I hear thee babbling to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers; And unto me thou bring'st 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 who 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, fairy place; That is fit home for thee!
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the moon, Which through that vale is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground-from rock, plant, tree, or tower, At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller as he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split Asunder,-and above his head he sees
The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives;-how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!-the wind is in the tree, But they are silent; still they roll along Immeasurably distant;-and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
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 loth to furnish weapons for the bands Of Umfraville or Percy as they marched
To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sca 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 the 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.
VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB, CUMBER. LAND.
THIS height a ministering angel might select
For from the summit of BLACK COMB (dread name Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range Of unobstructed prospect may be seen
That British ground commands:-low dusky tracts,
Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian Hills To the south-west a multitudinous show; And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these, The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth
To Teviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde ;- Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth, Gigantic mountains rough with crags; beneath, Right at the imperial station's western base, Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched Far into silent regions blue and pale; And visibly engirding Mona's Isle That, as we left the plain, before our sight Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly, (Above the convex of the watery globe) Into clear view the cultured fields that streak Its habitable shores; but now appears A dwindled object, and submits to lie At the spectator's feet.-Yon azure ridge, Is it a perishable cloud? Or there
Do we behold the frame of Erin's coast? Land sometimes by the roving shepherd swain (Like the bright confines of another world) Not doubtfully perceived. Look homeward now! In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene The spectacle, how pure !-Of Nature's works, In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea, A revelation infinite it seems;
Display august of man's inheritance, Of Britain's calm felicity and power.
IT seems a day, (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days which cannot die; When forth I sallied from our cottage-door, With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand, and turn'd my steps Towards the distant woods, a figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal dame; Motley accoutrement of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,-and, in truth, More ragged than need was. Among the woods, And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way Until, at length, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation, but the hazels rose,
Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene!-A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise retraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet,-or beneath the trees I sat Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blessed With sudden happiness beyond all hope.- Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever,-and I saw the sparkling foam, And with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shadytrees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage; and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past, Even then, when from the bower I turned away Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees and the intruding sky.- Then, dearest maiden! move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods.
SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes are stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light.
O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art A creature of ebullient 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 coo'd-and coo'd; And somewhat pensively he woo'd: 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
THREE years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown:
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.
"Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse: and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth, and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
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