaven would save + The arms that fold her, from the grave. + + The boat hath left the lonesome rock, + And tries the wave again, + And on she glides without a fear, + So beauteous is the Main. + Her little sail beneath the sun + Gleams radiant as the snow, + And o'er the gently-heaving swell + Bounds like a mountain-roe. + In that frail bark the Lovers sit, + With steadfast face and silent breath, + Following the guiding hope of life, + Yet reconciled to death. + His arm is round her tender side, + That moves beneath the press, + With a mingled beat of solemn awe + And virgin tenderness. + They speak not:--but the inward flow + Of faith and dread, and joy and wo, + Each from the other hears: + Long, long they gaze with meeting eyes, + Then lift them slowly to the skies + Steep'd in imploring tears. + And ever, as the rock recedes, + They feel their spirits rise; + And half forget that the smiling sea + Caused all their miseries. + Yet safe to them is the trackless brine + As some well-known and rural road + Paced in their childhood;--for they love + Each other, and believe in God. + + And well might the refulgent day + These Ocean Pilgrims chear, + And make them feel as if the glades + Of home itself were near. + For a living sentiment of joy, + Such as doth sleep on hill and vale + When the friendly sun comes from his clouds + The vernal bloom to hail,-- + Plays on the Ocean's sparkling breast, + That, half in motion, half at rest, + Like a happy thing doth lie; + Breathing that fresh and fragrant air, + And seeming in that slumber fair + The Brother of the Sky. + Hues brighter than the ruby-stone + With radiance gem his wavy zone, + A million hues, I ween: + Long dazzling lines of snowy white, + Fantastic wreath'd with purple light, + Or bathed in richest green. + The flying fish, on wings of gold, + Skims through the sunny ray, + Then, like the rainbow's dying gleam, + In the clear wave melts away. + And all the beauteous joy seems made + For that dauntless Youth and sainted Maid, + Whom God and Angels love: + Comfort is in the helm, the sail, + The light, the clouds, the sea, the gale, + Around, below, above. + + And thus they sail, and sail along, + Without one thought of fear; + As calm as if the boatman's song + Awoke an echoing chear, + O'er the hills that stretch in sylvan pride + On the Bala Lake's romantic side. + And lo! beneath the mellowing light, + That trembles between day and night + Before the Sun's decline, + As to the touch of fairy-hand + Upstarting dim the nameless land + Extends its mountain line. + It is no cloud that steadfast lies + Between the Ocean and the Skies; + No image of a cloud, that flings + Across the deep its shadowy wings; + Such as oft cheats with visions fair + The heart of home-sick mariner. + It is the living Earth! They see + From the shore a smile of amity + That gently draws them on, + Such a smile as o'er all Nature glows + At a summer evening's fragrant close, + When the winds and rain are gone. + The self-moved boat appears to seek + With gladsome glide a home-like creek, + In the centre of a bay, + Which the calm and quiet hills surround, + And touch'd by waves without a sound, + Almost as calm as they. + + And, what if here fierce savage men + Glare on them from some darksome den?-- + What would become of this most helpless Maid? + Fitz-Owen thinks:--but in her eye + So calmly bright, he can descry + That she is not afraid + Of savage men, or monsters wild, + But is sublimely reconciled + To meet and bear her destiny. + A gentle ripling on the sand-- + One stroke of the dexterous oar-- + The sail is furl'd: the boat is moor'd: + And the Lovers walk the shore. + To them it is an awful thought, + From the wild world of waters brought + By God's protecting hand, + When every Christian soul was lost, + On that unknown, but beauteous coast, + As in a dream to stand. + While their spirits with devotion burn, + Their faces to the sea they turn, + That lately seem'd their grave; + And bless, in murmurs soft and low, + The beautiful, the halcyon glow, + That bathes the evening wave. + Before the setting sun they kneel, + And through the silent air, + To Him who dwells on that throne of light + They pour their souls in prayer. + Their thoughts are floating, like the clouds + That seek the beauteous West, + Their gentleness, their peace the same, + The same their home of rest. + Now Night hath come with the cooling breeze, + And these Lovers still are on their knees. + + + + +THE ISLE OF PALMS. + +CANTO THIRD. + + + Oh! many are the beauteous isles + Unknown to human eye, + That, sleeping 'mid the Ocean-smiles, + In happy silence lie. + The Ship may pass them in the night, + Nor the sailors know what a lovely sight + Is resting on the Main; + Some wandering Ship who hath lost her way, + And never, or by night or day, + Shall pass these isles again. + There, groves that bloom in endless spring + Are rustling to the radiant wing + Of birds, in various plumage bright + As rainbow-hues, or dawning light. + Soft-falling showers of blossoms fair + Float ever on the fragrant air, + Like showers of vernal snow, + And from the fruit-tree, spreading tall, + The richly ripen'd clusters fall + Oft as sea-breezes blow. + The sun and clouds alone possess + The joy of all that loveliness; + And sweetly to each other smile + The live-long day--sun, cloud, and isle. + How silent lies each shelter'd bay! + No other visitors have they + To their shores of silvery sand, + Than the waves that, murmuring in their glee, + All hurrying in a joyful band + Come dancing from the sea. + + How did I love to sigh and weep + For those that sailed upon the deep, + When, yet a wondering child, + I sat alone at dead of night, + Hanging all breathless with delight + O'er their adventures wild! + Trembling I heard of dizzy shrouds, + Where up among the raving clouds + The sailor-boy must go; + Thunder and lightning o'er his head! + And, should he fall--O thought of dread! + Waves mountain-high below. + How leapt my heart with wildering fears, + Gazing on savage islanders + Ranged fierce in long canoe, + Their poison'd spears, their war-attire, + And plumes twined bright, like wreaths of fire, + Round brows of dusky hue! + What tears would fill my wakeful eyes + When some delicious paradise + (As if a cloud had roll'd + On a sudden from the bursting sun) + Freshening the Ocean where it shone, + Flung wide its groves of gold! + No more the pining Mariner + In feverish anguish raves, + For like an angel, kind and fair, + That smiles, and smiling saves, + The glory charms away distress, + Serene in silent loveliness + Amid the dash of waves. + + And wouldst thou think it hard to dwell + Alone within some sylvan cell, + Some fragrant arch of flowers, + Raised like a queen with gracious smile + In the midst of this her subject isle, + This labyrinth of bowers? + Could the fair earth, and fairer skies, + Clouds, breezes, fountains, groves, + To banish from thy heart suffice, + All thought of deeper loves? + Or wouldst thou pine thy life away, + To kiss once more the blessed ray + That shines in human eyes? + What though the clustering roses came + Like restless gleams of magic flame, + As if they loved thy feet, + To win thee like a summer sprite, + With purest touches of delight, + To the Fairy Queen's retreat! + Oh! they would bloom and wither too, + And melt their pearls of radiant dew, + Without one look from thee: + What pleasure could that beauty give, + Which, of all mortal things that live, + None but thyself may see? + And where are the birds that cheer'd thine eyes + With wings and crests of rainbow dyes, + That wont for aye to glide + Like sun-beams through the shady bowers, + Charming away the happy hours + With songs of love or pride? + Soon, soon thou hatest this Paradise; + It seems the soul hath fled + That made it fairer than the skies, + And a joyful beauty shed + O'er the tremor of the circling wave, + That now with restless moans and sighs, + Sounds like the dirge-song of the dead, + Dim breaking round a grave. + + But she thou lovest is at thy side, + The Island Queen becomes thy bride, + And God and Nature sanctify the vow; + Air, Earth, and Ocean smile once more, + And along the forest-fringed shore, + What mirth and music now! + What warm and heavenly tints illume + The land that lately seem'd a tomb + Where thou wert left to die! + So bathed in joy this earth appears + To him, who, blind for lingering years, + At last beholds the sky. + Thy heart was like an untouch'd lyre, + Silent as death--Let the trembling wire + The hand that knows its spirit feel; + And list! What melting murmurs steal + Like incense to the realms above, + Such sounds as parted souls might love. + And now if a home-bound vessel lay + At anchor in yon beauteous bay, + 'Till the land-breeze her canvass wings should swell, + From the sweet Isle thou scarce would'st part, + But, when thou didst, thy lingering heart + Would sadly say, "Farewell!" + + In such a fairy Isle now pray'd + Fitz-Owen and his darling Maid. + The setting sun, with a pensive glow, + Had bathed their foreheads bending low, + Nor ceased their voice, or the breath of their prayer, + Till the moonlight lay on the mellow'd air. + Then from the leaves they calmly rose, + As after a night of calm repose, + And Mary lean'd her face + With a sob of joy on her Lover's breast, + Who with kind tones the Maiden press'd + In a holy pure embrace. + And gently he kiss'd her tearful eyes, + And bade her heart lie still, + For there was a power in the gracious skies, + To shield their saints from ill. + Then, guided by the moon-light pale, + They walk'd into a sylvan vale, + Soft, silent, warm, and deep; + And there beneath her languid head, + The silken wither'd leaves he spread, + That she might sweetly sleep. + Then down he sat by her tender side, + And, as she lay, with soft touch dried + The stealing tears she could not hide; + Till sleep, like a faint shadow, fell + O'er the husht face he loved so well, + And smiling dreams were given + To cheer her heart; then down he laid + His limbs beside the sleeping Maid, + In the face of the starry Heaven. + + Sleep fell upon their wearied souls + With a power as deep as death, + Scarce trembled Mary's floating hair + In her Lover's tranquil breath. + In that still trance did sweet thoughts come + From the brook, and the glade, and the sky, of home, + And the gentle sound of her mother's voice + Bade Mary's slumbering soul rejoice. + For she in dreams to Wales hath flown, + And sits in a cottage of her own, + Beneath its sheltering tree: + Fitz-Owen's eye is fix'd on hers, + While with a bashful smile she stirs + Beside her mother's knee. + But the rising sun hath pour'd his beams + Into her heart, and broke her dreams; + Slowly she lifts her eyes, + And, wondering at the change, looks round, + Upon that wild enchanted ground, + And these delightful skies. + Over her Lover's breast she breathes + A blessing and a prayer, + And gently they stir his sleeping soul, + Like the voice of the morning-air. + Soon as the first surprise is past, + They rise from their leafy bed, + As cheerful as the new-woke birds + That sing above their head. + And trusting in the merciful power + That saved them in that dismal hour + When the ship sank in the sea, + Cheering their souls with many a smile, + They walk through the woods of this nameless Isle + In undisturb'd tranquillity. + + Well might they deem that wizard's wand + Had set them down in Fairy-land, + Or that their souls some beauteous dream obey'd: + They know not where to look or listen, + For pools and streams of crystal glisten + Above, around,--embracing like the air + The soft-reflected trees; while every where + From shady nook, clear hill, and sunny glade, + The ever-varying soul of music play'd; + As if, at some capricious thing's command, + Indulging every momentary mood, + With voice and instrument, a fairy band + Beneath some echoing precipice now stood, + Now on steep mountain's rocky battlement, + Or from the clouds their blended chorus sent, + With jocund din to mock the solitude. + They gaze with never-sated eyes + On lengthening lines of flowery dyes, + That through the woods, and up the mountains run: + Not richer radiance robes the Even, + When she ascends her throne in Heaven, + Beside the setting sun. + Scattering the blossomy gems away, + Like the white shower of the Ocean spray, + Across their path for ever glide or shoot + Birds of such beauty, as might lead + The soul to think that magic power decreed + Spirits to dwell therein; nor are they mute, + But each doth chaunt his own beloved strain, + For ever trembling on a natural tune, + The heart's emotions seeming so to suit, + That the rapt Lovers are desiring soon, + That silence never may return again. + + A chearful welcome these bright creatures sing; + And as the Lovers roam from glade to glade, + That shine with sunlight, and with music ring, + Seems but for them the enchanted island made. + So strong the influence of the fairy scene, + That soon they feel as if for many a year + In love and rapture they had linger'd here, + While with the beauteous things that once have been, + Long, long ago, or only in the mind + By Fancy imaged, lies their native Wales, + Its dim-seen hills, and all its streamy vales: + Sounds in their souls its rushing mountain-wind, + Like music heard in youth, remembered well, + But when or where it rose they cannot tell. + Delightful woods, and many a cloudless sky, + Are in their memory strangely floating by, + But the faint pageant slowly melts away, + And to the living earth they yield + Their willing hearts, as if reveal'd + In all its glory on this mystic day. + Like fire, strange flowers around them flame, + Sweet, harmless fire, breathed from some magic urn, + The silky gossamer that may not burn, + Too wildly beautiful to bear a name. + And when the Ocean sends a breeze, + To wake the music sleeping in the trees, + Trees scarce they seem to be; for many a flower, + Radiant as dew, or ruby polish'd bright, + Glances on every spray, that bending light + Around the stem, in variegated bows, + Appear like some awakened fountain-shower, + That with the colour of the evening glows. + + And towering o'er these beauteous woods, + Gigantic rocks were ever dimly seen, + Breaking with solemn grey the tremulous green, + And frowning far in castellated pride; + While, hastening to the Ocean, hoary floods + Sent up a thin and radiant mist between, + Softening the beauty that it could not hide. + Lo! higher still the stately Palm-trees rise, + Checquering the clouds with their unbending stems, + And o'er the clouds amid the dark-blue skies, + Lifting their rich unfading diadems. + How calm and placidly they rest + Upon the Heaven's indulgent breast, + As if their branches never breeze had known! + Light bathes them aye in glancing showers, + And Silence mid their lofty bowers + Sits on her moveless throne. + Entranced there the Lovers gaze, + Till every human fear decays, + And bliss steals slowly through their quiet souls; + Though ever lost to human kind + And all they love, they are resign'd: + While with a scarce-heard murmur rolls, + Like the waves that break along the shore, + The sound of the world they must see no more. + List! Mary is the first to speak, + Her tender voice still tenderer in her bliss; + And breathing o'er her silent husband's cheek, + As from an infant's lip, a timid kiss, + Whose touch at once all lingering sorrow calms, + Says, "God to us in love hath given + A home on earth, most like to Heaven, + Our own sweet ISLE OF PALMS." + + And where shall these happy lovers dwell? + Shall they seek in the cliffs for some mossy cell? + Some wilder haunt than ever hermit knew? + Where they may shun the mid-day heat, + And slumber in a safe retreat, + When evening sheds her dew; + Or shall they build a leafy nest, + Where they like birds may sport and rest, + By clustering bloom preserved from sun and rain, + Upon some little radiant mound + Within reach of the freshening sound + That murmurs from the Main? + No farther need their footsteps roam: + Ev'n where they stand, a sylvan home + Steals like a thought upon their startled sight; + For Nature's breath with playful power + Hath framed an undecaying bower, + With colours heavenly bright. + Beyond a green and level lawn, + Its porch and roof of roses dawn + Through arching trees that lend a mellowing shade. + How gleams the bower with countless dyes! + Unwearied spring fresh bloom supplies, + Still brightening where they fade. + Two noble Palms, the forest's pride, + Guarding the bower on either side, + Their straight majestic stems to Heaven uprear: + There Beauty sleeps in Grandeur's arms, + And sheltered there from all alarms, + Hath nought on earth to fear. + + The Dwellers in that lovely bower, + If mortal shape may breathe such blessed air, + Might gaze on it from morn till evening-hour, + Nor wish for other sight more touching fair. + Why look abroad? All things are here + Delightful to the eye and ear, + And fragrance pure as light floats all around. + But if they look--those mystic gleams, + The glory we adore in dreams, + May here in truth be found. + Fronting the bower, eternal woods, + Darkening the mountain solitudes, + With awe the soul oppress: + There dwells, with shadowy glories crown'd, + Rejoicing in the gloom profound, + The Spirit of the Wilderness. + Lo! stretching inward on the right, + A winding vale eludes the sight, + But where it dies the happy soul must dream: + Oh! never sure beneath the sun, + Along such lovely banks did run + So musical a stream. + But who shall dare in thought to paint + Yon fairy waterfall? + Still moistened by the misty showers, + From fiery-red, to yellow soft and faint, + Fantastic bands of fearless flowers + Sport o'er the rocky wall; + And ever, through the shrouding spray, + Whose diamonds glance as bright as they, + Float birds of graceful form, and gorgeous plumes, + Or dazzling white as snow; + While, as the passing sun illumes + The river's bed, in silent pride + Spanning the cataract roaring wide, + Unnumbered rainbows glow. + + But turn around, if thou hast power + To leave a scene so fair, + And looking left-wards from the bower, + What glory meets thee there! + For lo! the heaven-encircled Sea + Outspreads his dazzling pageantry, + As if the whole creation were his own, + And the Isle, on which thy feet now stand, + In beauty rose at his command, + And for his joy alone. + Beyond his billows rolling bright, + The Spirit dares not wing her flight; + For where, upon the boundless deep, + Should she, if wearied, sink to sleep? + Back to the beauteous Isle of Palms + Glad she returns; there constant calms + The bays, that sleep like inland lakes, invest: + Delightful all!--but to your eyes, + O blessed Pair! one circlet lies + More fair than all the rest. + At evening, through that silent bay + With beating hearts ye steer'd your way, + Yet trusting in the guiding love of Heaven; + And there, upon your bended knees, + To the unseen Pilot of the Seas + Your speechless prayers were given. + From your bower-porch the skiff behold + That to this Eden bore + Your almost hopeless souls:--how bold + It seems to lie, all danger o'er, + A speck amid the fluid gold + That burns along the shore! + + Five cloudless days have, from the placid deep, + In glory risen o'er this refulgent Isle, + And still the sun retired to rest too soon; + And each night with more gracious smile, + Guarding the lovers when they sleep, + Hath watch'd the holy Moon. + Through many a dim and dazzling glade, + They in their restless joy have stray'd, + In many a grot repos'd, and twilight cave; + Have wander'd round each ocean bay, + And gazed where inland waters lay + Serene as night, and bright as day, + Untouch'd by wind or wave. + Happy their doom, though strange and wild, + And soon their souls are reconciled + For ever here to live, and here to die. + Why should they grieve? a constant mirth + With music fills the air and earth, + And beautifies the sky. + High on the rocks the wild-flowers shine + In beauty bathed, and joy divine: + In their dark nooks to them are given + The sunshine and the dews of Heaven. + The fish that dart like silver gleams + Are happy in their rock-bound streams, + Happy as they that roam the Ocean's breast; + Though far away on sounding wings + Yon bird could fly, content he sings + Around his secret nest. + And shall the Monarchs of this Isle + Lament, when one unclouded smile + Hangs like perpetual spring on every wood? + And often in their listening souls + By a delightful awe subdued, + God's voice, like mellow thunder, rolls + All through the silent solitude. + + Five days have fled!--The sun again, + Like an angel, o'er the brightening Main + Uplifts his radiant head; + And full upon yon dewy bower, + The warm tints of the dawning hour + Mid warmer still are shed. + The sun pours not his light in vain + On them who therein dwell:--a strain + Of pious music, through the morning calm + Wakening unwonted echoes, wildly rings, + And kneeling there to Mercy's fane, + While flowers supply their incense-balm, + At the foot of yon majestic Palm + The Maid her matins sings. + It is the Sabbath morn:--since last + From Heaven it shone, what awful things have past! + In their beloved vessel as it roll'd + In pride and beauty o'er the waves of gold, + Then were they sailing free from all alarms, + Rejoicing in her scarce-felt motion + When the ship flew, or slumbering Ocean + Detain'd her in his arms. + Beneath the sail's expanded shade, + They and the thoughtless crew together pray'd, + And sweet their voices rose above the wave; + Nor seem'd it woeful as a strain + That never was to rise again, + And chaunted o'er the grave. + + Ne'er seem'd before the Isle so bright; + And when their hymns were ended, + Oh! ne'er in such intense delight + Had their rapt souls been blended. + Some natural tears they surely owed + To those who wept for them, and fast they flow'd, + And oft will flow amid their happiest hours; + But not less fair the summer day, + Though glittering through the sunny ray + Are seen descending showers. + But how could Sorrow, Grief, or Pain, + The glory of that morn sustain? + Alone amid the Wilderness + More touching seem'd the holiness + Of that mysterious day of soul-felt rest: + They are the first that e'er adored + On this wild spot their Heavenly Lord, + Or gentle Jesus bless'd. + "O Son of God!"--How sweetly came + Into their souls that blessed name! + Even like health's hope-reviving breath + To one upon the bed of death. + "Our Saviour!"--What angelic grace + Stole with dim smiles o'er Mary's face, + While through the solitude profound + With love and awe she breath'd that holy sound! + Yes! He will save! a still small voice + To Mary's fervent prayer replied; + Beneath his tender care rejoice, + On earth who for his children died. + Her Lover saw that, while she pray'd, + Communion with her God was given + Unto her sinless spirit:--nought he said; + But gazing on her with a fearful love, + Such as saints feel for sister-souls above, + Her cheek upon his bosom gently laid, + And dreamt with her of Heaven. + + Pure were their souls, as infant's breath, + Who in its cradle guiltless sinks in death. + No place for human frailty this, + Despondency or fears, + Too beautiful the wild appears + Almost for human bliss. + Was love like theirs then given in vain? + And must they, trembling, shrink from pure delight? + Or shall that God, who on the main + Hath bound them with a billowy chain, + Approve the holy rite, + That, by their pious souls alone + Perform'd before his silent throne + In innocence and joy, + Here, and in realms beyond the grave, + Unites those whom the cruel wave + Could not for grief destroy? + No fears felt they of guilt or sin, + For sure they heard a voice within + That set their hearts at rest; + They pass'd the day in peaceful prayer, + And when beneath the evening air + They sought again their arbour fair, + A smiling angel met them there, + And bade their couch be blest. + Nor veil'd the Moon her virgin-light, + But, clear and cloudless all the night, + Hung o'er the flowers where love and beauty lay; + And, loth to leave that holy bower, + With lingering pace obey'd the power + Of bright-returning day. + + And say! what wanteth now the Isle of Palms, + To make it happy as those Isles of rest + (When eve the sky becalms + Like a subsiding sea) + That hang resplendent mid the gorgeous west, + All brightly imaged, mountain, grove, and tree, + The setting sun's last lingering pageantry! + Hath Fancy ever dreamt of seraph-Powers + Walking in beauty through these cloud-framed bowers, + Light as the mist that wraps their dazzling feet? + And hath she ever paused to hear, + By moonlight brought unto her ear, + Their hymnings wild and sweet? + Lo! human creatures meet her view + As happy, and as beauteous too, + As those aerial phantoms!--in their mien, + Where'er they move, a graceful calm is seen + All foreign to this utter solitude, + Yet blended with such wild and fairy glide, + As erst in Grecian Isle had beautified + The guardian Deities of Grove and Flood. + Are these fair creatures earth-born and alive, + And mortal like the flowers that round them smile? + Or if into the Ocean sank their Isle + A thousand fathoms deep--would they survive,-- + Like sudden rainbows spread their arching wings, + And while, to chear their airy voyage, sings + With joy the charmed sea, the Heavens give way, + That in the spirits, who had sojourn'd long + On earth, might glide, then re-assume their sway, + And from the gratulating throng + Of kindred spirits, drink the inexpressive song? + + Oh! fairer now these blessed Lovers seem, + Gliding like spirits through o'er-arching trees, + Their beauty mellowing in the checquered light, + Than, years ago, on that resplendent night, + When yielded up to an unearthly dream, + In their sweet ship they sail'd upon the seas. + Aye! years ago!--for in this temperate clime, + Fleet, passing fleet, the noiseless plumes of time + Float through the fragrance of the sunny air; + One little month seems scarcely gone, + Since in a vessel of their own + At eve they landed there. + Their bower is now a stately bower, + For, on its roof, the loftiest flower + To bloom so lowly grieves, + And up like an ambitious thing + That feareth nought, behold it spring + Till it meet the high Palm-leaves! + The porch is opening seen no more, + But folded up with blossoms hoar, + And leaves green as the sea, + And, when the wind hath found them out, + The merry waves that dancing rout + May not surpass in glee. + About their home so little art, + They seem to live in Nature's heart, + A sylvan court to hold + In a palace framed of lustre green, + More rare than to the bright Flower Queen + Was ever built of old. + + Where are they in the hours of day? + --The birds are happy on the spray, + The dolphins on the deep, + Whether they wanton full of life, + Or, wearied with their playful strife, + Amid the sunshine sleep. + And are these things by Nature blest + In sport, in labour, and in rest,-- + And yet the Sovereigns of the Isle opprest + With languor or with pain? + No! with light glide, and chearful song, + Through flowers and fruit they dance along, + And still fresh joys, uncall'd for, throng + Through their romantic reign. + The wild-deer bounds along the rock, + But let him not yon hunter mock, + Though strong, and fierce, and fleet; + For he will trace his mountain-path, + Or else his antler's threatening wrath + In some dark winding meet. + Vaunt not, gay bird! thy gorgeous plume, + Though on yon leafy tree it bloom + Like a flower both rich and fair: + Vain thy loud song and scarlet glow, + To save from his unerring bow; + The arrow finds thee there. + Dark are the caverns of the wave, + Yet those, that sport there, cannot save, + Though hidden from the day, + With silvery sides bedropt with gold, + Struggling they on the beach are roll'd + O'er shells as bright as they. + + Their pastimes these, and labours too, + From day to day unwearied they renew, + In garments floating with a woodland grace: + Oh! lovelier far than fabled sprites, + They glide along through new delights, + Like health and beauty vying in the race. + Yet hours of soberer bliss they know, + Their spirits in more solemn flow + At day-fall oft will run, + When from his throne, with kingly motion, + Into the loving arms of Ocean + Descends the setting Sun. + "Oh! beauteous are thy rocky vales, + Land of my birth, forsaken Wales! + Towering from continent or sea, + Where is the Mountain like to thee?-- + The eagle's darling, and the tempest's pride,-- + Thou! on whose ever-varying side + The shadows and the sun-beams glide + In still or stormy weather. + Oh Snowdon! may I breathe thy name? + And thine too, of gigantic frame, + Cader-Idris? 'neath the solar flame, + Oh! proud ye stand together! + And thou, sweet Lake!"--but from its wave + She turn'd her inward eye, + For near these banks, within her grave, + Her Mother sure must lie: + Weak were her limbs, long, long ago, + And grief, ere this, hath laid them low. + + Yet soon Fitz-Owen's eye and voice + From these sad dreams recal + His weeping wife; and deeply chear'd + She soon forgets them all. + Or, haply, through delighted tears, + Her mother's smiling shade appears, + And, her most duteous child caressing, + Bestows on her a parent's blessing, + And tells that o'er these holy groves + Oft hangs the parent whom she loves. + How beauteous both in hours like these! + Prest in each other's arms, or on their knees, + They think of things for which no words are found; + They need not speak: their looks express + More life-pervading tenderness + Than music's sweetest sound. + He thinks upon the dove-like rest + That broods within her pious breast; + The holy calm, the hush divine, + Where pensive, night-like glories shine; + Even as the mighty Ocean deep, + Yet clear and waveless as the sleep + Of some lone heaven-reflecting lake, + When evening-airs its gleam forsake. + She thinks upon his love for her, + His wild, empassion'd character, + To whom a look, a kiss, a smile, + Rewards for danger and for toil! + His power of spirit unsubdued, + His fearlessness,--his fortitude,-- + The radiance of his gifted soul + Where never mists or darkness roll: + A poet's soul that flows for ever, + Right onwards like a noble river, + Refulgent still, or by its native woods + Shaded, and rolling on through sunless solitudes. + + In love and mercy, sure on him had God + The sacred power that stirs the soul bestow'd; + Nor fell his hymns on Mary's ear in vain; + With brightening smiles the Vision hung + O'er the rapt poet while he sung, + More beauteous from the strain. + The songs he pour'd were sad and wild, + And while they would have sooth'd a child, + Who soon bestows his tears, + A deeper pathos in them lay + That would have moved a hermit gray, + Bow'd down with holy years. + One song he had about a Ship + That perish'd on the Main, + So woeful, that his Mary pray'd, + At one most touching pause he made, + To cease the hearse-like strain: + And yet, in spite of all her pain, + Implored him, soon as he obey'd, + To sing it once again. + With faultering voice then would he sing + Of many a well-known far-off thing, + Towers, castles, lakes, and rills; + Their names he gave not--could not give-- + But happy ye, he thought, who live + Among the Cambrian hills. + Then of their own sweet Isle of Palms, + Full many a lovely lay + He sung;--and of two happy sprites + Who live and revel in delights + For ever, night and day. + And who, even of immortal birth, + Or that for Heaven have left this earth, + Were e'er more blest than they? + + But shall that bliss endure for ever? + And shall these consecrated groves + Behold and cherish their immortal loves? + Or must it come, the hour that is to sever + Those whom the Ocean in his wrath did spare? + Awful that thought, and, like unto despair, + Oft to their hearts it sends an icy chill; + Pain, death they fear not, come they when they will, + But the same fate together let them share; + For how could either hope to die resign'd, + If God should say, "One must remain behind!" + Yet wisely doth the spirit shrink + From thought, when it is death to think; + Or haply, a kind being turns + To brighter hopes the soul that mourns + In killing woe; else many an eye, + Now glad, would weep its destiny. + Even so it fares with them: they wish to live + Long on this island, lonely though it be. + Old age itself to them would pleasure give, + For lo! a sight, which it is heaven to see, + Down yonder hill comes glancing beauteously, + And with a silver voice most wildly sweet, + Flings herself, laughing, down before her parents' feet. + + Are they in truth her parents?--Was her birth + Not drawn from heavenly sire, and from the breast + Of some fair spirit, whose sinless nature glow'd + With purest flames, enamour'd of a God, + And gave this child to light in realms of rest; + Then sent her to adorn these island bowers, + To sport and play with the delighted hours, + Till call'd again to dwell among the blest? + Sweet are such fancies:--but that kindling smile + Dissolves them all!--Her native isle + This sure must be: If she in Heaven were born, + What breath'd into her face + That winning human grace, + Now dim, now dazzling like the break of morn? + For, like the timid light of infant day, + That oft, when dawning, seems to die away, + The gleam of rapture from her visage flies, + Then fades, as if afraid, into her tender eyes. + Open thy lips, thou blessed thing, again! + And let thy parents live upon the sound; + No other music wish they till they die. + For never yet disease, or grief, or pain, + Within thy breast the living lyre hath found, + Whose chords send forth that touching melody. + Sing on! Sing on! It is a lovely air. + Well could thy mother sing it when a maid: + Yet strange it is in this wild Indian glade, + To list a tune that breathes of nothing there, + A tune that by his mountain springs, + Beside his slumbering lambkins fair, + The Cambrian shepherd sings. + + The air on her sweet lips hath died, + And as a harper, when his tune is play'd, + Pathetic though it be, with smiling brow + Haply doth careless fling his harp aside, + Even so regardlessly upstarteth now, + With playful frolic, the light-hearted maid, + As if, with a capricious gladness, + She strove to mock the soul of sadness, + Then mourning through the glade. + Light as a falling leaf that springs + Away before the zephyr's wings, + Amid the verdure seems to lie + Of motion reft, then suddenly + With bird-like fluttering mounts on high, + Up yon steep hill's unbroken side, + Behold the little Fairy glide. + Though free her breath, untired her limb, + For through the air she seems to swim, + Yet oft she stops to look behind + On them below;--till with the wind + She flies again, and on the hill-top far + Shines like the spirit of the evening star. + Nor lingers long: as if a sight + Half-fear, half-wonder, urged her flight, + In rapid motion, winding still + To break the steepness of the hill, + With leaps, and springs, and outstretch'd arms, + More graceful in her vain alarms, + The child outstrips the Ocean gale, + In haste to tell her wondrous tale. + Her parents' joyful hearts admire, + Of peacock's plumes her glancing tire, + All bright with tiny suns, + And the gleamings of the feathery gold, + That play along each wavy fold + Of her mantle as she runs. + + "What ails my child?" her mother cries, + Seeing the wildness in her eyes, + The wonder on her cheek; + But fearfully she beckons still, + Up to her watch-tower on the hill, + Ere one word can she speak. + "My Father! Mother! quickly fly + Up to the green-hill top with me, + And tell me what you there descry; + For a cloud hath fallen from the sky, + And is sailing on the sea." + They wait not to hear that word again: + The steep seems level as the plain, + And up they glide with ease: + They stand one moment on the height + In agony, then bless the sight, + And drop upon their knees. + "A Ship!"--no more can Mary say, + "A blessed Ship!" and faints away.-- + Not so the happy sight subdues + Fitz-Owen's heart;--he calmly views + The gallant vessel toss + Her prow superbly up and down, + As if she wore the Ocean Crown; + And now, exulting in the breeze, + With new-woke English pride he sees + St George's blessed Cross. + + Behold them now, the happy three, + Hang up a signal o'er the sea, + And shout with echoing sound, + While, gladden'd by her parents' bliss, + The child prints many a playful kiss + Upon their hands, or, mad with glee, + Is dancing round and round. + Scarce doth the thoughtless infant know + Why thus their tears like rain should flow, + Yet she must also weep; + Such tears as innocence doth shed + Upon its undisturbed bed, + When dreaming in its sleep. + And oft, and oft, her father presses + Her breast to his, and bathes her tresses, + Her sweet eyes, and fair brow. + "How beautiful upon the wave + The vessel sails, who comes to save! + Fitting it was that first she shone + Before the wondering eyes of one, + So beautiful as thou. + See how before the wind she goes, + Scattering the waves like melting snows! + Her course with glory fills + The sea for many a league!--Descending, + She stoopeth now into the vale, + Now, as more freshly blows the gale, + She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills. + Oh! whither is she tending? + She holds in sight yon shelter'd bay; + As for her crew, how blest are they! + See! how she veers around! + Back whirl the waves with louder sound; + And now her prow points to the land: + For the Ship, at her glad lord's command, + Doth well her helm obey." + + They cast their eyes around the isle: + But what a change is there! + For ever fled that lonely smile + That lay on earth and air, + That made its haunts so still and holy, + Almost for bliss too melancholy, + For life too wildly fair. + Gone--gone is all its loneliness, + And with it much of loveliness. + Into each deep glen's dark recess, + The day-shine pours like rain, + So strong and sudden is the light + Reflected from that wonder bright, + Now tilting o'er the Main. + Soon as the thundering cannon spoke, + The voice of the evening-gun, + The spell of the enchantment broke, + Like dew beneath the sun. + Soon shall they hear th' unwonted cheers + Of these delighted mariners, + And the loud sound of the oar, + As bending back away they pull, + With measured pause, most beautiful, + Approaching to the shore. + For her yards are bare of man and sail, + Nor moves the giant to the gale; + But, on the Ocean's breast, + With storm-proof cables, stretching far, + There lies the stately Ship of War; + And glad is she of rest. + + Ungrateful ye! and will ye sail away, + And leave your bower to flourish and decay, + Without one parting tear? + Where you have slept, and loved, and pray'd, + And with your smiling infant play'd + For many a blessed year! + No! not in vain that bower hath shed + Its blossoms o'er your marriage-bed, + Nor the sweet Moon look'd down in vain, + Forgetful of her heavenly reign, + On them whose pure and holy bliss + Even beautified that wilderness. + To every rock, and glade, and dell, + You now breathe forth a sad farewell. + "Say! wilt thou ever murmur on + With that same voice when we are gone, + Beloved stream!--Ye birds of light! + And in your joy as musical as bright, + Still will you pour that thrilling strain, + Unheard by us who sail the distant main? + We leave our nuptial bower to you: + There still your harmless loves renew, + And there, as they who left it, blest, + The loveliest ever build your nest. + Farewell once more--for now and ever! + Yet, though unhoped-for mercy sever + Our lives from thee, where grief might come at last; + Yet whether chain'd in tropic calms, + Or driven before the blast, + Most surely shall our spirits never + Forget the Isle of Palms." + + "What means the Ship?" Fitz-Owen cries, + And scarce can trust his startled eyes, + "While safely she at anchor swings, + Why doth she thus expand her wings? + She will not surely leave the bay, + Where sweetly smiles the closing day, + As if it tempted her to stay. + O cruel Ship! 'tis even so: + No sooner come than in haste to go. + Angel of bliss! and fiend of wo!"-- + --"Oh! let that God who brought her here, + My husband's wounded spirit chear! + Mayhap the ship for months and years + Hath been among the storms, and fears + Yon lowering cloud, that on the wave + Flings down the shadow of a grave; + For well thou know'st the bold can be + By shadows daunted, when they sail the sea. + Think, in our own lost Ship, when o'er our head + Walk'd the sweet Moon in unobscured light, + How oft the sailors gazed with causeless dread + On her, the glory of the innocent night, + As if in those still hours of heavenly joy, + They saw a spirit smiling to destroy. + Trust that, when morning brings her light, + The sun will shew a glorious sight, + This very Ship in joy returning + With outspread sails and ensigns burning, + To quench in bliss our causeless mourning." + --"O Father! look with kinder eyes + On me,"--the Fairy-infant cries. + "Though oft thy face hath look'd most sad, + At times when I was gay and glad, + These are not like thy other sighs. + But that I saw my Father grieve, + Most happy when yon thing did leave + Our shores, was I:--Mid waves and wind, + Where, Father! could we ever find + So sweet an island as our own? + And so we all would think, I well believe, + Lamenting, when we look'd behind, + That the Isle of Palms was gone." + + Oh blessed child! each artless tone + Of that sweet voice, thus plaintively + Breathing of comfort to thyself unknown, + Who feelest not how beautiful thou art, + Sinks like an anthem's pious melody + Into thy father's agitated heart, + And makes it calm and tranquil as thy own. + A shower of kisses bathes thy smiling face, + And thou, rejoicing once again to hear + The voice of love so pleasant to thine ear, + Thorough the brake, and o'er the lawn, + Bounding along like a sportive fawn, + With laugh and song renew'st thy devious race; + Or round them, like a guardian sprite, + Dancing with more than mortal grace, + Steepest their gazing souls in still delight. + For how could they, thy parents, see + Thy innocent and fearless glee, + And not forget, but one short hour ago, + When the Ship sail'd away, how bitter was their woe? + --Most like a dream it doth appear, + When she, the vanish'd Ship, was here:-- + A glimpse of joy, that, while it shone, + Was surely passing-sweet:--now it is gone, + Not worth one single tear. + + + + +THE ISLE OF PALMS. + +CANTO FOURTH. + + + A summer Night descends in balm + On the orange-bloom, and the stately Palm, + Of that romantic steep, + Where, silent as the silent hour, + 'Mid the soft leaves of their Indian bower, + Three happy spirits sleep. + And we will leave them to themselves, + To the moon and the stars, these happy elves, + To the murmuring wave, and the zephyr's wing, + That dreams of gentlest joyance bring + To bathe their slumbering eyes; + And on the moving clouds of night, + High o'er the main will take our flight, + Where beauteous Albion lies. + Wondrous, and strange, and fair, I ween, + The sounds, the forms, the hues have been + Of these delightful groves; + And mournful as the melting sky, + Or a faint-remember'd melody, + The story of their loves. + Yet though they sleep, those breathings wild, + That told of the Fay-like sylvan child, + And of them who live in lonely bliss, + Like bright flowers of the wilderness, + Happy and beauteous as the sky + That views them with a loving eye, + Another tale I have to sing, + Whose low and plaintive murmuring + May well thy heart beguile, + And when thou weep'st along with me, + Through tears no longer mayst thou see + That fairy Indian Isle. + + Among the Cambrian hills we stand! + By dear compulsion chain'd unto the strand + Of a still Lake, yet sleeping in the mist, + The thin blue mist that beautifies the morning: + Old Snowdon's gloomy brow the sun hath kiss'd, + Till, rising like a giant from his bed, + High o'er the mountainous sea he lifts his head, + The loneliness of Nature's reign adorning + With a calm majesty and pleasing dread. + A spirit is singing from the coves + Yet dim and dark; that spirit loves + To sing unto the Dawn, + When first he sees the shadowy veil, + As if by some slow-stealing gale, + From her fair face withdrawn. + How the Lake brightens while we gaze! + Impatient for the flood of rays + That soon will bathe its breast: + Where rock, and hill, and cloud, and sky, + Even like its peaceful self, will lie + Ere long in perfect rest. + The dawn hath brighten'd into day: + Blessings be on yon crescent-bay + Beloved in former years! + Dolbardan! at this silent hour, + More solemn far thy lonely tower + Unto my soul appears, + Than when, in days of roaming youth, + I saw thee first, and scarce could tell + If thou wert frowning there in truth, + Or only raised by Fancy's spell, + An airy tower 'mid an unearthly dell. + + O! wildest Bridge, by human hand e'er framed! + If so thou mayst be named: + Thou! who for many a year hast stood + Cloth'd with the deep-green moss of age, + As if thy tremulous length were living wood, + Sprung from the bank on either side, + Despising, with a careless pride, + The tumults of the wintry flood, + And hill-born tempest's rage. + Each flower upon thy moss I know, + Or think I know; like things they seem + Fair and unchanged of a returning dream! + While underneath, the peaceful flow + Of the smooth river to my heart + Brings back the thoughts that long ago + I felt, when forced to part + From the deep calm of Nature's reign, + To walk the world's loud scenes again. + And let us with that river glide + Around yon hillock's verdant side; + And lo! a gleam of sweet surprise, + Like sudden sunshine, warms thine eyes. + White as the spring's unmelted snow, + That lives though winter storms be o'er, + A cot beneath the mountain's brow + Smiles through its shading sycamore. + The silence of the morning air + Persuades our hearts to enter there. + In dreams all quiet things we love; + And sure no star that lies above + Cradled in clouds, that also sleep, + Enjoys a calm more husht and deep + Than doth this slumbering cell: + Yea! like a star it looketh down + In pleasure from its mountain-throne, + On its own little dell. + + A lovelier form now meets mine eye, + Than the loveliest cloud that sails the sky; + And human feelings blend + With the pleasure born of the glistening air, + As in our dreams uprises fair + The face of a dear friend. + A vision glides before my brain, + Like her who lives beyond the Main! + Breathing delight, the beauteous flower + That Heaven had raised to grace this bower. + To me this field is holy ground! + Her voice is speaking in the sound + That cheers the streamlet's bed. + Sweet Maiden!--side by side we stand, + While gently moves beneath my hand + Her soft and silky head. + A moment's pause!--and as I look + On the silent cot, and the idle brook, + And the face of the quiet day, + I know from all that many a year + Hath slowly past in sorrow here, + Since Mary went away. + But that wreath of smoke now melting thin, + Tells that some being dwells within; + And the balmy breath that stole + From the rose-tree, and jasmin, clustering wide, + O'er all the dwelling's blooming side, + Tells that whoe'er doth there abide, + Must have a gentle soul. + + Then gently breathe, and softly tread, + As if thy steps were o'er the dead! + Break not the slumber of the air, + Even by the whisper of a prayer, + But in thy spirit let there be + A silent "Benedicite!" + Thine eye falls on the vision bright, + As she sits amid the lonely light + That gleams from her cottage-hearth: + O! fear not to gaze on her with love! + For, though these looks are from above, + She is a form of earth. + In the silence of her long distress, + She sits with pious stateliness; + As if she felt the eye of God + Were on her childless lone abode. + While her lips move with silent vows, + With saintly grace the phantom bows + Over a Book spread open on her knee. + O blessed Book! such thoughts to wake! + It tells of Him who for our sake + Died on the cross,--Our Saviour's History. + How beauteously hath sorrow shed + Its mildness round her aged head! + How beauteously her sorrow lies + In the solemn light of her faded eyes! + And lo! a faint and feeble trace + Of hope yet lingers on her face, + That she may yet embrace again + Her child, returning from the Main; + For the brooding dove shall leave her nest, + Sooner than hope a mother's breast. + + Her long-lost child may still survive! + That thought hath kept her wasted heart alive; + And often, to herself unknown, + Hath mingled with the midnight sigh, + When she breathed, in a voice of agony, + "Now every hope is gone!" + 'Twas this that gave her strength to look + On the mossy banks of the singing brook, + Where Mary oft had play'd; + And duly, at one stated hour, + To go in calmness to the bower + Built in her favourite glade. + 'Twas this that made her, every morn, + As she bless'd it, bathe the ancient thorn + With water from the spring; + And gently tend each flowret's stalk, + For she call'd to mind who loved to walk + Through their fragrant blossoming. + Yea! the voice of hope oft touch'd her ear + From the hymn of the lark that caroll'd clear, + Through the heart of the silent sky. + "Oh, such was my Mary's joyful strain! + And such she may haply sing again + Before her Mother die." + Thus hath she lived for seven long years, + With gleams of comfort through her tears; + Thus hath that beauty to her face been given! + And thus, though silver-grey her hair, + And pale her cheek, yet is she fair + As any Child of Heaven. + + Yet, though she thus in calmness sit, + Full many a dim and ghastly fit + Across her brain hath roll'd: + Oft hath she swoon'd away from pain; + And when her senses came again, + Her heart was icy-cold. + Hard hath it been for her to bear + The dreadful silence of the air + At night, around her bed; + When her waking thoughts through the darkness grew + Hideous as dreams, and for truth she knew + That her dear child was dead. + Things loved before seem alter'd quite, + The sun himself yields no delight, + She hears not the neighbouring waterfall, + Or, if she hear, the tones recal + The thought of her, who once did sing + So sweetly to its murmuring. + No summer-gale, no winter-blast, + By day or night o'er her cottage pass'd, + If her restless soul did wake, + That brought not a Ship before her eyes; + Yea! often dying shrieks and cries + Sail'd o'er Llanberris Lake, + Though, far as the charm'd eye could view, + Upon the quiet earth it lay, + Like the Moon amid the heavenly way, + As bright and silent too. + + Hath she no friend whose heart may share + With her the burthen of despair, + And by her earnest, soothing voice, + Bring back the image of departed joys + So vividly, that reconciled + To the drear silence of her cot, + At times she scarcely miss her child? + Or, the wild raving of the sea forgot, + Hear nought amid the calm profound, + Save Mary's voice, a soft and silver sound? + No! seldom human footsteps come + Unto her childless widow'd home; + No friend like this e'er sits beside her fire: + For still doth selfish happiness + Keep far away from real distress, + Loth to approach, and eager to retire. + The vales are wide, the torrents deep, + Dark are the nights, the mountains steep, + And many a cause, without a name, + Will from our spirits hide the blame, + When, thinking of ourselves, we cease + To think upon another's peace; + Though one short hour to sorrow given, + Would chear the gloom, and win the applause of Heaven. + Yet, when by chance they meet her on the hill, + Or lonely wandering by the sullen rill, + By its wild voice to dim seclusion led, + The shepherds linger on their way, + And unto God in silence pray, + To bless her hoary head. + In church-yard on the sabbath-day + They all make room for her, even they + Whose tears are falling down in showers + Upon the fading funeral flowers, + Which they have planted o'er their children's clay. + And though her faded cheeks be dry, + Her breast unmoved by groan or sigh, + More piteous is one single smile + Of hers, than many a tear; + For she is wishing all the while + That her head were lying here; + Since her dear daughter is no more, + Drown'd in the sea, or buried on the shore. + + A sudden thought her brain hath cross'd; + And in that thought all woes are lost, + Though sad and wild it be: + Why must she still, from year to year, + In lonely anguish linger here? + Let her go, ere she die, unto the coast, + And dwell beside the sea; + The sea that tore her child away, + When glad would she have been to stay. + An awful comfort to her soul + To hear the sleepless Ocean roll! + To dream, that on his boundless breast, + Somewhere her long-wept child might rest; + On some far island wreck'd, yet blest + Even as the sunny wave. + Or, if indeed her child is drown'd, + For ever let her drink the sound + That day and night still murmurs round + Her Mary's distant grave. + --She will not stay another hour; + Her feeble limbs with youthful power + Now feel endow'd; she hath ta'en farewell + Of her native stream, and hill and dell; + And with a solemn tone + Upon the bower implores a blessing, + Where often she had sate caressing + Her who, she deems, is now a saint in Heaven. + Upon her hearth the fire is dead, + The smoke in air hath vanished; + The last long lingering look is given, + The shuddering start,--the inward groan,-- + And the Pilgrim on her way hath gone. + + Behold her on the lone sea-shore, + Listening unto the hollow roar + That with eternal thunder, far and wide, + Clothes the black-heaving Main! she stands + Upon the cold and moisten'd sands, + Nor in that deep trance sees the quickly-flowing tide. + She feels it is a dreadful noise, + That in her bowed soul destroys + A Mother's hope, though blended with her life; + But surely she hath lost her child, + For how could one so weak and mild + Endure the Ocean's strife, + Who, at this moment of dismay, + Howls like a monster o'er his prey! + But the tide is rippling at her feet, + And the murmuring sound, so wildly sweet, + Dispels these torturing dreams: + Oh! once again the sea behold, + O'er all its wavy fields of gold, + The playful sun-light gleams. + These little harmless waves so fair, + Speak not of sorrow or despair; + How soft the zephyr's breath! + It sings like joy's own chosen sound; + While life and pleasure dance around, + Why must thou muse on death? + Here even the timid child might come, + To dip her small feet in the foam; + And, laughing as she view'd + The billows racing to the shore, + Lament when their short course was o'er, + Pursuing and pursued. + How calmly floats the white sea-mew + Amid the billows' verdant hue! + How calmly mounts into the air, + As if the breezes blew her there! + How calmly on the sand alighting, + To dress her silken plumes delighting! + See! how these tiny vessels glide + With all sails set, in mimic pride, + As they were ships of war. + All leave the idle port to-day, + And with oar and sheet the sunny bay + Is glancing bright and far. + + She sees the joy, but feels it not: + If e'er her child should be forgot + For one short moment of oblivious sleep, + It seems a wrong to one so kind, + Whose mother, left on earth behind, + Hath nought to do but weep. + For, wandering in her solitude, + Tears seem to her the natural food + Of widow'd childless age; + And bitter though these tears must be, + Which falling there is none to see, + Her anguish they assuage. + A calm succeeds the storm of grief, + A settled calm, that brings relief, + And half partakes of pleasure, soft and mild; + For the spirit, that is sore distrest, + At length, when wearied into rest, + Will slumber like a child. + And then, in spite of all her woe, + The bliss, that charm'd her long ago, + Bursts on her like the day. + Her child, she feels, is living still, + By God and angels kept from ill + On some isle far away. + It is not doom'd that she must mourn + For ever;--One may yet return + Who soon will dry her tears: + And now that seven long years are flown, + Though spent in anguish and alone, + How short the time appears! + She looks upon the billowy Main, + And the parting-day returns again; + Each breaking wave she knows; + And when she listens to the tide, + Her child seems standing by her side; + So like the past it flows. + She starts to hear the city-bell; + So toll'd it when they wept farewell! + She thinks the self-same smoke and cloud + The city domes and turrets shroud; + The same keen flash of ruddy fire + Is burning on the lofty spire; + The grove of masts is standing there + Unchanged, with all their ensigns fair; + The same, the stir, the tumult, and the hum, + As from the city to the shore they come. + + Day after day, along the beach she roams, + And evening finds her there, when to their homes + All living things have gone. + No terrors hath the surge or storm + For her;--on glides the aged form, + Still restless and alone. + Familiar unto every eye + She long hath been: her low deep sigh + Hath touch'd with pity many a thoughtless breast: + And prayers, unheard by her, are given, + That in its mercy watchful Heaven + Would send the aged rest. + As on the smooth and harden'd sand, + In many a gay and rosy band, + Gathering rare shells, delighted children stray, + With pitying gaze they pass along, + And hush at once the shout and song, + When they chance to cross her way. + The strangers, as they idly pace + Along the beach, if her they meet, + No more regard the sea: her face + Attracts them by its solemn grace, + So mournful, yet so sweet. + The boisterous sailor passes by + With softer step, and o'er his eye + A haze will pass most like unto a tear; + For he hath heard, that, broken-hearted, + Long, long ago, that mother parted + With her lost daughter here. + Such kindness soothes her soul, I ween, + As through the harbour's busy scene, + She passes weak and slow. + A comfort sad it brings to see + That others pity her, though free + Themselves from care or woe. + + The playful voice of streams and rills, + The echo of the cavern'd hills, + The murmur of the trees, + The bleat of sheep, the song of bird, + Within her soul no more are heard; + There, sound for aye the seas. + Seldom she hears the ceaseless din + That stirs the busy port. Within + A murmur dwells, that drowns all other sound: + And oft, when dreaming of her child, + Her tearful eyes are wandering wild, + Yet nought behold around. + But hear and see she must this day; + Her sickening spirit must obey + The flashing and the roar + That burst from fort, and ship, and tower, + While clouds of gloomy splendour lower + O'er city, sea, and shore. + The pier-head, with a restless crowd, + Seems all alive; there, voices loud + Oft raise the thundrous cheer, + While, from on board the ships of war, + The music bands both near and far, + Are playing, faint or clear. + The bells ring quick a joyous peal, + Till the very spires appear to feel + The joy that stirs throughout their tapering height: + Ten thousand flags and pendants fly + Abroad, like meteors in the sky, + So beautiful and bright. + And, while the storm of pleasure raves + Through each tumultuous street, + Still strikes the ear one darling tune, + Sung hoarse, or warbled sweet; + Well doth it suit the First of June, + "Britannia rule the Waves!" + + What Ship is she that rises slow + Above the horizon?--White as snow, + And cover'd as she sails + By the bright sunshine, fondly woo'd + In her calm beauty, and pursued + By all the Ocean gales? + Well doth she know this glorious morn, + And by her subject waves is borne, + As in triumphal pride: + And now the gazing crowd descry, + Distinctly floating on the sky, + Her pendants long and wide. + The outward forts she now hath pass'd; + Loftier and loftier towers her mast; + You almost hear the sound + Of the billows rushing past her sides, + As giant-like she calmly glides + Through the dwindled ships around. + Saluting thunders rend the Main! + Short silence!--and they roar again, + And veil her in a cloud: + Then up leap all her fearless crew, + And cheer till shore, and city too, + With echoes answer loud. + In peace and friendship doth she come, + Rejoicing to approach her home, + After absence long and far: + Yet with like calmness would she go, + Exulting to behold the foe, + And break the line of war. + + While all the noble Ship admire, + Why doth One from the crowd retire, + Nor bless the stranger bright? + So look'd the Ship that bore away + Her weeping child! She dares not stay, + Death-sickening at the sight. + Like a ghost, she wanders up and down + Throughout the still deserted town, + Wondering, if in that noisy throng, + Amid the shout, the dance, the song, + One wretched heart there may not be, + That hates its own mad revelry! + One mother, who hath lost her child, + Yet in her grief is reconciled + To such unmeaning sounds as these! + Yet this may be the mere disease + Of grief with her: for why destroy + The few short hours of human joy, + Though Reason own them not?--"Shout on," she cries, + "Ye thoughtless, happy souls! A mother's sighs + Must not your bliss profane. + Yet blind must be that mother's heart + Who loves thee, beauteous as thou art, + Thou Glory of the Main!" + + Towards the church-yard see the Matron turn! + There surely she in solitude may mourn, + Tormented not by such distracting noise. + But there seems no peace for her this day, + For a crowd advances on her way, + As if no spot were sacred from their joys. + --Fly not that crowd! for Heaven is there! + It breathes around thee in the air, + Even now, when unto dim despair + Thy heart was sinking fast: + A cruel lot hath long been thine; + But now let thy face with rapture shine, + For bliss awaiteth thee divine, + And all thy woes are past. + Dark words she hears among the crowd, + Of a ship that hath on board + Three Christian souls, who on the coast + Of some wild land were wreck'd long years ago, + When all but they were in a tempest lost, + And now by Heaven are rescued from their woe, + And to their country wondrously restored. + The name, the blessed name, she hears, + Of that beloved Youth, + Whom once she called her son; but fears + To listen more, for it appears + Too heavenly for the truth. + And they are speaking of a child, + Who looks more beautifully wild + Than pictured fairy in Arabian tale; + Wondrous her foreign garb, they say, + Adorn'd with starry plumage gay, + While round her head tall feathers play, + And dance with every gale. + + Breathless upon the beach she stands, + And lifts to Heaven her clasped hands, + And scarcely dares to turn her eye + On yon gay barge fast-rushing by. + The dashing oar disturbs her brain + With hope, that sickens into pain. + The boat appears so wondrous fair, + Her daughter must be sitting there! + And as her gilded prow is dancing + Through the land-swell, and gaily glancing + Beneath the sunny gleams, + Her heart must own, so sweet a sight, + So form'd to yield a strange delight, + She ne'er felt even in dreams. + Silent the music of the oar! + The eager sailors leap on shore, + And look, and gaze around, + If 'mid the crowd they may descry + A wife's, a child's, a kinsman's eye, + Or hear one family sound. + --No sailor, he, so fondly pressing + Yon fair child in his arms, + Her eyes, her brow, her bosom kissing, + And bidding her with many a blessing + To hush her vain alarms. + How fair that creature by his side, + Who smiles with languid glee, + Slow-kindling from a mother's pride! + Oh! Thou alone may'st be + The mother of that fairy-child: + These tresses dark, these eyes so wild, + That face with spirit beautified, + She owes them all to thee. + + Silent and still the sailors stand, + To see the meeting strange that now befel. + Unwilling sighs their manly bosoms swell, + And o'er their eyes they draw the sun-burnt hand, + To hide the tears that grace their cheeks so well. + They lift the aged Matron from her swoon, + And not one idle foot is stirring there; + For unto pity melts the sailor soon, + And chief when helpless woman needs his care. + She wakes at last, and with a placid smile, + Such as a saint might on her death-bed give, + Speechless she gazes on her child awhile, + Content to die since that dear one doth live. + And much they fear that she indeed will die! + So cold and pale her cheek, so dim her eye;-- + And when her voice returns, so like the breath + It sounds, the low and tremulous tones of death. + Mark her distracted daughter seize + Her clay-cold hands, and on her knees + Implore that God would spare her hoary head; + For sure, through these last lingering years, + By one so good, enough of tears + Hath long ere now been shed. + The Fairy-child is weeping too; + For though her happy heart can slightly know + What she hath never felt, the pang of woe, + Yet to the holy power of Nature true, + From her big heart the tears of pity flow, + As infant morning sheds the purest dew. + Nought doth Fitz-Owen speak: he takes + His reverend mother on his filial breast, + Nor fears that, when her worn-out soul finds rest + In the new sleep of undisturbed love, + The gracious God who sees them from above, + Will save the parent for her children's sakes. + + Nor vain his pious hope: the strife + Of rapture ends, and she returns to life, + With added beauty smiling in the lines + By age and sorrow left upon her face. + Her eye, even now bedimm'd with anguish, shines + With brightening glory, and a holy sense + In her husht soul of heavenly providence, + Breathes o'er her bending frame a loftier grace. + --Her Mary tells in simple phrase, + Of wildest perils past in former days, + Of shipwreck scarce remember'd by herself: + Then will she speak of that delightful isle + Where long they lived in love, and to the elf + Now fondly clinging to her grandam's knee, + In all the love of quick-won infancy, + Point with the triumph of a mother's smile. + The sweet child then will tell her tale + Of her own blossom'd bower, and palmy vale, + And birds with golden plumes, that sweetly sing + Tunes of their own, or borrow'd from her voice; + And, as she speaks, lo! flits with gorgeous wing + Upon her outstretch'd arm, a fearless bird, + Her eye obeying, ere the call was heard, + And wildly warbles there the music of its joys. + + Unto the blessed matron's eye + How changed seem now town, sea, and sky! + She feels as if to youth restored, + Such fresh and beauteous joy is pour'd + O'er the green dancing waves, and shelly sand. + The crowded masts within the harbour stand, + Emblems of rest: and yon ships far away, + Brightening the entrance of the Crescent-bay, + Seem things the tempest never can destroy, + To longing spirits harbingers of joy. + How sweet the music o'er the waves is borne, + In celebration of this glorious morn! + Ring on, ye bells! most pleasant is your chime; + And the quick flash that bursts along the shore, + The volumed smoke, and city-shaking roar, + Her happy soul now feels to be sublime. + How fair upon the human face appears + A kindling smile! how idle all our tears! + Short-sighted still the moisten'd eyes of sorrow: + To-day our woes can never end, + Think we!--returns a long-lost friend, + And we are blest to-morrow. + Her anguish, and her wish to die, + Now seem like worst impiety, + For many a year she hopeth now to live; + And God, who sees the inmost breast, + The vain repining of the sore-distrest, + In mercy will forgive. + + How oft, how long, and solemnly, + Fitz-Owen and his Mary gaze + On her pale cheek, and sunken eye! + Much alter'd since those happy days, + When scarcely could themselves behold + One symptom faint that she was waxing old. + That evening of her life how bright! + But now seems falling fast the night. + Yet the Welch air will breathe like balm + Through all her wasted heart, the heavenly calm + That mid her native mountains sleeps for ever, + In the deep vales,--even when the storms are roaring, + High up among the cliffs: and that sweet river + That round the white walls of her cottage flows, + With gliding motion most like to repose, + A quicker current to her blood restoring, + Will cheer her long before her eye-lids close. + And yonder cheek of rosy light, + Dark-clustering hair, and star-like eyes, + And Fairy-form, that wing'd with rapture flies, + And voice more wild than songstress of the night + E'er pour'd unto the listening skies; + Yon spirit, who, with her angel smile, + Shed Heaven around the lonely isle, + With Nature, and with Nature's art, + Will twine herself about the heart + Of her who hoped not for a grand-child's kiss! + These looks will scare disease and pain, + Till in her wasted heart again + Life grow with new-born bliss. + + Far is the city left behind, + And faintly-smiling through the soft-blue skies, + Like castled clouds the Cambrian hills arise: + Sweet the first welcome of the mountain-wind! + And ever nearer as they come, + Beneath the hastening shades of silent Even, + Some old familiar object meets their sight, + Thrilling their hearts with sorrowful delight, + Until through tears they hail their blessed home, + Bathed in the mist, confusing earth with heaven. + With solemn gaze the aged matron sees + The green roof laughing beneath greener trees; + And thinks how happy she will live and die + Within that cot at last, beneath the eye + Of them long wept as perish'd in the seas. + And what feel they? with dizzy brain they look + On cot, field, mountain, garden, tree, and brook, + With none contented, although loving all; + While deep-delighted memory, + By faint degrees, and silently, + Doth all their names recall. + And looking in her mother's face, + With smiles of most bewitching grace, + In a wild voice that wondering pleasure calms, + Exclaims the child, "Is this home ours? + Ah me! how like these lovely flowers + To those I train'd upon the bowers + Of our own Isle of Palms!" + + Husht now these island-bowers as death! + And ne'er may human foot or breath, + Their dew disturb again: but not more still + Stand they, o'er-shadowed by their palmy hill, + Than this deserted cottage! O'er the green, + Once smooth before the porch, rank weeds are seen, + Choking the feebler flowers: with blossoms hoar, + And verdant leaves, the unpruned eglantine + In wanton beauty foldeth up the door. + And through the clustering roses that entwine + The lattice-window, neat and trim before, + The setting sun's slant beams no longer shine. + The hive stands on the ivied tree, + But murmurs not one single bee; + Frail looks the osier-seat, and grey, + None hath sat there for many a day; + And the dial, hid in weeds and flowers, + Hath told, by none beheld, the solitary hours. + No birds that love the haunts of men, + Hop here, or through the garden sing; + From the thick-matted hedge, the lonely wren + Flits rapid by on timid wing, + Even like a leaf by wandering zephyr moved. + But long it is since that sweet bird, + That twitters 'neath the cottage eaves, + Was here by listening morning heard: + For she, the summer-songstress, leaves + The roof by laughter never stirr'd, + Still loving human life, and by it still beloved. + + O! wildest cottage of the wild! + I see thee waking from thy breathless sleep! + Scarcely distinguish'd from the rocky steep, + High o'er thy roof in forms fantastic piled. + More beauteous art thou than of yore, + With joy all glistering after sorrow's gloom; + And they who in that paradise abide, + By sadness and misfortune beautified, + There brighter walk than o'er yon island-shore, + As loveliness wakes lovelier from the tomb. + Long mayst thou stand in sun and dew, + And spring thy faded flowers renew, + Unharm'd by frost or blight! + Without, the wonder of each eye, + Within, as happy as the sky, + Encompass'd with delight. + --May thy old-age be calm and bright, + Thou grey-hair'd one!--like some sweet night + Of winter, cold, but clear, and shining far + Through mists, with many a melancholy star. + --O fairy child! what can I wish for thee? + Like a perennial flow'ret mayst thou be, + That spends its life in beauty and in bliss! + Soft on thee fall the breath of time, + And still retain in heavenly clime + The bloom that charm'd in this! + + O, happy Parents of so sweet a child, + Your share of grief already have you known; + But long as that fair spirit is your own, + To either lot you must be reconciled. + Dear was she in yon palmy grove, + When fear and sorrow mingled with your love, + And oft you wished that she had ne'er been born; + While, in the most delightful air + Th' angelic infant sang, at times her voice, + That seem'd to make even lifeless things rejoice, + Woke, on a sudden, dreams of dim despair, + As if it breathed, "For me, an Orphan, mourn!" + Now can they listen when she sings + With mournful voice of mournful things, + Almost too sad to hear; + And when she chaunts her evening-hymn, + Glad smile their eyes, even as they swim + With many a gushing tear. + Each day she seems to them more bright + And beautiful,--a gleam of light + That plays and dances o'er the shadowy earth! + It fadeth not in gloom or storm,-- + For Nature charter'd that aerial form + In yonder fair Isle when she bless'd her birth! + The Isle of Palms! whose forests tower again, + Darkening with solemn shade the face of heaven. + Now far away they like the clouds are driven, + And as the passing night-wind dies my strain! + +END OF THE ISLE OF PALMS. + + + + +THE ANGLER'S TENT. + + _The moving accident is not my trade, + To curl the blood I have no ready arts; + 'Tis my delight alone in summer-shade, + To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts._ + + WORDSWORTH. + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + +The following Poem is the narrative of one day, the pleasantest of many +pleasant ones, of a little Angling-excursion made three summers ago among +the mountains of Westmoreland, Lancashire, and Cumberland. A tent, large +panniers filled with its furniture, with provisions, &c. were loaded upon +horses, and while the anglers, who separated every morning, pursued each +his own sport up the torrents, were carried over the mountains to the +appointed place by some lake or stream, where they were to meet again in +the evening. + +In this manner they visited all the wildest and most secluded scenes of the +country. On the first Sunday they passed among the hills, their tent was +pitched on the banks of Wast-Water, at the head of that wild and solitary +lake, which they had reached by the mountain-path that passes Barn-Moor +Tarn from Eskdale. Towards evening the inhabitants of the valley, not +exceeding half a dozen families, with some too from the neighbouring glens, +drawn by the unusual appearance, came to visit the strangers in their tent. +Without, the evening was calm and beautiful; within, were the gaiety and +kindness of simple mirth. At a late hour, their guests departed under a +most refulgent moon that lighted them up the surrounding mountains, on +which they turned to hail with long-continued shouts and songs the blazing +of a huge fire, that was hastily kindled at the door of the tent to bid +them a distant farewell. + +The images and feelings of these few happy days, and above all, of that +delightful evening, the author wished to preserve in poetry. What he has +written, while it serves to himself and his friends as a record of past +happiness, may, he hopes, without impropriety be offered to the public, +since, if at all faithful to its subject, it will have some interest to +those who delight in the wilder scenes of Nature, and who have studied with +respect and love the character of their simple inhabitants. + + + + +THE ANGLER'S TENT. + + + The hush of bliss was on the sunny hills, + The clouds were sleeping on the silent sky, + We travelled in the midst of melody + Warbled around us from the mountain-rills. + The voice was like the glad voice of a friend + Murmuring a welcome to his happy home; + We felt its kindness with our spirits blend, + And said, "This day no farther will we roam!" + The coldest heart that ever looked on heaven, + Had surely felt the beauty of that day, + And, as he paused, a gentle blessing given + To the sweet scene that tempted him to stay. + But we, who travelled through that region bright, + Were joyful pilgrims under Nature's care, + From youth had loved the dreams of pure delight, + Descending on us through the lonely air, + When Heaven is clothed with smiles, and Earth as Heaven is fair! + + Seven lovely days had like a happy dream + Died in our spirits silently away, + Since Grassmere, waking to the morning ray, + Met our last lingering look with farewell gleam. + I may not tell what joy our beings filled, + Wand'ring like shadows over plain and steep, + What beauteous visions lonely souls can build + When 'mid the mountain solitude they sleep. + I may not tell how the deep power of sound + Can back to life long-faded dreams recall, + When lying mid the noise that lives around + Through the hush'd spirit flows a waterfall. + To thee, my WORDSWORTH![1] whose inspired song + Comes forth in pomp from Nature's inner shrine, + To thee by birth-right such high themes belong, + The unseen grandeur of the earth is thine! + One lowlier simple strain of human love be mine. + + How leapt our hearts, when from an airy height, + On which we paused for a sweet fountain's sake, + With green fields fading in a peaceful lake, + A deep-sunk vale burst sudden on our sight! + We felt as if at home; a magic sound, + As from a spirit whom we must obey, + Bade us descend into the vale profound, + And in its silence pass the Sabbath-day. + The placid lake that rested far below, + Softly embosoming another sky, + Still as we gazed assumed a lovelier glow, + And seem'd to send us looks of amity. + Our hearts were open to the gracious love + Of Nature, smiling like a happy bride; + So following the still impulse from above, + Down the green slope we wind with airy glide, + And pitch our snowy tent on that fair water's side. + + Ah me! even now I see before me stand, + Among the verdant holly-boughs half hid, + The little radiant airy pyramid, + Like some wild dwelling built in Fairy land. + As silently as gathering cloud it rose, + And seems a cloud descended on the earth, + Disturbing not the Sabbath-day's repose, + Yet gently stirring at the quiet birth + Of every short-lived breeze: the sun-beams greet + The beauteous stranger in the lonely bay; + Close to its shading tree two streamlets meet, + With gentle glide, as weary of their play. + And in the liquid lustre of the lake + Its image sleeps, reflected far below; + Such image as the clouds of summer make, + Clear seen amid the waveless water's glow, + As slumbering infant still, and pure as April snow. + + Wild though the dwelling seem, thus rising fair, + A sudden stranger 'mid the sylvan scene, + One spot of radiance on surrounding green, + Human it is--and human souls are there! + Look through that opening in the canvass wall, + Through which by fits the scarce-felt breezes play, + --Upon three happy souls thine eyes will fall, + The summer lambs are not more blest than they! + On the green turf all motionless they lie, + In dreams romantic as the dreams of sleep, + The filmy air slow-glimmering on their eye, + And in their ear the murmur of the deep. + Or haply now by some wild winding brook, + Deep, silent pool, or waters rushing loud, + In thought they visit many a fairy nook + That rising mists in rainbow colours shroud, + And ply the Angler's sport involved in mountain-cloud! + + Yes! dear to us that solitary trade, + 'Mid vernal peace in peacefulness pursued, + Through rocky glen, wild moor, and hanging wood, + White-flowering meadow, and romantic glade! + The sweetest visions of our boyish years + Come to our spirits with a murmuring tone + Of running waters,--and one stream appears, + Remember'd all, tree, willow, bank, and stone! + How glad were we, when after sunny showers + Its voice came to us issuing from the school! + How fled the vacant, solitary hours, + By dancing rivulet, or silent pool! + And still our souls retain in manhood's prime + The love of joys our childish years that blest; + So now encircled by these hills sublime, + We Anglers, wandering with a tranquil breast, + Build in this happy vale a fairy bower of rest! + + Within that bower are strewn in careless guise, + Idle one day, the angler's simple gear; + Lines that, as fine as floating gossamer, + Dropt softly on the stream the silken flies; + The limber rod that shook its trembling length, + Almost as airy as the line it threw, + Yet often bending in an arch of strength + When the tired salmon rose at last to view, + Now lightly leans across the rushy bed, + On which at night we dream of sports by day; + And, empty now, beside it close is laid + The goodly pannier framed of osiers gray; + And, maple bowl in which we wont to bring + The limpid water from the morning wave, + Or from some mossy and sequester'd spring + To which dark rocks a grateful coolness gave, + Such as might Hermit use in solitary cave! + + And ne'er did Hermit, with a purer breast, + Amid the depths of sylvan silence pray, + Than prayed we friends on that mild quiet day, + By God and man beloved, the day of rest! + All passions in our souls were lull'd to sleep, + Ev'n by the power of Nature's holy bliss; + While Innocence her watch in peace did keep + Over the spirit's thoughtful happiness! + We view'd the green earth with a loving look, + Like us rejoicing in the gracious sky; + A voice came to us from the running brook + That seem'd to breathe a grateful melody. + Then all things seem'd embued with life and sense, + And as from dreams with kindling smiles to wake, + Happy in beauty and in innocence; + While, pleased our inward quiet to partake, + Lay hush'd, as in a trance, the scarcely-breathing lake. + + Yet think not, in this wild and fairy spot, + This mingled happiness of earth and heaven, + Which to our hearts this Sabbath-day was given, + Think not, that far-off friends were quite forgot. + Helm-crag arose before our half-closed eyes + With colours brighter than the brightening dove; + Beneath that guardian mount a [2]cottage lies + Encircled by the halo breathed from Love! + And sweet that dwelling[3] rests upon the brow + (Beneath its sycamore) of Orest-hill, + As if it smiled on Windermere below, + Her green recesses and her islands still! + Thus, gently-blended many a human thought + With those that peace and solitude supplied, + Till in our hearts the moving kindness wrought + With gradual influence, like a flowing tide, + And for the lovely sound of human voice we sigh'd. + + And hark! a laugh, with voices blended, stole + Across the water, echoing from the shore! + And during pauses short, the beating oar + Brings the glad music closer to the soul. + We leave our tent; and lo! a lovely sight + Glides like a living creature through the air, + For air the water seems thus passing bright, + A living creature beautiful and fair! + Nearer it glides; and now the radiant glow + That on its radiant shadow seems to float, + Turns to a virgin band, a glorious shew, + Rowing with happy smiles a little boat. + Towards the tent their lingering course they steer, + And cheerful now upon the shore they stand, + In maiden bashfulness, yet free from fear, + And by our side, gay-moving hand in hand, + Into our tent they go, a beauteous sister-band! + + Scarce from our hearts had gone the sweet surprise, + Which this glad troop of rural maids awoke; + Scarce had a more familiar kindness broke + From the mild lustre of their smiling eyes, + Ere the tent seem'd encircled by the sound + Of many voices; in an instant stood + Men, women, children, all the circle round, + And with a friendly joy the strangers view'd, + Strange was it to behold this gladsome crowd + Our late so solitary dwelling fill; + And strange to hear their greetings mingling loud + Where all before was undisturb'd and still. + Yet was the stir delightful to our ear, + And moved to happiness our inmost blood, + The sudden change, the unexpected cheer, + Breaking like sunshine on a pensive mood, + This breath and voice of life in seeming solitude! + + Hard task it was, in our small tent to find + Seats for our quickly-gather'd company; + But in them all was such a mirthful glee, + I ween they soon were seated to their mind! + Some viewing with a hesitating look + The panniers that contained our travelling fare, + On them at last their humble station took, + Pleased at the thought, and with a smiling air. + Some on our low-framed beds then chose their seat, + Each maid the youth that loved her best beside, + While many a gentle look, and whisper sweet, + Brought to the stripling's face a gladsome pride. + The playful children on the velvet green, + Soon as the first-felt bashfulness was fled, + Smiled to each other at the wondrous scene, + And whisper'd words they to each other said, + And raised in sportive fit the shining, golden head! + + Then did we learn that this our stranger tent, + Seen by the lake-side gleaming like a sail, + Had quickly spread o'er mountain and o'er vale + A gentle shock of pleased astonishment. + The lonely dwellers by the lofty rills, + Gazed in surprise upon th' unwonted sight, + The wandering shepherds saw it from the hills, + And quick descended from their airy height. + Soon as the voice of simple song and prayer + Ceased in the little chapel of the dell, + The congregation did in peace repair + To the lake-side, to view our wondrous cell. + While leaving, for one noon, both young and old, + Their cluster'd hamlets in this deep recess, + All join the throng, in conscious good-will bold, + Elate and smiling in their Sabbath-dress, + A mingled various groupe of homely happiness! + + And thus our tent a joyous scene became, + Where loving hearts from distant vales did meet + As at some rural festival, and greet + Each other with glad voice and kindly name. + Here a pleased daughter to her father smiled, + With fresh affection in her soften'd eyes; + He in return look'd back upon his child + With gentle start and tone of mild surprise: + And on his little grand-child, at her breast, + An old man's blessing and a kiss bestow'd, + Or to his cheek the lisping baby prest, + Light'ning the mother of her darling load; + While comely matrons, all sedately ranged + Close to their husbands' or their children's side, + A neighbour's friendly greeting interchanged, + And each her own with frequent glances eyed, + And raised her head in all a mother's harmless pride. + Happy were we among such happy hearts! + And to inspire with kindliness and love + Our simple guests, ambitiously we strove, + With novel converse and endearing arts! + We talk'd to them, and much they loved to hear, + Of those sweet vales from which we late had come; + For though these vales are to each other near, + Seldom do dalesmen leave their own dear home: + Then would we speak of many a wondrous sight + Seen in great cities,--temple, tower, and spire, + And winding streets at night-fall blazing bright + With many a star-like lamp of glimmering fire. + The gray-hair'd men with deep attention heard, + Viewing the speaker with a solemn face, + While round our feet the playful children stirr'd, + And near their parents took their silent place, + Listening with looks where wonder breathed a glowing grace. + + And much they gazed with never-tired delight + On varnish'd rod, with joints that shone like gold, + And silken line on glittering reel enroll'd, + To infant anglers a most wondrous sight! + Scarce could their chiding parents then controul + Their little hearts in harmless malice gay, + But still one, bolder than his fellows, stole + To touch the tempting treasures where they lay. + What rapture glistened in their eager eyes, + When, with kind voice, we bade these children take + A precious store of well-dissembled flies, + To use with caution for the strangers' sake! + The unlook'd-for gift we graciously bestow + With sudden joy the leaping heart o'erpowers; + They grasp the lines, while all their faces glow + Bright as spring-blossoms after sunny showers, + And wear them in their hats like wreaths of valley-flowers! + + Nor could they check their joyance and surprise, + When the clear crystal and the silver bowl + Gleamed with a novel beauty on their soul, + And the wine mantled with its rosy dies. + For all our pomp we shew'd with mickle glee, + And choicest viands, fitly to regale, + On such a day of rare festivity, + Our guests thus wondering at their native vale. + And oft we pledged them, nor could they decline + The social cup we did our best to press, + But mingled wishes with the joyful wine, + Warm wishes for our health and happiness. + And all the while, a low, delightful sound + Of voice, soft-answering voice, with music fill'd + Our fairy palace's enchanted ground, + Such tones as seem from blooming tree distill'd, + Where unseen bees repair their waxen cells to build. + + Lost as we were in that most blessed mood + Which Nature's sons alone can deeply prove, + We lavish'd with free heart our kindest love + On all who breath'd,--one common brotherhood. + Three faithful servants, men of low degree, + Were with us, as we roamed the wilds among, + And well it pleased their simple hearts to see + Their masters mingling with the rural throng. + Oft to our guests they sought to speak aside, + And, in the genial flow of gladness, told + That we were free from haughtiness or pride, + Though scholars all, and rich in lands and gold. + We smiled to hear our praise thus rudely sung, + (Well might such praise our modesty offend) + Yet, we all strove, at once with eye and tongue + To speak, as if invited by a friend, + And with our casual talk instruction's voice to blend. + + Rumours of wars had reached this peaceful vale, + And of the Wicked King, whom guilt hath driven + On earth to wage a warfare against Heaven, + These sinless shepherds had heard many a tale. + Encircled as we were with smiles and joy, + In quietness to Quiet's dwelling brought, + To think of him whose bliss is to destroy, + At such a season was an awful thought! + We felt the eternal power of happiness + And virtue's power; we felt with holy awe + That in this world, in spite of chance distress, + Such is the Almighty Spirit's ruling law. + And joyfully did we these shepherds tell + To hear all rumours with a tranquil mind, + For, in the end, that all would yet be well, + Nor this bad Monarch leave one trace behind, + More than o'er yonder hills the idly-raving wind. + + Then gravely smiled, in all the power of age, + A hoary-headed, venerable man, + Like the mild chieftain of a peaceful clan, + 'Mid simple spirits looked on as a sage. + Much did he praise the holy faith we held, + Which God, he said, to chear the soul had given, + For even the very angels that rebelled, + By sin performed the blessed work of Heaven. + The Wicked King, of whom we justly spake, + Was but an instrument in God's wise hand, + And though the kingdoms of the earth might quake, + Peace would revisit every ravaged land. + Even as the earthquake, in some former time, + Scatter'd yon rugged mountain far and wide, + Till years of winter's snow and summer's prime, + To naked cliffs fresh verdure have supplied, + --Now troops of playful lambs are bounding on its side. + + Pleased were the simple groupe to hear the sire + Thus able to converse with men from far, + And much did they of vaguely-rumour'd war, + That long had raged in distant lands, enquire. + Scarce could their hearts, at peace with all mankind, + Believe what bloody deeds on earth are done, + That man of woman born should be so blind + As walk in guilt beneath the blessed sun; + And one, with thoughtful countenance, exprest + A fear lest on some dark disastrous day, + Across the sea might come that noisome pest, + And make fair England's happy vales his prey. + Short lived that fear!--soon firmer thoughts arise: + Well could these dalesmen wield the patriot's sword, + And stretch the foe beneath the smiling skies; + In innocence they trust, and in the Lord, + Whom they, that very morn, in gladness had adored! + + But soon such thoughts to lighter speech give way; + We in our turn a willing ear did lend + To tale of sports, that made them blythely spend + The winter-evening and the summer-day. + Smiling they told us of the harmless glee + That bids the echoes of the mountains wake, + When at the stated festival they see + Their new-wash'd flocks come snow-white from the lake; + And joyful dance at neighbouring village fair, + Where lads and lasses, in their best attire, + Go to enjoy that playful pastime rare, + And careful statesmen shepherds new to hire! + Or they would tell, how, at some neighbour's cot, + When nights are long, and winter on the earth, + All cares are in the dance and song forgot, + And round the fire quick flies the circling mirth, + When nuptial vows are pledged, or at an infant's birth! + + Well did the roses blooming on their cheek, + And eyes of laughing light, that glisten'd fair + Beneath the artless ringlets of their hair, + Each maiden's health and purity bespeak. + Following the impulse of their simple will, + No thought had they to give or take offence; + Glad were their bosoms, yet sedate and still, + And fearless in the strength of innocence. + Oft as, in accents mild, we strangers spoke + To these sweet maidens, an unconscious smile + Like sudden sunshine o'er their faces broke, + And with it struggling blushes mix'd the while. + And oft as mirth and glee went laughing round, + Breath'd in this maiden's ear some harmless jest + Would make her, for one moment, on the ground + Her eyes let fall, as wishing from the rest + To hide the sudden throb that beat within her breast. + + Oh! not in vain have purest poets told, + In elegies and hymns that ne'er shall die, + How, in the fields of famous Arcady, + Lived simple shepherds in the age of gold! + They fabled not, in peopling rural shades + With all most beautiful in heart and frame; + Where without guile swains woo'd their happy maids, + And love was friendship with a gentler name. + Such songs in truth and nature had their birth, + Their source was lofty and their aim was pure, + And still, in many a favour'd spot of earth, + The virtues that awoke their voice endure! + Bear witness thou! O, wild and beauteous dell, + To whom my gladden'd heart devotes this strain; + --O! long may all who in thy bosom dwell + Nature's primeval innocence retain, + Nor e'er may lawless foot thy sanctity profane! + Sweet Maids! my wandering heart returns to you; + And well the blush of joy, the courteous air, + Words unrestrained, and open looks declare + That fancy's day-dreams have not been untrue. + It was indeed a beauteous thing, to see + The virgin, while her bashful visage smiled, + As if she were a mother, on her knee + Take up, with many a kiss, the asking child. + And well, I ween, she play'd the mother's part; + For as she bended o'er the infant fair, + A mystic joy seem'd stirring at her heart, + A yearning fondness, and a silent prayer. + Nor did such gentle maiden long refuse + To cheer our spirits with some favourite strain, + Some simple ballad, framed by rustic muse, + Of one who died for love, or, led by gain, + Sail'd in a mighty ship to lands beyond the main. + + And must we close this scene of merriment? + --Lo! in the lake soft burns the star of eve, + And the night-hawk hath warn'd our guests to leave, + Ere darker shades descend, our happy tent. + The Moon's bright edge is seen above the hill; + She comes to light them on their homeward way; + And every heart, I ween, now lies as still + As on yon fleecy cloud her new-born ray. + Kindly by young and old our hands are press'd, + And kindly we the gentle touch return; + Each face declares that deep in every breast + Peace, virtue, friendship, and affection burn. + At last beneath the silent air we part, + And promise make that shall not be in vain, + A promise asked and given warm from the heart, + That we will visit all, on hill and plain, + If e'er it be our lot to see this land again! + + Backward they gazed, as slowly they withdrew, + With step reluctant, from the water-side; + And oft, with waving hand, at distance tried + Through the dun light to send a last adieu! + One lovely groupe still linger'd on the green, + The first to come, the last to go away; + While steep'd in stillness of the moonlight scene, + Moor'd to a rock their little pinnace lay. + These laughing damsels climb its humble side, + Like fairy elves that love the starry sea; + Nor e'er did billows with more graceful glide + 'Mid the wild main enjoy their liberty. + Their faces brightening in triumphant hue, + Close to each maid their joyful lovers stand; + One gives the signal,--all the jovial crew + Let go, with tender press, the yielding hand; + --Down drop the oars at once,--away they push from land. + + The boat hath left the silent bank, the tone + Of the retiring oar escapes the mind; + Like mariners some ship hath left behind, + We feel, thus standing speechless and alone. + One moment lives that melancholy trance-- + The mountains ring: Oh! what a joy is there! + As hurries o'er their heights, in circling dance, + Cave-loving Echo, Daughter of the Air. + Is it some spirit of night that wakes the shout, + As o'er the cliffs, with headlong speed, she ranges? + Is it, on plain and steep, some fairy rout + Answering each other in tumultuous changes? + There seems amid the hills a playful war; + Trumpet and clarion join the mystic noise; + Now growing on the ear, now dying far! + Great Gabel from his summit sends a voice, + And the remotest depths of Ennerdale rejoice! + + Oh! well I know what means this din of mirth! + No spirits are they, who, trooping through the sky, + In chorus swell that mountain-melody; + --It comes from mortal children of the earth! + These are the voices that so late did chear + Our tent with laughter; from the hills they come + With friendly sound unto our listening ear, + A jocund farewell to our glimmering home. + Loth are our guests, though they have linger'd long, + That our sweet tent at last should leave their sight; + So with one voice they sing a parting song, + Ere they descend behind the clouds of night. + Nor are we mute; an answering shout we wake, + At each short pause of the long, lengthening sound, + Till all is silent as the silent Lake, + And every noise above, below, around, + Seems in the brooding night-sky's depth of slumber drown'd! + + Soon from that calm our spirits start again + With blyther vigour; nought around we see, + Save lively images of mirth and glee, + And playful fancies hurry through our brain. + Shine not, sweet Moon! with such a haughty light; + Ye stars! behind your veil of clouds retire; + For we shall kindle on the earth, this night, + To drown your feeble rays, a joyous fire. + Bring the leaves withering in the holly-shade, + The oaken branches sapless now and hoar, + The fern no longer green, and whins that fade + 'Mid the thin sand that strews the rocky shore. + Heap them above that new-awaken'd spark; + Soon shall a pyramid of flame arise; + Now the first rustling of the vapour, hark! + The kindling spirit from its prison flies, + And in an instant mounts in glory to the skies! + + Far gleams the Lake, as in the light of day, + Or when, from mountain-top, the setting sun, + Ere yet his earth-delighting course is run, + Sheds on the slumbering wave a purple ray. + A bright'ning verdure runs o'er every field, + As if by potent necromancer shed, + And a dark wood is suddenly reveal'd, + A glory resting on its ancient head. + And oh! what radiant beauty doth invest + Our tent that seems to feel a conscious pride, + Whiter by far than any cygnet's breast, + Or cygnet's shadow floating with the tide. + A warmer flush unto the moonlight cold, + Winning its lovely way, is softly given, + A silvery radiance tinged with vivid gold; + While thousand mimic stars are gayly driven + Through the bright-glistening air, scarce known from those in Heaven. + + Amid the flame our lurid figures stand, + Or, through the shrouding vapour dimly view'd, + To fancy seem, in that strange solitude, + Like the wild brethren of some lawless band. + One, snatching from the heap a blazing bough, + Would, like lone maniac, from the rest retire, + And, as he waved it, mutter deep a vow, + His head encircled with a wreath of fire. + Others, with rushing haste, and eager voice, + Would drag new victims to the insatiate power, + That like a savage idol did rejoice + Whate'er his suppliants offer'd to devour. + And aye strange murmurs o'er the mountains roll'd, + As if from sprite immured in cavern lone, + While higher rose pale Luna to behold + Our mystic orgies, where no light had shone, + For many and many a year of silence--but her own. + + O! gracious Goddess! not in vain did shine + Thy spirit o'er the heavens; with reverent eye + We hail'd thee floating through the happy sky; + No smiles to us are half so dear as thine! + Silent we stood beside our dying flame, + In pensive sadness, born of wild delight, + And gazing heavenward, many a gentle name + Bestow'd on her who beautifies the night. + Then, with one heart, like men who inly mourn'd, + Slowly we paced towards our fairy cell, + And e'er we enter'd, for one moment turn'd, + And bade the silent majesty farewell! + Our rushy beds invite us to repose; + And while our spirits breathe a grateful prayer, + In balmy slumbers soon our eyelids close, + While, in our dreams, the Moon, serenely fair, + Still bathes in light divine the visionary air! + + Methinks, next night, I see her mount her throne, + Intent with loving smile once more to hail + The deep, deep peace of this her loneliest vale, + --But where hath now the magic dwelling flown? + Oh! it hath melted like a dream away, + A dream by far too beautiful for earth; + Or like a cloud that hath no certain stay, + But ever changing, like a different birth. + The aged holly trees more silently, + Now we are gone, stand on the silent ground; + I seem to hear the streamlet floating by + With a complaining, melancholy sound. + Hush'd are the echoes in each mountain's breast, + No traces there of former mirth remain; + They all in friendly grandeur lie at rest + And silent, save where Nature's endless strain, + From cataract and cave, delights her lonely reign. + + Yet, though the strangers and their tent have past + Away, like snow that leaves no mark behind, + Their image lives in many a guiltless mind, + And long within the shepherd's cot shall last. + Oft when, on winter night, the crowded seat + Is closely wheel'd before the blazing fire, + Then will he love with grave voice to repeat + (He, the gray-headed venerable sire,) + The conversation he with us did hold + On moral subjects, he had studied long; + And some will jibe the maid who was so bold + As sing to strangers readily a song. + Then they unto each other will recal + Each little incident of that strange night, + And give their kind opinion of us all: + God bless their faces smiling in the light + Of their own cottage-hearth! O, fair subduing sight! + + Friends of my heart! who shared that purest joy, + And oft will read these lines with soften'd soul, + Go where we will, let years of absence roll, + Nought shall our sacred amity destroy. + We walk'd together through the mountain-calm, + In open confidence, and perfect trust; + And pleasure, falling through our breasts like balm, + Told that the yearnings that we felt were just. + No slighting tone, no chilling look e'er marr'd + The happiness in which our thoughts reposed, + No words save those of gentleness were heard, + The eye spoke kindly when the lip was closed. + But chief, on that blest day that wakes my song, + Our hearts eternal truth in silence swore; + The holy oath is planted deep and strong + Within our spirits,--in their inmost core,-- + And it shall blossom fair till life shall be no more! + + Most hallow'd day! scarce can my heart sustain + Your tender light by memory made more mild; + Tears could I shed even like unto a child, + And sighs within my spirit hush the strain. + Too many clouds have dimm'd my youthful life, + These wakeful eyes too many vigils kept; + Mine hath it been to toss in mental strife, + When in the moonlight breathing Nature slept. + But I forget my cares, in bliss forget, + When, peaceful Valley! I remember thee; + I seem to breathe the air of joy, and yet + Thy bright'ning hues with moisten'd eyes I see. + So will it be, till life itself doth close, + Roam though I may o'er many a distant clime; + Happy, or pining in unnoticed woes, + Oft shall my soul recal that blessed time, + And in her depths adore the beauteous and sublime! + + Time that my rural reed at last should cease + Its willing numbers; not in vain hath flow'd + The strain that on my singing heart bestow'd + The holy boon of undisturbed peace. + O gentlest Lady! Sister of my friend, + This simple strain I consecrate to thee; + Haply its music with thy soul may blend, + Albeit well used to loftier minstrelsy. + Nor, may thy quiet spirit read the lay + With cold regard, thou wife and mother blest! + For he was with me on that Sabbath-day, + Whose heart lies buried in thy inmost breast. + Then go my innocent and blameless tale, + In gladness go, and free from every fear, + To yon sweet dwelling above Grassmere vale, + And be to them I long have held so dear, + One of their fire-side songs, still fresh from year to year! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] Mr Wordsworth accompanied the author on this excursion. + +[2] At that time the residence of Mr Wordsworth's family. + +[3] The author's cottage on the banks of Windermere. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + + + _Oh! Nature! whose Elysian scenes disclose + His bright perfections at whose word they rose, + Next to that Power who form'd thee and sustains, + Be thou the great inspirer of my strains. + Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expand + Thy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand._ + COWPER. + + + + +THE HERMITAGE. + + + Stranger! this lonely glen in ancient times + Was named the glen of blood; nor Christian feet + By night or day, from these o'er-arching cliffs + That haply now have to thy joyful shouts + Return'd a mellow music, ever brought + One trembling sound to break the depth of silence. + The village maiden, in this little stream, + Though then, as now, most clearly beautiful, + Ne'er steeped her simple garments, while she sang + Some native air of sadness or of mirth. + In these cold, shady pools, the fearless trout + Ne'er saw the shadow, but of sailing cloud, + Or kite that wheeling eyed the far-off lamb; + And on yon hazel bowers the ripen'd fruit + Hung clustering, moved but by the frequent swing + Of playful squirrel,--for no school-boy here + With crook and angle light on holiday + Came nutting, or to snare the sportive fry. + Even bolder spirits shunn'd the glen of blood! + These rocks, the abode of echo, never mock'd + In sportive din the huntsman's bugle horn; + And as the shepherd from the mountain-fold + Homewards return'd beneath the silent Moon, + A low unconscious prayer would agitate + His breathless heart, for here in unblest grave + Lay one for whom ne'er toll'd the passing-bell! + + And thus was Nature by the impious guilt + Of one who scorn'd her gracious solitude, + Defrauded of her worshippers: though pure + This glen, as consecrated house of God, + Fit haunt of heaven-aspiring piety, + Or in whose dripping cells the poet's ear + Might list unearthly music, this sweet glen + With all its tender tints and pensive sounds, + Its balmy fragrance and romantic forms, + Lay lonely and unvisited, yea worse, + Peopled with fancied demons, and the brood + At enmity with man. + + So was it once: + But now far other creed hath sanctified + This dim seclusion, and all human hearts + Unto its spirit deeply reconciled. + 'Tis said, and I in truth believe the tale, + That many years ago an aged man, + Of a divine aspect and stately form, + Came to this glen, and took up his abode + In one of those wild caves so numerous + Among the hanging cliffs, though hid from view + By trailing ivy, or thick holly-bush, + Through the whole year so deeply, brightly green. + With evil eye the simple villagers + First look'd on him, and scarcely dared to tell + Each other, what dim fears were in their souls. + But there is something in the voice and eye + Of beautiful old age, with angel power + That charms away suspicion, and compels + The unwilling soul to reverence and love. + So was it with this mystical old man! + When first he came into the glen, the spring + Had just begun to tinge the sullen rocks + With transient smiles, and ere the leafy bowers + Of summer rustled, many a visitant + Had sat within his hospitable cave, + From his maple bowl the unpolluted spring + Drunk fearless, and with him partook the bread + That his pale lips most reverently had bless'd + With words becoming such a holy man! + + Oft was he seen surrounded by a groupe + Of happy children, unto whom he spake + With more than a paternal tenderness; + And they who once had gazed with trembling fear + On the wild dweller in th' unholy glen, + At last with airy trip and gladsome song + Would seek him there, and listen on his knee + To mournful ditties, and most touching tales! + + One only book was in this hermit's cell, + The Book of Life; and when from it he read + With solemn voice devoutly musical, + His thoughtful eye still brightening as the words, + The words of Jesus, in that peaceful cave + Sounded more holily,--and his grey hair, + Betokening that e'er long in Jesus' breast + Would be his blessed sleep,--on his calm brows + Spread quietly, like thin and snowy clouds + On the husht evening sky:--While thus he sate, + Ev'n like the Apostle whom our Saviour loved, + In his old age, in Patmos' lonely isle + Musing on him that he had served in youth,-- + Oh! then, I ween, the awe-struck villagers + Could scarce sustain his tones so deeply charged + With hope, and faith, and gratitude, and joy. + But when they gazed!--in the mild lineaments + Of his majestic visage, they beheld + How beautiful is holiness, and deem'd + That sure he was some spirit sent by God + To teach the way to Heaven! + + And yet his voice + Was oft times sadder, than as they conceived + An Angel's voice would be, and though to sooth + The sorrows of all others ever seem'd + His only end in life, perhaps he had + Griefs of his own of which he nothing spake; + Else were his locks more grey, more pale his cheek, + Than one had thought who only saw his form + So stately and so tall.-- + + Once did they speak + To him of that most miserable man + Who here himself had slain,--and then his eye + Was glazed with stern compassion, and a tear,-- + It was the first they e'er had seen him shed, + Though mercy was the attribute he loved + Dearest in God's own Son,--bedimm'd its light + For a short moment; yea, that hermit old + Wept,--and his sadden'd face angelical + Veil'd with his wither'd hands,--then on their knees + He bade his children (so he loved to call + The villagers) kneel down; and unto God + Pray for his brother's soul.-- + + Amid the dust + The hermit long hath slept,--and every one + That listen'd to the saint's delightful voice. + In yonder church-yard, near the eastern porch, + Close to the altar-wall, a little mound + As if by nature shaped, and strewn by her + With every tender flower that sorrow loves, + Tradition calls his grave. On Sabbath-day, + The hind oft hears the legendary tale + Rehearsed by village moralist austere + With many a pious phrase; and not a child, + Whose trembling feet have scarcely learnt to walk, + But will conduct thee to the hallow'd spot + And lisp the hermit's name. + + Nor did the cave + That he long time from Nature tenanted + Remain unhonour'd.--Duly every spring, + Upon the day he died, thither repair'd + Many a pure spirit, to his memory + Chaunting a choral hymn, composed by one + Who on his death-bed sat and closed his eyes. + "I am the resurrection and the life," + Some old man then would, with a solemn voice, + Read from that Bible that so oft had blest + The Hermit's solitude with heavenly chear. + This Book, sole relic of the sinless man, + Was from the dust kept sacred, and even now + Lies in yon box of undecaying yew, + And may it never fade!-- + + Stranger unknown! + Thou breath'st, at present, in the very cave + Where on the Hermit death most gently fell + Like a long wish'd-for slumber. The great Lord, + Whose castle stands amid the music wild + Breathed from the bosom of an hundred glens, + In youth by nature taught to venerate + Things truly venerable, hither came + One year to view the fair solemnity: + And that the forest-weeds might not obstruct + The entrance of the cave, or worm defile + The soft green beauty of its mossy walls, + This massive door was from a fallen oak + Shaped rudely, but all other ornament, + That porch of living rock with woodbines wreathed, + And outer roof with many a pensile shrub + Most delicate, he with wise feeling left + To Nature, and her patient servant, Time! + + Stranger! I know thee not: yet since thy feet + Have wandered here, I deem that thou art one + Whose heart doth love in silent communings + To walk with Nature and from scenes like these + Of solemn sadness, to sublime thy soul + To high endurance of all earthly pains + Of mind or body; so that thou connect + With Nature's lovely and more lofty forms, + Congenial thoughts of grandeur or of grace + In moral being. All creation takes + The spirit of its character from him + Who looks thereon; and to a blameless heart, + Earth, air, and ocean, howsoe'er beheld, + Are pregnant with delight, while even the clouds, + Embath'd in dying sunshine, to the base + Possess no glory, and to the wicked lower + As with avenging thunder. + + This sweet glen, + How sweet it is thou feel'st, with sylvan rocks + Excluding all but one blue glimpse of sky + Above, and from the world that lies around + All but the faint remembrance, tempted once + To most unnatural murder, once sublimed + To the high temper of the seraphim: + And thus, though its mild character remain'd + Immutable,--with pious dread was shunn'd + As an unholy spot, or visited + With reverence, as a consecrated shrine. + + Farewell! and grave this moral on thy heart, + "That Nature smiles for ever on the good,-- + But that all beauty dies with innocence!" + + + + +LINES WRITTEN ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MISS SMITH. + + + Peace to the dead! the voice of Nature cries, + Even o'er the grave where guilt or frailty lies; + Compassion drives each sterner thought away, + And all seem good when mouldering in the clay. + For who amid the dim religious gloom, + The solemn sabbath brooding o'er the tomb, + The holy stillness that suspends our breath + When the soul rests within the shade of death, + What heart could then with-hold the pensive sigh + Reflection pays to poor mortality, + Nor sunk in pity near allied to love, + E'en bless the being we could ne'er approve! + The headstrong will with innocence at strife, + The restless passions that deform'd his life, + Desires that spurn'd at reason's weak controul, + And dimm'd the native lustre of the soul, + The look repulsive that like ice repress'd + The friendly warmth that play'd within the breast, + The slighting word, through heedlessness severe, + Wounding the spirit that it ought to chear, + Lie buried in the grave! or if they live, + Remembrance only wakes them to forgive; + While vice and error steal a soft relief + From the still twilight of a mellowing grief. + And oh! how lovely do the tints return + Of every virtue sleeping in the urn! + Each grace that fleeted unobserved away, + Starts into life when those it deck'd decay; + Regret fresh beauty on the corse bestows, + And self-reproach is mingled with our woes. + + But nobler sorrows lift the musing mind, + When soaring spirits leave their frames behind, + Who walked the world in Nature's generous pride, + And, like a sun-beam, lighten'd as they died! + Hope, resignation, the sad soul beguile, + And Grief's tear drops 'mid Faith's celestial smile: + Then burns our being with a holy mirth + That owns no kindred with this mortal earth; + For hymning angels in blest vision wave + Their wings' bright glory o'er the seraph's grave! + + Oh thou! whose soul unmoved by earthly strife, + Led by the pole-star of eternal life, + Own'd no emotion stain'd by touch of clay, + No thought that angels might not pleased survey; + Thou! whose calm course through Virtue's fields was run + From youth's fair morning to thy setting sun, + Nor vice e'er dared one little cloud to roll + O'er the bright beauty of thy spotless soul; + Thou! who secure in good works strong to save, + Resign'd and happy, eyed'st the opening grave, + And in the blooming summer of thy years + Scarce felt'st regret to leave this vale of tears; + Oh! from thy throne amid the starry skies, + List to my words thus interwove with sighs, + And if the high resolves, the cherish'd pain + That prompt the weak but reverential strain, + If love of virtue ardent and sincere + Can win to mortal verse a cherub's ear, + Bend from thy radiant throne thy form divine, + And make the adoring spirit pure as thine! + When my heart muses o'er the long review + Of all thy bosom felt, thy reason knew, + O'er boundless learning free from boastful pride, + And patience humble though severely tried, + Judgment unclouded, passions thrice refined, + A heaven-aspiring loftiness of mind, + And, rare perfection! calm and sober sense + Combined with fancy's wild magnificence; + Struck with the pomp of Nature's wondrous plan, + I hail with joy the dignity of man, + And soaring high above life's roaring sea, + Spring to the dwelling of my God and Thee. + + Short here thy stay! for souls of holiest birth + Dwell but a moment with the sons of earth; + To this dim sphere by God's indulgence given, + Their friends are angels, and their home is heaven. + The fairest rose in shortest time decays; + The sun, when brightest, soon withdraws his rays; + The dew that gleams like diamonds on the thorn, + Melts instantaneous at the breath of morn; + Too soon a rolling shade of darkness shrouds + The star that smiles amid the evening clouds; + And sounds that come so sweetly on the ear, + That the soul wishes every sense could hear, + Are as the Light's unwearied pinions fleet, + As scarce as beauteous, and as short as sweet. + + Yet, though the unpolluted soul requires + Airs born in Heaven to fan her sacred fires, + And mounts to God, exulting to be free + From fleshly chain that binds mortality, + The world is hallow'd by her blest sojourn, + And glory dwells for ever round her urn! + Her skirts of beauty sanctify the air + That felt her breathings, and that heard her prayer; + Vice dies where'er the radiant vision trod, + And there e'en Atheists must believe in God! + Such the proud triumphs that the good achieve! + Such the blest gift that sinless spirits leave! + The parted soul in God-given strength sublime, + Streams undimm'd splendour o'er unmeasured time; + Still on the earth the sainted hues survive, + Dead in the tomb, but in the heart alive. + In vain the tide of ages strives to roll + A bar to check the intercourse of soul; + The hovering spirits of the good and great + With fond remembrance own their former state, + And musing virtue often can behold + In vision high their plumes of wavy gold, + And drink with tranced ear the silver sound + Of seraphs hymning on their nightly round. + By death untaught, our range of thought is small, + Bound by the attraction of this earthly ball. + Our sorrows and our joys, our hopes and fears, + Ignobly pent within a few short years; + But when our hearts have read Fate's mystic book, + On Heaven's gemm'd sphere we lift a joyful look, + Hope turns to Faith, Faith glorifies the gloom, + And life springs forth exulting from the tomb! + + Oh, blest ELIZA! though to me unknown, + Thine eye's mild lustre and thy melting tone; + Though on this earth apart our lives were led, + Nor my love found thee till thy soul was fled; + Yet, can affection kiss thy silent clay, + And rend the glimmering veil of death away: + Fancy beholds with fixed, delighted eye, + Thy white-robed spirit gently gliding by; + Deep sinks thy smile into my quiet breast, + As moonlight steeps the ocean-wave in rest! + While thus, bright shade! thine eyes of mercy dwell + On that fair land thou loved'st of old so well, + What holy raptures through thy being flow, + To see thy memory blessing all below, + Virtue re-kindle at thy grave her fires, + And vice repentant shun his low desires! + This the true Christian's heaven! on earth to see + The sovereign power of immortality + At war with sin, and in triumphant pride + Spreading the empire of the crucified.-- + + Oft 'mid the calm of mountain solitude, + Where Nature's loveliness thy spirit woo'd; + Where lonely cataracts with sullen roar + To thy hush'd heart a fearful rapture bore, + And caverns moaning with the voice of night, + Steep'd through the ear thy mind in strange delight, + I feel thy influence on my heart descend + Like words of comfort whispered by a friend, + And every cloud in lovelier figures roll, + Shaped by the power of thy presiding soul! + And when, slow-sinking in a blaze of light, + The sun in glory bathes each radiant height, + Amid the glow thy form seraphic seems + To float refulgent with unborrow'd beams; + For thou, like him, hadst still thy course pursued, + From thy own blessedness dispensing good; + Brightly thy soul in life's fair morn arose, + And burn'd like him, more glorious at its close. + + But now, I feel my pensive spirit turn, + Where parents, brothers, sisters, o'er thee mourn. + For though to all unconscious time supplies + A strength of soul that stifles useless sighs; + And in our loneliest hours of grief is given + To our dim gaze a nearer glimpse of heaven, + Yet, human frailty pines in deep distress, + Even when a friend has soar'd to happiness, + And sorrow, selfish from excess of love, + Would glad recal the seraph from above! + And, chief, to thee! on whose delighted breast, + While, yet a babe, she play'd herself to rest, + Who rock'd her cradle with requited care, + And bless'd her sleeping with a silent prayer; + To thee, who first beheld, with watchful eye, + From her flush'd cheek health's natural radiance fly, + And, though by fate denied the power to save, + Smooth'd with kind care her passage to the grave, + When slow consumption led with fatal bloom + A rosy spectre smiling to the tomb; + The strain of comfort first to thee would flow, + But thou hast comforts man could ne'er bestow; + And e'en misfortune's long and gloomy roll + Wakes dreams of glory in thy stately soul. + For reason whispers, and religion proves, + That God by sorrow chasteneth whom he loves; + And suffering virtue smiles at misery's gloom, + Chear'd by the light that burns beyond the tomb. + + All Nature speaks of thy departed child, + The flowery meadow, and the mountain wild; + Of her the lark 'mid sun-shine oft will sing, + And torrents flow with dirge-like murmuring! + The lake, that smiles to heaven a watery gleam, + Shows in the vivid beauty of a dream + Her, whose fine touch in mellowing hues array'd + The misty summit and the woodland glade, + The sparkling depth that slept in waveless rest, + And verdant isles reflected on its breast. + As down the vale thy lonely footsteps stray, + While eve steals dimly on retiring day, + And the pale light that nameless calm supplies, + That holds communion with the promised skies, + When Nature's beauty overpowers distress, + And stars soft-burning kindle holiness, + Thy lips in passive resignation move, + And peace broods o'er thee on the wings of love. + The languid mien, the cheek of hectic die, + The mournful beauty of the radiant eye, + The placid smile, the light and easy breath + Of nature blooming on the brink of death, + When the fair phantom breathed in twilight balm + A dying vigour and deceitful calm, + The tremulous voice that ever loved to tell + Thy fearful heart, that all would soon be well, + Steal on thy memory, and though tears will fall + O'er scenes gone by that thou would'st fain recal, + Yet oft has faith with deeper bliss beguiled + A parent weeping her departed child, + Than love maternal, when her baby lay + Hush'd at her breast, or smiling in its play, + And, as some glimpse of infant fancy came, + Murmuring in scarce-heard lisp some broken name. + Thou feel'st no more grief's palpitating start, + Nor the drear night hangs heavy on thy heart. + Though sky and star may yet awhile divide + Thy mortal being from thy bosom's pride, + Your spirits mingle--while to thine is given + A loftier nature from the touch of heaven. + + + + +HYMN TO SPRING + + + How beautiful the pastime of the Spring! + Lo! newly waking from her wintry dream, + She, like a smiling infant, timid plays + On the green margin of this sunny lake, + Fearing, by starts, the little breaking waves + (If riplings rather known by sound than sight + May haply so be named) that in the grass + Soon fade in murmuring mirth; now seeming proud + To venture round the edge of yon far point, + That from an eminence softly sinking down, + Doth from the wide and homeless waters shape + A scene of tender, delicate repose, + Fit haunt for thee, in thy first hours of joy, + Delightful Spring!--nor less an emblem fair, + Like thee, of beauty, innocence, and youth. + + On such a day, 'mid such a scene as this, + Methinks the poets who in lovely hymns + Have sung thy reign, sweet Power, and wished it long, + In their warm hearts conceived those eulogies, + That, lending to the world inanimate + A pulse and spirit of life, for aye preserve + The sanctity of Nature, and embalm + Her fleeting spectacles in memory's cell + In spite of time's mutations. Onwards roll + The circling seasons, and as each gives birth + To dreams peculiar, yea destructive oft + Of former feelings, in oblivion's shade + Sleep the fair visions of forgotten hours. + But Nature calls the poet to her aid, + And in his lays beholds her glory live + For ever. Thus, in winter's deepest gloom, + When all is dim before the outward eye, + Nor the ear catches one delightful sound, + They who have wander'd in their musing walks + With the great poets, in their spirits feel + No change on earth, but see the unalter'd woods + Laden with beauty, and inhale the song + Of birds, airs, echoes, and of vernal showers. + + So hath it been with me, delightful Spring! + And now I hail thee as a friend who pays + An annual visit, yet whose image lives + From parting to return, and who is blest + Each time with blessings warmer than before. + + Oh! gracious Power! for thy beloved approach + The expecting earth lay wrapt in kindling smiles, + Struggling with tears, and often overcome. + A blessing sent before thee from the heavens, + A balmy spirit breathing tenderness, + Prepared thy way, and all created things + Felt that the angel of delight was near. + Thou camest at last, and such a heavenly smile + Shone round thee, as beseem'd the eldest-born + Of Nature's guardian spirits. The great Sun, + Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile, + Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn + Was by the low Winds chaunted in the sky; + And when thy feet descended on the earth, + Scarce could they move amid the clustering flowers + By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field, + To hail her blest deliverer!--Ye fair Trees, + How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze! + It seems as if some gleam of verdant light + Fell on you from a rainbow; but it lives + Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour + Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet Birds, + Were you asleep through all the wintry hours, + Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves? + There are, 'tis said, birds that pursue the spring, + Where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleep + Abide her annual reign, when forth they come + With freshen'd plumage and enraptured song, + As ye do now, unwearied choristers, + Till the land ring with joy. Yet are ye not, + Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful + Than the young lambs, that from the valley-side + Send a soft bleating like an infant's voice, + Half happy, half afraid! O blessed things! + At sight of this your perfect innocence, + The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away + Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams. + The strife of working intellect, the stir + Of hopes ambitious; the disturbing sound + Of fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantry + That ardent spirits burn, for in their pride, + Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soul + Pure and serene as the blue depths of heaven. + + Now, is the time in some meek solitude + To hold communion with those innocent thoughts + That bless'd our earlier days;--to list the voice + Of Conscience murmuring from her inmost shrine, + And learn if still she sing the quiet tune + That fill'd the ear of youth. If then we feel, + That 'mid the powers, the passions, and desires + Of riper age, we still have kept our hearts + Free from pollution, and 'mid tempting scenes + Walk'd on with pure and unreproved steps, + Fearless of guilt, as if we knew it not; + Ah me! with what a new sublimity + Will the green hills lift up their sunny heads, + Ourselves as stately: Smiling will we gaze + On the clouds whose happy home is in the heavens; + Nor envy the clear streamlet that pursues + His course 'mid flowers and music to the sea. + But dread the beauty of a vernal day, + Thou trembler before memory! To the saint + What sight so lovely as the angel form + That smiles upon his sleep! The sinner veils + His face ashamed,--unable to endure + The upbraiding silence of the seraph's eyes!-- + + Yet awful must it be, even to the best + And wisest man, when he beholds the sun + Prepared once more to run his annual round + Of glory and of love, and thinks that God + To him, though sojourning in earthly shades, + Hath also given an orbit, whence his light + May glad the nations, or at least diffuse + Peace and contentment over those he loves! + His soul expanded by the breath of Spring, + With holy confidence the thoughtful man + Renews his vows to virtue,--vows that bind + To purest motives and most useful deeds. + Thus solemnly doth pass the vernal day, + In abstinence severe from worldly thoughts; + Lofty disdainings of all trivial joys + Or sorrows; meditations long and deep + On objects fit for the immortal love + Of souls immortal; weeping penitence + For duties (plain though highest duties be) + Despised or violated; humblest vows, + Though humble strong as death, henceforth to walk + Elate in innocence; and, holier still, + Warm gushings of his spirit unto God + For all his past existence, whether bright, + As the spring landscape sleeping in the sun, + Or dim and desolate like a wintry sea + Stormy and boding storms! Oh! such will be + Frequent and long his musings, till he feels + As all the stir subsides, like busy day + Soft-melting into eve's tranquillity, + How blest is peace when born within the soul. + + And therefore do I sing these pensive hymns, + O Spring! to thee, though thou by some art call'd + Parent of mirth and rapture, worshipp'd best + With festive dances and a choral song. + No melancholy man am I, sweet Spring! + Who, filling all things with his own poor griefs, + Sees nought but sadness in the character + Of universal Nature, and who weaves + Most doleful ditties in the midst of joy. + Yet knowing something, dimly though it be, + And therefore still more awful, of that strange + And most tumultuous thing, the heart of man, + It chanceth oft, that mix'd with Nature's smiles + My soul beholds a solemn quietness + That almost looks like grief, as if on earth + There were no perfect joy, and happiness + Still trembled on the brink of misery! + + Yea! mournful thoughts like these even now arise, + While Spring, like Nature's smiling infancy, + Sports round me, and all images of peace + Seem native to this earth, nor other home + Desire or know. Yet doth a mystic chain + Link in our hearts foreboding fears of death + With every loveliest thing that seems to us + Most deeply fraught with life. Is there a child + More beauteous than its playmates, even more pure + Than they? while gazing on its face, we think + That one so fair most surely soon will die! + Such are the fears now beating at my heart. + Ere long, sweet Spring! amid forgotten things + Thou and thy smiles must sleep: thy little lambs + Dead, or their nature changed; thy hymning birds + Mute;--faded every flower so beautiful;-- + And all fair symptoms of incipient life + To fulness swollen, or sunk into decay! + + Such are the melancholy dreams that filled + In the elder time the songs of tenderest bards, + Whene'er they named the Spring. Thence, doubts and fears + Of what might be the final doom of man; + Till all things spoke to their perplexed souls + The language of despair; and, mournful sight! + Even hope lay prostrate upon beauty's grave!-- + Vain fears of death! breath'd forth in deathless lays! + O foolish bards, immortal in your works, + Yet trustless of your immortality! + Not now are they whom Nature calls her bards + Thus daunted by the image of decay. + They have their tears, and oft they shed them too, + By reason unreproach'd; but on the pale + Cold cheek of death, they see a spirit smile, + Bright and still brightening, even like thee, O Spring! + Stealing in beauty through the winter-snow!-- + + Season, beloved of Heaven! my hymn is closed! + And thou, sweet Lake! on whose retired banks + I have so long reposed, yet in the depth + Of meditation scarcely seen thy waves, + Farewell!--the voice of worship and of praise + Dies on my lips, yet shall my heart preserve + Inviolate the spirit whence it sprung! + Even as a harp, when some wild plaintive strain + Goes with the hand that touch'd it, still retains + The soul of music sleeping in its strings. + + + + +MELROSE ABBEY. + + + It was not when the Sun through the glittering sky, + In summer's joyful majesty, + Look'd from his cloudless height;-- + It was not when the Sun was sinking down, + And tinging the ruin's mossy brown + With gleams of ruddy light;-- + Nor yet when the Moon, like a pilgrim fair, + 'Mid star and planet journeyed slow, + And, mellowing the stillness of the air, + Smiled on the world below;-- + That, MELROSE! 'mid thy mouldering pride, + All breathless and alone, + I grasped the dreams to day denied, + High dreams of ages gone!-- + Had unshrieved guilt for one moment been there, + His heart had turn'd to stone! + For oft, though felt no moving gale, + Like restless ghost in glimmering shroud, + Through lofty Oriel opening pale + Was seen the hurrying cloud; + And, at doubtful distance, each broken wall + Frown'd black as bier's mysterious pall + From mountain-cave beheld by ghastly seer; + It seem'd as if sound had ceased to be; + Nor dust from arch, nor leaf from tree, + Relieved the noiseless ear. + The owl had sailed from her silent tower, + Tweed hush'd his weary wave, + The time was midnight's moonless hour, + My seat a dreaded Douglas' grave! + + My being was sublimed by joy, + My heart was big, yet I could not weep; + I felt that God would ne'er destroy + The mighty in their tranced sleep. + Within the pile no common dead + Lay blended with their kindred mould; + Theirs were the hearts that pray'd, or bled, + In cloister dim, on death-plain red, + The pious and the bold. + There slept the saint whose holy strains + Brought seraphs round the dying bed; + And there the warrior, who to chains + Ne'er stoop'd his crested head. + I felt my spirit sink or swell + With patriot rage or lowly fear, + As battle-trump, or convent-bell, + Rung in my tranced ear. + But dreams prevail'd of loftier mood, + When stern beneath the chancel high + My country's spectre-monarch stood, + All sheath'd in glittering panoply; + Then I thought with pride what noble blood + Had flow'd for the hills of liberty. + + High the resolves that fill the brain + With transports trembling upon pain, + When the veil of time is rent in twain, + That hides the glory past! + The scene may fade that gave them birth, + But they perish not with the perishing earth, + For ever shall they last. + And higher, I ween, is that mystic might + That comes to the soul from the silent night, + When she walks, like a disembodied spirit, + Through realms her sister shades inherit, + And soft as the breath of those blessed flowers + That smile in Heaven's unfading bowers, + With love and awe, a voice she hears + Murmuring assurance of immortal years. + In hours of loneliness and woe + Which even the best and wisest know, + How leaps the lighten'd heart to seize + On the bliss that comes with dreams like these! + As fair before the mental eye + The pomp and beauty of the dream return, + Dejected virtue calms her sigh, + And leans resign'd on memory's urn. + She feels how weak is mortal pain, + When each thought that starts to life again, + Tells that she hath not lived in vain. + + For Solitude, by Wisdom woo'd, + Is ever mistress of delight, + And even in gloom or tumult view'd, + She sanctifies their living blood + Who learn her lore aright. + The dreams her awful face imparts, + Unhallowed mirth destroy; + Her griefs bestow on noble hearts + A nobler power of joy. + While hope and faith the soul thus fill, + We smile at chance distress, + And drink the cup of human ill + In stately happiness. + Thus even where death his empire keeps + Life holds the pageant vain, + And where the lofty spirit sleeps, + There lofty visions reign. + Yea, often to night-wandering man + A pow'r fate's dim decrees to scan, + In lonely trance by bliss is given; + And midnight's starless silence rolls + A giant vigour through our souls, + That stamps us sons of Heaven. + + Then, MELROSE! Tomb of heroes old! + Blest be the hour I dwelt with thee; + The visions that can ne'er be told + That only poets in their joy can see, + The glory born above the sky + The deep-felt weight of sanctity! + Thy massy towers I view no more + Through brooding darkness rising hoar, + Like a broad line of light dim seen + Some sable mountain-cleft between! + Since that dread hour, hath human thought + A thousand gay creations brought + Before my earthly eye; + I to the world have lent an ear, + Delighted all the while to hear + The voice of poor mortality. + Yet, not the less doth there abide + Deep in my soul a holy pride, + That knows by whom it was bestowed, + Lofty to man, but low to God; + Such pride as hymning angels cherish, + Blest in the blaze where man would perish. + + + + +EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM, ENTITLED "THE HEARTH." + + + My soul, behold the beauty of his home! + The very heavens look down with gracious smiles + Upon its holy rest. How bright a green + Sleeps round the dwelling of two loving hearts! + The air lies hush'd above the peaceful roof, + As if it felt the sanctity within. + On glides the river with a tranquil flow, + Delighting in his music, as he bathes + The happy bounds where happiness doth stray. + --I see them sitting by each other's side, + In the heart's silent secrecy! I hear + The breath of meditation from their souls. + They speak: a soft, subduing tenderness, + Born of devotion, innocence and bliss, + Steals from their bosoms in a silver voice + That makes a pious hymning melody. + They look: a gleam of light as sadly sweet + As if they listen'd to some mournful tale, + Swims in their eyes that almost melt to tears. + They smile: oh! never did such languor steal + From lustre of two early-risen stars + When all the silent heavens appear their own. + And lo! an infant shews his gladsome face! + His beautiful and shining golden head + Lies on his mother's bosom, like a rose + Fallen on a lilied bank. A dewy light + Meets the soft smiling of his upward eye, + As in the playful restlessness of joy + He clings around her neck, and fondly strives + To reach the kisses mantling from her soul. + --And now, the baby in his cradle sleeps, + Hush'd by his mother's prayer! How soft her tread + Falls, like a snow-flake, on the noiseless floor! + She almost fears to breathe too fond a sigh + Towards the father of her darling child. + --Sleep broods o'er all the house: the mother's heart, + Beating within her husband's folding arms, + Dreams of sweet looks of waking happiness, + Unceasing greetings of congenial thought, + Deep blendings of existence; till awoke + By the long stirring of delightful dreams, + She with a silent prayer of thankfulness + Leans gently-breathing on the breast of love! + + Can guilt or misery ever enter here? + Ah! no; the spirit of domestic peace, + Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, + And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, + Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim, + The hallow'd porch. She hath a heavenly smile + That sinks into the sullen soul of vice, + And wins him o'er to virtue, so transforms + The purpose of his heart, that sudden shame + Smothers the curses struggling into birth, + And makes him turn an eye of kindliness + Even on the blessings that he came to blast. + It is a lofty thought, O guardian love! + To think that he who lives beneath thine eye + Can never be polluted. Pestilence, + The dire, contagious pestilence of sin + May walk abroad, and lay its victims low; + But they, whose upright spirits worship thee, + Breathe not the tainted air--they live apart + Unharm'd, as Israel's heaven-protected sons, + When the exterminating angel pass'd + With steps of blood o'er Egypt's groaning land. + Then ever keep unbroken and unstained + The sabbath-sanctity of home; the shrine + Where spirit in its rapture worships God. + By Heaven beloved for ever are the walls + That duly every morn and evening hear + Our whisper'd hymns! Eternity broods there. + Yea! like a father smiling on a band + Of happy children, the Almighty One + Dwells in the midst of us, appearing oft + In visible glory, while our filial souls, + Made pure beneath the watching of his eye, + Walk stately in the conscious praise of Heaven! + + + + +THE FRENCH EXILE. + + + My Mary! wipe those tears away + That dim thy lovely eyes, + Nor, on that wild, romantic lay, + That leads through fairy worlds astray, + Waste all thy human sighs. + Come hither on the lightsome wing + Of innocence, and with thee bring + Thy smiles that warmly fall + Into the heart with sunny glow; + When once he tunes his harp to sing, + Thou wilt not be in haste to go.-- + --The Minstrel's in the Hall! + Quickly she started from her seat, + With blushing, virgin-grace; + Her long hair floating like a stream, + While through it shone with tender gleam + Her calm and pensive face! + Soon as she heard the Minstrel's name, + Across her silent cheek there came + A blythe yet pitying ray; + For often had she heard me tell + Of the French Exile, blind and lame, + Who sung and touched the harp so well-- + --Old Louis Fontenaye. + + Silent he sat his harp beside, + Upon an antique chair; + And something of his country's pride + Did, exiled though he was, reside + Throughout his foreign air! + A snow-white dog of Gascon breed, + With ribbands deck'd, was there to lead + His dark steps,--and secure + The paltry alms that traveller threw, + Alms that in truth he much did need, + For every child that saw him, knew + That he was wretched poor. + + His harp with figures quaint and rare + Was deck'd, and strange device; + There, you beheld the mermaid fair + In mirror braid her sea-green hair, + In wild and sportive guise. + There, on the imitated swell + The Tritons blew the wreathed shell + Around some fairy isle; + --He framed it, when almost a child, + Long ere he left his native dell: + Who saw the antic carving wild + Could scarce forbear to smile. + + With silver voice, the lady said, + She knew how well he sung!-- + --Starting, he raised his hoary head, + To hear from that kind-hearted maid + His own dear native tongue. + He seem'd as if restored to sight, + So suddenly his eyes grew bright + When that music touch'd his ear; + The lilied fields of France, I ween, + Before him swam in softened light, + And the sweet waters of the Seine + They all are murmuring near. + + Even now, his voice was humbly sad, + Subdued by woe and want; + So crush'd his heart, no wish he had + To feel for one short moment glad, + That hopeless Emigrant! + --The aged man is young again, + And cheerily chaunts a playful strain + While his face with rapture shines;-- + How rapidly his fingers glance + O'er the glad strings! his giddy brain + Drinks in the chorus and the dance, + Beneath his clustering vines. + + We saw it was a darling tune + With his old heart,--a chear + That made all pains forgotten soon;-- + Gay look'd he as a bird in June + That loves itself to hear. + Nor undelightful were the lays + That warm and flowery sung the praise + Of France's lovely queen, + When with the ladies of her court, + Like Flora and her train of fays, + She came at summer-eve to sport + Along the banks of Seine. + + But fades the sportive roundelay; + Both harp and voice are still; + The dear delusion will not stay, + The murmuring Seine flows far away, + Sink cot and vine-clad hill! + Though his cheated soul is wounded sore, + His aged visage dimm'd once more, + The smile will not depart; + But struggles 'mid the wrinkles there, + For he clings unto the parting shore, + And the morn of life so melting-fair, + Still lingers in his heart. + + Ah me! what touching silentness + Slept o'er the face divine + Of my dear maid! methought each tress + Hung 'mid the light of tenderness, + Like clouds in soft moonshine. + With artful innocence she tried + In languid smiles from me to hide + Her tears that fell like rain;-- + But when she felt I must perceive + The drops of heavenly pity glide, + She own'd she could not chuse but grieve, + So gladsome was the strain! + + If when his griefs once more began, + His eyes had been restored, + And met her face so still and wan, + How had that aged, exiled man + The pitying saint adored! + Yet though the angel light that play'd + Around her face, pierced not the shade + That veil'd his eyeballs dim,-- + Yet to his ear her murmurs stole, + And, with a faultering voice, he said + That he felt them sink into his soul + Like the blessed Virgin's hymn! + + He pray'd that Heaven its flowers would strew + On both our heads through life, + With such a tone, as told he knew + She was a virgin fond and true, + Mine own betrothed wife! + And something too he strove to say + In praise of our green isle,--how they + Her generous children, though at war + With France, and both on field and wave + Encountering oft in fierce array, + Would not from home or quiet grave + Her exiled sons debar! + + Long was the aged Harper gone + Ere Mary well could speak,-- + So I cheer'd her soul with loving tone, + And, happy that she was my own, + I kiss'd her dewy cheek. + And, when once more I saw the ray + Of mild-returning pleasure play + Within her glistening eyes, + I bade the gentle maiden go + And read again that Fairy lay, + Since she could weep, 'mid fancied woe, + O'er real miseries. + + + + +THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE. + + + With laughter swimming in thine eye, + That told youth's heartfelt revelry; + And motion changeful as the wing + Of swallow waken'd by the spring; + With accents blythe as voice of May + Chaunting glad Nature's roundelay; + Circled by joy like planet bright + That smiles 'mid wreathes of dewy light,-- + Thy image such, in former time, + When thou, just entering on thy prime, + And woman's sense in thee combined + Gently with childhood's simplest mind, + First taught'st my sighing soul to move + With hope towards the heaven of love! + Now years have given my Mary's face + A thoughtful and a quiet grace:-- + Though happy still,--yet chance distress + Hath left a pensive loveliness; + Fancy has tamed her fairy gleams, + And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams! + Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild, + Shower blessings on a darling child; + Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread, + As if round thy husht infant's bed!-- + And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone, + That tells thy heart is all my own, + Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years, + With the wife's love, the mother's fears! + + By thy glad youth, and tranquil prime + Assured, I smile at hoary time! + For thou art doom'd in age to know + The calm that wisdom steals from woe; + The holy pride of high intent, + The glory of a life well-spent. + When, earth's affections nearly o'er, + With Peace behind, and Faith before, + Thou render'st up again to God, + Untarnish'd by its frail abode, + Thy lustrous soul,--then harp and hymn, + From bands of sister seraphim, + Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye + Open in Immortality. + + + + +TO A SLEEPING CHILD. + + + Art thou a thing of mortal birth, + Whose happy home is on our earth? + Does human blood with life embue + Those wandering veins of heavenly blue, + That stray along thy forehead fair, + Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair? + Oh! can that light and airy breath + Steal from a being doom'd to death; + Those features to the grave be sent + In sleep thus mutely eloquent; + Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, + The phantom of a blessed dream? + A human shape I feel thou art, + I feel it, at my beating heart, + Those tremors both of soul and sense + Awoke by infant innocence! + Though dear the forms by fancy wove, + We love them with a transient love; + Thoughts from the living world intrude + Even on her deepest solitude: + But, lovely child! thy magic stole + At once into my inmost soul, + With feelings as thy beauty fair, + And left no other vision there. + + To me thy parents are unknown; + Glad would they be their child to own! + And well they must have loved before, + If since thy birth they loved not more. + Thou art a branch of noble stem, + And, seeing thee, I figure them. + What many a childless one would give, + If thou in their still home wouldst live! + Though in thy face no family-line + Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine!" + In time thou would'st become the same + As their own child,--all but the name! + + How happy must thy parents be + Who daily live in sight of thee! + Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek + Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak, + And feel all natural griefs beguiled + By thee, their fond, their duteous child. + What joy must in their souls have stirr'd + When thy first broken words were heard, + Words, that, inspired by Heaven, express'd + The transports dancing in thy breast! + As for thy smile!--thy lip, cheek, brow, + Even while I gaze, are kindling now. + + I called thee duteous: am I wrong? + No! truth, I feel, is in my song: + Duteous thy heart's still beatings move + To God, to Nature, and to Love! + To God!--for thou a harmless child + Hast kept his temple undefiled: + To Nature!--for thy tears and sighs + Obey alone her mysteries: + To Love!--for fiends of hate might see + Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee! + What wonder then, though in thy dreams + Thy face with mystic meaning beams! + + Oh! that my spirit's eye could see + Whence burst those gleams of extacy! + That light of dreaming soul appears + To play from thoughts above thy years. + Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring + To Heaven, and Heaven's God adoring! + And who can tell what visions high + May bless an infant's sleeping eye? + What brighter throne can brightness find + To reign on than an infant's mind, + Ere sin destroy, or error dim, + The glory of the Seraphim? + + But now thy changing smiles express + Intelligible happiness. + I feel my soul thy soul partake. + What grief! if thou should'st now awake! + With infants happy as thyself + I see thee bound, a playful elf: + I see thou art a darling child + Among thy playmates, bold and wild. + They love thee well; thou art the queen + Of all their sports, in bower or green; + And if thou livest to woman's height, + In thee will friendship, love delight. + + And live thou surely must; thy life + Is far too spiritual for the strife + Of mortal pain, nor could disease + Find heart to prey on smiles like these. + Oh! thou wilt be an angel bright! + To those thou lovest, a saving light! + The staff of age, the help sublime + Of erring youth, and stubborn prime; + And when thou goest to Heaven again, + Thy vanishing be like the strain + Of airy harp, so soft the tone + The ear scarce knows when it is gone! + + Thrice blessed he! whose stars design + His spirit pure to lean on thine; + And watchful share, for days and years, + Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears! + For good and guiltless as thou art, + Some transient griefs will touch thy heart, + Griefs that along thy alter'd face + Will breathe a more subduing grace, + Than ev'n those looks of joy that lie + On the soft cheek of infancy. + Though looks, God knows, are cradled there + That guilt might cleanse, or sooth despair. + + Oh! vision fair! that I could be + Again, as young, as pure as thee! + Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form + May view, but cannot brave the storm; + Years can bedim the gorgeous dies + That paint the bird of paradise, + And years, so fate hath order'd, roll + Clouds o'er the summer of the soul. + Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace, + Such as the gladness of thy face, + O sinless babe! by God are given + To charm the wanderer back to Heaven. + + No common impulse hath me led + To this green spot, thy quiet bed, + Where, by mere gladness overcome, + In sleep thou dreamest of thy home. + When to the lake I would have gone, + A wondrous beauty drew me on, + Such beauty as the spirit sees + In glittering fields, and moveless trees, + After a warm and silent shower, + Ere falls on earth the twilight hour. + What led me hither, all can say, + Who, knowing God, his will obey. + + Thy slumbers now cannot be long: + Thy little dreams become too strong + For sleep,--too like realities: + Soon shall I see those hidden eyes! + Thou wakest, and, starting from the ground, + In dear amazement look'st around; + Like one who, little given to roam, + Wonders to find herself from home! + But, when a stranger meets thy view, + Glistens thine eye with wilder hue. + A moment's thought who I may be, + Blends with thy smiles of courtesy. + Fair was that face as break of dawn, + When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn + Like a thin veil that half-conceal'd + The light of soul, and half-reveal'd. + While thy hush'd heart with visions wrought, + Each trembling eye-lash moved with thought, + And things we dream, but ne'er can speak, + Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek, + Such summer-clouds as travel light, + When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright; + Till thou awok'st,--then to thine eye + Thy whole heart leapt in extacy! + + And lovely is that heart of thine, + Or sure these eyes could never shine + With such a wild, yet bashful glee, + Gay, half-o'ercome timidity! + Nature has breath'd into thy face + A spirit of unconscious grace; + A spirit that lies never still, + And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will. + As, sometimes o'er a sleeping lake + Soft airs a gentle ripling make, + Till, ere we know, the strangers fly, + And water blends again with sky. + + Oh! happy sprite! didst thou but know + What pleasures through my being flow + From thy soft eyes, a holier feeling + From their blue light could ne'er be stealing, + But thou would'st be more loth to part, + And give me more of that glad heart! + Oh! gone thou art! and bearest hence + The glory of thy innocence. + But with deep joy I breathe the air + That kiss'd thy cheek, and fann'd thy hair, + And feel though fate our lives must sever, + Yet shall thy image live for ever! + + + + +MY COTTAGE. + + One small spot + Where my tired mind may rest and call it _home_. + There is a magic in that little word; + It is a mystic circle that surrounds + Comforts and virtues never known beyond + The hallowed limit. + + _Southey's Hymn to the Penates._ + + + Here have I found at last a home of peace + To hide me from the world; far from its noise, + To feed that spirit, which, though sprung from earth + And link'd to human beings by the bond + Of earthly love, hath yet a loftier aim + Than perishable joy, and through the calm + That sleeps amid the mountain-solitude, + Can hear the billows of eternity, + And hear delighted. + + Many a mystic gleam, + Lovely though faint, of imaged happiness + Fell on my youthful heart, as oft her light + Smiles on a wandering cloud, ere the fair Moon + Hath risen in the sky. And oh! Ye dreams + That to such spiritual happiness could shape + The lonely reveries of my boyish days, + Are ye at last fulfill'd? Ye fairy scenes, + That to the doubting gaze of prophecy + Rose lovely, with your fields of sunny green, + Your sparkling rivulets and hanging groves + Of more than rainbow lustre, where the swing + Of woods primeval darken'd the still depth + Of lakes bold-sweeping round their guardian hills, + Even like the arms of Ocean, where the roar + Sullen and far from mountain cataract + Was heard amid the silence, like a thought + Of solemn mood that tames the dancing soul + When swarming with delight;--Ye fairy scenes! + Fancied no more, but bursting on my heart + In living beauty, with adoring song + I bid you hail! and with as holy love + As ever beautified the eye of saint + Hymning his midnight orisons, to you + I consecrate my life,--till the dim stain + Left by those worldly and unhallow'd thoughts + That taint the purest soul, by bliss destroyed, + My spirit travel like a summer sun, + Itself all glory, and its path all joy. + + Nor will the musing penance of the soul, + Perform'd by moonlight, or the setting sun, + To hymn of swinging oak, or the wild flow + Of mountain-torrent, ever lead her on + To virtue, but through peace. For Nature speaks + A parent's language, and, in tones as mild + As e'er hush'd infant on its mother's breast, + Wins us to learn her lore. Yea! even to guilt, + Though in her image something terrible + Weigh down his being with a load of awe, + Love mingles with her wrath, like tender light + Stream'd o'er a dying storm. And thus where'er + Man feels as man, the earth is beautiful. + His blessings sanctify even senseless things, + And the wide world in cheerful loveliness + Returns to him its joy. The summer air, + Whose glittering stillness sleeps within his soul, + Stirs with its own delight: The verdant earth, + Like beauty waking from a happy dream, + Lies smiling: Each fair cloud to him appears + A pilgrim travelling to the shrine of peace; + And the wild wave, that wantons on the sea, + A gay though homeless stranger. Ever blest + The man who thus beholds the golden chain + Linking his soul to outward Nature fair, + Full of the living God! + + And where, ye haunts + Of grandeur and of beauty! shall the heart, + That yearns for high communion with its God, + Abide, if e'er its dreams have been of you? + The loveliest sounds, forms, hues, of all the earth + Linger delighted here: Here guilt might come, + With sullen soul abhorring Nature's joy, + And in a moment be restored to Heaven. + Here sorrow, with a dimness o'er his face, + Might be beguiled to smiles,--almost forget + His sufferings, and, in Nature's living book, + Read characters so lovely, that his heart + Would, as it bless'd them, feel a rising swell + Almost like joy!--O earthly paradise! + Of many a secret anguish hast thou healed + Him, who now greets thee with a joyful strain. + + And oh! if in those elevated hopes + That lean on virtue,--in those high resolves + That bring the future close upon the soul, + And nobly dare its dangers;--if in joy + Whose vital spring is more than innocence, + Yea! Faith and Adoration!--if the soul + Of man may trust to these,--and they are strong, + Strong as the prayer of dying penitent,-- + My being shall be bliss. For witness, Thou! + Oh Mighty One! whose saving love has stolen + On the deep peace of moon-beams to my heart,-- + Thou! who with looks of mercy oft hast cheer'd + The starry silence, when, at noon of night, + On some wild mountain thou hast not declined + The homage of thy lonely worshipper,-- + Bear witness Thou! that, both in joy and grief, + The love of nature long hath been with me + The love of virtue:--that the solitude + Of the remotest hills to me hath been + Thy temple:--that the fountain's happy voice + Hath sung thy goodness, and thy power has stunn'd + My spirit in the roaring cataract! + + Such solitude to me! Yet are there hearts,-- + Worthy of good men's love, nor unadorn'd + With sense of moral beauty,--to the joy + That dwells within the Almighty's outward shrine, + Senseless and cold. Aye, there are men who see + The broad sun sinking in a blaze of light, + Nor feel their disembodied spirits hail + With adoration the departing God; + Who on the night-sky, when a cloudless moon + Glides in still beauty through unnumber'd stars, + Can turn the eye unmoved, as if a wall + Of darkness screen'd the glory from their souls. + With humble pride I bless the Holy One + For sights to these denied. And oh! how oft + In seasons of depression,--when the lamp + Of life burn'd dim, and all unpleasant thoughts + Subdued the proud aspirings of the soul,-- + When doubts and fears with-held the timid eye + From scanning scenes to come, and a deep sense + Of human frailty turn'd the past to pain, + How oft have I remember'd that a world + Of glory lay around me, that a source + Of lofty solace lay in every star, + And that no being need behold the sun, + And grieve, that knew WHO hung him in the sky. + Thus unperceived I woke from heavy grief + To airy joy: and seeing that the mind + Of man, though still the image of his God, + Lean'd by his will on various happiness, + I felt that all was good; that faculties, + Though low, might constitute, if rightly used, + True wisdom; and when man hath here attain'd + The purpose of his being, he will sit + Near Mercy's throne, whether his course hath been + Prone on the earth's dim sphere, or, as with wing + Of viewless eagle, round the central blaze. + + Then ever shall the day that led me here + Be held in blest remembrance. I shall see, + Even at my dying hour, the glorious sun + That made Winander one wide wave of gold, + When first in transport from the mountain-top + I hail'd the heavenly vision! Not a cloud, + Whose wreaths lay smiling in the lap of light, + Not one of all those sister-isles that sleep + Together, like a happy family + Of beauty and of love, but will arise + To chear my parting spirit, and to tell + That Nature gently leads unto the grave + All who have read her heart, and kept their own + In kindred holiness. + + But ere that hour + Of awful triumph, I do hope that years + Await me, when the unconscious power of joy + Creating wisdom, the bright dreams of soul + Will humanize the heart, and I shall be + More worthy to be loved by those whose love + Is highest praise:--that by the living light + That burns for ever in affection's breast, + I shall behold how fair and beautiful + A human form may be.--Oh, there are thoughts + That slumber in the soul, like sweetest sounds + Amid the harp's loose strings, till airs from Heaven + On earth, at dewy night-fall, visitant, + Awake the sleeping melody! Such thoughts, + My gentle Mary, I have owed to thee. + And if thy voice e'er melt into my soul + With a dear home-toned whisper,--if thy face + E'er brighten in the unsteady gleams of light + From our own cottage-hearth;--O Mary! then + My overpowered spirit will recline + Upon thy inmost heart, till it become, + O sinless seraph! almost worthy thee. + + Then will the earth,--that oft-times to the eye + Of solitary lover seems o'erhung + With too severe a shade, and faintly smiles + With ineffectual beauty on his heart,-- + Be clothed with everlasting joy; like land + Of blooming faery, or of boyhood's dreams + Ere life's first flush is o'er. Oft shall I turn + My vision from the glories of the scene + To read them in thine eyes; and hidden grace, + That slumbers in the crimson clouds of Even, + Will reach my spirit through their varying light, + Though viewless in the sky. Wandering with thee, + A thousand beauties never seen before + Will glide with sweet surprise into my soul, + Even in those fields where each particular tree + Was look'd on as a friend,--where I had been + Frequent, for years, among the lonely glens. + + Nor, 'mid the quiet of reflecting bliss, + Will the faint image of the distant world + Ne'er float before us:--Cities will arise + Among the clouds that circle round the sun, + Gorgeous with tower and temple. The night-voice + Of flood and mountain to our ear will seem + Like life's loud stir:--And, as the dream dissolves, + With burning spirit we will smile to see + Only the Moon rejoicing in the sky, + And the still grandeur of the eternal hills. + + Yet, though the fulness of domestic joy + Bless our united beings, and the home + Be ever happy where thy smiles are seen, + Though human voice might never touch our ear + From lip of friend or brother;--yet, oh! think + What pure benevolence will warm our hearts, + When with the undelaying steps of love + Through you o'ershadowing wood we dimly see + A coming friend, far distant then believed, + And all unlook'd-for. When the short distrust + Of unexpected joy no more constrains, + And the eye's welcome brings him to our arms, + With gladden'd spirit he will quickly own + That true love ne'er was selfish, and that man + Ne'er knew the whole affection of his heart + Till resting on another's. If from scenes + Of noisy life he come, and in his soul + The love of Nature, like a long-past dream, + If e'er it stir, yield but a dim delight, + Oh! we shall lead him where the genial power + Of beauty, working by the wavy green + Of hill-ascending wood, the misty gleam + Of lakes reposing in their peaceful vales, + And, lovelier than the loveliness below, + The moonlight Heaven, shall to his blood restore + An undisturbed flow, such as he felt + Pervade his being, morning, noon, and night, + When youth's bright years pass'd happily away, + Among his native hills, and all he knew + Of crowded cities, was from passing tale + Of traveller, half-believed, and soon forgotten. + + And fear not, Mary! that, when winter comes, + These solitary mountains will resign + The beauty that pervades their mighty frames, + Even like a living soul. The gleams of light + Hurrying in joyful tumult o'er the cliffs, + And giving to our musings many a burst + Of sudden grandeur, even as if the eye + Of God were wandering o'er the lovely wild, + Pleased with his own creation;--the still joy + Of cloudless skies; and the delighted voice + Of hymning fountains,--these will leave awhile + The altered earth:--But other attributes + Of Nature's heart will rule, and in the storm + We shall behold the same prevailing Power + That slumbers in the calm, and sanctify, + With adoration, the delight of love. + + *...*...*...* + + I lift my eyes upon the radiant Moon, + That long unnoticed o'er my head has held + Her solitary walk, and as her light + Recals my wandering soul, I start to feel + That all has been a dream. Alone I stand + Amid the silence. Onward rolls the stream + Of time, while to my ear its waters sound + With a strange rushing music. O my soul! + Whate'er betide, for aye remember thou + These mystic warnings, for they are of Heaven. + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WINDERMERE, ON RECOVERY FROM A DANGEROUS ILLNESS. + + + Once more, dear Lake! along thy banks I rove, + And bless thee in my heart that flows with love. + Methinks, as life's awakening embers burn, + Nature rejoices in her son's return; + And, like a parent after absence long, + Sings from her heart of hearts a chearful song. + Oh! that fresh breeze through all my being stole, + And made sweet music in my gladden'd soul! + To me just rescued from the opening grave, + How bright the radiance of the dancing wave! + A gleam of joy, a soft endearing smile, + Plays 'mid the greenness of each sylvan isle, + And, in the bounty of affection, showers + A loving welcome o'er these blissful bowers. + Quick glides the hymning streamlet, to partake + The deep enjoyment of the happy lake; + The pebbles, sparkling through the yellow brook, + Seem to my gaze to wear a livelier look; + And little wild-flowers, that in careless health + Lay round my path in unregarded wealth, + In laughing beauty court my eyes again, + Like friends unchanged by coldness or disdain. + Now life and joy are one:--to Earth, Air, Heaven, + An undisturbed jubilee is given; + While, happy as in dreams, I seem to fly, + Skimming the ground, or soaring through the sky, + And feel, with sudden life-pervading glee, + As if this rapture all were made for me. + + And well the glory to my soul is known; + For mystic visions stamped it as my own. + While sickness lay, like ice, upon my breath, + With eye prophetic, through the shades of death + That brooded o'er me like a dreary night, + This beauteous scene I saw in living light. + No friend was near me: and a heavy gloom + Lay in deep silence o'er the lonely room; + Even hope had fled; and as in parting strife + My soul stood trembling on the brink of life,-- + When lo! sweet sounds, like those that now I hear, + Of stream and zephyr stole into my ear. + Far through my heart the mingled music ran, + Like tones of mercy to a dying man. + Rejoicing in the rosy morning's birth, + Like new-waked beauty lay the dewy earth; + The mighty sun I saw, as now I see, + And my soul shone with kindred majesty: + Calm smiled the Lake; and from that smile arose + Faith, hope, and trust, oblivion of my woes: + I felt that I should live; nor could despair + Bedim a scene so glorious, and so fair. + + Now is the vision truth. Disease hath flown, + And in the midst of joy I stand alone. + The eye of God is on me: the wide sky + Is sanctified with present Deity, + And, at his bidding, Nature's aspect mild + Pours healing influence on her wasted child. + My eye now brightens with the brightening scene, + Chear'd with the hues of kind restoring green; + As with a lulling sound the fountain flows, + My tingling ear is filled with still repose; + The summer silence, sleeping on the plain, + Sends settled quiet to my dizzy brain; + And the moist freshness of the glittering wood + Cools with a heart-felt dew my feverish blood. + + O blessed Lake! thy sparkling waters roll + Health to my frame, and rapture to my soul. + Emblem of peace, of innocence, and love! + Sleeping in beauty given thee from above: + This earth delighting in thy gentle breast, + And the glad heavens attending on thy rest! + Can he e'er turn from virtue's quiet bowers, + All fragrant dropping with immortal flowers, + Whose inward eye, as with a magic art, + Beholds thy glory imaged in his heart? + No! he shall live, from guilt and vice afar, + As in the silent Heavens some lonely star. + A light shall be around him to defend + The holy head of Nature's bosom friend. + And if the mists of error e'er should come + To that bright sphere where virtue holds her home, + She has a charm to scare the intruder thence; + Or, powerful in her spotless innocence, + With one calm look her spirit will transform + To a fair cloud the heralds of the storm. + + Nor less, Winander! to thy power I owe + Rays of delight amid the gloom of woe. + Yes! oft, when self-tormenting fancy framed + Forms of dim fear that grief has never named; + When the whole world seem'd void of mental cheer, + Nor spring nor summer in the joyless year, + Oft has thy image of upbraiding love, + Seen on a sudden through some opening grove, + Even like the tender unexpected smile + Of some dear friend I had forgot the while, + In silence said, "My son, why not partake + "The peace now brooding o'er thy darling lake? + "Oh! why in sullen discontent destroy + "The law of Nature, Universal Joy?" + + Sweet Lake! I listen to thy guardian voice: + I look abroad; and, looking, I rejoice. + My home is here; ah! never shall we part, + Till life's last pulse hath left my wasted heart. + True that another land first gave me birth, + And other lakes beheld my infant mirth: + Far from these skies dear friendships have I known, + And still in memory lives their soften'd tone; + Yet though the image of my earlier years + 'Mid Scotland's mountains dim my eyes with tears, + And the heart's day-dreams oft will lingering dwell + On that wild region which she loves so well,-- + Think not, sweet Lake! before my years are told + My love for thee and thine can e'er grow cold: + For here hath Hope fix'd her last earthly bound, + And where Hope rests in peace, is hallow'd ground. + + And oh! if e'er that happy time shall come, + When she I love sits smiling in my home, + And, oft as chance may bid us meet or part, + Speaks the soft word that slides into the heart, + Then fair as now thou art, yea! passing fair, + Thy scarce-seen waters melting into air, + Far lovelier gleams will dance upon thy breast, + And thine isles bend their trees in deeper rest. + Then will my joy-enlighten'd soul descry + All that is beautiful on land or sky; + For, when the heart is calm with pure delight, + Revels the soul 'mid many a glorious sight. + The earth then kindles with a vernal grace, + Glad as the laugh upon an infant-face: + The sun himself is clothed with vaster light, + And showers of gentler sadness bathe the night. + + Dreams of delight! while thus I fondly weave + Your fairy-folds, Oh! can ye e'er deceive? + Are ye in vain to cheated mortals given, + Lovely impostors in the garb of Heaven? + Fears, hopes, doubts, wishes, hush my pensive shell, + Fount of them all, dear Lake! farewell! farewell! + + + + +APOLOGY + +FOR THE LITTLE NAVAL TEMPLE, ON STORRS' POINT, WINDERMERE. + + + Nay! Stranger! smile not at this little dome, + Albeit quaint, and with no nice regard + To highest rules of grace and symmetry, + Plaything of art, it venture thus to stand + 'Mid the great forms of Nature. Doth it seem + A vain intruder in the quiet heart + Of this majestic Lake, that like an arm + Of Ocean, or some Indian river vast, + In beauty floats amid its guardian hills? + Haply it may: yet in this humble tower, + The mimicry of loftier edifice, + There lives a silent spirit, that confers + A lasting charter on its sportive wreath + Of battlements, amid the mountain-calm + To stand as proudly, as you giant rock + That with his shadow dims the dazzling lake! + + Then blame it not: for know 'twas planted here, + In mingled mood of seriousness and mirth, + By one[4] who meant to Nature's sanctity + No cold unmeaning outrage. He was one + Who often in adventurous youth had sail'd + O'er the great waters, and he dearly loved + Their music wild; nor less the gallant souls + Whose home is on the Ocean:--so he framed + This jutting mole, that like a natural cape + Meets the soft-breaking waves, and on its point, + Bethinking him of some sea-structure huge, + Watch-tower or light-house, rear'd this mimic dome, + Seen up and down the lake, a monument + Sacred to images of former days. + + See! in the playfulness of English zeal + Its low walls are emblazon'd! there thou read'st + Howe, Duncan, Vincent, and that mightier name + Whom death has made immortal.--Not misplaced + On temple rising from an inland sea + Such venerable names, though ne'er was heard + The sound of cannon o'er these tranquil shores, + Save when it peal'd to waken in her cave + The mountain echo: yet this chronicle, + Speaking of war amid the depths of peace, + Wastes not its meaning on the heedless air. + It hath its worshippers: it sends a voice, + A voice creating elevated thoughts, + Into the hearts of our bold peasantry + Following the plough along these fertile vales, + Or up among the misty solitude + Beside the wild sheep-fold. The fishermen, + Who on the clear wave ply their silent trade, + Oft passing lean upon their dripping oars, + And bless the heroes: Idling in the joy + Of summer sunshine, as in light canoe + The stranger glides among these lovely isles, + This little temple to his startled soul + Oft sends a gorgeous vision, gallant crews + In fierce joy cheering as they onwards bear + To break the line of battle, meteor-like + Long ensigns brightening on the towery mast, + And sails in awful silence o'er the main + Lowering like thunder-clouds!-- + + Then, stranger! give + A blessing on this temple, and admire + The gaudy pendant round the painted staff + Wreathed in still splendour, or in wanton folds, + Even like a serpent bright and beautiful, + Streaming its burnished glory on the air. + And whether silence sleep upon the stones + Of this small edifice, or from within + Steal the glad voice of laughter and of song, + Pass on with alter'd thoughts, and gently own + That Windermere, with all her radiant isles + Serenely floating on her azure breast, + Like stars in heaven, with kindest smiles may robe + This monument, to heroes dedicate, + Nor Nature feel her holy reign profaned + By work of art, though framed in humblest guise, + When a high spirit prompts the builder's soul. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[4] The late Sir John Legard, Bart. + + + + +PICTURE OF A BLIND MAN. + + + Why sits so long beside you cottage-door + That aged man with tresses thin and hoar? + Fix'd are his eyes in one continued gaze, + Nor seem to feel the sun's meridian blaze; + Yet are the orbs with youth-like colours bright, + As o'er the Iris falls the trembling light. + Changeless his mien; not even one flitting trace + Of spirit wanders o'er his furrow'd face; + No feeling moves his venerable head: + --He sitteth there--an emblem of the dead! + The staff of age lies near him on the seat, + His faithful dog is slumbering at his feet, + And you fair child, who steals an hour for play + While thus her father rests upon his way, + Her sport will leave, nor cast one look behind, + Soon as she hears his voice,--for he is blind! + + List! as in tones through deep affection mild + He speaks by name to the delighted child! + Then, bending mute in dreams of painful bliss, + Breathes o'er her neck a father's tenderest kiss, + And with light hand upon her forehead fair + Smooths the stray ringlets of her silky hair! + A beauteous phantom rises through the night + For ever brooding o'er his darken'd sight, + So clearly imaged both in form and limb, + He scarce remembers that his eyes are dim, + But thinks he sees in truth the vernal wreath + His gentle infant wove, that it might breathe + A sweet restoring fragrance through his breast, + Chosen from the wild-flowers that he loves the best. + In that sweet trance he sees the sparkling glee + That sanctifies the face of infancy; + The dimpled cheek where playful fondness lies, + And the blue softness of her smiling eyes; + The spirit's temple unprofaned by tears, + Where God's unclouded loveliness appears; + Those gleams of soul to every feature given, + When youth walks guiltless by the light of heaven! + + And oh! what pleasures through his spirit burn, + When to the gate his homeward steps return; + When fancy's eye the curling smoke surveys, + And his own hearth is gaily heard to blaze! + How beams his sightless visage! when the press + Of Love's known hand, with cheerful tenderness, + Falls on his arm, and leads with guardian care + His helpless footsteps to the accustomed chair; + When that dear voice he joy'd from youth to hear + With kind enquiry comes unto his ear, + And tremulous tells how lovely still must be + Those fading beauties that he ne'er must see! + + Though ne'er by him his cottage-home be seen, + Where to the wild brook slopes the daisied green; + Though the bee, slowly borne on laden wing, + To him be known but by its murmuring; + And the long leaf that trembles in the breeze + Be all that tells him of his native trees; + Yet dear to him each viewless object round + Familiar to his soul from touch or sound. + The stream, 'mid banks of osier winding near, + Lulls his calm spirit through the listening ear: + Deeply his soul enjoys the loving strife + When the warm summer air is fill'd with life; + And as his limbs in quiet dreams are laid, + Blest is the oak's contemporary shade. + + Happy old Man! no vain regrets intrude + On the still hour of sightless solitude. + Though deepest shades o'er outward Nature roll, + Her cloudless beauty lives within thy soul + --Oft to you rising mount thy steps ascend, + As to the spot where dwelt a former friend; + From whose green summit thou could'st once behold + Mountains far-off in dim confusion roll'd, + Lakes of blue mist, where gleam'd the whitening sail, + And many a woodland interposing vale. + + Thou seest them still: and oh! how soft a shade + Does memory breathe o'er mountain, wood, and glade! + Each craggy pass, where oft in sportive scorn + Had sprung thy limbs in life's exulting morn; + Each misty cataract, and torrent-flood, + Where thou a silent angler oft hast stood; + Each shelter'd creek where through the roughest day + Floated thy bark without the anchor's stay; + Each nameless field by nameless thought endear'd; + Each little hedge-row that thy childhood rear'd, + That seems unalter'd yet in form and size, + Though fled the clouds of fifty summer skies, + Rise on thy soul,--on high devotion springs + Through Nature's beauty borne on Fancy's wings, + And while the blissful vision floats around, + Of loveliest form, fair hue, and melting sound, + Thou carest not, though blindness may not roam,-- + For Heaven's own glory smiles around thy home. + + + + +TROUTBECK CHAPEL. + + + How sweet and solemn at the close of day, + After a long and lonely pilgrimage + Among the mountains, where our spirits held + With wildering fancy and her kindred powers + High converse, to descend as from the clouds + Into a quiet valley, fill'd with trees + By Nature planted, crowding round the brink + Of an oft-hidden rivulet, or hung + A beauteous shelter o'er the humble roof + Of many a moss-grown cottage! + + In that hour + Of pensive happiness, the wandering man + Looks for some spot of still profounder rest, + Where nought may break the solemn images + Sent by the setting sun into his soul. + Up to you simple edifice he walks, + That seems beneath its sable grove of pines + More silent than the home where living thing + Abides, yea, even than desolated tower + Wrapt in its ivy-shroud. + + I know it well,-- + The village-chapel: many a year ago, + That little dome to God was dedicate; + And ever since, hath undisturbed peace + Sat on it, moveless as the brooding dove + That must not leave her nest. A mossy wall, + Bathed though in ruins with a flush of flowers, + (A lovely emblem of that promised life + That springs from death) doth placidly enclose + The bed of rest, where with their fathers sleep + The children of the vale, and the calm stream + That murmurs onward with the self-same tone + For ever, by the mystic power of sound + Binding the present with the past, pervades + The holy hush as if with God's own voice, + Filling the listening heart with piety. + + Oh! ne'er shall I forget the hour, when first + Thy little chapel stole upon my heart, + Secluded TROUTBECK! 'Twas the Sabbath-morn, + And up the rocky banks of thy wild stream + I wound my path, full oft I ween delay'd + By sounding waterfall, that 'mid the calm + Awoke such solemn thoughts as suited well + The day of peace; till all at once I came + Out of the shady glen, and with fresh joy + Walk'd on encircled by green pastoral hills. + Before me suddenly thy chapel rose + As if it were an image: even then + The noise of thunder roll'd along the sky, + And darkness veil'd the heights,--a summer-storm + Of short forewarning and of transient power. + Ah me! how beautifully silent thou + Didst smile amid the tempest! O'er thy roof + Arch'd a fair rainbow, that to me appear'd + A holy shelter to thee in the storm, + And made thee shine amid the brooding gloom, + Bright as the morning star. Between the fits + Of the loud thunder, rose the voice of Psalms, + A most soul-moving sound. There unappall'd, + A choir of youths and maidens hymned their God, + With tones that robb'd the thunder of its dread, + Bidding it rave in vain. + + Out came the sun + In glory from his clouded tabernacle; + And, waken'd by the splendour, up the lark + Rose with a loud and yet a louder song, + Chaunting to heaven the hymn of gratitude. + The service closed; and o'er the church-yard spread + The happy flock who in that peaceful fold + Had worshipp'd Jesus, carrying to their homes + The comfort of a faith that cannot die, + That to the young supplies a guiding light, + Steadier than reason's, and far brighter too, + And to the aged sanctifies the grass + That grows upon the grave. + + O happy lot, + Methought, to tend a little flock like this, + Loving them all, and by them all beloved! + So felt their shepherd on that Sabbath-morn + Returning their kind smiles;--a pious man, + Content in this lone vale to teach the truths + Our Saviour taught, nor wishing other praise + Than of his great task-master. Yet his youth + Not unadorn'd with science, nor the lore + Becoming in their prime accomplish'd men, + Told that among the worldly eminent + Might lie his shining way:--but, wiser far, + He to the shades of solitude retired, + The birth-place of his fathers, and there vow'd + His talents and his virtues, rarest both, + To God who gave them, rendering by his voice + This beauteous chapel still more beautiful, + And the blameless dwellers in this quiet dale + Happier in life and death. + + + + +PEACE AND INNOCENCE. + + + The lingering lustre of a vernal day + From the dim landscape slowly steals away; + One lovely hour!--and then the stars of Even + Will sparkling hail the apparent Queen of Heaven; + For the tired Sun, now softly sinking down, + To his fair daughter leaves his silent throne. + Almost could I believe with life embued, + And hush'd in dreams, this gentle solitude. + Look where I may, a tranquillizing soul + Breathes forth a life-like pleasure o'er the whole. + The shadows settling on the mountain's breast + Recline, as conscious of the hour of rest; + Stedfast as objects in a peaceful dream, + The sleepy trees are bending o'er the stream; + The stream, half veil'd in snowy vapour, flows + With sound like silence, motion like repose. + My heart obeys the power of earth and sky, + And 'mid the quiet slumbers quietly! + + A wreath of smoke, that feels no breath of air, + Melts amid you fair clouds, itself as fair, + And seems to link in beauteousness and love + That earthly cottage to the domes above. + There my heart rests,--as if by magic bound: + Blessings be on that plat of orchard-ground! + Wreathed round the dwelling like a fairy ring, + Its green leaves lost in richest blossoming. + Within that ring no creature seems alive; + The bees have ceased to hum around the hive; + On the tall ash the rooks have roosted long, + And the fond dove hath coo'd his latest song; + Now, shrouded close beneath the holly-bush, + Sits on her low-built nest the sleeping thrush. + + All do not sleep: behold a spotless lamb + Looks bleating round, as if it sought its dam. + Its restless motion and its piteous moan + Tell that it fears all night to rest alone, + Though heaven's most gracious dew descends in peace + Softly as snow-flakes on its radiant fleece. + That mournful bleat hath touch'd the watchful ear + Of one to whom the little lamb is dear, + As innocent and lovely as itself! + See where with springs she comes, the smiling elf! + Well does the lamb her infant guardian know: + Joy brightening dances o'er her breast of snow, + And light as flying leaf, with sudden glide, + Fondly she presses to the maiden's side. + With kindness quieting its late alarms, + The sweet child folds it in her nursing arms; + And calling it by every gentle name + That happy innocence through love can frame, + With tenderest kisses lavish'd on its head, + Conducts it frisking to its shelter'd bed. + + Kind hearted infant! be thy slumbers bland! + Dream that thy sportive lambkin licks thy hand, + Or, wearied out by races short and fleet, + Basks in the sunshine, resting on thy feet; + That waking from repose, unbroken, deep, + Thou scarce shalt know that thou hast been asleep! + With eye-lids trembling through thy golden hair, + I hear thee lisping low thy nightly prayer. + O sweetest voice! what beauty breathes therein! + Ne'er hath its music been impaired by sin. + In all its depths my soul shall carry hence + The air serene born of thy innocence. + To me most awful is thy hour of rest, + For little children sleep in Jesus' breast! + + + + +LOUGHRIG TARN. + + + Thou guardian Naiad of this little Lake, + Whose banks in unprofaned Nature sleep, + (And that in waters lone and beautiful + Dwell spirits radiant as the homes they love, + Have poets still believed) O surely blest + Beyond all genii or of wood or wave, + Or sylphs that in the shooting sunbeams dwell, + Art thou! yea, happier even than summer-cloud + Beloved by air and sky, and floating slow + O'er the still bosom of upholding heaven. + + Beauteous as blest, O Naiad, thou must be! + For, since thy birth, have all delightful things, + Of form and hue, of silence and of sound, + Circled thy spirit, as the crowding stars + Shine round the placid Moon. Lov'st thou to sink + Into thy cell of sleep? The water parts + With dimpling smiles around thee, and below, + The unsunn'd verdure, soft as cygnet's down, + Meets thy descending feet without a sound. + Lov'st thou to sport upon the watery gleam? + Lucid as air around thy head it lies + Bathing thy sable locks in pearly light, + While, all around, the water lilies strive + To shower their blossoms o'er the virgin queen. + Or doth the shore allure thee?--well it may: + How soft these fields of pastoral beauty melt + In the clear water! neither sand nor stone + Bars herb or wild-flower from the dewy sound, + Like Spring's own voice now rippling round the Tarn. + There oft thou liest 'mid the echoing bleat + Of lambs, that race amid the sunny gleams; + Or bee's wide murmur as it fills the broom + That yellows round thy bed. O gentle glades, + Amid the tremulous verdure of the woods, + In stedfast smiles of more essential light, + Lying, like azure streaks of placid sky + Amid the moving clouds, the Naiad loves + Your glimmering alleys, and your rustling bowers; + For there, in peace reclined, her half-closed eye + Through the long vista sees her darling Lake, + Even like herself, diffused in fair repose. + + Not undelightful to the quiet breast + Such solitary dreams as now have fill'd + My busy fancy; dreams that rise in peace, + And thither lead, partaking in their flight + Of human interests and earthly joys. + Imagination fondly leans on truth, + And sober scenes of dim reality + To her seem lovely as the western sky, + To the rapt Persian worshipping the sun. + Methinks this little lake, to whom my heart + Assigned a guardian spirit, renders back + To me, in tenderest gleams of gratitude, + Profounder beauty to reward my hymn. + + Long hast thou been a darling haunt of mine, + And still warm blessings gush'd into my heart, + Meeting or parting with thy smiles of peace. + But now, thy mild and gentle character, + More deeply felt than ever, seems to blend + Its essence pure with mine, like some sweet tune + Oft heard before with pleasure, but at last, + In one high moment of inspired bliss, + Borne through the spirit like an angel's song. + + This is the solitude that reason loves! + Even he who yearns for human sympathies, + And hears a music in the breath of man, + Dearer than voice of mountain or of flood, + Might live a hermit here, and mark the sun + Rising or setting 'mid the beauteous calm, + Devoutly blending in his happy soul + Thoughts both of earth and heaven!--Yon mountain-side, + Rejoicing in its clustering cottages, + Appears to me a paradise preserved + From guilt by Nature's hand, and every wreath + Of smoke, that from these hamlets mounts to heaven, + In its straight silence holy as a spire + Rear'd o'er the house of God. + + Thy sanctity + Time yet hath reverenced; and I deeply feel + That innocence her shrine shall here preserve + For ever.--The wild vale that lies beyond, + Circled by mountains trod but by the feet + Of venturous shepherd, from all visitants, + Save the free tempests and the fowls of heaven, + Guards thee;--and wooded knolls fantastical + Seclude thy image from the gentler dale, + That by the Brathay's often-varied voice + Chear'd as it winds along, in beauty fades + 'Mid the green banks of joyful Windermere! + + O gentlest Lake! from all unhallow'd things + By grandeur guarded in thy loveliness, + Ne'er may thy poet with unwelcome feet + Press thy soft moss embathed in flowery dies, + And shadow'd in thy stillness like the heavens. + May innocence for ever lead me here, + To form amid the silence high resolves + For future life; resolves, that, born in peace, + Shall live 'mid tumult, and though haply mild + As infants in their play, when brought to bear + On the world's business, shall assert their power + And majesty--and lead me boldly on + Like giants conquering in a noble cause. + + This is a holy faith, and full of chear + To all who worship Nature, that the hours, + Past tranquilly with her, fade not away + For ever like the clouds, but in the soul + Possess a secret silent dwelling-place, + Where with a smiling visage memory sits, + And startles oft the virtuous, with a shew + Of unsuspected treasures. Yea, sweet Lake! + Oft hast thou borne into my grateful heart + Thy lovely presence, with a thousand dreams + Dancing and brightening o'er thy sunny wave, + Though many a dreary mile of mist and snow + Between us interposed. And even now, + When you bright star hath risen to warn me home, + I bid thee farewell in the certain hope, + That thou, this night, wilt o'er my sleeping eyes + Shed chearing visions, and with freshest joy + Make me salute the dawn. Nor may the hymn + Now sung by me unto thy listening woods, + Be wholly vain,--but haply it may yield + A gentle pleasure to some gentle heart, + Who blessing, at its close, the unknown bard, + May, for his sake, upon thy quiet banks + Frame visions of his own, and other songs + More beautiful, to Nature and to Thee! + + + + +MARY. + + + Three days before my Mary's death, + We walk'd by Grassmere shore; + "Sweet Lake!" she said with faultering breath, + "I ne'er shall see thee more!" + + Then turning round her languid head, + She look'd me in the face; + And whisper'd, "When thy friend is dead, + Remember this lone place." + + Vainly I struggled at a smile, + That did my fears betray; + It seem'd that on our darling isle + Foreboding darkness lay. + + My Mary's words were words of truth; + None now behold the Maid; + Amid the tears of age and youth, + She in her grave was laid. + + Long days, long nights, I ween, were past + Ere ceased her funeral knell; + But to the spot I went at last + Where she had breath'd "farewell!" + + Methought, I saw the phantom stand + Beside the peaceful wave; + I felt the pressure of her hand-- + --Then look'd towards her grave. + + Fair, fair beneath the evening sky + The quiet churchyard lay: + The tall pine-grove most solemnly + Hung mute above her clay. + + Dearly she loved their arching spread, + Their music wild and sweet, + And, as she wished on her death-bed, + Was buried at their feet. + + Around her grave a beauteous fence + Of wild flowers shed their breath, + Smiling like infant innocence + Within the gloom of death. + + Such flowers from bank of mountain-brook + At eve we wont to bring, + When every little mossy nook + Betray'd returning Spring. + + Oft had I fixed the simple wreath + Upon her virgin breast; + But now such flowers as form'd it, breathe + Around her bed of rest. + + Yet all within my silent soul, + As the hush'd air was calm; + The natural tears that slowly stole, + Assuaged my grief like balm. + + The air that seem'd so thick and dull + For months unto my eye; + Ah me! how bright and beautiful + It floated on the sky! + + A trance of high and solemn bliss + From purest ether came; + 'Mid such a heavenly scene as this, + Death is an empty name! + + The memory of the past return'd + Like music to my heart,-- + It seem'd that causelessly I mourn'd, + When we were told to part. + + "God's mercy, to myself I said, + To both our souls is given-- + To me, sojourning on earth's shade, + To her--a Saint in Heaven!" + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN AT A LITTLE WELL BY THE ROADSIDE, LANGDALE. + + + Thou lonely spring of waters undefiled! + Silently slumbering in thy mossy cell, + Yea, moveless as the hillock's verdant side + From whom thou hast thy birth, I bless thy gleam + Of clearest coldness, with as deep-felt love + As pilgrim kneeling at his far-sought shrine; + And as I bow to bathe my freshen'd heart + In thy restoring radiance, from my lips + A breathing prayer sheds o'er thy glassy sleep + A gentle tremor! + + Nor must I forget + A benison for the departed soul + Of him, who, many a year ago, first shaped + This little Font,--emprisoning the spring + Not wishing to be free, with smooth slate-stone, + Now in the beauteous colouring of age + Scarcely distinguished from the natural rock. + In blessed hour the solitary man + Laid the first stone,--and in his native vale + It serves him for a peaceful monument, + 'Mid the hill-silence. + + Renovated life + Now flows through all my veins:--old dreams revive; + And while an airy pleasure in my brain + Dances unbidden, I have time to gaze, + Even with a happy lover's kindest looks, + On Thee, delicious Fountain! + + Thou dost shed + (Though sultry stillness fill the summer air + And parch the yellow hills,) all round thy cave, + A smile of beauty lovely as the Spring + Breathes with his April showers. The narrow lane + On either hand ridged with low shelving rocks, + That from the road-side gently lead the eye + Up to thy bed,--Ah me! how rich a green, + Still brightening, wantons o'er its moisten'd grass! + With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze, + Now that my thirsty soul is gratified, + Live on the little cell! The water there, + Variously dappled by the wreathed sand + That sleeps below in many an antic shape, + Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-hen + Soothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless drip + From the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's hand + Vaulted most beautiful, even like a pulse + Tells of the living principle within,-- + A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild. + + Yea, seldom heard: there is but one lone cot + Beyond this well:--it is inhabited + By an old shepherd during summer months, + And haply he may drink of the pure spring, + To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath-morn + Going to pray,--or as he home returns + At silent eve: or traveller such as I, + Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills, + Thankfully here may slake his burning thirst + Once in a season. Other visitants + It hath not; save perchance the mountain-crow, + When ice hath lock'd the rills, or wandering colt + Leaving its pasture for the shady lane. + + Methinks, in such a solitary cave, + The fairy forms belated peasant sees, + Oft nightly dancing in a glittering ring, + On the smooth mountain sward, might here retire + To lead their noon-tide revels, or to bathe + Their tiny limbs in this transparent well. + A fitter spot there is not: flowers are here + Of loveliest colours and of sweetest smell, + Native to these our hills, and ever seen + A fairest family by the happy side + Of their own parent spring;--and others too, + Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joy, + Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth, + Here smile like strangers in a novel scene. + Lo! a tall rose-tree with its clustering bloom, + Brightening the mossy wall on which it leans + Its arching beauty, to my gladsome heart + Seems, with its smiles of lonely loveliness, + Like some fair virgin at the humble door + Of her dear mountain-cot, standing to greet + The way-bewildered traveller. + + But my soul + Long pleased to linger by this silent cave, + Nursing its wild and playful fantasies, + Pants for a loftier pleasure,--and forsakes, + Though surely with no cold ingratitude, + The flowers and verdure round the sparkling well. + A voice calls on me from the mountain-depths, + And it must be obey'd: Yon ledge of rocks, + Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow, + Is ready for my footsteps, and even now, + Wast-water blackens far beneath my feet, + She the storm-loving Lake. + + Sweet Fount!--Farewell! + + + + +LINES + +WRITTEN ON SEEING A PICTURE BY BERGHEM, OF AN ASS IN A STORM-SHOWER. + + + Poor wretch! that blasted leafless tree, + More frail and death-like even than thee, + Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form; + The sleet, the rain, the wind of Heaven, + Full in thy face are coldly driven, + As if thou wert alone the object of the storm. + + Yet, chill'd with cold, and drench'd with rain, + Mild creature, thou dost not complain + By sound or look of these ungracious skies; + Calmly as if in friendly shed, + There stand'st thou, with unmoving head, + And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-closed eyes. + + Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze + On thee; nor am I loth to praise + Him who in moral mood this image drew; + And yet, methinks, that I could frame + An image different, yet the same, + More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature true. + + Behold a lane retired and green, + Winding amid a forest-scene + With blooming furze in many a radiant heap; + There is a browsing ass espied + One colt is frisking by her side, + And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep. + + And lo! a little maiden stands, + With thistles in her tender hands, + Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat; + Or gently down before him lays, + With words of solace and of praise, + Pluck'd from th' untrodden turf the herbage soft and sweet. + + The summer sun is sinking down, + And the peasants from the market town + With chearful hearts are to their homes returning; + Groupes of gay children too are there, + Stirring with mirth the silent air, + O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning. + + The ass hath got his burthen still! + The merry elves the panniers fill; + Delighted there from side to side they swing. + The creature heeds nor shout nor call, + But jogs on careless of them all, + Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing. + + A gipsey-groupe! the secret wood + Stirs through its leafy solitude, + As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune; + Th' unpannier'd ass slowly retires + From the brown tents, and sparkling fires, + And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon. + + The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree, + More pensive 'mid this scene of glee + That mocks the hour of beauty and of rest; + The soul of all her softest rays + On yonder placid creature plays, + As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the opprest. + + But now the silver moonbeams fade, + And, peeping through a flowery glade, + Hush'd as a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies: + An ass stands meek and patient there, + And by her side a spectre fair, + To drink the balmy cup once more before she dies. + + With tenderest care the pitying dame + Supports the dying maiden's frame, + And strives with laughing looks her heart to chear; + While playful children crowd around + To catch her eye by smile or sound, + Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady dear! + + I feel this mournful dream impart + A holier image to my heart, + For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth:-- + Blest creature! through the solemn night, + I see thee bath'd in heavenly light, + Shed from that wond'rous child--The Saviour of the Earth. + + When, flying Herod's murd'rous rage, + Thou on that wretched pilgrimage + Didst gently near the virgin-mother lie; + On thee the humble Jesus sate, + When thousands rush'd to Salem's gate + To see 'mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by. + + Happy thou wert,--nor low thy praise, + In peaceful patriarchal days, + When countless tents slow passed from land to land + Like clouds o'er heaven:--the gentle race + Such quiet scene did meetly grace,-- + Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately band. + + Poor wretch!--my musing dream is o'er; + Thy shivering form I view once more, + And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove. + But they whose thoughtful spirits see + The truth of life, will pause with me, + And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and love! + + + + +ON READING + +MR CLARKSON'S HISTORY OF THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE. + + + 'Mid the august and never-dying light + Of constellated spirits, who have gain'd + A throne in heaven, by power of heavenly acts, + And leave their names immortal and unchanged + On earth, even as the names of Sun and Moon, + See'st thou, my soul! 'mid all that radiant host + One worthier of thy love and reverence, + Than He, the fearless spirit, who went forth, + Mail'd in the armour of invincible faith, + And bearing in his grasp the spear of truth, + Fit to destroy and save,--went forth to wage, + Against the fierce array of bloody men, + Avarice and ignorance, cruelty and hate, + A holy warfare! Deep within his soul, + The groans of anguish, and the clank of chains, + Dwelt ceaseless as a cataract, and fill'd + The secret haunts of meditative prayer. + Encircled by the silence of the hearth, + The evening-silence of a happy home; + Upon his midnight bed, when working soul + Turns inward, and the steady flow of thought + Is all we feel of life; in crowded rooms, + Where mere sensation oft takes place of mind, + And all time seems the present; in the sun, + The joyful splendour of a summer-day; + Or 'neath the moon, the calm and gentle night; + Where'er he moved, one vision ever fill'd + His restless spirit. 'Twas a vision bright + With colours born in Heaven, yet oh! bedimm'd + With breath of sorrow, sighs, and tears, and blood! + Before him lay a quarter of the world, + A Mighty Land, wash'd by unnumber'd floods, + Born in her bosom,--floods that to the sea + Roll ocean-like, or in the central wilds + Fade like the dim day melting into night; + A land all teeming with the gorgeous shew + Of Nature in profuse magnificence! + Vallies and groves, where untamed herds have ranged + Without a master since the birth of time! + Fountains and caves fill'd with the hidden light + Of diamond and of ruby, only view'd + With admiration by the unenvying sun! + Millions of beings like himself he sees + In stature and in soul,--the sons of God, + Destined to do him homage, and to lift + Their fearless brows unto the burning sky, + Stamp'd with his holy image! Noble shapes, + Kings of the desert, men whose stately tread + Brings from the dust the sound of liberty! + The vision fades not here; he sees the gloom + That lies upon these kingdoms of the sun, + And makes them darker than the dreary realms, + Scarce-moving at the pole.--A sluggish flow + Attends those floods so great and beautiful, + Rolling in majesty that none adores! + And lo! the faces of those stately men, + Silent as death, or changed to ghastly shapes + By madness and despair! His ears are torn + By shrieks and ravings, loud, and long, and wild, + Or the deep-mutter'd curse of sullen hearts, + Scorning in bitter woe their gnawing chains! + He sees, and shuddering feels the vision true, + A pale-faced band, who in his mother-isle + First look'd upon the day, beneath its light + Dare to be tyrants, and with coward deeds + Sullying the glory of the Queen of Waves! + He sees that famous Isle, whose very winds + Dissolve like icicles the tyrant's chains, + On Afric bind them firm as adamant, + Yet boast, with false and hollow gratitude, + Of all the troubled nations of the earth + That she alone is free! The awful sight + Appals not him; he draws his lonely breath + Without a tremor; for a voice is heard + Breathed by no human lips,--heard by his soul,-- + That he by Heaven is chosen to restore + Mercy on earth, a mighty conqueror + Over the sins and miseries of man. + The work is done! the Niger's sullen waves + Have heard the tidings,--and the orient Sun + Beholds them rolling on to meet his light + In joyful beauty.--Tombut's spiry towers + Are bright without the brightness of the day, + And Houssa wakening from his age-long trance + Of woe, amid the desert, smiles to hear + The last faint echo of the blissful sound.-- + + + + +THE FALLEN OAK, A VISION. + +SCENE, A WOOD, NEAR KESWICK, BELONGING TO GREENWICH HOSPITAL. + + + I. + + Beneath the shadow of an ancient oak, + Dreaming I lay, far 'mid a solemn wood, + When a noise like thunder stirr'd the solitude, + And from that trance I suddenly awoke! + A noble tree came crashing to the ground, + Through the dark forest opening out a glade; + While all its hundred branches stretching round, + Crush'd the tall hazles in its ample shade. + Methought, the vanquish'd monarch as he died + Utter'd a groan: while loud and taunting chears + The woodmen raised o'er him whose stubborn pride + Had braved the seasons for an hundred years. + It seem'd a savage shout, a senseless scorn, + Nor long prevail'd amid the awful gloom; + Sad look'd the forest of her glory shorn, + Reverend with age, yet bright in vigour's bloom, + Slain in his hour of strength, a giant in his tomb. + + + II. + + I closed mine eyes, nor could I brook to gaze + On the wild havoc in one moment done; + Hateful to me shone forth the blessed sun, + As through the new form'd void he pour'd his rays. + Then rose a dream before my sleeping soul! + A wood-nymph tearing her dishevell'd hair, + And wailing loud, from a long vista stole, + And eyed the ruin with a fixed despair. + The velvet moss, that bath'd its roots in green, + For many a happy day had been her seat; + Than valley wide more dear this secret scene; + --She asked no music but the rustling sweet + Of the rejoicing leaves; now, all is gone, + That touch'd the Dryad's heart with pure delight. + Soon shall the axe destroy her fallen throne, + Its leaves of gold, its bark so glossy bright-- + --But now she hastes away,--death-sickening at the sight! + + + III. + + A nobler shape supplied the Dryad's place; + Soon as I saw the spirit in her eye, + I knew the mountain-goddess, Liberty, + And in adoring reverence veil'd my face. + Smiling she stood beside the prostrate oak, + While a stern pleasure swell'd her lofty breast, + And thus, methought, in thrilling accents spoke-- + "Not long, my darling Tree! must be thy rest! + Glorious thou wert, when towering through the skies + In winter-storms, or summer's balmy breath; + And thou, my Tree! shalt gloriously arise, + In life majestic, terrible in death! + For thou shalt float above the roaring wave, + Where flags, denouncing battle, stream afar;-- + Thou wert, from birth, devoted to the brave, + And thou shalt sail on like a blazing star, + Bearing victorious NELSON through the storms of war!" + + + + +NATURE OUTRAGED. + +AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO ROBERT SYM, ESQ. EDINBURGH. + + + Once, on the very gentlest stillest day + That ever Spring did in her gladness breathe + O'er this delightful earth, I left my home + With a beloved friend, who ne'er before + Had been among these mountains,--but whose heart, + Led by the famous poets, through the air + Serene of Nature oft had voyaged, + On fancy's wing, and in her magic bowers + Reposed, by wildest music sung to sleep:-- + So that, enamour'd of the imaged forms + Of beauty in his soul, with holiest zeal + He longed to hail the fair original, + And do her spiritual homage. + + That his love + Might, consonant to Nature's dictate wise, + From quiet impulse grow, and to the power + Of meditation and connecting thought, + Rather than startling glories of the eye, + Owe its enthronement in his inmost heart, + I led him to behold a little lake, + Which I so often in my lonely walks + Had visited, but never yet had seen + One human being on its banks, that I + Thought it mine own almost, so thither took + My friend, assured he could not chuse but love + A scene so loved by me! + + Before we reached + The dell wherein this little lake doth sleep, + Into involuntary praise of all + Its pensive loveliness, my happy heart + Would frequent burst, and from those lyric songs, + That, sweetly warbling round the pastoral banks + Of Grassmere, on its silver waves have shed + The undying sunshine of a poet's soul, + I breathed such touching strains as suited well + The mild spring-day, and that secluded scene, + Towards which, in full assurance of delight, + We two then walked in peace. + + On the green slope + Of a romantic glade, we sat us down, + Amid the fragrance of the yellow broom, + While o'er our heads the weeping birch-tree stream'd + Its branches arching like a fountain-shower, + Then look'd towards the lake,--with hearts prepared + For the warm reception of all lovely forms + Enrobed in loveliest radiance, such as oft + Had steep'd my spirit in a holy calm, + And made it by the touch of purest joy + Still as an infant's dream. + + But where had fled + The paradise beloved in former days! + I look'd upon the countenance of my friend, + Who, lost in strange and sorrowful surprise, + Could scarce forbear to smile. Is this, he cried, + The lone retreat, where from the secret top + Of Helicon, the wild-eyed muse descends + To bless thy slumbers? this the virgin scene + Where beauty smiles in undisturbed peace? + + I look'd again: but ne'er did lover gaze, + At last returning from some foreign clime, + With more affectionate sorrow on the face + That he left fair in youth, than I did gaze + On the alter'd features of my darling vale, + That, 'mid the barbarous outrages of art, + Retained, I ween, a heavenly character + That nothing could destroy. Yet much was lost + Of its original brightness: Much was there, + Marring the spirit I remembered once + Perfectly beautiful. The meadow field, + That with its rich and placid verdure lay + Even like a sister-lake, with nought to break + The smoothness of its bosom, save the swing + Of the hoar Canna, or, more snowy white, + The young lamb frisking in the joy of life,-- + Oh! grief! a garden, all unlike, I ween, + To that where bloom'd the fair Hesperides, + Usurped the seat of Nature, while a wall + Of most bedazzling splendour, o'er whose height, + The little birds, content to flit along + From bush to bush, could never dare to fly, + Preserved from those who knew no ill intent, + Fruit-trees exotic, and flowers passing rare, + Less lovely far than many a one that bloom'd + Unnoticed in the woods. + + And lo! a house, + An elegant villa! in the Grecian style! + Doubtless contrived by some great architect + Who had an Attic soul; and in the shade + Of Academe or the Lyceum walk'd, + Forming conceptions fair and beautiful. + Blessed for ever be the sculptor's art! + It hath created guardian deities + To shield the holy building,--heathen gods + And goddesses, at which the peasant stares + With most perplexing wonder; and light Fauns, + That the good owner's unpoetic soul + Could not, among the umbrage of the groves, + Imagine, here, for ever in his sight, + In one unwearied posture frisk in stone. + + My friend, quoth I, forgive these words of mine, + That haply seem more sportive than becomes + A soul that feels for Nature's sanctity + Thus blindly outraged; but when evil work + Admits no remedy, we then are glad + Even from ourselves to hide, in mirth constrain'd, + An unavailing sorrow. Oh! my friend, + Had'st thou beheld, as I, the glorious rock + By that audacious mansion hid for ever, + --Glorious I well might call it, with bright bands + Of flowers, and weeds as beautiful as flowers, + Refulgent,--crown'd, as with a diadem, + With oaks that loved their birth-place, and alive + With the wild tones of echo, bird, and bee,-- + Thou couldst have wept to think that paltry Art + Could so prevail o'er Nature, and weak man + Thus stand between thee and the works of God. + Well might the Naiad of that stream complain! + The glare of day hath driven her from her haunts, + Shady no more: The woodman's ax hath clear'd + The useless hazels where the linnet hung + Her secret nest; and you hoar waterfall, + Whose misty spray rose through the freshen'd leaves + To heaven, like Nature's incense, and whose sound + Came deaden'd through the multitude of boughs, + Like a wild anthem by some spirit sung, + Now looks as cheerless as the late-left snow + Upon the mountain's breast, and sends a voice, + From the bare rocks, of dreariness and woe! + See! farther down the streamlet, art hath framed + A delicate cascade! The channel stones + Hollow'd by rushing waters, and more green + Even than the thought of greenness in the soul, + Are gone; and pebbles, carefully arranged + By size and colour, at the bottom lie + Imprison'd; while a smooth and shaven lawn, + With graceful gravel walks most serpentine, + Surrounds the noisy wonder, and sends up + A smile of scorn unto the rocky fells, + Where, 'mid the rough fern, bleat the shelter'd sheep. + + Oft hath the poet's eye on these wild fells + Beheld entrancing visions;--but the cliffs, + In unscaled majesty, must frown no more; + No more the coves profound draw down the soul + Into their stern dominion: even the clouds, + Floating or settling on the mountain's breast, + Must be adored no more:--far other forms + Delight his gaze, to whom, alas, belongs + This luckless vale!--On every eminence, + Smiles some gay image of the builder's soul, + Watch-tower or summer-house, where oft, at eve, + He meditates to go, with book in hand, + And read in solitude; or weather-cock, + To tell which way the wind doth blow; or fort, + Commanding every station in the vale + Where enemy might encamp, and from whose height + A gaudy flag might flutter, when he hears + With a true British pride of Frenchmen slain, + Ten thousand in one battle, lying grim + By the brave English, their dead conquerors! + + Such was the spirit of the words I used + On witnessing such sacrilege. We turned + Homewards in silence, even as from the grave + Of one in early youth untimely slain, + And all that to my pensive friend I said + Upon our walk, were some few words of grief, + That thoughtlessness and folly, in one day, + Could render vain the mystic processes + Of Nature, working for a thousand years + The work of love and beauty; so that Heaven + Might shed its gracious dews upon the earth, + Its sunshine and its rain, till living flowers + Rose up in myriads to attest its power, + But, in the midst of this glad jubilee, + A blinded mortal come, and with a nod, + Thus rendering ignorance worse than wickedness, + Bid his base servants "tear from Nature's book + A blissful leaf with worst impiety." + + If thou, whose heart has listen'd to my song, + From Nature hold'st some fair inheritance + Like that whose mournful ruins I deplore, + Remember that thy birth-right doth impose + High duties on thee, that must be perform'd, + Else thou canst not be happy. Thou must watch + With holy zeal o'er Nature while she sleeps, + That nought may break her rest; her waking smiles + Thou must preserve and worship; and the gloom + That sometimes lies like night upon her face, + Creating awful thoughts, that gloom must hush + The beatings of thy heart, as if it lay + Like the dread shadow of eternity. + Beauteous thy home upon this beauteous earth, + And God hath given it to thee: therefore, learn + The laws by which the Eternal doth sublime + And sanctify his works, that thou mayest see + The hidden glory veiled from vulgar eyes, + And by the homage of enlighten'd love, + Repay the power that blest thee. Thou should'st stand + Oft-times amid thy dwelling-place, with awe + Stronger than love, even like a pious man + Who in some great cathedral, while the chaunt + Of hymns is in his soul, no more beholds + The pillars rise august and beautiful, + Nor the dim grandeur of the roof that hangs + Far, far above his head, but only sees + The opening heaven-gates, and the white-robed bands + Of spirits prostrate in adoring praise. + So shalt thou to thy death-hour find a friend, + A gracious friend in Nature, and thy name, + As the rapt traveller through thy fair domains + Oft-lingering journeys, shall with gentle voice + Be breathed amid the solitude, and link'd + With those enlighten'd spirits that promote + The happiness of others by their own, + The consummation of all earthly joy. + + + + +LINES WRITTEN BY MOONLIGHT AT SEA. + + + Ah me! in dreams of struggling dread, + Let foolish tears no more be shed, + Tears wept on bended knee, + Though years of absence slowly roll + Between us and some darling soul + Who lives upon the sea! + Weep, weep not for the mariner, + Though distant far he roam, + And have no lovely resting-place + That he can call his home. + Friends hath he in the wilderness, + And with those friends he lives in bliss + Without one pining sigh! + The waves that round his vessel crowd, + The guiding star, the breezy cloud, + The music of the sky. + And, dearer even than Heaven's sweet light, + He gazes on that wonder bright, + When sporting with the gales, + Or lying in a beauteous sleep + Above her shadow in the deep, + --The ship in which he sails. + Then weep not for the mariner! + He needeth not thy tears; + From his soul the Ocean's midnight voice + Dispels all mortal fears. + Quietly slumber shepherd-men + In the silence of some inland glen, + Lull'd by the gentlest sounds of air and earth; + Yet as quietly rests the mariner, + Nor wants for dreams as melting fair + Amid the Ocean's mirth. + + + + +THE NAMELESS STREAM. + + + Gentle as dew, a summer shower + In beauty bathed tree, herb, and flower, + And told the stream to murmur on + With quicker dance and livelier tone. + The mist lay steady on the fell, + While lustre steeped each smiling dell, + Such wild and fairy contrast made + The magic power of light and shade. + Through trees a little bridge was seen, + Glittering with yellow, red, and green, + As o'er the moss with playful glide + The sunbeam danced from side to side, + And made the ancient arch to glow + Various as Heaven's reflected bow. + Within the dripping grove was heard + Rustle or song of joyful bird; + The stir of rapture fill'd the air + From unseen myriads mingling there; + Life lay entranced in sinless mirth, + And Nature's hymn swam o'er the earth! + + In this sweet hour of peace and love, + I chanced from restless joy to move, + When by my side a being stood + Fairer than Naiad of the flood, + Or her who ruled the forest scene + In days of yore, the Huntress Queen. + Wildness, subdued by quiet grace, + Played o'er the vision's radiant face, + Radiant with spirit fit to steer + Her flight around the starry sphere, + Yet, willing to sink down in rest + Upon a guardian mortal breast. + Her eyes were rather soft than bright, + And, when a smile half-closed their light, + They seem'd amid the gleam divine + Like stars scarce seen through fair moonshine! + While ever, as, with sportive air, + She lightly waved her clustering hair, + A thousand gleams the motion made, + Danced o'er the auburn's darker shade. + + O MARY! I had known thee long, + Amid the gay, the thoughtless throng, + Where mien leaves modesty behind, + And manner takes the place of mind; + Where woman, though delightful still, + Quits Nature's ease for Fashion's skill, + Hides, by the gaudy gloss of art, + The simple beauty of her heart, + And, born to lift our souls to heaven, + Strives for the gaze despised when given, + Forgets her being's godlike power + To shine the wonder of an hour. + Oft had I sigh'd to think that thou, + An angel fair, could stoop so low; + And as with light and airy pride, + 'Mid worldly souls I saw thee glide, + Wasting those smiles that love with tears + Might live on, all his blessed years, + Regret rose from thy causeless mirth, + That Heaven could thus be stain'd by Earth. + + O vain regret! I should have known, + Thy soul was strung to loftier tone, + That wisdom bade thee joyful range + Through worldly paths thou could'st not change, + And look with glad and sparkling eye + Even on life's cureless vanity. + --But now, thy being's inmost blood + Felt the deep power of solitude. + From Heaven a sudden glory broke, + And all thy angel soul awoke. + I hail'd the impulse from above, + And friendship was sublimed to love. + Fair are the vales that peaceful sleep + 'Mid mountain-silence, lone and deep, + Sweet narrow lines of fertile earth, + 'Mid frowns of horror, smiles of mirth! + Fair too the fix'd and floating cloud, + The light obscure by eve bestowed, + The sky's blue stillness, and the breast + Of lakes, with all that stillness blest. + But dearer to my heart and eye, + Than valley, mountain, lake, or sky, + One nameless stream, whose happy flow + Blue as the heavens, or white as snow, + And gently-swelling sylvan side, + By Mary's presence beautified, + Tell ever of expected years, + The wish that sighs, the bliss that fears, + Till taught at last no more to roam, + I worship the bright Star of Home. + + + + +ART AND NATURE. + + + Sylph-like, and with a graceful pride, + I saw the wild Louisa glide + Along the dance's glittering row, + With footsteps soft as falling snow. + On all around her smiles she pour'd, + And though by all admired, adored, + She seem'd to hold the homage light, + And careless claim'd it as her right. + With syren voice the Lady sung: + Love on her tones enraptured hung, + While timid awe and fond desire + Came blended from her witching lyre. + While thus, with unresisted art, + The Enchantress melted every heart, + Amid the glance, the sigh, the smile, + Herself, unmoved and cold the while, + With inward pity eyed the scene, + Where all were subjects--she a Queen! + + Again, I saw that Lady fair: + Oh! what a beauteous change was there! + In a sweet cottage of her own + She sat, and she was all alone, + Save a young child she sung to rest + On its soft bed, her fragrant breast. + With happy smiles and happy sighs, + She kiss'd the infant's closing eyes, + Then, o'er him in the cradle laid, + Moved her dear lips as if she pray'd. + She bless'd him in his father's name: + Lo! to her side that father came, + And, in a voice subdued and mild, + He bless'd the mother and her child! + I thought upon the proud saloon, + And that Enchantress Queen; but soon, + Far-off Art's fading pageant stole, + And Nature fill'd my thoughtful soul! + + + + +SONNET I. + +WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WASTWATER, DURING A STORM. + + + There is a lake hid far among the hills, + That raves around the throne of solitude, + Not fed by gentle streams, or playful rills, + But headlong cataract and rushing flood. + There, gleam no lovely hues of hanging wood, + No spot of sunshine lights her sullen side; + For horror shaped the wild in wrathful mood, + And o'er the tempest heaved the mountain's pride. + If thou art one, in dark presumption blind, + Who vainly deem'st no spirit like to thine, + That lofty genius deifies thy mind, + Fall prostrate here at Nature's stormy shrine, + And as the thunderous scene disturbs thy heart, + Lift thy changed eye, and own how low thou art. + + + + +SONNET II. + +WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WASTWATER, DURING A CALM. + + + Is this the Lake, the cradle of the storms, + Where silence never tames the mountain-roar, + Where poets fear their self-created forms, + Or, sunk in trance severe, their God adore? + Is this the Lake, for ever dark and loud + With wave and tempest, cataract and cloud? + Wondrous, O Nature! is thy sovereign power, + That gives to horror hours of peaceful mirth: + For here might beauty build her summer-bower! + Lo! where you rainbow spans the smiling earth, + And, clothed in glory, through a silent shower + The mighty Sun comes forth, a godlike birth; + While, 'neath his loving eye, the gentle Lake + Lies like a sleeping child too blest to wake! + + + + +SONNET III. + +WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, ON HELM-CRAG. + + + Go up among the mountains, when the storm + Of midnight howls, but go in that wild mood, + When the soul loves tumultuous solitude, + And through the haunted air, each giant form + Of swinging pine, black rock, or ghostly cloud, + That veils some fearful cataract tumbling loud, + Seems to thy breathless heart with life embued. + 'Mid those gaunt, shapeless things thou art alone! + The mind exists, thinks, trembles through the ear, + The memory of the human world is gone, + And time and space seem living only _here_. + Oh! worship thou the visions then made known, + While sable glooms round Nature's temple roll, + And her dread anthem peals into thy soul. + + + + +SONNET IV. + +THE VOICE OF THE MOUNTAINS. + + + List! while I tell what forms the mountain's voice! + --The storms are up; and from you sable cloud + Down rush the rains; while 'mid the thunder loud + The viewless eagles in wild screams rejoice. + The echoes answer to the unearthly noise + Of hurling rocks, that, plunged into the Lake, + Send up a sullen groan: from clefts and caves, + As of half-murder'd wretch, hark! yells awake, + Or red-eyed phrensy as in chains he raves. + These form the mountain's voice; these, heard at night, + Distant from human being's known abode, + To earth some spirits bow in cold affright, + But some they lift to glory and to God. + + + + +SONNET V. + +THE EVENING-CLOUD. + + + + A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, + A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: + Long had I watched the glory moving on + O'er the still radiance of the Lake below. + Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow! + Even in its very motion, there was rest: + While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, + Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. + Emblem, methought, of the departed soul! + To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; + And by the breath of mercy made to roll + Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven, + Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies, + And tells to man his glorious destinies. + + + + +SONNET VI. + +WRITTEN ON THE SABBATH-DAY. + + + When by God's inward light, a happy child, + I walk'd in joy, as in the open air, + It seem'd to my young thought the Sabbath smiled + With glory and with love. So still, so fair, + The Heavens look'd ever on that hallow'd morn, + That, without aid of memory, something there + Had surely told me of its glad return. + How did my little heart at evening burn, + When, fondly seated on my father's knee, + Taught by the lip of love, I breathed the prayer, + Warm from the fount of infant piety! + Much is my spirit changed; for years have brought + Intenser feeling and expanded thought; + --Yet, must I envy every child I see! + + + + +SONNET VII. + +WRITTEN ON SKIDDAW, DURING A TEMPEST. + + + It was a dreadful day, when late I pass'd + O'er thy dim vastness, SKIDDAW!--Mist and cloud + Each subject Fell obscured, and rushing blast + To thee made darling music, wild and loud, + Thou Mountain-Monarch! Rain in torrents play'd, + As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven, + A watery spire, then on the crew dismay'd + Of reeling ship with downward wrath is driven. + I could have thought that every living form + Had fled, or perished in that savage storm, + So desolate the day. To me were given + Peace, calmness, joy: then, to myself I said, + Can grief, time, chance, or elements controul + Man's charter'd pride, the Liberty of Soul? + + + + +SONNET VIII. + + + I wander'd lonely, like a pilgrim sad, + O'er mountains known but to the eagle's gaze; + Yet, my hush'd heart, with Nature's beauty glad, + Slept in the shade, or gloried in the blaze. + Romantic vales stole winding to my eye + In gradual loveliness, like rising dreams; + Fair, nameless tarns, that seem to blend with sky + Rocks of wild majesty, and elfin streams. + How strange, methought, I should have lived so near, + Nor ever worshipp'd Nature's altar here! + Strange! say not so--hid from the world and thee, + Though in the midst of life their spirits move, + Thousands enjoy in holy liberty + The silent Eden of unenvied Love! + + + + +SONNET IX. + +WRITTEN ON THE EVENING I HEARD OF THE DEATH OF MY FRIEND, WILLIAM DUNLOP. + + + A golden cloud came floating o'er my head, + With kindred glories round the sun to blend! + Though fair the scene, my dreams were of the dead; + --Since dawn of morning I had lost a friend. + I felt as if my sorrow ne'er could end: + A cold, pale phantom on a breathless bed, + The beauty of the crimson west subdued, + And sighs that seem'd my very life to rend, + The silent happiness of eve renew'd. + Grief, fear, regret, a self-tormenting brood + Dwelt on my spirit, like a ceaseless noise; + But, oh! what tranquil holiness ensued, + When, from that cloud, exclaimed a well-known voice, + --God sent me here, to bid my friend rejoice! + + + + +LINES + +SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. JAMES GRAHAME, AUTHOR OF "THE SABBATH," &C. + +_Two Editions of this little Poem have been already published; and its +reception among those whom the author most wished to please, has induced +him to include it in this volume._ + + + With tearless eyes and undisturbed heart, + O Bard! of sinless life and holiest song, + I muse upon thy death-bed and thy grave; + Though round that grave the trodden grass still lies + Besmeared with clay; for many feet were there, + Fast-rooted to the spot, when slowly sank + Thy coffin, GRAHAME! into the quiet cell. + Yet, well I loved thee, even as one might love + An elder brother, imaged in the soul + With solemn features, half-creating awe, + But smiling still with gentleness and peace. + Tears have I shed when thy most mournful voice + Did tremblingly breathe forth that touching air, + By Scottish shepherd haply framed of old, + Amid the silence of his pastoral hills, + Weeping the flowers on Flodden-field that died. + Wept, too, have I, when thou didst simply read + From thine own lays so simply beautiful + Some short pathetic tale of human grief, + Or orison or hymn of deeper love, + That might have won the sceptic's sullen heart + To gradual adoration, and belief + Of Him who died for us upon the cross. + Yea! oft when thou wert well, and in the calm + Of thy most Christian spirit blessing all + Who look'd upon thee, with those gentlest smiles + That never lay on human face but thine; + Even when thy serious eyes were lighted up + With kindling mirth, and from thy lips distill'd + Words soft as dew, and cheerful as the dawn, + Then, too, I could have wept, for on thy face, + Eye, voice, and smile, nor less thy bending frame, + By other cause impair'd than length of years, + Lay something that still turn'd the thoughtful heart + To melancholy dreams, dreams of decay, + Of death and burial, and the silent tomb. + + And of the tomb thou art an inmate now! + Methinks I see thy name upon the stone + Placed at thy head, and yet my cheeks are dry. + Tears could I give thee, when thou wert alive, + The mournful tears of deep foreboding love + That might not be restrain'd; but now they seem + Most idle all! thy worldly course is o'er, + And leaves such sweet remembrance in my soul + As some delightful music heard in youth, + Sad, but not painful, even more spirit-like + Than when it murmur'd through the shades of earth. + + Short time wert thou allow'd to guide thy flock + Through the green pastures, where in quiet glides + The Siloah of the soul! Scarce was thy voice + Familiar to their hearts, who felt that heaven + Did therein speak, when suddenly it fell + Mute, and for ever! Empty now and still + The holy house which thou didst meekly grace, + When with uplifted hand, and eye devout, + Thy soul was breathed to Jesus, or explained + The words that lead unto eternal life. + From infancy thy heart was vow'd to God: + And aye the hope that one day thou might'st keep + A little fold, from all the storms of sin + Safe-shelter'd, and by reason of thy prayers + Warm'd by the sunshine of approving Heaven, + Upheld thy spirit, destined for a while + To walk far other paths, and with the crowd + Of worldly men to mingle. Yet even then, + Thy life was ever such as well became + One whose pure soul was fixed upon the cross! + And when with simple fervent eloquence, + GRAHAME pled the poor man's cause, the listner oft + Thought how becoming would his visage smile + Across the house of God, how beauteously + That man would teach the saving words of Heaven! + + How well he taught them, many a one will feel + Unto their dying day; and when they lie + On the grave's brink, unfearing and composed, + Their speechless souls will bless the holy man + Whose voice exhorted, and whose footsteps led + Unto the paths of life; nor sweeter hope, + Next to the gracious look of Christ, have they + Than to behold his face who saved their souls. + + But closed on earth thy blessed ministry! + And while thy native Scotland mourns her son + Untimely reft from her maternal breast, + Weeps the fair sister-land, with whom ere while + The stranger sojourn'd, stranger but in birth, + For well she loved thee, as thou wert her own. + + On a most clear and noiseless Sabbath-night + I heard that thou wert gone, from the soft voice + Of one who knew thee not, but deeply loved + Thy spirit meekly shining in thy song. + At such an hour the death of one like thee + Gave no rude shock, nor by a sudden grief + Destroy'd the visions from the starry sky + Then settling in my soul. The moonlight slept + With a diviner sadness on the air; + The tender dimness of the night appeared + Darkening to deeper sorrow, and the voice + Of the far torrent from the silent hills + Flow'd, as I listen'd, like a funeral strain + Breath'd by some mourning solitary thing. + Yet Nature in her pensiveness still wore + A blissful smile, as if she sympathized + With those who grieved that her own Bard was dead, + And yet was happy that his spirit dwelt + At last within her holiest sanctuary, + 'Mid long expecting angels. + + And if e'er + Faith, fearless faith, in the eternal bliss + Of a departed brother, may be held + By beings blind as we, that faith should dry + All eyes that weep for GRAHAME; or through their tears + Shew where he sits august and beautiful + On the right hand of Jesus, 'mid the saints + Whose glory he on earth so sweetly sang. + No fears have we when some delightful child + Falls from its innocence into the grave! + Soon as we know its little breath is gone, + We see it lying in its Saviour's breast, + A heavenly flower there fed with heavenly dew. + Childlike in all that makes a child so dear + To God and man, and ever consecrates + Its cradle and its grave, my GRAHAME, wert thou! + And had'st thou died upon thy mother's breast + Ere thou could'st lisp her name, more fit for heaven + Thou scarce had'st been, than when thy honour'd head + Was laid into the dust, and Scotland wept + O'er hill and valley for her darling Bard. + + How beautiful is genius when combined + With holiness! Oh, how divinely sweet + The tones of earthly harp, whose chords are touch'd + By the soft hand of Piety, and hung + Upon Religion's shrine, there vibrating + With solemn music in the ear of God. + And must the Bard from sacred themes refrain? + Sweet were the hymns in patriarchal days, + That, kneeling in the silence of his tent, + Or on some moonlight hill, the shepherd pour'd + Unto his heavenly Father. Strains survive + Erst chaunted to the lyre of Israel, + More touching far than ever poet breathed + Amid the Grecian isles, or later times + Have heard in Albion, land of every lay. + Why therefore are ye silent, ye who know + The trance of adoration, and behold + Upon your bended knees the throne of Heaven, + And him who sits thereon? Believe it not, + That Poetry, in purer days the nurse, + Yea! parent oft of blissful piety, + Should silent keep from service of her God, + Nor with her summons, loud but silver-toned, + Startle the guilty dreamer from his sleep, + Bidding him gaze with rapture or with dread + On regions where the sky for ever lies + Bright as the sun himself, and trembling all + With ravishing music, or where darkness broods + O'er ghastly shapes, and sounds not to be borne. + + Such glory, GRAHAME! is thine: Thou didst despise + To win the ear of this degenerate age + By gorgeous epithets, all idly heap'd + On theme of earthly state, or, idler still, + By tinkling measures and unchasten'd lays, + Warbled to pleasure and her syren-train, + Profaning the best name of poesy. + With loftier aspirations, and an aim + More worthy man's immortal nature, Thou + That holiest spirit that still loves to dwell + In the upright heart and pure, at noon of night + Didst fervently invoke, and, led by her + Above the Aonian mount, send from the stars + Of heaven such soul-subduing melody + As Bethlehem-shepherds heard when Christ was born. + + It is the Sabbath-day: Creation sleeps + Cradled within the arms of heavenly love! + The mystic day, when from the vanquish'd grave + The world's Redeemer rose, and hail'd the light + Of God's forgiving smile. Obscured and pale + Were then the plumes of prostrate seraphim, + Then hush'd the universe her sphere-born strain, + When from his throne, Paternal Deity + Declared the Saviour not in vain had shed + His martyr'd glory round the accursed cross, + That fallen man might sit in Paradise, + And earth to heaven ascend in jubilee. + O blessed day, by God and man beloved! + With more surpassing glory breaks thy dawn + Upon my soul, remembering the sweet hymns + That he, whom nations evermore shall name + The Sabbath-Bard, in gratulation high + Breathed forth to thee, as from the golden urn + That holds the incense of immortal song. + + That Poem, so divinely melancholy + Throughout its reigning spirit, yet withal + Bathing in hues of winning gentleness + The pure religion that alone can save, + Full many a wanderer to the paths of peace + Ere now hath made return, and he who framed + Its hallow'd numbers, in the realms of bliss + Hath met and known the smiles of seraph-souls, + By his delightful genius saved from death. + Oft when the soul is lost in thoughtless guilt, + And seeming deaf unto the still small voice + Of conscience and of God, some simple phrase + Of beauty or sublimity will break + The spell that link'd us to the bands of sin, + And all at once, as waking from a dream, + We shudder at the past, and bless the light + That breaks upon us like the new-born day. + Even so it fares with them, who to this world + Have yielded up their spirits, and, impure + In thought and act, have lived without a sense + Of God, who counts the beatings of their hearts. + But men there are of a sublimer mould, + Who dedicate with no unworthy zeal + To human Science, up the toilsome steep + Where she in darkness dwells, with pilgrim-feet + By night and day unwearied strive to climb, + Pride their conductor, glory their reward. + Too oft, alas! even in the search of truth + They pass her on the way, although she speak + With loving voice, and cast on them her eyes + So beautifully innocent and pure. + To such, O GRAHAME! thy voice cries from the tomb! + Thy worth they loved, thy talents they admired, + And when they think how peaceful was thy life, + Thy death far more than peaceful, though thou sought'st, + Above all other knowledge, that of God + And his redeeming Son; when o'er the page + Where thy mild soul for ever sits enshrined, + They hang with soften'd hearts, faith may descend + Upon them as they muse, or hope that leads + The way to faith, even as the morning-star + Shines brightly, heralding approaching day. + + But happier visions still now bless my soul. + While lonely wandering o'er the hills and dales + Of my dear native country, with such love + As they may guess, who, from their father's home + Sojourning long and far, fall down and kiss + The grass and flowers of Scotland, in I go, + Not doubting a warm welcome from the eyes + Of woman, man, and child, into a cot + Upon a green hill-side, and almost touch'd + By its own nameless stream that bathes the roots + Of the old ash tree swinging o'er the roof. + Most pleasant, GRAHAME! unto thine eye and heart + Such humble home! there often hast thou sat + 'Mid the glad family listening to thy voice + So silently, the ear might then have caught + Without the rustle of the falling leaf. + And who so sweetly ever sang as thou, + The joys and sorrows of the poor man's life. + Not fancifully drawn, that one might weep, + Or smile, he knew not why, but with the hues + Of truth all brightly glistening, to the heart + Cheering, as earth's soft verdure to the eye, + Yet still and mournful as the evening light. + More powerful in the sanctity of death, + There reigns thy spirit over those it loved! + Some chosen books by pious men composed, + Kept from the dust, in every cottage lie + Through the wild loneliness of Scotia's vales, + Beside the Bible, by whose well-known truths + All human thoughts are by the peasant tried. + O blessed privilege of Nature's Bard! + To cheer the house of virtuous poverty, + With gleams of light more beautiful than oft + Play o'er the splendours of the palace wall. + Methinks I see a fair and lovely child + Sitting composed upon his mother's knee, + And reading with a low and lisping voice + Some passage from the Sabbath, while the tears + Stand in his little eyes so softly blue, + Till, quite o'ercome with pity, his white arms + He twines around her neck, and hides his sighs + Most infantine, within her gladden'd breast, + Like a sweet lamb, half sportive, half afraid, + Nestling one moment 'neath its bleating dam. + And now the happy mother kisses oft + The tender-hearted child, lays down the book, + And asks him if he doth remember still + The stranger who once gave him, long ago, + A parting kiss, and blest his laughing eyes! + His sobs speak fond remembrance, and he weeps + To think so kind and good a man should die. + + Though dead on earth, yet he from heaven looks down + On thee, sweet child! and others pure like thee! + Made happier, though an angel, by the sight + Of happiness, and virtue by himself + Created or preserved; and oft his soul + Leaves for a while her amaranthine bowers, + And dimly hears the choral symphonies + Of spirits singing round the Saviour's throne, + Delighted with a glimpse of Scotland's vales + Winding round hills where once his pious hymns + Were meditated in his silent heart, + Or with those human beings here beloved, + Whether they smile, as virtue ever smiles, + With sunny countenance gentle and benign. + Or a slight shade of sadness seems to say, + That they are thinking of the sainted soul + That looks from heaven on them!-- + + A holy creed + It is, and most delightful unto all + Who feel how deeply human sympathies + Blend with our hopes of heaven, which holds that death + Divideth not, as by a roaring sea, + Departed spirits from this lower sphere. + How could the virtuous even in heaven be blest, + Unless they saw the lovers and the friends, + Whom soon they hope to greet! A placid lake + Between Time floateth and Eternity, + Across whose sleeping waters murmur oft + The voices of the immortal, hither brought + Soft as the thought of music in the soul. + Deep, deep the love we bear unto the dead! + The adoring reverence that we humbly pay + To one who is a spirit, still partakes + Of that affectionate tenderness we own'd + Towards a being, once, perhaps, as frail + And human as ourselves, and in the shape + Celestial, and angelic lineaments, + Shines a fair likeness of the form and face + That won in former days our earthly love. + + O GRAHAME! even I in midnight dreams behold + Thy placid aspect, more serenely fair + Than the sweet moon that calms the autumnal heaven. + Thy voice steals, 'mid the pauses of the wind, + Unto my listening soul more touchingly + Than the pathetic tones of airy harp + That sound at evening like a spirit's song. + Yet, many are there dearer to thy shade, + Yea, dearer far than I; and when their tears + They dry at last (and wisdom bids them weep, + If long and oft, O sure not bitterly) + Then wilt thou stand before their raptured eyes + As beautiful as kneeling saint e'er deem'd + In his bright cell Messiah's vision'd form. + I may not think upon her blissful dreams + Who bears thy name on earth, and in it feels + A Christian glory and a pious pride, + That must illume the widow's lonely path + With never dying sunshine.--To her soul + Soft sound the strains now flowing fast from mine! + And in those tranquil hours when she withdraws + From loftier consolations, may the tears, + (For tears will fall, most idle though they be,) + Now shed by me to her but little known, + Yield comfort to her, as a certain pledge + That many a one, though silent and unseen, + Thinks of her and the children at her knees, + Blest for the father's and the husband's sake. + + +THE END. + + +EDINBURGH: + +Printed by James Ballantyne and Co. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Isle of Palms, by John Wilson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ISLE OF PALMS *** + +***** This file should be named 38741.txt or 38741.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/7/4/38741/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Josephine Paolucci and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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