How changed is here each spot man makes or fills!In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;The village street its haunted mansion lacks,And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name,And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks—Are ye too changed, ye hills?See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar menTo-night from Oxford up your pathway strays!Here came I often, often, in old days——Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then.Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm,Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crownsThe hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames?The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs,The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames?—This winter-eve is warm,Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring,The tender purple spray on copse and briers!And that sweet city with her dreaming spires,She needs not June for beauty's heightening,Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night!—Only, methinks, some loss of habit's powerBefalls me wandering through this upland dim.Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour;Now seldom come I, since I came with him.That single elm-tree brightAgainst the west—I miss it! is it gone?We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said,Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead;While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here,But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick;And with the country-folk acquaintance madeBy barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick.Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd.Ah me! this many a yearMy pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday!Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heartInto the world and wave of men depart;But Thyrsis of his own will went away.It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest.He loved each simple joy the country yields,He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep,For that a shadow lour'd on the fields,Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep.Some life of men unblestHe knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his head.He went; his piping took a troubled soundOf storms that rage outside our happy ground;He could not wait their passing, he is dead.So, some tempestuous morn in early June,When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er,Before the roses and the longest day—When garden-walks and all the grassy floorWith blossoms red and white of fallen MayAnd chestnut-flowers are strewn—So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry,From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees,Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze:The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I!Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go?Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on,Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell,And stocks in fragrant blow;Roses that down the alleys shine afar,And open, jasmine-muffled lattices,And groups under the dreaming garden-trees,And the full moon, and the white evening-star.He hearkens not! light comer, he is flown!What matters it? next year he will return,And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days,With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern,And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways,And scent of hay new-mown.But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see;See him come back, and cut a smoother reed,And blow a strain the world at last shall heed—For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee!Alack, for Corydon no rival now!—But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate,Some good survivor with his flute would go,Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate;And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow,And relax Pluto's brow,And make leap up with joy the beauteous headOf Proserpine, among whose crowned hairAre flowers first open'd on Sicilian air,And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead.O easy access to the hearer's graceWhen Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine!For she herself had trod Sicilian fields,She knew the Dorian water's gush divine,She knew each lily white which Enna yields,Each rose with blushing face;She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain.But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard!Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd;And we should tease her with our plaint in vain!Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be,Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hourIn the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill!Who, if not I, for questing here hath power?I know the wood which hides the daffodil,I know the Fyfield tree,I know what white, what purple fritillariesThe grassy harvest of the river-fields,Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields,And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries;I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?—But many a dingle on the loved hill-side,With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees,Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descriedHigh tower'd the spikes of purple orchises,Hath since our day put byThe coronals of that forgotten time;Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team,And only in the hidden brookside gleamPrimroses, orphans of the flowery prime.Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door,Above the locks, above the boating throng,Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats,Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet amongAnd darting swallows and light water-gnats,We track'd the shy Thames shore?Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swellOf our boat passing heaved the river-grass,Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?—They all are gone, and thou art gone as well!Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the nightIn ever-nearing circle weaves her shade.I see her veil draw soft across the day,I feel her slowly chilling breath invadeThe cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey;I feel her finger lightLaid pausefully upon life's headlong train;—The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew,The heart less bounding at emotion new,And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again.And long the way appears, which seem'd so shortTo the less practised eye of sanguine youth;And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air,The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth,Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare!Unbreachable the fortOf the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall;And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows,And near and real the charm of thy repose,And night as welcome as a friend would fall.But hush! the upland hath a sudden lossOf quiet!—Look, adown the dusk hill-side,A troop of Oxford hunters going home,As in old days, jovial and talking, ride!From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come.Quick! let me fly, and crossInto yon farther field!—'Tis done; and see,Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorifyThe orange and pale violet evening-sky,Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree!I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil,The white fog creeps from bush to bush about,The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright,And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out.I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night,Yet, happy omen, hail!Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale(For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keepThe morningless and unawakening sleepUnder the flowery oleanders pale),Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!—Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim,These brambles pale with mist engarlanded,That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him;To a boon southern country he is fled,And now in happier air,Wandering with the great Mother's train divine(And purer or more subtle soul than thee,I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see)Within a folding of the Apennine,Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!—Putting his sickle to the perilous grainIn the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king,For thee the Lityerses-song againYoung Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing;[18]Sings his Sicilian fold,His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes—And how a call celestial round him rang,And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang,And all the marvel of the golden skies.There thou art gone, and me thou leavest hereSole in these fields! yet will I not despair.Despair I will not, while I yet descryNeath the mild canopy of English airThat lonely tree against the western sky.Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear,Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee!Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay,Woods with anemonies in flower till May,Know him a wanderer still; then why not me?A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,Shy to illumine; and I seek it too.This does not come with houses or with gold,With place, with honour, and a flattering crew;'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold—But the smooth-slipping weeksDrop by, and leave its seeker still untired;Out of the heed of mortals he is gone,He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone;Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound;Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour!Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest,If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power,If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest.And this rude Cumner ground,Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields,Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time,Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime!And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.What though the music of thy rustic fluteKept not for long its happy, country tone;Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy noteOf men contention-tost, of men who groan,Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat—It fail'd, and thou wast mute!Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light,And long with men of care thou couldst not stay,And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way,Left human haunt, and on alone till night.Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here!'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home.—Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar,Let in thy voice a whisper often come,To chase fatigue and fear:Why faintest thou? I wander'd till I died.Roam on! The light we sought is shining still.Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill,Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.
How changed is here each spot man makes or fills!In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;The village street its haunted mansion lacks,And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name,And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks—Are ye too changed, ye hills?See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar menTo-night from Oxford up your pathway strays!Here came I often, often, in old days——Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then.
Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm,Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crownsThe hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames?The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs,The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames?—This winter-eve is warm,Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring,The tender purple spray on copse and briers!And that sweet city with her dreaming spires,She needs not June for beauty's heightening,
Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night!—Only, methinks, some loss of habit's powerBefalls me wandering through this upland dim.Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour;Now seldom come I, since I came with him.That single elm-tree brightAgainst the west—I miss it! is it gone?We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said,Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead;While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.
Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here,But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick;And with the country-folk acquaintance madeBy barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick.Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd.Ah me! this many a yearMy pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday!Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heartInto the world and wave of men depart;But Thyrsis of his own will went away.
It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest.He loved each simple joy the country yields,He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep,For that a shadow lour'd on the fields,Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep.Some life of men unblestHe knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his head.He went; his piping took a troubled soundOf storms that rage outside our happy ground;He could not wait their passing, he is dead.
So, some tempestuous morn in early June,When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er,Before the roses and the longest day—When garden-walks and all the grassy floorWith blossoms red and white of fallen MayAnd chestnut-flowers are strewn—So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry,From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees,Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze:The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I!
Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go?Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on,Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell,And stocks in fragrant blow;Roses that down the alleys shine afar,And open, jasmine-muffled lattices,And groups under the dreaming garden-trees,And the full moon, and the white evening-star.
He hearkens not! light comer, he is flown!What matters it? next year he will return,And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days,With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern,And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways,And scent of hay new-mown.But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see;See him come back, and cut a smoother reed,And blow a strain the world at last shall heed—For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee!
Alack, for Corydon no rival now!—But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate,Some good survivor with his flute would go,Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate;And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow,And relax Pluto's brow,And make leap up with joy the beauteous headOf Proserpine, among whose crowned hairAre flowers first open'd on Sicilian air,And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead.
O easy access to the hearer's graceWhen Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine!For she herself had trod Sicilian fields,She knew the Dorian water's gush divine,She knew each lily white which Enna yields,Each rose with blushing face;She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain.But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard!Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd;And we should tease her with our plaint in vain!
Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be,Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hourIn the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill!Who, if not I, for questing here hath power?I know the wood which hides the daffodil,I know the Fyfield tree,I know what white, what purple fritillariesThe grassy harvest of the river-fields,Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields,And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries;
I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?—But many a dingle on the loved hill-side,With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees,Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descriedHigh tower'd the spikes of purple orchises,Hath since our day put byThe coronals of that forgotten time;Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team,And only in the hidden brookside gleamPrimroses, orphans of the flowery prime.
Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door,Above the locks, above the boating throng,Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats,Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet amongAnd darting swallows and light water-gnats,We track'd the shy Thames shore?Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swellOf our boat passing heaved the river-grass,Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?—They all are gone, and thou art gone as well!
Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the nightIn ever-nearing circle weaves her shade.I see her veil draw soft across the day,I feel her slowly chilling breath invadeThe cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey;I feel her finger lightLaid pausefully upon life's headlong train;—The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew,The heart less bounding at emotion new,And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again.
And long the way appears, which seem'd so shortTo the less practised eye of sanguine youth;And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air,The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth,Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare!Unbreachable the fortOf the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall;And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows,And near and real the charm of thy repose,And night as welcome as a friend would fall.
But hush! the upland hath a sudden lossOf quiet!—Look, adown the dusk hill-side,A troop of Oxford hunters going home,As in old days, jovial and talking, ride!From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come.Quick! let me fly, and crossInto yon farther field!—'Tis done; and see,Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorifyThe orange and pale violet evening-sky,Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree!
I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil,The white fog creeps from bush to bush about,The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright,And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out.I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night,Yet, happy omen, hail!Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale(For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keepThe morningless and unawakening sleepUnder the flowery oleanders pale),
Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!—Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim,These brambles pale with mist engarlanded,That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him;To a boon southern country he is fled,And now in happier air,Wandering with the great Mother's train divine(And purer or more subtle soul than thee,I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see)Within a folding of the Apennine,
Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!—Putting his sickle to the perilous grainIn the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king,For thee the Lityerses-song againYoung Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing;[18]Sings his Sicilian fold,His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes—And how a call celestial round him rang,And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang,And all the marvel of the golden skies.
There thou art gone, and me thou leavest hereSole in these fields! yet will I not despair.Despair I will not, while I yet descryNeath the mild canopy of English airThat lonely tree against the western sky.Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear,Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee!Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay,Woods with anemonies in flower till May,Know him a wanderer still; then why not me?
A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,Shy to illumine; and I seek it too.This does not come with houses or with gold,With place, with honour, and a flattering crew;'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold—But the smooth-slipping weeksDrop by, and leave its seeker still untired;Out of the heed of mortals he is gone,He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone;Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.
Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound;Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour!Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest,If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power,If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest.And this rude Cumner ground,Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields,Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time,Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime!And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.
What though the music of thy rustic fluteKept not for long its happy, country tone;Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy noteOf men contention-tost, of men who groan,Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat—It fail'd, and thou wast mute!Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light,And long with men of care thou couldst not stay,And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way,Left human haunt, and on alone till night.
Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here!'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home.—Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar,Let in thy voice a whisper often come,To chase fatigue and fear:Why faintest thou? I wander'd till I died.Roam on! The light we sought is shining still.Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill,Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.But one such death remain'd to come;The last poetic voice is dumb—We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb.When Byron's eyes were shut in death,We bow'd our head and held our breath.He taught us little; but our soulHadfelthim like the thunder's roll.With shivering heart the strife we sawOf passion with eternal law;And yet with reverential aweWe watch'd the fount of fiery lifeWhich served for that Titanic strife.When Goethe's death was told, we said:Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head.Physician of the iron age,Goethe has done his pilgrimage.He took the suffering human race,He read each wound, each weakness clear;And struck his finger on the place,And said:Thou ailest here, and here!He look'd on Europe's dying hourOf fitful dream and feverish power;His eye plunged down the weltering strife,The turmoil of expiring life—He said:The end is everywhere,Art still has truth, take refuge there!And he was happy, if to knowCauses of things, and far belowHis feet to see the lurid flowOf terror, and insane distress,And headlong fate, be happiness.And Wordsworth!—Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice!For never has such soothing voiceBeen to your shadowy world convey'd,Since erst, at morn, some wandering shadeHeard the clear song of Orpheus comeThrough Hades, and the mournful gloom.Wordsworth has gone from us—and ye,Ah, may ye feel his voice as we!He too upon a wintry climeHad fallen—on this iron timeOf doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.He found us when the age had boundOur souls in its benumbing round;He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.He laid us as we lay at birthOn the cool flowery lap of earth,Smiles broke from us and we had ease;The hills were round us, and the breezeWent o'er the sun-lit fields again;Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.Our youth return'd; for there was shedOn spirits that had long been dead,Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,The freshness of the early world.Ah! since dark days still bring to lightMan's prudence and man's fiery might,Time may restore us in his courseGoethe's sage mind and Byron's force;But where will Europe's latter hourAgain find Wordsworth's healing power?Others will teach us how to dare,And against fear our breast to steel;Others will strengthen us to bear—But who, ah! who, will make us feel?The cloud of mortal destiny,Others will front it fearlessly—But who, like him, will put it by?Keep fresh the grass upon his graveO Rotha, with thy living wave!Sing him thy best! for few or noneHears thy voice right, now he is gone.
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.But one such death remain'd to come;The last poetic voice is dumb—We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb.
When Byron's eyes were shut in death,We bow'd our head and held our breath.He taught us little; but our soulHadfelthim like the thunder's roll.With shivering heart the strife we sawOf passion with eternal law;And yet with reverential aweWe watch'd the fount of fiery lifeWhich served for that Titanic strife.
When Goethe's death was told, we said:Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head.Physician of the iron age,Goethe has done his pilgrimage.He took the suffering human race,He read each wound, each weakness clear;And struck his finger on the place,And said:Thou ailest here, and here!He look'd on Europe's dying hourOf fitful dream and feverish power;His eye plunged down the weltering strife,The turmoil of expiring life—He said:The end is everywhere,Art still has truth, take refuge there!And he was happy, if to knowCauses of things, and far belowHis feet to see the lurid flowOf terror, and insane distress,And headlong fate, be happiness.
And Wordsworth!—Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice!For never has such soothing voiceBeen to your shadowy world convey'd,Since erst, at morn, some wandering shadeHeard the clear song of Orpheus comeThrough Hades, and the mournful gloom.Wordsworth has gone from us—and ye,Ah, may ye feel his voice as we!He too upon a wintry climeHad fallen—on this iron timeOf doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.He found us when the age had boundOur souls in its benumbing round;He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.He laid us as we lay at birthOn the cool flowery lap of earth,Smiles broke from us and we had ease;The hills were round us, and the breezeWent o'er the sun-lit fields again;Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.Our youth return'd; for there was shedOn spirits that had long been dead,Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,The freshness of the early world.
Ah! since dark days still bring to lightMan's prudence and man's fiery might,Time may restore us in his courseGoethe's sage mind and Byron's force;But where will Europe's latter hourAgain find Wordsworth's healing power?Others will teach us how to dare,And against fear our breast to steel;Others will strengthen us to bear—But who, ah! who, will make us feel?The cloud of mortal destiny,Others will front it fearlessly—But who, like him, will put it by?
Keep fresh the grass upon his graveO Rotha, with thy living wave!Sing him thy best! for few or noneHears thy voice right, now he is gone.
I saw him sensitive in frame,I knew his spirits low;And wish'd him health, success, and fame—I do not wish it now.For these are all their own reward,And leave no good behind;They try us, oftenest make us hard,Less modest, pure, and kind.Alas! yet to the suffering man,In this his mortal state,Friends could not give what fortune can—Health, ease, a heart elate.But he is now by fortune foil'dNo more; and we retainThe memory of a man unspoil'd,Sweet, generous, and humane—With all the fortunate have not,With gentle voice and brow.—Alive, we would have changed his lot,We would not change it now.
I saw him sensitive in frame,I knew his spirits low;And wish'd him health, success, and fame—I do not wish it now.
For these are all their own reward,And leave no good behind;They try us, oftenest make us hard,Less modest, pure, and kind.
Alas! yet to the suffering man,In this his mortal state,Friends could not give what fortune can—Health, ease, a heart elate.
But he is now by fortune foil'dNo more; and we retainThe memory of a man unspoil'd,Sweet, generous, and humane—
With all the fortunate have not,With gentle voice and brow.—Alive, we would have changed his lot,We would not change it now.
Far on its rocky knoll descriedSaint Michael's chapel cuts the sky.I climb'd;—beneath me, bright and wide,Lay the lone coast of Brittany.Bright in the sunset, weird and still,It lay beside the Atlantic wave,As though the wizard Merlin's willYet charm'd it from his forest-grave.Behind me on their grassy sweep,Bearded with lichen, scrawl'd and grey,The giant stones of Carnac sleep,In the mild evening of the May.No priestly stern procession nowMoves through their rows of pillars old;No victims bleed, no Druids bow—Sheep make the daisied aisles their fold.From bush to bush the cuckoo flies,The orchis red gleams everywhere;Gold furze with broom in blossom vies,The blue-bells perfume all the air.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,See, low above the tide at flood,The sickle-sweep of Quiberon Bay,Whose beach once ran with loyal blood!And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!—All round, no soul, no boat, no hail;But, on the horizon's verge descried,Hangs, touch'd with light, one snowy sail!Ah! where is he, who should have come[19]Where that far sail is passing now,Past the Loire's mouth, and by the foamOf Finistère's unquiet brow,Home, round into the English wave?—He tarries where the Rock of SpainMediterranean waters lave;He enters not the Atlantic main.Oh, could he once have reach'd this airFreshen'd by plunging tides, by showers!Have felt this breath he loved, of fairCool northern fields, and grass, and flowers!He long'd for it—press'd on.—In vain!At the Straits fail'd that spirit brave.The south was parent of his pain,The south is mistress of his grave.
Far on its rocky knoll descriedSaint Michael's chapel cuts the sky.I climb'd;—beneath me, bright and wide,Lay the lone coast of Brittany.
Bright in the sunset, weird and still,It lay beside the Atlantic wave,As though the wizard Merlin's willYet charm'd it from his forest-grave.
Behind me on their grassy sweep,Bearded with lichen, scrawl'd and grey,The giant stones of Carnac sleep,In the mild evening of the May.
No priestly stern procession nowMoves through their rows of pillars old;No victims bleed, no Druids bow—Sheep make the daisied aisles their fold.
From bush to bush the cuckoo flies,The orchis red gleams everywhere;Gold furze with broom in blossom vies,The blue-bells perfume all the air.
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,See, low above the tide at flood,The sickle-sweep of Quiberon Bay,Whose beach once ran with loyal blood!
And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!—All round, no soul, no boat, no hail;But, on the horizon's verge descried,Hangs, touch'd with light, one snowy sail!
Ah! where is he, who should have come[19]Where that far sail is passing now,Past the Loire's mouth, and by the foamOf Finistère's unquiet brow,
Home, round into the English wave?—He tarries where the Rock of SpainMediterranean waters lave;He enters not the Atlantic main.
Oh, could he once have reach'd this airFreshen'd by plunging tides, by showers!Have felt this breath he loved, of fairCool northern fields, and grass, and flowers!
He long'd for it—press'd on.—In vain!At the Straits fail'd that spirit brave.The south was parent of his pain,The south is mistress of his grave.
The sandy spits, the shore-lock'd lakes,Melt into open, moonlit sea;The soft Mediterranean breaksAt my feet, free.Dotting the fields of corn and vine,Like ghosts the huge, gnarl'd olives stand.Behind, that lovely mountain-line!While, by the strand,Cette, with its glistening houses white,Curves with the curving beach awayTo where the lighthouse beacons brightFar in the bay.Ah! such a night, so soft, so lone,So moonlit, saw me once of yore[20]Wander unquiet, and my ownVext heart deplore.But now that trouble is forgot;Thy memory, thy pain, to-night,My brother! and thine early lot,[21]Possess me quite.The murmur of this Midland deepIs heard to-night around thy grave,There, where Gibraltar's cannon'd steepO'erfrowns the wave.For there, with bodily anguish keen,With Indian heats at last fordone,With public toil and private teen—Thou sank'st, alone.Slow to a stop, at morning grey,I see the smoke-crown'd vessel come;Slow round her paddles dies awayThe seething foam.A boat is lower'd from her side;Ah, gently place him on the bench!That spirit—if all have not yet died—A breath might quench.Is this the eye, the footstep fast,The mien of youth we used to see,Poor, gallant boy!—for such thou wast,Still art, to me.The limbs their wonted tasks refuse;The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak;And whiter than thy white burnousThat wasted cheek!Enough! The boat, with quiet shock,Unto its haven coming nigh,Touches, and on Gibraltar's rockLands thee to die.Ah me! Gibraltar's strand is far,But farther yet across the brineThy dear wife's ashes buried are,Remote from thine.For there, where morning's sacred fountIts golden rain on earth confers,The snowy Himalayan MountO'ershadows hers.Strange irony of fate, alas,Which, for two jaded English, saves,When from their dusty life they pass,Such peaceful graves!In cities should we English lie,Where cries are rising ever new,And men's incessant stream goes by—We who pursueOur business with unslackening stride,Traverse in troops, with care-fill'd breast,The soft Mediterranean side,The Nile, the East,And see all sights from pole to pole,And glance, and nod, and bustle by,And never once possess our soulBefore we die.Not by those hoary Indian hills,Not by this gracious Midland seaWhose floor to-night sweet moonshine fills,Should our graves be.Some sage, to whom the world was dead,And men were specks, and life a play;Who made the roots of trees his bed,And once a dayWith staff and gourd his way did bendTo villages and homes of man,For food to keep him till he endHis mortal spanAnd the pure goal of being reach;Hoar-headed, wrinkled, clad in white,Without companion, without speech,By day and nightPondering God's mysteries untold,And tranquil as the glacier-snowsHe by those Indian mountains oldMight well repose.Some grey crusading knight austere,Who bore Saint Louis company,And came home hurt to death, and hereLanded to die;Some youthful troubadour, whose tongueFill'd Europe once with his love-pain,Who here outworn had sunk, and sungHis dying strain;Some girl, who here from castle-bower,With furtive step and cheek of flame,'Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flowerBy moonlight cameTo meet her pirate-lover's ship;And from the wave-kiss'd marble stairBeckon'd him on, with quivering lipAnd floating hair;And lived some moons in happy trance,Then learnt his death and pined away—Such by these waters of romance'Twas meet to lay.But you—a grave for knight or sage,Romantic, solitary, still,O spent ones of a work-day age!Befits you ill.So sang I; but the midnight breeze,Down to the brimm'd, moon-charmed main,Comes softly through the olive-trees,And checks my strain.I think of her, whose gentle tongueAll plaint in her own cause controll'd;Of thee I think, my brother! youngIn heart, high-soul'd—That comely face, that cluster'd brow,That cordial hand, that bearing free,I see them still, I see them now,Shall always see!And what but gentleness untired,And what but noble feeling warm,Wherever shown, howe'er inspired,Is grace, is charm?What else is all these waters are,What else is steep'd in lucid sheen,What else is bright, what else is fair,What else serene?Mild o'er her grave, ye mountains, shine!Gently by his, ye waters, glide!To that in you which is divineThey were allied.
The sandy spits, the shore-lock'd lakes,Melt into open, moonlit sea;The soft Mediterranean breaksAt my feet, free.
Dotting the fields of corn and vine,Like ghosts the huge, gnarl'd olives stand.Behind, that lovely mountain-line!While, by the strand,
Cette, with its glistening houses white,Curves with the curving beach awayTo where the lighthouse beacons brightFar in the bay.
Ah! such a night, so soft, so lone,So moonlit, saw me once of yore[20]Wander unquiet, and my ownVext heart deplore.
But now that trouble is forgot;Thy memory, thy pain, to-night,My brother! and thine early lot,[21]Possess me quite.
The murmur of this Midland deepIs heard to-night around thy grave,There, where Gibraltar's cannon'd steepO'erfrowns the wave.
For there, with bodily anguish keen,With Indian heats at last fordone,With public toil and private teen—Thou sank'st, alone.
Slow to a stop, at morning grey,I see the smoke-crown'd vessel come;Slow round her paddles dies awayThe seething foam.
A boat is lower'd from her side;Ah, gently place him on the bench!That spirit—if all have not yet died—A breath might quench.
Is this the eye, the footstep fast,The mien of youth we used to see,Poor, gallant boy!—for such thou wast,Still art, to me.
The limbs their wonted tasks refuse;The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak;And whiter than thy white burnousThat wasted cheek!
Enough! The boat, with quiet shock,Unto its haven coming nigh,Touches, and on Gibraltar's rockLands thee to die.
Ah me! Gibraltar's strand is far,But farther yet across the brineThy dear wife's ashes buried are,Remote from thine.
For there, where morning's sacred fountIts golden rain on earth confers,The snowy Himalayan MountO'ershadows hers.
Strange irony of fate, alas,Which, for two jaded English, saves,When from their dusty life they pass,Such peaceful graves!
In cities should we English lie,Where cries are rising ever new,And men's incessant stream goes by—We who pursue
Our business with unslackening stride,Traverse in troops, with care-fill'd breast,The soft Mediterranean side,The Nile, the East,And see all sights from pole to pole,And glance, and nod, and bustle by,And never once possess our soulBefore we die.
Not by those hoary Indian hills,Not by this gracious Midland seaWhose floor to-night sweet moonshine fills,Should our graves be.
Some sage, to whom the world was dead,And men were specks, and life a play;Who made the roots of trees his bed,And once a day
With staff and gourd his way did bendTo villages and homes of man,For food to keep him till he endHis mortal span
And the pure goal of being reach;Hoar-headed, wrinkled, clad in white,Without companion, without speech,By day and night
Pondering God's mysteries untold,And tranquil as the glacier-snowsHe by those Indian mountains oldMight well repose.
Some grey crusading knight austere,Who bore Saint Louis company,And came home hurt to death, and hereLanded to die;Some youthful troubadour, whose tongueFill'd Europe once with his love-pain,Who here outworn had sunk, and sungHis dying strain;
Some girl, who here from castle-bower,With furtive step and cheek of flame,'Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flowerBy moonlight came
To meet her pirate-lover's ship;And from the wave-kiss'd marble stairBeckon'd him on, with quivering lipAnd floating hair;
And lived some moons in happy trance,Then learnt his death and pined away—Such by these waters of romance'Twas meet to lay.
But you—a grave for knight or sage,Romantic, solitary, still,O spent ones of a work-day age!Befits you ill.
So sang I; but the midnight breeze,Down to the brimm'd, moon-charmed main,Comes softly through the olive-trees,And checks my strain.
I think of her, whose gentle tongueAll plaint in her own cause controll'd;Of thee I think, my brother! youngIn heart, high-soul'd—
That comely face, that cluster'd brow,That cordial hand, that bearing free,I see them still, I see them now,Shall always see!
And what but gentleness untired,And what but noble feeling warm,Wherever shown, howe'er inspired,Is grace, is charm?
What else is all these waters are,What else is steep'd in lucid sheen,What else is bright, what else is fair,What else serene?
Mild o'er her grave, ye mountains, shine!Gently by his, ye waters, glide!To that in you which is divineThey were allied.
Where, under Loughrigg, the streamOf Rotha sparkles through fieldsVested for ever with green,Four years since, in the houseOf a gentle spirit, now dead—Wordsworth's son-in-law, friend—I saw the meeting of twoGifted women.[22]The one,Brilliant with recent renown,Young, unpractised, had toldWith a master's accent her feign'dStory of passionate life;The other, maturer in fame,Earning, she too, her praiseFirst in fiction, had sinceWiden'd her sweep, and survey'dHistory, politics, mind.The two held converse; they wroteIn a book which of world-famous soulsKept the memorial;—bard,Warrior, statesman, had sign'dTheir names; chief glory of all,Scott had bestow'd there his lastBreathings of song, with a penTottering, a death-stricken hand.Hope at that meeting smiled fair.Years in number, it seem'd,Lay before both, and a fameHeighten'd, and multiplied power.—Behold! The elder, to-day,Lies expecting from death,In mortal weakness, a lastSummons! the younger is dead!First to the living we payMournful homage;—the MuseGains not an earth-deafen'd ear.Hail to the steadfast soul,Which, unflinching and keen,Wrought to erase from its depthMist and illusion and fear!Hail to the spirit which daredTrust its own thoughts, before yetEchoed her back by the crowd!Hail to the courage which gaveVoice to its creed, ere the creedWon consecration from time!Turn we next to the dead.—How shall we honour the young,The ardent, the gifted? how mourn?Console we cannot, her earIs deaf. Far northward from here,In a churchyard high 'mid the moorsOf Yorkshire, a little earthStops it for ever to praise.Where, behind Keighley, the roadUp to the heart of the moorsBetween heath-clad showery hillsRuns, and colliers' cartsPoach the deep ways coming down,And a rough, grimed race have their homes—There on its slope is builtThe moorland town. But the churchStands on the crest of the hill,Lonely and bleak;—at its sideThe parsonage-house and the graves.Strew with laurel the graveOf the early-dying! Alas,Early she goes on the pathTo the silent country, and leavesHalf her laurels unwon,Dying too soon!—yet greenLaurels she had, and a courseShort, but redoubled by fame.And not friendless, and notOnly with strangers to meet,Faces ungreeting and cold,Thou, O mourn'd one, to-dayEnterest the house of the grave!Those of thy blood, whom thou lov'dst,Have preceded thee—young,Loving, a sisterly band;Some in art, some in giftInferior—all in fame.They, like friends, shall receiveThis comer, greet her with joy;Welcome the sister, the friend;Hear with delight of thy fame!Round thee they lie—the grassBlows from their graves to thy own!She, whose genius, though notPuissant like thine, was yetSweet and graceful;—and she(How shall I sing her?) whose soulKnew no fellow for might,Passion, vehemence, grief,Daring, since Byron died,That world-famed son of fire—she, who sankBaffled, unknown, self-consumed;Whose too bold dying song[23]Stirr'd, like a clarion-blast, my soul.Of one, too, I have heard,A brother—sleeps he here?Of all that gifted raceNot the least gifted; young,Unhappy, eloquent—the childOf many hopes, of many tears.O boy, if here thou sleep'st, sleep well!On thee too did the MuseBright in thy cradle smile;But some dark shadow came(I know not what) and interposed.Sleep, O cluster of friends,Sleep!—or only when May,Brought by the west-wind, returnsBack to your native heaths,And the plover is heard on the moors,Yearly awake to beholdThe opening summer, the sky,The shining moorland—to hearThe drowsy bee, as of old,Hum o'er the thyme, the grouseCall from the heather in bloom!Sleep, or only for thisBreak your united repose!
Where, under Loughrigg, the streamOf Rotha sparkles through fieldsVested for ever with green,Four years since, in the houseOf a gentle spirit, now dead—Wordsworth's son-in-law, friend—I saw the meeting of twoGifted women.[22]The one,Brilliant with recent renown,Young, unpractised, had toldWith a master's accent her feign'dStory of passionate life;The other, maturer in fame,Earning, she too, her praiseFirst in fiction, had sinceWiden'd her sweep, and survey'dHistory, politics, mind.
The two held converse; they wroteIn a book which of world-famous soulsKept the memorial;—bard,Warrior, statesman, had sign'dTheir names; chief glory of all,Scott had bestow'd there his lastBreathings of song, with a penTottering, a death-stricken hand.
Hope at that meeting smiled fair.Years in number, it seem'd,Lay before both, and a fameHeighten'd, and multiplied power.—Behold! The elder, to-day,Lies expecting from death,In mortal weakness, a lastSummons! the younger is dead!
First to the living we payMournful homage;—the MuseGains not an earth-deafen'd ear.
Hail to the steadfast soul,Which, unflinching and keen,Wrought to erase from its depthMist and illusion and fear!Hail to the spirit which daredTrust its own thoughts, before yetEchoed her back by the crowd!Hail to the courage which gaveVoice to its creed, ere the creedWon consecration from time!
Turn we next to the dead.—How shall we honour the young,The ardent, the gifted? how mourn?Console we cannot, her earIs deaf. Far northward from here,In a churchyard high 'mid the moorsOf Yorkshire, a little earthStops it for ever to praise.
Where, behind Keighley, the roadUp to the heart of the moorsBetween heath-clad showery hillsRuns, and colliers' cartsPoach the deep ways coming down,And a rough, grimed race have their homes—There on its slope is builtThe moorland town. But the churchStands on the crest of the hill,Lonely and bleak;—at its sideThe parsonage-house and the graves.
Strew with laurel the graveOf the early-dying! Alas,Early she goes on the pathTo the silent country, and leavesHalf her laurels unwon,Dying too soon!—yet greenLaurels she had, and a courseShort, but redoubled by fame.
And not friendless, and notOnly with strangers to meet,Faces ungreeting and cold,Thou, O mourn'd one, to-dayEnterest the house of the grave!Those of thy blood, whom thou lov'dst,Have preceded thee—young,Loving, a sisterly band;Some in art, some in giftInferior—all in fame.They, like friends, shall receiveThis comer, greet her with joy;Welcome the sister, the friend;Hear with delight of thy fame!
Round thee they lie—the grassBlows from their graves to thy own!She, whose genius, though notPuissant like thine, was yetSweet and graceful;—and she(How shall I sing her?) whose soulKnew no fellow for might,Passion, vehemence, grief,Daring, since Byron died,That world-famed son of fire—she, who sankBaffled, unknown, self-consumed;Whose too bold dying song[23]Stirr'd, like a clarion-blast, my soul.
Of one, too, I have heard,A brother—sleeps he here?Of all that gifted raceNot the least gifted; young,Unhappy, eloquent—the childOf many hopes, of many tears.O boy, if here thou sleep'st, sleep well!On thee too did the MuseBright in thy cradle smile;But some dark shadow came(I know not what) and interposed.
Sleep, O cluster of friends,Sleep!—or only when May,Brought by the west-wind, returnsBack to your native heaths,And the plover is heard on the moors,Yearly awake to beholdThe opening summer, the sky,The shining moorland—to hearThe drowsy bee, as of old,Hum o'er the thyme, the grouseCall from the heather in bloom!Sleep, or only for thisBreak your united repose!
So I sang; but the Muse,Shaking her head, took the harp—Stern interrupted my strain,Angrily smote on the chords.April showersRush o'er the Yorkshire moors.Stormy, through driving mist,Loom the blurr'd hills; the rainLashes the newly-made grave.Unquiet souls!—In the dark fermentation of earth,In the never idle workshop of nature,In the eternal movement,Ye shall find yourselves again!
So I sang; but the Muse,Shaking her head, took the harp—Stern interrupted my strain,Angrily smote on the chords.
April showersRush o'er the Yorkshire moors.Stormy, through driving mist,Loom the blurr'd hills; the rainLashes the newly-made grave.
Unquiet souls!—In the dark fermentation of earth,In the never idle workshop of nature,In the eternal movement,Ye shall find yourselves again!