Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard, The sweet bird's song became an hollow sound; And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly, Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat Sate, his white beard slow waving. I moved on In low and languid mood: for I had found That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive Their finer influence from the life within: Fair ciphers of vague import, where the eye Traces no spot, in which the Heart may read History or prophecy of friend, or child, Or gentle maid, our first and early love, Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adored country! O thou Queen, Thou delegated deity of earth,
O dear, dear England! how my longing eye Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds Thy sands and high white cliffs!
My native land! Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud, Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
From some high eminence on goodly vales,
And cots and villages embowered below,
The thought would rise that all to me was strange Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot
Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home."
SOUTHEY'S Hymn to the Penates.
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane, With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel That God is everywhere! the God who framed Mankind to be one mighty family,
Himself our Father, and the World our Home.
ON THE 1ST OF FEBRUARY, 1796.
WEET Flower! that peeping from thy
Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth- chattering Month
Hath borrowed Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee- With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower! These are but flatteries of the faithless year. Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave, E'en now the keen North-East is on its way. Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth Nipped by consumption, 'mid untimely charms? Or to Bristowa's Bard* the wondrous boy! An amaranth, which earth scarce seemed to own, Blooming, mid poverty's drear wintry waste, Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong Beat it to earth? or with indignant grief Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope, Bright flower of hope killed in the opening bud?
Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine And mock my boding! Dim similitudes Weaving in mortal strains, I've stolen one hour From anxious self, Life's cruel task-master! And the warm wooings of this sunny day Tremble along my frame and harmonize
The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes Played deftly on a soft-toned instrument.
COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE.
Y pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown With white-flowered jasmin, and the broad-leaved
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!) And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed!
The stilly murmur of the distant sea
Tells us of silence. And that simplest lute,
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark How by the desultory breeze caressed,
Like some coy maid half-yielding to her lover, It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes Over delicious surges sink and rise, Such a soft floating witchery of sound As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, Where melodies round honey-dropping flowers, Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing! O! the one life, within us and abroad,
Which meets all motion, and becomes its soul, A light in sound, a sound-like power in light, Rhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere. Methinks, it should have been impossible Not to love all things in a world so filled, Where the breeze warbles and the mute still air, Is Music slumbering on her instrument!
And thus, my love! as on the midway slope Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;
Full many a thought uncalled and undetained, And many idle flitting phantasies,
Traverse my indolent and passive brain, As wild and various as the random gales That swell and flutter on this subject lute! And what if all of animated nature Be but organic harps diversly framed, That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, At once the Soul of each, and God of all?
But thy more serious eye a mild reproof Darts, O beloved woman! nor such thoughts Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject, And biddest me walk humbly with my God. Meek daughter in the family of Christ! Well hast thou said and holily dispraised These shapings of the unregenerate mind, Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. For never guiltless may I speak of Him, The Incomprehensible! save when with awe I praise Him, and with faith that inly feels; Who with His saving mercies healed me, A sinful and most miserable man,
Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-honoured Maid!
ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT.
"Sermoni propiora."-HOR.
OW was our pretty cot: our tallest rose Peeped at the chamber-window. We could hear
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn, The sea's faint murmur. In the open air Our myrtles blossomed; and across the porch Thick jasmins twined: the little landscape round Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye. It was a spot which you might aptly call
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