With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower,
Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; And while those lofty poplars gently wave Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of eternity,
To saints accorded in their mortal hour.
COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IN NORTH WALES.
THROUGH Shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls, Wandering with timid footsteps oft betrayed, The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid Old Time, though he, gentlest among the Thralls Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid His lenient touches, soft as light that falls, From the wan Moon, upon the towers and walls, Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade. Relic of Kings! Wreck of forgotten wars, To winds abandoned and the prying stars, Time loves Thee! at his call the Seasons twine Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar And, though past pomp no changes can restore, A soothing recompence, his gift, is thine!
TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P.
Composed in the Grounds of Plass Newidd, near Llangollen, 1824.
A STREAM, to mingle with your favourite Dee, Along the VALE OF MEDITATION flows; So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see In Nature's face the expression of repose; Or haply there some pious hermit chose To live and die, the peace of heaven his aim ; To whom the wild sequestered region owes, At this late day, its sanctifying name. GLYN CAFAILLGAROCH, in the Cambrian tongue, In ours, the VALE OF FRIENDSHIP, let this spot Be named; where, faithful to a low-roofed Cot, On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long; Sisters in love, a love allowed to climb, Even on this earth, above the reach of Time!
IN THE WOODS OF RYDAL.
WILD Redbreast! hadst thou at Jemima's lip A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip Pecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love might say, Its glistening dews; but hallowed is the clay Which the Muse warms; and I, whose head is grey,
Am not unworthy of thy fellowship: Nor could I let one thought-one motion-slip That might thy sylvan confidence betray. For are we not all His without whose care Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to the ground? Who gives his Angels wings to speed through air, And rolls the planets through the blue profound; Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer! nor forbear To trust a Poet in still musings bound.
WHEN Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle Like a Form sculptured on a monument Lay couched on him or his dread bow unbent Some wild Bird oft might settle and beguile The rigid features of a transient smile, Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent, Slackening the pains of ruthless banishmen From his loved home, and from heroic toil. And trust that spiritual Creatures round us Griefs to allay which Reason cannot heal; Yea, veriest reptiles have sufficed to prove To fettered wretchedness, that no Bastile Is deep enough to exclude the light of love, Though man for brother man has ceased to feel.
WHILE Anna's peers and early playmates tread, In freedom, mountain-turf and river's marge; Or float with music in the festal barge; Reign the proud steed, or through the dance are led;
Her doom it is to press a weary bed- Till oft her guardian Angel, to some charge More urgent called, will stretch his wings at
And friends too rarely prop the languid head. Yet, helped by Genius-untired comforter, The presence even of a stuffed Owl for her Can cheat the time; sending her fancy out To ivied castles and to moonlight skies, Though he can neither stir a plume, nor shout: Nor veil, with restless film, his staring eyes.
Forth to her Dove, and took no further heed. Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed: But from that bondage when her thoughts were freed
She rose, and toward the close-shut casement drew,
Whence the poor unregarded Favourite, true What a To old affections, had been heard to plead With flapping wing for entrance.
ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey
When at the sacred font for thee I stood: Pledged till thou reach the verge of woman-
And shalt become thy own sufficient stay: Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day Yet shall my blessing hover o er thee still, For stedfast hope the contract to fulfil; Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream* Embodied in the music of this Lay,
Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's
After her throes, this Stream of name more dear Since thou dost bear it,-a memorial theme For others; for thy future self, a spell To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.
FLOOR IN THE A GRAVE-STONE UPON THE CLOISTERS OF WORCESTER CATHEDRAL. "MISERRIMUS!" and neither name nor date,
Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone;
Of harmony!-a shriek of terror, pain, And self-reproach! for, from aloft, a Kite Pounced, and the Dove, which from its ruth- less beak
She could not rescue, perished in her sight!
HE INFANT MM
UNQUIET Childhood here by special grace Forgets her nature, opening like a flower That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power In painful struggles. Months each other chase, And nought untunes that Infant's voice; no
cheek: pure Of fretful temper sullies her Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek That one enrapt with gazing on her face (Which even the placid innocence of death Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more bright)
Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light; A nursling couched upon her mother's knee, Beneath some shady palm of Galilee.
TO, IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR.
SUCH age how beautful! O Lady bright, Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind To something purer and more exquisite Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight,
When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek, Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white,
And head that droops because the soul is meek, Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare; That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb
From desolation toward the genial prime; Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, And filling more and more with crystal light As pensive Evening deepens into night.
Nought but that word assigned to the unknown, That solitary word-to separate
From all, and cast a cloud around the fate Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched one, Who chose his epitaph?-Himself alone Could thus have dared the grave to agitate, And claim, among the dead, this awful crown; Nor doubt that He marked also for his own Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place, That every foot might fall with heavier tread, Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, pass Softly!-To save the contrite, Jesus bled.
ROMAN ANTIQUITIES DISCOVERED AT BISHOP- STONE, HEREFORDSHIRE.
WHILE poring Antiquarians search the ground Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a Seer, Takes fire:-The men that have been reap-
Romans for travel girt, for business gowned; And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned, In festal glee: why not? For fresh and clear, As if its hues were of the passing year, Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that mound
Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins, Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil: Or a fierce impress issues with its foil Of tenderness-the Wolf, whose suckling
The unlettered ploughboy pities when he wins The casual treasure from the furrowed soil.
XXI. 1830. CHATSWORTH! thy stately mansion, and the pride present
Of thy domain, strange contrast do To house and home in many a craggy rent Of the wild Peak; where new-born waters glide
Through fields whose thrifty occupants abide As in a dear and chosen banishment,
* The river Rotha, that flows into Windermere from the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydal.
A TRADITION OF OKER HILL IN DARLEY Dale, DERBYSHIRE.
'Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face from face,
Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still Or feed, each planted on that lofty place A chosen Tree; then, eager to fulfil Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they In opposite directions urged their way Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill
Or blight that fond memorial;-the trees grew, And now entwine their arms; but ne'er again Embraced those. Brothers upon Earth's wide plain;
Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew Until their spirits mingled in the sea That to itself takes all, Eternity.
(ON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON AND LIVERPOOL.)
UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold; Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth; That Pile of Turf is half a century old: Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 'Gainst him who raised it,-his last work on earth:
Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, Through reverence, touch it only to repair Its waste. Though crumbling with each breath of air,
In annual renovation thus it stands- Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there, And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are
Unrecognised through many a household tear More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of dew
By morning shed around a flower half-blown; Tears of delight, that testified how true To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!
WHY art thou silent? Is thy love a plant of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant- Bound to thy service with unceasing care, The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak-though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine- Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
TO B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE ON THE ISLAND OF ST HELENA.
HAYDON! let worthier judges praise the skill Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines And charm of colours; I applaud those signs Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill; That unencumbered whole of blank and still, Sky without cloud-ocean without a wave; And the one Man that laboured to enslave The World, sole-standing high on the bare hill- Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent face Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place With light reflected from the invisible sun Set, like his fortunes; but not set for aye Like them. The unguilty Power pursues his
A POET!-He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand-must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality.
THE most alluring clouds that mount the sky Owe to a troubled element their forms, Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye We watch their splendour, shall we covet storms, And wish the Lord of day his slow decline Would hasten, that such pomp may float on
Behold, already they forget to shine, Dissolve-and leave to him who gazed a sigh. Not loth to thank each moment for its boon
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION.
On ground yet strewn with their last battles
Let the Steed glory while his Master's hand Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck;
But by the Chieftain's look, though at his side Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a check
Is given to triumph and all human pride! Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy speck In his calm presence! Him the mighty deed Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's rest, As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame In Heaven; hence no one blushes for thy name, Conqueror, mid some sad thoughts, divinely
COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838. LIFE with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide; And sullenness avoid, as now they shun Pale twilight's lingering glooms,-and in the
Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied; Or gambol-each with his shadow at his side, Varying its shape wherever he may run. As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew All turn, and court the shining and the green, Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are
Why to God's goodness cannot We be true, And so, His gifts and promises between, Feed to the last on pleasures ever new?
Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance,
One upward hand, as if she needed rest From rapture, lying softly on her breast! Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance; But not the less-nay more-that countenance, While thus illumined, tells of painful strife For a sick heart made weary of this life By love, long crossed with adverse circumstance. -Would She were now as when she hoped to
At God's appointed hour to them who tread Heaven's sapphire pavement; yet breathed well
Well pleased, her foot should print earth's
Lived thankful for day's light, for daily bread, For health, and time in obvious duty spent.
Who, yielding not to changes Time has made, By the habitual light of memory see Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee
Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be; And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. Couldst thou go back into far-distant years, Or share with me, fond thought! that inward Then, and then only, Painter ! could thy Art The visual powers of Nature satisfy, Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears, Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.
ON THE SAME SUBJECT. THOUGH I beheld at first with blank surprise This Work, I now have gazed on it so long O, my Beloved! I have done thee wrong, I see its truth with unreluctant eyes: Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, Ever too heedless, as I now perceive: And the old day was welcome as the young, As welcome, and as beautiful-in sooth More beautiful, as being a thing more holy: Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth Of all thy goodness, never melancholy; To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast Into one vision, future, present, past.
HARK! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, By twilight premature of cloud and rain; Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain Who carols thinking of his Love and nest, And seems, as more incited, still more blest. Thanks; thou hast snapped a fire-side Prisoner's chain,
Exulting Warbler! eased a fretted brain, And in a moment charmed my cares to rest. Yes, I will forth, bold Bird! and front the blast, That we may sing together, if thou wilt, So loud, so clear, my Partner through life's day, Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past, Thrilled by loose snatches of the social Lay. Rydal Mount, 1838.
Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
OH what a Wreck! how changed in mien and speech! mystery, spin Yet-though dread
Powers, that work in
O'er the chilled heart-reflect: far, far within Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch, But delegated Spirits comfort fetch To Her from heights that Reason may not win. Like Children, She is privileged to hold Divine communion; both do live and move, Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways unfold, Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love; Love pitying innocence not long to last, In them-in Her our sins and sorrows past.
| Reader, farewell! My last words let them be- If in this book Fancy and Truth agree; If simple Nature trained by careful Art Through It have won a passage to thy heart; Grant me thy love, I crave no other fee!
TO THE REV, CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH, D.D. MASTER OF HARROW SCHOOL,
After the perusal of his Theophilus Anglicanus, recently published.
ENLIGHTENED Teacher, gladly from thy hand Have I rceived this proof of pains bestowed By Thee to guide thy Pupils on the road
INTENT on gathering wool from hedge and That, in our native isle, and every land,
A PLEA FOR AUTHORS, MAY 1838. FAILING impartial measure to dispense To every suitor, Equity is lame : And social Justice, stript of reverence For natural rights, a mockery and a shame; Law but a servile dupe of false pretence, If, guarding grossest things from common claim Now and for ever, She, to works that came From mind and spirit, grudge a short-lived fence.
"What! lengthened privilege, a lineal tie, For Books!" Yes, heartless Ones, or be it
That 'tis a fault in Us to have lived and loved Like others, with like temporal hopes to die; No public harm that Genius from her course Be turned; and streams of truth dried up, even at their source !
The Church, when trusting in divine command And in her Catholic attributes, hath trod: O may these lessons be with profit scanned To thy heart's wish, thy labour blest by God! So the bright faces of the young and gay Shall look more bright-the happy, happier still:
Catch, in the pauses of their keenest play, Motions of thought which elevate the will And, like the Spire that from your classic Hill Points heavenward, indicate the end and way. Rydal Mount, Dec. 11, 1843.
TO THE PLANET VENUS.
Upon its approximation (as an Evening Star) to the Earth, Jan. 1838. WHAT strong allurement draws, what spirit guides,
Thee, Vesper! brightening still, as if the nearer Thou com'st to man's abode the spot grew
Night after night? True is it Nature hides Her treasures less and less. -Man now presides In power, where once he trembled in his weak-
Science advances with gigantic strides ; But are we aught enriched in love and meek-
Aught dost thou see, bright Star! of pure and wise
More than in humbler times graced human
That makes our hearts more apt to sympathise With heaven, our souls more fit for future
When earth shall vanish from our closing eyes, Ere we lie down in our last dormitory?
WANSFELL this Household has a favoured lot,
Living with liberty on thee to gaze, To watch while Morn first crowns thee with her rays,
Or when along thy breast serenely float Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) thy praise
For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought
The Hill that rises to the south-east, above Ambleside.
« AnteriorContinuar » |