ON to Iona!-What can she afford
To us save matter for a thoughtful sigh, Heaved over ruin with stability
In urgent contrast? To diffuse the WORD (Thy Paramount, mighty Nature! and Time's Lord) Her Temples rose, 'mid pagan gloom; but why, Even for a moment, has our verse deplored Their wrongs, since they fulfilled their destiny? And when, subjected to a common doom Of mutability, those far-famed Piles Shall disappear from both the sister Isles, Iona's Saints, forgetting not past days, Garlands shall wear of amaranthine bloom, While heaven's vast sea of voices chants their praise.
How sad a welcome! To each voyager Some ragged child holds up for sale a store Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir, Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer. Yet is yon neat trim church a grateful speck Of novelty amid the sacred wreck Strewn far and wide. Think, proud Philosopher! Fallen though she be, this Glory of the west, Still on her sons, the beams of mercy shine; And hopes, perhaps more heavenly bright than A grace by thee unsought and unpossest, [thine, A faith more fixed, a rapture more divine Shall gild their passage to eternal rest.'
HOMEWARD we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell, Where Christian piety's soul-cheering spark (Kindled from Heaven between the light and dark Of time) shone like the morning-star, farewell!- And fare thee well, to Fancy visible, Remote St. Kilda, lone and loved sea-mark For many a voyage made in her swift bark, When with more hues than in the rainbow dwell Thou a mysterious intercourse dost hold, Extracting from clear skies and air serene, And out of sun-bright waves, a lucid veil, That thickens, spreads, and, mingling fold with fold, Makes known, when thou no longer canst be seen, Thy whereabout, to warn the approaching sail.
Per me si va nella Città dolente.
We have not passed into a doleful City, We who were led to-day down a grim dell, By some too boldly named 'the Jaws of Hell :' Where be the wretched ones, the sights for pity! These crowded streets resound no plaintive ditty — As from the hive where bees in summer dwell, Sorrow seems here excluded; and that knell, It neither damps the gay, nor checks the witty. Alas! too busy Rival of old Tyre, Whose merchants Princes were, whose decks were Soon may the punctual sea in vain respire To serve thy need, in union with that Clyde Whose nursling current brawls o'er mossy stom The poor, the lonely, herdsman's joy and pride.
THE BLACK STONES OF IONA.
[See Martin's Voyage among the Western Isles.] HERE on their knees men swore the stones were black,
Black in the people's minds and words, yet they Were at that time, as now, in colour grey. But what is colour, if upon the rack Of conscience souls are placed by deeds that lack Concord with oaths? What differ night and day Then, when before the Perjured on his way Hell opens, and the heavens in vengeance crack Above his head uplifted in vain prayer To Saint, or Fiend, or to the Godhead whom He had insulted-Peasant, King, or Thane? Fly where the culprit may, guilt meets a doom; And, from invisible worlds at need laid bare, Come links for social order's awful chain.
THE RIVER EDEN, CUMBERLAND.
EDEN! till now thy beauty had I viewed By glimpses only, and confess with shame That verse of mine, whate'er its varying mood, Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet name : Yet fetched from Paradise that honour came, Rightfully borne; for Nature gives thee flowers That have no rivals among British bowers; And thy bold rocks are worthy of their fame. Measuring thy course, fair Stream! at length I pay To my life's neighbour dues of neighbourhood; But I have traced thee on thy winding way With pleasure sometimes by this thought restrained For things far off we toil, while many a good Not sought, because too near, is never gained.
STRETCHED on the dying Mother's lap, lies dead Her new-born Babe; dire ending of bright hope! But Sculpture here, with the divinest scope
Of luminous faith, heavenward hath raised that head So patiently; and through one hand has spread A touch so tender for the insensate Child- (Earth's lingering love to parting reconciled, Brief parting, for the spirit is all but fled)— That we, who contemplate the turns of life Through this still medium, ae consoled and cheered; Fed with the Mother, think the severed Wife Is les to be lamented than revered; And own that Art, triumphant over strife And pan, hath powers to Eternity endeared.
SUGGESTED BY THE FOREGOING. TRANQUILLITY! the sovereign aim wert thou In heathen schools of philosophic lore; Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore
The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow; And what of hope Elysium could allow Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore Peace to the Mourner. But when He who wore The crown of thorns around his bleeding brow Warmed our sad being with celestial light,
The Arts which still had drawn a softening grace From shadowy fountains of the Infinite, Comonted with that Idea face to face: And move around it now as planets run, Each in its orbit round the central Sun.
THE floods are roused, and will not soon be weary; Down from the Pennine Alps how fiercely sweeps CROGLIN, the stately Eden's tributary! He raves, or through some moody passage creeps Plotting new mischief-out again he leaps Into broad light, and sends, through regions airy, That voice which soothed the Nuns while on the steeps
They knelt in prayer, or sang to blissful Mary. That union ceased: then, cleaving easy walks Through crags, and smoothing paths beset with danger,
Came studious Taste; and many a pensive stranger Dreams on the banks, and to the river talks. What change shall happen next to Nunnery Dell? Canal, and Viaduct, and Railway, tell!
STEAMBOATS, VIADUCTS, AND RAILWAYS. MOTIONS and Means, on land and sea at war With old poetic feeling, not for this, Shall ye, by Poets even, be judged amiss! Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er it mar The loveliness of Nature, prove a bar To the Mind's gaining that prophetic sense Of future change, that point of vision, whence May be discovered what in soul ye are. In spite of all that beauty may disown In your harsh features, Nature doth embrace Her lawful offspring in Man's art; and Time, Pleased with your triumphs o'er his brother Space, Accepts from your bold hands the proffered crown Of hope, and smiles on you with cheer sublime.
THE MONUMENT COMMONLY CALLED LONG MEG AND HER DAUGHTERS, NEAR THE RIVER EDEN.
A WEIGHT of awe, not easy to be borne, Fell suddenly upon my Spirit-cast From the dread bosom of the unknown past, When first I saw that family forlorn. Speak Thou, whose massy strength and stature scorn The power of years-pre-eminent, and placed Apart, to overlook the circle vast- Speak, Giant-mother! tell it to the Morn While she dispels the cumbrous shades of Night; Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud; At whose behest uprose on British ground That Sisterhood, in hieroglyphic round Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the infinite The inviolable God, that tames the proud+!
LOWTHER! in thy majestic Pile are seen Cathedral pomp and grace, in apt accord With the baronial castle's sterner mien ; Union significant of God adored,
And charters won and guarded by the sword Of ancient honour; whence that goodly state Of polity which wise men venerate, And will maintain, if God his help afford. Hourly the democratic torrent swells; For airy promises and hopes suborned The strength of backward-looking thoughts is Fall if ye must, ye Towers and Pinnacles, With what ye symbolise; authentic Story Will say, Ye disappeared with England's Glory!
TO THE EARL OF LONSDALE. 'Magistratus indicat virum.'
LONSDALE! it were unworthy of a Guest, Whose heart with gratitude to thee inclines, If he should speak, by fancy touched, of signs On thy Abode harmoniously imprest, Yet be unmoved with wishes to attest How in thy mind and moral frame agree Fortitude, and that Christian Charity Which, filling, consecrates the human breast. And if the Motto on thy 'scutcheon teach With truth,THE MAGISTRACY SHOWS THE MAN ;' That searching test thy public course has stood; As will be owned alike by bad and good, Soon as the measuring of life's little span Shall place thy virtues out of Envy's reach*.
THE SOMNAMBULIST.
LIST, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower† At eve; how softly then Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse, Speak from the woody glen! Fit music for a solemn vale!
And holier seems the ground To him who catches on the gale The spirit of a mournful tale, Embodied in the sound.
A pleasure-house built by the late Duke of Norfolk upon the banks of Ullswater. FORCE is the word used in the Lake District for Water-fall.
Not far from that fair site whereon The Pleasure-house is reared, As story says, in antique days
A stern-brow'd house appeared; Foil to a Jewel rich in light
There set, and guarded well; Cage for a Bird of plumage bright, Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight Beyond her native dell.
To win this bright Bird from her cage, To make this Gem their own, Came Barons bold, with store of gold, And Knights of high renown; But one She prized, and only one;
Sir Eglamore was he; Full happy season, when was known, Ye Dales and Hills! to you alone Their mutual loyalty—
Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen,
Thy brook, and bowers of holly; Where Passion caught what Nature taught, That all but love is folly;
Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play;
Doubt came not, nor regret— To trouble hours that winged their way, As if through an immortal day
Whose sun could never set.
But in old times Love dwelt not long Sequester'd with repose;
Best throve the fire of chaste desire, Fanned by the breath of foes. "A conquering lance is beauty's test, "And proves the Lover true;" So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed The drooping Emma to his breast, And looked a blind adieu.
They parted.-Well with him it fared Through wide-spread regions errant ; A knight of proof in love's behoof,
The thirst of fame his warrant: And She her happiness can build
On woman's quiet hours;
Though faint, compared with spear and shield, The solace beads and masses yield,
And needlework and flowers.
Yet blest was Emma when she heard
Her Champion's praise recounted; Though brain would swim, and eyes grow dim, And high her blushes mounted;
Or when a bold heroic lay
She warbled from full heart; Delightful blossoms for the May Of absence! but they will not stay, Born only to depart.
Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills Whatever path he chooses;
As if his orb, that owns no curb, Received the light hers loses.
He comes not back; an ampler space Requires for nobler deeds;
He ranges on from place to place, Till of his doings is no trace,
But what her fancy breeds.
His fame may spread, but in the past Her spirit finds its centre;
Clear sight She has of what he was,
And that would now content her. "Still is he my devoted Knight?"
The tear in answer flows;
Month falls on month with heavier weight; Day sickens round her, and the night is empty of repose.
In sleep She sometimes walked abroad, Deep sighs with quick words blending, Like that pale Queen whose hands are seen With fancied spots contending;
But she is innocent of blood,—
The moon is not more pure
That shines aloft, while through the wood She thrids her way, the sounding Flood Her melancholy lure!
While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, And owls alone are waking, In white arrayed, glides on the Maid
The downward pathway taking, That leads her to the torrent's side
And to a holly bower;
By whom on this still night descried? By whom in that lone place espied? By thee, Sir Eglamore!
A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, His coming step has thwarted, Beneath the boughs that heard their vows,
Within whose shade they parted. Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see! Perplexed her fingers seem, As if they from the holly tree Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly Flung from her to the stream.
What means the Spectre? Why intent To violate the Tree,
Thought Eglamore, by which I swore Unfading constancy?
Here am I, and to-morrow's sun, To her I left, shall prove That bliss is ne'er so surely won As when a circuit has been run
Of valour, truth, and love.
So from the spot whereon he stood, He moved with stealthy pace; And, drawing nigh, with his living eye,
He recognised the face;
And whispers caught, and speeches small, Some to the green-leaved tree, Some muttered to the torrent-fall ;"Roar on, and bring him with thy call; "I heard, and so may He!"
Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew If Emma's Ghost it were,
Or boding Shade, or if the Maid
Her very self stood there.
He touched; what followed who shall tell? The soft touch snapped the thread
Of slumber-shrieking back she fell, And the Stream whirled her down the dell Along its foaming bed.
In plunged the Knight !-when on firm ground The rescued Maiden lay,
Her eyes grew bright with blissful light,
Confusion passed away ;
She heard, ere to the throne of grace
Her faithful Spirit flew,
His voice-beheld his speaking face; And, dying, from his own embrace, She felt that he was true.
So was he reconciled to life: Brief words may speak the rest; Within the dell he built a cell,
And there was Sorrow's guest; In hermits' weeds repose he found, From vain temptations free ; Beside the torrent dwelling-bound By one deep heart-controlling sound, And awed to piety.
Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course,
Nor fear memorial lays,
Where clouds that spread in solemn shade, Are edged with golden rays!
Dear art thou to the light of heaven,
Though minister of sorrow; Sweet is thy voice at pensive even ; And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven, Shalt take thy place with Yarrow !
(Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright cord, What witchery, for pure gifts of inward seeing, Lurks in it, Memory's Helper, Fancy's Lord, For precious tremblings in your bosom found!
Nor in the mines beyond the western main, You say, Cordelia, was the metal sought, Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has wrought Into this flexible yet faithful Chain;
Nor is it silver of romantic Spain
But from our loved Helvellyn's depths was brought, Our own domestic mountain. Thing and thought Mix strangely; trifles light, and partly vain, Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler being : Yes, Lady while about your neck is wound
MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path be there or none, While a fair region round the traveller lies Which he forbears again to look upon; Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, The work of Fancy, or some happy tone Of meditation, slipping in between The beauty coming and the beauty gone. If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: With Thought and Love companions of our way, Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay,
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