The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems on TravelThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world 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 atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Poems on TravelCompiler: R. M. LeonardRelease date: April 21, 2012 [eBook #39496]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON TRAVEL ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world 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 atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Poems on TravelCompiler: R. M. LeonardRelease date: April 21, 2012 [eBook #39496]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: Poems on Travel
Compiler: R. M. Leonard
Compiler: R. M. Leonard
Release date: April 21, 2012 [eBook #39496]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON TRAVEL ***
OXFORD GARLANDS
SELECTED BYR. M. LEONARD
How much a dunce that has been sent to roamExcels a dunce that has been kept at home.Cowper.
How much a dunce that has been sent to roamExcels a dunce that has been kept at home.Cowper.
How much a dunce that has been sent to roamExcels a dunce that has been kept at home.Cowper.
Cowper.
HUMPHREY MILFORDOXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESSLONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORKTORONTO MELBOURNE BOMBAY1914
OXFORD: HORACE HARTPRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
The ceaseless rain is falling fast,And yonder gilded vane,Immovable for three days past,Points to the misty main.It drives me in upon myself5And to the fireside gleams,To pleasant books that crowd my shelf,And still more pleasant dreams.I read whatever bards have sungOf lands beyond the sea,10And the bright days when I was youngCome thronging back to me.In fancy I can hear againThe Alpine torrent's roar,The mule-bells on the hills of Spain,15The sea at Elsinore.I see the convent's gleaming wallRise from its groves of pine,And towers of old cathedrals tall,And castles by the Rhine.20I journey on by park and spire,Beneath centennial trees,Through fields with poppies all on fire,And gleams of distant seas.I fear no more the dust and heat,25No more I fear fatigue,While journeying with another's feetO'er many a lengthening league.Let others traverse sea and land,And toil through various climes,30I turn the world round with my handReading these poets' rhymes.From them I learn whatever liesBeneath each changing zone,And see, when looking with their eyes,35Better than with mine own.
The ceaseless rain is falling fast,And yonder gilded vane,Immovable for three days past,Points to the misty main.
It drives me in upon myself5And to the fireside gleams,To pleasant books that crowd my shelf,And still more pleasant dreams.
I read whatever bards have sungOf lands beyond the sea,10And the bright days when I was youngCome thronging back to me.
In fancy I can hear againThe Alpine torrent's roar,The mule-bells on the hills of Spain,15The sea at Elsinore.
I see the convent's gleaming wallRise from its groves of pine,And towers of old cathedrals tall,And castles by the Rhine.20
I journey on by park and spire,Beneath centennial trees,Through fields with poppies all on fire,And gleams of distant seas.
I fear no more the dust and heat,25No more I fear fatigue,While journeying with another's feetO'er many a lengthening league.
Let others traverse sea and land,And toil through various climes,30I turn the world round with my handReading these poets' rhymes.
From them I learn whatever liesBeneath each changing zone,And see, when looking with their eyes,35Better than with mine own.
H. W. Longfellow.
Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits,Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth,Come, let us go,—to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered,Where every breath even now changes to ether divine.Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, 'The world that we live in,5Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib;'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel;Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think;'Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser;'Tis but to go and have been.'—Come, little bark! let us go.10
Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits,Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth,Come, let us go,—to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered,Where every breath even now changes to ether divine.Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, 'The world that we live in,5Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib;'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel;Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think;'Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser;'Tis but to go and have been.'—Come, little bark! let us go.10
A. H. Clough.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drinkLife to the lees: all times I have enjoyedGreatly, have suffered greatly, both with thoseThat loved me, and alone; on shore, and whenThrough scudding drifts the rainy Hyades5Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;For always roaming with a hungry heartMuch have I seen and known; cities of men,And manners, climates, councils, governments,Myself not least, but honoured of them all;10And drunk delight of battle with my peers,Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.I am a part of all that I have met;Yet all experience is an arch wherethroughGleams that untravelled world, whose margin fadesFor ever and for ever when I move.16
I cannot rest from travel: I will drinkLife to the lees: all times I have enjoyedGreatly, have suffered greatly, both with thoseThat loved me, and alone; on shore, and whenThrough scudding drifts the rainy Hyades5Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;For always roaming with a hungry heartMuch have I seen and known; cities of men,And manners, climates, councils, governments,Myself not least, but honoured of them all;10And drunk delight of battle with my peers,Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.I am a part of all that I have met;Yet all experience is an arch wherethroughGleams that untravelled world, whose margin fadesFor ever and for ever when I move.16
Lord Tennyson.
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po;Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boorAgainst the houseless stranger shuts the door;Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,5A weary waste expanding to the skies:Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee;Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.10In all my wanderings round this world of care,In all my griefs—and God has given my share—I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;To husband out life's taper at the close,15And keep the flame from wasting by repose.I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,Around my fire an evening group to draw,And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;20And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,I still had hopes, my long vexations passed,Here to return—and die at home at last.
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po;Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boorAgainst the houseless stranger shuts the door;Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,5A weary waste expanding to the skies:Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee;Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.10In all my wanderings round this world of care,In all my griefs—and God has given my share—I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;To husband out life's taper at the close,15And keep the flame from wasting by repose.I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,Around my fire an evening group to draw,And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;20And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,I still had hopes, my long vexations passed,Here to return—and die at home at last.
O. Goldsmith.
I travelled among unknown men,In lands beyond the sea;Nor, England! did I know till thenWhat love I bore to thee.'Tis past, that melancholy dream!5Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time; for still I seemTo love thee more and more.Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;10And she I cherished turned her wheelBeside an English fire.Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,The bowers where Lucy played;And thine too is the last green field15That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
I travelled among unknown men,In lands beyond the sea;Nor, England! did I know till thenWhat love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!5Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time; for still I seemTo love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;10And she I cherished turned her wheelBeside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,The bowers where Lucy played;And thine too is the last green field15That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
W. Wordsworth.
Where lies the land to which yon ship must go?Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,Festively she puts forth in trim array;Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?What boots the inquiry?—Neither friend nor foe5She cares for; let her travel where she may,She finds familiar names, a beaten wayEver before her, and a wind to blow.Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?And, almost as it was when ships were rare,10(From time to time, like pilgrims, here and thereCrossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,Of the old sea some reverential fear,Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark!
Where lies the land to which yon ship must go?Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,Festively she puts forth in trim array;Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?What boots the inquiry?—Neither friend nor foe5She cares for; let her travel where she may,She finds familiar names, a beaten wayEver before her, and a wind to blow.Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?And, almost as it was when ships were rare,10(From time to time, like pilgrims, here and thereCrossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,Of the old sea some reverential fear,Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark!
W. Wordsworth.
Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,Wilt thóu glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest7In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:10I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare;Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped, grandest14Peak, that is over the feathery palms more fairThan thou, so upright, so stately, and still thou standest.And yet, O splendid ship, unhailed and nameless,I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divineThat thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.20But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,From the proud nostril curve of a prow's lineIn the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.
Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,Wilt thóu glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest7In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.
I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:10I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare;Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped, grandest14Peak, that is over the feathery palms more fairThan thou, so upright, so stately, and still thou standest.
And yet, O splendid ship, unhailed and nameless,I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divineThat thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.20But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,From the proud nostril curve of a prow's lineIn the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.
R. Bridges.
Far on its rocky knoll descriedSaint Michael's chapel cuts the sky.I climbed;—beneath me, bright and wide,Lay the lone coast of Brittany.Bright in the sunset, weird and still5It lay beside the Atlantic wave,As if the wizard Merlin's willYet charmed it from his forest grave.Behind me on their grassy sweep,Bearded with lichen, scrawled and grey,10The giant stones of Carnac sleep,In the mild evening of the May.No priestly stern procession nowStreams through their rows of pillars old;No victims bleed, no Druids bow;15Sheep make the furze-grown aisles their fold.From bush to bush the cuckoo flies,The orchis red gleams everywhere;Gold broom with furze in blossom vies,The blue-bells perfume all the air.20And o'er the glistening, lonely land,Rise up, all round, the Christian spires.The church of Carnac, by the strand,Catches the westering sun's last fires.And there across the watery way,25See, low above the tide at flood,The sickle-sweep of Quiberon bayWhose beach once ran with loyal blood!And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!—All round, no soul, no boat, no hail!30But, on the horizon's verge descried,Hangs, touched with light, one snowy sail!
Far on its rocky knoll descriedSaint Michael's chapel cuts the sky.I climbed;—beneath me, bright and wide,Lay the lone coast of Brittany.
Bright in the sunset, weird and still5It lay beside the Atlantic wave,As if the wizard Merlin's willYet charmed it from his forest grave.
Behind me on their grassy sweep,Bearded with lichen, scrawled and grey,10The giant stones of Carnac sleep,In the mild evening of the May.
No priestly stern procession nowStreams through their rows of pillars old;No victims bleed, no Druids bow;15Sheep make the furze-grown aisles their fold.
From bush to bush the cuckoo flies,The orchis red gleams everywhere;Gold broom with furze in blossom vies,The blue-bells perfume all the air.20
And o'er the glistening, lonely land,Rise up, all round, the Christian spires.The church of Carnac, by the strand,Catches the westering sun's last fires.
And there across the watery way,25See, low above the tide at flood,The sickle-sweep of Quiberon bayWhose beach once ran with loyal blood!
And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!—All round, no soul, no boat, no hail!30But, on the horizon's verge descried,Hangs, touched with light, one snowy sail!
M. Arnold.
Through Alpine meadows, soft-suffusedWith rain, where thick the crocus blows,Past the dark forges long disused,The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.The bridge is crossed, and slow we ride,5Through forest, up the mountain-side.The autumnal evening darkens roundThe wind is up, and drives the rain;While hark! far down, with strangled soundDoth the Dead Guiers' stream complain,10Where that wet smoke among the woodsOver his boiling cauldron broods.Swift rush the spectral vapours whitePast limestone scars with ragged pines,Showing—then blotting from our sight.15Halt! through the cloud-drift something shines!High in the valley, wet and drear,The huts of Courrerie appear.Strike leftward!cries our guide; and higherMounts up the stony forest-way.20At last the encircling trees retire;Look! through the showery twilight greyWhat pointed roofs are these advance?A palace of the Kings of France?Approach, for what we seek is here.25Alight and sparely sup and waitFor rest in this outbuilding near;Then cross the sward and reach that gate;Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art comeTo the Carthusians' world-famed home.30
Through Alpine meadows, soft-suffusedWith rain, where thick the crocus blows,Past the dark forges long disused,The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.The bridge is crossed, and slow we ride,5Through forest, up the mountain-side.
The autumnal evening darkens roundThe wind is up, and drives the rain;While hark! far down, with strangled soundDoth the Dead Guiers' stream complain,10Where that wet smoke among the woodsOver his boiling cauldron broods.
Swift rush the spectral vapours whitePast limestone scars with ragged pines,Showing—then blotting from our sight.15Halt! through the cloud-drift something shines!High in the valley, wet and drear,The huts of Courrerie appear.
Strike leftward!cries our guide; and higherMounts up the stony forest-way.20At last the encircling trees retire;Look! through the showery twilight greyWhat pointed roofs are these advance?A palace of the Kings of France?
Approach, for what we seek is here.25Alight and sparely sup and waitFor rest in this outbuilding near;Then cross the sward and reach that gate;Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art comeTo the Carthusians' world-famed home.30
M. Arnold.
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-starIn his steep course? So long he seems to pauseOn thy bald awful head, O sovranBlanc,The Arve and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!5Risest 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,10It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternityO dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer15I 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:20Till 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,25Mute 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,30And 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!35Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?Who filled 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,40From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jaggèd 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?46And 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—50Torrents, 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 sun55Clothe 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!59God!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!65Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the element!Utter forthGod, and fill the hills with praise!Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,70Oft 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 low75In 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!80Thou 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 sunEarth, with her thousand voices, praisesGod.85
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-starIn his steep course? So long he seems to pauseOn thy bald awful head, O sovranBlanc,The Arve and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!5Risest 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,10It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternityO dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer15I 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:20Till 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,25Mute 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,30And 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!35Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?Who filled 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,40From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jaggèd 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?46And 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—50Torrents, 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 sun55Clothe 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!59God!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!65Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the element!Utter forthGod, and fill the hills with praise!
Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,70Oft 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 low75In 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!80Thou 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 sunEarth, with her thousand voices, praisesGod.85
S. T. Coleridge.
The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow,(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)The rainy clouds are filing fast below,And wet will be the path, and wet shall we.Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.5Ah dear, and where is he, a year agoneWho stepped beside and cheered us on and on?My sweetheart wanders far away from me,In foreign land or on a foreign sea.Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.10The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky,(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)And through the vale the rains go sweeping by;Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be?Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.15Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel theyO'er foreign lands and foreign seas that stray.(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.)And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mindThe pleasant huts and herds he left behind?20And doth he sometimes in his slumbering seeThe feeding kine and doth he think of me,My sweetheart wandering wheresoe'er it be?Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.The thunder bellows far from snow to snow,25(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)And loud and louder roars the flood below.Heigh-ho! but soon in shelter shall we be:Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.Or shall he find before his term be sped,30Some comelier maid that he shall wish to wed?(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.)For weary is work, and weary day by dayTo have your comfort miles on miles away.Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.35Or may it be that I shall find my mate,And he returning see himself too late?For work we must, and what we see, we see.And God he knows, and what must be, must be,When sweethearts wander far away from me.40Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.The sky behind is brightening up anew,(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)The rain is ending, and our journey too;Heigh-ho! aha! for here at home are we:—45In, Rose, and in, Provence and La Palie.
The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow,(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)The rainy clouds are filing fast below,And wet will be the path, and wet shall we.Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.5
Ah dear, and where is he, a year agoneWho stepped beside and cheered us on and on?My sweetheart wanders far away from me,In foreign land or on a foreign sea.Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.10
The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky,(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)And through the vale the rains go sweeping by;Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be?Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.15
Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel theyO'er foreign lands and foreign seas that stray.(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.)And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mindThe pleasant huts and herds he left behind?20And doth he sometimes in his slumbering seeThe feeding kine and doth he think of me,My sweetheart wandering wheresoe'er it be?Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
The thunder bellows far from snow to snow,25(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)And loud and louder roars the flood below.Heigh-ho! but soon in shelter shall we be:Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
Or shall he find before his term be sped,30Some comelier maid that he shall wish to wed?(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.)For weary is work, and weary day by dayTo have your comfort miles on miles away.Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.35
Or may it be that I shall find my mate,And he returning see himself too late?For work we must, and what we see, we see.And God he knows, and what must be, must be,When sweethearts wander far away from me.40Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
The sky behind is brightening up anew,(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)The rain is ending, and our journey too;Heigh-ho! aha! for here at home are we:—45In, Rose, and in, Provence and La Palie.
A. H. Clough.
There lies a vale in Ida, lovelierThan all the valleys of Ionian hills.The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand5The lawns and meadow-ledges midway downHang rich in flowers, and far below them roarsThe long brook falling through the clov'n ravineIn cataract after cataract to the sea.Behind the valley topmost Gargarus10Stands up and takes the morning: but in frontThe gorges, opening wide apart, revealTroas and Ilion's columned citadel,The crown of Troas.Hither came at noonMournful Oenone, wandering forlorn15Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills.Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neckFloated her hair or seemed to float in rest.She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine,Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade20Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.'O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:The grasshopper is silent in the grass:25The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps.The purple flowers droop: the golden beeIs lily-cradled: I alone awake.My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,30My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,And I am all aweary of my life.'
There lies a vale in Ida, lovelierThan all the valleys of Ionian hills.The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand5The lawns and meadow-ledges midway downHang rich in flowers, and far below them roarsThe long brook falling through the clov'n ravineIn cataract after cataract to the sea.Behind the valley topmost Gargarus10Stands up and takes the morning: but in frontThe gorges, opening wide apart, revealTroas and Ilion's columned citadel,The crown of Troas.Hither came at noonMournful Oenone, wandering forlorn15Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills.Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neckFloated her hair or seemed to float in rest.She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine,Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade20Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.'O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:The grasshopper is silent in the grass:25The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps.The purple flowers droop: the golden beeIs lily-cradled: I alone awake.My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,30My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,And I am all aweary of my life.'
Lord Tennyson.
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang),In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?But cease to move so near the heavens, and ceaseTo glide a sunbeam by the blasted pine,5To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;And come, for Love is of the valley, come,For Love is of the valley, come thou downAnd find him; by the happy threshold, he,Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,10Or red with spirted purple of the vats,Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walkWith Death and Morning on the silver horns,Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,Nor find him dropped upon the firths of ice,15That huddling slant in furrow-cloven fallsTo roll the torrent out of dusky doors:But follow: let the torrent dance thee downTo find him in the valley; let the wildLean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave20The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spillTheir thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,That like a broken purpose waste in air:So waste not thou; but come; for all the valesAwait thee; azure pillars of the hearth25Arise to thee; the children call, and IThy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn,The moan of doves in immemorial elms,30And murmuring of innumerable bees.
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang),In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?But cease to move so near the heavens, and ceaseTo glide a sunbeam by the blasted pine,5To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;And come, for Love is of the valley, come,For Love is of the valley, come thou downAnd find him; by the happy threshold, he,Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,10Or red with spirted purple of the vats,Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walkWith Death and Morning on the silver horns,Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,Nor find him dropped upon the firths of ice,15That huddling slant in furrow-cloven fallsTo roll the torrent out of dusky doors:But follow: let the torrent dance thee downTo find him in the valley; let the wildLean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave20The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spillTheir thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,That like a broken purpose waste in air:So waste not thou; but come; for all the valesAwait thee; azure pillars of the hearth25Arise to thee; the children call, and IThy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn,The moan of doves in immemorial elms,30And murmuring of innumerable bees.
Lord Tennyson.