A lovelier form now meets mine eye,

Than the loveliest cloud that sails the sky;

And human feelings blend

With the pleasure born of the glistening air,

As in our dreams uprises fair

The face of a dear friend.

A vision glides before my brain,

Like her who lives beyond the Main!

Breathing delight, the beauteous flower

That Heaven had raised to grace this bower.

To me this field is holy ground!

Her voice is speaking in the sound

That cheers the streamlet's bed.

Sweet Maiden!--side by side we stand,

While gently moves beneath my hand

Her soft and silky head.

A moment's pause!--and as I look

On the silent cot, and the idle brook,

And the face of the quiet day,

I know from all that many a year

Hath slowly past in sorrow here,

Since Mary went away.

But that wreath of smoke now melting thin,

Tells that some being dwells within;

And the balmy breath that stole

From the rose-tree, and jasmin, clustering wide,

O'er all the dwelling's blooming side,

Tells that whoe'er doth there abide,

Must have a gentle soul.

Then gently breathe, and softly tread,

As if thy steps were o'er the dead!

Break not the slumber of the air,

Even by the whisper of a prayer,

But in thy spirit let there be

A silent "Benedicite!"

Thine eye falls on the vision bright,

As she sits amid the lonely light

That gleams from her cottage-hearth:

O! fear not to gaze on her with love!

For, though these looks are from above,

She is a form of earth.

In the silence of her long distress,

She sits with pious stateliness;

As if she felt the eye of God

Were on her childless lone abode.

While her lips move with silent vows,

With saintly grace the phantom bows

Over a Book spread open on her knee.

O blessed Book! such thoughts to wake!

It tells of Him who for our sake

Died on the cross,--Our Saviour's History.

How beauteously hath sorrow shed

Its mildness round her aged head!

How beauteously her sorrow lies

In the solemn light of her faded eyes!

And lo! a faint and feeble trace

Of hope yet lingers on her face,

That she may yet embrace again

Her child, returning from the Main;

For the brooding dove shall leave her nest,

Sooner than hope a mother's breast.

Her long-lost child may still survive!

That thought hath kept her wasted heart alive;

And often, to herself unknown,

Hath mingled with the midnight sigh,

When she breathed, in a voice of agony,

"Now every hope is gone!"

'Twas this that gave her strength to look

On the mossy banks of the singing brook,

Where Mary oft had play'd;

And duly, at one stated hour,

To go in calmness to the bower

Built in her favourite glade.

'Twas this that made her, every morn,

As she bless'd it, bathe the ancient thorn

With water from the spring;

And gently tend each flowret's stalk,

For she call'd to mind who loved to walk

Through their fragrant blossoming.

Yea! the voice of hope oft touch'd her ear

From the hymn of the lark that caroll'd clear,

Through the heart of the silent sky.

"Oh, such was my Mary's joyful strain!

And such she may haply sing again

Before her Mother die."

Thus hath she lived for seven long years,

With gleams of comfort through her tears;

Thus hath that beauty to her face been given!

And thus, though silver-grey her hair,

And pale her cheek, yet is she fair

As any Child of Heaven.

Yet, though she thus in calmness sit,

Full many a dim and ghastly fit

Across her brain hath roll'd:

Oft hath she swoon'd away from pain;

And when her senses came again,

Her heart was icy-cold.

Hard hath it been for her to bear

The dreadful silence of the air

At night, around her bed;

When her waking thoughts through the darkness grew

Hideous as dreams, and for truth she knew

That her dear child was dead.

Things loved before seem alter'd quite,

The sun himself yields no delight,

She hears not the neighbouring waterfall,

Or, if she hear, the tones recal

The thought of her, who once did sing

So sweetly to its murmuring.

No summer-gale, no winter-blast,

By day or night o'er her cottage pass'd,

If her restless soul did wake,

That brought not a Ship before her eyes;

Yea! often dying shrieks and cries

Sail'd o'er Llanberris Lake,

Though, far as the charm'd eye could view,

Upon the quiet earth it lay,

Like the Moon amid the heavenly way,

As bright and silent too.

Hath she no friend whose heart may share

With her the burthen of despair,

And by her earnest, soothing voice,

Bring back the image of departed joys

So vividly, that reconciled

To the drear silence of her cot,

At times she scarcely miss her child?

Or, the wild raving of the sea forgot,

Hear nought amid the calm profound,

Save Mary's voice, a soft and silver sound?

No! seldom human footsteps come

Unto her childless widow'd home;

No friend like this e'er sits beside her fire:

For still doth selfish happiness

Keep far away from real distress,

Loth to approach, and eager to retire.

The vales are wide, the torrents deep,

Dark are the nights, the mountains steep,

And many a cause, without a name,

Will from our spirits hide the blame,

When, thinking of ourselves, we cease

To think upon another's peace;

Though one short hour to sorrow given,

Would chear the gloom, and win the applause of Heaven.

Yet, when by chance they meet her on the hill,

Or lonely wandering by the sullen rill,

By its wild voice to dim seclusion led,

The shepherds linger on their way,

And unto God in silence pray,

To bless her hoary head.

In church-yard on the sabbath-day

They all make room for her, even they

Whose tears are falling down in showers

Upon the fading funeral flowers,

Which they have planted o'er their children's clay.

And though her faded cheeks be dry,

Her breast unmoved by groan or sigh,

More piteous is one single smile

Of hers, than many a tear;

For she is wishing all the while

That her head were lying here;

Since her dear daughter is no more,

Drown'd in the sea, or buried on the shore.

A sudden thought her brain hath cross'd;

And in that thought all woes are lost,

Though sad and wild it be:

Why must she still, from year to year,

In lonely anguish linger here?

Let her go, ere she die, unto the coast,

And dwell beside the sea;

The sea that tore her child away,

When glad would she have been to stay.

An awful comfort to her soul

To hear the sleepless Ocean roll!

To dream, that on his boundless breast,

Somewhere her long-wept child might rest;

On some far island wreck'd, yet blest

Even as the sunny wave.

Or, if indeed her child is drown'd,

For ever let her drink the sound

That day and night still murmurs round

Her Mary's distant grave.

--She will not stay another hour;

Her feeble limbs with youthful power

Now feel endow'd; she hath ta'en farewell

Of her native stream, and hill and dell;

And with a solemn tone

Upon the bower implores a blessing,

Where often she had sate caressing

Her who, she deems, is now a saint in Heaven.

Upon her hearth the fire is dead,

The smoke in air hath vanished;

The last long lingering look is given,

The shuddering start,--the inward groan,--

And the Pilgrim on her way hath gone.

Behold her on the lone sea-shore,

Listening unto the hollow roar

That with eternal thunder, far and wide,

Clothes the black-heaving Main! she stands

Upon the cold and moisten'd sands,

Nor in that deep trance sees the quickly-flowing tide.

She feels it is a dreadful noise,

That in her bowed soul destroys

A Mother's hope, though blended with her life;

But surely she hath lost her child,

For how could one so weak and mild

Endure the Ocean's strife,

Who, at this moment of dismay,

Howls like a monster o'er his prey!

But the tide is rippling at her feet,

And the murmuring sound, so wildly sweet,

Dispels these torturing dreams:

Oh! once again the sea behold,

O'er all its wavy fields of gold,

The playful sun-light gleams.

These little harmless waves so fair,

Speak not of sorrow or despair;

How soft the zephyr's breath!

It sings like joy's own chosen sound;

While life and pleasure dance around,

Why must thou muse on death?

Here even the timid child might come,

To dip her small feet in the foam;

And, laughing as she view'd

The billows racing to the shore,

Lament when their short course was o'er,

Pursuing and pursued.

How calmly floats the white sea-mew

Amid the billows' verdant hue!

How calmly mounts into the air,

As if the breezes blew her there!

How calmly on the sand alighting,

To dress her silken plumes delighting!

See! how these tiny vessels glide

With all sails set, in mimic pride,

As they were ships of war.

All leave the idle port to-day,

And with oar and sheet the sunny bay

Is glancing bright and far.

She sees the joy, but feels it not:

If e'er her child should be forgot

For one short moment of oblivious sleep,

It seems a wrong to one so kind,

Whose mother, left on earth behind,

Hath nought to do but weep.

For, wandering in her solitude,

Tears seem to her the natural food

Of widow'd childless age;

And bitter though these tears must be,

Which falling there is none to see,

Her anguish they assuage.

A calm succeeds the storm of grief,

A settled calm, that brings relief,

And half partakes of pleasure, soft and mild;

For the spirit, that is sore distrest,

At length, when wearied into rest,

Will slumber like a child.

And then, in spite of all her woe,

The bliss, that charm'd her long ago,

Bursts on her like the day.

Her child, she feels, is living still,

By God and angels kept from ill

On some isle far away.

It is not doom'd that she must mourn

For ever;--One may yet return

Who soon will dry her tears:

And now that seven long years are flown,

Though spent in anguish and alone,

How short the time appears!

She looks upon the billowy Main,

And the parting-day returns again;

Each breaking wave she knows;

And when she listens to the tide,

Her child seems standing by her side;

So like the past it flows.

She starts to hear the city-bell;

So toll'd it when they wept farewell!

She thinks the self-same smoke and cloud

The city domes and turrets shroud;

The same keen flash of ruddy fire

Is burning on the lofty spire;

The grove of masts is standing there

Unchanged, with all their ensigns fair;

The same, the stir, the tumult, and the hum,

As from the city to the shore they come.

Day after day, along the beach she roams,

And evening finds her there, when to their homes

All living things have gone.

No terrors hath the surge or storm

For her;--on glides the aged form,

Still restless and alone.

Familiar unto every eye

She long hath been: her low deep sigh

Hath touch'd with pity many a thoughtless breast:

And prayers, unheard by her, are given,

That in its mercy watchful Heaven

Would send the aged rest.

As on the smooth and harden'd sand,

In many a gay and rosy band,

Gathering rare shells, delighted children stray,

With pitying gaze they pass along,

And hush at once the shout and song,

When they chance to cross her way.

The strangers, as they idly pace

Along the beach, if her they meet,

No more regard the sea: her face

Attracts them by its solemn grace,

So mournful, yet so sweet.

The boisterous sailor passes by

With softer step, and o'er his eye

A haze will pass most like unto a tear;

For he hath heard, that, broken-hearted,

Long, long ago, that mother parted

With her lost daughter here.

Such kindness soothes her soul, I ween,

As through the harbour's busy scene,

She passes weak and slow.

A comfort sad it brings to see

That others pity her, though free

Themselves from care or woe.

The playful voice of streams and rills,

The echo of the cavern'd hills,

The murmur of the trees,

The bleat of sheep, the song of bird,

Within her soul no more are heard;

There, sound for aye the seas.

Seldom she hears the ceaseless din

That stirs the busy port. Within

A murmur dwells, that drowns all other sound:

And oft, when dreaming of her child,

Her tearful eyes are wandering wild,

Yet nought behold around.

But hear and see she must this day;

Her sickening spirit must obey

The flashing and the roar

That burst from fort, and ship, and tower,

While clouds of gloomy splendour lower

O'er city, sea, and shore.

The pier-head, with a restless crowd,

Seems all alive; there, voices loud

Oft raise the thundrous cheer,

While, from on board the ships of war,

The music bands both near and far,

Are playing, faint or clear.

The bells ring quick a joyous peal,

Till the very spires appear to feel

The joy that stirs throughout their tapering height:

Ten thousand flags and pendants fly

Abroad, like meteors in the sky,

So beautiful and bright.

And, while the storm of pleasure raves

Through each tumultuous street,

Still strikes the ear one darling tune,

Sung hoarse, or warbled sweet;

Well doth it suit the First of June,

"Britannia rule the Waves!"

What Ship is she that rises slow

Above the horizon?--White as snow,

And cover'd as she sails

By the bright sunshine, fondly woo'd

In her calm beauty, and pursued

By all the Ocean gales?

Well doth she know this glorious morn,

And by her subject waves is borne,

As in triumphal pride:

And now the gazing crowd descry,

Distinctly floating on the sky,

Her pendants long and wide.

The outward forts she now hath pass'd;

Loftier and loftier towers her mast;

You almost hear the sound

Of the billows rushing past her sides,

As giant-like she calmly glides

Through the dwindled ships around.

Saluting thunders rend the Main!

Short silence!--and they roar again,

And veil her in a cloud:

Then up leap all her fearless crew,

And cheer till shore, and city too,

With echoes answer loud.

In peace and friendship doth she come,

Rejoicing to approach her home,

After absence long and far:

Yet with like calmness would she go,

Exulting to behold the foe,

And break the line of war.

While all the noble Ship admire,

Why doth One from the crowd retire,

Nor bless the stranger bright?

So look'd the Ship that bore away

Her weeping child! She dares not stay,

Death-sickening at the sight.

Like a ghost, she wanders up and down

Throughout the still deserted town,

Wondering, if in that noisy throng,

Amid the shout, the dance, the song,

One wretched heart there may not be,

That hates its own mad revelry!

One mother, who hath lost her child,

Yet in her grief is reconciled

To such unmeaning sounds as these!

Yet this may be the mere disease

Of grief with her: for why destroy

The few short hours of human joy,

Though Reason own them not?--"Shout on," she cries,

"Ye thoughtless, happy souls! A mother's sighs

Must not your bliss profane.

Yet blind must be that mother's heart

Who loves thee, beauteous as thou art,

Thou Glory of the Main!"

Towards the church-yard see the Matron turn!

There surely she in solitude may mourn,

Tormented not by such distracting noise.

But there seems no peace for her this day,

For a crowd advances on her way,

As if no spot were sacred from their joys.

--Fly not that crowd! for Heaven is there!

It breathes around thee in the air,

Even now, when unto dim despair

Thy heart was sinking fast:

A cruel lot hath long been thine;

But now let thy face with rapture shine,

For bliss awaiteth thee divine,

And all thy woes are past.

Dark words she hears among the crowd,

Of a ship that hath on board

Three Christian souls, who on the coast

Of some wild land were wreck'd long years ago,

When all but they were in a tempest lost,

And now by Heaven are rescued from their woe,

And to their country wondrously restored.

The name, the blessed name, she hears,

Of that beloved Youth,

Whom once she called her son; but fears

To listen more, for it appears

Too heavenly for the truth.

And they are speaking of a child,

Who looks more beautifully wild

Than pictured fairy in Arabian tale;

Wondrous her foreign garb, they say,

Adorn'd with starry plumage gay,

While round her head tall feathers play,

And dance with every gale.

Breathless upon the beach she stands,

And lifts to Heaven her clasped hands,

And scarcely dares to turn her eye

On yon gay barge fast-rushing by.

The dashing oar disturbs her brain

With hope, that sickens into pain.

The boat appears so wondrous fair,

Her daughter must be sitting there!

And as her gilded prow is dancing

Through the land-swell, and gaily glancing

Beneath the sunny gleams,

Her heart must own, so sweet a sight,

So form'd to yield a strange delight,

She ne'er felt even in dreams.

Silent the music of the oar!

The eager sailors leap on shore,

And look, and gaze around,

If 'mid the crowd they may descry

A wife's, a child's, a kinsman's eye,

Or hear one family sound.

--No sailor, he, so fondly pressing

Yon fair child in his arms,

Her eyes, her brow, her bosom kissing,

And bidding her with many a blessing

To hush her vain alarms.

How fair that creature by his side,

Who smiles with languid glee,

Slow-kindling from a mother's pride!

Oh! Thou alone may'st be

The mother of that fairy-child:

These tresses dark, these eyes so wild,

That face with spirit beautified,

She owes them all to thee.

Silent and still the sailors stand,

To see the meeting strange that now befel.

Unwilling sighs their manly bosoms swell,

And o'er their eyes they draw the sun-burnt hand,

To hide the tears that grace their cheeks so well.

They lift the aged Matron from her swoon,

And not one idle foot is stirring there;

For unto pity melts the sailor soon,

And chief when helpless woman needs his care.

She wakes at last, and with a placid smile,

Such as a saint might on her death-bed give,

Speechless she gazes on her child awhile,

Content to die since that dear one doth live.

And much they fear that she indeed will die!

So cold and pale her cheek, so dim her eye;--

And when her voice returns, so like the breath

It sounds, the low and tremulous tones of death.

Mark her distracted daughter seize

Her clay-cold hands, and on her knees

Implore that God would spare her hoary head;

For sure, through these last lingering years,

By one so good, enough of tears

Hath long ere now been shed.

The Fairy-child is weeping too;

For though her happy heart can slightly know

What she hath never felt, the pang of woe,

Yet to the holy power of Nature true,

From her big heart the tears of pity flow,

As infant morning sheds the purest dew.

Nought doth Fitz-Owen speak: he takes

His reverend mother on his filial breast,

Nor fears that, when her worn-out soul finds rest

In the new sleep of undisturbed love,

The gracious God who sees them from above,

Will save the parent for her children's sakes.

Nor vain his pious hope: the strife

Of rapture ends, and she returns to life,

With added beauty smiling in the lines

By age and sorrow left upon her face.

Her eye, even now bedimm'd with anguish, shines

With brightening glory, and a holy sense

In her husht soul of heavenly providence,

Breathes o'er her bending frame a loftier grace.

--Her Mary tells in simple phrase,

Of wildest perils past in former days,

Of shipwreck scarce remember'd by herself:

Then will she speak of that delightful isle

Where long they lived in love, and to the elf

Now fondly clinging to her grandam's knee,

In all the love of quick-won infancy,

Point with the triumph of a mother's smile.

The sweet child then will tell her tale

Of her own blossom'd bower, and palmy vale,

And birds with golden plumes, that sweetly sing

Tunes of their own, or borrow'd from her voice;

And, as she speaks, lo! flits with gorgeous wing

Upon her outstretch'd arm, a fearless bird,

Her eye obeying, ere the call was heard,

And wildly warbles there the music of its joys.

Unto the blessed matron's eye

How changed seem now town, sea, and sky!

She feels as if to youth restored,

Such fresh and beauteous joy is pour'd

O'er the green dancing waves, and shelly sand.

The crowded masts within the harbour stand,

Emblems of rest: and yon ships far away,

Brightening the entrance of the Crescent-bay,

Seem things the tempest never can destroy,

To longing spirits harbingers of joy.

How sweet the music o'er the waves is borne,

In celebration of this glorious morn!

Ring on, ye bells! most pleasant is your chime;

And the quick flash that bursts along the shore,

The volumed smoke, and city-shaking roar,

Her happy soul now feels to be sublime.

How fair upon the human face appears

A kindling smile! how idle all our tears!

Short-sighted still the moisten'd eyes of sorrow:

To-day our woes can never end,

Think we!--returns a long-lost friend,

And we are blest to-morrow.

Her anguish, and her wish to die,

Now seem like worst impiety,

For many a year she hopeth now to live;

And God, who sees the inmost breast,

The vain repining of the sore-distrest,

In mercy will forgive.

How oft, how long, and solemnly,

Fitz-Owen and his Mary gaze

On her pale cheek, and sunken eye!

Much alter'd since those happy days,

When scarcely could themselves behold

One symptom faint that she was waxing old.

That evening of her life how bright!

But now seems falling fast the night.

Yet the Welch air will breathe like balm

Through all her wasted heart, the heavenly calm

That mid her native mountains sleeps for ever,

In the deep vales,--even when the storms are roaring,

High up among the cliffs: and that sweet river

That round the white walls of her cottage flows,

With gliding motion most like to repose,

A quicker current to her blood restoring,

Will cheer her long before her eye-lids close.

And yonder cheek of rosy light,

Dark-clustering hair, and star-like eyes,

And Fairy-form, that wing'd with rapture flies,

And voice more wild than songstress of the night

E'er pour'd unto the listening skies;

Yon spirit, who, with her angel smile,

Shed Heaven around the lonely isle,

With Nature, and with Nature's art,

Will twine herself about the heart

Of her who hoped not for a grand-child's kiss!

These looks will scare disease and pain,

Till in her wasted heart again

Life grow with new-born bliss.

Far is the city left behind,

And faintly-smiling through the soft-blue skies,

Like castled clouds the Cambrian hills arise:

Sweet the first welcome of the mountain-wind!

And ever nearer as they come,

Beneath the hastening shades of silent Even,

Some old familiar object meets their sight,

Thrilling their hearts with sorrowful delight,

Until through tears they hail their blessed home,

Bathed in the mist, confusing earth with heaven.

With solemn gaze the aged matron sees

The green roof laughing beneath greener trees;

And thinks how happy she will live and die

Within that cot at last, beneath the eye

Of them long wept as perish'd in the seas.

And what feel they? with dizzy brain they look

On cot, field, mountain, garden, tree, and brook,

With none contented, although loving all;

While deep-delighted memory,

By faint degrees, and silently,

Doth all their names recall.

And looking in her mother's face,

With smiles of most bewitching grace,

In a wild voice that wondering pleasure calms,

Exclaims the child, "Is this home ours?

Ah me! how like these lovely flowers

To those I train'd upon the bowers

Of our own Isle of Palms!"

Husht now these island-bowers as death!

And ne'er may human foot or breath,

Their dew disturb again: but not more still

Stand they, o'er-shadowed by their palmy hill,

Than this deserted cottage! O'er the green,

Once smooth before the porch, rank weeds are seen,

Choking the feebler flowers: with blossoms hoar,

And verdant leaves, the unpruned eglantine

In wanton beauty foldeth up the door.

And through the clustering roses that entwine

The lattice-window, neat and trim before,

The setting sun's slant beams no longer shine.

The hive stands on the ivied tree,

But murmurs not one single bee;

Frail looks the osier-seat, and grey,

None hath sat there for many a day;

And the dial, hid in weeds and flowers,

Hath told, by none beheld, the solitary hours.

No birds that love the haunts of men,

Hop here, or through the garden sing;

From the thick-matted hedge, the lonely wren

Flits rapid by on timid wing,

Even like a leaf by wandering zephyr moved.

But long it is since that sweet bird,

That twitters 'neath the cottage eaves,

Was here by listening morning heard:

For she, the summer-songstress, leaves

The roof by laughter never stirr'd,

Still loving human life, and by it still beloved.

O! wildest cottage of the wild!

I see thee waking from thy breathless sleep!

Scarcely distinguish'd from the rocky steep,

High o'er thy roof in forms fantastic piled.

More beauteous art thou than of yore,

With joy all glistering after sorrow's gloom;

And they who in that paradise abide,

By sadness and misfortune beautified,

There brighter walk than o'er yon island-shore,

As loveliness wakes lovelier from the tomb.

Long mayst thou stand in sun and dew,

And spring thy faded flowers renew,

Unharm'd by frost or blight!

Without, the wonder of each eye,

Within, as happy as the sky,

Encompass'd with delight.

--May thy old-age be calm and bright,

Thou grey-hair'd one!--like some sweet night

Of winter, cold, but clear, and shining far

Through mists, with many a melancholy star.

--O fairy child! what can I wish for thee?

Like a perennial flow'ret mayst thou be,

That spends its life in beauty and in bliss!

Soft on thee fall the breath of time,

And still retain in heavenly clime

The bloom that charm'd in this!

O, happy Parents of so sweet a child,

Your share of grief already have you known;

But long as that fair spirit is your own,

To either lot you must be reconciled.

Dear was she in yon palmy grove,

When fear and sorrow mingled with your love,

And oft you wished that she had ne'er been born;

While, in the most delightful air

Th' angelic infant sang, at times her voice,

That seem'd to make even lifeless things rejoice,

Woke, on a sudden, dreams of dim despair,

As if it breathed, "For me, an Orphan, mourn!"

Now can they listen when she sings

With mournful voice of mournful things,

Almost too sad to hear;

And when she chaunts her evening-hymn,

Glad smile their eyes, even as they swim

With many a gushing tear.

Each day she seems to them more bright

And beautiful,--a gleam of light

That plays and dances o'er the shadowy earth!

It fadeth not in gloom or storm,--

For Nature charter'd that aerial form

In yonder fair Isle when she bless'd her birth!

The Isle of Palms! whose forests tower again,

Darkening with solemn shade the face of heaven.

Now far away they like the clouds are driven,

And as the passing night-wind dies my strain!

END OF THE ISLE OF PALMS.

THE ANGLER'S TENT.

_The moving accident is not my trade,

To curl the blood I have no ready arts;

'Tis my delight alone in summer-shade,

To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts._

WORDSWORTH.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The following Poem is the narrative of one day, the pleasantest of many

pleasant ones, of a little Angling-excursion made three summers ago among

the mountains of Westmoreland, Lancashire, and Cumberland. A tent, large

panniers filled with its furniture, with provisions, &c. were loaded upon

horses, and while the anglers, who separated every morning, pursued each

his own sport up the torrents, were carried over the mountains to the

appointed place by some lake or stream, where they were to meet again in

the evening.

In this manner they visited all the wildest and most secluded scenes of the

country. On the first Sunday they passed among the hills, their tent was

pitched on the banks of Wast-Water, at the head of that wild and solitary

lake, which they had reached by the mountain-path that passes Barn-Moor

Tarn from Eskdale. Towards evening the inhabitants of the valley, not

exceeding half a dozen families, with some too from the neighbouring glens,

drawn by the unusual appearance, came to visit the strangers in their tent.

Without, the evening was calm and beautiful; within, were the gaiety and

kindness of simple mirth. At a late hour, their guests departed under a

most refulgent moon that lighted them up the surrounding mountains, on

which they turned to hail with long-continued shouts and songs the blazing

of a huge fire, that was hastily kindled at the door of the tent to bid

them a distant farewell.

The images and feelings of these few happy days, and above all, of that

delightful evening, the author wished to preserve in poetry. What he has

written, while it serves to himself and his friends as a record of past

happiness, may, he hopes, without impropriety be offered to the public,

since, if at all faithful to its subject, it will have some interest to

those who delight in the wilder scenes of Nature, and who have studied with

respect and love the character of their simple inhabitants.

THE ANGLER'S TENT.

The hush of bliss was on the sunny hills,

The clouds were sleeping on the silent sky,

We travelled in the midst of melody

Warbled around us from the mountain-rills.

The voice was like the glad voice of a friend

Murmuring a welcome to his happy home;

We felt its kindness with our spirits blend,

And said, "This day no farther will we roam!"

The coldest heart that ever looked on heaven,

Had surely felt the beauty of that day,

And, as he paused, a gentle blessing given

To the sweet scene that tempted him to stay.

But we, who travelled through that region bright,

Were joyful pilgrims under Nature's care,

From youth had loved the dreams of pure delight,

Descending on us through the lonely air,

When Heaven is clothed with smiles, and Earth as Heaven is fair!

Seven lovely days had like a happy dream

Died in our spirits silently away,

Since Grassmere, waking to the morning ray,

Met our last lingering look with farewell gleam.

I may not tell what joy our beings filled,

Wand'ring like shadows over plain and steep,

What beauteous visions lonely souls can build

When 'mid the mountain solitude they sleep.

I may not tell how the deep power of sound

Can back to life long-faded dreams recall,

When lying mid the noise that lives around

Through the hush'd spirit flows a waterfall.

To thee, my WORDSWORTH![1] whose inspired song

Comes forth in pomp from Nature's inner shrine,

To thee by birth-right such high themes belong,

The unseen grandeur of the earth is thine!

One lowlier simple strain of human love be mine.

How leapt our hearts, when from an airy height,

On which we paused for a sweet fountain's sake,

With green fields fading in a peaceful lake,

A deep-sunk vale burst sudden on our sight!

We felt as if at home; a magic sound,

As from a spirit whom we must obey,

Bade us descend into the vale profound,

And in its silence pass the Sabbath-day.

The placid lake that rested far below,

Softly embosoming another sky,

Still as we gazed assumed a lovelier glow,

And seem'd to send us looks of amity.

Our hearts were open to the gracious love

Of Nature, smiling like a happy bride;

So following the still impulse from above,

Down the green slope we wind with airy glide,

And pitch our snowy tent on that fair water's side.

Ah me! even now I see before me stand,

Among the verdant holly-boughs half hid,

The little radiant airy pyramid,

Like some wild dwelling built in Fairy land.

As silently as gathering cloud it rose,

And seems a cloud descended on the earth,

Disturbing not the Sabbath-day's repose,

Yet gently stirring at the quiet birth

Of every short-lived breeze: the sun-beams greet

The beauteous stranger in the lonely bay;

Close to its shading tree two streamlets meet,

With gentle glide, as weary of their play.

And in the liquid lustre of the lake

Its image sleeps, reflected far below;

Such image as the clouds of summer make,

Clear seen amid the waveless water's glow,

As slumbering infant still, and pure as April snow.

Wild though the dwelling seem, thus rising fair,

A sudden stranger 'mid the sylvan scene,

One spot of radiance on surrounding green,

Human it is--and human souls are there!

Look through that opening in the canvass wall,

Through which by fits the scarce-felt breezes play,

--Upon three happy souls thine eyes will fall,

The summer lambs are not more blest than they!

On the green turf all motionless they lie,

In dreams romantic as the dreams of sleep,

The filmy air slow-glimmering on their eye,

And in their ear the murmur of the deep.

Or haply now by some wild winding brook,

Deep, silent pool, or waters rushing loud,

In thought they visit many a fairy nook

That rising mists in rainbow colours shroud,

And ply the Angler's sport involved in mountain-cloud!

Yes! dear to us that solitary trade,

'Mid vernal peace in peacefulness pursued,

Through rocky glen, wild moor, and hanging wood,

White-flowering meadow, and romantic glade!

The sweetest visions of our boyish years

Come to our spirits with a murmuring tone

Of running waters,--and one stream appears,

Remember'd all, tree, willow, bank, and stone!

How glad were we, when after sunny showers

Its voice came to us issuing from the school!

How fled the vacant, solitary hours,

By dancing rivulet, or silent pool!

And still our souls retain in manhood's prime

The love of joys our childish years that blest;

So now encircled by these hills sublime,

We Anglers, wandering with a tranquil breast,

Build in this happy vale a fairy bower of rest!

Within that bower are strewn in careless guise,

Idle one day, the angler's simple gear;

Lines that, as fine as floating gossamer,

Dropt softly on the stream the silken flies;

The limber rod that shook its trembling length,

Almost as airy as the line it threw,

Yet often bending in an arch of strength

When the tired salmon rose at last to view,

Now lightly leans across the rushy bed,

On which at night we dream of sports by day;

And, empty now, beside it close is laid

The goodly pannier framed of osiers gray;

And, maple bowl in which we wont to bring

The limpid water from the morning wave,

Or from some mossy and sequester'd spring

To which dark rocks a grateful coolness gave,

Such as might Hermit use in solitary cave!

And ne'er did Hermit, with a purer breast,

Amid the depths of sylvan silence pray,

Than prayed we friends on that mild quiet day,

By God and man beloved, the day of rest!

All passions in our souls were lull'd to sleep,

Ev'n by the power of Nature's holy bliss;

While Innocence her watch in peace did keep

Over the spirit's thoughtful happiness!

We view'd the green earth with a loving look,

Like us rejoicing in the gracious sky;

A voice came to us from the running brook

That seem'd to breathe a grateful melody.

Then all things seem'd embued with life and sense,

And as from dreams with kindling smiles to wake,

Happy in beauty and in innocence;

While, pleased our inward quiet to partake,

Lay hush'd, as in a trance, the scarcely-breathing lake.

Yet think not, in this wild and fairy spot,

This mingled happiness of earth and heaven,

Which to our hearts this Sabbath-day was given,

Think not, that far-off friends were quite forgot.

Helm-crag arose before our half-closed eyes

With colours brighter than the brightening dove;

Beneath that guardian mount a [2]cottage lies

Encircled by the halo breathed from Love!

And sweet that dwelling[3] rests upon the brow

(Beneath its sycamore) of Orest-hill,

As if it smiled on Windermere below,

Her green recesses and her islands still!

Thus, gently-blended many a human thought

With those that peace and solitude supplied,

Till in our hearts the moving kindness wrought

With gradual influence, like a flowing tide,

And for the lovely sound of human voice we sigh'd.

And hark! a laugh, with voices blended, stole

Across the water, echoing from the shore!

And during pauses short, the beating oar

Brings the glad music closer to the soul.

We leave our tent; and lo! a lovely sight

Glides like a living creature through the air,

For air the water seems thus passing bright,

A living creature beautiful and fair!

Nearer it glides; and now the radiant glow

That on its radiant shadow seems to float,

Turns to a virgin band, a glorious shew,

Rowing with happy smiles a little boat.

Towards the tent their lingering course they steer,

And cheerful now upon the shore they stand,

In maiden bashfulness, yet free from fear,

And by our side, gay-moving hand in hand,

Into our tent they go, a beauteous sister-band!

Scarce from our hearts had gone the sweet surprise,

Which this glad troop of rural maids awoke;

Scarce had a more familiar kindness broke

From the mild lustre of their smiling eyes,

Ere the tent seem'd encircled by the sound

Of many voices; in an instant stood

Men, women, children, all the circle round,

And with a friendly joy the strangers view'd,

Strange was it to behold this gladsome crowd

Our late so solitary dwelling fill;

And strange to hear their greetings mingling loud

Where all before was undisturb'd and still.

Yet was the stir delightful to our ear,

And moved to happiness our inmost blood,

The sudden change, the unexpected cheer,

Breaking like sunshine on a pensive mood,

This breath and voice of life in seeming solitude!

Hard task it was, in our small tent to find

Seats for our quickly-gather'd company;

But in them all was such a mirthful glee,

I ween they soon were seated to their mind!

Some viewing with a hesitating look

The panniers that contained our travelling fare,

On them at last their humble station took,

Pleased at the thought, and with a smiling air.

Some on our low-framed beds then chose their seat,

Each maid the youth that loved her best beside,

While many a gentle look, and whisper sweet,

Brought to the stripling's face a gladsome pride.

The playful children on the velvet green,

Soon as the first-felt bashfulness was fled,

Smiled to each other at the wondrous scene,

And whisper'd words they to each other said,

And raised in sportive fit the shining, golden head!

Then did we learn that this our stranger tent,

Seen by the lake-side gleaming like a sail,

Had quickly spread o'er mountain and o'er vale

A gentle shock of pleased astonishment.

The lonely dwellers by the lofty rills,

Gazed in surprise upon th' unwonted sight,

The wandering shepherds saw it from the hills,

And quick descended from their airy height.

Soon as the voice of simple song and prayer

Ceased in the little chapel of the dell,

The congregation did in peace repair

To the lake-side, to view our wondrous cell.

While leaving, for one noon, both young and old,

Their cluster'd hamlets in this deep recess,

All join the throng, in conscious good-will bold,

Elate and smiling in their Sabbath-dress,

A mingled various groupe of homely happiness!

And thus our tent a joyous scene became,

Where loving hearts from distant vales did meet

As at some rural festival, and greet

Each other with glad voice and kindly name.

Here a pleased daughter to her father smiled,

With fresh affection in her soften'd eyes;

He in return look'd back upon his child

With gentle start and tone of mild surprise:

And on his little grand-child, at her breast,

An old man's blessing and a kiss bestow'd,

Or to his cheek the lisping baby prest,

Light'ning the mother of her darling load;

While comely matrons, all sedately ranged

Close to their husbands' or their children's side,

A neighbour's friendly greeting interchanged,

And each her own with frequent glances eyed,

And raised her head in all a mother's harmless pride.

Happy were we among such happy hearts!

And to inspire with kindliness and love

Our simple guests, ambitiously we strove,

With novel converse and endearing arts!

We talk'd to them, and much they loved to hear,

Of those sweet vales from which we late had come;

For though these vales are to each other near,

Seldom do dalesmen leave their own dear home:

Then would we speak of many a wondrous sight

Seen in great cities,--temple, tower, and spire,

And winding streets at night-fall blazing bright

With many a star-like lamp of glimmering fire.

The gray-hair'd men with deep attention heard,

Viewing the speaker with a solemn face,

While round our feet the playful children stirr'd,

And near their parents took their silent place,

Listening with looks where wonder breathed a glowing grace.

And much they gazed with never-tired delight

On varnish'd rod, with joints that shone like gold,

And silken line on glittering reel enroll'd,

To infant anglers a most wondrous sight!

Scarce could their chiding parents then controul

Their little hearts in harmless malice gay,

But still one, bolder than his fellows, stole

To touch the tempting treasures where they lay.

What rapture glistened in their eager eyes,

When, with kind voice, we bade these children take

A precious store of well-dissembled flies,

To use with caution for the strangers' sake!

The unlook'd-for gift we graciously bestow

With sudden joy the leaping heart o'erpowers;

They grasp the lines, while all their faces glow

Bright as spring-blossoms after sunny showers,

And wear them in their hats like wreaths of valley-flowers!

Nor could they check their joyance and surprise,

When the clear crystal and the silver bowl

Gleamed with a novel beauty on their soul,

And the wine mantled with its rosy dies.

For all our pomp we shew'd with mickle glee,

And choicest viands, fitly to regale,

On such a day of rare festivity,

Our guests thus wondering at their native vale.

And oft we pledged them, nor could they decline

The social cup we did our best to press,

But mingled wishes with the joyful wine,

Warm wishes for our health and happiness.

And all the while, a low, delightful sound

Of voice, soft-answering voice, with music fill'd

Our fairy palace's enchanted ground,

Such tones as seem from blooming tree distill'd,

Where unseen bees repair their waxen cells to build.

Lost as we were in that most blessed mood

Which Nature's sons alone can deeply prove,

We lavish'd with free heart our kindest love

On all who breath'd,--one common brotherhood.

Three faithful servants, men of low degree,

Were with us, as we roamed the wilds among,

And well it pleased their simple hearts to see

Their masters mingling with the rural throng.

Oft to our guests they sought to speak aside,

And, in the genial flow of gladness, told

That we were free from haughtiness or pride,

Though scholars all, and rich in lands and gold.

We smiled to hear our praise thus rudely sung,

(Well might such praise our modesty offend)

Yet, we all strove, at once with eye and tongue

To speak, as if invited by a friend,

And with our casual talk instruction's voice to blend.

Rumours of wars had reached this peaceful vale,

And of the Wicked King, whom guilt hath driven

On earth to wage a warfare against Heaven,

These sinless shepherds had heard many a tale.

Encircled as we were with smiles and joy,

In quietness to Quiet's dwelling brought,

To think of him whose bliss is to destroy,

At such a season was an awful thought!

We felt the eternal power of happiness

And virtue's power; we felt with holy awe

That in this world, in spite of chance distress,

Such is the Almighty Spirit's ruling law.

And joyfully did we these shepherds tell

To hear all rumours with a tranquil mind,

For, in the end, that all would yet be well,

Nor this bad Monarch leave one trace behind,

More than o'er yonder hills the idly-raving wind.

Then gravely smiled, in all the power of age,

A hoary-headed, venerable man,

Like the mild chieftain of a peaceful clan,

'Mid simple spirits looked on as a sage.

Much did he praise the holy faith we held,

Which God, he said, to chear the soul had given,

For even the very angels that rebelled,

By sin performed the blessed work of Heaven.

The Wicked King, of whom we justly spake,

Was but an instrument in God's wise hand,

And though the kingdoms of the earth might quake,

Peace would revisit every ravaged land.

Even as the earthquake, in some former time,

Scatter'd yon rugged mountain far and wide,

Till years of winter's snow and summer's prime,

To naked cliffs fresh verdure have supplied,

--Now troops of playful lambs are bounding on its side.

Pleased were the simple groupe to hear the sire

Thus able to converse with men from far,

And much did they of vaguely-rumour'd war,

That long had raged in distant lands, enquire.

Scarce could their hearts, at peace with all mankind,

Believe what bloody deeds on earth are done,

That man of woman born should be so blind

As walk in guilt beneath the blessed sun;

And one, with thoughtful countenance, exprest

A fear lest on some dark disastrous day,

Across the sea might come that noisome pest,

And make fair England's happy vales his prey.

Short lived that fear!--soon firmer thoughts arise:

Well could these dalesmen wield the patriot's sword,

And stretch the foe beneath the smiling skies;

In innocence they trust, and in the Lord,

Whom they, that very morn, in gladness had adored!

But soon such thoughts to lighter speech give way;

We in our turn a willing ear did lend

To tale of sports, that made them blythely spend

The winter-evening and the summer-day.

Smiling they told us of the harmless glee

That bids the echoes of the mountains wake,

When at the stated festival they see

Their new-wash'd flocks come snow-white from the lake;

And joyful dance at neighbouring village fair,

Where lads and lasses, in their best attire,

Go to enjoy that playful pastime rare,

And careful statesmen shepherds new to hire!

Or they would tell, how, at some neighbour's cot,

When nights are long, and winter on the earth,

All cares are in the dance and song forgot,

And round the fire quick flies the circling mirth,

When nuptial vows are pledged, or at an infant's birth!

Well did the roses blooming on their cheek,

And eyes of laughing light, that glisten'd fair

Beneath the artless ringlets of their hair,

Each maiden's health and purity bespeak.

Following the impulse of their simple will,

No thought had they to give or take offence;

Glad were their bosoms, yet sedate and still,

And fearless in the strength of innocence.

Oft as, in accents mild, we strangers spoke

To these sweet maidens, an unconscious smile

Like sudden sunshine o'er their faces broke,

And with it struggling blushes mix'd the while.

And oft as mirth and glee went laughing round,

Breath'd in this maiden's ear some harmless jest

Would make her, for one moment, on the ground

Her eyes let fall, as wishing from the rest

To hide the sudden throb that beat within her breast.

Oh! not in vain have purest poets told,

In elegies and hymns that ne'er shall die,

How, in the fields of famous Arcady,

Lived simple shepherds in the age of gold!

They fabled not, in peopling rural shades

With all most beautiful in heart and frame;

Where without guile swains woo'd their happy maids,

And love was friendship with a gentler name.

Such songs in truth and nature had their birth,

Their source was lofty and their aim was pure,

And still, in many a favour'd spot of earth,

The virtues that awoke their voice endure!

Bear witness thou! O, wild and beauteous dell,

To whom my gladden'd heart devotes this strain;

--O! long may all who in thy bosom dwell

Nature's primeval innocence retain,

Nor e'er may lawless foot thy sanctity profane!

Sweet Maids! my wandering heart returns to you;

And well the blush of joy, the courteous air,

Words unrestrained, and open looks declare

That fancy's day-dreams have not been untrue.

It was indeed a beauteous thing, to see

The virgin, while her bashful visage smiled,

As if she were a mother, on her knee

Take up, with many a kiss, the asking child.

And well, I ween, she play'd the mother's part;

For as she bended o'er the infant fair,

A mystic joy seem'd stirring at her heart,

A yearning fondness, and a silent prayer.

Nor did such gentle maiden long refuse

To cheer our spirits with some favourite strain,

Some simple ballad, framed by rustic muse,

Of one who died for love, or, led by gain,

Sail'd in a mighty ship to lands beyond the main.

And must we close this scene of merriment?

--Lo! in the lake soft burns the star of eve,

And the night-hawk hath warn'd our guests to leave,

Ere darker shades descend, our happy tent.

The Moon's bright edge is seen above the hill;

She comes to light them on their homeward way;

And every heart, I ween, now lies as still

As on yon fleecy cloud her new-born ray.

Kindly by young and old our hands are press'd,

And kindly we the gentle touch return;

Each face declares that deep in every breast

Peace, virtue, friendship, and affection burn.

At last beneath the silent air we part,

And promise make that shall not be in vain,

A promise asked and given warm from the heart,

That we will visit all, on hill and plain,

If e'er it be our lot to see this land again!

Backward they gazed, as slowly they withdrew,

With step reluctant, from the water-side;

And oft, with waving hand, at distance tried

Through the dun light to send a last adieu!

One lovely groupe still linger'd on the green,

The first to come, the last to go away;

While steep'd in stillness of the moonlight scene,

Moor'd to a rock their little pinnace lay.

These laughing damsels climb its humble side,

Like fairy elves that love the starry sea;

Nor e'er did billows with more graceful glide

'Mid the wild main enjoy their liberty.

Their faces brightening in triumphant hue,

Close to each maid their joyful lovers stand;

One gives the signal,--all the jovial crew

Let go, with tender press, the yielding hand;

--Down drop the oars at once,--away they push from land.

The boat hath left the silent bank, the tone

Of the retiring oar escapes the mind;

Like mariners some ship hath left behind,

We feel, thus standing speechless and alone.

One moment lives that melancholy trance--

The mountains ring: Oh! what a joy is there!

As hurries o'er their heights, in circling dance,

Cave-loving Echo, Daughter of the Air.

Is it some spirit of night that wakes the shout,

As o'er the cliffs, with headlong speed, she ranges?

Is it, on plain and steep, some fairy rout

Answering each other in tumultuous changes?

There seems amid the hills a playful war;

Trumpet and clarion join the mystic noise;

Now growing on the ear, now dying far!

Great Gabel from his summit sends a voice,

And the remotest depths of Ennerdale rejoice!

Oh! well I know what means this din of mirth!

No spirits are they, who, trooping through the sky,

In chorus swell that mountain-melody;

--It comes from mortal children of the earth!

These are the voices that so late did chear

Our tent with laughter; from the hills they come

With friendly sound unto our listening ear,

A jocund farewell to our glimmering home.

Loth are our guests, though they have linger'd long,

That our sweet tent at last should leave their sight;

So with one voice they sing a parting song,

Ere they descend behind the clouds of night.

Nor are we mute; an answering shout we wake,

At each short pause of the long, lengthening sound,

Till all is silent as the silent Lake,

And every noise above, below, around,

Seems in the brooding night-sky's depth of slumber drown'd!

Soon from that calm our spirits start again

With blyther vigour; nought around we see,

Save lively images of mirth and glee,

And playful fancies hurry through our brain.

Shine not, sweet Moon! with such a haughty light;

Ye stars! behind your veil of clouds retire;

For we shall kindle on the earth, this night,

To drown your feeble rays, a joyous fire.

Bring the leaves withering in the holly-shade,

The oaken branches sapless now and hoar,

The fern no longer green, and whins that fade

'Mid the thin sand that strews the rocky shore.

Heap them above that new-awaken'd spark;

Soon shall a pyramid of flame arise;

Now the first rustling of the vapour, hark!

The kindling spirit from its prison flies,

And in an instant mounts in glory to the skies!

Far gleams the Lake, as in the light of day,

Or when, from mountain-top, the setting sun,

Ere yet his earth-delighting course is run,

Sheds on the slumbering wave a purple ray.

A bright'ning verdure runs o'er every field,

As if by potent necromancer shed,

And a dark wood is suddenly reveal'd,

A glory resting on its ancient head.

And oh! what radiant beauty doth invest

Our tent that seems to feel a conscious pride,

Whiter by far than any cygnet's breast,

Or cygnet's shadow floating with the tide.

A warmer flush unto the moonlight cold,

Winning its lovely way, is softly given,

A silvery radiance tinged with vivid gold;

While thousand mimic stars are gayly driven

Through the bright-glistening air, scarce known from those in Heaven.

Amid the flame our lurid figures stand,

Or, through the shrouding vapour dimly view'd,

To fancy seem, in that strange solitude,

Like the wild brethren of some lawless band.

One, snatching from the heap a blazing bough,

Would, like lone maniac, from the rest retire,

And, as he waved it, mutter deep a vow,

His head encircled with a wreath of fire.

Others, with rushing haste, and eager voice,

Would drag new victims to the insatiate power,

That like a savage idol did rejoice

Whate'er his suppliants offer'd to devour.

And aye strange murmurs o'er the mountains roll'd,

As if from sprite immured in cavern lone,

While higher rose pale Luna to behold

Our mystic orgies, where no light had shone,

For many and many a year of silence--but her own.

O! gracious Goddess! not in vain did shine

Thy spirit o'er the heavens; with reverent eye

We hail'd thee floating through the happy sky;

No smiles to us are half so dear as thine!

Silent we stood beside our dying flame,

In pensive sadness, born of wild delight,

And gazing heavenward, many a gentle name

Bestow'd on her who beautifies the night.

Then, with one heart, like men who inly mourn'd,

Slowly we paced towards our fairy cell,

And e'er we enter'd, for one moment turn'd,

And bade the silent majesty farewell!

Our rushy beds invite us to repose;

And while our spirits breathe a grateful prayer,

In balmy slumbers soon our eyelids close,

While, in our dreams, the Moon, serenely fair,

Still bathes in light divine the visionary air!

Methinks, next night, I see her mount her throne,

Intent with loving smile once more to hail

The deep, deep peace of this her loneliest vale,

--But where hath now the magic dwelling flown?

Oh! it hath melted like a dream away,

A dream by far too beautiful for earth;

Or like a cloud that hath no certain stay,

But ever changing, like a different birth.

The aged holly trees more silently,

Now we are gone, stand on the silent ground;

I seem to hear the streamlet floating by

With a complaining, melancholy sound.

Hush'd are the echoes in each mountain's breast,

No traces there of former mirth remain;

They all in friendly grandeur lie at rest

And silent, save where Nature's endless strain,

From cataract and cave, delights her lonely reign.

Yet, though the strangers and their tent have past

Away, like snow that leaves no mark behind,

Their image lives in many a guiltless mind,

And long within the shepherd's cot shall last.

Oft when, on winter night, the crowded seat

Is closely wheel'd before the blazing fire,

Then will he love with grave voice to repeat

(He, the gray-headed venerable sire,)

The conversation he with us did hold

On moral subjects, he had studied long;

And some will jibe the maid who was so bold

As sing to strangers readily a song.

Then they unto each other will recal

Each little incident of that strange night,

And give their kind opinion of us all:

God bless their faces smiling in the light

Of their own cottage-hearth! O, fair subduing sight!

Friends of my heart! who shared that purest joy,

And oft will read these lines with soften'd soul,

Go where we will, let years of absence roll,

Nought shall our sacred amity destroy.

We walk'd together through the mountain-calm,

In open confidence, and perfect trust;

And pleasure, falling through our breasts like balm,

Told that the yearnings that we felt were just.

No slighting tone, no chilling look e'er marr'd

The happiness in which our thoughts reposed,

No words save those of gentleness were heard,

The eye spoke kindly when the lip was closed.

But chief, on that blest day that wakes my song,

Our hearts eternal truth in silence swore;

The holy oath is planted deep and strong

Within our spirits,--in their inmost core,--

And it shall blossom fair till life shall be no more!

Most hallow'd day! scarce can my heart sustain

Your tender light by memory made more mild;

Tears could I shed even like unto a child,

And sighs within my spirit hush the strain.

Too many clouds have dimm'd my youthful life,

These wakeful eyes too many vigils kept;

Mine hath it been to toss in mental strife,

When in the moonlight breathing Nature slept.

But I forget my cares, in bliss forget,

When, peaceful Valley! I remember thee;

I seem to breathe the air of joy, and yet

Thy bright'ning hues with moisten'd eyes I see.

So will it be, till life itself doth close,

Roam though I may o'er many a distant clime;

Happy, or pining in unnoticed woes,

Oft shall my soul recal that blessed time,

And in her depths adore the beauteous and sublime!

Time that my rural reed at last should cease

Its willing numbers; not in vain hath flow'd

The strain that on my singing heart bestow'd

The holy boon of undisturbed peace.

O gentlest Lady! Sister of my friend,

This simple strain I consecrate to thee;

Haply its music with thy soul may blend,

Albeit well used to loftier minstrelsy.

Nor, may thy quiet spirit read the lay

With cold regard, thou wife and mother blest!

For he was with me on that Sabbath-day,

Whose heart lies buried in thy inmost breast.

Then go my innocent and blameless tale,

In gladness go, and free from every fear,

To yon sweet dwelling above Grassmere vale,

And be to them I long have held so dear,

One of their fire-side songs, still fresh from year to year!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Mr Wordsworth accompanied the author on this excursion.

[2] At that time the residence of Mr Wordsworth's family.

[3] The author's cottage on the banks of Windermere.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

_Oh! Nature! whose Elysian scenes disclose

His bright perfections at whose word they rose,

Next to that Power who form'd thee and sustains,

Be thou the great inspirer of my strains.

Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expand

Thy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand._

COWPER.

THE HERMITAGE.

Stranger! this lonely glen in ancient times

Was named the glen of blood; nor Christian feet

By night or day, from these o'er-arching cliffs

That haply now have to thy joyful shouts

Return'd a mellow music, ever brought

One trembling sound to break the depth of silence.

The village maiden, in this little stream,

Though then, as now, most clearly beautiful,

Ne'er steeped her simple garments, while she sang

Some native air of sadness or of mirth.

In these cold, shady pools, the fearless trout

Ne'er saw the shadow, but of sailing cloud,

Or kite that wheeling eyed the far-off lamb;

And on yon hazel bowers the ripen'd fruit

Hung clustering, moved but by the frequent swing

Of playful squirrel,--for no school-boy here

With crook and angle light on holiday

Came nutting, or to snare the sportive fry.

Even bolder spirits shunn'd the glen of blood!

These rocks, the abode of echo, never mock'd

In sportive din the huntsman's bugle horn;

And as the shepherd from the mountain-fold

Homewards return'd beneath the silent Moon,

A low unconscious prayer would agitate

His breathless heart, for here in unblest grave

Lay one for whom ne'er toll'd the passing-bell!

And thus was Nature by the impious guilt

Of one who scorn'd her gracious solitude,

Defrauded of her worshippers: though pure

This glen, as consecrated house of God,

Fit haunt of heaven-aspiring piety,

Or in whose dripping cells the poet's ear

Might list unearthly music, this sweet glen

With all its tender tints and pensive sounds,

Its balmy fragrance and romantic forms,

Lay lonely and unvisited, yea worse,

Peopled with fancied demons, and the brood

At enmity with man.

So was it once:

But now far other creed hath sanctified

This dim seclusion, and all human hearts

Unto its spirit deeply reconciled.

'Tis said, and I in truth believe the tale,

That many years ago an aged man,

Of a divine aspect and stately form,

Came to this glen, and took up his abode

In one of those wild caves so numerous

Among the hanging cliffs, though hid from view

By trailing ivy, or thick holly-bush,

Through the whole year so deeply, brightly green.

With evil eye the simple villagers

First look'd on him, and scarcely dared to tell

Each other, what dim fears were in their souls.

But there is something in the voice and eye

Of beautiful old age, with angel power

That charms away suspicion, and compels

The unwilling soul to reverence and love.

So was it with this mystical old man!

When first he came into the glen, the spring

Had just begun to tinge the sullen rocks

With transient smiles, and ere the leafy bowers

Of summer rustled, many a visitant

Had sat within his hospitable cave,

From his maple bowl the unpolluted spring

Drunk fearless, and with him partook the bread

That his pale lips most reverently had bless'd

With words becoming such a holy man!

Oft was he seen surrounded by a groupe

Of happy children, unto whom he spake

With more than a paternal tenderness;

And they who once had gazed with trembling fear

On the wild dweller in th' unholy glen,

At last with airy trip and gladsome song

Would seek him there, and listen on his knee

To mournful ditties, and most touching tales!

One only book was in this hermit's cell,

The Book of Life; and when from it he read

With solemn voice devoutly musical,

His thoughtful eye still brightening as the words,

The words of Jesus, in that peaceful cave

Sounded more holily,--and his grey hair,

Betokening that e'er long in Jesus' breast

Would be his blessed sleep,--on his calm brows

Spread quietly, like thin and snowy clouds

On the husht evening sky:--While thus he sate,

Ev'n like the Apostle whom our Saviour loved,

In his old age, in Patmos' lonely isle

Musing on him that he had served in youth,--

Oh! then, I ween, the awe-struck villagers

Could scarce sustain his tones so deeply charged

With hope, and faith, and gratitude, and joy.

But when they gazed!--in the mild lineaments

Of his majestic visage, they beheld

How beautiful is holiness, and deem'd

That sure he was some spirit sent by God

To teach the way to Heaven!

And yet his voice

Was oft times sadder, than as they conceived

An Angel's voice would be, and though to sooth

The sorrows of all others ever seem'd

His only end in life, perhaps he had

Griefs of his own of which he nothing spake;

Else were his locks more grey, more pale his cheek,

Than one had thought who only saw his form

So stately and so tall.--

Once did they speak

To him of that most miserable man

Who here himself had slain,--and then his eye

Was glazed with stern compassion, and a tear,--

It was the first they e'er had seen him shed,

Though mercy was the attribute he loved

Dearest in God's own Son,--bedimm'd its light

For a short moment; yea, that hermit old

Wept,--and his sadden'd face angelical

Veil'd with his wither'd hands,--then on their knees

He bade his children (so he loved to call

The villagers) kneel down; and unto God

Pray for his brother's soul.--

Amid the dust

The hermit long hath slept,--and every one

That listen'd to the saint's delightful voice.

In yonder church-yard, near the eastern porch,

Close to the altar-wall, a little mound

As if by nature shaped, and strewn by her

With every tender flower that sorrow loves,

Tradition calls his grave. On Sabbath-day,

The hind oft hears the legendary tale

Rehearsed by village moralist austere

With many a pious phrase; and not a child,

Whose trembling feet have scarcely learnt to walk,

But will conduct thee to the hallow'd spot

And lisp the hermit's name.

Nor did the cave

That he long time from Nature tenanted

Remain unhonour'd.--Duly every spring,

Upon the day he died, thither repair'd

Many a pure spirit, to his memory

Chaunting a choral hymn, composed by one

Who on his death-bed sat and closed his eyes.

"I am the resurrection and the life,"

Some old man then would, with a solemn voice,

Read from that Bible that so oft had blest

The Hermit's solitude with heavenly chear.

This Book, sole relic of the sinless man,

Was from the dust kept sacred, and even now

Lies in yon box of undecaying yew,

And may it never fade!--

Stranger unknown!

Thou breath'st, at present, in the very cave

Where on the Hermit death most gently fell

Like a long wish'd-for slumber. The great Lord,

Whose castle stands amid the music wild

Breathed from the bosom of an hundred glens,

In youth by nature taught to venerate

Things truly venerable, hither came

One year to view the fair solemnity:

And that the forest-weeds might not obstruct

The entrance of the cave, or worm defile

The soft green beauty of its mossy walls,

This massive door was from a fallen oak

Shaped rudely, but all other ornament,

That porch of living rock with woodbines wreathed,

And outer roof with many a pensile shrub

Most delicate, he with wise feeling left

To Nature, and her patient servant, Time!

Stranger! I know thee not: yet since thy feet

Have wandered here, I deem that thou art one

Whose heart doth love in silent communings

To walk with Nature and from scenes like these

Of solemn sadness, to sublime thy soul

To high endurance of all earthly pains

Of mind or body; so that thou connect

With Nature's lovely and more lofty forms,

Congenial thoughts of grandeur or of grace

In moral being. All creation takes

The spirit of its character from him

Who looks thereon; and to a blameless heart,

Earth, air, and ocean, howsoe'er beheld,

Are pregnant with delight, while even the clouds,

Embath'd in dying sunshine, to the base

Possess no glory, and to the wicked lower

As with avenging thunder.

This sweet glen,

How sweet it is thou feel'st, with sylvan rocks

Excluding all but one blue glimpse of sky

Above, and from the world that lies around

All but the faint remembrance, tempted once

To most unnatural murder, once sublimed

To the high temper of the seraphim:

And thus, though its mild character remain'd

Immutable,--with pious dread was shunn'd

As an unholy spot, or visited

With reverence, as a consecrated shrine.

Farewell! and grave this moral on thy heart,

"That Nature smiles for ever on the good,--

But that all beauty dies with innocence!"

LINES WRITTEN ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MISS SMITH.

Peace to the dead! the voice of Nature cries,

Even o'er the grave where guilt or frailty lies;

Compassion drives each sterner thought away,

And all seem good when mouldering in the clay.

For who amid the dim religious gloom,

The solemn sabbath brooding o'er the tomb,

The holy stillness that suspends our breath

When the soul rests within the shade of death,

What heart could then with-hold the pensive sigh

Reflection pays to poor mortality,

Nor sunk in pity near allied to love,

E'en bless the being we could ne'er approve!

The headstrong will with innocence at strife,

The restless passions that deform'd his life,

Desires that spurn'd at reason's weak controul,

And dimm'd the native lustre of the soul,

The look repulsive that like ice repress'd

The friendly warmth that play'd within the breast,

The slighting word, through heedlessness severe,

Wounding the spirit that it ought to chear,

Lie buried in the grave! or if they live,

Remembrance only wakes them to forgive;

While vice and error steal a soft relief

From the still twilight of a mellowing grief.

And oh! how lovely do the tints return

Of every virtue sleeping in the urn!

Each grace that fleeted unobserved away,

Starts into life when those it deck'd decay;

Regret fresh beauty on the corse bestows,

And self-reproach is mingled with our woes.

But nobler sorrows lift the musing mind,

When soaring spirits leave their frames behind,

Who walked the world in Nature's generous pride,

And, like a sun-beam, lighten'd as they died!

Hope, resignation, the sad soul beguile,

And Grief's tear drops 'mid Faith's celestial smile:

Then burns our being with a holy mirth

That owns no kindred with this mortal earth;

For hymning angels in blest vision wave

Their wings' bright glory o'er the seraph's grave!

Oh thou! whose soul unmoved by earthly strife,

Led by the pole-star of eternal life,

Own'd no emotion stain'd by touch of clay,

No thought that angels might not pleased survey;

Thou! whose calm course through Virtue's fields was run

From youth's fair morning to thy setting sun,

Nor vice e'er dared one little cloud to roll

O'er the bright beauty of thy spotless soul;

Thou! who secure in good works strong to save,

Resign'd and happy, eyed'st the opening grave,

And in the blooming summer of thy years

Scarce felt'st regret to leave this vale of tears;

Oh! from thy throne amid the starry skies,

List to my words thus interwove with sighs,

And if the high resolves, the cherish'd pain

That prompt the weak but reverential strain,

If love of virtue ardent and sincere

Can win to mortal verse a cherub's ear,

Bend from thy radiant throne thy form divine,

And make the adoring spirit pure as thine!

When my heart muses o'er the long review

Of all thy bosom felt, thy reason knew,

O'er boundless learning free from boastful pride,

And patience humble though severely tried,

Judgment unclouded, passions thrice refined,

A heaven-aspiring loftiness of mind,

And, rare perfection! calm and sober sense

Combined with fancy's wild magnificence;

Struck with the pomp of Nature's wondrous plan,

I hail with joy the dignity of man,

And soaring high above life's roaring sea,

Spring to the dwelling of my God and Thee.

Short here thy stay! for souls of holiest birth

Dwell but a moment with the sons of earth;

To this dim sphere by God's indulgence given,

Their friends are angels, and their home is heaven.

The fairest rose in shortest time decays;

The sun, when brightest, soon withdraws his rays;

The dew that gleams like diamonds on the thorn,

Melts instantaneous at the breath of morn;

Too soon a rolling shade of darkness shrouds

The star that smiles amid the evening clouds;

And sounds that come so sweetly on the ear,

That the soul wishes every sense could hear,

Are as the Light's unwearied pinions fleet,

As scarce as beauteous, and as short as sweet.

Yet, though the unpolluted soul requires

Airs born in Heaven to fan her sacred fires,

And mounts to God, exulting to be free

From fleshly chain that binds mortality,

The world is hallow'd by her blest sojourn,

And glory dwells for ever round her urn!

Her skirts of beauty sanctify the air

That felt her breathings, and that heard her prayer;

Vice dies where'er the radiant vision trod,

And there e'en Atheists must believe in God!

Such the proud triumphs that the good achieve!

Such the blest gift that sinless spirits leave!

The parted soul in God-given strength sublime,

Streams undimm'd splendour o'er unmeasured time;

Still on the earth the sainted hues survive,

Dead in the tomb, but in the heart alive.

In vain the tide of ages strives to roll

A bar to check the intercourse of soul;

The hovering spirits of the good and great

With fond remembrance own their former state,

And musing virtue often can behold

In vision high their plumes of wavy gold,

And drink with tranced ear the silver sound

Of seraphs hymning on their nightly round.

By death untaught, our range of thought is small,

Bound by the attraction of this earthly ball.

Our sorrows and our joys, our hopes and fears,

Ignobly pent within a few short years;

But when our hearts have read Fate's mystic book,

On Heaven's gemm'd sphere we lift a joyful look,

Hope turns to Faith, Faith glorifies the gloom,

And life springs forth exulting from the tomb!

Oh, blest ELIZA! though to me unknown,

Thine eye's mild lustre and thy melting tone;

Though on this earth apart our lives were led,

Nor my love found thee till thy soul was fled;

Yet, can affection kiss thy silent clay,

And rend the glimmering veil of death away:

Fancy beholds with fixed, delighted eye,

Thy white-robed spirit gently gliding by;

Deep sinks thy smile into my quiet breast,

As moonlight steeps the ocean-wave in rest!

While thus, bright shade! thine eyes of mercy dwell

On that fair land thou loved'st of old so well,

What holy raptures through thy being flow,

To see thy memory blessing all below,

Virtue re-kindle at thy grave her fires,

And vice repentant shun his low desires!

This the true Christian's heaven! on earth to see

The sovereign power of immortality

At war with sin, and in triumphant pride

Spreading the empire of the crucified.--

Oft 'mid the calm of mountain solitude,

Where Nature's loveliness thy spirit woo'd;

Where lonely cataracts with sullen roar

To thy hush'd heart a fearful rapture bore,

And caverns moaning with the voice of night,

Steep'd through the ear thy mind in strange delight,

I feel thy influence on my heart descend

Like words of comfort whispered by a friend,

And every cloud in lovelier figures roll,

Shaped by the power of thy presiding soul!

And when, slow-sinking in a blaze of light,

The sun in glory bathes each radiant height,

Amid the glow thy form seraphic seems

To float refulgent with unborrow'd beams;

For thou, like him, hadst still thy course pursued,

From thy own blessedness dispensing good;

Brightly thy soul in life's fair morn arose,

And burn'd like him, more glorious at its close.

But now, I feel my pensive spirit turn,

Where parents, brothers, sisters, o'er thee mourn.

For though to all unconscious time supplies

A strength of soul that stifles useless sighs;

And in our loneliest hours of grief is given

To our dim gaze a nearer glimpse of heaven,

Yet, human frailty pines in deep distress,

Even when a friend has soar'd to happiness,

And sorrow, selfish from excess of love,

Would glad recal the seraph from above!

And, chief, to thee! on whose delighted breast,

While, yet a babe, she play'd herself to rest,

Who rock'd her cradle with requited care,

And bless'd her sleeping with a silent prayer;

To thee, who first beheld, with watchful eye,

From her flush'd cheek health's natural radiance fly,

And, though by fate denied the power to save,

Smooth'd with kind care her passage to the grave,

When slow consumption led with fatal bloom

A rosy spectre smiling to the tomb;

The strain of comfort first to thee would flow,

But thou hast comforts man could ne'er bestow;

And e'en misfortune's long and gloomy roll

Wakes dreams of glory in thy stately soul.

For reason whispers, and religion proves,

That God by sorrow chasteneth whom he loves;

And suffering virtue smiles at misery's gloom,

Chear'd by the light that burns beyond the tomb.

All Nature speaks of thy departed child,

The flowery meadow, and the mountain wild;

Of her the lark 'mid sun-shine oft will sing,

And torrents flow with dirge-like murmuring!

The lake, that smiles to heaven a watery gleam,

Shows in the vivid beauty of a dream

Her, whose fine touch in mellowing hues array'd

The misty summit and the woodland glade,

The sparkling depth that slept in waveless rest,

And verdant isles reflected on its breast.

As down the vale thy lonely footsteps stray,

While eve steals dimly on retiring day,

And the pale light that nameless calm supplies,

That holds communion with the promised skies,

When Nature's beauty overpowers distress,

And stars soft-burning kindle holiness,

Thy lips in passive resignation move,

And peace broods o'er thee on the wings of love.

The languid mien, the cheek of hectic die,

The mournful beauty of the radiant eye,

The placid smile, the light and easy breath

Of nature blooming on the brink of death,

When the fair phantom breathed in twilight balm

A dying vigour and deceitful calm,

The tremulous voice that ever loved to tell

Thy fearful heart, that all would soon be well,

Steal on thy memory, and though tears will fall

O'er scenes gone by that thou would'st fain recal,

Yet oft has faith with deeper bliss beguiled

A parent weeping her departed child,

Than love maternal, when her baby lay

Hush'd at her breast, or smiling in its play,

And, as some glimpse of infant fancy came,

Murmuring in scarce-heard lisp some broken name.

Thou feel'st no more grief's palpitating start,

Nor the drear night hangs heavy on thy heart.

Though sky and star may yet awhile divide

Thy mortal being from thy bosom's pride,

Your spirits mingle--while to thine is given

A loftier nature from the touch of heaven.

HYMN TO SPRING

How beautiful the pastime of the Spring!

Lo! newly waking from her wintry dream,

She, like a smiling infant, timid plays

On the green margin of this sunny lake,

Fearing, by starts, the little breaking waves

(If riplings rather known by sound than sight

May haply so be named) that in the grass

Soon fade in murmuring mirth; now seeming proud

To venture round the edge of yon far point,

That from an eminence softly sinking down,

Doth from the wide and homeless waters shape

A scene of tender, delicate repose,

Fit haunt for thee, in thy first hours of joy,

Delightful Spring!--nor less an emblem fair,

Like thee, of beauty, innocence, and youth.

On such a day, 'mid such a scene as this,

Methinks the poets who in lovely hymns

Have sung thy reign, sweet Power, and wished it long,

In their warm hearts conceived those eulogies,

That, lending to the world inanimate

A pulse and spirit of life, for aye preserve

The sanctity of Nature, and embalm

Her fleeting spectacles in memory's cell

In spite of time's mutations. Onwards roll

The circling seasons, and as each gives birth

To dreams peculiar, yea destructive oft

Of former feelings, in oblivion's shade

Sleep the fair visions of forgotten hours.

But Nature calls the poet to her aid,

And in his lays beholds her glory live

For ever. Thus, in winter's deepest gloom,

When all is dim before the outward eye,

Nor the ear catches one delightful sound,

They who have wander'd in their musing walks

With the great poets, in their spirits feel

No change on earth, but see the unalter'd woods

Laden with beauty, and inhale the song

Of birds, airs, echoes, and of vernal showers.

So hath it been with me, delightful Spring!

And now I hail thee as a friend who pays

An annual visit, yet whose image lives

From parting to return, and who is blest

Each time with blessings warmer than before.

Oh! gracious Power! for thy beloved approach

The expecting earth lay wrapt in kindling smiles,

Struggling with tears, and often overcome.

A blessing sent before thee from the heavens,

A balmy spirit breathing tenderness,

Prepared thy way, and all created things

Felt that the angel of delight was near.

Thou camest at last, and such a heavenly smile

Shone round thee, as beseem'd the eldest-born

Of Nature's guardian spirits. The great Sun,

Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile,

Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn

Was by the low Winds chaunted in the sky;

And when thy feet descended on the earth,

Scarce could they move amid the clustering flowers

By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field,

To hail her blest deliverer!--Ye fair Trees,

How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze!

It seems as if some gleam of verdant light

Fell on you from a rainbow; but it lives

Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour

Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet Birds,

Were you asleep through all the wintry hours,

Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves?

There are, 'tis said, birds that pursue the spring,

Where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleep

Abide her annual reign, when forth they come

With freshen'd plumage and enraptured song,

As ye do now, unwearied choristers,

Till the land ring with joy. Yet are ye not,

Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful

Than the young lambs, that from the valley-side

Send a soft bleating like an infant's voice,

Half happy, half afraid! O blessed things!

At sight of this your perfect innocence,

The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away

Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams.

The strife of working intellect, the stir

Of hopes ambitious; the disturbing sound

Of fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantry

That ardent spirits burn, for in their pride,

Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soul

Pure and serene as the blue depths of heaven.

Now, is the time in some meek solitude

To hold communion with those innocent thoughts

That bless'd our earlier days;--to list the voice

Of Conscience murmuring from her inmost shrine,

And learn if still she sing the quiet tune

That fill'd the ear of youth. If then we feel,

That 'mid the powers, the passions, and desires

Of riper age, we still have kept our hearts

Free from pollution, and 'mid tempting scenes

Walk'd on with pure and unreproved steps,

Fearless of guilt, as if we knew it not;

Ah me! with what a new sublimity

Will the green hills lift up their sunny heads,

Ourselves as stately: Smiling will we gaze

On the clouds whose happy home is in the heavens;

Nor envy the clear streamlet that pursues

His course 'mid flowers and music to the sea.

But dread the beauty of a vernal day,

Thou trembler before memory! To the saint

What sight so lovely as the angel form

That smiles upon his sleep! The sinner veils

His face ashamed,--unable to endure

The upbraiding silence of the seraph's eyes!--

Yet awful must it be, even to the best

And wisest man, when he beholds the sun

Prepared once more to run his annual round

Of glory and of love, and thinks that God

To him, though sojourning in earthly shades,

Hath also given an orbit, whence his light

May glad the nations, or at least diffuse

Peace and contentment over those he loves!

His soul expanded by the breath of Spring,

With holy confidence the thoughtful man

Renews his vows to virtue,--vows that bind

To purest motives and most useful deeds.

Thus solemnly doth pass the vernal day,

In abstinence severe from worldly thoughts;

Lofty disdainings of all trivial joys

Or sorrows; meditations long and deep

On objects fit for the immortal love

Of souls immortal; weeping penitence

For duties (plain though highest duties be)

Despised or violated; humblest vows,

Though humble strong as death, henceforth to walk

Elate in innocence; and, holier still,

Warm gushings of his spirit unto God

For all his past existence, whether bright,

As the spring landscape sleeping in the sun,

Or dim and desolate like a wintry sea

Stormy and boding storms! Oh! such will be

Frequent and long his musings, till he feels

As all the stir subsides, like busy day

Soft-melting into eve's tranquillity,

How blest is peace when born within the soul.

And therefore do I sing these pensive hymns,

O Spring! to thee, though thou by some art call'd

Parent of mirth and rapture, worshipp'd best

With festive dances and a choral song.

No melancholy man am I, sweet Spring!

Who, filling all things with his own poor griefs,

Sees nought but sadness in the character

Of universal Nature, and who weaves

Most doleful ditties in the midst of joy.

Yet knowing something, dimly though it be,

And therefore still more awful, of that strange

And most tumultuous thing, the heart of man,

It chanceth oft, that mix'd with Nature's smiles

My soul beholds a solemn quietness

That almost looks like grief, as if on earth

There were no perfect joy, and happiness

Still trembled on the brink of misery!

Yea! mournful thoughts like these even now arise,

While Spring, like Nature's smiling infancy,

Sports round me, and all images of peace

Seem native to this earth, nor other home

Desire or know. Yet doth a mystic chain

Link in our hearts foreboding fears of death

With every loveliest thing that seems to us

Most deeply fraught with life. Is there a child

More beauteous than its playmates, even more pure

Than they? while gazing on its face, we think

That one so fair most surely soon will die!

Such are the fears now beating at my heart.

Ere long, sweet Spring! amid forgotten things

Thou and thy smiles must sleep: thy little lambs

Dead, or their nature changed; thy hymning birds

Mute;--faded every flower so beautiful;--

And all fair symptoms of incipient life

To fulness swollen, or sunk into decay!

Such are the melancholy dreams that filled

In the elder time the songs of tenderest bards,

Whene'er they named the Spring. Thence, doubts and fears

Of what might be the final doom of man;

Till all things spoke to their perplexed souls

The language of despair; and, mournful sight!

Even hope lay prostrate upon beauty's grave!--

Vain fears of death! breath'd forth in deathless lays!

O foolish bards, immortal in your works,

Yet trustless of your immortality!

Not now are they whom Nature calls her bards

Thus daunted by the image of decay.

They have their tears, and oft they shed them too,

By reason unreproach'd; but on the pale

Cold cheek of death, they see a spirit smile,

Bright and still brightening, even like thee, O Spring!

Stealing in beauty through the winter-snow!--

Season, beloved of Heaven! my hymn is closed!

And thou, sweet Lake! on whose retired banks

I have so long reposed, yet in the depth

Of meditation scarcely seen thy waves,

Farewell!--the voice of worship and of praise

Dies on my lips, yet shall my heart preserve

Inviolate the spirit whence it sprung!

Even as a harp, when some wild plaintive strain

Goes with the hand that touch'd it, still retains

The soul of music sleeping in its strings.

MELROSE ABBEY.

It was not when the Sun through the glittering sky,

In summer's joyful majesty,

Look'd from his cloudless height;--

It was not when the Sun was sinking down,

And tinging the ruin's mossy brown

With gleams of ruddy light;--

Nor yet when the Moon, like a pilgrim fair,

'Mid star and planet journeyed slow,

And, mellowing the stillness of the air,

Smiled on the world below;--

That, MELROSE! 'mid thy mouldering pride,

All breathless and alone,

I grasped the dreams to day denied,

High dreams of ages gone!--

Had unshrieved guilt for one moment been there,

His heart had turn'd to stone!

For oft, though felt no moving gale,

Like restless ghost in glimmering shroud,

Through lofty Oriel opening pale

Was seen the hurrying cloud;

And, at doubtful distance, each broken wall

Frown'd black as bier's mysterious pall

From mountain-cave beheld by ghastly seer;

It seem'd as if sound had ceased to be;

Nor dust from arch, nor leaf from tree,

Relieved the noiseless ear.

The owl had sailed from her silent tower,

Tweed hush'd his weary wave,

The time was midnight's moonless hour,

My seat a dreaded Douglas' grave!

My being was sublimed by joy,

My heart was big, yet I could not weep;

I felt that God would ne'er destroy

The mighty in their tranced sleep.

Within the pile no common dead

Lay blended with their kindred mould;

Theirs were the hearts that pray'd, or bled,

In cloister dim, on death-plain red,

The pious and the bold.

There slept the saint whose holy strains

Brought seraphs round the dying bed;

And there the warrior, who to chains

Ne'er stoop'd his crested head.

I felt my spirit sink or swell

With patriot rage or lowly fear,

As battle-trump, or convent-bell,

Rung in my tranced ear.

But dreams prevail'd of loftier mood,

When stern beneath the chancel high

My country's spectre-monarch stood,

All sheath'd in glittering panoply;

Then I thought with pride what noble blood

Had flow'd for the hills of liberty.

High the resolves that fill the brain

With transports trembling upon pain,

When the veil of time is rent in twain,

That hides the glory past!

The scene may fade that gave them birth,

But they perish not with the perishing earth,

For ever shall they last.

And higher, I ween, is that mystic might

That comes to the soul from the silent night,

When she walks, like a disembodied spirit,

Through realms her sister shades inherit,

And soft as the breath of those blessed flowers

That smile in Heaven's unfading bowers,

With love and awe, a voice she hears

Murmuring assurance of immortal years.

In hours of loneliness and woe

Which even the best and wisest know,

How leaps the lighten'd heart to seize

On the bliss that comes with dreams like these!

As fair before the mental eye

The pomp and beauty of the dream return,

Dejected virtue calms her sigh,

And leans resign'd on memory's urn.

She feels how weak is mortal pain,

When each thought that starts to life again,

Tells that she hath not lived in vain.

For Solitude, by Wisdom woo'd,

Is ever mistress of delight,

And even in gloom or tumult view'd,

She sanctifies their living blood

Who learn her lore aright.

The dreams her awful face imparts,

Unhallowed mirth destroy;

Her griefs bestow on noble hearts

A nobler power of joy.

While hope and faith the soul thus fill,

We smile at chance distress,

And drink the cup of human ill

In stately happiness.

Thus even where death his empire keeps

Life holds the pageant vain,

And where the lofty spirit sleeps,

There lofty visions reign.

Yea, often to night-wandering man

A pow'r fate's dim decrees to scan,

In lonely trance by bliss is given;

And midnight's starless silence rolls

A giant vigour through our souls,

That stamps us sons of Heaven.

Then, MELROSE! Tomb of heroes old!

Blest be the hour I dwelt with thee;

The visions that can ne'er be told

That only poets in their joy can see,

The glory born above the sky

The deep-felt weight of sanctity!

Thy massy towers I view no more

Through brooding darkness rising hoar,

Like a broad line of light dim seen

Some sable mountain-cleft between!

Since that dread hour, hath human thought

A thousand gay creations brought

Before my earthly eye;

I to the world have lent an ear,

Delighted all the while to hear

The voice of poor mortality.

Yet, not the less doth there abide

Deep in my soul a holy pride,

That knows by whom it was bestowed,

Lofty to man, but low to God;

Such pride as hymning angels cherish,

Blest in the blaze where man would perish.

EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM, ENTITLED "THE HEARTH."

My soul, behold the beauty of his home!

The very heavens look down with gracious smiles

Upon its holy rest. How bright a green

Sleeps round the dwelling of two loving hearts!

The air lies hush'd above the peaceful roof,

As if it felt the sanctity within.

On glides the river with a tranquil flow,

Delighting in his music, as he bathes

The happy bounds where happiness doth stray.

--I see them sitting by each other's side,

In the heart's silent secrecy! I hear

The breath of meditation from their souls.

They speak: a soft, subduing tenderness,

Born of devotion, innocence and bliss,

Steals from their bosoms in a silver voice

That makes a pious hymning melody.

They look: a gleam of light as sadly sweet

As if they listen'd to some mournful tale,

Swims in their eyes that almost melt to tears.

They smile: oh! never did such languor steal

From lustre of two early-risen stars

When all the silent heavens appear their own.

And lo! an infant shews his gladsome face!

His beautiful and shining golden head

Lies on his mother's bosom, like a rose

Fallen on a lilied bank. A dewy light

Meets the soft smiling of his upward eye,

As in the playful restlessness of joy

He clings around her neck, and fondly strives

To reach the kisses mantling from her soul.

--And now, the baby in his cradle sleeps,

Hush'd by his mother's prayer! How soft her tread

Falls, like a snow-flake, on the noiseless floor!

She almost fears to breathe too fond a sigh

Towards the father of her darling child.

--Sleep broods o'er all the house: the mother's heart,

Beating within her husband's folding arms,

Dreams of sweet looks of waking happiness,

Unceasing greetings of congenial thought,

Deep blendings of existence; till awoke

By the long stirring of delightful dreams,

She with a silent prayer of thankfulness

Leans gently-breathing on the breast of love!

Can guilt or misery ever enter here?

Ah! no; the spirit of domestic peace,

Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove,

And ever murmuring forth a quiet song,

Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim,

The hallow'd porch. She hath a heavenly smile

That sinks into the sullen soul of vice,

And wins him o'er to virtue, so transforms

The purpose of his heart, that sudden shame

Smothers the curses struggling into birth,

And makes him turn an eye of kindliness

Even on the blessings that he came to blast.

It is a lofty thought, O guardian love!

To think that he who lives beneath thine eye

Can never be polluted. Pestilence,

The dire, contagious pestilence of sin

May walk abroad, and lay its victims low;

But they, whose upright spirits worship thee,

Breathe not the tainted air--they live apart

Unharm'd, as Israel's heaven-protected sons,

When the exterminating angel pass'd

With steps of blood o'er Egypt's groaning land.

Then ever keep unbroken and unstained

The sabbath-sanctity of home; the shrine

Where spirit in its rapture worships God.

By Heaven beloved for ever are the walls

That duly every morn and evening hear

Our whisper'd hymns! Eternity broods there.

Yea! like a father smiling on a band

Of happy children, the Almighty One

Dwells in the midst of us, appearing oft

In visible glory, while our filial souls,

Made pure beneath the watching of his eye,

Walk stately in the conscious praise of Heaven!

THE FRENCH EXILE.

My Mary! wipe those tears away

That dim thy lovely eyes,

Nor, on that wild, romantic lay,

That leads through fairy worlds astray,

Waste all thy human sighs.

Come hither on the lightsome wing

Of innocence, and with thee bring

Thy smiles that warmly fall

Into the heart with sunny glow;

When once he tunes his harp to sing,

Thou wilt not be in haste to go.--

--The Minstrel's in the Hall!

Quickly she started from her seat,

With blushing, virgin-grace;

Her long hair floating like a stream,

While through it shone with tender gleam

Her calm and pensive face!

Soon as she heard the Minstrel's name,

Across her silent cheek there came

A blythe yet pitying ray;

For often had she heard me tell

Of the French Exile, blind and lame,

Who sung and touched the harp so well--

--Old Louis Fontenaye.

Silent he sat his harp beside,

Upon an antique chair;

And something of his country's pride

Did, exiled though he was, reside

Throughout his foreign air!

A snow-white dog of Gascon breed,

With ribbands deck'd, was there to lead

His dark steps,--and secure

The paltry alms that traveller threw,

Alms that in truth he much did need,

For every child that saw him, knew

That he was wretched poor.

His harp with figures quaint and rare

Was deck'd, and strange device;

There, you beheld the mermaid fair

In mirror braid her sea-green hair,

In wild and sportive guise.

There, on the imitated swell

The Tritons blew the wreathed shell

Around some fairy isle;

--He framed it, when almost a child,

Long ere he left his native dell:

Who saw the antic carving wild

Could scarce forbear to smile.

With silver voice, the lady said,

She knew how well he sung!--

--Starting, he raised his hoary head,

To hear from that kind-hearted maid

His own dear native tongue.

He seem'd as if restored to sight,

So suddenly his eyes grew bright

When that music touch'd his ear;

The lilied fields of France, I ween,

Before him swam in softened light,

And the sweet waters of the Seine

They all are murmuring near.

Even now, his voice was humbly sad,

Subdued by woe and want;

So crush'd his heart, no wish he had

To feel for one short moment glad,

That hopeless Emigrant!

--The aged man is young again,

And cheerily chaunts a playful strain

While his face with rapture shines;--

How rapidly his fingers glance

O'er the glad strings! his giddy brain

Drinks in the chorus and the dance,

Beneath his clustering vines.

We saw it was a darling tune

With his old heart,--a chear

That made all pains forgotten soon;--

Gay look'd he as a bird in June

That loves itself to hear.

Nor undelightful were the lays

That warm and flowery sung the praise

Of France's lovely queen,

When with the ladies of her court,

Like Flora and her train of fays,

She came at summer-eve to sport

Along the banks of Seine.

But fades the sportive roundelay;

Both harp and voice are still;

The dear delusion will not stay,

The murmuring Seine flows far away,

Sink cot and vine-clad hill!

Though his cheated soul is wounded sore,

His aged visage dimm'd once more,

The smile will not depart;

But struggles 'mid the wrinkles there,

For he clings unto the parting shore,

And the morn of life so melting-fair,

Still lingers in his heart.

Ah me! what touching silentness

Slept o'er the face divine

Of my dear maid! methought each tress

Hung 'mid the light of tenderness,

Like clouds in soft moonshine.

With artful innocence she tried

In languid smiles from me to hide

Her tears that fell like rain;--

But when she felt I must perceive

The drops of heavenly pity glide,

She own'd she could not chuse but grieve,

So gladsome was the strain!

If when his griefs once more began,

His eyes had been restored,

And met her face so still and wan,

How had that aged, exiled man

The pitying saint adored!

Yet though the angel light that play'd

Around her face, pierced not the shade

That veil'd his eyeballs dim,--

Yet to his ear her murmurs stole,

And, with a faultering voice, he said

That he felt them sink into his soul

Like the blessed Virgin's hymn!

He pray'd that Heaven its flowers would strew

On both our heads through life,

With such a tone, as told he knew

She was a virgin fond and true,

Mine own betrothed wife!

And something too he strove to say

In praise of our green isle,--how they

Her generous children, though at war

With France, and both on field and wave

Encountering oft in fierce array,

Would not from home or quiet grave

Her exiled sons debar!

Long was the aged Harper gone

Ere Mary well could speak,--

So I cheer'd her soul with loving tone,

And, happy that she was my own,

I kiss'd her dewy cheek.

And, when once more I saw the ray

Of mild-returning pleasure play

Within her glistening eyes,

I bade the gentle maiden go

And read again that Fairy lay,

Since she could weep, 'mid fancied woe,

O'er real miseries.

THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

With laughter swimming in thine eye,

That told youth's heartfelt revelry;

And motion changeful as the wing

Of swallow waken'd by the spring;

With accents blythe as voice of May

Chaunting glad Nature's roundelay;

Circled by joy like planet bright

That smiles 'mid wreathes of dewy light,--

Thy image such, in former time,

When thou, just entering on thy prime,

And woman's sense in thee combined

Gently with childhood's simplest mind,

First taught'st my sighing soul to move

With hope towards the heaven of love!

Now years have given my Mary's face

A thoughtful and a quiet grace:--

Though happy still,--yet chance distress

Hath left a pensive loveliness;

Fancy has tamed her fairy gleams,

And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!

Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,

Shower blessings on a darling child;

Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread,

As if round thy husht infant's bed!--

And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,

That tells thy heart is all my own,

Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years,

With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

By thy glad youth, and tranquil prime

Assured, I smile at hoary time!

For thou art doom'd in age to know

The calm that wisdom steals from woe;

The holy pride of high intent,

The glory of a life well-spent.

When, earth's affections nearly o'er,

With Peace behind, and Faith before,

Thou render'st up again to God,

Untarnish'd by its frail abode,

Thy lustrous soul,--then harp and hymn,

From bands of sister seraphim,

Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye

Open in Immortality.

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

Art thou a thing of mortal birth,

Whose happy home is on our earth?

Does human blood with life embue

Those wandering veins of heavenly blue,

That stray along thy forehead fair,

Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?

Oh! can that light and airy breath

Steal from a being doom'd to death;

Those features to the grave be sent

In sleep thus mutely eloquent;

Or, art thou, what thy form would seem,

The phantom of a blessed dream?

A human shape I feel thou art,

I feel it, at my beating heart,

Those tremors both of soul and sense

Awoke by infant innocence!

Though dear the forms by fancy wove,

We love them with a transient love;

Thoughts from the living world intrude

Even on her deepest solitude:

But, lovely child! thy magic stole

At once into my inmost soul,

With feelings as thy beauty fair,

And left no other vision there.