Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

Sad fancies do we then affect,
In luxury of disrespect
To our own prodigal excess
Of too familiar happiness.
Lycoris (if such name befit

Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!)
When Nature marks the year's decline,
Be ours to welcome it;

Pleased with the harvest hope that runs
Before the path of milder suns;

Pleased while the sylvan world displays

Its ripeness to the feeding gaze;

Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell

Of the resplendent miracle.

But something whispers to my heart
That, as we downward tend,
Lycoris, life requires an art

To which our souls must bend;
A skill to balance and supply;
And, ere the flowing fount be dry,
As soon it must, a sense to sip
Or drink with no fastidious lip.
Then welcome, above all, the guest

Whose smiles diffused o'er land and sea,
Seem to recall the deity

Of youth into the breast:

May pensive autumn ne'er present

A claim to her disparagement!

While blossoms and the budding spray

Inspire us in our own decay,

Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal,

Be hopeful spring the favourite of the soul!

1817.

YEW-TREES.

THERE is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Which to this day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore,
Not loath to furnish weapons for the bands
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

Of vast circumference and gloom profound
This solitary tree!—a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed. But worthier still of note
Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;
Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane. A pillared shade
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perennially--beneath whose sable roof

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked
With unrejoicing berries--ghostly shapes
May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight, Death the Skeleton,
And Time the Shadow; there to celebrate.

As in a natural temple scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

1803.

AIREY FORCE VALLEY.

NOT a breath of air

Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen.

From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees
Are steadfast as the rocks; the brook itself,

Old as the hills that feed it from afar,

Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm

Where all things else are calm and motionless.
And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance
Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without,
Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt,

But to its gentle touch how sensitive

Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow
Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes
A soft eye-music of slow-moving boughs,
Powerful almost as vocal harmony

To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his thoughts.

THE ECHO.

YES! yes! it was the mountain echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,

Answering to the shouting cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound.

Unsolicited reply

To a babbling wanderer sent;
Like her ordinary cry.

Like-but, oh, how different!

Hears not also mortal life?

Hear not we, unthinking creatures!
Slaves of folly, love, or strife-

Voices of two different natures?

Have not we too?--Yes, we have
Answers, and we know not whence;
Echoes from beyond the grave,
Recognised intelligence!

Such rebounds our inward ear
Catches sometimes from afar-
Listen, ponder, hold them dear;

For of God,--of God they are!

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE DOVE.

O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art

A creature of a " fiery heart";

These notes of thine-they pierce and pierce :
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the god of wine
Had helped thee to a valentine-
A song in mockery, and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night,
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.
I heard a stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze;

He did not cease; but cooed-and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed :

1806.

He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending:
Of serious faith, and inward glee;

That was the song, the song for me!

1807.

TO THE CUCKOO.

O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass,

Thy loud note smites my ear!
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near!

I hear thee babbling to the vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers;
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!
Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing;

A voice, a mystery ;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that cry

Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for thee!

TO A SKYLARK.

UP with me! up with me, into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong;

Up with me, up with me, into the clouds !
Singing, singing,

With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
And to-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a faery,
Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;

Lift me, guide me, high and high,
To thy banqueting-place in the sky!

Joyous as morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning ;

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou wouldst be loath
To be such a traveller as I.

Happy, happy liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain river
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,

Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind

As full of gladness and as free of heaven,

I with my fate contented, will plod on,

And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done.

1805.

TO THE SKYLARK.

ETHEREAL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »