(SENT WITH THESE POEMS, IN MS., TO
DEAR Fellow-travellers! think not that the muse, To you presenting these memorial lays, Can hope the general eye thereon would gaze, As on a mirror that gives back the hues Of living Nature; no, though free to choose The greenest bowers, the most inviting ways, The fairest landscapes and the brightest days, Her skill she tried with less ambitious views. For you she wrought ye only can supply The life, the truth, the beauty she confides In that enjoyment which with you abides, Trusts to your love and vivid memory; Thus far contented, that for you her verse Shall lack not power the " 'meeting soul to pierce!"
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON
THE CONTINENT, 1820
FISH-WOMEN. ON LANDING AT CALAIS
'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen; But if the Nereid sisters and their queen, Above whose head the tide so long hath rolled, The dames resemble whom we here behold, How fearful were it down through opening waves To sink, and meet them in their fretted caves, Withered, grotesque, immeasurably old, And shrill and fierce in accent! Fear it not: For they earth's fairest daughters do excel; Pure undecaying beauty is their lot;
Their voices into liquid music swell, Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot,
The undisturbed abodes where sea-nymphs dwell!
BRUGES I saw attired with golden light (Streamed from the west) as with a robe of power: The splendour fled; and now the sunless hour, That, slowly making way for peaceful night,
Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight Offers the beauty, the magnificence, And all the graces left her for defence Against the injuries of time, the spite Of fortune, and the desolating storms Of future war. Advance not, spare to hide, O gentle power of darkness! these mild hues ; Obscure not yet these silent avenues
Of stateliest architecture, where the forms Of nun-like females, with soft motion, glide!
THE spirit of Antiquity, enshrined
In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, In picture, speaking with heroic tongue, And with devout solemnities entwined,
Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind: Hence forms that glide with swan-like ease along, Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng, To an harmonious decency confined: As if the streets were consecrated ground, The city one vast temple, dedicate To mutual respect in thought and deed; To leisure, to forbearances sedate; To social cares from jarring passions freed; A deeper peace than that in deserts found!
IN Brugès town is many a street Whence busy life hath fled; Where, without hurry, noiseless feet The grass-grown pavement tread.
There heard we, halting in the shade Flung from a convent-tower,
A harp that tuneful prelude made To a voice like bird in bower.
The measure, simple truth to tell, Was fit for some gay throng; Though from the same grim turret fell The shadow and the song.
When silent were both voice and chords, The strain seemed doubly dear, Yet sad as sweet, for English words Had dropped upon the ear.
It was a breezy hour of eve; And pinnacle and spire
Quivered and seemed almost to heave, Clothed with innocuous fire;
But, where we stood, the setting sun Showed little of his state;
And, if the glory reached the nun, 'Twas through an iron grate.
Not always is the heart unwise, Nor pity idly born,
When even a passing stranger sighs For them who do not mourn. Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, Captive, whoe'er thou be!
Oh! what is beauty, what is love, And opening life to thee?
Such feeling pressed upon my soul, A feeling sanctified
By one soft trickling tear that stole From the maiden at my side; Less tribute could she pay than this, Borne gaily o'er the sea,
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss Of English liberty?
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