Thou lonely spring of waters undefiled!Silently slumbering in thy mossy cell,Yea, moveless as the hillock's verdant sideFrom whom thou hast thy birth, I bless thy gleamOf clearest coldness, with as deep-felt loveAs pilgrim kneeling at his far-sought shrine;And as I bow to bathe my freshen'd heartIn thy restoring radiance, from my lipsA breathing prayer sheds o'er thy glassy sleepA gentle tremor!Nor must I forgetA benison for the departed soulOf him, who, many a year ago, first shapedThis little Font,—emprisoning the springNot wishing to be free, with smooth slate-stone,Now in the beauteous colouring of ageScarcely distinguished from the natural rock.In blessed hour the solitary manLaid the first stone,—and in his native valeIt serves him for a peaceful monument,'Mid the hill-silence.Renovated lifeNow flows through all my veins:—old dreams revive;And while an airy pleasure in my brainDances unbidden, I have time to gaze,Even with a happy lover's kindest looks,On Thee, delicious Fountain!Thou dost shed(Though sultry stillness fill the summer airAnd parch the yellow hills,) all round thy cave,A smile of beauty lovely as the SpringBreathes with his April showers. The narrow laneOn either hand ridged with low shelving rocks,That from the road-side gently lead the eyeUp to thy bed,—Ah me! how rich a green,Still brightening, wantons o'er its moisten'd grass!With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze,Now that my thirsty soul is gratified,Live on the little cell! The water there,Variously dappled by the wreathed sandThat sleeps below in many an antic shape,Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-henSoothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless dripFrom the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's handVaulted most beautiful, even like a pulseTells of the living principle within,—A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild.Yea, seldom heard: there is but one lone cotBeyond this well:—it is inhabitedBy an old shepherd during summer months,And haply he may drink of the pure spring,To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath-mornGoing to pray,—or as he home returnsAt silent eve: or traveller such as I,Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills,Thankfully here may slake his burning thirstOnce in a season. Other visitantsIt hath not; save perchance the mountain-crow,When ice hath lock'd the rills, or wandering coltLeaving its pasture for the shady lane.Methinks, in such a solitary cave,The fairy forms belated peasant sees,Oft nightly dancing in a glittering ring,On the smooth mountain sward, might here retireTo lead their noon-tide revels, or to batheTheir tiny limbs in this transparent well.A fitter spot there is not: flowers are hereOf loveliest colours and of sweetest smell,Native to these our hills, and ever seenA fairest family by the happy sideOf their own parent spring;—and others too,Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joy,Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth,Here smile like strangers in a novel scene.Lo! a tall rose-tree with its clustering bloom,Brightening the mossy wall on which it leansIts arching beauty, to my gladsome heartSeems, with its smiles of lonely loveliness,Like some fair virgin at the humble doorOf her dear mountain-cot, standing to greetThe way-bewildered traveller.But my soulLong pleased to linger by this silent cave,Nursing its wild and playful fantasies,Pants for a loftier pleasure,—and forsakes,Though surely with no cold ingratitude,The flowers and verdure round the sparkling well.A voice calls on me from the mountain-depths,And it must be obey'd: Yon ledge of rocks,Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow,Is ready for my footsteps, and even now,Wast-water blackens far beneath my feet,She the storm-loving Lake.Sweet Fount!—Farewell!
Thou lonely spring of waters undefiled!Silently slumbering in thy mossy cell,Yea, moveless as the hillock's verdant sideFrom whom thou hast thy birth, I bless thy gleamOf clearest coldness, with as deep-felt loveAs pilgrim kneeling at his far-sought shrine;And as I bow to bathe my freshen'd heartIn thy restoring radiance, from my lipsA breathing prayer sheds o'er thy glassy sleepA gentle tremor!
Nor must I forgetA benison for the departed soulOf him, who, many a year ago, first shapedThis little Font,—emprisoning the springNot wishing to be free, with smooth slate-stone,Now in the beauteous colouring of ageScarcely distinguished from the natural rock.In blessed hour the solitary manLaid the first stone,—and in his native valeIt serves him for a peaceful monument,'Mid the hill-silence.
Renovated lifeNow flows through all my veins:—old dreams revive;And while an airy pleasure in my brainDances unbidden, I have time to gaze,Even with a happy lover's kindest looks,On Thee, delicious Fountain!
Thou dost shed(Though sultry stillness fill the summer airAnd parch the yellow hills,) all round thy cave,A smile of beauty lovely as the SpringBreathes with his April showers. The narrow laneOn either hand ridged with low shelving rocks,That from the road-side gently lead the eyeUp to thy bed,—Ah me! how rich a green,Still brightening, wantons o'er its moisten'd grass!With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze,Now that my thirsty soul is gratified,Live on the little cell! The water there,Variously dappled by the wreathed sandThat sleeps below in many an antic shape,Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-henSoothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless dripFrom the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's handVaulted most beautiful, even like a pulseTells of the living principle within,—A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild.
Yea, seldom heard: there is but one lone cotBeyond this well:—it is inhabitedBy an old shepherd during summer months,And haply he may drink of the pure spring,To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath-mornGoing to pray,—or as he home returnsAt silent eve: or traveller such as I,Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills,Thankfully here may slake his burning thirstOnce in a season. Other visitantsIt hath not; save perchance the mountain-crow,When ice hath lock'd the rills, or wandering coltLeaving its pasture for the shady lane.
Methinks, in such a solitary cave,The fairy forms belated peasant sees,Oft nightly dancing in a glittering ring,On the smooth mountain sward, might here retireTo lead their noon-tide revels, or to batheTheir tiny limbs in this transparent well.A fitter spot there is not: flowers are hereOf loveliest colours and of sweetest smell,Native to these our hills, and ever seenA fairest family by the happy sideOf their own parent spring;—and others too,Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joy,Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth,Here smile like strangers in a novel scene.Lo! a tall rose-tree with its clustering bloom,Brightening the mossy wall on which it leansIts arching beauty, to my gladsome heartSeems, with its smiles of lonely loveliness,Like some fair virgin at the humble doorOf her dear mountain-cot, standing to greetThe way-bewildered traveller.
But my soulLong pleased to linger by this silent cave,Nursing its wild and playful fantasies,Pants for a loftier pleasure,—and forsakes,Though surely with no cold ingratitude,The flowers and verdure round the sparkling well.A voice calls on me from the mountain-depths,And it must be obey'd: Yon ledge of rocks,Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow,Is ready for my footsteps, and even now,Wast-water blackens far beneath my feet,She the storm-loving Lake.
Sweet Fount!—Farewell!
Poor wretch! that blasted leafless tree,More frail and death-like even than thee,Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form;The sleet, the rain, the wind of Heaven,Full in thy face are coldly driven,As if thou wert alone the object of the storm.Yet, chill'd with cold, and drench'd with rain,Mild creature, thou dost not complainBy sound or look of these ungracious skies;Calmly as if in friendly shed,There stand'st thou, with unmoving head,And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-closed eyes.Long could my thoughtful spirit gazeOn thee; nor am I loth to praiseHim who in moral mood this image drew;And yet, methinks, that I could frameAn image different, yet the same,More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature true.Behold a lane retired and green,Winding amid a forest-sceneWith blooming furze in many a radiant heap;There is a browsing ass espiedOne colt is frisking by her side,And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep.And lo! a little maiden stands,With thistles in her tender hands,Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat;Or gently down before him lays,With words of solace and of praise,Pluck'd from th' untrodden turf the herbage soft and sweet.The summer sun is sinking down,And the peasants from the market townWith chearful hearts are to their homes returning;Groupes of gay children too are there,Stirring with mirth the silent air,O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning.The ass hath got his burthen still!The merry elves the panniers fill;Delighted there from side to side they swing.The creature heeds nor shout nor call,But jogs on careless of them all,Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing.A gipsey-groupe! the secret woodStirs through its leafy solitude,As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune;Th' unpannier'd ass slowly retiresFrom the brown tents, and sparkling fires,And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon.The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree,More pensive 'mid this scene of gleeThat mocks the hour of beauty and of rest;The soul of all her softest raysOn yonder placid creature plays,As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the opprest.But now the silver moonbeams fade,And, peeping through a flowery glade,Hush'd as a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies:An ass stands meek and patient there,And by her side a spectre fair,To drink the balmy cup once more before she dies.With tenderest care the pitying dameSupports the dying maiden's frame,And strives with laughing looks her heart to chear;While playful children crowd aroundTo catch her eye by smile or sound,Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady dear!I feel this mournful dream impartA holier image to my heart,For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth:—Blest creature! through the solemn night,I see thee bath'd in heavenly light,Shed from that wond'rous child—The Saviour of the Earth.When, flying Herod's murd'rous rage,Thou on that wretched pilgrimageDidst gently near the virgin-mother lie;On thee the humble Jesus sate,When thousands rush'd to Salem's gateTo see 'mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by.Happy thou wert,—nor low thy praise,In peaceful patriarchal days,When countless tents slow passed from land to landLike clouds o'er heaven:—the gentle raceSuch quiet scene did meetly grace,—Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately band.Poor wretch!—my musing dream is o'er;Thy shivering form I view once more,And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove.But they whose thoughtful spirits seeThe truth of life, will pause with me,And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and love!
Poor wretch! that blasted leafless tree,More frail and death-like even than thee,Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form;The sleet, the rain, the wind of Heaven,Full in thy face are coldly driven,As if thou wert alone the object of the storm.
Yet, chill'd with cold, and drench'd with rain,Mild creature, thou dost not complainBy sound or look of these ungracious skies;Calmly as if in friendly shed,There stand'st thou, with unmoving head,And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-closed eyes.
Long could my thoughtful spirit gazeOn thee; nor am I loth to praiseHim who in moral mood this image drew;And yet, methinks, that I could frameAn image different, yet the same,More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature true.
Behold a lane retired and green,Winding amid a forest-sceneWith blooming furze in many a radiant heap;There is a browsing ass espiedOne colt is frisking by her side,And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep.
And lo! a little maiden stands,With thistles in her tender hands,Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat;Or gently down before him lays,With words of solace and of praise,Pluck'd from th' untrodden turf the herbage soft and sweet.
The summer sun is sinking down,And the peasants from the market townWith chearful hearts are to their homes returning;Groupes of gay children too are there,Stirring with mirth the silent air,O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning.
The ass hath got his burthen still!The merry elves the panniers fill;Delighted there from side to side they swing.The creature heeds nor shout nor call,But jogs on careless of them all,Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing.
A gipsey-groupe! the secret woodStirs through its leafy solitude,As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune;Th' unpannier'd ass slowly retiresFrom the brown tents, and sparkling fires,And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon.
The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree,More pensive 'mid this scene of gleeThat mocks the hour of beauty and of rest;The soul of all her softest raysOn yonder placid creature plays,As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the opprest.
But now the silver moonbeams fade,And, peeping through a flowery glade,Hush'd as a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies:An ass stands meek and patient there,And by her side a spectre fair,To drink the balmy cup once more before she dies.
With tenderest care the pitying dameSupports the dying maiden's frame,And strives with laughing looks her heart to chear;While playful children crowd aroundTo catch her eye by smile or sound,Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady dear!
I feel this mournful dream impartA holier image to my heart,For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth:—Blest creature! through the solemn night,I see thee bath'd in heavenly light,Shed from that wond'rous child—The Saviour of the Earth.
When, flying Herod's murd'rous rage,Thou on that wretched pilgrimageDidst gently near the virgin-mother lie;On thee the humble Jesus sate,When thousands rush'd to Salem's gateTo see 'mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by.
Happy thou wert,—nor low thy praise,In peaceful patriarchal days,When countless tents slow passed from land to landLike clouds o'er heaven:—the gentle raceSuch quiet scene did meetly grace,—Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately band.
Poor wretch!—my musing dream is o'er;Thy shivering form I view once more,And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove.But they whose thoughtful spirits seeThe truth of life, will pause with me,And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and love!
'Mid the august and never-dying lightOf constellated spirits, who have gain'dA throne in heaven, by power of heavenly acts,And leave their names immortal and unchangedOn earth, even as the names of Sun and Moon,See'st thou, my soul! 'mid all that radiant hostOne worthier of thy love and reverence,Than He, the fearless spirit, who went forth,Mail'd in the armour of invincible faith,And bearing in his grasp the spear of truth,Fit to destroy and save,—went forth to wage,Against the fierce array of bloody men,Avarice and ignorance, cruelty and hate,A holy warfare! Deep within his soul,The groans of anguish, and the clank of chains,Dwelt ceaseless as a cataract, and fill'dThe secret haunts of meditative prayer.Encircled by the silence of the hearth,The evening-silence of a happy home;Upon his midnight bed, when working soulTurns inward, and the steady flow of thoughtIs all we feel of life; in crowded rooms,Where mere sensation oft takes place of mind,And all time seems the present; in the sun,The joyful splendour of a summer-day;Or 'neath the moon, the calm and gentle night;Where'er he moved, one vision ever fill'dHis restless spirit. 'Twas a vision brightWith colours born in Heaven, yet oh! bedimm'dWith breath of sorrow, sighs, and tears, and blood!Before him lay a quarter of the world,A Mighty Land, wash'd by unnumber'd floods,Born in her bosom,—floods that to the seaRoll ocean-like, or in the central wildsFade like the dim day melting into night;A land all teeming with the gorgeous shewOf Nature in profuse magnificence!Vallies and groves, where untamed herds have rangedWithout a master since the birth of time!Fountains and caves fill'd with the hidden lightOf diamond and of ruby, only view'dWith admiration by the unenvying sun!Millions of beings like himself he seesIn stature and in soul,—the sons of God,Destined to do him homage, and to liftTheir fearless brows unto the burning sky,Stamp'd with his holy image! Noble shapes,Kings of the desert, men whose stately treadBrings from the dust the sound of liberty!The vision fades not here; he sees the gloomThat lies upon these kingdoms of the sun,And makes them darker than the dreary realms,Scarce-moving at the pole.—A sluggish flowAttends those floods so great and beautiful,Rolling in majesty that none adores!And lo! the faces of those stately men,Silent as death, or changed to ghastly shapesBy madness and despair! His ears are tornBy shrieks and ravings, loud, and long, and wild,Or the deep-mutter'd curse of sullen hearts,Scorning in bitter woe their gnawing chains!He sees, and shuddering feels the vision true,A pale-faced band, who in his mother-isleFirst look'd upon the day, beneath its lightDare to be tyrants, and with coward deedsSullying the glory of the Queen of Waves!He sees that famous Isle, whose very windsDissolve like icicles the tyrant's chains,On Afric bind them firm as adamant,Yet boast, with false and hollow gratitude,Of all the troubled nations of the earthThat she alone is free! The awful sightAppals not him; he draws his lonely breathWithout a tremor; for a voice is heardBreathed by no human lips,—heard by his soul,—That he by Heaven is chosen to restoreMercy on earth, a mighty conquerorOver the sins and miseries of man.The work is done! the Niger's sullen wavesHave heard the tidings,—and the orient SunBeholds them rolling on to meet his lightIn joyful beauty.—Tombût's spiry towersAre bright without the brightness of the day,And Houssa wakening from his age-long tranceOf woe, amid the desert, smiles to hearThe last faint echo of the blissful sound.—
'Mid the august and never-dying lightOf constellated spirits, who have gain'dA throne in heaven, by power of heavenly acts,And leave their names immortal and unchangedOn earth, even as the names of Sun and Moon,See'st thou, my soul! 'mid all that radiant hostOne worthier of thy love and reverence,Than He, the fearless spirit, who went forth,Mail'd in the armour of invincible faith,And bearing in his grasp the spear of truth,Fit to destroy and save,—went forth to wage,Against the fierce array of bloody men,Avarice and ignorance, cruelty and hate,A holy warfare! Deep within his soul,The groans of anguish, and the clank of chains,Dwelt ceaseless as a cataract, and fill'dThe secret haunts of meditative prayer.Encircled by the silence of the hearth,The evening-silence of a happy home;Upon his midnight bed, when working soulTurns inward, and the steady flow of thoughtIs all we feel of life; in crowded rooms,Where mere sensation oft takes place of mind,And all time seems the present; in the sun,The joyful splendour of a summer-day;Or 'neath the moon, the calm and gentle night;Where'er he moved, one vision ever fill'dHis restless spirit. 'Twas a vision brightWith colours born in Heaven, yet oh! bedimm'dWith breath of sorrow, sighs, and tears, and blood!Before him lay a quarter of the world,A Mighty Land, wash'd by unnumber'd floods,Born in her bosom,—floods that to the seaRoll ocean-like, or in the central wildsFade like the dim day melting into night;A land all teeming with the gorgeous shewOf Nature in profuse magnificence!Vallies and groves, where untamed herds have rangedWithout a master since the birth of time!Fountains and caves fill'd with the hidden lightOf diamond and of ruby, only view'dWith admiration by the unenvying sun!Millions of beings like himself he seesIn stature and in soul,—the sons of God,Destined to do him homage, and to liftTheir fearless brows unto the burning sky,Stamp'd with his holy image! Noble shapes,Kings of the desert, men whose stately treadBrings from the dust the sound of liberty!The vision fades not here; he sees the gloomThat lies upon these kingdoms of the sun,And makes them darker than the dreary realms,Scarce-moving at the pole.—A sluggish flowAttends those floods so great and beautiful,Rolling in majesty that none adores!And lo! the faces of those stately men,Silent as death, or changed to ghastly shapesBy madness and despair! His ears are tornBy shrieks and ravings, loud, and long, and wild,Or the deep-mutter'd curse of sullen hearts,Scorning in bitter woe their gnawing chains!He sees, and shuddering feels the vision true,A pale-faced band, who in his mother-isleFirst look'd upon the day, beneath its lightDare to be tyrants, and with coward deedsSullying the glory of the Queen of Waves!He sees that famous Isle, whose very windsDissolve like icicles the tyrant's chains,On Afric bind them firm as adamant,Yet boast, with false and hollow gratitude,Of all the troubled nations of the earthThat she alone is free! The awful sightAppals not him; he draws his lonely breathWithout a tremor; for a voice is heardBreathed by no human lips,—heard by his soul,—That he by Heaven is chosen to restoreMercy on earth, a mighty conquerorOver the sins and miseries of man.The work is done! the Niger's sullen wavesHave heard the tidings,—and the orient SunBeholds them rolling on to meet his lightIn joyful beauty.—Tombût's spiry towersAre bright without the brightness of the day,And Houssa wakening from his age-long tranceOf woe, amid the desert, smiles to hearThe last faint echo of the blissful sound.—
I.Beneath the shadow of an ancient oak,Dreaming I lay, far 'mid a solemn wood,When a noise like thunder stirr'd the solitude,And from that trance I suddenly awoke!A noble tree came crashing to the ground,Through the dark forest opening out a glade;While all its hundred branches stretching round,Crush'd the tall hazles in its ample shade.Methought, the vanquish'd monarch as he diedUtter'd a groan: while loud and taunting chearsThe woodmen raised o'er him whose stubborn prideHad braved the seasons for an hundred years.It seem'd a savage shout, a senseless scorn,Nor long prevail'd amid the awful gloom;Sad look'd the forest of her glory shorn,Reverend with age, yet bright in vigour's bloom,Slain in his hour of strength, a giant in his tomb.II.I closed mine eyes, nor could I brook to gazeOn the wild havoc in one moment done;Hateful to me shone forth the blessed sun,As through the new form'd void he pour'd his rays.Then rose a dream before my sleeping soul!A wood-nymph tearing her dishevell'd hair,And wailing loud, from a long vista stole,And eyed the ruin with a fixed despair.The velvet moss, that bath'd its roots in green,For many a happy day had been her seat;Than valley wide more dear this secret scene;—She asked no music but the rustling sweetOf the rejoicing leaves; now, all is gone,That touch'd the Dryad's heart with pure delight.Soon shall the axe destroy her fallen throne,Its leaves of gold, its bark so glossy bright——But now she hastes away,—death-sickening at the sight!III.A nobler shape supplied the Dryad's place;Soon as I saw the spirit in her eye,I knew the mountain-goddess, Liberty,And in adoring reverence veil'd my face.Smiling she stood beside the prostrate oak,While a stern pleasure swell'd her lofty breast,And thus, methought, in thrilling accents spoke—"Not long, my darling Tree! must be thy rest!Glorious thou wert, when towering through the skiesIn winter-storms, or summer's balmy breath;And thou, my Tree! shalt gloriously arise,In life majestic, terrible in death!For thou shalt float above the roaring wave,Where flags, denouncing battle, stream afar;—Thou wert, from birth, devoted to the brave,And thou shalt sail on like a blazing star,Bearing victoriousNelsonthrough the storms of war!"
I.
Beneath the shadow of an ancient oak,Dreaming I lay, far 'mid a solemn wood,When a noise like thunder stirr'd the solitude,And from that trance I suddenly awoke!A noble tree came crashing to the ground,Through the dark forest opening out a glade;While all its hundred branches stretching round,Crush'd the tall hazles in its ample shade.Methought, the vanquish'd monarch as he diedUtter'd a groan: while loud and taunting chearsThe woodmen raised o'er him whose stubborn prideHad braved the seasons for an hundred years.It seem'd a savage shout, a senseless scorn,Nor long prevail'd amid the awful gloom;Sad look'd the forest of her glory shorn,Reverend with age, yet bright in vigour's bloom,Slain in his hour of strength, a giant in his tomb.
II.
I closed mine eyes, nor could I brook to gazeOn the wild havoc in one moment done;Hateful to me shone forth the blessed sun,As through the new form'd void he pour'd his rays.Then rose a dream before my sleeping soul!A wood-nymph tearing her dishevell'd hair,And wailing loud, from a long vista stole,And eyed the ruin with a fixed despair.The velvet moss, that bath'd its roots in green,For many a happy day had been her seat;Than valley wide more dear this secret scene;—She asked no music but the rustling sweetOf the rejoicing leaves; now, all is gone,That touch'd the Dryad's heart with pure delight.Soon shall the axe destroy her fallen throne,Its leaves of gold, its bark so glossy bright——But now she hastes away,—death-sickening at the sight!
III.
A nobler shape supplied the Dryad's place;Soon as I saw the spirit in her eye,I knew the mountain-goddess, Liberty,And in adoring reverence veil'd my face.Smiling she stood beside the prostrate oak,While a stern pleasure swell'd her lofty breast,And thus, methought, in thrilling accents spoke—"Not long, my darling Tree! must be thy rest!Glorious thou wert, when towering through the skiesIn winter-storms, or summer's balmy breath;And thou, my Tree! shalt gloriously arise,In life majestic, terrible in death!For thou shalt float above the roaring wave,Where flags, denouncing battle, stream afar;—Thou wert, from birth, devoted to the brave,And thou shalt sail on like a blazing star,Bearing victoriousNelsonthrough the storms of war!"
Once, on the very gentlest stillest dayThat ever Spring did in her gladness breatheO'er this delightful earth, I left my homeWith a beloved friend, who ne'er beforeHad been among these mountains,—but whose heart,Led by the famous poets, through the airSerene of Nature oft had voyaged,On fancy's wing, and in her magic bowersReposed, by wildest music sung to sleep:—So that, enamour'd of the imaged formsOf beauty in his soul, with holiest zealHe longed to hail the fair original,And do her spiritual homage.That his loveMight, consonant to Nature's dictate wise,From quiet impulse grow, and to the powerOf meditation and connecting thought,Rather than startling glories of the eye,Owe its enthronement in his inmost heart,I led him to behold a little lake,Which I so often in my lonely walksHad visited, but never yet had seenOne human being on its banks, that IThought it mine own almost, so thither tookMy friend, assured he could not chuse but loveA scene so loved by me!Before we reachedThe dell wherein this little lake doth sleep,Into involuntary praise of allIts pensive loveliness, my happy heartWould frequent burst, and from those lyric songs,That, sweetly warbling round the pastoral banksOf Grassmere, on its silver waves have shedThe undying sunshine of a poet's soul,I breathed such touching strains as suited wellThe mild spring-day, and that secluded scene,Towards which, in full assurance of delight,We two then walked in peace.On the green slopeOf a romantic glade, we sat us down,Amid the fragrance of the yellow broom,While o'er our heads the weeping birch-tree stream'dIts branches arching like a fountain-shower,Then look'd towards the lake,—with hearts preparedFor the warm reception of all lovely formsEnrobed in loveliest radiance, such as oftHad steep'd my spirit in a holy calm,And made it by the touch of purest joyStill as an infant's dream.But where had fledThe paradise beloved in former days!I look'd upon the countenance of my friend,Who, lost in strange and sorrowful surprise,Could scarce forbear to smile. Is this, he cried,The lone retreat, where from the secret topOf Helicon, the wild-eyed muse descendsTo bless thy slumbers? this the virgin sceneWhere beauty smiles in undisturbed peace?I look'd again: but ne'er did lover gaze,At last returning from some foreign clime,With more affectionate sorrow on the faceThat he left fair in youth, than I did gazeOn the alter'd features of my darling vale,That, 'mid the barbarous outrages of art,Retained, I ween, a heavenly characterThat nothing could destroy. Yet much was lostOf its original brightness: Much was there,Marring the spirit I remembered oncePerfectly beautiful. The meadow field,That with its rich and placid verdure layEven like a sister-lake, with nought to breakThe smoothness of its bosom, save the swingOf the hoar Canna, or, more snowy white,The young lamb frisking in the joy of life,—Oh! grief! a garden, all unlike, I ween,To that where bloom'd the fair Hesperides,Usurped the seat of Nature, while a wallOf most bedazzling splendour, o'er whose height,The little birds, content to flit alongFrom bush to bush, could never dare to fly,Preserved from those who knew no ill intent,Fruit-trees exotic, and flowers passing rare,Less lovely far than many a one that bloom'dUnnoticed in the woods.And lo! a house,An elegant villa! in the Grecian style!Doubtless contrived by some great architectWho had an Attic soul; and in the shadeOf Academe or the Lyceum walk'd,Forming conceptions fair and beautiful.Blessed for ever be the sculptor's art!It hath created guardian deitiesTo shield the holy building,—heathen godsAnd goddesses, at which the peasant staresWith most perplexing wonder; and light Fauns,That the good owner's unpoetic soulCould not, among the umbrage of the groves,Imagine, here, for ever in his sight,In one unwearied posture frisk in stone.My friend, quoth I, forgive these words of mine,That haply seem more sportive than becomesA soul that feels for Nature's sanctityThus blindly outraged; but when evil workAdmits no remedy, we then are gladEven from ourselves to hide, in mirth constrain'd,An unavailing sorrow. Oh! my friend,Had'st thou beheld, as I, the glorious rockBy that audacious mansion hid for ever,—Glorious I well might call it, with bright bandsOf flowers, and weeds as beautiful as flowers,Refulgent,—crown'd, as with a diadem,With oaks that loved their birth-place, and aliveWith the wild tones of echo, bird, and bee,—Thou couldst have wept to think that paltry ArtCould so prevail o'er Nature, and weak manThus stand between thee and the works of God.Well might the Naiad of that stream complain!The glare of day hath driven her from her haunts,Shady no more: The woodman's ax hath clear'dThe useless hazels where the linnet hungHer secret nest; and you hoar waterfall,Whose misty spray rose through the freshen'd leavesTo heaven, like Nature's incense, and whose soundCame deaden'd through the multitude of boughs,Like a wild anthem by some spirit sung,Now looks as cheerless as the late-left snowUpon the mountain's breast, and sends a voice,From the bare rocks, of dreariness and woe!See! farther down the streamlet, art hath framedA delicate cascade! The channel stonesHollow'd by rushing waters, and more greenEven than the thought of greenness in the soul,Are gone; and pebbles, carefully arrangedBy size and colour, at the bottom lieImprison'd; while a smooth and shaven lawn,With graceful gravel walks most serpentine,Surrounds the noisy wonder, and sends upA smile of scorn unto the rocky fells,Where, 'mid the rough fern, bleat the shelter'd sheep.Oft hath the poet's eye on these wild fellsBeheld entrancing visions;—but the cliffs,In unscaled majesty, must frown no more;No more the coves profound draw down the soulInto their stern dominion: even the clouds,Floating or settling on the mountain's breast,Must be adored no more:—far other formsDelight his gaze, to whom, alas, belongsThis luckless vale!—On every eminence,Smiles some gay image of the builder's soul,Watch-tower or summer-house, where oft, at eve,He meditates to go, with book in hand,And read in solitude; or weather-cock,To tell which way the wind doth blow; or fort,Commanding every station in the valeWhere enemy might encamp, and from whose heightA gaudy flag might flutter, when he hearsWith a true British pride of Frenchmen slain,Ten thousand in one battle, lying grimBy the brave English, their dead conquerors!Such was the spirit of the words I usedOn witnessing such sacrilege. We turnedHomewards in silence, even as from the graveOf one in early youth untimely slain,And all that to my pensive friend I saidUpon our walk, were some few words of grief,That thoughtlessness and folly, in one day,Could render vain the mystic processesOf Nature, working for a thousand yearsThe work of love and beauty; so that HeavenMight shed its gracious dews upon the earth,Its sunshine and its rain, till living flowersRose up in myriads to attest its power,But, in the midst of this glad jubilee,A blinded mortal come, and with a nod,Thus rendering ignorance worse than wickedness,Bid his base servants "tear from Nature's bookA blissful leaf with worst impiety."If thou, whose heart has listen'd to my song,From Nature hold'st some fair inheritanceLike that whose mournful ruins I deplore,Remember that thy birth-right doth imposeHigh duties on thee, that must be perform'd,Else thou canst not be happy. Thou must watchWith holy zeal o'er Nature while she sleeps,That nought may break her rest; her waking smilesThou must preserve and worship; and the gloomThat sometimes lies like night upon her face,Creating awful thoughts, that gloom must hushThe beatings of thy heart, as if it layLike the dread shadow of eternity.Beauteous thy home upon this beauteous earth,And God hath given it to thee: therefore, learnThe laws by which the Eternal doth sublimeAnd sanctify his works, that thou mayest seeThe hidden glory veiled from vulgar eyes,And by the homage of enlighten'd love,Repay the power that blest thee. Thou should'st standOft-times amid thy dwelling-place, with aweStronger than love, even like a pious manWho in some great cathedral, while the chauntOf hymns is in his soul, no more beholdsThe pillars rise august and beautiful,Nor the dim grandeur of the roof that hangsFar, far above his head, but only seesThe opening heaven-gates, and the white-robed bandsOf spirits prostrate in adoring praise.So shalt thou to thy death-hour find a friend,A gracious friend in Nature, and thy name,As the rapt traveller through thy fair domainsOft-lingering journeys, shall with gentle voiceBe breathed amid the solitude, and link'dWith those enlighten'd spirits that promoteThe happiness of others by their own,The consummation of all earthly joy.
Once, on the very gentlest stillest dayThat ever Spring did in her gladness breatheO'er this delightful earth, I left my homeWith a beloved friend, who ne'er beforeHad been among these mountains,—but whose heart,Led by the famous poets, through the airSerene of Nature oft had voyaged,On fancy's wing, and in her magic bowersReposed, by wildest music sung to sleep:—So that, enamour'd of the imaged formsOf beauty in his soul, with holiest zealHe longed to hail the fair original,And do her spiritual homage.
That his loveMight, consonant to Nature's dictate wise,From quiet impulse grow, and to the powerOf meditation and connecting thought,Rather than startling glories of the eye,Owe its enthronement in his inmost heart,I led him to behold a little lake,Which I so often in my lonely walksHad visited, but never yet had seenOne human being on its banks, that IThought it mine own almost, so thither tookMy friend, assured he could not chuse but loveA scene so loved by me!
Before we reachedThe dell wherein this little lake doth sleep,Into involuntary praise of allIts pensive loveliness, my happy heartWould frequent burst, and from those lyric songs,That, sweetly warbling round the pastoral banksOf Grassmere, on its silver waves have shedThe undying sunshine of a poet's soul,I breathed such touching strains as suited wellThe mild spring-day, and that secluded scene,Towards which, in full assurance of delight,We two then walked in peace.
On the green slopeOf a romantic glade, we sat us down,Amid the fragrance of the yellow broom,While o'er our heads the weeping birch-tree stream'dIts branches arching like a fountain-shower,Then look'd towards the lake,—with hearts preparedFor the warm reception of all lovely formsEnrobed in loveliest radiance, such as oftHad steep'd my spirit in a holy calm,And made it by the touch of purest joyStill as an infant's dream.
But where had fledThe paradise beloved in former days!I look'd upon the countenance of my friend,Who, lost in strange and sorrowful surprise,Could scarce forbear to smile. Is this, he cried,The lone retreat, where from the secret topOf Helicon, the wild-eyed muse descendsTo bless thy slumbers? this the virgin sceneWhere beauty smiles in undisturbed peace?
I look'd again: but ne'er did lover gaze,At last returning from some foreign clime,With more affectionate sorrow on the faceThat he left fair in youth, than I did gazeOn the alter'd features of my darling vale,That, 'mid the barbarous outrages of art,Retained, I ween, a heavenly characterThat nothing could destroy. Yet much was lostOf its original brightness: Much was there,Marring the spirit I remembered oncePerfectly beautiful. The meadow field,That with its rich and placid verdure layEven like a sister-lake, with nought to breakThe smoothness of its bosom, save the swingOf the hoar Canna, or, more snowy white,The young lamb frisking in the joy of life,—Oh! grief! a garden, all unlike, I ween,To that where bloom'd the fair Hesperides,Usurped the seat of Nature, while a wallOf most bedazzling splendour, o'er whose height,The little birds, content to flit alongFrom bush to bush, could never dare to fly,Preserved from those who knew no ill intent,Fruit-trees exotic, and flowers passing rare,Less lovely far than many a one that bloom'dUnnoticed in the woods.
And lo! a house,An elegant villa! in the Grecian style!Doubtless contrived by some great architectWho had an Attic soul; and in the shadeOf Academe or the Lyceum walk'd,Forming conceptions fair and beautiful.Blessed for ever be the sculptor's art!It hath created guardian deitiesTo shield the holy building,—heathen godsAnd goddesses, at which the peasant staresWith most perplexing wonder; and light Fauns,That the good owner's unpoetic soulCould not, among the umbrage of the groves,Imagine, here, for ever in his sight,In one unwearied posture frisk in stone.
My friend, quoth I, forgive these words of mine,That haply seem more sportive than becomesA soul that feels for Nature's sanctityThus blindly outraged; but when evil workAdmits no remedy, we then are gladEven from ourselves to hide, in mirth constrain'd,An unavailing sorrow. Oh! my friend,Had'st thou beheld, as I, the glorious rockBy that audacious mansion hid for ever,—Glorious I well might call it, with bright bandsOf flowers, and weeds as beautiful as flowers,Refulgent,—crown'd, as with a diadem,With oaks that loved their birth-place, and aliveWith the wild tones of echo, bird, and bee,—Thou couldst have wept to think that paltry ArtCould so prevail o'er Nature, and weak manThus stand between thee and the works of God.Well might the Naiad of that stream complain!The glare of day hath driven her from her haunts,Shady no more: The woodman's ax hath clear'dThe useless hazels where the linnet hungHer secret nest; and you hoar waterfall,Whose misty spray rose through the freshen'd leavesTo heaven, like Nature's incense, and whose soundCame deaden'd through the multitude of boughs,Like a wild anthem by some spirit sung,Now looks as cheerless as the late-left snowUpon the mountain's breast, and sends a voice,From the bare rocks, of dreariness and woe!See! farther down the streamlet, art hath framedA delicate cascade! The channel stonesHollow'd by rushing waters, and more greenEven than the thought of greenness in the soul,Are gone; and pebbles, carefully arrangedBy size and colour, at the bottom lieImprison'd; while a smooth and shaven lawn,With graceful gravel walks most serpentine,Surrounds the noisy wonder, and sends upA smile of scorn unto the rocky fells,Where, 'mid the rough fern, bleat the shelter'd sheep.
Oft hath the poet's eye on these wild fellsBeheld entrancing visions;—but the cliffs,In unscaled majesty, must frown no more;No more the coves profound draw down the soulInto their stern dominion: even the clouds,Floating or settling on the mountain's breast,Must be adored no more:—far other formsDelight his gaze, to whom, alas, belongsThis luckless vale!—On every eminence,Smiles some gay image of the builder's soul,Watch-tower or summer-house, where oft, at eve,He meditates to go, with book in hand,And read in solitude; or weather-cock,To tell which way the wind doth blow; or fort,Commanding every station in the valeWhere enemy might encamp, and from whose heightA gaudy flag might flutter, when he hearsWith a true British pride of Frenchmen slain,Ten thousand in one battle, lying grimBy the brave English, their dead conquerors!
Such was the spirit of the words I usedOn witnessing such sacrilege. We turnedHomewards in silence, even as from the graveOf one in early youth untimely slain,And all that to my pensive friend I saidUpon our walk, were some few words of grief,That thoughtlessness and folly, in one day,Could render vain the mystic processesOf Nature, working for a thousand yearsThe work of love and beauty; so that HeavenMight shed its gracious dews upon the earth,Its sunshine and its rain, till living flowersRose up in myriads to attest its power,But, in the midst of this glad jubilee,A blinded mortal come, and with a nod,Thus rendering ignorance worse than wickedness,Bid his base servants "tear from Nature's bookA blissful leaf with worst impiety."
If thou, whose heart has listen'd to my song,From Nature hold'st some fair inheritanceLike that whose mournful ruins I deplore,Remember that thy birth-right doth imposeHigh duties on thee, that must be perform'd,Else thou canst not be happy. Thou must watchWith holy zeal o'er Nature while she sleeps,That nought may break her rest; her waking smilesThou must preserve and worship; and the gloomThat sometimes lies like night upon her face,Creating awful thoughts, that gloom must hushThe beatings of thy heart, as if it layLike the dread shadow of eternity.Beauteous thy home upon this beauteous earth,And God hath given it to thee: therefore, learnThe laws by which the Eternal doth sublimeAnd sanctify his works, that thou mayest seeThe hidden glory veiled from vulgar eyes,And by the homage of enlighten'd love,Repay the power that blest thee. Thou should'st standOft-times amid thy dwelling-place, with aweStronger than love, even like a pious manWho in some great cathedral, while the chauntOf hymns is in his soul, no more beholdsThe pillars rise august and beautiful,Nor the dim grandeur of the roof that hangsFar, far above his head, but only seesThe opening heaven-gates, and the white-robed bandsOf spirits prostrate in adoring praise.So shalt thou to thy death-hour find a friend,A gracious friend in Nature, and thy name,As the rapt traveller through thy fair domainsOft-lingering journeys, shall with gentle voiceBe breathed amid the solitude, and link'dWith those enlighten'd spirits that promoteThe happiness of others by their own,The consummation of all earthly joy.
Ah me! in dreams of struggling dread,Let foolish tears no more be shed,Tears wept on bended knee,Though years of absence slowly rollBetween us and some darling soulWho lives upon the sea!Weep, weep not for the mariner,Though distant far he roam,And have no lovely resting-placeThat he can call his home.Friends hath he in the wilderness,And with those friends he lives in blissWithout one pining sigh!The waves that round his vessel crowd,The guiding star, the breezy cloud,The music of the sky.And, dearer even than Heaven's sweet light,He gazes on that wonder bright,When sporting with the gales,Or lying in a beauteous sleepAbove her shadow in the deep,—The ship in which he sails.Then weep not for the mariner!He needeth not thy tears;From his soul the Ocean's midnight voiceDispels all mortal fears.Quietly slumber shepherd-menIn the silence of some inland glen,Lull'd by the gentlest sounds of air and earth;Yet as quietly rests the mariner,Nor wants for dreams as melting fairAmid the Ocean's mirth.
Ah me! in dreams of struggling dread,Let foolish tears no more be shed,Tears wept on bended knee,Though years of absence slowly rollBetween us and some darling soulWho lives upon the sea!Weep, weep not for the mariner,Though distant far he roam,And have no lovely resting-placeThat he can call his home.Friends hath he in the wilderness,And with those friends he lives in blissWithout one pining sigh!The waves that round his vessel crowd,The guiding star, the breezy cloud,The music of the sky.And, dearer even than Heaven's sweet light,He gazes on that wonder bright,When sporting with the gales,Or lying in a beauteous sleepAbove her shadow in the deep,—The ship in which he sails.Then weep not for the mariner!He needeth not thy tears;From his soul the Ocean's midnight voiceDispels all mortal fears.Quietly slumber shepherd-menIn the silence of some inland glen,Lull'd by the gentlest sounds of air and earth;Yet as quietly rests the mariner,Nor wants for dreams as melting fairAmid the Ocean's mirth.
Gentle as dew, a summer showerIn beauty bathed tree, herb, and flower,And told the stream to murmur onWith quicker dance and livelier tone.The mist lay steady on the fell,While lustre steeped each smiling dell,Such wild and fairy contrast madeThe magic power of light and shade.Through trees a little bridge was seen,Glittering with yellow, red, and green,As o'er the moss with playful glideThe sunbeam danced from side to side,And made the ancient arch to glowVarious as Heaven's reflected bow.Within the dripping grove was heardRustle or song of joyful bird;The stir of rapture fill'd the airFrom unseen myriads mingling there;Life lay entranced in sinless mirth,And Nature's hymn swam o'er the earth!In this sweet hour of peace and love,I chanced from restless joy to move,When by my side a being stoodFairer than Naiad of the flood,Or her who ruled the forest sceneIn days of yore, the Huntress Queen.Wildness, subdued by quiet grace,Played o'er the vision's radiant face,Radiant with spirit fit to steerHer flight around the starry sphere,Yet, willing to sink down in restUpon a guardian mortal breast.Her eyes were rather soft than bright,And, when a smile half-closed their light,They seem'd amid the gleam divineLike stars scarce seen through fair moonshine!While ever, as, with sportive air,She lightly waved her clustering hair,A thousand gleams the motion made,Danced o'er the auburn's darker shade.OMary! I had known thee long,Amid the gay, the thoughtless throng,Where mien leaves modesty behind,And manner takes the place of mind;Where woman, though delightful still,Quits Nature's ease for Fashion's skill,Hides, by the gaudy gloss of art,The simple beauty of her heart,And, born to lift our souls to heaven,Strives for the gaze despised when given,Forgets her being's godlike powerTo shine the wonder of an hour.Oft had I sigh'd to think that thou,An angel fair, could stoop so low;And as with light and airy pride,'Mid worldly souls I saw thee glide,Wasting those smiles that love with tearsMight live on, all his blessed years,Regret rose from thy causeless mirth,That Heaven could thus be stain'd by Earth.O vain regret! I should have known,Thy soul was strung to loftier tone,That wisdom bade thee joyful rangeThrough worldly paths thou could'st not change,And look with glad and sparkling eyeEven on life's cureless vanity.—But now, thy being's inmost bloodFelt the deep power of solitude.From Heaven a sudden glory broke,And all thy angel soul awoke.I hail'd the impulse from above,And friendship was sublimed to love.Fair are the vales that peaceful sleep'Mid mountain-silence, lone and deep,Sweet narrow lines of fertile earth,'Mid frowns of horror, smiles of mirth!Fair too the fix'd and floating cloud,The light obscure by eve bestowed,The sky's blue stillness, and the breastOf lakes, with all that stillness blest.But dearer to my heart and eye,Than valley, mountain, lake, or sky,One nameless stream, whose happy flowBlue as the heavens, or white as snow,And gently-swelling sylvan side,By Mary's presence beautified,Tell ever of expected years,The wish that sighs, the bliss that fears,Till taught at last no more to roam,I worship the bright Star of Home.
Gentle as dew, a summer showerIn beauty bathed tree, herb, and flower,And told the stream to murmur onWith quicker dance and livelier tone.The mist lay steady on the fell,While lustre steeped each smiling dell,Such wild and fairy contrast madeThe magic power of light and shade.Through trees a little bridge was seen,Glittering with yellow, red, and green,As o'er the moss with playful glideThe sunbeam danced from side to side,And made the ancient arch to glowVarious as Heaven's reflected bow.Within the dripping grove was heardRustle or song of joyful bird;The stir of rapture fill'd the airFrom unseen myriads mingling there;Life lay entranced in sinless mirth,And Nature's hymn swam o'er the earth!
In this sweet hour of peace and love,I chanced from restless joy to move,When by my side a being stoodFairer than Naiad of the flood,Or her who ruled the forest sceneIn days of yore, the Huntress Queen.Wildness, subdued by quiet grace,Played o'er the vision's radiant face,Radiant with spirit fit to steerHer flight around the starry sphere,Yet, willing to sink down in restUpon a guardian mortal breast.Her eyes were rather soft than bright,And, when a smile half-closed their light,They seem'd amid the gleam divineLike stars scarce seen through fair moonshine!While ever, as, with sportive air,She lightly waved her clustering hair,A thousand gleams the motion made,Danced o'er the auburn's darker shade.
OMary! I had known thee long,Amid the gay, the thoughtless throng,Where mien leaves modesty behind,And manner takes the place of mind;Where woman, though delightful still,Quits Nature's ease for Fashion's skill,Hides, by the gaudy gloss of art,The simple beauty of her heart,And, born to lift our souls to heaven,Strives for the gaze despised when given,Forgets her being's godlike powerTo shine the wonder of an hour.Oft had I sigh'd to think that thou,An angel fair, could stoop so low;And as with light and airy pride,'Mid worldly souls I saw thee glide,Wasting those smiles that love with tearsMight live on, all his blessed years,Regret rose from thy causeless mirth,That Heaven could thus be stain'd by Earth.
O vain regret! I should have known,Thy soul was strung to loftier tone,That wisdom bade thee joyful rangeThrough worldly paths thou could'st not change,And look with glad and sparkling eyeEven on life's cureless vanity.—But now, thy being's inmost bloodFelt the deep power of solitude.From Heaven a sudden glory broke,And all thy angel soul awoke.I hail'd the impulse from above,And friendship was sublimed to love.Fair are the vales that peaceful sleep'Mid mountain-silence, lone and deep,Sweet narrow lines of fertile earth,'Mid frowns of horror, smiles of mirth!Fair too the fix'd and floating cloud,The light obscure by eve bestowed,The sky's blue stillness, and the breastOf lakes, with all that stillness blest.But dearer to my heart and eye,Than valley, mountain, lake, or sky,One nameless stream, whose happy flowBlue as the heavens, or white as snow,And gently-swelling sylvan side,By Mary's presence beautified,Tell ever of expected years,The wish that sighs, the bliss that fears,Till taught at last no more to roam,I worship the bright Star of Home.