TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER,
With a selection from the Poems of Anne, Countess of Winchelsen; and extracts of similar character from other writers; transcribed by a female friend.
LADY! I rifled a Parnassian Cave
(But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore; And culled, from sundry beds, a lucid store Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave The azure brooks where Dian joys to lave Her spotless limbs; and ventured to explore Dim shades-for reliques, upon Lethe's shore, Cast up at random by the sullen wave. To female hands the treasures were resigned; And lo, this Work! a grotto bright and clear From stain or taint! in which thy blameless mind May feed on thoughts though pensive not austere; Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined
To holy musing, it may enter here.
HAIL, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour! Not dull art Thou, as undiscerning Night; But studious only to remove from sight Day's mutable distinctions. - Ancient Power! Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower, To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen The self-same Vision which we now behold,
At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth; These mighty barriers, and the gulf between; The floods, the stars, a spectacle as old As the beginning of the heavens and earth!
There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only Poets know; —'t was rightly said; Whom could the Muses else allure to tread Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains? When happiest Fancy has inspired the Strains, How oft the malice of one luckless word Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board, Haunts him belated on the silent plains! Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear, At last, of hinderance and obscurity, Fresh as the Star that crowns the brow of Morn; Bright, speckless, as a softly moulded tear The moment it has left the Virgin's eye, Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed Thorn.
WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbest the sky, How silently, and with how wan a face!* Where art thou? Thou whom I have seen on high Running among the clouds a wood-nymph's race! Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh Which they would stifle, move at such a pace! The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase, Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be: And the keen Stars, fast as the clouds were riven. Should sally forth, an emulous Company,
All hurrying with thee through the clear blue heaven But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given, Queen both for beauty and for majesty.
THE Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, "Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art bright!" Forthwith, that little Cloud, in ether spread, And penetrated all with tender light, She cast away, and showed her fulgent head Uncovered; - dazzling the Beholder's sight As if to vindicate her beauty's right, Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. Meanwhile that Veil,.removed or thrown aside, Went, floating from her, darkening as it went; And a huge Mass, to bury or to hide, Approached this glory of the firmament; Who meekly yields, and is obscured;-content With one calm triumph of a modest pride.
EVEN as a dragon's eye that feels the stress Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless: The Lake below reflects it not; the sky, Muffled in clouds, affords no company To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing Which sends so far its melancholy light, Perhaps are scated in domestic ring A gay society with faces bright, Conversing, reading, laughing;—or they sing, While hearts and voices in the song unite.
From a Sonnet of Sir Philip Sidney.
MARK the concentred Hazels that enclose Yon old gray Stone, protected from the ray Of noontide suns: and even the beams that play And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows, Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom, The very image framing of a Tomb,
In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose Among the lonely mountains. - Live, ye Trees! And Thou, gray Stone, the pensive likeness keep Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep: For more than Fancy to the influence bends When solitary Nature condescends
To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.
COMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM
DOGMATIC Teachers, of the snow-white fur! Ye wrangling Schoolmen, of the scarlet hood! Who, with a keenness not to be withstood, Press the point home, or falter and demur, Checked in your course by many a teasing burr; These natural council-seats your acrid blood Might cool; — and, as the Genius of the flood Stoops willingly to animate and spur
Each lighter function slumbering in the brain, Yon eddying balls of foam - these arrowy gleams, That o'er the pavement of the surging streams Welter and flash-a synod might detain With subtle speculations, haply vain,
But surely less so than your far-fetched themes!
"As the cold aspect of a sunless way
This, and the two following, were suggested by Mr. W. Westa la Views of the Caves, etc. in Yorkshire.
PURE element of waters! wheresoe'er
Strikes through the Traveller's frame with deadlier Thou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts,
Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill, Glistening with unparticipated ray,
Or shining slope where he must never stray; So joys, remembered without wish or will, Sharpen the keenest edge of present ill, — On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay. Just Heaven, contract the compass of my mind To fit proportion with my altered state! Quench those felicities whose light I find Reflected in my bosom all too late! -
O be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait; And, like mine eyes that stream with sorrow, blind!"
Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry-bearing plants Rise into life and in thy train appear:
And, through the sunny portion of the year, Swift insects shine, thy hovering pursuivants: And, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants; And hart and hind and hunter with his spear, Languish and droop together. Nor unfelt In man's perturbed soul thy sway benign; And, haply, far within the marble belt Of central earth, where tortured Spirits pine For grace and goodness lost, thy murmurs melt Their anguish,—and they blend sweet songs with thine.*
BROOK! whose society the Poet seeks, Intent his wasted spirits to renew; And whom the curious Painter doth pursue Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, And tracks thee dancing down thy water-brakes; If wish were mine some type of thee to view, Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be,- Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs: It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, And hath bestowed on thee a better good; Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.
Was the aim frustrated by force or guile, When giants scooped from out the rocky ground -Tier under tier this semicirque profound? (Giants-the same who built in Erin's isle That Causeway with incomparable toil!)
O, had this vast theatric structure wound With finished sweep into a perfect round, No mightier work had gained the plausive smile Of all-beholding Phoebus! But, alas,
Vain earth!-false world! - Foundations must be laid In Heaven; for, 'mid the wreck of is and was, Things incomplete and purposes betrayed
* Waters (as Mr. Westall informs us in the letter-press prenxed to his admirable views) are invariably found to flow through these caverns
THE MONUMENT COMMONLY CALLED LONG MEG AND And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!
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 Sisterhood forlorn;
But now upon this thought I cannot brood; It is unstable as a dream of night; Nor will I praise a Cloud, however bright, Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. Grove, Isle, with every shape of sky-built dome, Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, Find in the heart of man no natural home: The immortal Mind craves objects that endure: These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam, Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.
The inviolable God, that tames the proud!
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1803.
EARTH has not any thing to show more fair:
COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAM- Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
BLETON HILLS, YORKSHIRE.
DARK and more dark the shades of evening fell; The wished-for point was reached, but late the hour;
*The Daughters of Long Meg, placed in a perfect circle eighty yards in diameter, are seventy-two in number, and their height is from three feet to so many yards above ground; a little way out of the circle stands Long Meg herself, a single Stone, eighteen feet high. When the Author first saw this Monument, as he came upon it by surprise, he might over-rate its importance as an object; but, though it will not bear a comparison with Stonehenge, he must say, he has not seen any other Relique of those dark ages, which can pretend to rival it in singularity and digni
A sight so touching in its majesty : This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still
YE sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth! In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers Expand enjoying through their vernal hours The air of liberty, the light of truth;
Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth, Yet, O ye Spires of Oxford! Domes and Towers! Gardens and Groves! your presence overpowers The soberness of Reason; till, in sooth, Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange, I slight my own beloved Cam, to range Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet; Pace the long avenue, or glide adown
The stream-like windings of that glorious street,
ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY, (GEORGE THE THIRD.)
WARD of the Law!-dread Shadow of a King! Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room; Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom, Darkness as thick as Life o'er Life could fling, Save haply for some feeble glimmering Of Faith and Hope; if thou, by nature's doom, Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb, Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling, When thankfulness were best? - Fresh-flowing tears Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh, Yield to such after-thought the sole reply
Which justly it can claim. The Nation hears In this deep knell silent for threescore years, An unexampled voice of awful memory!
SHAME on this faithless heart! that could allow Such transport-though but for a moment's space; Net while to aid the spirit of the place- The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough, But in plain daylight:- She, too, at my side, Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, Maintains inviolate its slightest vow! Sweet Fancy! other gifts must I receive; Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim;
Take from her brow the withering flowers of eve, And to that brow Life's morning wreath restore; Let her be comprehended in the frame
Of these illusions, or they please no more.
FAME tells of Groves-from England far away- *Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill And modulate, with subtle reach of skill Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying lay; Such bold report I venture to gainsay; For I have heard the choir of Richmond hill Chanting, with indefatigable bill, Strains that recalled to mind a distant day; When, haply under shade of that same wood, And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars Plied steadily between those willowy shores, The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons stood — Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood, Ye heavenly Birds! to your Progenitors.
RECOLLECTION OF THE PORTRAIT OF KING HENRY EIGHTH, TRINITY LODGE, CAMBRIDGE.
THE imperial Stature, the colossal stride, Are yet before me; yet do I behold The broad full visage, chest of amplest mould, The vestments 'broidered with barbaric pride: And lo! a poniard, at the Monarch's side, Hangs ready to be grasped in sympathy With the keen threatenings of that fulgent eye, Below the white-rimmed bonnet, far descried. Who trembles now at thy capricious mood? 'Mid those surrounding worthies, haughty King, We rather think, with grateful mind sedate, How Providence educeth, from the spring Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of good, Which neither force shall check, nor time abate!
A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE.† WHERE holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, Is marked by no distinguishable line; The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends, Garden, and that domain where Kindred, Friends, And Neighbours rest together, here confound Their several features, mingled like the sound Of many waters, or as evening blends With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower, Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; And while those lofty Poplars gently wave Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of Eternity,
To Saints accorded in their mortal hour.
* Wallachia is the country alluded to. † See Note, 23, p. 324.
COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IN NORTH WALES.
THROUGH shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls, Wandering with timid footstep oft betrayed, The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid Old Time, though He, gentlest among the Thralls Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid His lenient touches, soft as light that falls, From the wan Moon, upon the Towers and Walls, Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade. Relic of Kings! Wreck of forgotten wars, To winds abandoned and the prying stars, Time loves Thee! at his call the Seasons twine Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar; And, though past pomp no changes can restore, A soothing recompense, his gift, is Thine!
"gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name."
THOUGH narrow be that Old Man's cares, and near The poor Old Man is greater than he seems: For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams; An ample sovereignty of eye and ear. Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer; The region of his inner spirit teems With vital sounds and monitory gleams Of high astonishment and pleasing fear. He the seven birds hath seen, that never part, Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds And counted them: and oftentimes will start- For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS, Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart To chase for ever, on aërial grounds!
TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P. COMPOSED IN THE GROUNDS OF PLASS NEWIDD, NEAR LLANGOLLIN, 1824.
A STREAM to mingle with your favourite Dee, Along the VALE OF MEDITATION* flows;
So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see In Nature's face the expression of repose; Or haply there some pious Hermit chose To live and die, the peace of Heaven his aim; To whom the wild sequestered region owes, At this late day, its sanctifying name. GLYN CAFAILLGAROCH, in the Cambrian tongue, In ours the Vale of Friendship, let this spot Be named; where, faithful to a low-roofed Cot, On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long; Sisters in love-a love allowed to climb, Even on this earth, above the reach of Time!
STRANGE Visitation! at Jemima's lip
Thus hadst thou pecked, wild Redbreast! Love migi say,
A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip Its glistening dews; but hallowed is the clay Which the Muse warms; and I, whose head is gray, Am not unworthy of thy fellowship; Nor could I let one thought-one motion-slip That might thy sylvan confidence betray. For are we not all His without whose care Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to the ground? Who gives his Angels wings to speed through air, And rolls the planets through the blue profound; Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer! nor forbear To trust a Poet in still vision bound.
TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE, NORTH WALES.
How art thou named? In search of what strange land From what huge height, descending? Can such force Of waters issue from a British source, Or hath not Pindus fed Thee, where the band Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with hand Desperate as thine? Or come the incessant shocks From that young Stream, that smites the throbbing rocks Of Viamala? There I seem to stand, As in Life's Morn; permitted to behold, From the dread chasm, woods climbing above woods; In pomp that fades not; everlasting snows; And skies that ne'er relinquish their repose; Such power possess the Family of floods Over the minds of Poets, young or old! 'Glyn Myrvr.
WHEN Philoctetes in the Lemnian Isle Lay couched; upon that breathless Monument, On him, or on his fearful bow unbent, Some wild Bird oft might settle and beguile The rigid features of a transient smile, Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent, Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment From home affections, and heroic toil. Nor doubt that spiritual Creatures round us move, Griefs to allay that Reason cannot heal; And very Reptiles have sufficed to prove To fettered Wretchedness, that no Bastile Is deep enough to exclude the light of love, Though Man for Brother Man has ceased to feel.
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