CADLAND,[103]SOUTHAMPTON RIVER.

Oh! lend that lute, sweet Archimage, to me!Enough of care and heavinessThe weary lids of life depress,And doubly blest that gentle heart shall be,That wooes of poesy the visions bland,And strays forgetful o'er enchanted land!Oh! lend that lute, sweet Archimage, to me!So spoke, with ardent look, yet eyebrow sad,When he had passed o'er many a mountain rude,And many a wild and weary solitude,10'Mid a green vale, a wandering minstrel-lad.With eyes that shone in softened flame,With wings and wand, young Fancy came;And as she touched a trembling lute,The lone enthusiast stood entranced and mute.It was a sound that made his soul foregoAll thoughts of sadness in a world of woe.Oh, lend that lute! he cried: Hope, Pity, Love,Shall listen; and each valley, rock, and grove,Shall witness, as with deep delight,20From orient morn to dewy-stealing night.My spirit, rapt in trance of sweetness high,Shall drink the heartfelt sound with tears of ecstasy!As thus he spoke, soft voices seemed to say,Come away, come away;Where shall the heart-sick minstrel stray,But (viewing all things like a dream)By haunted wood, or wizard stream?That, like a hermit weeping,Amid the gray stones creeping;30With voice distinct, yet faint,Calls on Repose herself to hear its soothing plaint.For him, romantic SolitudeShall pile sublime her mountains rude;For him, with shades more soft impressed,The lucid lake's transparent breastShall show the banks, the woods, the hill,More clear, more beautiful, more still.For him more musical shall waveThe pines o'er Echo's moonlit cave;40While sounds as of a fairy lyreAmid the shadowy cliffs expire!This valley where the raptured minstrel stoodWas shaded with a circling slope of wood,And rich in beauty, with that valley vied,Thessalian Tempe, crowned with verdant bay,Where smooth and clear Peneus winds his way;And Ossa and Olympus, on each side,Rise dark with woods; or that Sicilian plainWhich Arethusa's clearest waters lave,50By many a haunt of Pan, and wood-nymph's cave,Lingering and listening to the Doric strainOf him,[100]the bard whose music might succeedTo the wild melodies of Pan's own reed!This scene the mistress of the valley held,Fancy, a magic maid; and at her will,Aërial castles crowned the gleaming hill,Or forests rose, or lapse of water welled.Sometimes she sat with lifted eye,And marked the dark storm in the western sky;60Sometimes she looked, and scarce her breath would draw,As fearful things, not to be told, she saw;And sometimes, like a vision of the air,On wings of shifting light she floated here and there.In the breeze her garments flew,Of the brightest skiey blue,Lucid as the tints of morn,When Summer trills his pipe of corn:Her tresses to each wing descending fall,Or, lifted by the wind,70Stream loose and unconfined,Like golden threads, beneath her myrtle coronal.The listening passions stood aloof and mute,As oft the west wind touched her trembling lute.But when its sounds the youthful minstrel heard,Strange mingled feelings, not to be expressed,Rose undefined, yet blissful, on his breast,And all the softened scene in sweeter light appeared.Then Fancy waved her wand, and lo!An airy troop went beckoning by:80Come, from toil and worldly woe;Come, live with us in vales remote! they cry.These are the flitting phantasies; the dreamsThat lead the heart through all that elfin land,Where half-seen shapes entice with whispers bland.Meantime the clouds, impressed with livelier beams,Roll, in the lucid track of air,Arrayed in coloured brede, with semblances more fair.The airy troop, as on they sail,Thus the pensive stranger hail:90In the pure and argent sky,There our distant chambers lie;The bed is strewed with blushing roses,When Quietude at eve reposes,Oft trembling lest her bowers should fade,In the cold earth's humid shade.Come, rest with us! evanishing, they cried—Come, rest with us! the lonely vale replied.Then Fancy beckoned, and with smiling mien,A radiant form arose, like the fair Queen100Of Beauty: from her eye divinely bright,A richer lustre shot, a more attractive light.She said: With fairer tints I can adornThe living landscape, fairer than the morn.The summer clouds in shapes romantic rolled,And those they edge the fading west, like gold;The lake that sleeps in sunlight, yet impressedWith shades more sweet than real on its breast;'Mid baffling stones, beneath a partial ray,The small brook huddling its uneven way;110The blue far distant hills, the silvery sea,And every scene of summer speaks of me:But most I wake the sweetest wishes warm,Where the fond gaze is turned on woman's breathing form.So passing silent through a myrtle grove,Beauty first led him to the bower of Love.A mellow light through the dim covert strayed,And opening roses canopied the shade.Why does the hurrying pulse unbidden leap!Behold, in yonder glade that nymph asleep!120The heart-struck minstrel hangs, with lingering gaze,O'er every charm his eye impassioned strays!An edge of white is seen, and scarcely seen,As soft she breathes, her coral lips between;A lambent ray steals from her half-closed eye,As her breast heaves a short imperfect sigh.Sleep, winds of summer, o'er the leafy bower,Nor move the light bells of the nodding flower;Lest but a sound of stirring leaves might seemTo break the charm of her delicious dream!130And ye, fond, rising, throbbing thoughts, away,Lest syren Pleasure all the soul betray!Oh! turn, and listen to the dittyFrom the lowly cave of Pity.On slaughter's plain, while Valour grieves,There he sunk to rest,And the ring-dove scattered leavesUpon his bleeding breast!Her face was hid, while her pale arms enfoldWhat seemed an urn of alabaster cold;140To this she pressed her heaving bosom bare:The drops that gathered in the dank abodeFell dripping, on her long dishevelled hair;And still her tears, renewed, and silent, flowed:And when the winds of autumn ceased to swell,At times was heard a slow and melancholy knell!'Twas in the twilight of the deepest wood,Beneath whose boughs like sad Cocytus, famedThrough fabling Greece, from lamentation named[101]A river dark and silent flowed, there stood150A pale and melancholy man, intentHis look upon that drowsy stream he bent,As ever counting, when the fitful breezeWith strange and hollow sound sung through the trees,Counting the sallow leaves, that down the current went.He saw them not:Earth seemed to him one universal blot.Sometimes, as most distempered, to and froHe paced; and sometimes fixed his chilling lookUpon a dreadful book,160Inscribed with secret characters of woe;While gibbering imps, as mocking him, appeared,And airy laughter 'mid the dusk was heard.Then Fancy waved her wand again,And all that valley that so lovely smiledWas changed to a bare champaign, waste and wild."What pale and phantom-horseman rides amain?"'Tis Terror;—all the plain, far on, is spreadWith skulls and bones, and relics of the dead!From his black trump he blew a louder blast,170And earthquakes muttered as the giant passed.Then said that magic maid, with aspect bland,'Tis thine to seize his phantom spear,'Tis thine his sable trumpet to command,And thrill the inmost heart with shuddering fear.But hark! to Music's softer sound,New scenes and fairer views accordant rise:Above, around,The mingled measure swells in air, and dies.Music, in thy charmed shell,180What sounds of holy magic dwell!Oft when that shell was to the ear applied,Confusion of rich harmonies,All swelling rose,That came, as with a gently-swelling tide:Then at the close,Angelic voices seemed, aloft,To answer as it died the cadence soft.Now, like the hum of distant ocean's stream,The murmurs of the wond'rous concave seem;190And now exultingly their tones prolongThe chorded pæans of the choral song,Then Music, with a voice more wildly sweetThan winds that pipe on the forsaken shore,When the last rain-drops of the west are o'er,Warbled: Oh, welcome to my blest retreat,And give my sounds to the responsive lyre:With me to these melodious groves retire,And such pure feelings share,As, far from noise and folly, soothe thee there.200Here Fancy, as the prize were won,And now she hailed her favourite son,With energy impatient cried:The weary world is dark and wide,Lo! I am with thee still to comfort and to guide.[102]Nor fear, if, grim before thine eyes,Pale worldly Want, a spectre, lowers;What is a world of vanitiesTo a world as sweet as ours!When thy heart is sad and lone,210And loves to dwell on pleasures flown,When that heart no more shall boundAt some kind voice's well-known sound,My spells thy drooping languor shall relieve,And airy spirits touch thy lonely harp at eve.Look!—Delight and Hope advancing,Music joins her thrilling notes,O'er the level lea come dancing;Seize the vision as it floats,Bright-eyed Rapture hovers o'er them,220Waving light his seraph wings,Youth exulting flies before them,Scattering cowslips as he sings!Come now, my car pursue,The wayward Fairy cried;And high amid the fields of air,Above the clouds, together we will ride,And posting on the viewless winds,So leave the cares of earth and all its thoughts behind.I can sail, and I can fly,230To all regions of the sky,On the shooting meteor's course,On a winged griffin-horse!She spoke: when Wisdom's self drew nigh,A noble sternness in her searching eye;Like Pallas helmed, and in her hand a spear,As not in idle warfare bent, but still,As resolute, to cope with every earthly ill.In youthful dignity severe,She stood: And shall the aspiring mind,240To Fancy be alone resigned!Alas! she cried, her witching layToo often leads the heart astray!Still, weak minstrel, wouldst thou rove,Drooping in the distant grove,Forgetful of all ties that bindThee, a brother, to mankind?Has Fancy's feeble voice defiedThe ills to poor humanity allied?Can she, like Wisdom, bid thy soul sustain250Its post of duty in a life of pain!Can she, like meek Religion, bid thee bearContempt and hardship in a world of care!Yet let not my rebuke decry,In all, her blameless witchery,Or from the languid bosom tearEach sweet illusion nourished there.With dignity and truth, combined,Still may she rule the manly mind;Her sweetest magic still impart260To soften, not subdue, the heart:Still may she warm the chosen breast,Not as the sovereign, but the guest.Then shall she lead the blameless MuseThrough all her fairest, wildest views;To mark amid the flowers of morn,The bee go forth with early horn;Or when the moon, a softer lightSheds on the rocks and seas of night,To hear the circling fairy bands270Sing, Come unto these yellow sands!Sweeter is our light than day,Fond enthusiast, come away!Then Chivalry again shall callThe champions to her bannered hall!The pipe, and song, with many a mingled shout,Ring through the forest, as the satyr-rout,Dance round the dragon-chariot of Romance;Forth pricks the errant knight with rested lance;Imps, demons, fays, in antic train succeed,280The wandering maiden, and the winged steed!The muttering wizard turns, with haggard look,The bloody leaves of the accursed book,Whilst giants, from the gloomy castle tower,With lifted bats of steel, more dreadful lower!At times, the magic shall prevailOf the wild and wonderous tale;At times, high rapture shall prolongThe deep, enthusiastic song.Hence, at midnight, thou shalt stray,290Where dark ocean flings its spray,To hear o'er heaven's resounding archThe Thunder-Lord begin his march!Or mark the flashes, that presentSome far-off shattered monument;Whilst along the rocky vale,Red fires, mingled with the hail,Run along upon the ground,And the thunders deeper sound!The loftier Muse, with awful mien,300Upon a lonely rock is seen:Full is the eye that speaks the dauntless soul;She seems to hear the gathering tempest rollBeneath her feet; she bids an eagle fly,Breasting the whirlwind, through the dark-red sky;Or, with elated look, lifts high the spear,As sounds of distant battles roll more near.Now deep-hushed in holy trance,She sees the powers of Heaven advance,And wheels, instinct with spirit, bear310God's living chariot through the air;Now on the wings of morn she seems to rise,And join the strain of more than mortal harmonies.Thy heart shall beat exulting as she sings,And thou shalt cry: Give me an angel's wings!With sadder sound, o'er Pity's cave,The willow in the wind shall wave;And all the listening passions stand,Obedient to thy great command.With Poesy's sweet charm impressed,320Fancy thus shall warm thy breast;Still her smiling train be thine,Still her lovely visions shine,To cheer, beyond my boasted power,A sad or solitary hour.Thus let them soothe a while thy heart,"Come like shadows, so depart;"But never may the witching layLead each sense from life astray;For vain the poet's muse of fire,330Vain the magic of his lyre,Unless the touch subdued impartTruth and wisdom to the heart!

[100]Theocritus.[101]"From lamentation named, and loud lament."—Milton.[102]I have placed Music last, as I think a perfect musical ear implies the highest degree of cultivation.

[100]Theocritus.

[101]"From lamentation named, and loud lament."—Milton.

[102]I have placed Music last, as I think a perfect musical ear implies the highest degree of cultivation.

If ever sea-maid, from her coral cave,Beneath the hum of the great surge, has lovedTo pass delighted from her green abode,And, seated on a summer bank, to singNo earthly music; in a spot like this,The bard might feign he heard her, as she driedHer golden hair, yet dripping from the main,In the slant sunbeam.So the pensive bardMight image, warmed by this enchanting scene,10The ideal form; but though such things are not,He who has ever felt a thought refined;He who has wandered on the sea of life,Forming delightful visions of a homeOf beauty and repose; he who has loved,With filial warmth his country, will not passWithout a look of more than tendernessOn all the scene; from where the pensile birchBends on the bank, amid the clustered groupOf the dark hollies; to the woody shore20That steals diminished, to the distant spiresOf Hampton, crowning the long lucid wave.White in the sun, beneath the forest-shade,Full shines the frequent sail, like Vanity,As she goes onward in her glittering trim,Amid the glances of life's transient morn,Calling on all to view her!Vectis[104]there,That slopes its greensward to the lambent wave,And shows through softest haze its woods and domes,30With gray St Catherine's[105]creeping to the sky,Seems like a modest maid, who charms the moreConcealing half her beauties.To the East,Proud, yet complacent, on its subject realm,With masts innumerable thronged, and hullsSeen indistinct, but formidable, markAlbion's vast fleet, that, like the impatient storm,Waits but the word to thunder and flash deathOn him who dares approach to violate40The shores and living scenes that smile secureBeneath its dragon-watch!Long may they smile!And long, majestic Albion (while the soundFrom East to West, from Albis[106]to the Po,Of dark contention hurtles), may'st thou rest,As calm and beautiful this sylvan sceneLooks on the refluent wave that steals below.

[103]A beautiful seat of Henry Drummond, Esq.[104]The Isle of Wight.[105]The highest slowly-rising eminence in the Isle of Wight, seen from the river.[106]The Elbe.

[103]A beautiful seat of Henry Drummond, Esq.

[104]The Isle of Wight.

[105]The highest slowly-rising eminence in the Isle of Wight, seen from the river.

[106]The Elbe.

The morning shone on Tagus' rocky side,And airs of summer swelled the yellow tide,When, rising from his melancholy bed,And faint, and feebly by Antonio[108]led,Poor Camoens, subdued by want and woe,Along the winding margin wandered slow,His harp, that once could each warm feeling moveOf patriot glory or of tenderest love,His sole and sable friend[109](while a faint toneRose from the wires) placed by a mossy stone.10How beautiful the sun ascending shinesFrom ridge to ridge, along the purple vines!How pure the azure of the opening skies!How resonant the nearer rock repliesTo call of early mariners! and, hark!The distant whistle from yon parting bark,That down the channel as serene she strays,Her gray sail mingles with the morning haze,Bound to explore, o'er ocean's stormy reign,New lands that lurk amid the lonely main!20A transient fervour touched the old man's breast;He raised his eyes, so long by care depressed,And while they shone with momentary fire,Ardent he struck the long-forgotten lyre.From Tagus' yellow-sanded shore,O'er the billows, as they roar,O'er the blue sea, waste and wide,Our bark threw back the burning tide,By northern breezes cheer'ly borne,On to the kingdoms of the morn.30Blanco, whose cold shadow vastChills the western wave, is past!Huge Bojador, frowning high,Thy dismal terrors we defy!But who may violate the sleepAnd silence of the sultry deep;Where, beneath the intenser sun,[110]Hot showers descend, red lightnings run;Whilst all the pale expanse beneathLies burning wide, without a breath;40And at mid-day from the mast,No shadow on the deck is cast!Night by night, still seen the same,Strange lights along the cordage flame,Perhaps, the spirits of the good,[111]That wander this forsaken floodSing to the seas, as slow we float,A solemn and a holy note!Spectre[112]of the southern main,Thou barr'st our onward way in vain,50Wrapping the terrors of thy form,In the thunder's rolling storm!Fearless o'er the indignant tide,On to the east our galleys ride.Triumph! for the toil is o'er—We kiss the far-sought Indian shore!Glittering to the orient ray,The banners of the Cross display!Does my heart exulting bound?Alas, forlorn, I gaze around:60Feeble, poor, and old, I stand,A stranger in my native land!My sable slave (ah, no! my only friend,Whose steps upon my rugged path attend)Sees, but with tenderness that fears to speak,The tear that trickles down my aged cheek!My harp is silent,—famine shrinks mine eye,—"Give me a little food for charity!"[113]

[107]Inscribed to Lord Strangford.[108]The faithful Indian who attended him in all his sorrows, a native of Java.[109]Antonio, "who begged alms through Lisbon, and at night shared the produce with his broken-hearted master."—Strangford's Preface.[110]Crossing the Line.[111]Lights called by the PortugueseCorpo Sancto's, supposed to be the spirits of saints, hovering on the shrouds.[112]The terrific Phantom of the Cape, described by Camoens.[113]Camoens, the great poet of Portugal, is supposed to have gone to the East Indies in the same ship with the first Discoverer, round the Cape of Good Hope, Vasco de Gama. This is not the case, though he wrote the noble poem descriptive of the voyage. He went to India some years afterwards, but the general idea is sufficient for poetical purposes. His subsequent sorrows and poverty, in his native land, are well known.

[107]Inscribed to Lord Strangford.

[108]The faithful Indian who attended him in all his sorrows, a native of Java.

[109]Antonio, "who begged alms through Lisbon, and at night shared the produce with his broken-hearted master."—Strangford's Preface.

[110]Crossing the Line.

[111]Lights called by the PortugueseCorpo Sancto's, supposed to be the spirits of saints, hovering on the shrouds.

[112]The terrific Phantom of the Cape, described by Camoens.

[113]Camoens, the great poet of Portugal, is supposed to have gone to the East Indies in the same ship with the first Discoverer, round the Cape of Good Hope, Vasco de Gama. This is not the case, though he wrote the noble poem descriptive of the voyage. He went to India some years afterwards, but the general idea is sufficient for poetical purposes. His subsequent sorrows and poverty, in his native land, are well known.

God said, Let there be light, and there was light!At once the glorious sun, at his command,From space illimitable, void and dark,Sprang jubilant, and angel hierarchies,Whose long hosannahs pealed from orb to orb,Sang, Glory be to Thee, God of all worlds!Then beautiful the ball of this terreneRolled in the beam of first-created day,And all its elements obeyed the voiceOf Him, the great Creator; Air, and Fire,10And Earth, and Water, each its ministryPerformed, whilst Chaos from his ebon throneLeaped up; and so magnificent, and decked,And mantled in its ambient atmosphere,The living world began its state!To thee,Spirit of Air, I lift the venturous song,Whose viewless presence fills the living scene,Whose element ten thousand thousand wingsFan joyous; o'er whose fields the morning clouds20Ride high; whose rule the lightning-shafts obey,And the deep thunder's long-careering march!The Winds too are thy subjects; from the breeze,That, like a child upon a holiday,On the high mountain's van pursues the downOf the gray thistle, ere the autumnal showerSteals soft, and mars his pastime; to the KingOf Hurricanes, that sounds his mighty shell,And bids Tornado sweep the Western world.Sylph of the Summer Gale, on thee I call!30Oh, come, when now gay June is in her car,Wafting the breath of roses as she moves;Come to this garden bower, which I have hungWith tendrils, and the fragrant eglantine,And mandrake, rich with many mantling stars!'Tis pleasant, when thy breath is on the leavesWithout, to rest in this embowering shade,And mark the green fly, circling to and fro,O'er the still water, with his dragon wings,Shooting from bank to bank, now in quick turns,40Then swift athwart, as is the gazer's glance,Pursuing still his mate; they, with delight,As if they moved in morris, to the soundHarmonious of this ever-dripping rill,Now in advance, now in retreat, now round,Dart through their mazy rings, and seem to say:The Summer and the Sun are ours!But thou,Sylph of the Summer Gale, delay a whileThy airy flight, whilst here Francesca leans,50And, charmed by Ossian's harp, seems in the breezeTo hear Malvina's plaint; thou to her earCome unperceived, like music of the songFrom Cona's vale of streams;thenwith the bee,That sounds his horn, busied from flower to flower,Speed o'er the yellow meadows, breathing ripeTheir summer incense; or amid the furze,That paints with bloom intense the upland crofts,With momentary essence tinge thy wings;Or in the grassy lanes, one after one,60Lift light the nodding foxglove's purple bell.Thence, to the distant sea, and where the flagHangs idly down, without a wavy curl,Thou hoverest o'er the topmast, or dost raiseThe full and flowing mainsail: Steadily,The helmsman cries, as now thy breath is heardAmong the stirring cordage o'er his head;So, steadily, he cries, as right he steers,Speeds our proud ship along the world of waves.Sylph, may thy favouring breath more gently blow,70More gently round the temples and the cheekOf him, who, leaving home and friends behind,In silence musing o'er the ocean leans,And watches every passing shade that marksThe southern Channel's fast-retiring line;Then, as the ship rolls on, keeps a long lookFixed on the lessening Lizard,[115]the last pointOf that delightful country, where he leftAll his fond hopes behind: it lessens still;Still, still it lessens, and now disappears!80He turns, and only sees the waves that rockBoundless. How many anxious morns shall rise,How many moons shall light the farthest seas,O'er what new scenes and regions shall he stray,A weary man, still thinking of his home,Ere he again that shore shall view, and greetWith blissful thronging hopes and starting tears,Of heartfelt welcome, and of warmest love!Perhaps, ah! never! So didst thou go forth,My poor lost brother![116]90The airs of morning as enticing played,And gently, round thee, and their whisperingsMight sooth (if aught could sooth) a boding heart;For thou wert bound to visit scenes of death,Where the sick gale (alas! unlike the breezeThat bore the gently-swelling sail along)Was tainted with the breath of pestilence,That smote the silent camp, and night and daySat mocking on the putrid carcases.Thou too didst perish! As the south-west blows,100Thy bones, perhaps, now whiten on the coastOf old Algarva.[117]I, meantime, these shadesOf village solitude, hoping erewhileTo welcome thee from many a toil restored,Still deck, and now thy empty urn[118]aloneI meet, where, swaying in the summer gale,The willow whispers in my evening walk.Sylph, in thy airy robe, I see thee float,A rainbow o'er thy head, and in thy handThe magic instrument,[119]that, as thy wing,110Lucid, and painted like the butterfly's,Waves to and from, most musically rings;Sometimes in joyance, as the flaunting leafOf the white poplar, sometimes sad and slow,As bearing pensive airs from Pity's grave.Soft child of air, thou tendest on his sway,As gentle Ariel at the bidding hiesOf mighty Prospero; yet other windsThrong to his wizard 'hest, inspiring some,Some melancholy, and yet soothing much120The drooping wanderer in the fading copse;Some terrible, with solitude and deathAttendant on their march:—the wild Simoom,[120]Riding on whirling spires of burning sand,That move along the Nubian wilderness,And bury deep the silent caravan;—Monsoon, up-starting from his half-year sleep,Upon the vernal shores of Hindostan,And tempesting with sounds of torrent rain,And hail, the darkening main;—and red Sameel,130Blasting and withering, like a rivelled leaf,The pilgrim as he roams;—Sirocco sad,That pants, all summer, on the cloudless shoresOf faint Parthenope;—deep in the mineOft lurks the lurid messenger of death,The ghastly fiend that blows, when the pale lightQuivers, and leaves the gasping wretch to die;—The imp, that when the hollow curfew knolls,Wanders the misty marish, lighting itAt night with errant and fantastic flame.140Spirit of air, these are thy ministers,That wait thy will; but thou art all in all,And dead without thee were the flower, the leaf,The waving forest rivelled, the great seaStill, the lithe birds of heaven extinct, and ceasedThe soul of melting music.This fair sceneLives in thy tender touch, for so it seems;Whilst universal nature owns thy sway;From the mute insect on the summer pool,150That with long cobweb legs, firm as on earthThe ostrich skims, flits idly to and fro,Making no dimple on the watery mass;To the huge grampus, spouting, as he rolls,A cataract, amid the cold clear sky,And furrowing far and wide the northern deep.Thy presence permeates and fills the whole!As the poor butterfly, that, painted gay,With mealy wings, red, amber, white, or droppedWith golden stains, floats o'er the yellow corn,160Idly, as bent on pastime, while the mornSmiles on his devious voyage; if inclosedIn the exhausted prison,[121]whence thy breathWith suction slow is drawn, he feels the changeHow dire! in palsied inanition drops!Weak flags his weary wing, and weaker yet;His frame with tremulous convulsion movesA moment, and the next is still in death.So were the great and glorious world itself;The tenants of its continents, all ceased!170A wide, a motionless, a putrid waste,Its seas! How droops the languid mariner,When not a breath, along the sluggish main,Strays on the sultry surface as it sleeps;When far away the winds are flown, to dashThe congregated ocean on the CapeOf Southern Africa, leaving the whileThe flood's vast surface noiseless, waveless, white,Beneath Mozambique's long-reflected woods,A gleaming mirror, spread from east to west,180Where the still ship, as on a bed of glass,Sits motionless. Awake, ye hurricanes!Ye winds that harrow up the wintry waste,Awake! for Thunder in his sounding car,Flashing thick lightning from the rolling wheels,And the red volley, charged with instant death,Were music to this lingering, sickening calm,The same eternal sunshine; still, all still,Without a vapour, or a sound.If thus,190Beneath the burning, breathless atmosphere,Faint Nature sickening droop; who shall ascendThe height, where Silence, since the world began,Has sat on Cimborazzo's highest peak,A thousand toises o'er the cloud's career,Soaring in finest ether? Far below,He sees the mountains burning at his feet,Whose smoke ne'er reached his forehead; never there,Though the black whirlwind shake the distant shores,The passing gale has murmured; never there200The eagle's cry has echoed; never thereThe solitary condor's weary wingHath yet ascended!Let the rising thoughtBeyond the confines of this vapoury vaultBe lifted, to the boundless void of space,How dread, how infinite! where other worlds,Ten million and ten million leagues aloft,In other precincts with their shadows roll.There roams the sole erratic comet, borne210With lightning speed, yet twice three hundred yearsIts destined course accomplishing.Then whirled,Far from the attractive orb of central fire,Back through the dim and infinite abyss,Dread flaming visitant, ere thou return'st,Empires may rise and fail; the palaces,That shone on earth, may vanish like the dewsOf morning, scarce illumined ere they fly.Dread flaming visitant, who that pursues220Thy long and lonely voyage, ev'n in thought,(Till thought itself seem in the effort lost,)But tremblingly exclaims, There is a God:There is a God who lights ten thousand suns,[122]Round which revolve worlds wheeling amid worlds.He launched thy voyage through the vast abyss,He hears his universe, through all its orbs,As with one voice, proclaim,There is a God!Lifted above this dim diurnal sphere,230So fancy, rising with her theme, ascends,And voyaging the illimitable void,Where comets flame, sees other worlds and sunsEmerge, and on this earth, like a dim speck,Looks down: nor in the wonderful and vastOf the dread scene magnificent, she viewsAlone the Almighty Ruler, but the webThat shines in summer time, and only seenIn the slant sunbeam, wakes a moral thought.In autumn, when the thin long spider gains240The leafy bush's top, he from his seatShoots the soft filament, like threads of air,Scarce seen, into the sky; and thus sustained,Boldly ascends into the breezy void,Dependent on the trembling line he wove,Insidious, and intent on scenes of spoilAnd death:—So mounts Ambition, and aloftOn his proud summit meditates new scenesOf plunder and dominion, till the breezeOf fortune change, that blows to empty air250His feeble, frail support, and once againLeaves him a reptile, struggling in the dust!But what the world itself, what in His viewWhose dread Omnipotence is over all!A twinkling air-thread in the vast of space.And what the works of that proud insect, Man!His mausoleums, fanes, and pyramids,Frown in the dusk of long-revolving years,While generations, as they rise and drop,Each following each to silence and to dust,260Point as they pass, and say, It was a God[123]That made them: but nor date, nor nameOblivion shows; cloud only, rolling on,And wrapping darker as it rolls, the worksOf man!Now raised on Contemplation's wing,The blue vault, fervent with unnumbered stars,He ranges: speeds, as with an angel's flight,From orb to orb; sees distant suns illumeThe boundless space, then bends his head to earth,270So poor is all he knows!O'er sanguine fieldsNow rides he, armed and crested like the godOf fabled battles; where he points, pale DeathStrides over weltering carcases; nor leaves,—But still a horrid shadow, step by step,Stalks mocking after him, till now the noiseOf rolling acclamation, and the shoutOf multitude on multitude, is past:The scene of all his triumphs, wormy earth,280Closes upon his perishable pride;For "dust he is, and shall to dust return"!But Conscience, a small voice from heaven replies,Conscience shall meet him in another world.Let man, then, walk meek, humble, pure, and just;Though meek, yet dignified; though humble, raised,The heir of life and immortality;Conscious that in this awful world he stands,He only of all living things, ordainedTo think, and know, and feel, there is a God!290Child of the air, though most I love to hearThy gentle summons whisper, when the Spring,At the first carol of the village lark,Looks out and smiles, or June is in her car;Not undelightful is the purer airIn winter, when the keen north-east is high,When frost fantastic his cold garland weavesOf brittle flowers, or soft-succeeding snowsGather without apace, and heavy loadThe berried sweetbrier, clinging to my pane.300The blackbird, then, that marks the ruddy podsPeep through the snow, though silent is his song,Yet, pressed by cold and hunger, ventures near.The robin group, familiar, muster roundThe garden-shed, where, at his dinner set,The laboured hind strews here and there a crumbFrom his brown bread; then heedless of the windsThat blow without, and sweep the shivered snow,Sees from his broken tube the smoke ascendOn an inverted barrow, as in state310He sits, though poor, the monarch of the scene,As pondering deep the garden's future state,His kingdom; the rude instruments of deathLie at his feet, fashioned with simple skill,With which he hopes to snare the prowling race,The mice, rapacious of his vernal hopes.So seated, on the spring he ruminates,And solemn as a sophi,[124]moves nor hand,Nor eye, till haply some more venturous bird,(The crumbs exhausted that he lately strewed320Upon the groundsill,) with often dipping beak,And sidelong look, as asking larger dole,Comes hopping to his feet: and say, ye great,Ye mighty monarchs of this earthly scene,What nobler views can elevate the heartOf a proud patriot king, than thus to chaseThe bold rapacious spoilers from the field,And with an eye of merciful regardTo look on humble worth, wet from the storm,And chilled by indigence!330But thoughts like theseIll suit the radiant summer's rosy prime,And the still temper of the calm blue sky.The sunny shower is past; at intervalsThe silent glittering drops descend; and mark,Upon the blue bank of yon western cloud,That looms direct against the emerging orb,How bright, how beautiful the rainbow's huesSteal out, how stately bends the graceful archAbove the hills, and tinging at his foot340The mead and trees! Fancy might think young HopePants for the vision, and with ardent eyePursues the unreal shade, and spreads her hands,Weeping to see it fade, as all her dreamsHave faded.These, O Air! are but the toys,That sometimes deck thy fairy element;So oft the eye observant loves to traceThe colours, and the shadows, and the forms,That wander o'er the veering atmosphere.350See, in the east, the rare parhelia shineIn mimic glory, and so seem to mock(Fixed parallel to the ascending orb)The majesty, the splendour, and the shape,Of the sole luminary that informsThe world with light and heat! The halo-ringBends over all!With desultory shafts,And long and arrowy glance, the night-lights[125]shootPale coruscations o'er the northern sky;360Now lancing to the cope, in sheets of flame,Now wavering wild, as the reflected wave,On the arched roof of the umbrageous grot.Hence Superstition dreams of armaments,Of fiery conflicts, and of bleeding fieldsOf slaughter; so on great Jerusalem,Ere yet she fell, the flaming meteor glared;A waving sword ensanguined seemed to pointTo the devoted city, and a voiceWas heard, Depart, depart![126]370The atmosphere,That with the ceaseless hurry of its clouds,Encircles the round globe, resembles oftThe passing sunshine, or the glooms that strayO'er every human spirit.Thin light streaksOf thought pass vapoury o'er the vacant mind,And fade to nothing. Now fantastic gleamsPlay, flashing or expiring, of gay hope,Or deep despair; then clouds of sadness close380In one dark settled gloom, and all the manDroops, in despondence lost.Aërial tintsPlease most the pensive poet: and the viewsHe forms, though evanescent, and as vainAs the air's mockery, seem to his eyeEv'n as substantial images, and shapes,Till in a hurrying rack they all dissolve.So in the cloudless sky, amusive shinesThe soft and mimic scenery; distant hills390That, in refracted light, hang beautifulBeneath the golden car of eve, ere yetThe daylight lingering fades.Hence, on the heightsOf Apennine, far stretching to the south,The goat-herd, while the westering sun, far off,Hangs o'er the hazy ocean's brim, beholdsIn the horizon's faintly-glowing vergeA landscape,[127]like the rainbow, rise, with rocksThat softened shine, and shores that trend away,400Beneath the winding woods of Sicily,And Etna, smouldering in the still pale sky;And dim Messina, with her spires, and baysThat wind among the mountains, and the towerOf Faro, gleaming on the tranquil straits;Unreal all, yet on the air impressed,From light's refracted ray,[128]the shadow seemsThe certain scene: the hind astonished views,Yet most delighted, till at once the lightChanges, and all has vanished!410But to him,How different in still air the unreal view,Who wanders in Arabian solitudes,When, faint with thirst, he sees illusive streams[129]Shine in the arid desert!All around,A silent waste of dark gray sand is spread,Like ashes; not a speck in heaven appears,But the red sun, high in his burning noon,Shoots down intolerable fire: no sound420Of beast, or blast, or moving insect, stirsThe horrid stillness. Oh! what hand will guideThe pilgrim, panting in the trackless dust,To where the pure and sparkling fountain cheersThe green oasis.[130]See, as now his lipHangs parched and quivering, see before him spreadThe long and level lake!He gazes; stillHe gazes, till he drops upon the sands,And to the vision stretches, as he faints,430His feeble hand.Come, Sylph of Summer, come!Return to these green pastures, that, remoteFrom fiery blasts, or deadly blistering frosts,Beneath the temperate atmosphere rejoice!A crown of flame, a javelin in his hand,Like the red arrow that the lightning shootsThrough night, impetuous steeds, and burning wheels,That, as they whirl, flash to the cope of heaven,Proclaim the angel of the world of fire!440The ocean-king, lord of the waters, ridesHigh on his hissing car, whose concave skirrsThe azure deep beneath him, flashing wide,As to the sun the dark-green wave upturns,And foaming far behind: sea-horses breastThe bickering surge, with nostrils sounding far,And eyes that flash above the wave, and necks,Whose mane, like breakers whitening in the wind,Toss through the broken foam: he kingly bearsHis trident sceptre high; around him play450Nereids, and sea-maids, singing as he ridesTheir choral song: huge Triton, weltering on,With scaly train, at times his wreathed shellSounds, that the caverns of old ocean shake!But milder thou, soft daughter of the air,Sylph of the Summer, come! the silent showerIs past, and 'mid the dripping fern, the wrenPeeps, till the sun looks through the clouds again.Oh, come, and breathe thy gentler influence,And send a home-felt quiet to my heart,460Soothed as I hear, by fits, thy whisper run,Stirring the tall acacia's pendent leaves,And through yon hazel alley rustling softUpon the vacant ear!Yon eastern downs,That weather-fence the blossoms of the vale,Where winds from hill to hill the mighty Dike,[131]Of Woden named, with many an antique mound,The warrior's grave, bids exercise awake,And health, the breeze of morning to inhale:470Meantime, remote from storms, the myrtle bloomsBeneath my southern sash.The hurricaneMay rend the pines of snowy Labrador,The blasting whirlwinds of the desert sweepThe Nubian wilderness—we fear them not;Nor yet, my country, do thy breezes bear,From citrons, or the blooming orange-grove,As in Rousillon's jasmine-bordered vales,Incense at eve.480But temperate airs are thine,England; and as thy climate, so thy sonsPartake the temper of thine isle; not rude,Nor soft, voluptuous, nor effeminate;Sincere, indeed, and hardy, as becomesThose who can lift their look elate, and say,We strike for injured freedom; and yet mild,And gentle, when the voice of charityPleads like a voice from heaven: and, thanks toGod,The chain that fettered Afric's groaning race,490The murderous chain, that, link by link, dropped blood,Is severed; we have lost that foul reproachTo all our virtuous boast!Humanity,England, is thine! notthatfalse substitute,That meretricious sadness, which, all sighsFor lark or lambkin, yet can hear unmovedThe bloodiest orgies of blood-boltered France;Thine is consistent, manly, rational,Nor needing the false glow of sentiment500To melt it into sympathy, but mild,And looking with a gentle eye on all;Thy manners open, social, yet refined,Are tempered with reflection; gaiety,In her long-lighted halls, may lead the dance,Or wake the sprightly chord; yet nature, truth,Still warm the ingenuous heart: there is a blushWith those most gay, and lovely; and a tearWith those most manly!Temperate Liberty510Hath yet the fairest altar on thy shores;Such, and so warm with patriot energy,As raised its arm when a false Stuart fled;Yet mingled with deep wisdom's cautious lore,That when it bade a Papal tyrant pauseAnd tremble, held the undeviating reinsOn the fierce neck of headlong Anarchy.Thy Church, (nor here let zealot bigotry,Vaunting, condemn all altars but its own),Thy Church, majestic, but not sumptuous,520Sober, but not austere, with lenityTempering her fair pre-eminence, sustainsHer liberal charities, yet decent state.The tempest is abroad; the fearful soundsOf armament, and gathering tumult, fillThe ear of anxious Europe. If, OGod!It is thy will, that in the storm of death,When we have lifted the brave sword in vain,We too should sink, sustain us in that hour!Meantime be mine, in cheerful privacy,530To wait Thy will, not sanguine, nor depressed;In even course, nor splendid, nor obscure,To steal through life among my villagers!The hum of the discordant crowd, the buzzOf faction, the poor fly that threads the airSelf-pleased, the wasp that points its tiny stingUnfelt, pass by me like the idle windThat I regard not; while the Summer Sylph,That whispers through the laurels, wakes the thoughtOf quietude, and home-felt happiness,540And independence, in a land I love!

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