To me thy parents are unknown;

Glad would they be their child to own!

And well they must have loved before,

If since thy birth they loved not more.

Thou art a branch of noble stem,

And, seeing thee, I figure them.

What many a childless one would give,

If thou in their still home wouldst live!

Though in thy face no family-line

Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine!"

In time thou would'st become the same

As their own child,--all but the name!

How happy must thy parents be

Who daily live in sight of thee!

Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek

Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak,

And feel all natural griefs beguiled

By thee, their fond, their duteous child.

What joy must in their souls have stirr'd

When thy first broken words were heard,

Words, that, inspired by Heaven, express'd

The transports dancing in thy breast!

As for thy smile!--thy lip, cheek, brow,

Even while I gaze, are kindling now.

I called thee duteous: am I wrong?

No! truth, I feel, is in my song:

Duteous thy heart's still beatings move

To God, to Nature, and to Love!

To God!--for thou a harmless child

Hast kept his temple undefiled:

To Nature!--for thy tears and sighs

Obey alone her mysteries:

To Love!--for fiends of hate might see

Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee!

What wonder then, though in thy dreams

Thy face with mystic meaning beams!

Oh! that my spirit's eye could see

Whence burst those gleams of extacy!

That light of dreaming soul appears

To play from thoughts above thy years.

Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring

To Heaven, and Heaven's God adoring!

And who can tell what visions high

May bless an infant's sleeping eye?

What brighter throne can brightness find

To reign on than an infant's mind,

Ere sin destroy, or error dim,

The glory of the Seraphim?

But now thy changing smiles express

Intelligible happiness.

I feel my soul thy soul partake.

What grief! if thou should'st now awake!

With infants happy as thyself

I see thee bound, a playful elf:

I see thou art a darling child

Among thy playmates, bold and wild.

They love thee well; thou art the queen

Of all their sports, in bower or green;

And if thou livest to woman's height,

In thee will friendship, love delight.

And live thou surely must; thy life

Is far too spiritual for the strife

Of mortal pain, nor could disease

Find heart to prey on smiles like these.

Oh! thou wilt be an angel bright!

To those thou lovest, a saving light!

The staff of age, the help sublime

Of erring youth, and stubborn prime;

And when thou goest to Heaven again,

Thy vanishing be like the strain

Of airy harp, so soft the tone

The ear scarce knows when it is gone!

Thrice blessed he! whose stars design

His spirit pure to lean on thine;

And watchful share, for days and years,

Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears!

For good and guiltless as thou art,

Some transient griefs will touch thy heart,

Griefs that along thy alter'd face

Will breathe a more subduing grace,

Than ev'n those looks of joy that lie

On the soft cheek of infancy.

Though looks, God knows, are cradled there

That guilt might cleanse, or sooth despair.

Oh! vision fair! that I could be

Again, as young, as pure as thee!

Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form

May view, but cannot brave the storm;

Years can bedim the gorgeous dies

That paint the bird of paradise,

And years, so fate hath order'd, roll

Clouds o'er the summer of the soul.

Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace,

Such as the gladness of thy face,

O sinless babe! by God are given

To charm the wanderer back to Heaven.

No common impulse hath me led

To this green spot, thy quiet bed,

Where, by mere gladness overcome,

In sleep thou dreamest of thy home.

When to the lake I would have gone,

A wondrous beauty drew me on,

Such beauty as the spirit sees

In glittering fields, and moveless trees,

After a warm and silent shower,

Ere falls on earth the twilight hour.

What led me hither, all can say,

Who, knowing God, his will obey.

Thy slumbers now cannot be long:

Thy little dreams become too strong

For sleep,--too like realities:

Soon shall I see those hidden eyes!

Thou wakest, and, starting from the ground,

In dear amazement look'st around;

Like one who, little given to roam,

Wonders to find herself from home!

But, when a stranger meets thy view,

Glistens thine eye with wilder hue.

A moment's thought who I may be,

Blends with thy smiles of courtesy.

Fair was that face as break of dawn,

When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn

Like a thin veil that half-conceal'd

The light of soul, and half-reveal'd.

While thy hush'd heart with visions wrought,

Each trembling eye-lash moved with thought,

And things we dream, but ne'er can speak,

Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek,

Such summer-clouds as travel light,

When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright;

Till thou awok'st,--then to thine eye

Thy whole heart leapt in extacy!

And lovely is that heart of thine,

Or sure these eyes could never shine

With such a wild, yet bashful glee,

Gay, half-o'ercome timidity!

Nature has breath'd into thy face

A spirit of unconscious grace;

A spirit that lies never still,

And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will.

As, sometimes o'er a sleeping lake

Soft airs a gentle ripling make,

Till, ere we know, the strangers fly,

And water blends again with sky.

Oh! happy sprite! didst thou but know

What pleasures through my being flow

From thy soft eyes, a holier feeling

From their blue light could ne'er be stealing,

But thou would'st be more loth to part,

And give me more of that glad heart!

Oh! gone thou art! and bearest hence

The glory of thy innocence.

But with deep joy I breathe the air

That kiss'd thy cheek, and fann'd thy hair,

And feel though fate our lives must sever,

Yet shall thy image live for ever!

MY COTTAGE.

One small spot

Where my tired mind may rest and call it _home_.

There is a magic in that little word;

It is a mystic circle that surrounds

Comforts and virtues never known beyond

The hallowed limit.

_Southey's Hymn to the Penates._

Here have I found at last a home of peace

To hide me from the world; far from its noise,

To feed that spirit, which, though sprung from earth

And link'd to human beings by the bond

Of earthly love, hath yet a loftier aim

Than perishable joy, and through the calm

That sleeps amid the mountain-solitude,

Can hear the billows of eternity,

And hear delighted.

Many a mystic gleam,

Lovely though faint, of imaged happiness

Fell on my youthful heart, as oft her light

Smiles on a wandering cloud, ere the fair Moon

Hath risen in the sky. And oh! Ye dreams

That to such spiritual happiness could shape

The lonely reveries of my boyish days,

Are ye at last fulfill'd? Ye fairy scenes,

That to the doubting gaze of prophecy

Rose lovely, with your fields of sunny green,

Your sparkling rivulets and hanging groves

Of more than rainbow lustre, where the swing

Of woods primeval darken'd the still depth

Of lakes bold-sweeping round their guardian hills,

Even like the arms of Ocean, where the roar

Sullen and far from mountain cataract

Was heard amid the silence, like a thought

Of solemn mood that tames the dancing soul

When swarming with delight;--Ye fairy scenes!

Fancied no more, but bursting on my heart

In living beauty, with adoring song

I bid you hail! and with as holy love

As ever beautified the eye of saint

Hymning his midnight orisons, to you

I consecrate my life,--till the dim stain

Left by those worldly and unhallow'd thoughts

That taint the purest soul, by bliss destroyed,

My spirit travel like a summer sun,

Itself all glory, and its path all joy.

Nor will the musing penance of the soul,

Perform'd by moonlight, or the setting sun,

To hymn of swinging oak, or the wild flow

Of mountain-torrent, ever lead her on

To virtue, but through peace. For Nature speaks

A parent's language, and, in tones as mild

As e'er hush'd infant on its mother's breast,

Wins us to learn her lore. Yea! even to guilt,

Though in her image something terrible

Weigh down his being with a load of awe,

Love mingles with her wrath, like tender light

Stream'd o'er a dying storm. And thus where'er

Man feels as man, the earth is beautiful.

His blessings sanctify even senseless things,

And the wide world in cheerful loveliness

Returns to him its joy. The summer air,

Whose glittering stillness sleeps within his soul,

Stirs with its own delight: The verdant earth,

Like beauty waking from a happy dream,

Lies smiling: Each fair cloud to him appears

A pilgrim travelling to the shrine of peace;

And the wild wave, that wantons on the sea,

A gay though homeless stranger. Ever blest

The man who thus beholds the golden chain

Linking his soul to outward Nature fair,

Full of the living God!

And where, ye haunts

Of grandeur and of beauty! shall the heart,

That yearns for high communion with its God,

Abide, if e'er its dreams have been of you?

The loveliest sounds, forms, hues, of all the earth

Linger delighted here: Here guilt might come,

With sullen soul abhorring Nature's joy,

And in a moment be restored to Heaven.

Here sorrow, with a dimness o'er his face,

Might be beguiled to smiles,--almost forget

His sufferings, and, in Nature's living book,

Read characters so lovely, that his heart

Would, as it bless'd them, feel a rising swell

Almost like joy!--O earthly paradise!

Of many a secret anguish hast thou healed

Him, who now greets thee with a joyful strain.

And oh! if in those elevated hopes

That lean on virtue,--in those high resolves

That bring the future close upon the soul,

And nobly dare its dangers;--if in joy

Whose vital spring is more than innocence,

Yea! Faith and Adoration!--if the soul

Of man may trust to these,--and they are strong,

Strong as the prayer of dying penitent,--

My being shall be bliss. For witness, Thou!

Oh Mighty One! whose saving love has stolen

On the deep peace of moon-beams to my heart,--

Thou! who with looks of mercy oft hast cheer'd

The starry silence, when, at noon of night,

On some wild mountain thou hast not declined

The homage of thy lonely worshipper,--

Bear witness Thou! that, both in joy and grief,

The love of nature long hath been with me

The love of virtue:--that the solitude

Of the remotest hills to me hath been

Thy temple:--that the fountain's happy voice

Hath sung thy goodness, and thy power has stunn'd

My spirit in the roaring cataract!

Such solitude to me! Yet are there hearts,--

Worthy of good men's love, nor unadorn'd

With sense of moral beauty,--to the joy

That dwells within the Almighty's outward shrine,

Senseless and cold. Aye, there are men who see

The broad sun sinking in a blaze of light,

Nor feel their disembodied spirits hail

With adoration the departing God;

Who on the night-sky, when a cloudless moon

Glides in still beauty through unnumber'd stars,

Can turn the eye unmoved, as if a wall

Of darkness screen'd the glory from their souls.

With humble pride I bless the Holy One

For sights to these denied. And oh! how oft

In seasons of depression,--when the lamp

Of life burn'd dim, and all unpleasant thoughts

Subdued the proud aspirings of the soul,--

When doubts and fears with-held the timid eye

From scanning scenes to come, and a deep sense

Of human frailty turn'd the past to pain,

How oft have I remember'd that a world

Of glory lay around me, that a source

Of lofty solace lay in every star,

And that no being need behold the sun,

And grieve, that knew WHO hung him in the sky.

Thus unperceived I woke from heavy grief

To airy joy: and seeing that the mind

Of man, though still the image of his God,

Lean'd by his will on various happiness,

I felt that all was good; that faculties,

Though low, might constitute, if rightly used,

True wisdom; and when man hath here attain'd

The purpose of his being, he will sit

Near Mercy's throne, whether his course hath been

Prone on the earth's dim sphere, or, as with wing

Of viewless eagle, round the central blaze.

Then ever shall the day that led me here

Be held in blest remembrance. I shall see,

Even at my dying hour, the glorious sun

That made Winander one wide wave of gold,

When first in transport from the mountain-top

I hail'd the heavenly vision! Not a cloud,

Whose wreaths lay smiling in the lap of light,

Not one of all those sister-isles that sleep

Together, like a happy family

Of beauty and of love, but will arise

To chear my parting spirit, and to tell

That Nature gently leads unto the grave

All who have read her heart, and kept their own

In kindred holiness.

But ere that hour

Of awful triumph, I do hope that years

Await me, when the unconscious power of joy

Creating wisdom, the bright dreams of soul

Will humanize the heart, and I shall be

More worthy to be loved by those whose love

Is highest praise:--that by the living light

That burns for ever in affection's breast,

I shall behold how fair and beautiful

A human form may be.--Oh, there are thoughts

That slumber in the soul, like sweetest sounds

Amid the harp's loose strings, till airs from Heaven

On earth, at dewy night-fall, visitant,

Awake the sleeping melody! Such thoughts,

My gentle Mary, I have owed to thee.

And if thy voice e'er melt into my soul

With a dear home-toned whisper,--if thy face

E'er brighten in the unsteady gleams of light

From our own cottage-hearth;--O Mary! then

My overpowered spirit will recline

Upon thy inmost heart, till it become,

O sinless seraph! almost worthy thee.

Then will the earth,--that oft-times to the eye

Of solitary lover seems o'erhung

With too severe a shade, and faintly smiles

With ineffectual beauty on his heart,--

Be clothed with everlasting joy; like land

Of blooming faery, or of boyhood's dreams

Ere life's first flush is o'er. Oft shall I turn

My vision from the glories of the scene

To read them in thine eyes; and hidden grace,

That slumbers in the crimson clouds of Even,

Will reach my spirit through their varying light,

Though viewless in the sky. Wandering with thee,

A thousand beauties never seen before

Will glide with sweet surprise into my soul,

Even in those fields where each particular tree

Was look'd on as a friend,--where I had been

Frequent, for years, among the lonely glens.

Nor, 'mid the quiet of reflecting bliss,

Will the faint image of the distant world

Ne'er float before us:--Cities will arise

Among the clouds that circle round the sun,

Gorgeous with tower and temple. The night-voice

Of flood and mountain to our ear will seem

Like life's loud stir:--And, as the dream dissolves,

With burning spirit we will smile to see

Only the Moon rejoicing in the sky,

And the still grandeur of the eternal hills.

Yet, though the fulness of domestic joy

Bless our united beings, and the home

Be ever happy where thy smiles are seen,

Though human voice might never touch our ear

From lip of friend or brother;--yet, oh! think

What pure benevolence will warm our hearts,

When with the undelaying steps of love

Through you o'ershadowing wood we dimly see

A coming friend, far distant then believed,

And all unlook'd-for. When the short distrust

Of unexpected joy no more constrains,

And the eye's welcome brings him to our arms,

With gladden'd spirit he will quickly own

That true love ne'er was selfish, and that man

Ne'er knew the whole affection of his heart

Till resting on another's. If from scenes

Of noisy life he come, and in his soul

The love of Nature, like a long-past dream,

If e'er it stir, yield but a dim delight,

Oh! we shall lead him where the genial power

Of beauty, working by the wavy green

Of hill-ascending wood, the misty gleam

Of lakes reposing in their peaceful vales,

And, lovelier than the loveliness below,

The moonlight Heaven, shall to his blood restore

An undisturbed flow, such as he felt

Pervade his being, morning, noon, and night,

When youth's bright years pass'd happily away,

Among his native hills, and all he knew

Of crowded cities, was from passing tale

Of traveller, half-believed, and soon forgotten.

And fear not, Mary! that, when winter comes,

These solitary mountains will resign

The beauty that pervades their mighty frames,

Even like a living soul. The gleams of light

Hurrying in joyful tumult o'er the cliffs,

And giving to our musings many a burst

Of sudden grandeur, even as if the eye

Of God were wandering o'er the lovely wild,

Pleased with his own creation;--the still joy

Of cloudless skies; and the delighted voice

Of hymning fountains,--these will leave awhile

The altered earth:--But other attributes

Of Nature's heart will rule, and in the storm

We shall behold the same prevailing Power

That slumbers in the calm, and sanctify,

With adoration, the delight of love.

*...*...*...*

I lift my eyes upon the radiant Moon,

That long unnoticed o'er my head has held

Her solitary walk, and as her light

Recals my wandering soul, I start to feel

That all has been a dream. Alone I stand

Amid the silence. Onward rolls the stream

Of time, while to my ear its waters sound

With a strange rushing music. O my soul!

Whate'er betide, for aye remember thou

These mystic warnings, for they are of Heaven.

LINES

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WINDERMERE, ON RECOVERY FROM A DANGEROUS ILLNESS.

Once more, dear Lake! along thy banks I rove,

And bless thee in my heart that flows with love.

Methinks, as life's awakening embers burn,

Nature rejoices in her son's return;

And, like a parent after absence long,

Sings from her heart of hearts a chearful song.

Oh! that fresh breeze through all my being stole,

And made sweet music in my gladden'd soul!

To me just rescued from the opening grave,

How bright the radiance of the dancing wave!

A gleam of joy, a soft endearing smile,

Plays 'mid the greenness of each sylvan isle,

And, in the bounty of affection, showers

A loving welcome o'er these blissful bowers.

Quick glides the hymning streamlet, to partake

The deep enjoyment of the happy lake;

The pebbles, sparkling through the yellow brook,

Seem to my gaze to wear a livelier look;

And little wild-flowers, that in careless health

Lay round my path in unregarded wealth,

In laughing beauty court my eyes again,

Like friends unchanged by coldness or disdain.

Now life and joy are one:--to Earth, Air, Heaven,

An undisturbed jubilee is given;

While, happy as in dreams, I seem to fly,

Skimming the ground, or soaring through the sky,

And feel, with sudden life-pervading glee,

As if this rapture all were made for me.

And well the glory to my soul is known;

For mystic visions stamped it as my own.

While sickness lay, like ice, upon my breath,

With eye prophetic, through the shades of death

That brooded o'er me like a dreary night,

This beauteous scene I saw in living light.

No friend was near me: and a heavy gloom

Lay in deep silence o'er the lonely room;

Even hope had fled; and as in parting strife

My soul stood trembling on the brink of life,--

When lo! sweet sounds, like those that now I hear,

Of stream and zephyr stole into my ear.

Far through my heart the mingled music ran,

Like tones of mercy to a dying man.

Rejoicing in the rosy morning's birth,

Like new-waked beauty lay the dewy earth;

The mighty sun I saw, as now I see,

And my soul shone with kindred majesty:

Calm smiled the Lake; and from that smile arose

Faith, hope, and trust, oblivion of my woes:

I felt that I should live; nor could despair

Bedim a scene so glorious, and so fair.

Now is the vision truth. Disease hath flown,

And in the midst of joy I stand alone.

The eye of God is on me: the wide sky

Is sanctified with present Deity,

And, at his bidding, Nature's aspect mild

Pours healing influence on her wasted child.

My eye now brightens with the brightening scene,

Chear'd with the hues of kind restoring green;

As with a lulling sound the fountain flows,

My tingling ear is filled with still repose;

The summer silence, sleeping on the plain,

Sends settled quiet to my dizzy brain;

And the moist freshness of the glittering wood

Cools with a heart-felt dew my feverish blood.

O blessed Lake! thy sparkling waters roll

Health to my frame, and rapture to my soul.

Emblem of peace, of innocence, and love!

Sleeping in beauty given thee from above:

This earth delighting in thy gentle breast,

And the glad heavens attending on thy rest!

Can he e'er turn from virtue's quiet bowers,

All fragrant dropping with immortal flowers,

Whose inward eye, as with a magic art,

Beholds thy glory imaged in his heart?

No! he shall live, from guilt and vice afar,

As in the silent Heavens some lonely star.

A light shall be around him to defend

The holy head of Nature's bosom friend.

And if the mists of error e'er should come

To that bright sphere where virtue holds her home,

She has a charm to scare the intruder thence;

Or, powerful in her spotless innocence,

With one calm look her spirit will transform

To a fair cloud the heralds of the storm.

Nor less, Winander! to thy power I owe

Rays of delight amid the gloom of woe.

Yes! oft, when self-tormenting fancy framed

Forms of dim fear that grief has never named;

When the whole world seem'd void of mental cheer,

Nor spring nor summer in the joyless year,

Oft has thy image of upbraiding love,

Seen on a sudden through some opening grove,

Even like the tender unexpected smile

Of some dear friend I had forgot the while,

In silence said, "My son, why not partake

"The peace now brooding o'er thy darling lake?

"Oh! why in sullen discontent destroy

"The law of Nature, Universal Joy?"

Sweet Lake! I listen to thy guardian voice:

I look abroad; and, looking, I rejoice.

My home is here; ah! never shall we part,

Till life's last pulse hath left my wasted heart.

True that another land first gave me birth,

And other lakes beheld my infant mirth:

Far from these skies dear friendships have I known,

And still in memory lives their soften'd tone;

Yet though the image of my earlier years

'Mid Scotland's mountains dim my eyes with tears,

And the heart's day-dreams oft will lingering dwell

On that wild region which she loves so well,--

Think not, sweet Lake! before my years are told

My love for thee and thine can e'er grow cold:

For here hath Hope fix'd her last earthly bound,

And where Hope rests in peace, is hallow'd ground.

And oh! if e'er that happy time shall come,

When she I love sits smiling in my home,

And, oft as chance may bid us meet or part,

Speaks the soft word that slides into the heart,

Then fair as now thou art, yea! passing fair,

Thy scarce-seen waters melting into air,

Far lovelier gleams will dance upon thy breast,

And thine isles bend their trees in deeper rest.

Then will my joy-enlighten'd soul descry

All that is beautiful on land or sky;

For, when the heart is calm with pure delight,

Revels the soul 'mid many a glorious sight.

The earth then kindles with a vernal grace,

Glad as the laugh upon an infant-face:

The sun himself is clothed with vaster light,

And showers of gentler sadness bathe the night.

Dreams of delight! while thus I fondly weave

Your fairy-folds, Oh! can ye e'er deceive?

Are ye in vain to cheated mortals given,

Lovely impostors in the garb of Heaven?

Fears, hopes, doubts, wishes, hush my pensive shell,

Fount of them all, dear Lake! farewell! farewell!

APOLOGY

FOR THE LITTLE NAVAL TEMPLE, ON STORRS' POINT, WINDERMERE.

Nay! Stranger! smile not at this little dome,

Albeit quaint, and with no nice regard

To highest rules of grace and symmetry,

Plaything of art, it venture thus to stand

'Mid the great forms of Nature. Doth it seem

A vain intruder in the quiet heart

Of this majestic Lake, that like an arm

Of Ocean, or some Indian river vast,

In beauty floats amid its guardian hills?

Haply it may: yet in this humble tower,

The mimicry of loftier edifice,

There lives a silent spirit, that confers

A lasting charter on its sportive wreath

Of battlements, amid the mountain-calm

To stand as proudly, as you giant rock

That with his shadow dims the dazzling lake!

Then blame it not: for know 'twas planted here,

In mingled mood of seriousness and mirth,

By one[4] who meant to Nature's sanctity

No cold unmeaning outrage. He was one

Who often in adventurous youth had sail'd

O'er the great waters, and he dearly loved

Their music wild; nor less the gallant souls

Whose home is on the Ocean:--so he framed

This jutting mole, that like a natural cape

Meets the soft-breaking waves, and on its point,

Bethinking him of some sea-structure huge,

Watch-tower or light-house, rear'd this mimic dome,

Seen up and down the lake, a monument

Sacred to images of former days.

See! in the playfulness of English zeal

Its low walls are emblazon'd! there thou read'st

Howe, Duncan, Vincent, and that mightier name

Whom death has made immortal.--Not misplaced

On temple rising from an inland sea

Such venerable names, though ne'er was heard

The sound of cannon o'er these tranquil shores,

Save when it peal'd to waken in her cave

The mountain echo: yet this chronicle,

Speaking of war amid the depths of peace,

Wastes not its meaning on the heedless air.

It hath its worshippers: it sends a voice,

A voice creating elevated thoughts,

Into the hearts of our bold peasantry

Following the plough along these fertile vales,

Or up among the misty solitude

Beside the wild sheep-fold. The fishermen,

Who on the clear wave ply their silent trade,

Oft passing lean upon their dripping oars,

And bless the heroes: Idling in the joy

Of summer sunshine, as in light canoe

The stranger glides among these lovely isles,

This little temple to his startled soul

Oft sends a gorgeous vision, gallant crews

In fierce joy cheering as they onwards bear

To break the line of battle, meteor-like

Long ensigns brightening on the towery mast,

And sails in awful silence o'er the main

Lowering like thunder-clouds!--

Then, stranger! give

A blessing on this temple, and admire

The gaudy pendant round the painted staff

Wreathed in still splendour, or in wanton folds,

Even like a serpent bright and beautiful,

Streaming its burnished glory on the air.

And whether silence sleep upon the stones

Of this small edifice, or from within

Steal the glad voice of laughter and of song,

Pass on with alter'd thoughts, and gently own

That Windermere, with all her radiant isles

Serenely floating on her azure breast,

Like stars in heaven, with kindest smiles may robe

This monument, to heroes dedicate,

Nor Nature feel her holy reign profaned

By work of art, though framed in humblest guise,

When a high spirit prompts the builder's soul.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] The late Sir John Legard, Bart.

PICTURE OF A BLIND MAN.

Why sits so long beside you cottage-door

That aged man with tresses thin and hoar?

Fix'd are his eyes in one continued gaze,

Nor seem to feel the sun's meridian blaze;

Yet are the orbs with youth-like colours bright,

As o'er the Iris falls the trembling light.

Changeless his mien; not even one flitting trace

Of spirit wanders o'er his furrow'd face;

No feeling moves his venerable head:

--He sitteth there--an emblem of the dead!

The staff of age lies near him on the seat,

His faithful dog is slumbering at his feet,

And you fair child, who steals an hour for play

While thus her father rests upon his way,

Her sport will leave, nor cast one look behind,

Soon as she hears his voice,--for he is blind!

List! as in tones through deep affection mild

He speaks by name to the delighted child!

Then, bending mute in dreams of painful bliss,

Breathes o'er her neck a father's tenderest kiss,

And with light hand upon her forehead fair

Smooths the stray ringlets of her silky hair!

A beauteous phantom rises through the night

For ever brooding o'er his darken'd sight,

So clearly imaged both in form and limb,

He scarce remembers that his eyes are dim,

But thinks he sees in truth the vernal wreath

His gentle infant wove, that it might breathe

A sweet restoring fragrance through his breast,

Chosen from the wild-flowers that he loves the best.

In that sweet trance he sees the sparkling glee

That sanctifies the face of infancy;

The dimpled cheek where playful fondness lies,

And the blue softness of her smiling eyes;

The spirit's temple unprofaned by tears,

Where God's unclouded loveliness appears;

Those gleams of soul to every feature given,

When youth walks guiltless by the light of heaven!

And oh! what pleasures through his spirit burn,

When to the gate his homeward steps return;

When fancy's eye the curling smoke surveys,

And his own hearth is gaily heard to blaze!

How beams his sightless visage! when the press

Of Love's known hand, with cheerful tenderness,

Falls on his arm, and leads with guardian care

His helpless footsteps to the accustomed chair;

When that dear voice he joy'd from youth to hear

With kind enquiry comes unto his ear,

And tremulous tells how lovely still must be

Those fading beauties that he ne'er must see!

Though ne'er by him his cottage-home be seen,

Where to the wild brook slopes the daisied green;

Though the bee, slowly borne on laden wing,

To him be known but by its murmuring;

And the long leaf that trembles in the breeze

Be all that tells him of his native trees;

Yet dear to him each viewless object round

Familiar to his soul from touch or sound.

The stream, 'mid banks of osier winding near,

Lulls his calm spirit through the listening ear:

Deeply his soul enjoys the loving strife

When the warm summer air is fill'd with life;

And as his limbs in quiet dreams are laid,

Blest is the oak's contemporary shade.

Happy old Man! no vain regrets intrude

On the still hour of sightless solitude.

Though deepest shades o'er outward Nature roll,

Her cloudless beauty lives within thy soul

--Oft to you rising mount thy steps ascend,

As to the spot where dwelt a former friend;

From whose green summit thou could'st once behold

Mountains far-off in dim confusion roll'd,

Lakes of blue mist, where gleam'd the whitening sail,

And many a woodland interposing vale.

Thou seest them still: and oh! how soft a shade

Does memory breathe o'er mountain, wood, and glade!

Each craggy pass, where oft in sportive scorn

Had sprung thy limbs in life's exulting morn;

Each misty cataract, and torrent-flood,

Where thou a silent angler oft hast stood;

Each shelter'd creek where through the roughest day

Floated thy bark without the anchor's stay;

Each nameless field by nameless thought endear'd;

Each little hedge-row that thy childhood rear'd,

That seems unalter'd yet in form and size,

Though fled the clouds of fifty summer skies,

Rise on thy soul,--on high devotion springs

Through Nature's beauty borne on Fancy's wings,

And while the blissful vision floats around,

Of loveliest form, fair hue, and melting sound,

Thou carest not, though blindness may not roam,--

For Heaven's own glory smiles around thy home.

TROUTBECK CHAPEL.

How sweet and solemn at the close of day,

After a long and lonely pilgrimage

Among the mountains, where our spirits held

With wildering fancy and her kindred powers

High converse, to descend as from the clouds

Into a quiet valley, fill'd with trees

By Nature planted, crowding round the brink

Of an oft-hidden rivulet, or hung

A beauteous shelter o'er the humble roof

Of many a moss-grown cottage!

In that hour

Of pensive happiness, the wandering man

Looks for some spot of still profounder rest,

Where nought may break the solemn images

Sent by the setting sun into his soul.

Up to you simple edifice he walks,

That seems beneath its sable grove of pines

More silent than the home where living thing

Abides, yea, even than desolated tower

Wrapt in its ivy-shroud.

I know it well,--

The village-chapel: many a year ago,

That little dome to God was dedicate;

And ever since, hath undisturbed peace

Sat on it, moveless as the brooding dove

That must not leave her nest. A mossy wall,

Bathed though in ruins with a flush of flowers,

(A lovely emblem of that promised life

That springs from death) doth placidly enclose

The bed of rest, where with their fathers sleep

The children of the vale, and the calm stream

That murmurs onward with the self-same tone

For ever, by the mystic power of sound

Binding the present with the past, pervades

The holy hush as if with God's own voice,

Filling the listening heart with piety.

Oh! ne'er shall I forget the hour, when first

Thy little chapel stole upon my heart,

Secluded TROUTBECK! 'Twas the Sabbath-morn,

And up the rocky banks of thy wild stream

I wound my path, full oft I ween delay'd

By sounding waterfall, that 'mid the calm

Awoke such solemn thoughts as suited well

The day of peace; till all at once I came

Out of the shady glen, and with fresh joy

Walk'd on encircled by green pastoral hills.

Before me suddenly thy chapel rose

As if it were an image: even then

The noise of thunder roll'd along the sky,

And darkness veil'd the heights,--a summer-storm

Of short forewarning and of transient power.

Ah me! how beautifully silent thou

Didst smile amid the tempest! O'er thy roof

Arch'd a fair rainbow, that to me appear'd

A holy shelter to thee in the storm,

And made thee shine amid the brooding gloom,

Bright as the morning star. Between the fits

Of the loud thunder, rose the voice of Psalms,

A most soul-moving sound. There unappall'd,

A choir of youths and maidens hymned their God,

With tones that robb'd the thunder of its dread,

Bidding it rave in vain.

Out came the sun

In glory from his clouded tabernacle;

And, waken'd by the splendour, up the lark

Rose with a loud and yet a louder song,

Chaunting to heaven the hymn of gratitude.

The service closed; and o'er the church-yard spread

The happy flock who in that peaceful fold

Had worshipp'd Jesus, carrying to their homes

The comfort of a faith that cannot die,

That to the young supplies a guiding light,

Steadier than reason's, and far brighter too,

And to the aged sanctifies the grass

That grows upon the grave.

O happy lot,

Methought, to tend a little flock like this,

Loving them all, and by them all beloved!

So felt their shepherd on that Sabbath-morn

Returning their kind smiles;--a pious man,

Content in this lone vale to teach the truths

Our Saviour taught, nor wishing other praise

Than of his great task-master. Yet his youth

Not unadorn'd with science, nor the lore

Becoming in their prime accomplish'd men,

Told that among the worldly eminent

Might lie his shining way:--but, wiser far,

He to the shades of solitude retired,

The birth-place of his fathers, and there vow'd

His talents and his virtues, rarest both,

To God who gave them, rendering by his voice

This beauteous chapel still more beautiful,

And the blameless dwellers in this quiet dale

Happier in life and death.

PEACE AND INNOCENCE.

The lingering lustre of a vernal day

From the dim landscape slowly steals away;

One lovely hour!--and then the stars of Even

Will sparkling hail the apparent Queen of Heaven;

For the tired Sun, now softly sinking down,

To his fair daughter leaves his silent throne.

Almost could I believe with life embued,

And hush'd in dreams, this gentle solitude.

Look where I may, a tranquillizing soul

Breathes forth a life-like pleasure o'er the whole.

The shadows settling on the mountain's breast

Recline, as conscious of the hour of rest;

Stedfast as objects in a peaceful dream,

The sleepy trees are bending o'er the stream;

The stream, half veil'd in snowy vapour, flows

With sound like silence, motion like repose.

My heart obeys the power of earth and sky,

And 'mid the quiet slumbers quietly!

A wreath of smoke, that feels no breath of air,

Melts amid you fair clouds, itself as fair,

And seems to link in beauteousness and love

That earthly cottage to the domes above.

There my heart rests,--as if by magic bound:

Blessings be on that plat of orchard-ground!

Wreathed round the dwelling like a fairy ring,

Its green leaves lost in richest blossoming.

Within that ring no creature seems alive;

The bees have ceased to hum around the hive;

On the tall ash the rooks have roosted long,

And the fond dove hath coo'd his latest song;

Now, shrouded close beneath the holly-bush,

Sits on her low-built nest the sleeping thrush.

All do not sleep: behold a spotless lamb

Looks bleating round, as if it sought its dam.

Its restless motion and its piteous moan

Tell that it fears all night to rest alone,

Though heaven's most gracious dew descends in peace

Softly as snow-flakes on its radiant fleece.

That mournful bleat hath touch'd the watchful ear

Of one to whom the little lamb is dear,

As innocent and lovely as itself!

See where with springs she comes, the smiling elf!

Well does the lamb her infant guardian know:

Joy brightening dances o'er her breast of snow,

And light as flying leaf, with sudden glide,

Fondly she presses to the maiden's side.

With kindness quieting its late alarms,

The sweet child folds it in her nursing arms;

And calling it by every gentle name

That happy innocence through love can frame,

With tenderest kisses lavish'd on its head,

Conducts it frisking to its shelter'd bed.

Kind hearted infant! be thy slumbers bland!

Dream that thy sportive lambkin licks thy hand,

Or, wearied out by races short and fleet,

Basks in the sunshine, resting on thy feet;

That waking from repose, unbroken, deep,

Thou scarce shalt know that thou hast been asleep!

With eye-lids trembling through thy golden hair,

I hear thee lisping low thy nightly prayer.

O sweetest voice! what beauty breathes therein!

Ne'er hath its music been impaired by sin.

In all its depths my soul shall carry hence

The air serene born of thy innocence.

To me most awful is thy hour of rest,

For little children sleep in Jesus' breast!

LOUGHRIG TARN.

Thou guardian Naiad of this little Lake,

Whose banks in unprofaned Nature sleep,

(And that in waters lone and beautiful

Dwell spirits radiant as the homes they love,

Have poets still believed) O surely blest

Beyond all genii or of wood or wave,

Or sylphs that in the shooting sunbeams dwell,

Art thou! yea, happier even than summer-cloud

Beloved by air and sky, and floating slow

O'er the still bosom of upholding heaven.

Beauteous as blest, O Naiad, thou must be!

For, since thy birth, have all delightful things,

Of form and hue, of silence and of sound,

Circled thy spirit, as the crowding stars

Shine round the placid Moon. Lov'st thou to sink

Into thy cell of sleep? The water parts

With dimpling smiles around thee, and below,

The unsunn'd verdure, soft as cygnet's down,

Meets thy descending feet without a sound.

Lov'st thou to sport upon the watery gleam?

Lucid as air around thy head it lies

Bathing thy sable locks in pearly light,

While, all around, the water lilies strive

To shower their blossoms o'er the virgin queen.

Or doth the shore allure thee?--well it may:

How soft these fields of pastoral beauty melt

In the clear water! neither sand nor stone

Bars herb or wild-flower from the dewy sound,

Like Spring's own voice now rippling round the Tarn.

There oft thou liest 'mid the echoing bleat

Of lambs, that race amid the sunny gleams;

Or bee's wide murmur as it fills the broom

That yellows round thy bed. O gentle glades,

Amid the tremulous verdure of the woods,

In stedfast smiles of more essential light,

Lying, like azure streaks of placid sky

Amid the moving clouds, the Naiad loves

Your glimmering alleys, and your rustling bowers;

For there, in peace reclined, her half-closed eye

Through the long vista sees her darling Lake,

Even like herself, diffused in fair repose.

Not undelightful to the quiet breast

Such solitary dreams as now have fill'd

My busy fancy; dreams that rise in peace,

And thither lead, partaking in their flight

Of human interests and earthly joys.

Imagination fondly leans on truth,

And sober scenes of dim reality

To her seem lovely as the western sky,

To the rapt Persian worshipping the sun.

Methinks this little lake, to whom my heart

Assigned a guardian spirit, renders back

To me, in tenderest gleams of gratitude,

Profounder beauty to reward my hymn.

Long hast thou been a darling haunt of mine,

And still warm blessings gush'd into my heart,

Meeting or parting with thy smiles of peace.

But now, thy mild and gentle character,

More deeply felt than ever, seems to blend

Its essence pure with mine, like some sweet tune

Oft heard before with pleasure, but at last,

In one high moment of inspired bliss,

Borne through the spirit like an angel's song.

This is the solitude that reason loves!

Even he who yearns for human sympathies,

And hears a music in the breath of man,

Dearer than voice of mountain or of flood,

Might live a hermit here, and mark the sun

Rising or setting 'mid the beauteous calm,

Devoutly blending in his happy soul

Thoughts both of earth and heaven!--Yon mountain-side,

Rejoicing in its clustering cottages,

Appears to me a paradise preserved

From guilt by Nature's hand, and every wreath

Of smoke, that from these hamlets mounts to heaven,

In its straight silence holy as a spire

Rear'd o'er the house of God.

Thy sanctity

Time yet hath reverenced; and I deeply feel

That innocence her shrine shall here preserve

For ever.--The wild vale that lies beyond,

Circled by mountains trod but by the feet

Of venturous shepherd, from all visitants,

Save the free tempests and the fowls of heaven,

Guards thee;--and wooded knolls fantastical

Seclude thy image from the gentler dale,

That by the Brathay's often-varied voice

Chear'd as it winds along, in beauty fades

'Mid the green banks of joyful Windermere!

O gentlest Lake! from all unhallow'd things

By grandeur guarded in thy loveliness,

Ne'er may thy poet with unwelcome feet

Press thy soft moss embathed in flowery dies,

And shadow'd in thy stillness like the heavens.

May innocence for ever lead me here,

To form amid the silence high resolves

For future life; resolves, that, born in peace,

Shall live 'mid tumult, and though haply mild

As infants in their play, when brought to bear

On the world's business, shall assert their power

And majesty--and lead me boldly on

Like giants conquering in a noble cause.

This is a holy faith, and full of chear

To all who worship Nature, that the hours,

Past tranquilly with her, fade not away

For ever like the clouds, but in the soul

Possess a secret silent dwelling-place,

Where with a smiling visage memory sits,

And startles oft the virtuous, with a shew

Of unsuspected treasures. Yea, sweet Lake!

Oft hast thou borne into my grateful heart

Thy lovely presence, with a thousand dreams

Dancing and brightening o'er thy sunny wave,

Though many a dreary mile of mist and snow

Between us interposed. And even now,

When you bright star hath risen to warn me home,

I bid thee farewell in the certain hope,

That thou, this night, wilt o'er my sleeping eyes

Shed chearing visions, and with freshest joy

Make me salute the dawn. Nor may the hymn

Now sung by me unto thy listening woods,

Be wholly vain,--but haply it may yield

A gentle pleasure to some gentle heart,

Who blessing, at its close, the unknown bard,

May, for his sake, upon thy quiet banks

Frame visions of his own, and other songs

More beautiful, to Nature and to Thee!

MARY.

Three days before my Mary's death,

We walk'd by Grassmere shore;

"Sweet Lake!" she said with faultering breath,

"I ne'er shall see thee more!"

Then turning round her languid head,

She look'd me in the face;

And whisper'd, "When thy friend is dead,

Remember this lone place."

Vainly I struggled at a smile,

That did my fears betray;

It seem'd that on our darling isle

Foreboding darkness lay.

My Mary's words were words of truth;

None now behold the Maid;

Amid the tears of age and youth,

She in her grave was laid.

Long days, long nights, I ween, were past

Ere ceased her funeral knell;

But to the spot I went at last

Where she had breath'd "farewell!"

Methought, I saw the phantom stand

Beside the peaceful wave;

I felt the pressure of her hand--

--Then look'd towards her grave.

Fair, fair beneath the evening sky

The quiet churchyard lay:

The tall pine-grove most solemnly

Hung mute above her clay.

Dearly she loved their arching spread,

Their music wild and sweet,

And, as she wished on her death-bed,

Was buried at their feet.

Around her grave a beauteous fence

Of wild flowers shed their breath,

Smiling like infant innocence

Within the gloom of death.

Such flowers from bank of mountain-brook

At eve we wont to bring,

When every little mossy nook

Betray'd returning Spring.

Oft had I fixed the simple wreath

Upon her virgin breast;

But now such flowers as form'd it, breathe

Around her bed of rest.

Yet all within my silent soul,

As the hush'd air was calm;

The natural tears that slowly stole,

Assuaged my grief like balm.

The air that seem'd so thick and dull

For months unto my eye;

Ah me! how bright and beautiful

It floated on the sky!

A trance of high and solemn bliss

From purest ether came;

'Mid such a heavenly scene as this,

Death is an empty name!

The memory of the past return'd

Like music to my heart,--

It seem'd that causelessly I mourn'd,

When we were told to part.

"God's mercy, to myself I said,

To both our souls is given--

To me, sojourning on earth's shade,

To her--a Saint in Heaven!"

LINES

WRITTEN AT A LITTLE WELL BY THE ROADSIDE, LANGDALE.

Thou lonely spring of waters undefiled!

Silently slumbering in thy mossy cell,

Yea, moveless as the hillock's verdant side

From whom thou hast thy birth, I bless thy gleam

Of clearest coldness, with as deep-felt love

As pilgrim kneeling at his far-sought shrine;

And as I bow to bathe my freshen'd heart

In thy restoring radiance, from my lips

A breathing prayer sheds o'er thy glassy sleep

A gentle tremor!

Nor must I forget

A benison for the departed soul

Of him, who, many a year ago, first shaped

This little Font,--emprisoning the spring

Not wishing to be free, with smooth slate-stone,

Now in the beauteous colouring of age

Scarcely distinguished from the natural rock.

In blessed hour the solitary man

Laid the first stone,--and in his native vale

It serves him for a peaceful monument,

'Mid the hill-silence.

Renovated life

Now flows through all my veins:--old dreams revive;

And while an airy pleasure in my brain

Dances unbidden, I have time to gaze,

Even with a happy lover's kindest looks,

On Thee, delicious Fountain!

Thou dost shed

(Though sultry stillness fill the summer air

And parch the yellow hills,) all round thy cave,

A smile of beauty lovely as the Spring

Breathes with his April showers. The narrow lane

On either hand ridged with low shelving rocks,

That from the road-side gently lead the eye

Up to thy bed,--Ah me! how rich a green,

Still brightening, wantons o'er its moisten'd grass!

With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze,

Now that my thirsty soul is gratified,

Live on the little cell! The water there,

Variously dappled by the wreathed sand

That sleeps below in many an antic shape,

Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-hen

Soothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless drip

From the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's hand

Vaulted most beautiful, even like a pulse

Tells of the living principle within,--

A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild.

Yea, seldom heard: there is but one lone cot

Beyond this well:--it is inhabited

By an old shepherd during summer months,

And haply he may drink of the pure spring,

To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath-morn

Going to pray,--or as he home returns

At silent eve: or traveller such as I,

Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills,

Thankfully here may slake his burning thirst

Once in a season. Other visitants

It hath not; save perchance the mountain-crow,

When ice hath lock'd the rills, or wandering colt

Leaving its pasture for the shady lane.

Methinks, in such a solitary cave,

The fairy forms belated peasant sees,

Oft nightly dancing in a glittering ring,

On the smooth mountain sward, might here retire

To lead their noon-tide revels, or to bathe

Their tiny limbs in this transparent well.

A fitter spot there is not: flowers are here

Of loveliest colours and of sweetest smell,

Native to these our hills, and ever seen

A fairest family by the happy side

Of their own parent spring;--and others too,

Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joy,

Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth,

Here smile like strangers in a novel scene.

Lo! a tall rose-tree with its clustering bloom,

Brightening the mossy wall on which it leans

Its arching beauty, to my gladsome heart

Seems, with its smiles of lonely loveliness,

Like some fair virgin at the humble door

Of her dear mountain-cot, standing to greet

The way-bewildered traveller.

But my soul

Long pleased to linger by this silent cave,

Nursing its wild and playful fantasies,

Pants for a loftier pleasure,--and forsakes,

Though surely with no cold ingratitude,

The flowers and verdure round the sparkling well.

A voice calls on me from the mountain-depths,

And it must be obey'd: Yon ledge of rocks,

Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow,

Is ready for my footsteps, and even now,

Wast-water blackens far beneath my feet,

She the storm-loving Lake.

Sweet Fount!--Farewell!

LINES

WRITTEN ON SEEING A PICTURE BY BERGHEM, OF AN ASS IN A STORM-SHOWER.

Poor wretch! that blasted leafless tree,

More frail and death-like even than thee,

Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form;

The sleet, the rain, the wind of Heaven,

Full in thy face are coldly driven,

As if thou wert alone the object of the storm.

Yet, chill'd with cold, and drench'd with rain,

Mild creature, thou dost not complain

By sound or look of these ungracious skies;

Calmly as if in friendly shed,

There stand'st thou, with unmoving head,

And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-closed eyes.

Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze

On thee; nor am I loth to praise

Him who in moral mood this image drew;

And yet, methinks, that I could frame

An image different, yet the same,

More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature true.

Behold a lane retired and green,

Winding amid a forest-scene

With blooming furze in many a radiant heap;

There is a browsing ass espied

One colt is frisking by her side,

And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep.

And lo! a little maiden stands,

With thistles in her tender hands,

Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat;

Or gently down before him lays,

With words of solace and of praise,

Pluck'd from th' untrodden turf the herbage soft and sweet.

The summer sun is sinking down,

And the peasants from the market town

With chearful hearts are to their homes returning;

Groupes of gay children too are there,

Stirring with mirth the silent air,

O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning.

The ass hath got his burthen still!

The merry elves the panniers fill;

Delighted there from side to side they swing.

The creature heeds nor shout nor call,

But jogs on careless of them all,

Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing.

A gipsey-groupe! the secret wood

Stirs through its leafy solitude,

As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune;

Th' unpannier'd ass slowly retires

From the brown tents, and sparkling fires,

And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon.

The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree,

More pensive 'mid this scene of glee

That mocks the hour of beauty and of rest;

The soul of all her softest rays

On yonder placid creature plays,

As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the opprest.

But now the silver moonbeams fade,

And, peeping through a flowery glade,

Hush'd as a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies:

An ass stands meek and patient there,

And by her side a spectre fair,

To drink the balmy cup once more before she dies.

With tenderest care the pitying dame

Supports the dying maiden's frame,

And strives with laughing looks her heart to chear;

While playful children crowd around

To catch her eye by smile or sound,

Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady dear!

I feel this mournful dream impart

A holier image to my heart,

For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth:--

Blest creature! through the solemn night,

I see thee bath'd in heavenly light,

Shed from that wond'rous child--The Saviour of the Earth.

When, flying Herod's murd'rous rage,

Thou on that wretched pilgrimage

Didst gently near the virgin-mother lie;

On thee the humble Jesus sate,

When thousands rush'd to Salem's gate

To see 'mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by.

Happy thou wert,--nor low thy praise,

In peaceful patriarchal days,

When countless tents slow passed from land to land

Like clouds o'er heaven:--the gentle race

Such quiet scene did meetly grace,--

Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately band.

Poor wretch!--my musing dream is o'er;

Thy shivering form I view once more,

And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove.

But they whose thoughtful spirits see

The truth of life, will pause with me,

And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and love!

ON READING

MR CLARKSON'S HISTORY OF THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

'Mid the august and never-dying light

Of constellated spirits, who have gain'd

A throne in heaven, by power of heavenly acts,

And leave their names immortal and unchanged

On earth, even as the names of Sun and Moon,

See'st thou, my soul! 'mid all that radiant host

One worthier of thy love and reverence,

Than He, the fearless spirit, who went forth,

Mail'd in the armour of invincible faith,

And bearing in his grasp the spear of truth,

Fit to destroy and save,--went forth to wage,

Against the fierce array of bloody men,

Avarice and ignorance, cruelty and hate,

A holy warfare! Deep within his soul,

The groans of anguish, and the clank of chains,

Dwelt ceaseless as a cataract, and fill'd

The secret haunts of meditative prayer.

Encircled by the silence of the hearth,

The evening-silence of a happy home;

Upon his midnight bed, when working soul

Turns inward, and the steady flow of thought

Is all we feel of life; in crowded rooms,

Where mere sensation oft takes place of mind,

And all time seems the present; in the sun,

The joyful splendour of a summer-day;

Or 'neath the moon, the calm and gentle night;

Where'er he moved, one vision ever fill'd

His restless spirit. 'Twas a vision bright

With colours born in Heaven, yet oh! bedimm'd

With breath of sorrow, sighs, and tears, and blood!

Before him lay a quarter of the world,

A Mighty Land, wash'd by unnumber'd floods,

Born in her bosom,--floods that to the sea

Roll ocean-like, or in the central wilds

Fade like the dim day melting into night;

A land all teeming with the gorgeous shew

Of Nature in profuse magnificence!

Vallies and groves, where untamed herds have ranged

Without a master since the birth of time!

Fountains and caves fill'd with the hidden light

Of diamond and of ruby, only view'd

With admiration by the unenvying sun!

Millions of beings like himself he sees

In stature and in soul,--the sons of God,

Destined to do him homage, and to lift

Their fearless brows unto the burning sky,

Stamp'd with his holy image! Noble shapes,

Kings of the desert, men whose stately tread

Brings from the dust the sound of liberty!

The vision fades not here; he sees the gloom

That lies upon these kingdoms of the sun,

And makes them darker than the dreary realms,

Scarce-moving at the pole.--A sluggish flow

Attends those floods so great and beautiful,

Rolling in majesty that none adores!

And lo! the faces of those stately men,

Silent as death, or changed to ghastly shapes

By madness and despair! His ears are torn

By shrieks and ravings, loud, and long, and wild,

Or the deep-mutter'd curse of sullen hearts,

Scorning in bitter woe their gnawing chains!

He sees, and shuddering feels the vision true,

A pale-faced band, who in his mother-isle

First look'd upon the day, beneath its light

Dare to be tyrants, and with coward deeds

Sullying the glory of the Queen of Waves!

He sees that famous Isle, whose very winds

Dissolve like icicles the tyrant's chains,

On Afric bind them firm as adamant,

Yet boast, with false and hollow gratitude,

Of all the troubled nations of the earth

That she alone is free! The awful sight

Appals not him; he draws his lonely breath

Without a tremor; for a voice is heard

Breathed by no human lips,--heard by his soul,--

That he by Heaven is chosen to restore

Mercy on earth, a mighty conqueror

Over the sins and miseries of man.

The work is done! the Niger's sullen waves

Have heard the tidings,--and the orient Sun

Beholds them rolling on to meet his light

In joyful beauty.--Tombut's spiry towers

Are bright without the brightness of the day,

And Houssa wakening from his age-long trance

Of woe, amid the desert, smiles to hear

The last faint echo of the blissful sound.--

THE FALLEN OAK, A VISION.

SCENE, A WOOD, NEAR KESWICK, BELONGING TO GREENWICH HOSPITAL.

I.

Beneath the shadow of an ancient oak,

Dreaming I lay, far 'mid a solemn wood,

When a noise like thunder stirr'd the solitude,

And from that trance I suddenly awoke!

A noble tree came crashing to the ground,

Through the dark forest opening out a glade;

While all its hundred branches stretching round,

Crush'd the tall hazles in its ample shade.

Methought, the vanquish'd monarch as he died

Utter'd a groan: while loud and taunting chears

The woodmen raised o'er him whose stubborn pride

Had braved the seasons for an hundred years.

It seem'd a savage shout, a senseless scorn,

Nor long prevail'd amid the awful gloom;

Sad look'd the forest of her glory shorn,

Reverend with age, yet bright in vigour's bloom,

Slain in his hour of strength, a giant in his tomb.

II.

I closed mine eyes, nor could I brook to gaze

On the wild havoc in one moment done;

Hateful to me shone forth the blessed sun,

As through the new form'd void he pour'd his rays.

Then rose a dream before my sleeping soul!

A wood-nymph tearing her dishevell'd hair,

And wailing loud, from a long vista stole,

And eyed the ruin with a fixed despair.

The velvet moss, that bath'd its roots in green,

For many a happy day had been her seat;

Than valley wide more dear this secret scene;

--She asked no music but the rustling sweet

Of the rejoicing leaves; now, all is gone,

That touch'd the Dryad's heart with pure delight.

Soon shall the axe destroy her fallen throne,

Its leaves of gold, its bark so glossy bright--

--But now she hastes away,--death-sickening at the sight!

III.

A nobler shape supplied the Dryad's place;

Soon as I saw the spirit in her eye,

I knew the mountain-goddess, Liberty,

And in adoring reverence veil'd my face.

Smiling she stood beside the prostrate oak,

While a stern pleasure swell'd her lofty breast,

And thus, methought, in thrilling accents spoke--

"Not long, my darling Tree! must be thy rest!

Glorious thou wert, when towering through the skies

In winter-storms, or summer's balmy breath;

And thou, my Tree! shalt gloriously arise,

In life majestic, terrible in death!

For thou shalt float above the roaring wave,

Where flags, denouncing battle, stream afar;--

Thou wert, from birth, devoted to the brave,

And thou shalt sail on like a blazing star,

Bearing victorious NELSON through the storms of war!"

NATURE OUTRAGED.

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO ROBERT SYM, ESQ. EDINBURGH.

Once, on the very gentlest stillest day

That ever Spring did in her gladness breathe

O'er this delightful earth, I left my home

With a beloved friend, who ne'er before

Had been among these mountains,--but whose heart,

Led by the famous poets, through the air

Serene of Nature oft had voyaged,

On fancy's wing, and in her magic bowers

Reposed, by wildest music sung to sleep:--

So that, enamour'd of the imaged forms

Of beauty in his soul, with holiest zeal

He longed to hail the fair original,

And do her spiritual homage.

That his love

Might, consonant to Nature's dictate wise,

From quiet impulse grow, and to the power

Of meditation and connecting thought,

Rather than startling glories of the eye,

Owe its enthronement in his inmost heart,

I led him to behold a little lake,

Which I so often in my lonely walks

Had visited, but never yet had seen

One human being on its banks, that I

Thought it mine own almost, so thither took

My friend, assured he could not chuse but love

A scene so loved by me!

Before we reached

The dell wherein this little lake doth sleep,

Into involuntary praise of all

Its pensive loveliness, my happy heart

Would frequent burst, and from those lyric songs,

That, sweetly warbling round the pastoral banks

Of Grassmere, on its silver waves have shed

The undying sunshine of a poet's soul,

I breathed such touching strains as suited well

The mild spring-day, and that secluded scene,

Towards which, in full assurance of delight,

We two then walked in peace.

On the green slope

Of a romantic glade, we sat us down,

Amid the fragrance of the yellow broom,

While o'er our heads the weeping birch-tree stream'd

Its branches arching like a fountain-shower,

Then look'd towards the lake,--with hearts prepared

For the warm reception of all lovely forms

Enrobed in loveliest radiance, such as oft

Had steep'd my spirit in a holy calm,

And made it by the touch of purest joy

Still as an infant's dream.

But where had fled

The paradise beloved in former days!

I look'd upon the countenance of my friend,

Who, lost in strange and sorrowful surprise,

Could scarce forbear to smile. Is this, he cried,

The lone retreat, where from the secret top

Of Helicon, the wild-eyed muse descends

To bless thy slumbers? this the virgin scene

Where beauty smiles in undisturbed peace?

I look'd again: but ne'er did lover gaze,

At last returning from some foreign clime,

With more affectionate sorrow on the face

That he left fair in youth, than I did gaze

On the alter'd features of my darling vale,

That, 'mid the barbarous outrages of art,

Retained, I ween, a heavenly character

That nothing could destroy. Yet much was lost

Of its original brightness: Much was there,

Marring the spirit I remembered once

Perfectly beautiful. The meadow field,

That with its rich and placid verdure lay

Even like a sister-lake, with nought to break

The smoothness of its bosom, save the swing

Of the hoar Canna, or, more snowy white,

The young lamb frisking in the joy of life,--

Oh! grief! a garden, all unlike, I ween,

To that where bloom'd the fair Hesperides,

Usurped the seat of Nature, while a wall

Of most bedazzling splendour, o'er whose height,

The little birds, content to flit along

From bush to bush, could never dare to fly,

Preserved from those who knew no ill intent,

Fruit-trees exotic, and flowers passing rare,

Less lovely far than many a one that bloom'd

Unnoticed in the woods.

And lo! a house,

An elegant villa! in the Grecian style!

Doubtless contrived by some great architect

Who had an Attic soul; and in the shade

Of Academe or the Lyceum walk'd,

Forming conceptions fair and beautiful.

Blessed for ever be the sculptor's art!

It hath created guardian deities

To shield the holy building,--heathen gods

And goddesses, at which the peasant stares

With most perplexing wonder; and light Fauns,

That the good owner's unpoetic soul

Could not, among the umbrage of the groves,

Imagine, here, for ever in his sight,

In one unwearied posture frisk in stone.

My friend, quoth I, forgive these words of mine,

That haply seem more sportive than becomes

A soul that feels for Nature's sanctity

Thus blindly outraged; but when evil work

Admits no remedy, we then are glad

Even from ourselves to hide, in mirth constrain'd,

An unavailing sorrow. Oh! my friend,

Had'st thou beheld, as I, the glorious rock

By that audacious mansion hid for ever,

--Glorious I well might call it, with bright bands

Of flowers, and weeds as beautiful as flowers,

Refulgent,--crown'd, as with a diadem,

With oaks that loved their birth-place, and alive

With the wild tones of echo, bird, and bee,--

Thou couldst have wept to think that paltry Art

Could so prevail o'er Nature, and weak man

Thus stand between thee and the works of God.

Well might the Naiad of that stream complain!

The glare of day hath driven her from her haunts,

Shady no more: The woodman's ax hath clear'd

The useless hazels where the linnet hung

Her secret nest; and you hoar waterfall,

Whose misty spray rose through the freshen'd leaves

To heaven, like Nature's incense, and whose sound

Came deaden'd through the multitude of boughs,

Like a wild anthem by some spirit sung,

Now looks as cheerless as the late-left snow

Upon the mountain's breast, and sends a voice,

From the bare rocks, of dreariness and woe!

See! farther down the streamlet, art hath framed

A delicate cascade! The channel stones

Hollow'd by rushing waters, and more green

Even than the thought of greenness in the soul,

Are gone; and pebbles, carefully arranged

By size and colour, at the bottom lie

Imprison'd; while a smooth and shaven lawn,

With graceful gravel walks most serpentine,

Surrounds the noisy wonder, and sends up

A smile of scorn unto the rocky fells,

Where, 'mid the rough fern, bleat the shelter'd sheep.

Oft hath the poet's eye on these wild fells

Beheld entrancing visions;--but the cliffs,

In unscaled majesty, must frown no more;

No more the coves profound draw down the soul

Into their stern dominion: even the clouds,

Floating or settling on the mountain's breast,

Must be adored no more:--far other forms

Delight his gaze, to whom, alas, belongs

This luckless vale!--On every eminence,

Smiles some gay image of the builder's soul,

Watch-tower or summer-house, where oft, at eve,

He meditates to go, with book in hand,

And read in solitude; or weather-cock,

To tell which way the wind doth blow; or fort,

Commanding every station in the vale

Where enemy might encamp, and from whose height

A gaudy flag might flutter, when he hears

With a true British pride of Frenchmen slain,

Ten thousand in one battle, lying grim

By the brave English, their dead conquerors!

Such was the spirit of the words I used

On witnessing such sacrilege. We turned

Homewards in silence, even as from the grave

Of one in early youth untimely slain,

And all that to my pensive friend I said

Upon our walk, were some few words of grief,

That thoughtlessness and folly, in one day,

Could render vain the mystic processes

Of Nature, working for a thousand years

The work of love and beauty; so that Heaven

Might shed its gracious dews upon the earth,

Its sunshine and its rain, till living flowers

Rose up in myriads to attest its power,

But, in the midst of this glad jubilee,

A blinded mortal come, and with a nod,

Thus rendering ignorance worse than wickedness,

Bid his base servants "tear from Nature's book

A blissful leaf with worst impiety."

If thou, whose heart has listen'd to my song,

From Nature hold'st some fair inheritance

Like that whose mournful ruins I deplore,

Remember that thy birth-right doth impose

High duties on thee, that must be perform'd,

Else thou canst not be happy. Thou must watch

With holy zeal o'er Nature while she sleeps,

That nought may break her rest; her waking smiles

Thou must preserve and worship; and the gloom

That sometimes lies like night upon her face,

Creating awful thoughts, that gloom must hush

The beatings of thy heart, as if it lay

Like the dread shadow of eternity.

Beauteous thy home upon this beauteous earth,

And God hath given it to thee: therefore, learn

The laws by which the Eternal doth sublime

And sanctify his works, that thou mayest see

The hidden glory veiled from vulgar eyes,

And by the homage of enlighten'd love,

Repay the power that blest thee. Thou should'st stand

Oft-times amid thy dwelling-place, with awe

Stronger than love, even like a pious man

Who in some great cathedral, while the chaunt

Of hymns is in his soul, no more beholds

The pillars rise august and beautiful,

Nor the dim grandeur of the roof that hangs

Far, far above his head, but only sees

The opening heaven-gates, and the white-robed bands

Of spirits prostrate in adoring praise.

So shalt thou to thy death-hour find a friend,

A gracious friend in Nature, and thy name,

As the rapt traveller through thy fair domains

Oft-lingering journeys, shall with gentle voice

Be breathed amid the solitude, and link'd

With those enlighten'd spirits that promote

The happiness of others by their own,

The consummation of all earthly joy.

LINES WRITTEN BY MOONLIGHT AT SEA.

Ah me! in dreams of struggling dread,

Let foolish tears no more be shed,

Tears wept on bended knee,

Though years of absence slowly roll

Between us and some darling soul

Who lives upon the sea!

Weep, weep not for the mariner,

Though distant far he roam,

And have no lovely resting-place

That he can call his home.

Friends hath he in the wilderness,

And with those friends he lives in bliss

Without one pining sigh!

The waves that round his vessel crowd,

The guiding star, the breezy cloud,

The music of the sky.

And, dearer even than Heaven's sweet light,

He gazes on that wonder bright,

When sporting with the gales,

Or lying in a beauteous sleep

Above her shadow in the deep,

--The ship in which he sails.

Then weep not for the mariner!

He needeth not thy tears;

From his soul the Ocean's midnight voice

Dispels all mortal fears.

Quietly slumber shepherd-men

In the silence of some inland glen,

Lull'd by the gentlest sounds of air and earth;

Yet as quietly rests the mariner,

Nor wants for dreams as melting fair

Amid the Ocean's mirth.

THE NAMELESS STREAM.

Gentle as dew, a summer shower

In beauty bathed tree, herb, and flower,

And told the stream to murmur on

With quicker dance and livelier tone.

The mist lay steady on the fell,

While lustre steeped each smiling dell,

Such wild and fairy contrast made

The magic power of light and shade.

Through trees a little bridge was seen,

Glittering with yellow, red, and green,

As o'er the moss with playful glide

The sunbeam danced from side to side,

And made the ancient arch to glow

Various as Heaven's reflected bow.

Within the dripping grove was heard

Rustle or song of joyful bird;

The stir of rapture fill'd the air

From unseen myriads mingling there;

Life lay entranced in sinless mirth,

And Nature's hymn swam o'er the earth!

In this sweet hour of peace and love,

I chanced from restless joy to move,

When by my side a being stood

Fairer than Naiad of the flood,

Or her who ruled the forest scene

In days of yore, the Huntress Queen.

Wildness, subdued by quiet grace,

Played o'er the vision's radiant face,

Radiant with spirit fit to steer

Her flight around the starry sphere,

Yet, willing to sink down in rest

Upon a guardian mortal breast.

Her eyes were rather soft than bright,

And, when a smile half-closed their light,

They seem'd amid the gleam divine

Like stars scarce seen through fair moonshine!

While ever, as, with sportive air,

She lightly waved her clustering hair,

A thousand gleams the motion made,

Danced o'er the auburn's darker shade.

O MARY! I had known thee long,

Amid the gay, the thoughtless throng,

Where mien leaves modesty behind,

And manner takes the place of mind;

Where woman, though delightful still,

Quits Nature's ease for Fashion's skill,

Hides, by the gaudy gloss of art,

The simple beauty of her heart,

And, born to lift our souls to heaven,

Strives for the gaze despised when given,

Forgets her being's godlike power

To shine the wonder of an hour.

Oft had I sigh'd to think that thou,

An angel fair, could stoop so low;

And as with light and airy pride,

'Mid worldly souls I saw thee glide,

Wasting those smiles that love with tears

Might live on, all his blessed years,

Regret rose from thy causeless mirth,

That Heaven could thus be stain'd by Earth.

O vain regret! I should have known,

Thy soul was strung to loftier tone,

That wisdom bade thee joyful range

Through worldly paths thou could'st not change,

And look with glad and sparkling eye

Even on life's cureless vanity.

--But now, thy being's inmost blood

Felt the deep power of solitude.

From Heaven a sudden glory broke,

And all thy angel soul awoke.

I hail'd the impulse from above,

And friendship was sublimed to love.

Fair are the vales that peaceful sleep

'Mid mountain-silence, lone and deep,

Sweet narrow lines of fertile earth,

'Mid frowns of horror, smiles of mirth!

Fair too the fix'd and floating cloud,

The light obscure by eve bestowed,

The sky's blue stillness, and the breast

Of lakes, with all that stillness blest.

But dearer to my heart and eye,

Than valley, mountain, lake, or sky,

One nameless stream, whose happy flow

Blue as the heavens, or white as snow,

And gently-swelling sylvan side,

By Mary's presence beautified,

Tell ever of expected years,

The wish that sighs, the bliss that fears,

Till taught at last no more to roam,

I worship the bright Star of Home.

ART AND NATURE.

Sylph-like, and with a graceful pride,

I saw the wild Louisa glide

Along the dance's glittering row,

With footsteps soft as falling snow.

On all around her smiles she pour'd,

And though by all admired, adored,

She seem'd to hold the homage light,

And careless claim'd it as her right.

With syren voice the Lady sung:

Love on her tones enraptured hung,

While timid awe and fond desire

Came blended from her witching lyre.

While thus, with unresisted art,

The Enchantress melted every heart,

Amid the glance, the sigh, the smile,

Herself, unmoved and cold the while,

With inward pity eyed the scene,

Where all were subjects--she a Queen!

Again, I saw that Lady fair:

Oh! what a beauteous change was there!

In a sweet cottage of her own

She sat, and she was all alone,

Save a young child she sung to rest

On its soft bed, her fragrant breast.

With happy smiles and happy sighs,

She kiss'd the infant's closing eyes,

Then, o'er him in the cradle laid,

Moved her dear lips as if she pray'd.

She bless'd him in his father's name:

Lo! to her side that father came,

And, in a voice subdued and mild,

He bless'd the mother and her child!

I thought upon the proud saloon,

And that Enchantress Queen; but soon,

Far-off Art's fading pageant stole,

And Nature fill'd my thoughtful soul!

SONNET I.

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WASTWATER, DURING A STORM.

There is a lake hid far among the hills,

That raves around the throne of solitude,

Not fed by gentle streams, or playful rills,

But headlong cataract and rushing flood.

There, gleam no lovely hues of hanging wood,

No spot of sunshine lights her sullen side;

For horror shaped the wild in wrathful mood,

And o'er the tempest heaved the mountain's pride.

If thou art one, in dark presumption blind,

Who vainly deem'st no spirit like to thine,

That lofty genius deifies thy mind,

Fall prostrate here at Nature's stormy shrine,

And as the thunderous scene disturbs thy heart,

Lift thy changed eye, and own how low thou art.

SONNET II.

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WASTWATER, DURING A CALM.

Is this the Lake, the cradle of the storms,

Where silence never tames the mountain-roar,

Where poets fear their self-created forms,

Or, sunk in trance severe, their God adore?

Is this the Lake, for ever dark and loud

With wave and tempest, cataract and cloud?

Wondrous, O Nature! is thy sovereign power,

That gives to horror hours of peaceful mirth:

For here might beauty build her summer-bower!

Lo! where you rainbow spans the smiling earth,

And, clothed in glory, through a silent shower

The mighty Sun comes forth, a godlike birth;

While, 'neath his loving eye, the gentle Lake

Lies like a sleeping child too blest to wake!

SONNET III.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, ON HELM-CRAG.

Go up among the mountains, when the storm

Of midnight howls, but go in that wild mood,

When the soul loves tumultuous solitude,

And through the haunted air, each giant form

Of swinging pine, black rock, or ghostly cloud,

That veils some fearful cataract tumbling loud,

Seems to thy breathless heart with life embued.

'Mid those gaunt, shapeless things thou art alone!

The mind exists, thinks, trembles through the ear,

The memory of the human world is gone,

And time and space seem living only _here_.

Oh! worship thou the visions then made known,

While sable glooms round Nature's temple roll,

And her dread anthem peals into thy soul.

SONNET IV.

THE VOICE OF THE MOUNTAINS.

List! while I tell what forms the mountain's voice!

--The storms are up; and from you sable cloud

Down rush the rains; while 'mid the thunder loud

The viewless eagles in wild screams rejoice.

The echoes answer to the unearthly noise

Of hurling rocks, that, plunged into the Lake,

Send up a sullen groan: from clefts and caves,

As of half-murder'd wretch, hark! yells awake,

Or red-eyed phrensy as in chains he raves.

These form the mountain's voice; these, heard at night,

Distant from human being's known abode,

To earth some spirits bow in cold affright,

But some they lift to glory and to God.

SONNET V.

THE EVENING-CLOUD.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow:

Long had I watched the glory moving on

O'er the still radiance of the Lake below.

Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow!

Even in its very motion, there was rest:

While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,

Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;

And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven,

Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies,

And tells to man his glorious destinies.

SONNET VI.

WRITTEN ON THE SABBATH-DAY.

When by God's inward light, a happy child,

I walk'd in joy, as in the open air,

It seem'd to my young thought the Sabbath smiled

With glory and with love. So still, so fair,

The Heavens look'd ever on that hallow'd morn,

That, without aid of memory, something there

Had surely told me of its glad return.

How did my little heart at evening burn,

When, fondly seated on my father's knee,

Taught by the lip of love, I breathed the prayer,

Warm from the fount of infant piety!

Much is my spirit changed; for years have brought

Intenser feeling and expanded thought;

--Yet, must I envy every child I see!

SONNET VII.

WRITTEN ON SKIDDAW, DURING A TEMPEST.

It was a dreadful day, when late I pass'd

O'er thy dim vastness, SKIDDAW!--Mist and cloud

Each subject Fell obscured, and rushing blast

To thee made darling music, wild and loud,

Thou Mountain-Monarch! Rain in torrents play'd,

As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven,

A watery spire, then on the crew dismay'd

Of reeling ship with downward wrath is driven.

I could have thought that every living form

Had fled, or perished in that savage storm,

So desolate the day. To me were given

Peace, calmness, joy: then, to myself I said,

Can grief, time, chance, or elements controul

Man's charter'd pride, the Liberty of Soul?

SONNET VIII.

I wander'd lonely, like a pilgrim sad,

O'er mountains known but to the eagle's gaze;

Yet, my hush'd heart, with Nature's beauty glad,

Slept in the shade, or gloried in the blaze.

Romantic vales stole winding to my eye

In gradual loveliness, like rising dreams;

Fair, nameless tarns, that seem to blend with sky

Rocks of wild majesty, and elfin streams.

How strange, methought, I should have lived so near,

Nor ever worshipp'd Nature's altar here!

Strange! say not so--hid from the world and thee,

Though in the midst of life their spirits move,

Thousands enjoy in holy liberty

The silent Eden of unenvied Love!

SONNET IX.

WRITTEN ON THE EVENING I HEARD OF THE DEATH OF MY FRIEND, WILLIAM DUNLOP.

A golden cloud came floating o'er my head,

With kindred glories round the sun to blend!

Though fair the scene, my dreams were of the dead;

--Since dawn of morning I had lost a friend.

I felt as if my sorrow ne'er could end:

A cold, pale phantom on a breathless bed,

The beauty of the crimson west subdued,

And sighs that seem'd my very life to rend,

The silent happiness of eve renew'd.

Grief, fear, regret, a self-tormenting brood

Dwelt on my spirit, like a ceaseless noise;

But, oh! what tranquil holiness ensued,

When, from that cloud, exclaimed a well-known voice,

--God sent me here, to bid my friend rejoice!

LINES

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. JAMES GRAHAME, AUTHOR OF "THE SABBATH," &C.

_Two Editions of this little Poem have been already published; and its

reception among those whom the author most wished to please, has induced

him to include it in this volume._

With tearless eyes and undisturbed heart,

O Bard! of sinless life and holiest song,

I muse upon thy death-bed and thy grave;

Though round that grave the trodden grass still lies

Besmeared with clay; for many feet were there,

Fast-rooted to the spot, when slowly sank

Thy coffin, GRAHAME! into the quiet cell.

Yet, well I loved thee, even as one might love

An elder brother, imaged in the soul

With solemn features, half-creating awe,

But smiling still with gentleness and peace.

Tears have I shed when thy most mournful voice

Did tremblingly breathe forth that touching air,

By Scottish shepherd haply framed of old,

Amid the silence of his pastoral hills,

Weeping the flowers on Flodden-field that died.

Wept, too, have I, when thou didst simply read

From thine own lays so simply beautiful

Some short pathetic tale of human grief,

Or orison or hymn of deeper love,

That might have won the sceptic's sullen heart

To gradual adoration, and belief

Of Him who died for us upon the cross.

Yea! oft when thou wert well, and in the calm

Of thy most Christian spirit blessing all

Who look'd upon thee, with those gentlest smiles

That never lay on human face but thine;

Even when thy serious eyes were lighted up

With kindling mirth, and from thy lips distill'd

Words soft as dew, and cheerful as the dawn,

Then, too, I could have wept, for on thy face,

Eye, voice, and smile, nor less thy bending frame,

By other cause impair'd than length of years,

Lay something that still turn'd the thoughtful heart

To melancholy dreams, dreams of decay,

Of death and burial, and the silent tomb.

And of the tomb thou art an inmate now!

Methinks I see thy name upon the stone

Placed at thy head, and yet my cheeks are dry.

Tears could I give thee, when thou wert alive,

The mournful tears of deep foreboding love

That might not be restrain'd; but now they seem

Most idle all! thy worldly course is o'er,

And leaves such sweet remembrance in my soul

As some delightful music heard in youth,

Sad, but not painful, even more spirit-like

Than when it murmur'd through the shades of earth.

Short time wert thou allow'd to guide thy flock

Through the green pastures, where in quiet glides

The Siloah of the soul! Scarce was thy voice

Familiar to their hearts, who felt that heaven

Did therein speak, when suddenly it fell

Mute, and for ever! Empty now and still

The holy house which thou didst meekly grace,

When with uplifted hand, and eye devout,

Thy soul was breathed to Jesus, or explained

The words that lead unto eternal life.

From infancy thy heart was vow'd to God:

And aye the hope that one day thou might'st keep

A little fold, from all the storms of sin

Safe-shelter'd, and by reason of thy prayers

Warm'd by the sunshine of approving Heaven,

Upheld thy spirit, destined for a while

To walk far other paths, and with the crowd

Of worldly men to mingle. Yet even then,

Thy life was ever such as well became

One whose pure soul was fixed upon the cross!

And when with simple fervent eloquence,

GRAHAME pled the poor man's cause, the listner oft

Thought how becoming would his visage smile

Across the house of God, how beauteously

That man would teach the saving words of Heaven!

How well he taught them, many a one will feel

Unto their dying day; and when they lie

On the grave's brink, unfearing and composed,

Their speechless souls will bless the holy man

Whose voice exhorted, and whose footsteps led

Unto the paths of life; nor sweeter hope,

Next to the gracious look of Christ, have they

Than to behold his face who saved their souls.

But closed on earth thy blessed ministry!

And while thy native Scotland mourns her son

Untimely reft from her maternal breast,

Weeps the fair sister-land, with whom ere while

The stranger sojourn'd, stranger but in birth,

For well she loved thee, as thou wert her own.

On a most clear and noiseless Sabbath-night

I heard that thou wert gone, from the soft voice

Of one who knew thee not, but deeply loved

Thy spirit meekly shining in thy song.

At such an hour the death of one like thee

Gave no rude shock, nor by a sudden grief

Destroy'd the visions from the starry sky

Then settling in my soul. The moonlight slept

With a diviner sadness on the air;

The tender dimness of the night appeared

Darkening to deeper sorrow, and the voice

Of the far torrent from the silent hills

Flow'd, as I listen'd, like a funeral strain

Breath'd by some mourning solitary thing.

Yet Nature in her pensiveness still wore

A blissful smile, as if she sympathized

With those who grieved that her own Bard was dead,

And yet was happy that his spirit dwelt

At last within her holiest sanctuary,

'Mid long expecting angels.

And if e'er

Faith, fearless faith, in the eternal bliss

Of a departed brother, may be held

By beings blind as we, that faith should dry

All eyes that weep for GRAHAME; or through their tears

Shew where he sits august and beautiful

On the right hand of Jesus, 'mid the saints

Whose glory he on earth so sweetly sang.

No fears have we when some delightful child

Falls from its innocence into the grave!

Soon as we know its little breath is gone,

We see it lying in its Saviour's breast,

A heavenly flower there fed with heavenly dew.

Childlike in all that makes a child so dear

To God and man, and ever consecrates

Its cradle and its grave, my GRAHAME, wert thou!

And had'st thou died upon thy mother's breast

Ere thou could'st lisp her name, more fit for heaven

Thou scarce had'st been, than when thy honour'd head

Was laid into the dust, and Scotland wept

O'er hill and valley for her darling Bard.

How beautiful is genius when combined

With holiness! Oh, how divinely sweet

The tones of earthly harp, whose chords are touch'd

By the soft hand of Piety, and hung

Upon Religion's shrine, there vibrating

With solemn music in the ear of God.

And must the Bard from sacred themes refrain?

Sweet were the hymns in patriarchal days,

That, kneeling in the silence of his tent,

Or on some moonlight hill, the shepherd pour'd

Unto his heavenly Father. Strains survive

Erst chaunted to the lyre of Israel,

More touching far than ever poet breathed

Amid the Grecian isles, or later times

Have heard in Albion, land of every lay.

Why therefore are ye silent, ye who know

The trance of adoration, and behold

Upon your bended knees the throne of Heaven,

And him who sits thereon? Believe it not,

That Poetry, in purer days the nurse,

Yea! parent oft of blissful piety,

Should silent keep from service of her God,

Nor with her summons, loud but silver-toned,

Startle the guilty dreamer from his sleep,

Bidding him gaze with rapture or with dread

On regions where the sky for ever lies

Bright as the sun himself, and trembling all

With ravishing music, or where darkness broods

O'er ghastly shapes, and sounds not to be borne.

Such glory, GRAHAME! is thine: Thou didst despise

To win the ear of this degenerate age

By gorgeous epithets, all idly heap'd

On theme of earthly state, or, idler still,

By tinkling measures and unchasten'd lays,

Warbled to pleasure and her syren-train,

Profaning the best name of poesy.

With loftier aspirations, and an aim

More worthy man's immortal nature, Thou

That holiest spirit that still loves to dwell

In the upright heart and pure, at noon of night

Didst fervently invoke, and, led by her

Above the Aonian mount, send from the stars

Of heaven such soul-subduing melody

As Bethlehem-shepherds heard when Christ was born.

It is the Sabbath-day: Creation sleeps

Cradled within the arms of heavenly love!

The mystic day, when from the vanquish'd grave

The world's Redeemer rose, and hail'd the light

Of God's forgiving smile. Obscured and pale

Were then the plumes of prostrate seraphim,

Then hush'd the universe her sphere-born strain,

When from his throne, Paternal Deity

Declared the Saviour not in vain had shed

His martyr'd glory round the accursed cross,

That fallen man might sit in Paradise,

And earth to heaven ascend in jubilee.

O blessed day, by God and man beloved!

With more surpassing glory breaks thy dawn

Upon my soul, remembering the sweet hymns

That he, whom nations evermore shall name

The Sabbath-Bard, in gratulation high

Breathed forth to thee, as from the golden urn

That holds the incense of immortal song.

That Poem, so divinely melancholy

Throughout its reigning spirit, yet withal

Bathing in hues of winning gentleness

The pure religion that alone can save,

Full many a wanderer to the paths of peace

Ere now hath made return, and he who framed

Its hallow'd numbers, in the realms of bliss

Hath met and known the smiles of seraph-souls,

By his delightful genius saved from death.

Oft when the soul is lost in thoughtless guilt,

And seeming deaf unto the still small voice

Of conscience and of God, some simple phrase

Of beauty or sublimity will break

The spell that link'd us to the bands of sin,

And all at once, as waking from a dream,

We shudder at the past, and bless the light

That breaks upon us like the new-born day.

Even so it fares with them, who to this world

Have yielded up their spirits, and, impure

In thought and act, have lived without a sense

Of God, who counts the beatings of their hearts.

But men there are of a sublimer mould,

Who dedicate with no unworthy zeal

To human Science, up the toilsome steep

Where she in darkness dwells, with pilgrim-feet

By night and day unwearied strive to climb,

Pride their conductor, glory their reward.

Too oft, alas! even in the search of truth

They pass her on the way, although she speak

With loving voice, and cast on them her eyes

So beautifully innocent and pure.

To such, O GRAHAME! thy voice cries from the tomb!

Thy worth they loved, thy talents they admired,

And when they think how peaceful was thy life,

Thy death far more than peaceful, though thou sought'st,

Above all other knowledge, that of God

And his redeeming Son; when o'er the page

Where thy mild soul for ever sits enshrined,

They hang with soften'd hearts, faith may descend

Upon them as they muse, or hope that leads

The way to faith, even as the morning-star

Shines brightly, heralding approaching day.

But happier visions still now bless my soul.

While lonely wandering o'er the hills and dales

Of my dear native country, with such love

As they may guess, who, from their father's home

Sojourning long and far, fall down and kiss

The grass and flowers of Scotland, in I go,

Not doubting a warm welcome from the eyes

Of woman, man, and child, into a cot

Upon a green hill-side, and almost touch'd

By its own nameless stream that bathes the roots

Of the old ash tree swinging o'er the roof.

Most pleasant, GRAHAME! unto thine eye and heart

Such humble home! there often hast thou sat

'Mid the glad family listening to thy voice

So silently, the ear might then have caught

Without the rustle of the falling leaf.

And who so sweetly ever sang as thou,

The joys and sorrows of the poor man's life.

Not fancifully drawn, that one might weep,

Or smile, he knew not why, but with the hues

Of truth all brightly glistening, to the heart

Cheering, as earth's soft verdure to the eye,

Yet still and mournful as the evening light.

More powerful in the sanctity of death,

There reigns thy spirit over those it loved!

Some chosen books by pious men composed,

Kept from the dust, in every cottage lie

Through the wild loneliness of Scotia's vales,

Beside the Bible, by whose well-known truths

All human thoughts are by the peasant tried.

O blessed privilege of Nature's Bard!

To cheer the house of virtuous poverty,

With gleams of light more beautiful than oft

Play o'er the splendours of the palace wall.

Methinks I see a fair and lovely child

Sitting composed upon his mother's knee,

And reading with a low and lisping voice

Some passage from the Sabbath, while the tears

Stand in his little eyes so softly blue,

Till, quite o'ercome with pity, his white arms

He twines around her neck, and hides his sighs

Most infantine, within her gladden'd breast,

Like a sweet lamb, half sportive, half afraid,

Nestling one moment 'neath its bleating dam.

And now the happy mother kisses oft

The tender-hearted child, lays down the book,

And asks him if he doth remember still

The stranger who once gave him, long ago,

A parting kiss, and blest his laughing eyes!

His sobs speak fond remembrance, and he weeps

To think so kind and good a man should die.

Though dead on earth, yet he from heaven looks down

On thee, sweet child! and others pure like thee!

Made happier, though an angel, by the sight

Of happiness, and virtue by himself

Created or preserved; and oft his soul

Leaves for a while her amaranthine bowers,

And dimly hears the choral symphonies

Of spirits singing round the Saviour's throne,

Delighted with a glimpse of Scotland's vales

Winding round hills where once his pious hymns

Were meditated in his silent heart,

Or with those human beings here beloved,

Whether they smile, as virtue ever smiles,

With sunny countenance gentle and benign.

Or a slight shade of sadness seems to say,

That they are thinking of the sainted soul

That looks from heaven on them!--

A holy creed

It is, and most delightful unto all

Who feel how deeply human sympathies

Blend with our hopes of heaven, which holds that death

Divideth not, as by a roaring sea,

Departed spirits from this lower sphere.

How could the virtuous even in heaven be blest,

Unless they saw the lovers and the friends,

Whom soon they hope to greet! A placid lake

Between Time floateth and Eternity,

Across whose sleeping waters murmur oft

The voices of the immortal, hither brought

Soft as the thought of music in the soul.

Deep, deep the love we bear unto the dead!

The adoring reverence that we humbly pay

To one who is a spirit, still partakes

Of that affectionate tenderness we own'd

Towards a being, once, perhaps, as frail

And human as ourselves, and in the shape

Celestial, and angelic lineaments,

Shines a fair likeness of the form and face

That won in former days our earthly love.

O GRAHAME! even I in midnight dreams behold

Thy placid aspect, more serenely fair

Than the sweet moon that calms the autumnal heaven.

Thy voice steals, 'mid the pauses of the wind,

Unto my listening soul more touchingly

Than the pathetic tones of airy harp

That sound at evening like a spirit's song.

Yet, many are there dearer to thy shade,

Yea, dearer far than I; and when their tears

They dry at last (and wisdom bids them weep,

If long and oft, O sure not bitterly)

Then wilt thou stand before their raptured eyes

As beautiful as kneeling saint e'er deem'd

In his bright cell Messiah's vision'd form.

I may not think upon her blissful dreams

Who bears thy name on earth, and in it feels

A Christian glory and a pious pride,

That must illume the widow's lonely path

With never dying sunshine.--To her soul

Soft sound the strains now flowing fast from mine!

And in those tranquil hours when she withdraws

From loftier consolations, may the tears,

(For tears will fall, most idle though they be,)

Now shed by me to her but little known,

Yield comfort to her, as a certain pledge

That many a one, though silent and unseen,

Thinks of her and the children at her knees,

Blest for the father's and the husband's sake.

THE END.

EDINBURGH:

Printed by James Ballantyne and Co.