XXVII. COMPOSED UPON THE BEACH NEAR CALAIS,
It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven is on the sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine : Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.
WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Festively she puts forth in trim array; As vigorous as a Lark at break of day: Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry ?—Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters), doubt, and something dark, Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!
XXIX.-COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1803.
EARTH has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty :
This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!
I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm regret Yon slowly-sinking star-immortal Sire
(So might he seem) of all the glittering quire! Blue ether still surrounds him-yet-and yet ;
But now the horizon's rocky parapet
Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire, He burns-transmuted to a sullen fire,
That droops and dwindles—and the appointed debt To the flying moments paid, is seen no more. Angels and gods! we struggle with our fate, While health, power, glory, pitiably decline, Depressed and then extinguished: and our state In this how different, lost star, from thine, That no to-morrow shall our beams restore !
XXXI.-SCENERY BETWEEN NAMUR AND Liege.
WHAT lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose? Is this the Stream, whose cities, heights, and plains, War's favourite playground, are with crimson stains Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews?
The Morn, that now, along the silver MEUSE, Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the swains To tend their silent boats and ringing wains, Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes Turn from the fortified and threatening hill, How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade, With its grey rocks clustering in pensive shade, That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise From the smooth meadow-ground, serene and still!
XXXII.-Composed at NEIDPATH CASTLE.
DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord! Whom mere despite of heart could so far please, And love of havoc (for with such disease Fame taxes him), that he could send forth word To level with the dust a noble horde, A brotherhood of venerable Trees, Leaving an ancient Dome, and Towers like these, Beggared and outraged !—Many hearts deplored The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed: For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
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.
XXXIV.-SEATHWAITE CHAPEL.
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!
RETURN, Content! for fondly I pursued, Even when a child, the Streams-unheard, unseen; Through tangled woods, impending rocks between ; Or, free as air, with flying inquest viewed The sullen reservoirs whence their bold brood, Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, keen, Green as the salt-sea billows, white and green, Poured down the hills, a choral multitude? Nor have I tracked their course for scanty gains; They taught me random cares and truant joys, That shield from mischief and preserve from stains Vague minds, while men are growing out of boys; Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins.
XXXVI.-AFTER-THOUGHT.
I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being past away.-Vain sympathies ! For backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide ;
Still glides the Stream, and shall not cease to glide; The Form remains, the Function never dies; While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
The elements, must vanish ;-be it so !
Enough, if something from our hands have power
To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
And if, as tow'rd the silent tomb we go,
Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower,
We feel that we are greater than we know.
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