[Upon a small island not far from the head of Loch Lomond, are some remains of an ancient building, which was for several years the abode of a solitary Individual, one of the last survivors of the clan of Macfarlane, once powerful in that neighbourhood. Passing along the shore opposite this island in the year 1814, the Author learned these particulars, and that this person then living there had acquired the appellation of The Brownie.' See "The Brownie's Cell," p. 231, to which the following is a sequel.
'How disappeared he?' Ask the newt and toad; Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell How he was found, cold as an icicle, Under an arch of that forlorn abode; Where he, unpropp'd, and by the gathering flood Of years hemm'd round, had dwelt, prepared to try Privation's worst extremities, and die With no one near save the omnipresent God. Verily so to live was an awful choice-
A choice that wears the aspect of a doom; But in the mould of mercy all is cast For Souls familiar with the eternal Voice; And this forgotten Taper to the last Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful gloom.
TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR.
THOUGH joy attend Thee orient at the birth Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most To watch thy course when Day-light, fled from earth, In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost, Perplexed as if between a splendour lost And splendour slowly mustering. The absolute, the world-absorbing One, Relinquished half his empire to the host Emboldened by thy guidance, holy Star, Holy as princely, who that looks on thee Touching, as now, in thy humility The mountain borders of this seat of care, Can question that thy countenance is bright, Celestial Power, as much with love as light?
(PASSED UNSEEN, ON ACCOUNT OF STORMY WEATHER.) IMMURED in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn The liberty they lost at Bannockburn. Once on those steeps I roamed at large, and have
In mind the landscape, as if still in sight; The river glides, the woods before me wave; Then why repine that now in vain I crave Needless renewal of an old delight? Better to thank a dear and long-past day For joy its sunny hours were free to give Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost. Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams obey,
Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive: How little that she cherishes is lost!
PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN, AT HAMILTON PALACE.
AMID a fertile region green with wood And fresh with rivers, well did it become The ducal Owner, in his palace-home To naturalise this tawny Lion brood;
Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood (Couched in their den) with those that roam at large Over the burning wilderness, and charge The wind with terror while they roar for food. Satiate are these; and stilled to eye and ear; Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring fear! Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave Daunt him-if his Companions, now be-drowsed Outstretched and listless, were by hunger roused: Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save.
AVON-a precious, an immortal name! Yet is it one that other rivulets bear Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear Like this contented, though unknown to Fame: For great and sacred is the modest claim Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow; And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go, Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame. But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears, Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent blood Has mixed its current with the limpid flood, Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears: Never for like distinction may the good Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unpleased
SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMINENCE IN
INGLEWOOD FOREST.
THE forest huge of ancient Caledon
Is but a name, no more is Inglewood,
That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood: On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone; Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be none, Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again, To kill for merry feast their venison. Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade His church with monumental wreck bestrown; The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid, Hath still his castle, though a skeleton,
That he may watch by night, and lessons con Of power that perishes, and rights that fade.
HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH.
HERE stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art,
Among its withering topmost branches mixed, The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart,
Whom the Dog Hercules pursued—his part
Each desperately sustaining, till at last
Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased And chaser bursting here with one dire smart. Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat! High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride; Say, rather, with that generous sympathy That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat; And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide Verse that would guard thy memory, HART'S-HORN TREE!
THE Lovers took within this ancient grove Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would rove, Not mute, where now the linnet only sings: Thus every where to truth Tradition clings, Or Fancy localises Powers we love. Were only History licensed to take note Of things gone by, her meagre monuments Would ill suffice for persons and events: There is an ampler page for man to quote, A readier book of manifold contents, Studied alike in palace and in cot.
[On the roadside between Penrith and Appleby, there stands a pillar with the following inscription :
This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial of her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 4. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard by. Laus Deo!"]
WHILE the Poor gather round, till the end of time May this bright flower of Charity display Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day; Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime Lovelier-transplanted from heaven's purest clime! 'Charity never faileth:' on that creed, More than on written testament or deed, The pious Lady built with hope sublime. Alms on this stone to be dealt out, for ever! 'LAUS DEO.' Many a Stranger passing by Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh, Blest its humane Memorial's fond endeavour; And, fastening on those lines an eye tear-glazed, Has ended, though no Clerk, with 'God be praised!'
(FROM THE ROMAN STATION AT OLD PENRITH.) How profitless the relics that we cull, Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, Unless they chasten fancies that presume Too high, or idle agitations lull!
Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full, To have no seat for thought were better doom, Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull Of him who gloried in its nodding plume. Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they? Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp? The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay?— Mere Fibula without a robe to clasp; Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recals; Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals!
FOR THE FOREGOING POEMS.
No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, Abrupt as without preconceived design Was the beginning; yet the several Lays Have moved in order, to each other bound
By a continuous and acknowledged tie Though unapparent-like those Shapes distinct That yet survive ensculptured on the walls Of palaces, or temples, 'mid the wreck Of famed Persepolis; each following each, As might beseem a stately embassy, In set array; these bearing in their hands Ensign of civil power, weapon of war, Or gift to be presented at the throne Of the Great King; and others, as they go In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged, Or leading victims drest for sacrifice.
Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred Power, The Spirit of humanity, disdain
A ministration humble but sincere,
That from a threshold loved by every Muse Its impulse took-that sorrow-stricken door,
Whence, as a current from its fountain-head, Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed, Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength From kindred sources; while around us sighed (Life's three first seasons having passed away) Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings fell
(Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights; And every day brought with it tidings new Of rash change, ominous for the public weal. Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached Upon that sweet and tender melancholy Which may itself be cherished and caressed More than enough; a fault so natural (Even with the young, the hopeful, or the gay) For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain.
CALM is the fragrant air, and loth to lose Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews. Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; Look up a second time, and, one by one, You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, And wonder how they could elude the sight! The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers, But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers: Nor does the village Church-clock's iron tone The time's and season's influence disown; Nine beats distinctly to each other bound In drowsy sequence-how unlike the sound That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear! The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun, Had closed his door before the day was done, And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep, And joins his little children in their sleep. The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade, Flits and reflits along the close arcade; The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth With burring note, which Industry and Sloth Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both. A stream is heard-I see it not, but know By its soft music whence the waters flow:
ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND. Easter Sunday, April 7.
THE AUTHOR'S SIXTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY.
THE Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire, Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams, Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams. Look round;-of all the clouds not one is moving; 'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving. Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky, The boundless plain of waters seems to lie :- Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore?
No; 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea, Whispering how meek and gentle he can be!
Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke Offenders, dost put off the gracious look, And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood, Whatever discipline thy Will ordain
For the brief course that must for me remain; Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice In admonitions of thy softest voice! Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace, Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace, Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear, Glad to expand; and, for a season, free From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee!
THE sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest, And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest; Air slumbers-wave with wave no longer strives, Only a heaving of the deep survives, A tell-tale motion! soon will it be laid, And by the tide alone the water swayed. Stealthy withdrawings, interminglings mild Of light with shade in beauty reconciled- Such is the prospect far as sight can range, The soothing recompence, the welcome change. Where now the ships that drove before the blast, Threatened by angry breakers as they passed; And by a train of flying clouds bemocked; Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked As on a bed of death? Some lodge in peace, Saved by His care who bade the tempest cease; And some, too heedless of past danger, court Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port; But near, or hanging sea and sky between, Not one of all those winged powers is seen, Seen in her course, nor 'mid this quiet heard; Yet oh! how gladly would the air be stirred By some acknowledgment of thanks and praise, Soft in its temper as those vesper lays Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores; A sea-born service through the mountains felt Till into one loved vision all things melt:
Or like those hymns that soothe with graver sound The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound; And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies. Hush, not a voice is here! but why repine, Now when the star of eve comes forth to shine
Nor in the lucid intervals of life That come but as a curse to party-strife; Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh Of languor puts his rosy garland by; Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave- Is Nature felt, or can be; nor do words,
Which practised talent readily affords,
Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords;
Nor has her gentle beauty power to move With genuine rapture and with fervent love The soul of Genius, if he dare to take
Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake; Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent Of all the truly great and all the innocent.
But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise, O Nature! we are thine, Through good and evil thine, in just degree Of rational and manly sympathy.
To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing, And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing, Add every charm the Universe can show Through every change its aspects undergo Care may be respited, but not repealed; No perfect cure grows on that bounded field. Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace, If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease, Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance, Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance; To the distempered Intellect refuse His gracious help, or give what we abuse.
(BY THE SIDE OF RYDAL MERE.) THE linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, Hints to the thrush 'tis time for their repose; The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and again The monitor revives his own sweet strain ; But both will soon be mastered, and the copse Be left as silent as the mountain-tops,
Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest The throng of rooks, that now, from twig or nest, (After a steady flight on home-bound wings, And a last game of mazy hoverings Around their ancient grove) with cawing noise Disturb the liquid music's equipoise.
O Nightingale! Who ever heard thy song Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so strong That listening sense is pardonably cheated Where wood or stream by thee was never greeted. Surely, from fairest spots of favoured lands, Were not some gifts withheld by jealous hands, This hour of deepening darkness here would be' As a fresh morning for new harmony;
And lays as prompt would hail the dawn of Night: A dawn she has both beautiful and bright, When the East kindles with the full moon's light; Not like the rising sun's impatient glow Dazzling the mountains, but an overflow Of solemn splendour, in mutation slow.
Wanderer by spring with gradual progress led, For sway profoundly felt as widely spread; To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear, And to the soldier's trumpet-wearied ear; How welcome wouldst thou be to this green Vale Fairer than Tempe! Yet, sweet Nightingale ! From the warm breeze that bears thee on, alight At will, and stay thy migratory flight; Build, at thy choice, or sing, by pool or fount, Who shall complain, or call thee to account? The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they That ever walk content with Nature's way, God's goodness-measuring bounty as it may; For whom the gravest thought of what they miss, Chastening the fulness of a present bliss, Is with that wholesome office satisfied, While unrepining sadness is allied In thankful bosoms to a modest pride.
SOFT as a cloud is yon blue Ridge--the Mere Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear, And motionless; and, to the gazer's eye, Deeper than ocean, in the immensity Of its vague mountains and unreal sky! But, from the process in that still retreat, Turn to minuter changes at our feet; Observe how dewy Twilight has withdrawn The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn,
« AnteriorContinuar » |