Friend of the wise! and Teacher of the Good!Into my heart have I received that LayMore than historic, that prophetic LayWherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)Of the foundations and the building upOf a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tellWhat may be told, to the understanding mindRevealable; and what within the mindBy vital breathings secret as the soulOf vernal growth, oft quickens in the heartThoughts all too deep for words!—
Theme hard as high!Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth),Of tides obedient to external force,And currents self-determined, as might seem,Or by some inner Power; of moments awful,Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,When power streamed from thee, and thy soul receivedThe light reflected, as a light bestowed—Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,Hyblean murmurs of poetic thoughtIndustrious in its joy, in vales and glensNative or outland, lakes and famous hills!Or on the lonely high-road, when the starsWere rising; or by secret mountain-streams,The guides and the companions of thy way!
Of more than Fancy, of the Social SenseDistending wide, and man beloved as man,Where France in all her towns lay vibratingLike some becalmed bark beneath the burstOf Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloudIs visible, or shadow on the main.For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded,Amid the tremor of a realm aglow,Amid a mighty nation jubilant,When from the general heart of human kindHope sprang forth like a full-born Deity!—Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sureFrom the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self,With light unwaning on her eyes, to lookFar on-herself a glory to behold,The Angel of the vision! Then (last strain)Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice,Action and joy!—An orphic song indeed,A song divine of high and passionate thoughtsTo their own music chaunted!
O great Bard!Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,With steadfast eye I viewed thee in the choirOf ever-enduring men. The truly greatHave all one age, and from one visible spaceShed influence! They, both in power and act,Are permanent, and Time is not withthem,Save as it workethforthem, theyinit.Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old,And to be placed, as they, with gradual fameAmong the archives of mankind, thy workMakes audible a linked lay of Truth,Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,Not learnt, but native, her own natural notesAh! as I listen'd with a heart forlorn,The pulses of my being beat anew:And even as life retains upon the drowned,Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains—Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babeTurbulent, with an outcry in the heart;And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope;And hope that scarce would know itself from fear;Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain,And genius given, and knowledge won in vain;And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild,And all which patient toil had reared, and all,Commune withtheehad opened out—but flowersStrewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier,In the same coffin, for the self-same grave!
That way no more! and ill beseems it me,Who came a welcomer in herald's guise,Singing of glory, and futurity,To wander back on such unhealthful road,Plucking the poisons of self-harm! And illSuch intertwine beseems triumphal wreathsStrew'd beforethyadvancing!
Nor do thou,Sage Bard! impair the memory of that hourOf thy communion with my nobler mindBy pity or grief, already felt too long!Nor let my words import more blame than needs.The tumult rose and ceased: for Peace is nighWhere wisdom's voice has found a listening heart.Amid the howl of more than wintry storms,The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hoursAlready on the wing.
Eve following eve,Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of HomeIs sweetest! moments for their own sake hailedAnd more desired, more precious, for thy song,In silence listening like a devout child,My soul lay passive, by thy various strainDriven as in surges now beneath the stars,With momentary stars of my own birth,Fair constellated foam, still darting offInto the darkness; now a tranquil sea,Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon.
And when—O Friend! my comforter and guide!Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength!—Thy long sustained Song finally closed,And thy deep voice had ceased—yet thou thyselfWert still before my eyes, and round us bothThat happy vision of beloved faces—Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its closeI sate, my being blended in one thought(Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?)Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound—And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.
January1807.
Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue."
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-starIn his steep course? So long he seems to pauseOn thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC!The Arve and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,How silently! Around thee and aboveDeep is the air and dark, substantial, black,An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,As with a wedge! But when I look again,It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternity!O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayerI worshipped the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought,Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy:Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,Into the mighty vision passing—thereAs in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!
Awake, my soul! not only passive praiseThou owest! not alone these swelling tears,Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!O struggling with the darkness all the night,And visited all night by troops of stars,Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:Companion of the morning-star at dawn,Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawnCo-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light?Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!Who called you forth from night and utter death,From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,For ever shattered and the same for ever?Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy.Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?And who commanded (and the silence came),Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's browAdown enormous ravines slope amain—Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the Gates of HeavenBeneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?—GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, GOD!GOD! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in their perilous fall shall thunder, GOD!
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the element!Utter forth GOD, and fill the hills with praise!
Thou too; hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast—Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices, praises GOD.
1802
The Frost performs its secret ministry,Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cryCame loud—and hark, again! loud as before.The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,Have left me to that solitude, which suitsAbstruser musings: save that at my sideMy cradled infant slumbers peacefully.'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbsAnd vexes meditation with its strangeAnd extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,With all the numberless goings-on of life,Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flameLies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.Methinks, its motion in this hush of natureGives it dim sympathies with me who live,Making it a companionable form,Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling SpiritBy its own moods interprets, every whereEcho or mirror seeking of itself,And makes a toy of Thought.
But O! how oft,How oft, at school, with most believing mind,Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oftWith unclosed lids, already had I dreamtOf my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rangFrom morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted meWith a wild pleasure, falling on mine earMost like articulate sounds of things to come!So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!And so I brooded all the following morn,Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eyeFixed with mock study on my swimming book:Save if the door half opened, and I snatchedA hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,For still I hoped to see thestranger'sface,Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,Fill up the interspersed vacanciesAnd momentary pauses of the thought!My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heartWith tender gladness, thus to look at thee,And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,And in far other scenes! For I was rearedIn the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.Butthou, my babe! shalt wander like a breezeBy lakes and sandy shores, beneath the cragsOf ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,Which image in their bulk both lakes and shoresAnd mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hearThe lovely shapes and sounds intelligibleOf that eternal language, which thy GodUtters, who from eternity doth teachHimself in all, and all things in himself.Great universal Teacher! he shall mouldThy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,Whether the summer clothe the general earthWith greenness, or the redbreast sit and singBetwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branchOf mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatchSmokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fallHeard only in the trances of the blast,Or if the secret ministry of frostShall hang them up in silent icicles,Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
February1798.
No cloud, no relique of the sunken dayDistinguishes the West, no long thin slipOf sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,Bur* hear no murmuring: it flows silently,O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,Yet let us think upon the vernal showersThat gladden the green earth, and we shall findA pleasure in the dimness of the stars.And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,"Most musical, most melancholy" bird!A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!In Nature there is nothing melancholy.But some night-wandering man whose heart was piercedWith the remembrance of a grievous wrong,Or slow distemper, or neglected love,(And so, poor wretch! fill'd all things with himself,And made all gentle sounds tell back the taleOf his own sorrow) he, and such as he,First named these notes a melancholy strain.And many a poet echoes the conceit;Poet who hath been building up the rhymeWhen he had better far have stretched his limbsBeside a brook in mossy forest-dell,By sun or moon-light, to the influxesOf shapes and sounds and shifting elementsSurrendering his whole spirit, of his songAnd of his fame forgetful! so his fameShould share in Nature's immortality,A venerable thing! and so his songShould make all Nature lovelier, and itselfBe loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so;And youths and maidens most poetical,Who lose the deepening twilights of the springIn ball-rooms and hot theatres, they stillFull of meek sympathy must heave their sighsO'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.
My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learntA different lore: we may not thus profaneNature's sweet voices, always full of loveAnd joyance! 'Tis the merry NightingaleThat crowds, and hurries, and precipitatesWith fast thick warble his delicious notes,As he were fearful that an April nightWould be too short for him to utter forthHis love-chant, and disburthen his full soulOf all its music!
And I know a groveOf large extent, hard by a castle huge,Which the great lord inhabits not; and soThis grove is wild with tangling underwood,And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.But never elsewhere in one place I knewSo many nightingales; and far and near,In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,They answer and provoke each other's songs,With skirmish and capricious passagings,And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,And one low piping sound more sweet than all—Stirring the air with such an harmony,That should you close your eyes, you might almostForget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed,You may perchance behold them on the twigs,Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shadeLights up her love-torch.
A most gentle Maid,Who dwelleth in her hospitable homeHard by the castle, and at latest eve(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicateTo something more than Nature in the grove)Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes,That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space,What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moonEmerging, hath awakened earth and skyWith one sensation, and those wakeful birdsHave all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,As if some sudden gale had swept at onceA hundred airy harps! And she hath watchedMany a nightingale perch giddilyOn blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,And to that motion tune his wanton songLike tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.
Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!We have been loitering long and pleasantly,And now for our dear homes.—That strain again!Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe,Who, capable of no articulate sound,Mars all things with his imitative lisp,How he would place his hand beside his ear,His little hand, the small forefinger up,And bid us listen! And I deem it wiseTo make him Nature's play-mate. He knows wellThe evening-star; and once, when he awokeIn most distressful mood (some inward painHad made up that strange thing, an infant's dream),I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once,Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,While his fair eyes, that swam with undroppedtears,Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!—It is a father's tale: But if that HeavenShould give me life, his childhood shall grow upFamiliar with these songs, that with the nightHe may associate joy.—Once more, farewell,Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends!farewell.
My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclinedThus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it isTo sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrownWith white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad-leavedMyrtle,(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!),And watch the clouds, that late were rich withlight,Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eveSerenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)Shine opposite! How exquisite the scentsSnatched from yon bean-field! and the worldso hushed!
The stilly murmur of the distant seaTells us of silence.
And that simplest lute,Placed length-ways in the clasping casement,hark!How by the desultory breeze caressed,Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover,It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needsTempt to repeat the wrong! And now, itsstringsBoldlier swept, the long sequacious notesOver delicious surges sink and rise,Such a soft floating witchery of soundAs twilight Elfins make, when they at eveVoyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamedwing!O! the one life within us and abroad,Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,A light in sound, a sound-like power in lightRhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere—Methinks, it should have been impossibleNot to love all things in a world so filled;Where the breeze warbles, and the mute stillairIn Music slumbering on her instrument.
And thus, my love! as on the midway slopeOf yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I beholdThe sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;Full many a thought uncalled and undetained,And many idle flitting phantasies,Traverse my indolent and passive brain,As wild and various as the random galesThat swell and flutter on this subject lute!
And what if all of animated natureBe but organic harps diversely framed,That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweepsPlastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,At once the Soul of each, and God of all?
But thy more serious eye a mild reproofDarts, O beloved woman! nor such thoughtsDim and unhallowed dost thou not reject,And biddest me walk humbly with my God.Meek daughter in the family of Christ!Well hast thou said and holily dispraisedThese shapings of the unregenerate mind;Bubbles that glitter as they rise and breakOn vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring.For never guiltless may I speak of him,The Incomprehensible! save when with aweI praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;Who with his saving mercies healed me,A sinful and most miserable man,Wildered and dark, and gave me to possessPeace, and this cot, and thee, dear honouredMaid!
1795.
Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwoodI force my way; now climb, and now descendO'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild footCrushing the purple whorts;[1] while oft unseen,Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil,I know not, ask not whither! A new joy,Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust,And gladsome as the first-born of the spring,Beckons me on, or follows from behind,Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quelled,I feel that I am free. With dun-red barkThe fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak,Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brakeSoar up, and form a melancholy vaultHigh o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea.Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse;Here too the love-lorn man, who, sick in soul,And of this busy human heart aweary,Worships the spirit of unconscious lifeIn tree or wild-flower.—Gentle lunatic!If so he might not wholly cease to be,He would far rather not be that he is;But would be something that he knows not of,In winds or waters, or among the rocks!
But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagionhere!No myrtle-walks are these: these are no grovesWhere Love dare loiter! If in sullen moodHe should stray hither, the low stumps shallgoreHis dainty feet, the briar and the thornMake his plumes haggard. Like a woundedbirdEasily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs,Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades!And you, ye Earth-winds! you that make atmornThe dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs!You, O ye wingless Airs! that creep betweenThe rigid stems of heath and bitten furze,Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon,The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed—Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp,Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb.Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes!With prickles sharper than his darts bemockHis little Godship, making him perforceCreep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog'sback.
This is my hour of triumph! I can nowWith my own fancies play the merry fool,And laugh away worse folly, being free.Here will I seat myself, beside this old,Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twineClothes as with net-work: here will couch my limbs,Close by this river, in this silent shade,As safe and sacred from the step of manAs an invisible world—unheard, unseen,And listening only to the pebbly brookThat murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound;Or to the bees, that in the neighbouring trunkMake honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me,Was never Love's accomplice, never raisedThe tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow,And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek;Ne'er played the wanton—never half disclosedThe maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thenceEye-poisons for some love-distempered youth,Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-groveShiver in sunshine, but his feeble heartShall flow away like a dissolving thing.
Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright,Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast,That swells its little breast, so full of song,Singing above me, on the mountain-ash.And thou too, desert stream! no pool of thine,Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve,Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe,The face, the form divine, the downcast lookContemplative! Behold! her open palmPresses her cheek and brow! her elbow restsOn the bare branch of half-uprooted tree,That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhileHad from her countenance turned, or looked by stealth(For fear is true-love's cruel nurse), he nowWith steadfast gaze and unoffending eye,Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopesDelicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain,E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed,But not unheeded gazed: for see, ah! see,The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucksThe heads of tall flowers that behind her grow,Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells:And suddenly, as one that toys with time,Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charmIs broken—all that phantom world so fairVanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,And each mis-shapes the other. Stay awhile,Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes!
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soonThe visions will return! And lo! he stays:And soon the fragments dim of lovely formsCome trembling back, unite, and now once moreThe pool becomes a mirror; and beholdEach wildflower on the marge inverted there,And there the half-uprooted tree—but where,O where the virgin's snowy arm, that leanedOn its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone!Homeward she steals through many a woodland mazeWhich he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth!Go, day by day, and waste thy manly primeIn mad love-yearning by the vacant brook,Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thouBehold'st her shadow still abiding there,The Naiad of the mirror!
Not to thee,O wild and desert stream! belongs this tale:Gloomy and dark art thou-the crowded firsSpire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed,Making thee doleful as a cavern-well:Save when the shy king-fishers build their nestOn thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream!
This be my chosen haunt—emancipateFrom passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone,I rise and trace its devious course. O lead,Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms.Lo! stealing through the canopy of firs,How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock,Isle of the river, whose disparted wavesDart off asunder with an angry sound,How soon to re-unite! And see! they meet,Each in the other lost and found: and seePlaceless, as spirits, one soft water-sunThrobbing within them, heart at once and eye!With its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds,The stains and shadings of forgotten tears,Dimness o'erswum with lustre! Such the hourOf deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds;And hark, the noise of a near waterfall!I pass forth into light—I find myselfBeneath a weeping birch (most beautifulOf forest trees, the Lady of the Woods),Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rockThat overbrows the cataract. How burst?The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hillsFold in behind each other, and so makeA circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem,With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages,Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet,The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray,Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall.How solemnly the pendent ivy-massSwings in its winnow: All the air is calm.The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with light,Rises in columns; from this house alone,Close by the waterfall, the column slants,And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this?That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke,And close beside its porch a sleeping child,His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dog—One arm between its fore-legs, and the handHolds loosely its small handful of wildflowers,Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths.A curious picture, with a master's hasteSketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin,Peeled from the birchen bark! Divinest maid!Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berriesHer pencil! See, the juice is scarcely driedOn the fine skin! She has been newly here;And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch—The pressure still remains! O blessed couch!For this may'st thou flower early, and the sun,Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger longUpon thy purple bells! O Isabel!Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids!More beautiful than whom Alcæus wooed,The Lesbian woman of immortal song!O child of genius! stately, beautiful,And full of love to all, save only me,And not ungentle e'en to me! My heart,Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppicewoodNeeds must the pathway turn, that leads straightwayOn to her father's house. She is alone!The night draws on-such ways are hard to hit—And fit it is I should restore this sketch,Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearnTo keep the relique? 'twill but idly feedThe passion that consumes me. Let me haste!The picture in my hand which she has left;She cannot blame me that I follow'd her:And I may be her guide the long wood through.
1802.
[Footnote 1:Vaccinium Myrtillusknown by the different names ofWhorts, Whortle-berries, Bilberries; and in the North of England,Blea-berries and Bloom-berries. [Note by S. T. C. 1802.]]
Of late, in one of those most weary hours,When life seems emptied of all genial powers,A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has knownMay bless his happy lot, I sate alone;And, from the numbing spell to win relief,Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or grief.In vain! bereft alike of grief and glee,I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy!And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache,Which, all else slum'bring, seem'd alone to wake;O Friend! long wont to notice yet conceal,And soothe by silence what words cannot heal,I but half saw that quiet hand of thinePlace on my desk this exquisite design.Boccaccio's Garden and its faery,The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry!An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm,Framed in the silent poesy of form.Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steepEmerging from a mist: or like a streamOf music soft that not dispels the sleep,But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream,Gazed by an idle eye with silent mightThe picture stole upon my inward sight.A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest,As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast.And one by one (I know not whence) were broughtAll spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thoughtIn selfless boyhood, on a new world tostOf wonder, and in its own fancies lost;Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above,Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love;Or lent a lustre to the earnest scanOf manhood, musing what and whence is man!Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn cavesRehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves;Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids,That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades;Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast;Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest,Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array,To high-church pacing on the great saint's day.And many a verse which to myself I sang,That woke the tear yet stole away the pang,Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd.And last, a matron now, of sober mien,Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen,Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'dEven in my dawn of thought—Philosophy;Though then unconscious of herself, pardie,She bore no other name than Poesy;And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee,That had but newly left a mother's knee,Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone,As if with elfin playfellows well known,And life reveal'd to innocence alone.
Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descryThy fair creation with a mastering eye,Andallawake! And now in fix'd gaze stand,Now wander through the Eden of thy hand;Praise the green arches, on the fountain clearSee fragment shadows of the crossing deer;And with that serviceable nymph I stoopThe crystal from its restless pool to scoop.I see no longer! I myself am there,Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings;Or pause and listen to the tinkling bellsFrom the high tower, and think that there she dwells.With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.The brightness of the world, O thou once free,And always fair, rare land of courtesy!O Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hillsAnd famous Arno, fed with all their rills;Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy!Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine,The golden corn, the olive, and the vine.Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old,And forests, where beside his leafy holdThe sullen boar hath heard the distant horn,And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn;Palladian palace with its storied halls;Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls;Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span,And Nature makes her happy home with man;Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fedWith its own rill, on its own spangled bed,And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head,A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawnWeeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn;—Thine all delights, and every muse is thine;And more than all, the embrace and intertwineOf all with all in gay and twinkling dance!Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance,See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his kneesThe new-found roll of old Maeonides;But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart,Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart!
O all-enjoying and all-blending sage,Long be it mine to con thy mazy page,Where, half conceal'd, the eye of fancy viewsFauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to thy muse!
Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,And see in Dian's vest between the ranksOf the trim vines, some maid that half believesThevestalfires, of which her lover grieves,With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves!
1828.
'T was my last waking thought, how it could beThat thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st endure;When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and heCould tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.Methought he fronted me with peering lookFix'd on my heart; and read aloud in gameThe loves and griefs therein, as from a book:And uttered praise like one who wished to blame.
In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sinTwo Founts there are, of Suffering and of Cheer!Thatto let forth, andthisto keep within!But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,
Of Pleasure only will to all dispense,ThatFount alone unlock, by no distressChoked or turned inward, but still issue thenceUnconquered cheer, persistent loveliness.
As on the driving cloud the shiny bow,That gracious thing made up of tears and light,Mid the wild rack and rain that slants belowStands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright:
As though the spirits of all lovely flowers,Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown,Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers,Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.
Even so, Eliza! on that face of thine,On that benignant face, whose look alone(The soul's translucence thro' her crystal shrine!)Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own,
A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing,But with a silent charm compels the sternAnd tort'ring Genius of the bitter spring,To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.
Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet foundIn passion, spleen, or strife) the Fount of PainO'erflowing beats against its lovely mound,And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?
Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleamOn his raised lip, that aped a critic smile,Had passed: yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile,Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream;
Till audibly at length I cried, as thoughThou hadst indeed been present to my eyes,O sweet, sweet sufferer; if the case be so,I pray thee, belessgood,lesssweet,lesswise!
In every look a barbed arrow send,On those soft lips let scorn and anger live!Doanything, rather than thus, sweet friend!Hoard for thyself the pain, thou wilt not give!
1826.
My eyes make pictures, when they are shut:I see a fountain, large and fair,A willow and a ruined hut,And thee, and me and Mary there.O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow!Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow!
A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed,And that and summer well agree:And lo! where Mary leans her head,Two dear names carved upon the tree!And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow:Our sister and our friend will both be here tomorrow.
'Twas day! but now few, large, and bright,The stars are round the crescent moon!And now it is a dark warm night,The balmiest of the month of June!A glow-worm fall'n, and on the marge remountingShines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.
O ever—ever be thou blest!For dearly, Asra! love I thee!This brooding warmth across my breast,This depth of tranquil bliss—ah, me!Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither,But in one quiet room we three are still together.
The shadows dance upon the wall,By the still dancing fire-flames made;And now they slumber moveless all!And now they melt to one deep shade!But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee;I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!
Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play—'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!But let me check this tender layWhich none may hear but she and thou!Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming,Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women!
?1807.
Charles! my slow heart was only sad, when firstI scanned that face of feeble infancy:For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burstAll I had been, and all my child might be!But when I saw it on its mother's arm,And hanging at her bosom (she the whileBent o'er its features with a tearful smile)Then I was thrilled and melted, and most warmImpressed a father's kiss: and all beguiledOf dark remembrance and presageful fear,I seemed to see an angel-form appear—'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!So for the mother's sake the child was dear,And dearer was the mother for the child.
1796.
While my young cheek retains its healthful hues,And I have many friends who hold me dear,Linley! methinks, I would not often hearSuch melodies as thine, lest I should loseAll memory of the wrongs and sore distressFor which my miserable brethren weep!But should uncomforted misfortunes steepMy daily bread in tears and bitterness;And if at death's dread moment I should lieWith no beloved face at my bed-side,To fix the last glance of my closing eye,Methinks such strains, breathed by my angel-guide,Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!
1797.
Tell me, on what holy groundMay Domestic Peace be found?Halcyon daughter of the skies,Far on fearful wings she flies,From the pomp of Sceptered State,From the Rebel's noisy hate.In a cottaged vale She dwells,Listening to the Sabbath bells!Still around her steps are seenSpotless Honour's meeker mien,Love, the sire of pleasing fears,Sorrow smiling through her tears,And conscious of the past employMemory, bosom-spring of joy.
1794.
A Sunny shaft did I behold,From sky to earth it slanted:And poised therein a bird so bold—Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!
He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolledWithin that shaft of sunny mist;His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,All else of amethyst!
And thus he sang: "Adieu! adieu!Love's dreams prove seldom true.The blossoms they make no delay:The sparkling dew-drops will not stay.Sweet month of May,We must away;Far, far away!To-day! to-day!"
1815.
Up, up! ye dames, and lasses gay!To the meadows trip away.'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,And scare the small birds from the corn.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
Leave the hearth and leave the houseTo the cricket and the mouse:Find grannam out a sunny seat,With babe and lambkin at her feet.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
1815.
[The following is an almost literal translation of a very old and very favourite song among the Westphalian Boors. The turn at the end is the same with one of Mr. Dibdin's excellent songs, and the air to which it is sung by the Boors is remarkably sweet and lively.]
When thou to my true-love com'stGreet her from me kindly;When she asks thee how I fare?Say, folks in Heaven fare finely.
When she asks, "What! Is he sick?"Say, dead!—and when for sorrowShe begins to sob and cry,Say, I come to-morrow.
?1799.
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—Both were mine! Life went a-mayingWith Nature, Hope, and Poesy,When I was young!
WhenI was young?—Ah, woeful When!Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!This breathing house not built with hands,This body that does me grievous wrong,O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,How lightlythenit flashed along:—Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,On winding lakes and rivers wide,That ask no aid of sail or oar,That fear no spite of wind or tide!Nought cared this body for wind or weatherWhen Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;Friendship is a sheltering tree;O! the joys, that came down shower-like,Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,Ere I was old!
EreI was old? Ah woeful Ere,Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!O Youth! for years so many and sweet,'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,I'll think it but a fond conceit—It cannot be that Thou art gone!Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-And thou wert aye a masker bold!What strange disguise hast now put on,Tomake believe, that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,This drooping gait, this altered size:But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!Life is but thought: so think I willThat Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,But the tears of mournful eve!Where no hope is, life's a warningThat only serves to make us grieve,When we are old:That only serves to make us grieveWith oft and tedious taking-leave,Like some poor nigh-related guest,That may not rudely be dismist;Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,And tells the jest without the smile.
1823-1832.
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—And Winter, slumbering in the open air,Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,And Hope without an object cannot live.
1827.
On the wide level of a mountain's head,(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place)Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,Two lovely children run an endless race,A sister and a brother!This far outstript the other;Yet ever runs she with reverted face,And looks and listens for the boy behind:For he, alas! is blind!O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed,And knows not whether he be first or last.
1815.
Like a lone Arab, old and blind,Some caravan had left behind,Who sits beside a ruin'd well,Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell;And now he hangs his aged head aslant,And listens for a human sound—in vain!And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant,Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain;—Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour,Resting my eye upon a drooping plant,With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower,I sate upon the couch of camomile;And—whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance,Flitted across the idle brain, the whileI watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope,In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance,Turn'd my eye inward—thee, O genial Hope,Love's elder sister! thee did I behold,Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold,With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim,Lie lifeless at my feet!And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim,And stood beside my seat;She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips,As she was wont to do;—Alas! 'twas but a chilling breathWoke just enough of life in deathTo make Hope die anew.
In vain we supplicate the Powers above;There is no resurrection for the LoveThat, nursed in tenderest care, yet fades awayIn the chill'd heart by gradual self-decay.
1833.
O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule,And sun thee in the light of happy faces;Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces,And in thine own heart let them first keep school.For as old Atlas on his broad neck placesHeaven's starry globe, and there sustains it;—soDo these upbear the little world belowOf Education,—Patience, Love, and Hope.Methinks, I see them group'd in seemly show,The straiten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope,And robes that touching as adown they flow,Distinctly blend, like snow emboss'd in snow.O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,Love too will sink and die.But Love is subtle, and doth proof deriveFrom her own life that Hope is yet alive;And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes,And the soft murmurs of the mother dove,Wooes back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies;—Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love.Yet haply there will come a weary day,When overtask'd at lengthBoth Love and Hope beneath the load give way.Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength,Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,And both supporting does the work of both.
1829.
Unchanged within, to see all changed without,Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt.Yet why at others' wanings should'st thou fret?Then only might'st thou feel a just regret,Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy lightIn selfish forethought of neglect and slight.O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed,While, andon whom, thou may'st—shine on! nor heedWhether the object by reflected lightReturn thy radiance or absorb it quite:And though thou notest from thy safe recessOld friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air,Love them for what theyare; nor love them less,Because totheethey are not what theywere.
1826.
O Fair is Love's first hope to gentle mind!As Eve's first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping;And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind,O'er willowy meads, and shadow'd waters creeping,And Ceres' golden fields;—the sultry hindMeets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping.
?1824.
All look and likeness caught from earth,All accident of kin and birth,Had pass'd away. There was no traceOf aught on that illumined face,Upraised beneath the rifted stone,But of one spirit all her own;—She, she herself, and only she,Shone through her body visibly.
1804.
It may indeed be phantasy: when IEssay to draw from all created thingsDeep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings;And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lieLessons of love and earnest piety.So let it be; and if the wide world ringsIn mock of this belief, it bringsNor fear, nor grief, nor vain, perplexity.So will I build my altar in the fields,And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yieldsShall be the incense I will yield to Thee,Thee only God! and thou shalt not despiseEven me, the priest of this poor sacrifice.
O! It is pleasant, with a heart at ease,Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,To make the shifting clouds be what you please,Or let the easily persuaded eyesOwn each quaint likeness issuing from the mouldOf a friend's fancy; or with head bent lowAnd cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold'Twixt crimson banks; and then, a traveller, goFrom mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land!Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight,Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strandBy those deep sounds possessed with inward light,Beheld the Iliad and the OdysseeRise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.
1819.
Since all that beat about in Nature's range,Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remainThe only constant in a world of change,O yearning Thought! that liv'st but in the brain?Call to the Hours, that in the distance play,The faery people of the future day—Fond Thought! not one of all that shining swarmWill breathe ontheewith life-enkindling breath,Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm,Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see,She is not thou, and only thou art she,Still, still as though some dearembodiedGood,SomelivingLove before my eyes there stoodWith answering look a ready ear to lend,I mourn to thee and say—"Ah! loveliest friend!That this the meed of all my toils might be,To have a home, an English home, and thee!"Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one.The peacefull'st cot, the moon shall shine upon,Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark,Without thee were but a becalmed bark,Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wideSits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.
And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as whenThe woodman winding westward up the glenAt wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's mazeThe viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze,Sees full before him, gliding without tread,An image with a glory round its head;The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues,Nor knows hemakesthe shadow, he pursues!
?1805.