FOOTNOTES:[1]Mr Wordsworth accompanied the author on this excursion.[2]At that time the residence of Mr Wordsworth's family.[3]The author's cottage on the banks of Windermere.
[1]Mr Wordsworth accompanied the author on this excursion.
[1]Mr Wordsworth accompanied the author on this excursion.
[2]At that time the residence of Mr Wordsworth's family.
[2]At that time the residence of Mr Wordsworth's family.
[3]The author's cottage on the banks of Windermere.
[3]The author's cottage on the banks of Windermere.
Oh! Nature! whose Elysian scenes discloseHis bright perfections at whose word they rose,Next to that Power who form'd thee and sustains,Be thou the great inspirer of my strains.Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expandThy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand.Cowper.
Oh! Nature! whose Elysian scenes discloseHis bright perfections at whose word they rose,Next to that Power who form'd thee and sustains,Be thou the great inspirer of my strains.Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expandThy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand.Cowper.
Stranger! this lonely glen in ancient timesWas named the glen of blood; nor Christian feetBy night or day, from these o'er-arching cliffsThat haply now have to thy joyful shoutsReturn'd a mellow music, ever broughtOne trembling sound to break the depth of silence.The village maiden, in this little stream,Though then, as now, most clearly beautiful,Ne'er steeped her simple garments, while she sangSome native air of sadness or of mirth.In these cold, shady pools, the fearless troutNe'er saw the shadow, but of sailing cloud,Or kite that wheeling eyed the far-off lamb;And on yon hazel bowers the ripen'd fruitHung clustering, moved but by the frequent swingOf playful squirrel,—for no school-boy hereWith crook and angle light on holidayCame nutting, or to snare the sportive fry.Even bolder spirits shunn'd the glen of blood!These rocks, the abode of echo, never mock'dIn sportive din the huntsman's bugle horn;And as the shepherd from the mountain-foldHomewards return'd beneath the silent Moon,A low unconscious prayer would agitateHis breathless heart, for here in unblest graveLay one for whom ne'er toll'd the passing-bell!And thus was Nature by the impious guiltOf one who scorn'd her gracious solitude,Defrauded of her worshippers: though pureThis glen, as consecrated house of God,Fit haunt of heaven-aspiring piety,Or in whose dripping cells the poet's earMight list unearthly music, this sweet glenWith all its tender tints and pensive sounds,Its balmy fragrance and romantic forms,Lay lonely and unvisited, yea worse,Peopled with fancied demons, and the broodAt enmity with man.So was it once:But now far other creed hath sanctifiedThis dim seclusion, and all human heartsUnto its spirit deeply reconciled.'Tis said, and I in truth believe the tale,That many years ago an aged man,Of a divine aspect and stately form,Came to this glen, and took up his abodeIn one of those wild caves so numerousAmong the hanging cliffs, though hid from viewBy trailing ivy, or thick holly-bush,Through the whole year so deeply, brightly green.With evil eye the simple villagersFirst look'd on him, and scarcely dared to tellEach other, what dim fears were in their souls.But there is something in the voice and eyeOf beautiful old age, with angel powerThat charms away suspicion, and compelsThe unwilling soul to reverence and love.So was it with this mystical old man!When first he came into the glen, the springHad just begun to tinge the sullen rocksWith transient smiles, and ere the leafy bowersOf summer rustled, many a visitantHad sat within his hospitable cave,From his maple bowl the unpolluted springDrunk fearless, and with him partook the breadThat his pale lips most reverently had bless'dWith words becoming such a holy man!Oft was he seen surrounded by a groupeOf happy children, unto whom he spakeWith more than a paternal tenderness;And they who once had gazed with trembling fearOn the wild dweller in th' unholy glen,At last with airy trip and gladsome songWould seek him there, and listen on his kneeTo mournful ditties, and most touching tales!One only book was in this hermit's cell,The Book of Life; and when from it he readWith solemn voice devoutly musical,His thoughtful eye still brightening as the words,The words of Jesus, in that peaceful caveSounded more holily,—and his grey hair,Betokening that e'er long in Jesus' breastWould be his blessed sleep,—on his calm browsSpread quietly, like thin and snowy cloudsOn the husht evening sky:—While thus he sate,Ev'n like the Apostle whom our Saviour loved,In his old age, in Patmos' lonely isleMusing on him that he had served in youth,—Oh! then, I ween, the awe-struck villagersCould scarce sustain his tones so deeply chargedWith hope, and faith, and gratitude, and joy.But when they gazed!—in the mild lineamentsOf his majestic visage, they beheldHow beautiful is holiness, and deem'dThat sure he was some spirit sent by GodTo teach the way to Heaven!And yet his voiceWas oft times sadder, than as they conceivedAn Angel's voice would be, and though to soothThe sorrows of all others ever seem'dHis only end in life, perhaps he hadGriefs of his own of which he nothing spake;Else were his locks more grey, more pale his cheek,Than one had thought who only saw his formSo stately and so tall.—Once did they speakTo him of that most miserable manWho here himself had slain,—and then his eyeWas glazed with stern compassion, and a tear,—It was the first they e'er had seen him shed,Though mercy was the attribute he lovedDearest in God's own Son,—bedimm'd its lightFor a short moment; yea, that hermit oldWept,—and his sadden'd face angelicalVeil'd with his wither'd hands,—then on their kneesHe bade his children (so he loved to callThe villagers) kneel down; and unto GodPray for his brother's soul.—Amid the dustThe hermit long hath slept,—and every oneThat listen'd to the saint's delightful voice.In yonder church-yard, near the eastern porch,Close to the altar-wall, a little moundAs if by nature shaped, and strewn by herWith every tender flower that sorrow loves,Tradition calls his grave. On Sabbath-day,The hind oft hears the legendary taleRehearsed by village moralist austereWith many a pious phrase; and not a child,Whose trembling feet have scarcely learnt to walk,But will conduct thee to the hallow'd spotAnd lisp the hermit's name.Nor did the caveThat he long time from Nature tenantedRemain unhonour'd.—Duly every spring,Upon the day he died, thither repair'dMany a pure spirit, to his memoryChaunting a choral hymn, composed by oneWho on his death-bed sat and closed his eyes."I am the resurrection and the life,"Some old man then would, with a solemn voice,Read from that Bible that so oft had blestThe Hermit's solitude with heavenly chear.This Book, sole relic of the sinless man,Was from the dust kept sacred, and even nowLies in yon box of undecaying yew,And may it never fade!—Stranger unknown!Thou breath'st, at present, in the very caveWhere on the Hermit death most gently fellLike a long wish'd-for slumber. The great Lord,Whose castle stands amid the music wildBreathed from the bosom of an hundred glens,In youth by nature taught to venerateThings truly venerable, hither cameOne year to view the fair solemnity:And that the forest-weeds might not obstructThe entrance of the cave, or worm defileThe soft green beauty of its mossy walls,This massive door was from a fallen oakShaped rudely, but all other ornament,That porch of living rock with woodbines wreathed,And outer roof with many a pensile shrubMost delicate, he with wise feeling leftTo Nature, and her patient servant, Time!Stranger! I know thee not: yet since thy feetHave wandered here, I deem that thou art oneWhose heart doth love in silent communingsTo walk with Nature and from scenes like theseOf solemn sadness, to sublime thy soulTo high endurance of all earthly painsOf mind or body; so that thou connectWith Nature's lovely and more lofty forms,Congenial thoughts of grandeur or of graceIn moral being. All creation takesThe spirit of its character from himWho looks thereon; and to a blameless heart,Earth, air, and ocean, howsoe'er beheld,Are pregnant with delight, while even the clouds,Embath'd in dying sunshine, to the basePossess no glory, and to the wicked lowerAs with avenging thunder.This sweet glen,How sweet it is thou feel'st, with sylvan rocksExcluding all but one blue glimpse of skyAbove, and from the world that lies aroundAll but the faint remembrance, tempted onceTo most unnatural murder, once sublimedTo the high temper of the seraphim:And thus, though its mild character remain'dImmutable,—with pious dread was shunn'dAs an unholy spot, or visitedWith reverence, as a consecrated shrine.Farewell! and grave this moral on thy heart,"That Nature smiles for ever on the good,—But that all beauty dies with innocence!"
Stranger! this lonely glen in ancient timesWas named the glen of blood; nor Christian feetBy night or day, from these o'er-arching cliffsThat haply now have to thy joyful shoutsReturn'd a mellow music, ever broughtOne trembling sound to break the depth of silence.The village maiden, in this little stream,Though then, as now, most clearly beautiful,Ne'er steeped her simple garments, while she sangSome native air of sadness or of mirth.In these cold, shady pools, the fearless troutNe'er saw the shadow, but of sailing cloud,Or kite that wheeling eyed the far-off lamb;And on yon hazel bowers the ripen'd fruitHung clustering, moved but by the frequent swingOf playful squirrel,—for no school-boy hereWith crook and angle light on holidayCame nutting, or to snare the sportive fry.Even bolder spirits shunn'd the glen of blood!These rocks, the abode of echo, never mock'dIn sportive din the huntsman's bugle horn;And as the shepherd from the mountain-foldHomewards return'd beneath the silent Moon,A low unconscious prayer would agitateHis breathless heart, for here in unblest graveLay one for whom ne'er toll'd the passing-bell!
And thus was Nature by the impious guiltOf one who scorn'd her gracious solitude,Defrauded of her worshippers: though pureThis glen, as consecrated house of God,Fit haunt of heaven-aspiring piety,Or in whose dripping cells the poet's earMight list unearthly music, this sweet glenWith all its tender tints and pensive sounds,Its balmy fragrance and romantic forms,Lay lonely and unvisited, yea worse,Peopled with fancied demons, and the broodAt enmity with man.
So was it once:But now far other creed hath sanctifiedThis dim seclusion, and all human heartsUnto its spirit deeply reconciled.'Tis said, and I in truth believe the tale,That many years ago an aged man,Of a divine aspect and stately form,Came to this glen, and took up his abodeIn one of those wild caves so numerousAmong the hanging cliffs, though hid from viewBy trailing ivy, or thick holly-bush,Through the whole year so deeply, brightly green.With evil eye the simple villagersFirst look'd on him, and scarcely dared to tellEach other, what dim fears were in their souls.But there is something in the voice and eyeOf beautiful old age, with angel powerThat charms away suspicion, and compelsThe unwilling soul to reverence and love.So was it with this mystical old man!When first he came into the glen, the springHad just begun to tinge the sullen rocksWith transient smiles, and ere the leafy bowersOf summer rustled, many a visitantHad sat within his hospitable cave,From his maple bowl the unpolluted springDrunk fearless, and with him partook the breadThat his pale lips most reverently had bless'dWith words becoming such a holy man!
Oft was he seen surrounded by a groupeOf happy children, unto whom he spakeWith more than a paternal tenderness;And they who once had gazed with trembling fearOn the wild dweller in th' unholy glen,At last with airy trip and gladsome songWould seek him there, and listen on his kneeTo mournful ditties, and most touching tales!
One only book was in this hermit's cell,The Book of Life; and when from it he readWith solemn voice devoutly musical,His thoughtful eye still brightening as the words,The words of Jesus, in that peaceful caveSounded more holily,—and his grey hair,Betokening that e'er long in Jesus' breastWould be his blessed sleep,—on his calm browsSpread quietly, like thin and snowy cloudsOn the husht evening sky:—While thus he sate,Ev'n like the Apostle whom our Saviour loved,In his old age, in Patmos' lonely isleMusing on him that he had served in youth,—Oh! then, I ween, the awe-struck villagersCould scarce sustain his tones so deeply chargedWith hope, and faith, and gratitude, and joy.But when they gazed!—in the mild lineamentsOf his majestic visage, they beheldHow beautiful is holiness, and deem'dThat sure he was some spirit sent by GodTo teach the way to Heaven!
And yet his voiceWas oft times sadder, than as they conceivedAn Angel's voice would be, and though to soothThe sorrows of all others ever seem'dHis only end in life, perhaps he hadGriefs of his own of which he nothing spake;Else were his locks more grey, more pale his cheek,Than one had thought who only saw his formSo stately and so tall.—
Once did they speakTo him of that most miserable manWho here himself had slain,—and then his eyeWas glazed with stern compassion, and a tear,—It was the first they e'er had seen him shed,Though mercy was the attribute he lovedDearest in God's own Son,—bedimm'd its lightFor a short moment; yea, that hermit oldWept,—and his sadden'd face angelicalVeil'd with his wither'd hands,—then on their kneesHe bade his children (so he loved to callThe villagers) kneel down; and unto GodPray for his brother's soul.—
Amid the dustThe hermit long hath slept,—and every oneThat listen'd to the saint's delightful voice.In yonder church-yard, near the eastern porch,Close to the altar-wall, a little moundAs if by nature shaped, and strewn by herWith every tender flower that sorrow loves,Tradition calls his grave. On Sabbath-day,The hind oft hears the legendary taleRehearsed by village moralist austereWith many a pious phrase; and not a child,Whose trembling feet have scarcely learnt to walk,But will conduct thee to the hallow'd spotAnd lisp the hermit's name.
Nor did the caveThat he long time from Nature tenantedRemain unhonour'd.—Duly every spring,Upon the day he died, thither repair'dMany a pure spirit, to his memoryChaunting a choral hymn, composed by oneWho on his death-bed sat and closed his eyes."I am the resurrection and the life,"Some old man then would, with a solemn voice,Read from that Bible that so oft had blestThe Hermit's solitude with heavenly chear.This Book, sole relic of the sinless man,Was from the dust kept sacred, and even nowLies in yon box of undecaying yew,And may it never fade!—
Stranger unknown!Thou breath'st, at present, in the very caveWhere on the Hermit death most gently fellLike a long wish'd-for slumber. The great Lord,Whose castle stands amid the music wildBreathed from the bosom of an hundred glens,In youth by nature taught to venerateThings truly venerable, hither cameOne year to view the fair solemnity:And that the forest-weeds might not obstructThe entrance of the cave, or worm defileThe soft green beauty of its mossy walls,This massive door was from a fallen oakShaped rudely, but all other ornament,That porch of living rock with woodbines wreathed,And outer roof with many a pensile shrubMost delicate, he with wise feeling leftTo Nature, and her patient servant, Time!
Stranger! I know thee not: yet since thy feetHave wandered here, I deem that thou art oneWhose heart doth love in silent communingsTo walk with Nature and from scenes like theseOf solemn sadness, to sublime thy soulTo high endurance of all earthly painsOf mind or body; so that thou connectWith Nature's lovely and more lofty forms,Congenial thoughts of grandeur or of graceIn moral being. All creation takesThe spirit of its character from himWho looks thereon; and to a blameless heart,Earth, air, and ocean, howsoe'er beheld,Are pregnant with delight, while even the clouds,Embath'd in dying sunshine, to the basePossess no glory, and to the wicked lowerAs with avenging thunder.
This sweet glen,How sweet it is thou feel'st, with sylvan rocksExcluding all but one blue glimpse of skyAbove, and from the world that lies aroundAll but the faint remembrance, tempted onceTo most unnatural murder, once sublimedTo the high temper of the seraphim:And thus, though its mild character remain'dImmutable,—with pious dread was shunn'dAs an unholy spot, or visitedWith reverence, as a consecrated shrine.
Farewell! and grave this moral on thy heart,"That Nature smiles for ever on the good,—But that all beauty dies with innocence!"
Peace to the dead! the voice of Nature cries,Even o'er the grave where guilt or frailty lies;Compassion drives each sterner thought away,And all seem good when mouldering in the clay.For who amid the dim religious gloom,The solemn sabbath brooding o'er the tomb,The holy stillness that suspends our breathWhen the soul rests within the shade of death,What heart could then with-hold the pensive sighReflection pays to poor mortality,Nor sunk in pity near allied to love,E'en bless the being we could ne'er approve!The headstrong will with innocence at strife,The restless passions that deform'd his life,Desires that spurn'd at reason's weak controul,And dimm'd the native lustre of the soul,The look repulsive that like ice repress'dThe friendly warmth that play'd within the breast,The slighting word, through heedlessness severe,Wounding the spirit that it ought to chear,Lie buried in the grave! or if they live,Remembrance only wakes them to forgive;While vice and error steal a soft reliefFrom the still twilight of a mellowing grief.And oh! how lovely do the tints returnOf every virtue sleeping in the urn!Each grace that fleeted unobserved away,Starts into life when those it deck'd decay;Regret fresh beauty on the corse bestows,And self-reproach is mingled with our woes.But nobler sorrows lift the musing mind,When soaring spirits leave their frames behind,Who walked the world in Nature's generous pride,And, like a sun-beam, lighten'd as they died!Hope, resignation, the sad soul beguile,And Grief's tear drops 'mid Faith's celestial smile:Then burns our being with a holy mirthThat owns no kindred with this mortal earth;For hymning angels in blest vision waveTheir wings' bright glory o'er the seraph's grave!Oh thou! whose soul unmoved by earthly strife,Led by the pole-star of eternal life,Own'd no emotion stain'd by touch of clay,No thought that angels might not pleased survey;Thou! whose calm course through Virtue's fields was runFrom youth's fair morning to thy setting sun,Nor vice e'er dared one little cloud to rollO'er the bright beauty of thy spotless soul;Thou! who secure in good works strong to save,Resign'd and happy, eyed'st the opening grave,And in the blooming summer of thy yearsScarce felt'st regret to leave this vale of tears;Oh! from thy throne amid the starry skies,List to my words thus interwove with sighs,And if the high resolves, the cherish'd painThat prompt the weak but reverential strain,If love of virtue ardent and sincereCan win to mortal verse a cherub's ear,Bend from thy radiant throne thy form divine,And make the adoring spirit pure as thine!When my heart muses o'er the long reviewOf all thy bosom felt, thy reason knew,O'er boundless learning free from boastful pride,And patience humble though severely tried,Judgment unclouded, passions thrice refined,A heaven-aspiring loftiness of mind,And, rare perfection! calm and sober senseCombined with fancy's wild magnificence;Struck with the pomp of Nature's wondrous plan,I hail with joy the dignity of man,And soaring high above life's roaring sea,Spring to the dwelling of my God and Thee.Short here thy stay! for souls of holiest birthDwell but a moment with the sons of earth;To this dim sphere by God's indulgence given,Their friends are angels, and their home is heaven.The fairest rose in shortest time decays;The sun, when brightest, soon withdraws his rays;The dew that gleams like diamonds on the thorn,Melts instantaneous at the breath of morn;Too soon a rolling shade of darkness shroudsThe star that smiles amid the evening clouds;And sounds that come so sweetly on the ear,That the soul wishes every sense could hear,Are as the Light's unwearied pinions fleet,As scarce as beauteous, and as short as sweet.Yet, though the unpolluted soul requiresAirs born in Heaven to fan her sacred fires,And mounts to God, exulting to be freeFrom fleshly chain that binds mortality,The world is hallow'd by her blest sojourn,And glory dwells for ever round her urn!Her skirts of beauty sanctify the airThat felt her breathings, and that heard her prayer;Vice dies where'er the radiant vision trod,And there e'en Atheists must believe in God!Such the proud triumphs that the good achieve!Such the blest gift that sinless spirits leave!The parted soul in God-given strength sublime,Streams undimm'd splendour o'er unmeasured time;Still on the earth the sainted hues survive,Dead in the tomb, but in the heart alive.In vain the tide of ages strives to rollA bar to check the intercourse of soul;The hovering spirits of the good and greatWith fond remembrance own their former state,And musing virtue often can beholdIn vision high their plumes of wavy gold,And drink with tranced ear the silver soundOf seraphs hymning on their nightly round.By death untaught, our range of thought is small,Bound by the attraction of this earthly ball.Our sorrows and our joys, our hopes and fears,Ignobly pent within a few short years;But when our hearts have read Fate's mystic book,On Heaven's gemm'd sphere we lift a joyful look,Hope turns to Faith, Faith glorifies the gloom,And life springs forth exulting from the tomb!Oh, blestEliza! though to me unknown,Thine eye's mild lustre and thy melting tone;Though on this earth apart our lives were led,Nor my love found thee till thy soul was fled;Yet, can affection kiss thy silent clay,And rend the glimmering veil of death away:Fancy beholds with fixed, delighted eye,Thy white-robed spirit gently gliding by;Deep sinks thy smile into my quiet breast,As moonlight steeps the ocean-wave in rest!While thus, bright shade! thine eyes of mercy dwellOn that fair land thou loved'st of old so well,What holy raptures through thy being flow,To see thy memory blessing all below,Virtue re-kindle at thy grave her fires,And vice repentant shun his low desires!This the true Christian's heaven! on earth to seeThe sovereign power of immortalityAt war with sin, and in triumphant prideSpreading the empire of the crucified.—Oft 'mid the calm of mountain solitude,Where Nature's loveliness thy spirit woo'd;Where lonely cataracts with sullen roarTo thy hush'd heart a fearful rapture bore,And caverns moaning with the voice of night,Steep'd through the ear thy mind in strange delight,I feel thy influence on my heart descendLike words of comfort whispered by a friend,And every cloud in lovelier figures roll,Shaped by the power of thy presiding soul!And when, slow-sinking in a blaze of light,The sun in glory bathes each radiant height,Amid the glow thy form seraphic seemsTo float refulgent with unborrow'd beams;For thou, like him, hadst still thy course pursued,From thy own blessedness dispensing good;Brightly thy soul in life's fair morn arose,And burn'd like him, more glorious at its close.But now, I feel my pensive spirit turn,Where parents, brothers, sisters, o'er thee mourn.For though to all unconscious time suppliesA strength of soul that stifles useless sighs;And in our loneliest hours of grief is givenTo our dim gaze a nearer glimpse of heaven,Yet, human frailty pines in deep distress,Even when a friend has soar'd to happiness,And sorrow, selfish from excess of love,Would glad recal the seraph from above!And, chief, to thee! on whose delighted breast,While, yet a babe, she play'd herself to rest,Who rock'd her cradle with requited care,And bless'd her sleeping with a silent prayer;To thee, who first beheld, with watchful eye,From her flush'd cheek health's natural radiance fly,And, though by fate denied the power to save,Smooth'd with kind care her passage to the grave,When slow consumption led with fatal bloomA rosy spectre smiling to the tomb;The strain of comfort first to thee would flow,But thou hast comforts man could ne'er bestow;And e'en misfortune's long and gloomy rollWakes dreams of glory in thy stately soul.For reason whispers, and religion proves,That God by sorrow chasteneth whom he loves;And suffering virtue smiles at misery's gloom,Chear'd by the light that burns beyond the tomb.All Nature speaks of thy departed child,The flowery meadow, and the mountain wild;Of her the lark 'mid sun-shine oft will sing,And torrents flow with dirge-like murmuring!The lake, that smiles to heaven a watery gleam,Shows in the vivid beauty of a dreamHer, whose fine touch in mellowing hues array'dThe misty summit and the woodland glade,The sparkling depth that slept in waveless rest,And verdant isles reflected on its breast.As down the vale thy lonely footsteps stray,While eve steals dimly on retiring day,And the pale light that nameless calm supplies,That holds communion with the promised skies,When Nature's beauty overpowers distress,And stars soft-burning kindle holiness,Thy lips in passive resignation move,And peace broods o'er thee on the wings of love.The languid mien, the cheek of hectic die,The mournful beauty of the radiant eye,The placid smile, the light and easy breathOf nature blooming on the brink of death,When the fair phantom breathed in twilight balmA dying vigour and deceitful calm,The tremulous voice that ever loved to tellThy fearful heart, that all would soon be well,Steal on thy memory, and though tears will fallO'er scenes gone by that thou would'st fain recal,Yet oft has faith with deeper bliss beguiledA parent weeping her departed child,Than love maternal, when her baby layHush'd at her breast, or smiling in its play,And, as some glimpse of infant fancy came,Murmuring in scarce-heard lisp some broken name.Thou feel'st no more grief's palpitating start,Nor the drear night hangs heavy on thy heart.Though sky and star may yet awhile divideThy mortal being from thy bosom's pride,Your spirits mingle—while to thine is givenA loftier nature from the touch of heaven.
Peace to the dead! the voice of Nature cries,Even o'er the grave where guilt or frailty lies;Compassion drives each sterner thought away,And all seem good when mouldering in the clay.For who amid the dim religious gloom,The solemn sabbath brooding o'er the tomb,The holy stillness that suspends our breathWhen the soul rests within the shade of death,What heart could then with-hold the pensive sighReflection pays to poor mortality,Nor sunk in pity near allied to love,E'en bless the being we could ne'er approve!The headstrong will with innocence at strife,The restless passions that deform'd his life,Desires that spurn'd at reason's weak controul,And dimm'd the native lustre of the soul,The look repulsive that like ice repress'dThe friendly warmth that play'd within the breast,The slighting word, through heedlessness severe,Wounding the spirit that it ought to chear,Lie buried in the grave! or if they live,Remembrance only wakes them to forgive;While vice and error steal a soft reliefFrom the still twilight of a mellowing grief.And oh! how lovely do the tints returnOf every virtue sleeping in the urn!Each grace that fleeted unobserved away,Starts into life when those it deck'd decay;Regret fresh beauty on the corse bestows,And self-reproach is mingled with our woes.
But nobler sorrows lift the musing mind,When soaring spirits leave their frames behind,Who walked the world in Nature's generous pride,And, like a sun-beam, lighten'd as they died!Hope, resignation, the sad soul beguile,And Grief's tear drops 'mid Faith's celestial smile:Then burns our being with a holy mirthThat owns no kindred with this mortal earth;For hymning angels in blest vision waveTheir wings' bright glory o'er the seraph's grave!
Oh thou! whose soul unmoved by earthly strife,Led by the pole-star of eternal life,Own'd no emotion stain'd by touch of clay,No thought that angels might not pleased survey;Thou! whose calm course through Virtue's fields was runFrom youth's fair morning to thy setting sun,Nor vice e'er dared one little cloud to rollO'er the bright beauty of thy spotless soul;Thou! who secure in good works strong to save,Resign'd and happy, eyed'st the opening grave,And in the blooming summer of thy yearsScarce felt'st regret to leave this vale of tears;Oh! from thy throne amid the starry skies,List to my words thus interwove with sighs,And if the high resolves, the cherish'd painThat prompt the weak but reverential strain,If love of virtue ardent and sincereCan win to mortal verse a cherub's ear,Bend from thy radiant throne thy form divine,And make the adoring spirit pure as thine!When my heart muses o'er the long reviewOf all thy bosom felt, thy reason knew,O'er boundless learning free from boastful pride,And patience humble though severely tried,Judgment unclouded, passions thrice refined,A heaven-aspiring loftiness of mind,And, rare perfection! calm and sober senseCombined with fancy's wild magnificence;Struck with the pomp of Nature's wondrous plan,I hail with joy the dignity of man,And soaring high above life's roaring sea,Spring to the dwelling of my God and Thee.
Short here thy stay! for souls of holiest birthDwell but a moment with the sons of earth;To this dim sphere by God's indulgence given,Their friends are angels, and their home is heaven.The fairest rose in shortest time decays;The sun, when brightest, soon withdraws his rays;The dew that gleams like diamonds on the thorn,Melts instantaneous at the breath of morn;Too soon a rolling shade of darkness shroudsThe star that smiles amid the evening clouds;And sounds that come so sweetly on the ear,That the soul wishes every sense could hear,Are as the Light's unwearied pinions fleet,As scarce as beauteous, and as short as sweet.
Yet, though the unpolluted soul requiresAirs born in Heaven to fan her sacred fires,And mounts to God, exulting to be freeFrom fleshly chain that binds mortality,The world is hallow'd by her blest sojourn,And glory dwells for ever round her urn!Her skirts of beauty sanctify the airThat felt her breathings, and that heard her prayer;Vice dies where'er the radiant vision trod,And there e'en Atheists must believe in God!Such the proud triumphs that the good achieve!Such the blest gift that sinless spirits leave!The parted soul in God-given strength sublime,Streams undimm'd splendour o'er unmeasured time;Still on the earth the sainted hues survive,Dead in the tomb, but in the heart alive.In vain the tide of ages strives to rollA bar to check the intercourse of soul;The hovering spirits of the good and greatWith fond remembrance own their former state,And musing virtue often can beholdIn vision high their plumes of wavy gold,And drink with tranced ear the silver soundOf seraphs hymning on their nightly round.By death untaught, our range of thought is small,Bound by the attraction of this earthly ball.Our sorrows and our joys, our hopes and fears,Ignobly pent within a few short years;But when our hearts have read Fate's mystic book,On Heaven's gemm'd sphere we lift a joyful look,Hope turns to Faith, Faith glorifies the gloom,And life springs forth exulting from the tomb!
Oh, blestEliza! though to me unknown,Thine eye's mild lustre and thy melting tone;Though on this earth apart our lives were led,Nor my love found thee till thy soul was fled;Yet, can affection kiss thy silent clay,And rend the glimmering veil of death away:Fancy beholds with fixed, delighted eye,Thy white-robed spirit gently gliding by;Deep sinks thy smile into my quiet breast,As moonlight steeps the ocean-wave in rest!While thus, bright shade! thine eyes of mercy dwellOn that fair land thou loved'st of old so well,What holy raptures through thy being flow,To see thy memory blessing all below,Virtue re-kindle at thy grave her fires,And vice repentant shun his low desires!This the true Christian's heaven! on earth to seeThe sovereign power of immortalityAt war with sin, and in triumphant prideSpreading the empire of the crucified.—
Oft 'mid the calm of mountain solitude,Where Nature's loveliness thy spirit woo'd;Where lonely cataracts with sullen roarTo thy hush'd heart a fearful rapture bore,And caverns moaning with the voice of night,Steep'd through the ear thy mind in strange delight,I feel thy influence on my heart descendLike words of comfort whispered by a friend,And every cloud in lovelier figures roll,Shaped by the power of thy presiding soul!And when, slow-sinking in a blaze of light,The sun in glory bathes each radiant height,Amid the glow thy form seraphic seemsTo float refulgent with unborrow'd beams;For thou, like him, hadst still thy course pursued,From thy own blessedness dispensing good;Brightly thy soul in life's fair morn arose,And burn'd like him, more glorious at its close.
But now, I feel my pensive spirit turn,Where parents, brothers, sisters, o'er thee mourn.For though to all unconscious time suppliesA strength of soul that stifles useless sighs;And in our loneliest hours of grief is givenTo our dim gaze a nearer glimpse of heaven,Yet, human frailty pines in deep distress,Even when a friend has soar'd to happiness,And sorrow, selfish from excess of love,Would glad recal the seraph from above!And, chief, to thee! on whose delighted breast,While, yet a babe, she play'd herself to rest,Who rock'd her cradle with requited care,And bless'd her sleeping with a silent prayer;To thee, who first beheld, with watchful eye,From her flush'd cheek health's natural radiance fly,And, though by fate denied the power to save,Smooth'd with kind care her passage to the grave,When slow consumption led with fatal bloomA rosy spectre smiling to the tomb;The strain of comfort first to thee would flow,But thou hast comforts man could ne'er bestow;And e'en misfortune's long and gloomy rollWakes dreams of glory in thy stately soul.For reason whispers, and religion proves,That God by sorrow chasteneth whom he loves;And suffering virtue smiles at misery's gloom,Chear'd by the light that burns beyond the tomb.
All Nature speaks of thy departed child,The flowery meadow, and the mountain wild;Of her the lark 'mid sun-shine oft will sing,And torrents flow with dirge-like murmuring!The lake, that smiles to heaven a watery gleam,Shows in the vivid beauty of a dreamHer, whose fine touch in mellowing hues array'dThe misty summit and the woodland glade,The sparkling depth that slept in waveless rest,And verdant isles reflected on its breast.As down the vale thy lonely footsteps stray,While eve steals dimly on retiring day,And the pale light that nameless calm supplies,That holds communion with the promised skies,When Nature's beauty overpowers distress,And stars soft-burning kindle holiness,Thy lips in passive resignation move,And peace broods o'er thee on the wings of love.The languid mien, the cheek of hectic die,The mournful beauty of the radiant eye,The placid smile, the light and easy breathOf nature blooming on the brink of death,When the fair phantom breathed in twilight balmA dying vigour and deceitful calm,The tremulous voice that ever loved to tellThy fearful heart, that all would soon be well,Steal on thy memory, and though tears will fallO'er scenes gone by that thou would'st fain recal,Yet oft has faith with deeper bliss beguiledA parent weeping her departed child,Than love maternal, when her baby layHush'd at her breast, or smiling in its play,And, as some glimpse of infant fancy came,Murmuring in scarce-heard lisp some broken name.Thou feel'st no more grief's palpitating start,Nor the drear night hangs heavy on thy heart.Though sky and star may yet awhile divideThy mortal being from thy bosom's pride,Your spirits mingle—while to thine is givenA loftier nature from the touch of heaven.
How beautiful the pastime of the Spring!Lo! newly waking from her wintry dream,She, like a smiling infant, timid playsOn the green margin of this sunny lake,Fearing, by starts, the little breaking waves(If riplings rather known by sound than sightMay haply so be named) that in the grassSoon fade in murmuring mirth; now seeming proudTo venture round the edge of yon far point,That from an eminence softly sinking down,Doth from the wide and homeless waters shapeA scene of tender, delicate repose,Fit haunt for thee, in thy first hours of joy,Delightful Spring!—nor less an emblem fair,Like thee, of beauty, innocence, and youth.On such a day, 'mid such a scene as this,Methinks the poets who in lovely hymnsHave sung thy reign, sweet Power, and wished it long,In their warm hearts conceived those eulogies,That, lending to the world inanimateA pulse and spirit of life, for aye preserveThe sanctity of Nature, and embalmHer fleeting spectacles in memory's cellIn spite of time's mutations. Onwards rollThe circling seasons, and as each gives birthTo dreams peculiar, yea destructive oftOf former feelings, in oblivion's shadeSleep the fair visions of forgotten hours.But Nature calls the poet to her aid,And in his lays beholds her glory liveFor ever. Thus, in winter's deepest gloom,When all is dim before the outward eye,Nor the ear catches one delightful sound,They who have wander'd in their musing walksWith the great poets, in their spirits feelNo change on earth, but see the unalter'd woodsLaden with beauty, and inhale the songOf birds, airs, echoes, and of vernal showers.So hath it been with me, delightful Spring!And now I hail thee as a friend who paysAn annual visit, yet whose image livesFrom parting to return, and who is blestEach time with blessings warmer than before.Oh! gracious Power! for thy beloved approachThe expecting earth lay wrapt in kindling smiles,Struggling with tears, and often overcome.A blessing sent before thee from the heavens,A balmy spirit breathing tenderness,Prepared thy way, and all created thingsFelt that the angel of delight was near.Thou camest at last, and such a heavenly smileShone round thee, as beseem'd the eldest-bornOf Nature's guardian spirits. The great Sun,Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile,Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymnWas by the low Winds chaunted in the sky;And when thy feet descended on the earth,Scarce could they move amid the clustering flowersBy Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field,To hail her blest deliverer!—Ye fair Trees,How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze!It seems as if some gleam of verdant lightFell on you from a rainbow; but it livesAmid your tendrils, brightening every hourInto a deeper radiance. Ye sweet Birds,Were you asleep through all the wintry hours,Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves?There are, 'tis said, birds that pursue the spring,Where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleepAbide her annual reign, when forth they comeWith freshen'd plumage and enraptured song,As ye do now, unwearied choristers,Till the land ring with joy. Yet are ye not,Sporting in tree and air, more beautifulThan the young lambs, that from the valley-sideSend a soft bleating like an infant's voice,Half happy, half afraid! O blessed things!At sight of this your perfect innocence,The sterner thoughts of manhood melt awayInto a mood as mild as woman's dreams.The strife of working intellect, the stirOf hopes ambitious; the disturbing soundOf fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantryThat ardent spirits burn, for in their pride,Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soulPure and serene as the blue depths of heaven.Now, is the time in some meek solitudeTo hold communion with those innocent thoughtsThat bless'd our earlier days;—to list the voiceOf Conscience murmuring from her inmost shrine,And learn if still she sing the quiet tuneThat fill'd the ear of youth. If then we feel,That 'mid the powers, the passions, and desiresOf riper age, we still have kept our heartsFree from pollution, and 'mid tempting scenesWalk'd on with pure and unreproved steps,Fearless of guilt, as if we knew it not;Ah me! with what a new sublimityWill the green hills lift up their sunny heads,Ourselves as stately: Smiling will we gazeOn the clouds whose happy home is in the heavens;Nor envy the clear streamlet that pursuesHis course 'mid flowers and music to the sea.But dread the beauty of a vernal day,Thou trembler before memory! To the saintWhat sight so lovely as the angel formThat smiles upon his sleep! The sinner veilsHis face ashamed,—unable to endureThe upbraiding silence of the seraph's eyes!—Yet awful must it be, even to the bestAnd wisest man, when he beholds the sunPrepared once more to run his annual roundOf glory and of love, and thinks that GodTo him, though sojourning in earthly shades,Hath also given an orbit, whence his lightMay glad the nations, or at least diffusePeace and contentment over those he loves!His soul expanded by the breath of Spring,With holy confidence the thoughtful manRenews his vows to virtue,—vows that bindTo purest motives and most useful deeds.Thus solemnly doth pass the vernal day,In abstinence severe from worldly thoughts;Lofty disdainings of all trivial joysOr sorrows; meditations long and deepOn objects fit for the immortal loveOf souls immortal; weeping penitenceFor duties (plain though highest duties be)Despised or violated; humblest vows,Though humble strong as death, henceforth to walkElate in innocence; and, holier still,Warm gushings of his spirit unto GodFor all his past existence, whether bright,As the spring landscape sleeping in the sun,Or dim and desolate like a wintry seaStormy and boding storms! Oh! such will beFrequent and long his musings, till he feelsAs all the stir subsides, like busy daySoft-melting into eve's tranquillity,How blest is peace when born within the soul.And therefore do I sing these pensive hymns,O Spring! to thee, though thou by some art call'dParent of mirth and rapture, worshipp'd bestWith festive dances and a choral song.No melancholy man am I, sweet Spring!Who, filling all things with his own poor griefs,Sees nought but sadness in the characterOf universal Nature, and who weavesMost doleful ditties in the midst of joy.Yet knowing something, dimly though it be,And therefore still more awful, of that strangeAnd most tumultuous thing, the heart of man,It chanceth oft, that mix'd with Nature's smilesMy soul beholds a solemn quietnessThat almost looks like grief, as if on earthThere were no perfect joy, and happinessStill trembled on the brink of misery!Yea! mournful thoughts like these even now arise,While Spring, like Nature's smiling infancy,Sports round me, and all images of peaceSeem native to this earth, nor other homeDesire or know. Yet doth a mystic chainLink in our hearts foreboding fears of deathWith every loveliest thing that seems to usMost deeply fraught with life. Is there a childMore beauteous than its playmates, even more pureThan they? while gazing on its face, we thinkThat one so fair most surely soon will die!Such are the fears now beating at my heart.Ere long, sweet Spring! amid forgotten thingsThou and thy smiles must sleep: thy little lambsDead, or their nature changed; thy hymning birdsMute;—faded every flower so beautiful;—And all fair symptoms of incipient lifeTo fulness swollen, or sunk into decay!Such are the melancholy dreams that filledIn the elder time the songs of tenderest bards,Whene'er they named the Spring. Thence, doubts and fearsOf what might be the final doom of man;Till all things spoke to their perplexed soulsThe language of despair; and, mournful sight!Even hope lay prostrate upon beauty's grave!—Vain fears of death! breath'd forth in deathless lays!O foolish bards, immortal in your works,Yet trustless of your immortality!Not now are they whom Nature calls her bardsThus daunted by the image of decay.They have their tears, and oft they shed them too,By reason unreproach'd; but on the paleCold cheek of death, they see a spirit smile,Bright and still brightening, even like thee, O Spring!Stealing in beauty through the winter-snow!—Season, beloved of Heaven! my hymn is closed!And thou, sweet Lake! on whose retired banksI have so long reposed, yet in the depthOf meditation scarcely seen thy waves,Farewell!—the voice of worship and of praiseDies on my lips, yet shall my heart preserveInviolate the spirit whence it sprung!Even as a harp, when some wild plaintive strainGoes with the hand that touch'd it, still retainsThe soul of music sleeping in its strings.
How beautiful the pastime of the Spring!Lo! newly waking from her wintry dream,She, like a smiling infant, timid playsOn the green margin of this sunny lake,Fearing, by starts, the little breaking waves(If riplings rather known by sound than sightMay haply so be named) that in the grassSoon fade in murmuring mirth; now seeming proudTo venture round the edge of yon far point,That from an eminence softly sinking down,Doth from the wide and homeless waters shapeA scene of tender, delicate repose,Fit haunt for thee, in thy first hours of joy,Delightful Spring!—nor less an emblem fair,Like thee, of beauty, innocence, and youth.
On such a day, 'mid such a scene as this,Methinks the poets who in lovely hymnsHave sung thy reign, sweet Power, and wished it long,In their warm hearts conceived those eulogies,That, lending to the world inanimateA pulse and spirit of life, for aye preserveThe sanctity of Nature, and embalmHer fleeting spectacles in memory's cellIn spite of time's mutations. Onwards rollThe circling seasons, and as each gives birthTo dreams peculiar, yea destructive oftOf former feelings, in oblivion's shadeSleep the fair visions of forgotten hours.But Nature calls the poet to her aid,And in his lays beholds her glory liveFor ever. Thus, in winter's deepest gloom,When all is dim before the outward eye,Nor the ear catches one delightful sound,They who have wander'd in their musing walksWith the great poets, in their spirits feelNo change on earth, but see the unalter'd woodsLaden with beauty, and inhale the songOf birds, airs, echoes, and of vernal showers.
So hath it been with me, delightful Spring!And now I hail thee as a friend who paysAn annual visit, yet whose image livesFrom parting to return, and who is blestEach time with blessings warmer than before.
Oh! gracious Power! for thy beloved approachThe expecting earth lay wrapt in kindling smiles,Struggling with tears, and often overcome.A blessing sent before thee from the heavens,A balmy spirit breathing tenderness,Prepared thy way, and all created thingsFelt that the angel of delight was near.Thou camest at last, and such a heavenly smileShone round thee, as beseem'd the eldest-bornOf Nature's guardian spirits. The great Sun,Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile,Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymnWas by the low Winds chaunted in the sky;And when thy feet descended on the earth,Scarce could they move amid the clustering flowersBy Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field,To hail her blest deliverer!—Ye fair Trees,How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze!It seems as if some gleam of verdant lightFell on you from a rainbow; but it livesAmid your tendrils, brightening every hourInto a deeper radiance. Ye sweet Birds,Were you asleep through all the wintry hours,Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves?There are, 'tis said, birds that pursue the spring,Where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleepAbide her annual reign, when forth they comeWith freshen'd plumage and enraptured song,As ye do now, unwearied choristers,Till the land ring with joy. Yet are ye not,Sporting in tree and air, more beautifulThan the young lambs, that from the valley-sideSend a soft bleating like an infant's voice,Half happy, half afraid! O blessed things!At sight of this your perfect innocence,The sterner thoughts of manhood melt awayInto a mood as mild as woman's dreams.The strife of working intellect, the stirOf hopes ambitious; the disturbing soundOf fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantryThat ardent spirits burn, for in their pride,Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soulPure and serene as the blue depths of heaven.
Now, is the time in some meek solitudeTo hold communion with those innocent thoughtsThat bless'd our earlier days;—to list the voiceOf Conscience murmuring from her inmost shrine,And learn if still she sing the quiet tuneThat fill'd the ear of youth. If then we feel,That 'mid the powers, the passions, and desiresOf riper age, we still have kept our heartsFree from pollution, and 'mid tempting scenesWalk'd on with pure and unreproved steps,Fearless of guilt, as if we knew it not;Ah me! with what a new sublimityWill the green hills lift up their sunny heads,Ourselves as stately: Smiling will we gazeOn the clouds whose happy home is in the heavens;Nor envy the clear streamlet that pursuesHis course 'mid flowers and music to the sea.But dread the beauty of a vernal day,Thou trembler before memory! To the saintWhat sight so lovely as the angel formThat smiles upon his sleep! The sinner veilsHis face ashamed,—unable to endureThe upbraiding silence of the seraph's eyes!—
Yet awful must it be, even to the bestAnd wisest man, when he beholds the sunPrepared once more to run his annual roundOf glory and of love, and thinks that GodTo him, though sojourning in earthly shades,Hath also given an orbit, whence his lightMay glad the nations, or at least diffusePeace and contentment over those he loves!His soul expanded by the breath of Spring,With holy confidence the thoughtful manRenews his vows to virtue,—vows that bindTo purest motives and most useful deeds.Thus solemnly doth pass the vernal day,In abstinence severe from worldly thoughts;Lofty disdainings of all trivial joysOr sorrows; meditations long and deepOn objects fit for the immortal loveOf souls immortal; weeping penitenceFor duties (plain though highest duties be)Despised or violated; humblest vows,Though humble strong as death, henceforth to walkElate in innocence; and, holier still,Warm gushings of his spirit unto GodFor all his past existence, whether bright,As the spring landscape sleeping in the sun,Or dim and desolate like a wintry seaStormy and boding storms! Oh! such will beFrequent and long his musings, till he feelsAs all the stir subsides, like busy daySoft-melting into eve's tranquillity,How blest is peace when born within the soul.
And therefore do I sing these pensive hymns,O Spring! to thee, though thou by some art call'dParent of mirth and rapture, worshipp'd bestWith festive dances and a choral song.No melancholy man am I, sweet Spring!Who, filling all things with his own poor griefs,Sees nought but sadness in the characterOf universal Nature, and who weavesMost doleful ditties in the midst of joy.Yet knowing something, dimly though it be,And therefore still more awful, of that strangeAnd most tumultuous thing, the heart of man,It chanceth oft, that mix'd with Nature's smilesMy soul beholds a solemn quietnessThat almost looks like grief, as if on earthThere were no perfect joy, and happinessStill trembled on the brink of misery!
Yea! mournful thoughts like these even now arise,While Spring, like Nature's smiling infancy,Sports round me, and all images of peaceSeem native to this earth, nor other homeDesire or know. Yet doth a mystic chainLink in our hearts foreboding fears of deathWith every loveliest thing that seems to usMost deeply fraught with life. Is there a childMore beauteous than its playmates, even more pureThan they? while gazing on its face, we thinkThat one so fair most surely soon will die!Such are the fears now beating at my heart.Ere long, sweet Spring! amid forgotten thingsThou and thy smiles must sleep: thy little lambsDead, or their nature changed; thy hymning birdsMute;—faded every flower so beautiful;—And all fair symptoms of incipient lifeTo fulness swollen, or sunk into decay!
Such are the melancholy dreams that filledIn the elder time the songs of tenderest bards,Whene'er they named the Spring. Thence, doubts and fearsOf what might be the final doom of man;Till all things spoke to their perplexed soulsThe language of despair; and, mournful sight!Even hope lay prostrate upon beauty's grave!—Vain fears of death! breath'd forth in deathless lays!O foolish bards, immortal in your works,Yet trustless of your immortality!Not now are they whom Nature calls her bardsThus daunted by the image of decay.They have their tears, and oft they shed them too,By reason unreproach'd; but on the paleCold cheek of death, they see a spirit smile,Bright and still brightening, even like thee, O Spring!Stealing in beauty through the winter-snow!—
Season, beloved of Heaven! my hymn is closed!And thou, sweet Lake! on whose retired banksI have so long reposed, yet in the depthOf meditation scarcely seen thy waves,Farewell!—the voice of worship and of praiseDies on my lips, yet shall my heart preserveInviolate the spirit whence it sprung!Even as a harp, when some wild plaintive strainGoes with the hand that touch'd it, still retainsThe soul of music sleeping in its strings.