Paulo majora canamus.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,The earth, and every common sight,To me did seemApparell'd in celestial light,The glory and the freshness of a dream.It is not now as it has been of yore;—Turn wheresoe'er I may,By night or day,The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The Rainbow comes and goes, 10And lovely is the Rose,The Moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare;Waters on a starry nightAre beautiful and fair;The sunshine is a glorious birth;But yet I know, where'er I go,That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song,And while the young Lambs bound 20As to the tabor's sound,To me alone there came a thought of grief:A timely utterance gave that thought relief,And I again am strong.The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay,Land and sea 30Give themselves up to jollity,And with the heart of MayDoth every Beast keep holiday,Thou Child of JoyShout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd Boy!
Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the callYe to each other make; I seeThe heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;My heart is at your festival,My head hath its coronal, 40The fullness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.Oh evil day! if I were sullenWhile the Earth herself is adorning,This sweet May-morning,And the Children are pulling,On every side,In a thousand vallies far and wide,Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm:—I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 50—But there's a Tree, of many one,A single Field which I have look'd upon,Both of them speak of something that is gone:The Pansy at my feetDoth the same tale repeat:Whither is fled the visionary gleam?Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,Hath had elsewhere its setting, 60And cometh from afar:Not in entire forgetfulness,And not in utter nakedness,But trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God, who is our home;Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon the growing Boy,But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,He sees it in his joy; 70The Youth, who daily farther from the EastMust travel, still is Nature's Priest,And by the vision splendidIs on his way attended;At length the Man perceives it die away,And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,And, even with something of a Mother's mind,And no unworthy aim, 80The homely Nurse doth all she canTo make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,Forget the glories he hath known,And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,A four year's Darling of a pigmy size!See, where mid work of his own hand he lies,Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses,With light upon him from his Father's eyes!See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90Some fragment from his dream of human life,Shap'd by himself with newly-learned art;A wedding or a festival,A mourning or a funeral;And this hath now his heart,And unto this he frames his song:Then will he fit his tongueTo dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be longEre this be thrown aside, 100And with new joy and prideThe little Actor cons another part,Filling from time to time his "humourous stage"With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,That Life brings with her in her Equipage;As if his whole vocationWere endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belieThy Soul's immensity;Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 110Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!On whom those truths do rest,Which we are toiling all our lives to find;Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,A Presence which is not to be put by;To whom the grave 120Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sightOf day or the warm light,A place of thought where we in waiting lie;Thou little Child, yet glorious in the mightOf untam'd pleasures, on thy Being's height,Why with such earnest pains dost thou provokeThe Years to bring the inevitable yoke,Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 130Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
O joy! that in our embersIs something that doth live,That nature yet remembersWhat was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breedPerpetual benedictions: not indeedFor that which is most worthy to be blest;Delight and liberty, the simple creedOf Childhood, whether fluttering or at rest, 140With new-born hope for ever in his breast:—Not for these I raiseThe song of thanks and praise;But for those obstinate questioningsOf sense and outward things,Fallings from us, vanishings;Blank misgivings of a CreatureMoving about in worlds not realiz'd,High instincts, before which our mortal NatureDid tremble like a guilty Thing surpriz'd: 150But for those first affections,Those shadowy recollections,Which, be they what they may,Are yet the fountain light of all our day,Are yet a master light of all our seeing;Uphold us, cherish us, and makeOur noisy years seem moments in the beingOf the eternal Silence: truths that wake,To perish never;Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 160Nor Man nor Boy,Nor all that is at enmity with joy,Can utterly abolish or destroy!Hence, in a season of calm weather,Though inland far we be,Our Souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hither,Can in a moment travel thither,And see the Children sport upon the shore,And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 170
Then, sing ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!And let the young Lambs boundAs to the tabor's sound!We in thought will join your throng,Ye that pipe and ye that play,Ye that through your hearts to dayFeel the gladness of the May!What though the radiance which was once so brightBe now for ever taken from my sight,Though nothing can bring back the hour 180Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;We will grieve not, rather findStrength in what remains behind,In the primal sympathyWhich having been must ever be,In the soothing thoughts that springOut of human suffering,In the faith that looks through death,In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And oh ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 190Think not of any severing of our loves!Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;I only have relinquish'd one delightTo live beneath your more habitual sway.I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;The innocent brightness of a new-born DayIs lovely yet;The Clouds that gather round the setting sunDo take a sober colouring from an eye 200That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;Another race hath been, and other palms are won.Thanks to the human heart by which we live,Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
NOTES to the SECOND VOLUME.
PAGE 4 (177); line 2.—"And wondrous length and strength of arm." The people of the neighbourhood of Loch Ketterine, in order to prove the extraordinary length of their Hero's arm, tell you that "he could garter his Tartan Stockings below the knee when standing upright." According to their account he was a tremendous Swordsman; after having sought all occasions of proving his prowess, he was never conquered but once, and this not till he was an Old Man.
PAGE 11 (185).—The solitary Reaper. This Poem was suggested by a beautiful sentence in a MS Tour in Scotland written by a Friend, the last line being taken from itverbatim.
PAGE 65 (239).—THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. The incident upon which this Poem is founded was related to me by an eye witness.
PAGE 106 (280); line 10.—"Seen the Seven Whistlers, &c." Both these superstitions are prevalent in the midland Counties of England: that of "Gabriel's Hounds" appears to be very general over Europe; being the same as the one upon which the German Poet, Burger, has founded his Ballad of the Wild Huntsman.
PAGE 128 (302).—Song, at the Feast of Brougham Castle. Henry Lord Clifford, &c. &c., who is the subject of this Poem, was the son of John, Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton Field, which John, Lord Clifford, as is known to the Reader of English History, was the person who after the battle of Wakefield slew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of Rutland, Son of the Duke of York who had fallen in the battle, "in part of revenge" (say the Authors of the History of Cumberland and Westmorland); "for the Earl's Father had slain his." A deed which worthily blemished the author (saith Speed); But who, as he adds, "dare promise any thing temperate of himself in the heat of martial fury? chiefly, when it was resolved not to leave any branch of the York line standing; for so one maketh this Lord to speak." This, no doubt, I would observe by the bye, was an action sufficiently in the vindictive spirit of the times, and yet not altogether so bad as represented; for the Earl was no child, as some writers would have him, but able to bear arms, being sixteen or seventeen years of age, as is evident from this (say the Memoirs of the Countess of Pembroke, who was laudably anxious to wipe away, as far as could be, this stigma from the illustrious name to which she was born); that he was the next Child to King Edward the Fourth, which his mother had by Richard Duke of York, and that King was then eighteen years of age: and for the small distance betwixt her Children, see Austin Vincent in his book of Nobility, page 622, where he writes of them all. It may further be observed, that Lord Clifford, who was then himself only twenty-five years of age, had been a leading Man and Commander, two or three years together in the Army of Lancaster, before this time; and, therefore, would be less likely to think that the Earl of Rutland might be entitled to mercy from his youth.—But, independent of this act, at best a cruel and savage one, the Family of Clifford had done enough to draw upon them the vehement hatred of the House of York: so that after the Battle of Towton there was no hope for them but in flight and concealment. Henry, the subject of the Poem, was deprived of his estate and honours during the space of twenty-four years; all which time he lived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, where the estate of his Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to his estate and honours in the first year of Henry the Seventh. It is recorded that, "when called to parliament, he behaved nobly and wisely; but otherwise came seldom to London or the Court; and rather delighted to live in the country, where he repaired several of his Castles, which had gone to decay during the late troubles." Thus far is chiefly collected from Nicholson and Burn; and I can add, from my own knowledge, that there is a tradition current in the village of Threlkeld and its neighbourhood, his principal retreat, that, in the course of his shepherd life, he had acquired great astronomical knowledge. I cannot conclude this note without adding a word upon the subject of those numerous and noble feudal Edifices, spoken of in the Poem, the ruins of some of which are, at this day, so great an ornament to that interesting country. The Cliffords had always been distinguished for an honorable pride in these Castles; and we have seen that after the wars of York and Lancaster they were rebuilt; in the civil Wars of Charles the First, they were again laid waste, and again restored almost to their former magnificence by the celebrated Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, &c. &c. Not more than 25 years after this was done, when the Estates of Clifford had passed into the family of Tufton, three of these Castles, namely Brough, Brougham, and Pendragon, were demolished, and the timber and other materials sold by Thomas Earl of Thanet. We will hope that, when this order was issued, the Earl had not consulted the text of Isaiah, 58th Chap. 12th Verse, to which the inscription placed over the gate of Pendragon Castle, by the Countess of Pembroke (I believe his Grandmother) at the time she repaired that structure, refers the reader. "And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places; thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations, and thou shalt be called the repairer of the breach,the restorer of paths to dwell in." The Earl of Thanet, the present possessor of the Estates, with a due respect for the memory of his ancestors, and a proper sense of the value and beauty of these remains of antiquity, has (I am told) given orders that they shall be preserved from all depredations.
PAGE 130 (304); line 2.—"Earth helped him with the cry of blood." This line is from The Battle of Bosworth Field by Sir John Beaumont (Brother to the Dramatist), whose poems are written with so much spirit, elegance, and harmony, that it is supposed, as the Book is very scarce, a new edition of it would be acceptable to Scholars and Men of taste, and, accordingly, it is in contemplation to give one.
PAGE 135 (309); line 15.—
"And both the undying Fish that swimThrough Bowscale-Tarn," &c.
It is imagined by the people of the Country that there are two immortal Fish, Inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the mountains not far from Threlkeld.—Blencathara, mentioned before, is the old and proper name of the mountain vulgarly called Saddle-back.
PAGE 136 (310); lines 17 and 18.—
"Armour rusting in his HallsOn the blood of Clifford calls."
The martial character of the Cliffords is well known to the readers of English History; but it may not be improper here to say, by way of comment on these lines and what follows, that, besides several others who perished in the same manner, the four immediate Progenitors of the person in whose hearing this is supposed to be spoken, all died in the Field.
"Importunate and heavy load!"
* * * * *
'Importuna e grave salma.' —MICHAEL ANGELO.