SURPRISED by joy-impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport-Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind- But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?-That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea : Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.
METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud, "Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan.” Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!
WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, Festively she puts forth in trim array; Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? What boots the inquiry ?-Neither friend nor foe She cares for; let her travel where she may, She finds familiar names, a beaten way Ever before her, and a wind to blow. Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? And, almost as it was when ships were rare, (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, Of the old Sea some reverential fear, Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!
EVEN So for me a Vision sanctified The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had seen Thy countenance-the still rapture of thy mien— When thou, dear Sister! wert become Death's No trace of pain or languor could abide [Bride: That change-age on thy brow was smoothed- thy cold
Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold A loveliness to living youth denied. Oh! if within me hope should e'er decline, The lamp of faith, lost Friend! too faintly burn; Then may that heaven-revealing smile of thine, The bright assurance, visibly return: And let my spirit in that power divine Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased to mourn.
WITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; Some lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why. A goodly Vessel did I then espy Come like a giant from a haven broad; And lustily along the bay she strode, Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her, Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look; This Ship to all the rest did I prefer: When will she turn, and whither? She will brook No tarrying; where She comes the winds must stir:
On went She, and due north her journey took.
THE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT.
CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them Who may respect my name, that I to thee Owed many years of early liberty.
This care was thine when sickness did condemn Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem— That I, if frugal and severe, might stray Where'er I liked; and finally array My temples with the Muse's diadem. Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth; If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays Of higher mood, which now I meditate ;- It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth! To think how much of this will be thy praise.
A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found, Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play,
On 'coignes of vantage' hang their nests of clay; How quickly from that aery hold unbound, Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye; Convinced that there, there only, she can lay Secure foundations. As the year runs round, Apart she toils within the chosen ring; While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye Is gently closing with the flowers of spring; Where even the motion of an Angel's wing Would interrupt the intense tranquillity Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.
SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains-alas, too few !
WEAK is the will of Man, his judgment blind; Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays;
6 Heavy is woe ;—and joy, for human-kind, A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!' Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days Who wants the glorious faculty assigned To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. Imagination is that sacred power, Imagination lofty and refined : "Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood! An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks AtWakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,- When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and The crowd beneath her. Verily I think, [mocks Such place to me is sometimes like a dream Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link, Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, And leap at once from the delicious stream.
HIGH is our calling, Friend!-Creative Art (Whether the instrument of words she use, Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,) Demands the service of a mind and heart, Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part, Heroically fashioned to infuse
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, While the whole world seems adverse to desert. And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may, Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, And in the soul admit of no decay, Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness- Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
FROM the dark chambers of dejection freed, Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care, Rise, GILLIES, rise: the gales of youth shall bear Thy genius forward like a winged steed. Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air, Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare, If aught be in them of immortal seed, And reason govern that audacious flight Which heaven-ward they direct.-Then droop not thou,
Erroneously renewing a sad vow
In the low dell 'mid Roslin's faded grove : A cheerful life is what the Muses love,
A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm regret Yon slowly-sinking star-immortal Sire (So might he seem) of all the glittering quire! Blue ether still surrounds him-yet-and yet ; But now the horizon's rocky parapet
Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire, He burns-transmuted to a dusky fire- Then pays submissively the appointed debt To the flying moments, and is seen no more. Angels and gods! We struggle with our fate, While health, power, glory, from their height
Depressed; and then extinguished: and our state, In this, how different, lost Star, from thine, That no to-morrow shall our beams restore !
I HEARD (alas ! 't was only in a dream) Strains-which, as sage Antiquity believed, By waking ears have sometimes been received Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream; A most melodious requiem, a supreme And perfect harmony of notes, achieved By a fair Swan on drowsy billows heaved, O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam. For is she not the votary of Apollo ? And knows she not, singing as he inspires, That bliss awaits her which the ungenial Hollow* Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires? Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal quires! She soared-and I awoke, struggling in vain to follow.
FAIR Prime of life! were it enough to gild With ready sunbeams every straggling shower; And, if an unexpected cloud should lower, Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build For Fancy's errands, then, from fields half-tilled Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy flower, Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy power,
Unpitied by the wise, all censure stilled. Ah! show that worthier honours are thy due; Fair Prime of life! arouse the deeper heart; Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim; And, if there be a joy that slights the claim Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart.
If the whole weight of what we think and feel, Save only far as thought and feeling blend With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend! From thy remonstrance would be no appeal ; But to promote and fortify the weal
Of our own Being is her paramount end; A truth which they alone shall comprehend Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal. Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss: Here, with no thirst but what the stream can slake, And startled only by the rustling brake, Cool air I breathe; while the unincumbered Mind, By some weak aims at services assigned To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss.
See the Phædon of Plato, by which this Sonnet was suggested.
NOT Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange— Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell; But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, There also is the Muse not loth to range, Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange, Skyward ascending from a woody dell. Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, And sage content, and placid melancholy; She loves to gaze upon a crystal river— Diaphanous because it travels slowly; Soft is the music that would charm for ever; The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.
MARK the concentred hazels that enclose Yon old grey 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, grey 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.
And from our earthly memory fade away.' THOSE words were uttered as in pensive mood We turned, departing from that solemn sight: A contrast and reproach to gross delight, And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed! 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.
WHILE not a leaf seems faded; while the fields, With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air, Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware; And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields." For me, who under kindlier laws belong
To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky, Announce a season potent to renew,
Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
And nobler cares than listless summer knew.
COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMBLETON HILLS, YORKSHIRE.
DARK and more dark the shades of evening fell; The wished-for point was reached-but at an hour When little could be gained from that rich dower Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell. Yet did the glowing west with marvellous power Salute us; there stood Indian citadel, Temple of Greece, and minster with its tower Substantially expressed-a place for bell Or clock to toll from! Many a tempting isle, With groves that never were imagined, lay 'Mid seas how steadfast! objects all for the eye Of silent rapture; but we felt the while We should forget them; they are of the sky, And from our earthly memory fade away.
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can
Shines like another sun-on mortal sight Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head- Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial Powers Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.
COMPOSED DURING A STORM.
ONE who was suffering tumult in his soul Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, Went forth his course surrendering to the care Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl Insidiously, untimely thunders growl;
While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl As if the sun were not. He raised his eye Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear Large space (mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky, An azure disc-shield of Tranquillity; Invisible, unlooked-for, minister
Of providential goodness ever nigh!
LADY! the songs of Spring were in the grove While I was shaping beds for winter flowers; While I was planting green unfading bowers, And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove, And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy wove The dream, to time and nature's blended powers I gave this paradise for winter hours, A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove. Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines, Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom Or of high gladness you shall hither bring; And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines Be gracious as the music and the bloom And all the mighty ravishment of spring.
LONE Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as But hardier far, once more I see thee bend [they Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, way-lay The rising sun, and on the plains descend; Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend
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
Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board,
Shall soon behold this border thickly set
With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing
On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers;
Nor will I then thy modest grace forget,
Haunts him belated on the silent plains!
Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear,
At last, of hindrance and obscurity,
Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn;
Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
The moment it has left the virgin's eye,
Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn.
TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER.
With a selection from the Poems of Anne, Countess of Winchilsea; 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.
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 disparagèd. 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.
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