Once more, dear Lake! along thy banks I rove,And bless thee in my heart that flows with love.Methinks, as life's awakening embers burn,Nature rejoices in her son's return;And, like a parent after absence long,Sings from her heart of hearts a chearful song.Oh! that fresh breeze through all my being stole,And made sweet music in my gladden'd soul!To me just rescued from the opening grave,How bright the radiance of the dancing wave!A gleam of joy, a soft endearing smile,Plays 'mid the greenness of each sylvan isle,And, in the bounty of affection, showersA loving welcome o'er these blissful bowers.Quick glides the hymning streamlet, to partakeThe deep enjoyment of the happy lake;The pebbles, sparkling through the yellow brook,Seem to my gaze to wear a livelier look;And little wild-flowers, that in careless healthLay round my path in unregarded wealth,In laughing beauty court my eyes again,Like friends unchanged by coldness or disdain.Now life and joy are one:—to Earth, Air, Heaven,An undisturbed jubilee is given;While, happy as in dreams, I seem to fly,Skimming the ground, or soaring through the sky,And feel, with sudden life-pervading glee,As if this rapture all were made for me.And well the glory to my soul is known;For mystic visions stamped it as my own.While sickness lay, like ice, upon my breath,With eye prophetic, through the shades of deathThat brooded o'er me like a dreary night,This beauteous scene I saw in living light.No friend was near me: and a heavy gloomLay in deep silence o'er the lonely room;Even hope had fled; and as in parting strifeMy soul stood trembling on the brink of life,—When lo! sweet sounds, like those that now I hear,Of stream and zephyr stole into my ear.Far through my heart the mingled music ran,Like tones of mercy to a dying man.Rejoicing in the rosy morning's birth,Like new-waked beauty lay the dewy earth;The mighty sun I saw, as now I see,And my soul shone with kindred majesty:Calm smiled the Lake; and from that smile aroseFaith, hope, and trust, oblivion of my woes:I felt that I should live; nor could despairBedim a scene so glorious, and so fair.Now is the vision truth. Disease hath flown,And in the midst of joy I stand alone.The eye of God is on me: the wide skyIs sanctified with present Deity,And, at his bidding, Nature's aspect mildPours healing influence on her wasted child.My eye now brightens with the brightening scene,Chear'd with the hues of kind restoring green;As with a lulling sound the fountain flows,My tingling ear is filled with still repose;The summer silence, sleeping on the plain,Sends settled quiet to my dizzy brain;And the moist freshness of the glittering woodCools with a heart-felt dew my feverish blood.O blessed Lake! thy sparkling waters rollHealth to my frame, and rapture to my soul.Emblem of peace, of innocence, and love!Sleeping in beauty given thee from above:This earth delighting in thy gentle breast,And the glad heavens attending on thy rest!Can he e'er turn from virtue's quiet bowers,All fragrant dropping with immortal flowers,Whose inward eye, as with a magic art,Beholds thy glory imaged in his heart?No! he shall live, from guilt and vice afar,As in the silent Heavens some lonely star.A light shall be around him to defendThe holy head of Nature's bosom friend.And if the mists of error e'er should comeTo that bright sphere where virtue holds her home,She has a charm to scare the intruder thence;Or, powerful in her spotless innocence,With one calm look her spirit will transformTo a fair cloud the heralds of the storm.Nor less, Winander! to thy power I oweRays of delight amid the gloom of woe.Yes! oft, when self-tormenting fancy framedForms of dim fear that grief has never named;When the whole world seem'd void of mental cheer,Nor spring nor summer in the joyless year,Oft has thy image of upbraiding love,Seen on a sudden through some opening grove,Even like the tender unexpected smileOf some dear friend I had forgot the while,In silence said, "My son, why not partake"The peace now brooding o'er thy darling lake?"Oh! why in sullen discontent destroy"The law of Nature, Universal Joy?"Sweet Lake! I listen to thy guardian voice:I look abroad; and, looking, I rejoice.My home is here; ah! never shall we part,Till life's last pulse hath left my wasted heart.True that another land first gave me birth,And other lakes beheld my infant mirth:Far from these skies dear friendships have I known,And still in memory lives their soften'd tone;Yet though the image of my earlier years'Mid Scotland's mountains dim my eyes with tears,And the heart's day-dreams oft will lingering dwellOn that wild region which she loves so well,—Think not, sweet Lake! before my years are toldMy love for thee and thine can e'er grow cold:For here hath Hope fix'd her last earthly bound,And where Hope rests in peace, is hallow'd ground.And oh! if e'er that happy time shall come,When she I love sits smiling in my home,And, oft as chance may bid us meet or part,Speaks the soft word that slides into the heart,Then fair as now thou art, yea! passing fair,Thy scarce-seen waters melting into air,Far lovelier gleams will dance upon thy breast,And thine isles bend their trees in deeper rest.Then will my joy-enlighten'd soul descryAll that is beautiful on land or sky;For, when the heart is calm with pure delight,Revels the soul 'mid many a glorious sight.The earth then kindles with a vernal grace,Glad as the laugh upon an infant-face:The sun himself is clothed with vaster light,And showers of gentler sadness bathe the night.Dreams of delight! while thus I fondly weaveYour fairy-folds, Oh! can ye e'er deceive?Are ye in vain to cheated mortals given,Lovely impostors in the garb of Heaven?Fears, hopes, doubts, wishes, hush my pensive shell,Fount of them all, dear Lake! farewell! farewell!
Once more, dear Lake! along thy banks I rove,And bless thee in my heart that flows with love.Methinks, as life's awakening embers burn,Nature rejoices in her son's return;And, like a parent after absence long,Sings from her heart of hearts a chearful song.Oh! that fresh breeze through all my being stole,And made sweet music in my gladden'd soul!To me just rescued from the opening grave,How bright the radiance of the dancing wave!A gleam of joy, a soft endearing smile,Plays 'mid the greenness of each sylvan isle,And, in the bounty of affection, showersA loving welcome o'er these blissful bowers.Quick glides the hymning streamlet, to partakeThe deep enjoyment of the happy lake;The pebbles, sparkling through the yellow brook,Seem to my gaze to wear a livelier look;And little wild-flowers, that in careless healthLay round my path in unregarded wealth,In laughing beauty court my eyes again,Like friends unchanged by coldness or disdain.Now life and joy are one:—to Earth, Air, Heaven,An undisturbed jubilee is given;While, happy as in dreams, I seem to fly,Skimming the ground, or soaring through the sky,And feel, with sudden life-pervading glee,As if this rapture all were made for me.
And well the glory to my soul is known;For mystic visions stamped it as my own.While sickness lay, like ice, upon my breath,With eye prophetic, through the shades of deathThat brooded o'er me like a dreary night,This beauteous scene I saw in living light.No friend was near me: and a heavy gloomLay in deep silence o'er the lonely room;Even hope had fled; and as in parting strifeMy soul stood trembling on the brink of life,—When lo! sweet sounds, like those that now I hear,Of stream and zephyr stole into my ear.Far through my heart the mingled music ran,Like tones of mercy to a dying man.Rejoicing in the rosy morning's birth,Like new-waked beauty lay the dewy earth;The mighty sun I saw, as now I see,And my soul shone with kindred majesty:Calm smiled the Lake; and from that smile aroseFaith, hope, and trust, oblivion of my woes:I felt that I should live; nor could despairBedim a scene so glorious, and so fair.
Now is the vision truth. Disease hath flown,And in the midst of joy I stand alone.The eye of God is on me: the wide skyIs sanctified with present Deity,And, at his bidding, Nature's aspect mildPours healing influence on her wasted child.My eye now brightens with the brightening scene,Chear'd with the hues of kind restoring green;As with a lulling sound the fountain flows,My tingling ear is filled with still repose;The summer silence, sleeping on the plain,Sends settled quiet to my dizzy brain;And the moist freshness of the glittering woodCools with a heart-felt dew my feverish blood.
O blessed Lake! thy sparkling waters rollHealth to my frame, and rapture to my soul.Emblem of peace, of innocence, and love!Sleeping in beauty given thee from above:This earth delighting in thy gentle breast,And the glad heavens attending on thy rest!Can he e'er turn from virtue's quiet bowers,All fragrant dropping with immortal flowers,Whose inward eye, as with a magic art,Beholds thy glory imaged in his heart?No! he shall live, from guilt and vice afar,As in the silent Heavens some lonely star.A light shall be around him to defendThe holy head of Nature's bosom friend.And if the mists of error e'er should comeTo that bright sphere where virtue holds her home,She has a charm to scare the intruder thence;Or, powerful in her spotless innocence,With one calm look her spirit will transformTo a fair cloud the heralds of the storm.
Nor less, Winander! to thy power I oweRays of delight amid the gloom of woe.Yes! oft, when self-tormenting fancy framedForms of dim fear that grief has never named;When the whole world seem'd void of mental cheer,Nor spring nor summer in the joyless year,Oft has thy image of upbraiding love,Seen on a sudden through some opening grove,Even like the tender unexpected smileOf some dear friend I had forgot the while,In silence said, "My son, why not partake"The peace now brooding o'er thy darling lake?"Oh! why in sullen discontent destroy"The law of Nature, Universal Joy?"
Sweet Lake! I listen to thy guardian voice:I look abroad; and, looking, I rejoice.My home is here; ah! never shall we part,Till life's last pulse hath left my wasted heart.True that another land first gave me birth,And other lakes beheld my infant mirth:Far from these skies dear friendships have I known,And still in memory lives their soften'd tone;Yet though the image of my earlier years'Mid Scotland's mountains dim my eyes with tears,And the heart's day-dreams oft will lingering dwellOn that wild region which she loves so well,—Think not, sweet Lake! before my years are toldMy love for thee and thine can e'er grow cold:For here hath Hope fix'd her last earthly bound,And where Hope rests in peace, is hallow'd ground.
And oh! if e'er that happy time shall come,When she I love sits smiling in my home,And, oft as chance may bid us meet or part,Speaks the soft word that slides into the heart,Then fair as now thou art, yea! passing fair,Thy scarce-seen waters melting into air,Far lovelier gleams will dance upon thy breast,And thine isles bend their trees in deeper rest.Then will my joy-enlighten'd soul descryAll that is beautiful on land or sky;For, when the heart is calm with pure delight,Revels the soul 'mid many a glorious sight.The earth then kindles with a vernal grace,Glad as the laugh upon an infant-face:The sun himself is clothed with vaster light,And showers of gentler sadness bathe the night.
Dreams of delight! while thus I fondly weaveYour fairy-folds, Oh! can ye e'er deceive?Are ye in vain to cheated mortals given,Lovely impostors in the garb of Heaven?Fears, hopes, doubts, wishes, hush my pensive shell,Fount of them all, dear Lake! farewell! farewell!
Nay! Stranger! smile not at this little dome,Albeit quaint, and with no nice regardTo highest rules of grace and symmetry,Plaything of art, it venture thus to stand'Mid the great forms of Nature. Doth it seemA vain intruder in the quiet heartOf this majestic Lake, that like an armOf Ocean, or some Indian river vast,In beauty floats amid its guardian hills?Haply it may: yet in this humble tower,The mimicry of loftier edifice,There lives a silent spirit, that confersA lasting charter on its sportive wreathOf battlements, amid the mountain-calmTo stand as proudly, as you giant rockThat with his shadow dims the dazzling lake!Then blame it not: for know 'twas planted here,In mingled mood of seriousness and mirth,By one[4]who meant to Nature's sanctityNo cold unmeaning outrage. He was oneWho often in adventurous youth had sail'dO'er the great waters, and he dearly lovedTheir music wild; nor less the gallant soulsWhose home is on the Ocean:—so he framedThis jutting mole, that like a natural capeMeets the soft-breaking waves, and on its point,Bethinking him of some sea-structure huge,Watch-tower or light-house, rear'd this mimic dome,Seen up and down the lake, a monumentSacred to images of former days.See! in the playfulness of English zealIts low walls are emblazon'd! there thou read'stHowe, Duncan, Vincent, and that mightier nameWhom death has made immortal.—Not misplacedOn temple rising from an inland seaSuch venerable names, though ne'er was heardThe sound of cannon o'er these tranquil shores,Save when it peal'd to waken in her caveThe mountain echo: yet this chronicle,Speaking of war amid the depths of peace,Wastes not its meaning on the heedless air.It hath its worshippers: it sends a voice,A voice creating elevated thoughts,Into the hearts of our bold peasantryFollowing the plough along these fertile vales,Or up among the misty solitudeBeside the wild sheep-fold. The fishermen,Who on the clear wave ply their silent trade,Oft passing lean upon their dripping oars,And bless the heroes: Idling in the joyOf summer sunshine, as in light canoeThe stranger glides among these lovely isles,This little temple to his startled soulOft sends a gorgeous vision, gallant crewsIn fierce joy cheering as they onwards bearTo break the line of battle, meteor-likeLong ensigns brightening on the towery mast,And sails in awful silence o'er the mainLowering like thunder-clouds!—Then, stranger! giveA blessing on this temple, and admireThe gaudy pendant round the painted staffWreathed in still splendour, or in wanton folds,Even like a serpent bright and beautiful,Streaming its burnished glory on the air.And whether silence sleep upon the stonesOf this small edifice, or from withinSteal the glad voice of laughter and of song,Pass on with alter'd thoughts, and gently ownThat Windermere, with all her radiant islesSerenely floating on her azure breast,Like stars in heaven, with kindest smiles may robeThis monument, to heroes dedicate,Nor Nature feel her holy reign profanedBy work of art, though framed in humblest guise,When a high spirit prompts the builder's soul.
Nay! Stranger! smile not at this little dome,Albeit quaint, and with no nice regardTo highest rules of grace and symmetry,Plaything of art, it venture thus to stand'Mid the great forms of Nature. Doth it seemA vain intruder in the quiet heartOf this majestic Lake, that like an armOf Ocean, or some Indian river vast,In beauty floats amid its guardian hills?Haply it may: yet in this humble tower,The mimicry of loftier edifice,There lives a silent spirit, that confersA lasting charter on its sportive wreathOf battlements, amid the mountain-calmTo stand as proudly, as you giant rockThat with his shadow dims the dazzling lake!
Then blame it not: for know 'twas planted here,In mingled mood of seriousness and mirth,By one[4]who meant to Nature's sanctityNo cold unmeaning outrage. He was oneWho often in adventurous youth had sail'dO'er the great waters, and he dearly lovedTheir music wild; nor less the gallant soulsWhose home is on the Ocean:—so he framedThis jutting mole, that like a natural capeMeets the soft-breaking waves, and on its point,Bethinking him of some sea-structure huge,Watch-tower or light-house, rear'd this mimic dome,Seen up and down the lake, a monumentSacred to images of former days.
See! in the playfulness of English zealIts low walls are emblazon'd! there thou read'stHowe, Duncan, Vincent, and that mightier nameWhom death has made immortal.—Not misplacedOn temple rising from an inland seaSuch venerable names, though ne'er was heardThe sound of cannon o'er these tranquil shores,Save when it peal'd to waken in her caveThe mountain echo: yet this chronicle,Speaking of war amid the depths of peace,Wastes not its meaning on the heedless air.It hath its worshippers: it sends a voice,A voice creating elevated thoughts,Into the hearts of our bold peasantryFollowing the plough along these fertile vales,Or up among the misty solitudeBeside the wild sheep-fold. The fishermen,Who on the clear wave ply their silent trade,Oft passing lean upon their dripping oars,And bless the heroes: Idling in the joyOf summer sunshine, as in light canoeThe stranger glides among these lovely isles,This little temple to his startled soulOft sends a gorgeous vision, gallant crewsIn fierce joy cheering as they onwards bearTo break the line of battle, meteor-likeLong ensigns brightening on the towery mast,And sails in awful silence o'er the mainLowering like thunder-clouds!—
Then, stranger! giveA blessing on this temple, and admireThe gaudy pendant round the painted staffWreathed in still splendour, or in wanton folds,Even like a serpent bright and beautiful,Streaming its burnished glory on the air.And whether silence sleep upon the stonesOf this small edifice, or from withinSteal the glad voice of laughter and of song,Pass on with alter'd thoughts, and gently ownThat Windermere, with all her radiant islesSerenely floating on her azure breast,Like stars in heaven, with kindest smiles may robeThis monument, to heroes dedicate,Nor Nature feel her holy reign profanedBy work of art, though framed in humblest guise,When a high spirit prompts the builder's soul.
FOOTNOTES:[4]The late Sir John Legard, Bart.
[4]The late Sir John Legard, Bart.
[4]The late Sir John Legard, Bart.
Why sits so long beside you cottage-doorThat aged man with tresses thin and hoar?Fix'd are his eyes in one continued gaze,Nor seem to feel the sun's meridian blaze;Yet are the orbs with youth-like colours bright,As o'er the Iris falls the trembling light.Changeless his mien; not even one flitting traceOf spirit wanders o'er his furrow'd face;No feeling moves his venerable head:—He sitteth there—an emblem of the dead!The staff of age lies near him on the seat,His faithful dog is slumbering at his feet,And you fair child, who steals an hour for playWhile thus her father rests upon his way,Her sport will leave, nor cast one look behind,Soon as she hears his voice,—for he is blind!List! as in tones through deep affection mildHe speaks by name to the delighted child!Then, bending mute in dreams of painful bliss,Breathes o'er her neck a father's tenderest kiss,And with light hand upon her forehead fairSmooths the stray ringlets of her silky hair!A beauteous phantom rises through the nightFor ever brooding o'er his darken'd sight,So clearly imaged both in form and limb,He scarce remembers that his eyes are dim,But thinks he sees in truth the vernal wreathHis gentle infant wove, that it might breatheA sweet restoring fragrance through his breast,Chosen from the wild-flowers that he loves the best.In that sweet trance he sees the sparkling gleeThat sanctifies the face of infancy;The dimpled cheek where playful fondness lies,And the blue softness of her smiling eyes;The spirit's temple unprofaned by tears,Where God's unclouded loveliness appears;Those gleams of soul to every feature given,When youth walks guiltless by the light of heaven!And oh! what pleasures through his spirit burn,When to the gate his homeward steps return;When fancy's eye the curling smoke surveys,And his own hearth is gaily heard to blaze!How beams his sightless visage! when the pressOf Love's known hand, with cheerful tenderness,Falls on his arm, and leads with guardian careHis helpless footsteps to the accustomed chair;When that dear voice he joy'd from youth to hearWith kind enquiry comes unto his ear,And tremulous tells how lovely still must beThose fading beauties that he ne'er must see!Though ne'er by him his cottage-home be seen,Where to the wild brook slopes the daisied green;Though the bee, slowly borne on laden wing,To him be known but by its murmuring;And the long leaf that trembles in the breezeBe all that tells him of his native trees;Yet dear to him each viewless object roundFamiliar to his soul from touch or sound.The stream, 'mid banks of osier winding near,Lulls his calm spirit through the listening ear:Deeply his soul enjoys the loving strifeWhen the warm summer air is fill'd with life;And as his limbs in quiet dreams are laid,Blest is the oak's contemporary shade.Happy old Man! no vain regrets intrudeOn the still hour of sightless solitude.Though deepest shades o'er outward Nature roll,Her cloudless beauty lives within thy soul—Oft to you rising mount thy steps ascend,As to the spot where dwelt a former friend;From whose green summit thou could'st once beholdMountains far-off in dim confusion roll'd,Lakes of blue mist, where gleam'd the whitening sail,And many a woodland interposing vale.Thou seest them still: and oh! how soft a shadeDoes memory breathe o'er mountain, wood, and glade!Each craggy pass, where oft in sportive scornHad sprung thy limbs in life's exulting morn;Each misty cataract, and torrent-flood,Where thou a silent angler oft hast stood;Each shelter'd creek where through the roughest dayFloated thy bark without the anchor's stay;Each nameless field by nameless thought endear'd;Each little hedge-row that thy childhood rear'd,That seems unalter'd yet in form and size,Though fled the clouds of fifty summer skies,Rise on thy soul,—on high devotion springsThrough Nature's beauty borne on Fancy's wings,And while the blissful vision floats around,Of loveliest form, fair hue, and melting sound,Thou carest not, though blindness may not roam,—For Heaven's own glory smiles around thy home.
Why sits so long beside you cottage-doorThat aged man with tresses thin and hoar?Fix'd are his eyes in one continued gaze,Nor seem to feel the sun's meridian blaze;Yet are the orbs with youth-like colours bright,As o'er the Iris falls the trembling light.Changeless his mien; not even one flitting traceOf spirit wanders o'er his furrow'd face;No feeling moves his venerable head:—He sitteth there—an emblem of the dead!The staff of age lies near him on the seat,His faithful dog is slumbering at his feet,And you fair child, who steals an hour for playWhile thus her father rests upon his way,Her sport will leave, nor cast one look behind,Soon as she hears his voice,—for he is blind!
List! as in tones through deep affection mildHe speaks by name to the delighted child!Then, bending mute in dreams of painful bliss,Breathes o'er her neck a father's tenderest kiss,And with light hand upon her forehead fairSmooths the stray ringlets of her silky hair!A beauteous phantom rises through the nightFor ever brooding o'er his darken'd sight,So clearly imaged both in form and limb,He scarce remembers that his eyes are dim,But thinks he sees in truth the vernal wreathHis gentle infant wove, that it might breatheA sweet restoring fragrance through his breast,Chosen from the wild-flowers that he loves the best.In that sweet trance he sees the sparkling gleeThat sanctifies the face of infancy;The dimpled cheek where playful fondness lies,And the blue softness of her smiling eyes;The spirit's temple unprofaned by tears,Where God's unclouded loveliness appears;Those gleams of soul to every feature given,When youth walks guiltless by the light of heaven!
And oh! what pleasures through his spirit burn,When to the gate his homeward steps return;When fancy's eye the curling smoke surveys,And his own hearth is gaily heard to blaze!How beams his sightless visage! when the pressOf Love's known hand, with cheerful tenderness,Falls on his arm, and leads with guardian careHis helpless footsteps to the accustomed chair;When that dear voice he joy'd from youth to hearWith kind enquiry comes unto his ear,And tremulous tells how lovely still must beThose fading beauties that he ne'er must see!
Though ne'er by him his cottage-home be seen,Where to the wild brook slopes the daisied green;Though the bee, slowly borne on laden wing,To him be known but by its murmuring;And the long leaf that trembles in the breezeBe all that tells him of his native trees;Yet dear to him each viewless object roundFamiliar to his soul from touch or sound.The stream, 'mid banks of osier winding near,Lulls his calm spirit through the listening ear:Deeply his soul enjoys the loving strifeWhen the warm summer air is fill'd with life;And as his limbs in quiet dreams are laid,Blest is the oak's contemporary shade.
Happy old Man! no vain regrets intrudeOn the still hour of sightless solitude.Though deepest shades o'er outward Nature roll,Her cloudless beauty lives within thy soul—Oft to you rising mount thy steps ascend,As to the spot where dwelt a former friend;From whose green summit thou could'st once beholdMountains far-off in dim confusion roll'd,Lakes of blue mist, where gleam'd the whitening sail,And many a woodland interposing vale.
Thou seest them still: and oh! how soft a shadeDoes memory breathe o'er mountain, wood, and glade!Each craggy pass, where oft in sportive scornHad sprung thy limbs in life's exulting morn;Each misty cataract, and torrent-flood,Where thou a silent angler oft hast stood;Each shelter'd creek where through the roughest dayFloated thy bark without the anchor's stay;Each nameless field by nameless thought endear'd;Each little hedge-row that thy childhood rear'd,That seems unalter'd yet in form and size,Though fled the clouds of fifty summer skies,Rise on thy soul,—on high devotion springsThrough Nature's beauty borne on Fancy's wings,And while the blissful vision floats around,Of loveliest form, fair hue, and melting sound,Thou carest not, though blindness may not roam,—For Heaven's own glory smiles around thy home.
How sweet and solemn at the close of day,After a long and lonely pilgrimageAmong the mountains, where our spirits heldWith wildering fancy and her kindred powersHigh converse, to descend as from the cloudsInto a quiet valley, fill'd with treesBy Nature planted, crowding round the brinkOf an oft-hidden rivulet, or hungA beauteous shelter o'er the humble roofOf many a moss-grown cottage!In that hourOf pensive happiness, the wandering manLooks for some spot of still profounder rest,Where nought may break the solemn imagesSent by the setting sun into his soul.Up to you simple edifice he walks,That seems beneath its sable grove of pinesMore silent than the home where living thingAbides, yea, even than desolated towerWrapt in its ivy-shroud.I know it well,—The village-chapel: many a year ago,That little dome to God was dedicate;And ever since, hath undisturbed peaceSat on it, moveless as the brooding doveThat must not leave her nest. A mossy wall,Bathed though in ruins with a flush of flowers,(A lovely emblem of that promised lifeThat springs from death) doth placidly encloseThe bed of rest, where with their fathers sleepThe children of the vale, and the calm streamThat murmurs onward with the self-same toneFor ever, by the mystic power of soundBinding the present with the past, pervadesThe holy hush as if with God's own voice,Filling the listening heart with piety.Oh! ne'er shall I forget the hour, when firstThy little chapel stole upon my heart,SecludedTroutbeck! 'Twas the Sabbath-morn,And up the rocky banks of thy wild streamI wound my path, full oft I ween delay'dBy sounding waterfall, that 'mid the calmAwoke such solemn thoughts as suited wellThe day of peace; till all at once I cameOut of the shady glen, and with fresh joyWalk'd on encircled by green pastoral hills.Before me suddenly thy chapel roseAs if it were an image: even thenThe noise of thunder roll'd along the sky,And darkness veil'd the heights,—a summer-stormOf short forewarning and of transient power.Ah me! how beautifully silent thouDidst smile amid the tempest! O'er thy roofArch'd a fair rainbow, that to me appear'dA holy shelter to thee in the storm,And made thee shine amid the brooding gloom,Bright as the morning star. Between the fitsOf the loud thunder, rose the voice of Psalms,A most soul-moving sound. There unappall'd,A choir of youths and maidens hymned their God,With tones that robb'd the thunder of its dread,Bidding it rave in vain.Out came the sunIn glory from his clouded tabernacle;And, waken'd by the splendour, up the larkRose with a loud and yet a louder song,Chaunting to heaven the hymn of gratitude.The service closed; and o'er the church-yard spreadThe happy flock who in that peaceful foldHad worshipp'd Jesus, carrying to their homesThe comfort of a faith that cannot die,That to the young supplies a guiding light,Steadier than reason's, and far brighter too,And to the aged sanctifies the grassThat grows upon the grave.O happy lot,Methought, to tend a little flock like this,Loving them all, and by them all beloved!So felt their shepherd on that Sabbath-mornReturning their kind smiles;—a pious man,Content in this lone vale to teach the truthsOur Saviour taught, nor wishing other praiseThan of his great task-master. Yet his youthNot unadorn'd with science, nor the loreBecoming in their prime accomplish'd men,Told that among the worldly eminentMight lie his shining way:—but, wiser far,He to the shades of solitude retired,The birth-place of his fathers, and there vow'dHis talents and his virtues, rarest both,To God who gave them, rendering by his voiceThis beauteous chapel still more beautiful,And the blameless dwellers in this quiet daleHappier in life and death.
How sweet and solemn at the close of day,After a long and lonely pilgrimageAmong the mountains, where our spirits heldWith wildering fancy and her kindred powersHigh converse, to descend as from the cloudsInto a quiet valley, fill'd with treesBy Nature planted, crowding round the brinkOf an oft-hidden rivulet, or hungA beauteous shelter o'er the humble roofOf many a moss-grown cottage!
In that hourOf pensive happiness, the wandering manLooks for some spot of still profounder rest,Where nought may break the solemn imagesSent by the setting sun into his soul.Up to you simple edifice he walks,That seems beneath its sable grove of pinesMore silent than the home where living thingAbides, yea, even than desolated towerWrapt in its ivy-shroud.
I know it well,—The village-chapel: many a year ago,That little dome to God was dedicate;And ever since, hath undisturbed peaceSat on it, moveless as the brooding doveThat must not leave her nest. A mossy wall,Bathed though in ruins with a flush of flowers,(A lovely emblem of that promised lifeThat springs from death) doth placidly encloseThe bed of rest, where with their fathers sleepThe children of the vale, and the calm streamThat murmurs onward with the self-same toneFor ever, by the mystic power of soundBinding the present with the past, pervadesThe holy hush as if with God's own voice,Filling the listening heart with piety.
Oh! ne'er shall I forget the hour, when firstThy little chapel stole upon my heart,SecludedTroutbeck! 'Twas the Sabbath-morn,And up the rocky banks of thy wild streamI wound my path, full oft I ween delay'dBy sounding waterfall, that 'mid the calmAwoke such solemn thoughts as suited wellThe day of peace; till all at once I cameOut of the shady glen, and with fresh joyWalk'd on encircled by green pastoral hills.Before me suddenly thy chapel roseAs if it were an image: even thenThe noise of thunder roll'd along the sky,And darkness veil'd the heights,—a summer-stormOf short forewarning and of transient power.Ah me! how beautifully silent thouDidst smile amid the tempest! O'er thy roofArch'd a fair rainbow, that to me appear'dA holy shelter to thee in the storm,And made thee shine amid the brooding gloom,Bright as the morning star. Between the fitsOf the loud thunder, rose the voice of Psalms,A most soul-moving sound. There unappall'd,A choir of youths and maidens hymned their God,With tones that robb'd the thunder of its dread,Bidding it rave in vain.
Out came the sunIn glory from his clouded tabernacle;And, waken'd by the splendour, up the larkRose with a loud and yet a louder song,Chaunting to heaven the hymn of gratitude.The service closed; and o'er the church-yard spreadThe happy flock who in that peaceful foldHad worshipp'd Jesus, carrying to their homesThe comfort of a faith that cannot die,That to the young supplies a guiding light,Steadier than reason's, and far brighter too,And to the aged sanctifies the grassThat grows upon the grave.
O happy lot,Methought, to tend a little flock like this,Loving them all, and by them all beloved!So felt their shepherd on that Sabbath-mornReturning their kind smiles;—a pious man,Content in this lone vale to teach the truthsOur Saviour taught, nor wishing other praiseThan of his great task-master. Yet his youthNot unadorn'd with science, nor the loreBecoming in their prime accomplish'd men,Told that among the worldly eminentMight lie his shining way:—but, wiser far,He to the shades of solitude retired,The birth-place of his fathers, and there vow'dHis talents and his virtues, rarest both,To God who gave them, rendering by his voiceThis beauteous chapel still more beautiful,And the blameless dwellers in this quiet daleHappier in life and death.
The lingering lustre of a vernal dayFrom the dim landscape slowly steals away;One lovely hour!—and then the stars of EvenWill sparkling hail the apparent Queen of Heaven;For the tired Sun, now softly sinking down,To his fair daughter leaves his silent throne.Almost could I believe with life embued,And hush'd in dreams, this gentle solitude.Look where I may, a tranquillizing soulBreathes forth a life-like pleasure o'er the whole.The shadows settling on the mountain's breastRecline, as conscious of the hour of rest;Stedfast as objects in a peaceful dream,The sleepy trees are bending o'er the stream;The stream, half veil'd in snowy vapour, flowsWith sound like silence, motion like repose.My heart obeys the power of earth and sky,And 'mid the quiet slumbers quietly!A wreath of smoke, that feels no breath of air,Melts amid you fair clouds, itself as fair,And seems to link in beauteousness and loveThat earthly cottage to the domes above.There my heart rests,—as if by magic bound:Blessings be on that plat of orchard-ground!Wreathed round the dwelling like a fairy ring,Its green leaves lost in richest blossoming.Within that ring no creature seems alive;The bees have ceased to hum around the hive;On the tall ash the rooks have roosted long,And the fond dove hath coo'd his latest song;Now, shrouded close beneath the holly-bush,Sits on her low-built nest the sleeping thrush.All do not sleep: behold a spotless lambLooks bleating round, as if it sought its dam.Its restless motion and its piteous moanTell that it fears all night to rest alone,Though heaven's most gracious dew descends in peaceSoftly as snow-flakes on its radiant fleece.That mournful bleat hath touch'd the watchful earOf one to whom the little lamb is dear,As innocent and lovely as itself!See where with springs she comes, the smiling elf!Well does the lamb her infant guardian know:Joy brightening dances o'er her breast of snow,And light as flying leaf, with sudden glide,Fondly she presses to the maiden's side.With kindness quieting its late alarms,The sweet child folds it in her nursing arms;And calling it by every gentle nameThat happy innocence through love can frame,With tenderest kisses lavish'd on its head,Conducts it frisking to its shelter'd bed.Kind hearted infant! be thy slumbers bland!Dream that thy sportive lambkin licks thy hand,Or, wearied out by races short and fleet,Basks in the sunshine, resting on thy feet;That waking from repose, unbroken, deep,Thou scarce shalt know that thou hast been asleep!With eye-lids trembling through thy golden hair,I hear thee lisping low thy nightly prayer.O sweetest voice! what beauty breathes therein!Ne'er hath its music been impaired by sin.In all its depths my soul shall carry henceThe air serene born of thy innocence.To me most awful is thy hour of rest,For little children sleep in Jesus' breast!
The lingering lustre of a vernal dayFrom the dim landscape slowly steals away;One lovely hour!—and then the stars of EvenWill sparkling hail the apparent Queen of Heaven;For the tired Sun, now softly sinking down,To his fair daughter leaves his silent throne.Almost could I believe with life embued,And hush'd in dreams, this gentle solitude.Look where I may, a tranquillizing soulBreathes forth a life-like pleasure o'er the whole.The shadows settling on the mountain's breastRecline, as conscious of the hour of rest;Stedfast as objects in a peaceful dream,The sleepy trees are bending o'er the stream;The stream, half veil'd in snowy vapour, flowsWith sound like silence, motion like repose.My heart obeys the power of earth and sky,And 'mid the quiet slumbers quietly!
A wreath of smoke, that feels no breath of air,Melts amid you fair clouds, itself as fair,And seems to link in beauteousness and loveThat earthly cottage to the domes above.There my heart rests,—as if by magic bound:Blessings be on that plat of orchard-ground!Wreathed round the dwelling like a fairy ring,Its green leaves lost in richest blossoming.Within that ring no creature seems alive;The bees have ceased to hum around the hive;On the tall ash the rooks have roosted long,And the fond dove hath coo'd his latest song;Now, shrouded close beneath the holly-bush,Sits on her low-built nest the sleeping thrush.
All do not sleep: behold a spotless lambLooks bleating round, as if it sought its dam.Its restless motion and its piteous moanTell that it fears all night to rest alone,Though heaven's most gracious dew descends in peaceSoftly as snow-flakes on its radiant fleece.That mournful bleat hath touch'd the watchful earOf one to whom the little lamb is dear,As innocent and lovely as itself!See where with springs she comes, the smiling elf!Well does the lamb her infant guardian know:Joy brightening dances o'er her breast of snow,And light as flying leaf, with sudden glide,Fondly she presses to the maiden's side.With kindness quieting its late alarms,The sweet child folds it in her nursing arms;And calling it by every gentle nameThat happy innocence through love can frame,With tenderest kisses lavish'd on its head,Conducts it frisking to its shelter'd bed.
Kind hearted infant! be thy slumbers bland!Dream that thy sportive lambkin licks thy hand,Or, wearied out by races short and fleet,Basks in the sunshine, resting on thy feet;That waking from repose, unbroken, deep,Thou scarce shalt know that thou hast been asleep!With eye-lids trembling through thy golden hair,I hear thee lisping low thy nightly prayer.O sweetest voice! what beauty breathes therein!Ne'er hath its music been impaired by sin.In all its depths my soul shall carry henceThe air serene born of thy innocence.To me most awful is thy hour of rest,For little children sleep in Jesus' breast!
Thou guardian Naiad of this little Lake,Whose banks in unprofaned Nature sleep,(And that in waters lone and beautifulDwell spirits radiant as the homes they love,Have poets still believed) O surely blestBeyond all genii or of wood or wave,Or sylphs that in the shooting sunbeams dwell,Art thou! yea, happier even than summer-cloudBeloved by air and sky, and floating slowO'er the still bosom of upholding heaven.Beauteous as blest, O Naiad, thou must be!For, since thy birth, have all delightful things,Of form and hue, of silence and of sound,Circled thy spirit, as the crowding starsShine round the placid Moon. Lov'st thou to sinkInto thy cell of sleep? The water partsWith dimpling smiles around thee, and below,The unsunn'd verdure, soft as cygnet's down,Meets thy descending feet without a sound.Lov'st thou to sport upon the watery gleam?Lucid as air around thy head it liesBathing thy sable locks in pearly light,While, all around, the water lilies striveTo shower their blossoms o'er the virgin queen.Or doth the shore allure thee?—well it may:How soft these fields of pastoral beauty meltIn the clear water! neither sand nor stoneBars herb or wild-flower from the dewy sound,Like Spring's own voice now rippling round the Tarn.There oft thou liest 'mid the echoing bleatOf lambs, that race amid the sunny gleams;Or bee's wide murmur as it fills the broomThat yellows round thy bed. O gentle glades,Amid the tremulous verdure of the woods,In stedfast smiles of more essential light,Lying, like azure streaks of placid skyAmid the moving clouds, the Naiad lovesYour glimmering alleys, and your rustling bowers;For there, in peace reclined, her half-closed eyeThrough the long vista sees her darling Lake,Even like herself, diffused in fair repose.Not undelightful to the quiet breastSuch solitary dreams as now have fill'dMy busy fancy; dreams that rise in peace,And thither lead, partaking in their flightOf human interests and earthly joys.Imagination fondly leans on truth,And sober scenes of dim realityTo her seem lovely as the western sky,To the rapt Persian worshipping the sun.Methinks this little lake, to whom my heartAssigned a guardian spirit, renders backTo me, in tenderest gleams of gratitude,Profounder beauty to reward my hymn.Long hast thou been a darling haunt of mine,And still warm blessings gush'd into my heart,Meeting or parting with thy smiles of peace.But now, thy mild and gentle character,More deeply felt than ever, seems to blendIts essence pure with mine, like some sweet tuneOft heard before with pleasure, but at last,In one high moment of inspired bliss,Borne through the spirit like an angel's song.This is the solitude that reason loves!Even he who yearns for human sympathies,And hears a music in the breath of man,Dearer than voice of mountain or of flood,Might live a hermit here, and mark the sunRising or setting 'mid the beauteous calm,Devoutly blending in his happy soulThoughts both of earth and heaven!—Yon mountain-side,Rejoicing in its clustering cottages,Appears to me a paradise preservedFrom guilt by Nature's hand, and every wreathOf smoke, that from these hamlets mounts to heaven,In its straight silence holy as a spireRear'd o'er the house of God.Thy sanctityTime yet hath reverenced; and I deeply feelThat innocence her shrine shall here preserveFor ever.—The wild vale that lies beyond,Circled by mountains trod but by the feetOf venturous shepherd, from all visitants,Save the free tempests and the fowls of heaven,Guards thee;—and wooded knolls fantasticalSeclude thy image from the gentler dale,That by the Brathay's often-varied voiceChear'd as it winds along, in beauty fades'Mid the green banks of joyful Windermere!O gentlest Lake! from all unhallow'd thingsBy grandeur guarded in thy loveliness,Ne'er may thy poet with unwelcome feetPress thy soft moss embathed in flowery dies,And shadow'd in thy stillness like the heavens.May innocence for ever lead me here,To form amid the silence high resolvesFor future life; resolves, that, born in peace,Shall live 'mid tumult, and though haply mildAs infants in their play, when brought to bearOn the world's business, shall assert their powerAnd majesty—and lead me boldly onLike giants conquering in a noble cause.This is a holy faith, and full of chearTo all who worship Nature, that the hours,Past tranquilly with her, fade not awayFor ever like the clouds, but in the soulPossess a secret silent dwelling-place,Where with a smiling visage memory sits,And startles oft the virtuous, with a shewOf unsuspected treasures. Yea, sweet Lake!Oft hast thou borne into my grateful heartThy lovely presence, with a thousand dreamsDancing and brightening o'er thy sunny wave,Though many a dreary mile of mist and snowBetween us interposed. And even now,When you bright star hath risen to warn me home,I bid thee farewell in the certain hope,That thou, this night, wilt o'er my sleeping eyesShed chearing visions, and with freshest joyMake me salute the dawn. Nor may the hymnNow sung by me unto thy listening woods,Be wholly vain,—but haply it may yieldA gentle pleasure to some gentle heart,Who blessing, at its close, the unknown bard,May, for his sake, upon thy quiet banksFrame visions of his own, and other songsMore beautiful, to Nature and to Thee!
Thou guardian Naiad of this little Lake,Whose banks in unprofaned Nature sleep,(And that in waters lone and beautifulDwell spirits radiant as the homes they love,Have poets still believed) O surely blestBeyond all genii or of wood or wave,Or sylphs that in the shooting sunbeams dwell,Art thou! yea, happier even than summer-cloudBeloved by air and sky, and floating slowO'er the still bosom of upholding heaven.
Beauteous as blest, O Naiad, thou must be!For, since thy birth, have all delightful things,Of form and hue, of silence and of sound,Circled thy spirit, as the crowding starsShine round the placid Moon. Lov'st thou to sinkInto thy cell of sleep? The water partsWith dimpling smiles around thee, and below,The unsunn'd verdure, soft as cygnet's down,Meets thy descending feet without a sound.Lov'st thou to sport upon the watery gleam?Lucid as air around thy head it liesBathing thy sable locks in pearly light,While, all around, the water lilies striveTo shower their blossoms o'er the virgin queen.Or doth the shore allure thee?—well it may:How soft these fields of pastoral beauty meltIn the clear water! neither sand nor stoneBars herb or wild-flower from the dewy sound,Like Spring's own voice now rippling round the Tarn.There oft thou liest 'mid the echoing bleatOf lambs, that race amid the sunny gleams;Or bee's wide murmur as it fills the broomThat yellows round thy bed. O gentle glades,Amid the tremulous verdure of the woods,In stedfast smiles of more essential light,Lying, like azure streaks of placid skyAmid the moving clouds, the Naiad lovesYour glimmering alleys, and your rustling bowers;For there, in peace reclined, her half-closed eyeThrough the long vista sees her darling Lake,Even like herself, diffused in fair repose.
Not undelightful to the quiet breastSuch solitary dreams as now have fill'dMy busy fancy; dreams that rise in peace,And thither lead, partaking in their flightOf human interests and earthly joys.Imagination fondly leans on truth,And sober scenes of dim realityTo her seem lovely as the western sky,To the rapt Persian worshipping the sun.Methinks this little lake, to whom my heartAssigned a guardian spirit, renders backTo me, in tenderest gleams of gratitude,Profounder beauty to reward my hymn.
Long hast thou been a darling haunt of mine,And still warm blessings gush'd into my heart,Meeting or parting with thy smiles of peace.But now, thy mild and gentle character,More deeply felt than ever, seems to blendIts essence pure with mine, like some sweet tuneOft heard before with pleasure, but at last,In one high moment of inspired bliss,Borne through the spirit like an angel's song.
This is the solitude that reason loves!Even he who yearns for human sympathies,And hears a music in the breath of man,Dearer than voice of mountain or of flood,Might live a hermit here, and mark the sunRising or setting 'mid the beauteous calm,Devoutly blending in his happy soulThoughts both of earth and heaven!—Yon mountain-side,Rejoicing in its clustering cottages,Appears to me a paradise preservedFrom guilt by Nature's hand, and every wreathOf smoke, that from these hamlets mounts to heaven,In its straight silence holy as a spireRear'd o'er the house of God.
Thy sanctityTime yet hath reverenced; and I deeply feelThat innocence her shrine shall here preserveFor ever.—The wild vale that lies beyond,Circled by mountains trod but by the feetOf venturous shepherd, from all visitants,Save the free tempests and the fowls of heaven,Guards thee;—and wooded knolls fantasticalSeclude thy image from the gentler dale,That by the Brathay's often-varied voiceChear'd as it winds along, in beauty fades'Mid the green banks of joyful Windermere!
O gentlest Lake! from all unhallow'd thingsBy grandeur guarded in thy loveliness,Ne'er may thy poet with unwelcome feetPress thy soft moss embathed in flowery dies,And shadow'd in thy stillness like the heavens.May innocence for ever lead me here,To form amid the silence high resolvesFor future life; resolves, that, born in peace,Shall live 'mid tumult, and though haply mildAs infants in their play, when brought to bearOn the world's business, shall assert their powerAnd majesty—and lead me boldly onLike giants conquering in a noble cause.
This is a holy faith, and full of chearTo all who worship Nature, that the hours,Past tranquilly with her, fade not awayFor ever like the clouds, but in the soulPossess a secret silent dwelling-place,Where with a smiling visage memory sits,And startles oft the virtuous, with a shewOf unsuspected treasures. Yea, sweet Lake!Oft hast thou borne into my grateful heartThy lovely presence, with a thousand dreamsDancing and brightening o'er thy sunny wave,Though many a dreary mile of mist and snowBetween us interposed. And even now,When you bright star hath risen to warn me home,I bid thee farewell in the certain hope,That thou, this night, wilt o'er my sleeping eyesShed chearing visions, and with freshest joyMake me salute the dawn. Nor may the hymnNow sung by me unto thy listening woods,Be wholly vain,—but haply it may yieldA gentle pleasure to some gentle heart,Who blessing, at its close, the unknown bard,May, for his sake, upon thy quiet banksFrame visions of his own, and other songsMore beautiful, to Nature and to Thee!
Three days before my Mary's death,We walk'd by Grassmere shore;"Sweet Lake!" she said with faultering breath,"I ne'er shall see thee more!"Then turning round her languid head,She look'd me in the face;And whisper'd, "When thy friend is dead,Remember this lone place."Vainly I struggled at a smile,That did my fears betray;It seem'd that on our darling isleForeboding darkness lay.My Mary's words were words of truth;None now behold the Maid;Amid the tears of age and youth,She in her grave was laid.Long days, long nights, I ween, were pastEre ceased her funeral knell;But to the spot I went at lastWhere she had breath'd "farewell!"Methought, I saw the phantom standBeside the peaceful wave;I felt the pressure of her hand——Then look'd towards her grave.Fair, fair beneath the evening skyThe quiet churchyard lay:The tall pine-grove most solemnlyHung mute above her clay.Dearly she loved their arching spread,Their music wild and sweet,And, as she wished on her death-bed,Was buried at their feet.Around her grave a beauteous fenceOf wild flowers shed their breath,Smiling like infant innocenceWithin the gloom of death.Such flowers from bank of mountain-brookAt eve we wont to bring,When every little mossy nookBetray'd returning Spring.Oft had I fixed the simple wreathUpon her virgin breast;But now such flowers as form'd it, breatheAround her bed of rest.Yet all within my silent soul,As the hush'd air was calm;The natural tears that slowly stole,Assuaged my grief like balm.The air that seem'd so thick and dullFor months unto my eye;Ah me! how bright and beautifulIt floated on the sky!A trance of high and solemn blissFrom purest ether came;'Mid such a heavenly scene as this,Death is an empty name!The memory of the past return'dLike music to my heart,—It seem'd that causelessly I mourn'd,When we were told to part."God's mercy, to myself I said,To both our souls is given—To me, sojourning on earth's shade,To her—a Saint in Heaven!"
Three days before my Mary's death,We walk'd by Grassmere shore;"Sweet Lake!" she said with faultering breath,"I ne'er shall see thee more!"
Then turning round her languid head,She look'd me in the face;And whisper'd, "When thy friend is dead,Remember this lone place."
Vainly I struggled at a smile,That did my fears betray;It seem'd that on our darling isleForeboding darkness lay.
My Mary's words were words of truth;None now behold the Maid;Amid the tears of age and youth,She in her grave was laid.
Long days, long nights, I ween, were pastEre ceased her funeral knell;But to the spot I went at lastWhere she had breath'd "farewell!"
Methought, I saw the phantom standBeside the peaceful wave;I felt the pressure of her hand——Then look'd towards her grave.
Fair, fair beneath the evening skyThe quiet churchyard lay:The tall pine-grove most solemnlyHung mute above her clay.
Dearly she loved their arching spread,Their music wild and sweet,And, as she wished on her death-bed,Was buried at their feet.
Around her grave a beauteous fenceOf wild flowers shed their breath,Smiling like infant innocenceWithin the gloom of death.
Such flowers from bank of mountain-brookAt eve we wont to bring,When every little mossy nookBetray'd returning Spring.
Oft had I fixed the simple wreathUpon her virgin breast;But now such flowers as form'd it, breatheAround her bed of rest.
Yet all within my silent soul,As the hush'd air was calm;The natural tears that slowly stole,Assuaged my grief like balm.
The air that seem'd so thick and dullFor months unto my eye;Ah me! how bright and beautifulIt floated on the sky!
A trance of high and solemn blissFrom purest ether came;'Mid such a heavenly scene as this,Death is an empty name!
The memory of the past return'dLike music to my heart,—It seem'd that causelessly I mourn'd,When we were told to part.
"God's mercy, to myself I said,To both our souls is given—To me, sojourning on earth's shade,To her—a Saint in Heaven!"