THE RIVER DUDDON rises upon Wrynose Fell, on the confines of Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lancashire; and, having served as a boundary to the two last counties for the space of about twenty-five miles, enters the Irish Sea, between the Isle of Walney and the Lordship of Millum.
TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH.
(WITH THE SONNETS TO THE RIVER DUDDON, AND OTHER POEMS IN THIS COLLECTION, 1820.
The Minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage-eaves; While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, That overpowered their natural green.
Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest with folded wings: Keen was the air, but could not freeze, Nor check, the music of the strings; So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand!
And who but listened?-till was paid Respect to every Inmate's claim : The greeting given, the music played, In honour of each household name, Duly pronounced with lusty call, And 'merry Christmas' wished to all!
O Brother! I revere the choice That took thee from thy native hills; And it is given thee to rejoice: Though public care full often tills (Heaven only witness of the toil)
A barren and ungrateful soil.
Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, Hadst heard this never-failing rite;
And seen on other faces shine
A true revival of the light
Which Nature and these rustic Powers,
In simple childhood, spread through ours!
For pleasure hath not ceased to wait On these expected annual rounds; Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate Call forth the unelaborate sounds, Or they are offered at the door That guards the lowliest of the poor.
How touching, when, at midnight, sweep Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, To hear and sink again to sleep!
Or, at an earlier call, to mark,
By blazing fire, the still suspense
Of self-complacent innocence;
The mutual nod,-the grave disguise
Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er; And some unbidden tears that rise
For names once heard, and heard no more;
Tears brightened by the serenade
For infant in the cradle laid.
Ah! not for emerald fields alone,
With ambient streams more pure and bright Than fabled Cytherea's zone
Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, Is to my heart of hearts endeared The ground where we were born and reared!
Hail, ancient Manners! sure defence, Where they survive, of wholesome laws; Remnants of love whose modest sense Thus into narrow room withdraws; Hail, Usages of pristine mould,
And ye that guard them, Mountains old! Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought That slights this passion, or condemns;
If thee fond Fancy ever brought From the proud margin of the Thames, And Lambeth's venerable towers,
To humbler streams, and greener bowers.
Yes, they can make, who fail to find, Short leisure even in busiest days; Moments, to cast a look behind,
And profit by those kindly rays
That through the clouds do sometimes steal,
And all the far-off past reveal.
Hence, while the imperial City's din
Beats frequent on thy satiate ear,
A pleased attention I may win To agitations less severe,
That neither overwhelm nor cloy, But fill the hollow vale with joy!
NOT envying Latian shades-if yet they throw A grateful coolness round that crystal Spring, Blandusia, prattling as when long ago
The Sabine Bard was moved her praise to sing; Careless of flowers that in perennial blow
She guards thee, ruthless Power! who would not spare
Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen, Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair Through paths and alleys roofed with darkest green; Thousands of years before the silent air
Round the moist marge of Persian fountains cling; Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen! Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering
Through ice-built arches radiant as heaven's bow; I seek the birth-place of a native Stream.- All hail, ye mountains! hail, thou morning light! Better to breathe at large on this clear height Than toil in needless sleep from dream to dream: Pure flow the verse, pure, vigorous, free, and bright, For Duddon, long-loved Duddon, is my theme!
CHILD of the clouds! remote from every taint Of sordid industry thy lot is cast; Thine are the honours of the lofty waste; Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint, Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue quaint Thy cradle decks;-to chant thy birth, thou hast No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast, And Desolation is thy Patron-saint!
How shall I paint thee?-Be this naked stone My seat, while I give way to such intent; Pleased could my verse, a speaking monument, Make to the eyes of men thy features known. But as of all those tripping lambs not one Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent To thy beginning nought that doth present Peculiar ground for hope to build upon. To dignify the spot that gives thee birth, No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem Appears, and none of modern Fortune's care; Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a gleam Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshness rare; Prompt offering to thy Foster-mother, Earth!
*The deer alluded to is the Leigh, a gigantic species long since extinct.
TAKE, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take This parting glance, no negligent adieu!
A Protean change seems wrought while I pursue The curves, a loosely-scattered chain doth make; Or rather thou appear'st a glistering snake, Silent, and to the gazer's eye untrue, Thridding with sinuous lapse the rushes, through Dwarf willows gliding, and by ferny brake. Starts from a dizzy steep the undaunted Rill Robed instantly in garb of snow-white foam; And laughing dares the Adventurer, who hath clomb So high, a rival purpose to fulfil;
Else let the dastard backward wend, and roam, Seeking less bold achievement, where he will!
"CHANGE me, some God, into that breathing rose!" The love-sick Stripling fancifully sighs, The envied flower beholding, as it lies On Laura's breast, in exquisite repose; Or he would pass into her bird, that throws The darts of song from out its wiry cage; Enraptured, could he for himself engage The thousandth part of what the Nymph bestows; And what the little careless innocent Ungraciously receives. Too daring choice! There are whose calmer mind it would content To be an unculled floweret of the glen, Fearless of plough and scythe; or darkling wren That tunes on Duddon's banks her slender voice.
SOLE listener, Duddon! to the breeze that played With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound- Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid The sun in heaven!-but now, to form a shade For Thee, green alders have together wound Their foliage; ashes flung their arms around; And birch-trees risen in silver colonnade. And thou hast also tempted here to rise, 'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and grey; Whose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes Carelessly watched, sport through the summer day, Thy pleased associates:-light as endless May On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies.
ERE yet our course was graced with social trees It lacked not old remains of hawthorn bowers, Where small birds warbled to their paramours; And, earlier still, was heard the hum of bees; I saw them ply their harmless robberies, And caught the fragrance which the sundry flowers, Fed by the stream with soft perpetual showers, Plenteously yielded to the vagrant breeze. There bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness; The trembling eyebright showed her sapphire blue, The thyme her purple, like the blush of Even; And if the breath of some to no caress Invited, forth they peeped so fair to view, All kinds alike seemed favourites of Heaven.
THE struggling Rill insensibly is grown Into a Brook of loud and stately march, Crossed ever and anon by plank or arch; And, for like use, lo! what might seem a zone Chosen for ornament-stone matched with stone In studied symmetry, with interspace For the clear waters to pursue their race Without restraint. How swiftly have they flown, Succeeding still succeeding! Here the Child Puts, when the high-swoln Flood runs fierce and wild,
His budding courage to the proof; and here Declining Manhood learns to note the sly
And sure encroachments of infirmity,
Thinking how fast time runs, life's end how near!
Nor so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance With prompt emotion, urging them to pass; A sweet confusion checks the Shepherd-lass; Blushing she eyes the dizzy flood askance ; To stop ashamed-too timid to advance; She ventures once again-another pause!
HAIL to the fields-with Dwellings sprinkled o'er, And one small hamlet, under a green hill Clustering, with barn and byre, and spouting mill ! A glance suffices;-should we wish for more, Gay June would scorn us. But when bleak winds
His outstretched hand He tauntingly withdraws-Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard ash,
She sues for help with piteous utterance! Chidden she chides again; the thrilling touch Both feel, when he renews the wished-for aid: Ah! if their fluttering hearts should stir too much, Should beat too strongly, both may be betrayed. The frolic Loves, who, from yon high rock, see The struggle, clap their wings for victory!
Dread swell of sound! loud as the gusts that lash The matted forests of Ontario's shore By wasteful steel unsmitten-then would I Turn into port; and, reckless of the gale, Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by, While the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale, Laugh with the generous household heartily At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale!
No fiction was it of the antique age:
A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft, Is of the very foot-marks unbereft
O MOUNTAIN Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude; Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude
Which tiny Elves impressed;-on that smooth stage A field or two of brighter green, or plot Dancing with all their brilliant equipage
In secret revels-haply after theft
Of some sweet Babe-Flower stolen, and coarse Weed left
For the distracted Mother to assuage Her grief with, as she might!-But, where, oh! Is traceable a vestige of the notes
That ruled those dances wild in character?- Deep underground? Or in the upper air, On the shrill wind of midnight? or where floats O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer?
Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot Of stationary sunshine:-thou hast viewed These only, Duddon! with their paths renewed By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not. Thee hath some awful Spirit impelled to leave, Utterly to desert, the haunts of men, Though simple thy companions were and few; And through this wilderness a passage cleave Attended but by thy own voice, save when The clouds and fowls of the air thy way pursue!
ON, loitering Muse-the swift Stream chides us- Albeit his deep-worn channel doth immure Objects immense portrayed in miniature, Wild shapes for many a strange comparison ! Niagaras, Alpine passes, and anon Abodes of Naiads, calm abysses pure, Bright liquid mansions, fashioned to endure When the broad oak drops, a leafless skeleton, And the solidities of mortal pride, Palace and tower, are crumbled into dust!- The Bard who walks with Duddon for his guide, Shall find such toys of fancy thickly set: Turn from the sight, enamoured Muse-we must; And, if thou canst, leave them without regret!
FROM this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play
Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold A gloomy NICHE, capacious, blank, and cold; A concave free from shrubs and mosses grey; In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray, Some Statue, placed amid these regions old For tutelary service, thence had rolled, Startling the flight of timid Yesterday! Was it by mortals sculptured?-weary slaves Of slow endeavour! or abruptly cast Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast Tempestuously let loose from central caves? Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves, Then, when o'er highest hills the Deluge pass'd!
SUCH fruitless questions may not long beguile Or plague the fancy 'mid the sculptured shows Conspicuous yet where Oroonoko flows; There would the Indian answer with a smile Aimed at the White Man's ignorance the while, Of the GREAT WATERS telling how they rose, Covered the plains, and, wandering where they Mounted through every intricate defile, [chose, Triumphant.—Inundation wide and deep, O'er which his Fathers urged, to ridge and steep Else unapproachable, their buoyant way; And carved, on mural cliff's undreaded side, Sun, moon, and stars, and beast of chase or prey; Whate'er they sought, shunned, loved, or deified!
A DARK plume fetch me from yon blasted yew, Perched on whose top the Danish Raven croaks; Aloft, the imperial Bird of Rome invokes Departed ages, shedding where he flew Loose fragments of wild wailing, that bestrew The clouds and thrill the chambers of the rocks; And into silence hush the timorous flocks, That, calmly couching while the nightly dew Moistened each fleece, beneath the twinkling stars Slept amid that lone Camp on Hardknot's height +,
Whose Guardians bent the knee to Jove and Mars: Or, near that mystic Round of Druid frame Tardily sinking by its proper weight
Deep into patient Earth, from whose smooth breast it came !
My frame hath often trembled with delight When hope presented some far-distant good, That seemed from heaven descending, like the flood Of yon pure waters, from their aëry height Hurrying, with lordly Duddon to unite; Who, 'mid a world of images imprest On the calm depth of his transparent breast, Appears to cherish most that Torrent white, The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all! And seldom hath ear listened to a tune More lulling than the busy hum of Noon, Swoln by that voice-whose murmur musical Announces to the thirsty fields a boon Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall fall.
THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE.
THE old inventive Poets, had they seen, Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains Thy waters, Duddon! 'mid these flowery plains; The still repose, the liquid lapse serene, Transferred to bowers imperishably green, Had beautified Elysium! But these chains Will soon be broken;—a rough course remains, Innocuous as a firstling of the flock, Rough as the past; where Thou, of placid mien,
And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, Shalt change thy temper; and, with many a shock Given and received in mutual jeopardy, Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock, Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high!
SACRED Religion! mother of form and fear,' Dread arbitress of mutable respect, New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked, Or cease to please the fickle worshipper; Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee here) Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect, Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere That seeks to stifle it ;-as in those days When this low Pile ‡ a Gospel Teacher knew, Whose good works formed an endless retinue: A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse pourtrays; Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew; And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise!
* See Humboldt's Personal Narrative. † See Note.
WHENCE that low voice?-A whisper from the heart, That told of days long past, when here I roved With friends and kindred tenderly beloved; Some who had early mandates to depart, Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart By Duddon's side; once more do we unite, Once more beneath the kind Earth's tranquil light; And smothered joys into new being start. From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory; Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and free As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall On gales that breathe too gently to recal Aught of the fading year's inclemency!
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