A TRADITION OF OKER HILL IN DARLEY DALE, DERBYSHIRE.
"TIS said that to the brow of yon fair hill Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face from face,
Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still Or feed, each planted on that lofty place A chosen Tree: then, eager to fulfil Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they In opposite directions urged their way Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill
Or blight that fond memorial;-the trees grew, And now entwine their arms; but ne'er again Embraced those. Brothers upon Earth's wide plain;
Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew Until their spirits mingled in the sea That to itself takes all, Eternity.
(ON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON AND LIVERPOOL.)
UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold; Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth; That Pile of Turf is half a century old: Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 'Gainst him who raised it,-his last work on earth:
Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, Through reverence, touch it only to repair Its waste. -Though crumbling with each breath of air,
In annual renovation thus it stands- Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there, And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are
TO B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE ON THE ISLAND OF ST HELENA.
HAYDON! let worthier judges praise the skill Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines And charm of colours; I applaud those signs Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill; That unencumbered whole of blank and still, Sky without cloud-ocean without a wave; And the one Man that laboured to enslave The World, sole-standing high on the bare hill- Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent face Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place With light reflected from the invisible sun Set, like his fortunes; but not set for aye Like them. The unguilty Power pursues his
A POET!-He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand-must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality.
THE most alluring clouds that mount the sky Owe to a troubled element their forms, Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye We watch their splendour, shall we covet storms, And wish the Lord of day his slow decline Would hasten, that such pomp may float on
Of pure delight, come whencesoe'er it may, Peace let us seek, -to stedfast things attune Calm expectations: leaving to the gay And volatile their love of transient bowers, The house that cannot pass away be ours. XXIX.
ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON UPON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON. By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse stand
On ground yet strewn with their last battle wreck;
Let the Steed glory while his Master's hand Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck; But by the Chieftain's look, though at his side Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a check
Is given to triumph and all human pride! Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy speck In his calm presence! Him the mighty deed Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's rest, As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame In Heaven; hence no one blushes for thy name, Conqueror, mid some sad thoughts, divinely
Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance,
One upward hand, as if she needed rest From rapture, lying softly on her breast! Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance; But not the less-nay more-that countenance, While thus illumined, tells of painful strife For a sick heart made weary of this life By love, long crossed with adverse circumstance. -Would She were now as when she hoped to pass
At God's appointed hour to them who tread Heaven's sapphire pavement; yet breathed well
Well pleased, her foot should print earth's
Lived thankful for day's light, for daily bread, For health, and time in obvious duty spent.
ALL praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed; But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me,
ON THE SAME SUBJECT. THOUGH I beheld at first with blank surprise This Work, I now have gazed on it so long I see its truth with unreluctant eyes; O, my Beloved! I have done thee wrong, Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, Ever too heedless, as I now perceive: Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, And the old day was welcome as the young, As welcome, and as beautiful-in sooth More beautiful, as being a thing more holy: Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth Of all thy goodness, never melancholy; To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast Into one vision, future, present, past.
HARK! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain By twilight premature of cloud and rain;" Who carols thinking of his Love and nest, And seems, as more incited, still more blest. Thanks; thou hast snapped a fire-side Prisoner's chain,
Exulting Warbler! eased a fretted brain, Yes, I will forth, bold Bird! and front the blast, And in a moment charmed my cares to rest. That we may sing together, if thou wilt,
So loud, so clear, my Partner through life's day, Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past, Thrilled by loose snatches of the social Lay. Rydal Mount, 1838.
'Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain Beat back the roaring storm-but how subdued His day-break note, a sad vicissitude! Does the hour's drowsy weight his glee restrain? Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein Pleased to renounce, does this dear Thrush
His voice to suit the temper of yon Moon Doubly depressed, setting, and in her wane? Rise, tardy Sun! and let the Songster prove (The balance trembling between night and morn No longer) with what ecstasy upborne He can pour forth his spirit. In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true glad-
Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
OH what a Wreck! how changed in mien and speech! Yet-though dread mystery, spin
Powers, that work in
Entanglings of the brain; though shadows stretch
O'er the chilled heart-reflect; far, far within Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch, But delegated Spirits comfort fetch
To Her from heights that Reason may not win. Like Children, She is privileged to hold Divine communion; both do live and move, Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways unfold, Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love; Love pitying innocence not long to last, In them-in Her our sins and sorrows past.
Reader, farewell! My last words let them be- If in this book Fancy and Truth agree; If simple Nature trained by careful Art Through It have won a passage to thy heart; Grant me thy love, I crave no other fee!
TO THE REV, CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH, DD. MASTER OF HARROW SCHOOL,
After the perusal of his Theophilus Anglicanus, recently published.
ENLIGHTENED Teacher, gladly from thy hand Have I rceived this proof of pains bestowed By Thee to guide thy Pupils on the road
INTENT on gathering wool from hedge and That, in our native isle, and every land,
Yon busy Little-ones rejoice that soon poor old Dame will bless them for the boon: Great is their glee while flake they add to flake With rival earnestness; far other strife Than will hereafter move them, if they make Pastime their idol, give their day of life To pleasure snatched for reckless pleasure's
Can pomp and show allay one heart-born grief? Pains which the World inflicts can she requite?
Not for an interval however brief;
The silent thoughts that search for stedfast light,
Love from her depths, and Duty in her might, And Faith-these only yield secure relief. March 8th, 1842.
A PLEA FOR AUTHORS, MAY 1838. FAILING impartial measure to dispense To every suitor, Equity is lame : And social Justice, stript of reverence For natural rights, a mockery and a shame; Law but a servile dupe of false pretence, If, guarding grossest things from common claim Now and for ever, She, to works that came From mind and spirit, grudge a short-lived fence.
"What! lengthened privilege, a lineal tie, For Books!" Yes, heartless Ones, or be it proved
That 'tis a fault in Us to have lived and loved Like others, with like temporal hopes to die; No public harm that Genius from her course Be turned; and streams of truth dried up, even at their source !
The Church, when trusting in divine command And in her Catholic attributes, hath trod: O may these lessons be with profit scanned To thy heart's wish, thy labour blest by God! So the bright faces of the young and gay Shall look more bright-the happy, happier
Catch, in the pauses of their keenest play, Motions of thought which elevate the will And, like the Spire that from your classic Hill Points heavenward, indicate the end and way. Rydal Mount, Dec. 11, 1843.
That makes our hearts more apt to sympathise With heaven, our souls more fit for future glory,
When earth shall vanish from our closing eyes, Ere we lie down in our last dormitory?
WANSFELL!* this Household has a favoured lot,
Living with liberty on thee to gaze, To watch while Morn first crowns thee with her rays,
Or when along thy breast serenely float Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) thy
For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought
* The Hill that rises to the south-east, above Ambleside.
WHILE beams of orient light shoot wide and Intrenched your brows: ye gloried in each scar: high,
Deep in the vale a little rural Town*
Breathes forth a cloud-like creature of its own, That mounts not toward the radiant morning sky,
But, with a less ambitious sympathy,
Hangs o'er its Parent waking to the cares, Troubles and toils that every day prepares. So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her sway
(Like influence never may my soul reject) If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked With glorious forms in numberless array, To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose Gleams from a world in which the saints repose. Jan. 1, 1843.
IN my mind's eyes a Temple, like a cloud Slowly surmounting some invidious hill, Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood
And might of its own beauty have been proud, But it was fashioned and to God was vowed By Virtues that diffused, in every part, Spirit divine through forms of human art; Faith had her arch-her arch, when winds blow loud,
Into the consciousness of safety thrilled;
And Love her towers of dread foundation laid Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire Star-high, and pointing still to something higher; Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice-it said, "Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build."
Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thirst of Gold,
That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star, Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall be sold,
And clear way made for her triumphal car Through the beloved retreats your arms enfold! Heard YE that Whistle? As her long-linked
WELL have yon Railway Labourers to THIS ground
Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, they walk
Among the Ruins, but no idle talk
Is heard; to grave demeanour all are bound; And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful sound Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire And thrills the old sepulchral earth, around. Others look up, and with fixed eyes admire That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it was raised,
To keep, so high in air, its strength and grace: All seem to feel the spirit of the place,
And by the general reverence God is praised: Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved, While thus these simple-hearted men are moved?
FROM THE VALE OF GRASMERE. AUGUST, 1803. THE gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains; Even for the tenants of the zone that lies Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise, Methinks 'twould heighten joy to overleap At will the crystal battlements, and peep Into some other region, though less fair,
To see how things are made and managed there. Change for the worse might please, incursion bold
Into the tracts of darkness and of cold; O'er Limbo lake with aëry flight to steer, And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear. Such animation often do I find,
Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind, Then, when some rock or hill is overpast, Perchance without one look behind me cast, Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth. O pleasant transit, Grasmere ! to resign Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine; Not like an outcast with himself at strife; The slave of business, time, or care for life, But moved by choice; or, if constrained in part, Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart;- To cull contentment upon wildest shores, And luxuries extract from bleakest moors; With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold, And having rights in all that we behold. -Then why these lingering steps?-A bright
For a brief absence, proves that love is true; Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn That winds into itself for sweet return.
SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH.
I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, At thought of what I now behold: As vapours breathed from dungeons cold Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould Where Burns is laid.
And have I then thy bones so near, And thou forbidden to appear? As if it were thyself that's here I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my feat
Off weight-nor press on weight!-away Dark thoughts!-they came, but not to stay; With chastened feelings would I pay
To him, and aught that hides his clay From mortal view.
Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth He sang, his genius "glinted" forth, Rose like a star that touching earth, For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth
With matchless beams.
The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, The struggling heart, where be they now?- Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, The prompt, the brave, Slept, with the obscurest, in the low And silent grave.
I mourned with thousands, but as one More deeply grieved, for He was gone Whose light I hailed when first it shone, And showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne On humble truth.
Alas! where'er the current tends, Regret pursues and with it blends,- Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends By Skiddaw seen,-- Neighbours we were, and loving friends We might have been ;
True friends though diversely inclined; But heart with heart and mind with mind, Where the main fibres are entwined,
Through Nature's skill,
May even by contraries be joined More closely still.
The tear will start, and let it flow; Thou "poor Inhabitant below," At this dread moment-even so-
Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow, Or on wild heather.
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить » |