The poetical works of Henry Alford Fifth edition, containing many pieces now first collected |
 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
Lesson the Fifth.
|
| 6. |
 |
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of Henry Alford |  |
51
Lesson the Fifth.
------“Churchyards are our cities, unto which
The most repair, that are in goodness rich.
There is the best concourse and confluence,
There the holy suburbs, and from thence
Begins God's city, New Jerusalem,
Which doth extend her utmost gates to them:
At that gate then, triumphant soul, dost thou
Begin thy triumph.”
Donne.
The most repair, that are in goodness rich.
There is the best concourse and confluence,
There the holy suburbs, and from thence
Begins God's city, New Jerusalem,
Which doth extend her utmost gates to them:
At that gate then, triumphant soul, dost thou
Begin thy triumph.”
Donne.
By a pilgrimage to a village churchyard, occasion is taken to speak of death; its wonderful and deep things, and some few of its records, not triumphs.
From the great sun light flows upon the earth;
And every thing that lives this summer morn
Looks joyous; all along the hills that stretch
Far southward, slowly sail the dazzling heaps
Of whitest vapour; but the upper heaven
Is deep and clear;—above the yellow fields,
Some thick with grain, and some with pointed sheaves
Spread as with tents, and some but yesterday
Joyed over with loud shouts of harvest joy,
The dizzy air swims onward:—in thick groups
Over the slopes, and in the cottaged dells,
Gathered in undistinguishable mass
Of dark luxuriance, elm, and solemn oak,
And tender ash, sleep in the lavish light.
And every thing that lives this summer morn
Looks joyous; all along the hills that stretch
Far southward, slowly sail the dazzling heaps
Of whitest vapour; but the upper heaven
Is deep and clear;—above the yellow fields,
Some thick with grain, and some with pointed sheaves
Spread as with tents, and some but yesterday
Joyed over with loud shouts of harvest joy,
The dizzy air swims onward:—in thick groups
Over the slopes, and in the cottaged dells,
Gathered in undistinguishable mass
Of dark luxuriance, elm, and solemn oak,
And tender ash, sleep in the lavish light.
Come, let us forth, my best beloved, and roam
Along the bowered lanes that thread the vales;
For on the bank beneath the arching shade
Hung purple strawberries, and interchange
Of leafy arbour, and field-path, and hill,
And the far sea, and undying dells,
Will prompt sweet themes of never-failing talk.
Along the bowered lanes that thread the vales;
52
Hung purple strawberries, and interchange
Of leafy arbour, and field-path, and hill,
And the far sea, and undying dells,
Will prompt sweet themes of never-failing talk.
Oft have I seen, when on the mighty hills
That curve around our bay, in a close nook
Upon the westward slope, a village tower:
And I have stood and gazed upon its top
That looks above the trees, and thought my life
Would pass full pleasantly beneath its crest;
So quiet is it, so without pretence
Most lovely, that the throng of restless hopes
That ever leap unquiet in the soul
Might well be charmed, in such a presence, down
To sweet contentment; and the mellowed voice
Of the past hour hath come upon my ear
So sweetly, that I waited where I stood
To hear its sound again, rather than risk
Echoes less gentle on a near approach.
Bend we our journey thither; for the day
Is all our own, for ramble or for talk,
Or seat by the cool mountain stream, or hour
Of meditation by that modest church;
For, if I guess aright, there should be there
Ancient stone monument of honest men,
Or mouldering cross; and from that arboured nook
Yon hills will show most proudly. 'Tis not far:
Thou art a denizen of mountain air;
And the fresh breezes from the sea will fan
Our brows as we mount upward.
That curve around our bay, in a close nook
Upon the westward slope, a village tower:
And I have stood and gazed upon its top
That looks above the trees, and thought my life
Would pass full pleasantly beneath its crest;
So quiet is it, so without pretence
Most lovely, that the throng of restless hopes
That ever leap unquiet in the soul
Might well be charmed, in such a presence, down
To sweet contentment; and the mellowed voice
Of the past hour hath come upon my ear
So sweetly, that I waited where I stood
To hear its sound again, rather than risk
Echoes less gentle on a near approach.
Bend we our journey thither; for the day
Is all our own, for ramble or for talk,
Or seat by the cool mountain stream, or hour
Of meditation by that modest church;
For, if I guess aright, there should be there
Ancient stone monument of honest men,
Or mouldering cross; and from that arboured nook
Yon hills will show most proudly. 'Tis not far:
Thou art a denizen of mountain air;
And the fresh breezes from the sea will fan
Our brows as we mount upward.
53
Gentlest Girl,
Thou wert a bright creation of my thought
In earliest childhood, and my seeking soul
Wandered ill-satisfied, till one blest day
Thine image passed athwart it. Thou wert then
A young and happy child, sprightly as life;
Yet not so bright or beautiful as that
Mine inward vision. But a whispering voice
Said softly, This is she whom thou didst choose;
And thenceforth ever, through the morn of life,
Thou wert my playmate, thou my only joy,
Thou my chief sorrow when I saw thee not:
And when my daily consciousness of life
Was born and died, thy name the last went up,
Thy name the first, before our Heavenly Guide,
For favour and protection. All the flowers
Whose buds I cherished, and in summer heats
Fed with mock showers, and proudly showed their bloom,
For thee I reared, because all beautiful
And gentle things reminded me of thee:
Yea, and the morning, and the rise of sun,
And fall of evening, and the starry host,
If aught I loved, I loved because thy name
Sounded about me when I looked on them.
So that the love of thee brought up my soul
To universal love; and I have learned
That there are voices in the silent earth
That speak unto the heart; that there is power
Granted from Heaven unto the humblest things;
And that not he who strives to gather up
Into his self-arranged and stubborn thoughts
The parables of Nature, meets with joy;
But he who patiently submits his soul
To God's unwritten teaching; who goes forth
Amidst the majesty of earth and sky
Humble, as in a mighty Presence; waits
For influence to descend; and murmurs not
If in his present consciousness no trace
Of admiration or of lofty thought
Be shown; in patience tarrying the full time,
Till the Beauty that hath passed into his soul
Shine out upon his thoughts.
Thou wert a bright creation of my thought
In earliest childhood, and my seeking soul
Wandered ill-satisfied, till one blest day
Thine image passed athwart it. Thou wert then
A young and happy child, sprightly as life;
Yet not so bright or beautiful as that
Mine inward vision. But a whispering voice
Said softly, This is she whom thou didst choose;
And thenceforth ever, through the morn of life,
Thou wert my playmate, thou my only joy,
Thou my chief sorrow when I saw thee not:
And when my daily consciousness of life
Was born and died, thy name the last went up,
Thy name the first, before our Heavenly Guide,
For favour and protection. All the flowers
Whose buds I cherished, and in summer heats
Fed with mock showers, and proudly showed their bloom,
For thee I reared, because all beautiful
And gentle things reminded me of thee:
Yea, and the morning, and the rise of sun,
And fall of evening, and the starry host,
If aught I loved, I loved because thy name
Sounded about me when I looked on them.
So that the love of thee brought up my soul
To universal love; and I have learned
That there are voices in the silent earth
That speak unto the heart; that there is power
Granted from Heaven unto the humblest things;
And that not he who strives to gather up
Into his self-arranged and stubborn thoughts
54
But he who patiently submits his soul
To God's unwritten teaching; who goes forth
Amidst the majesty of earth and sky
Humble, as in a mighty Presence; waits
For influence to descend; and murmurs not
If in his present consciousness no trace
Of admiration or of lofty thought
Be shown; in patience tarrying the full time,
Till the Beauty that hath passed into his soul
Shine out upon his thoughts.
Therefore I love
All calm and silent things; all things that bear
Least show of motion or unnatural force:
Therefore I love to mark the slow decay
Of ancient building, or of churchyard cross,
Or mouldering abbey; and as formerly
I mourned when I remembered how of old,
Where crumbling arches ivy-prop their shafts,
The proud aisle stood, and the full choir of praise
Rolled solemn from an hundred tongues;—so now
I seem to see that mighty Providence
Is justified; that more hath been revealed
On which the human soul hath lived and grown
In the departure of old glories; more
In cherished memories that keep at home
Within our breasts, than in the maintenance
Of busy action, which hath wrought their charm.
All calm and silent things; all things that bear
Least show of motion or unnatural force:
Therefore I love to mark the slow decay
Of ancient building, or of churchyard cross,
Or mouldering abbey; and as formerly
I mourned when I remembered how of old,
Where crumbling arches ivy-prop their shafts,
The proud aisle stood, and the full choir of praise
Rolled solemn from an hundred tongues;—so now
I seem to see that mighty Providence
Is justified; that more hath been revealed
On which the human soul hath lived and grown
In the departure of old glories; more
In cherished memories that keep at home
Within our breasts, than in the maintenance
Of busy action, which hath wrought their charm.
But we are drawing near. This bowered lane,
With glimpses of the southern bank of hills,
And ever through the bents the blessed sea
Far to the west, might stir a heavier heart
Than thine and mine to leap with childish joy.
Thanks to the arching boughs for stir of breeze
Scarce sensible but in their rustling leaves,
Yet even thus most cooling; thanks for shade
Dark and continuous as we further climb,
Like magic corridor deep down in earth,
Thickening to perfect black; whence, in the glare
Of sickly noon upon the autumn fields,
I have scared night-birds, and have watched the bat
Pass and repass alternate. How the sense
Hails the dense gloom, and hastens to the cool:—
Now rest thee here, where scarce the sun may see
Our pleasant refuge; where we scarce can tell
There is an outward universe, so close
And hallowed is the shade; save where, through length
Of dark perspective, yonder shine a group
Of sunny tombstones, and one window-pane,
Lit with the noon, is glittering like a star
Down even unto us.
With glimpses of the southern bank of hills,
And ever through the bents the blessed sea
Far to the west, might stir a heavier heart
55
Thanks to the arching boughs for stir of breeze
Scarce sensible but in their rustling leaves,
Yet even thus most cooling; thanks for shade
Dark and continuous as we further climb,
Like magic corridor deep down in earth,
Thickening to perfect black; whence, in the glare
Of sickly noon upon the autumn fields,
I have scared night-birds, and have watched the bat
Pass and repass alternate. How the sense
Hails the dense gloom, and hastens to the cool:—
Now rest thee here, where scarce the sun may see
Our pleasant refuge; where we scarce can tell
There is an outward universe, so close
And hallowed is the shade; save where, through length
Of dark perspective, yonder shine a group
Of sunny tombstones, and one window-pane,
Lit with the noon, is glittering like a star
Down even unto us.
I heard one say,—
It was an aged dame, whose humble cot
Fronted our churchyard wall,—she loved to look
When from the windows of the hallowed pile
The sunbeam came reflected; she could think
Fondly, she said, that there were those within
Whose robes were shining, thronging the deep aisles,
And the promised glory of the latter house
Would crowd upon her vision.
It was an aged dame, whose humble cot
Fronted our churchyard wall,—she loved to look
When from the windows of the hallowed pile
The sunbeam came reflected; she could think
Fondly, she said, that there were those within
Whose robes were shining, thronging the deep aisles,
And the promised glory of the latter house
Would crowd upon her vision.
Think we thus:
And in yon vista of uncertain light
If we behold in fancy this our life
Chequered with dark and bright, and at its head
The emblem of our end,—let yonder gleam
Tell us of glory fetched by angel-hands
To spread upon us: be to us a spark
Lit at the altar of the Holy One,
Over the majesty of patient Death
Hovering, and waiting its appointed time
To kindle all to life.
And in yon vista of uncertain light
If we behold in fancy this our life
56
The emblem of our end,—let yonder gleam
Tell us of glory fetched by angel-hands
To spread upon us: be to us a spark
Lit at the altar of the Holy One,
Over the majesty of patient Death
Hovering, and waiting its appointed time
To kindle all to life.
But fabling thus
I've led thee from thy rest; and now at once
Opens upon our sight a goodly range
Of fretted buttresses, and the low porch
Invites us, with its antique seat of stone,
And cool religious shade. But as we climb
The churchyard steps, look back and see arise
As if in show, far o'er the bowering leaves,
The southern mountains: see o'er half the sky
Spread out, a mixture wild of hill and cloud.
I've led thee from thy rest; and now at once
Opens upon our sight a goodly range
Of fretted buttresses, and the low porch
Invites us, with its antique seat of stone,
And cool religious shade. But as we climb
The churchyard steps, look back and see arise
As if in show, far o'er the bowering leaves,
The southern mountains: see o'er half the sky
Spread out, a mixture wild of hill and cloud.
Stand by me here, belovèd, where thick crowd
On either side the path the headstones white:
How wonderful is Death! how passing thought
That nearer than yon glorious group of hills,
Ay, but a scanty foot or two beneath
This pleasant sunny mound, corruption teems;
And that one sight of that which is so near
Could turn the current of our joyful thoughts,
Which now not e'en disturbs them.
On either side the path the headstones white:
How wonderful is Death! how passing thought
That nearer than yon glorious group of hills,
Ay, but a scanty foot or two beneath
This pleasant sunny mound, corruption teems;
And that one sight of that which is so near
Could turn the current of our joyful thoughts,
Which now not e'en disturbs them.
See this stone,
Not like the rest, full of the dazzling noon,
But sober brown;—round which the ivy twines
Its searching tendril, and the yew-tree shade
Just covers the short grave. He mourned not ill
Who graved the simple plate without a name:
Not like the rest, full of the dazzling noon,
But sober brown;—round which the ivy twines
Its searching tendril, and the yew-tree shade
Just covers the short grave. He mourned not ill
57
“This grave's a cradle, where an infant lyes,
Rockt fast asleepe with Death's sad lullabyes.”
Rockt fast asleepe with Death's sad lullabyes.”
And yet methinks he did not care to wrong
The Genius of the place, when he wrote “sad:”
The chime of hourly clock,—the mountain-stream
That sends up ever to thy resting-place
Its gush of many voices—and the crow
Of matin cock, faint it may be but shrill,
From elm-embosomed farms among the dells,—
These, little slumberer, are thy lullabyes:
Who would not sleep a sweet and peaceful sleep
Thus husht and sung to with all pleasant sounds?
The Genius of the place, when he wrote “sad:”
The chime of hourly clock,—the mountain-stream
That sends up ever to thy resting-place
Its gush of many voices—and the crow
Of matin cock, faint it may be but shrill,
From elm-embosomed farms among the dells,—
These, little slumberer, are thy lullabyes:
Who would not sleep a sweet and peaceful sleep
Thus husht and sung to with all pleasant sounds?
And I can stand beside thy cradle, child,
And see yon belt of clouds in silent pomp
Midway the mountain sailing slowly on,
Whose beaconed top peers over on the vale;—
And upward narrowing in thick-timbered dells
Dark solemn coombs, with wooded buttresses
Propping his mighty weight—each with its stream,
Now leaping sportfully from crag to crag,
Now smoothed in clear black pools—then in the vales,
Through lanes of bowering foliage glittering on,
By cots and farms and quiet villages
And meadows brightest green. Who would not sleep
Rocked in so fair a cradle?
And see yon belt of clouds in silent pomp
Midway the mountain sailing slowly on,
Whose beaconed top peers over on the vale;—
And upward narrowing in thick-timbered dells
Dark solemn coombs, with wooded buttresses
Propping his mighty weight—each with its stream,
Now leaping sportfully from crag to crag,
Now smoothed in clear black pools—then in the vales,
Through lanes of bowering foliage glittering on,
By cots and farms and quiet villages
And meadows brightest green. Who would not sleep
Rocked in so fair a cradle?
But that word,
That one word—“Death,” comes over my sick brain,
Wrapping my vision in a sudden swoon;
Blotting the gorgeous pomp of sun and shade,
Mountain, and wooded cliff, and sparkling stream,
In a thick dazzling darkness.—Who art thou
Under this hillock on the mountain-side?
I love the like of thee with a deep love,
And therefore called thee dear—thee who art now
A handful of dull earth. No lullabyes
Hearest thou now, be they or sweet or sad:
Not revelry of streams, nor pomp of clouds,
Not the blue top of mountain, nor the woods
That clothe the steeps, have any joy for thee.
That one word—“Death,” comes over my sick brain,
Wrapping my vision in a sudden swoon;
Blotting the gorgeous pomp of sun and shade,
Mountain, and wooded cliff, and sparkling stream,
58
Under this hillock on the mountain-side?
I love the like of thee with a deep love,
And therefore called thee dear—thee who art now
A handful of dull earth. No lullabyes
Hearest thou now, be they or sweet or sad:
Not revelry of streams, nor pomp of clouds,
Not the blue top of mountain, nor the woods
That clothe the steeps, have any joy for thee.
Go to, then—tell me not of balmiest rest
In fairest cradle: for I never felt
One half so keenly as I feel it now,
That not the promise of the sweetest sleep
Can make me smile on Death. Our days and years
Pass onward, and the mighty of old time
Have put their glory by, and laid them down
Undrest of all the attributes they wore,
In the dark sepulchre: strange preference,
To fly from beds of down and softest strains
Of timbrel and of pipe, to the cold earth,
The silent chamber of unknown decay;
To yield the delicate flesh, so loved of late
By the informing spirit, to the maw
Of unrelenting waste; to go abroad
From the sweet prison of this moulded clay,
Into the pathless air, among the vast
And unnamed multitude of trembling stars;
Strange journey, to attempt the void unknown
From whence no news returns; and cast the freight
Of nicely treasured life at once away.
In fairest cradle: for I never felt
One half so keenly as I feel it now,
That not the promise of the sweetest sleep
Can make me smile on Death. Our days and years
Pass onward, and the mighty of old time
Have put their glory by, and laid them down
Undrest of all the attributes they wore,
In the dark sepulchre: strange preference,
To fly from beds of down and softest strains
Of timbrel and of pipe, to the cold earth,
The silent chamber of unknown decay;
To yield the delicate flesh, so loved of late
By the informing spirit, to the maw
Of unrelenting waste; to go abroad
From the sweet prison of this moulded clay,
Into the pathless air, among the vast
And unnamed multitude of trembling stars;
Strange journey, to attempt the void unknown
From whence no news returns; and cast the freight
Of nicely treasured life at once away.
Come, let us talk of Death,—and sweetly play
With his black locks, and listen for a while
To the lone music of the passing wind
Into the rank grass that waves above his bed.
With his black locks, and listen for a while
59
Into the rank grass that waves above his bed.
Is it not wonderful, the darkest day
Of all the days of life—the hardest wrench
That tries the coward sense, should mix itself
In all our gentlest and most joyous moods
A not unwelcome visitant: that Thought,
In her quaint wanderings, may not reach a spot
Of lavish beauty, but the spectre form
Meets her with greeting, and she gives herself
To his mysterious converse? I have roamed
Through many mazes of unregistered
And undetermined fancy; and I know
That when the air grows balmy to my feel,
And rarer light falls on me, and sweet sounds
Dance tremulously round my captive ears,
I soon shall stumble on some mounded grave;
And ever of the thoughts that stay with me,
(There are that flit away) the pleasantest
Is hand in hand with Death: and my bright hopes,
Like the strange colours of divided light,
Fade into pale uncertain violet
About some hallowed precinct. Can it be
That there are blessed memories joined with Death,
Of those who parted peacefully, and words
That cling about our hearts, uttered between
The day and darkness, in Life's twilight time?—
Oh, I could tell of one whose image comes
Before my inner sight—I knew her not—
That ancient dame I told thee of, whose eyes
Sought for Heaven's glories in the light of Earth,
She would speak of her, till her heart was full,
And I would weep for childish way wardness,
And long to be as she was. 'Twas her own
And only child; and never from her side
Long years, she said, had parted her; in joy
And beauty she grew up, ever her sire
Gladdening with smiles, and laying on his heart
Ointment of purest comfort. On a day
Heaven sent a worm into this summer flower.
She told me how they watched her fade away,
As we have watched the clouds of evening fade
After the sun hath set. Slow were her words,
And solemn, as she reached the parting tale:
“'Twas thus we sat and saw our only hope
Go down into the grave; for many months
It was a weary weary life to lead:
She weakened by degrees; and every day
Less light was in her eye, and on her cheek
Less colour; and the faint quick pulse that beat
In the blue veins that laced her marble wrist
Stole without notice on the wary touch.
Sometimes by day she asked if it were fair,
By night if it were starlight; that was all.
Ye should have seen her but a night and day
Before she died, how she sat up and spoke,
How of a sudden light most wonderful
Looked forward from her eyes, and on her cheek
Flushed colour, like a bloom from other lands,
The bloom that shows in flowers beyond the skies.
And then the words came forth most musical,
Low-toned and solemn, like the final notes
Of that grand anthem whose last strain is ‘Peace.’
She spoke of angels, seen in a half-light;
She spoke of friends, long-severed friends, that died
In early youth, some fair and tall, and some
Most innocent children, that with earnest gaze
Looked ever in upon her all the night,
And faded slow into the light of morn.
And so she passed away; and now her grave
Ten summers and ten winters hath been green.
We dug it in a still and shady place;
There is no headstone; for we deemed it vain
To carve her record in a mouldering slab,
Whose name is written in the Book of Life.”
Of all the days of life—the hardest wrench
That tries the coward sense, should mix itself
In all our gentlest and most joyous moods
A not unwelcome visitant: that Thought,
In her quaint wanderings, may not reach a spot
Of lavish beauty, but the spectre form
Meets her with greeting, and she gives herself
To his mysterious converse? I have roamed
Through many mazes of unregistered
And undetermined fancy; and I know
That when the air grows balmy to my feel,
And rarer light falls on me, and sweet sounds
Dance tremulously round my captive ears,
I soon shall stumble on some mounded grave;
And ever of the thoughts that stay with me,
(There are that flit away) the pleasantest
Is hand in hand with Death: and my bright hopes,
Like the strange colours of divided light,
Fade into pale uncertain violet
About some hallowed precinct. Can it be
That there are blessed memories joined with Death,
Of those who parted peacefully, and words
That cling about our hearts, uttered between
The day and darkness, in Life's twilight time?—
Oh, I could tell of one whose image comes
Before my inner sight—I knew her not—
That ancient dame I told thee of, whose eyes
Sought for Heaven's glories in the light of Earth,
She would speak of her, till her heart was full,
60
And long to be as she was. 'Twas her own
And only child; and never from her side
Long years, she said, had parted her; in joy
And beauty she grew up, ever her sire
Gladdening with smiles, and laying on his heart
Ointment of purest comfort. On a day
Heaven sent a worm into this summer flower.
She told me how they watched her fade away,
As we have watched the clouds of evening fade
After the sun hath set. Slow were her words,
And solemn, as she reached the parting tale:
“'Twas thus we sat and saw our only hope
Go down into the grave; for many months
It was a weary weary life to lead:
She weakened by degrees; and every day
Less light was in her eye, and on her cheek
Less colour; and the faint quick pulse that beat
In the blue veins that laced her marble wrist
Stole without notice on the wary touch.
Sometimes by day she asked if it were fair,
By night if it were starlight; that was all.
Ye should have seen her but a night and day
Before she died, how she sat up and spoke,
How of a sudden light most wonderful
Looked forward from her eyes, and on her cheek
Flushed colour, like a bloom from other lands,
The bloom that shows in flowers beyond the skies.
And then the words came forth most musical,
Low-toned and solemn, like the final notes
Of that grand anthem whose last strain is ‘Peace.’
61
She spoke of friends, long-severed friends, that died
In early youth, some fair and tall, and some
Most innocent children, that with earnest gaze
Looked ever in upon her all the night,
And faded slow into the light of morn.
And so she passed away; and now her grave
Ten summers and ten winters hath been green.
We dug it in a still and shady place;
There is no headstone; for we deemed it vain
To carve her record in a mouldering slab,
Whose name is written in the Book of Life.”
I am not one whose pleasure is to weave
Tales highly wrought of sudden accident,
Unlooked-for recognition, or desire
Strangely fulfilled; but yet I have a tale
Which will bring tears of pity to thine eyes,
And summon all thy sadness to attend
A willing mourner in a funeral train.
Within our hilly bay, hard by the beach,
Dwelt one whose nightly service was to watch
All deeds of outlaws on the Channel trade.
Him on the cliff-side pathways we might see
Early and late, and meet in the dusk eve
Up the steep tracks, threading the oaken copse
That delves into the sea. One summer morn,
When the bright sun looked down upon the earth
Without a cloud, and all along the shore
Twinkled the restless sparkles, he rode by,
And passing offered salutation gay,
As one who in the beauty and the warmth
Of that most blessed morning bore a part.
That day we wandered, my dear friend and I,
Far off along the hills, up perilous paths
Gathering the rock-plants, or with hollowed hand
Scooping the streams that trickled down the dells:
Till from a peak we saw the fiery sun
Sink down into the sea, and twilight fell;
And ere we reached our cot, the distant lights
Shone from the Cambrian coast, and from the isle
Unseen in the mid-channel. From his cot
There looked into the bosom of the bay
A steady light; and when we reached our home
We slept and thought not of him. In the morn
Rumour was busy; and her minister,
Our bustling hostess, told how all the night
His anxious bride (for one short month ago
They gave their troths) had watched for his return;
How there came by a stranger with his horse,
Who answered not, when breathless she inquired
Where he was left, and why. Many with search
Hopeless and wearisome toiled all the day;
And when the evening came, upon the beach
Below that awful steep where winds the road
Cut in the mountain-side above the sea,
They found a cold and melancholy corpse
With out-stretched arms and strangely-gathered limbs,
Like one who died in sudden and sharp pain;
And deeply gashed on either side the brow
The gaping death-marks of a cruel fall.
Thou wouldst have wept to see her as she past
To snatch her scanty comfort of a look,
And then to see him, warm but now and gay,
And full of soft endearments, hidden deep
In the cold ground:—it was a blank still face,
But bearing trace of tears, and ashy pale,
Stiffened to stone by strong and sudden grief.
Her little stock of hopes, just anchored safe
In a calm port, were sent adrift again
Upon the howling wintry sea of life:
And she is fain to gather up afresh
The cast-off weeds of past prosperity,
And deck her as she may. But a sad rent
Hath sorrow made in her: nor can she now
Knit up her ravelled hopes, nor summon heart
To enter on Life's journey all alone,
A new and weary way. But time will come
When memory of her woe shall be to her
A sweet companion; Sorrow shall have past
Into her being, and have chastened well
The lawless risings of unquiet thought.
Tales highly wrought of sudden accident,
Unlooked-for recognition, or desire
Strangely fulfilled; but yet I have a tale
Which will bring tears of pity to thine eyes,
And summon all thy sadness to attend
A willing mourner in a funeral train.
Within our hilly bay, hard by the beach,
Dwelt one whose nightly service was to watch
All deeds of outlaws on the Channel trade.
Him on the cliff-side pathways we might see
Early and late, and meet in the dusk eve
Up the steep tracks, threading the oaken copse
That delves into the sea. One summer morn,
When the bright sun looked down upon the earth
Without a cloud, and all along the shore
Twinkled the restless sparkles, he rode by,
And passing offered salutation gay,
62
Of that most blessed morning bore a part.
That day we wandered, my dear friend and I,
Far off along the hills, up perilous paths
Gathering the rock-plants, or with hollowed hand
Scooping the streams that trickled down the dells:
Till from a peak we saw the fiery sun
Sink down into the sea, and twilight fell;
And ere we reached our cot, the distant lights
Shone from the Cambrian coast, and from the isle
Unseen in the mid-channel. From his cot
There looked into the bosom of the bay
A steady light; and when we reached our home
We slept and thought not of him. In the morn
Rumour was busy; and her minister,
Our bustling hostess, told how all the night
His anxious bride (for one short month ago
They gave their troths) had watched for his return;
How there came by a stranger with his horse,
Who answered not, when breathless she inquired
Where he was left, and why. Many with search
Hopeless and wearisome toiled all the day;
And when the evening came, upon the beach
Below that awful steep where winds the road
Cut in the mountain-side above the sea,
They found a cold and melancholy corpse
With out-stretched arms and strangely-gathered limbs,
Like one who died in sudden and sharp pain;
And deeply gashed on either side the brow
The gaping death-marks of a cruel fall.
Thou wouldst have wept to see her as she past
To snatch her scanty comfort of a look,
63
And full of soft endearments, hidden deep
In the cold ground:—it was a blank still face,
But bearing trace of tears, and ashy pale,
Stiffened to stone by strong and sudden grief.
Her little stock of hopes, just anchored safe
In a calm port, were sent adrift again
Upon the howling wintry sea of life:
And she is fain to gather up afresh
The cast-off weeds of past prosperity,
And deck her as she may. But a sad rent
Hath sorrow made in her: nor can she now
Knit up her ravelled hopes, nor summon heart
To enter on Life's journey all alone,
A new and weary way. But time will come
When memory of her woe shall be to her
A sweet companion; Sorrow shall have past
Into her being, and have chastened well
The lawless risings of unquiet thought.
Nearer this tale hath carried me to think
Of mine own grief: should I not weary thee
With record of affliction, I would dwell
On playful hopes too pitilessly crushed,
And voices that made glad my soul erewhile,
Quenched in cold earth—coming like saddened bells
Far off and faint beneath the muffling clay.
But one there was that left me, whose fresh loss
Time, nor the changeful world, hath never healed.
I am not skilled with robe of artful verse
To cheat the destitution of deep woe:
Sorrow and I in the sunny days of youth
Have been but rare companions; I have loved
Rather in Beauty's temple ministrant
To treasure up sweet music, and enshrine
Thee, the bright Saint of my best holyday,
In some deep-fretted niche of Poesy;
But those short tidings reached me—and my heart
Was sorely stricken, and the bitter springs
Were broken up within me.
Of mine own grief: should I not weary thee
With record of affliction, I would dwell
On playful hopes too pitilessly crushed,
And voices that made glad my soul erewhile,
Quenched in cold earth—coming like saddened bells
Far off and faint beneath the muffling clay.
But one there was that left me, whose fresh loss
Time, nor the changeful world, hath never healed.
64
To cheat the destitution of deep woe:
Sorrow and I in the sunny days of youth
Have been but rare companions; I have loved
Rather in Beauty's temple ministrant
To treasure up sweet music, and enshrine
Thee, the bright Saint of my best holyday,
In some deep-fretted niche of Poesy;
But those short tidings reached me—and my heart
Was sorely stricken, and the bitter springs
Were broken up within me.
Gentle soul,
That ever moved among us in a veil
Of heavenly lustre; in whose presence, thoughts
Of common import shone with light divine;
Whence we drew sweetness, as from out a well
Of honey, pure and deep; thine earthly form
Was not the investiture of daily men;
But thou didst wear a glory in thy look,
From inward converse with the Spirit of Love:
And thou hadst won in the first strife of youth
Trophies that gladdened hope, and pointed on
To days when we should stand and minister
At the full triumphs of thy gathered strength.
That ever moved among us in a veil
Of heavenly lustre; in whose presence, thoughts
Of common import shone with light divine;
Whence we drew sweetness, as from out a well
Of honey, pure and deep; thine earthly form
Was not the investiture of daily men;
But thou didst wear a glory in thy look,
From inward converse with the Spirit of Love:
And thou hadst won in the first strife of youth
Trophies that gladdened hope, and pointed on
To days when we should stand and minister
At the full triumphs of thy gathered strength.
The twain were rent asunder in an hour
Of which we knew not; and the face we loved
With common earth is mingled; but the Soul
Drinks deep of Beauty, and in vision clear
Searches the glorious features, from whose light
Flows every joy that shines on us below.
Of which we knew not; and the face we loved
With common earth is mingled; but the Soul
Drinks deep of Beauty, and in vision clear
Searches the glorious features, from whose light
Flows every joy that shines on us below.
It was a question wonderful and deep,
“Who knoweth if to live be but to die,
And Death be Life?”
In an unblessèd time
It passed from one whose lips were passages
For sweetest music, whose unwearied soul
Dwelt among human griefs; who loved to find
The wrecks of Joy and faded flowers of Hope.
Since have the wide Earth and the arch of Heaven
Rung with blest answer; and all Poesy,
And dreams of holy men, and crystal tears
Of the grave-circling mourners, have been blent
With light of Promise that can never fade.
“Who knoweth if to live be but to die,
65
It passed from one whose lips were passages
For sweetest music, whose unwearied soul
Dwelt among human griefs; who loved to find
The wrecks of Joy and faded flowers of Hope.
Since have the wide Earth and the arch of Heaven
Rung with blest answer; and all Poesy,
And dreams of holy men, and crystal tears
Of the grave-circling mourners, have been blent
With light of Promise that can never fade.
'Twas the faint dawn; and from the waking Earth
Soft prayers were rising to the gate of Heaven;
The busy lark had been before, and sung
Floating in middle air, whether she love
To swell the incense of the offering Earth,
Or to be first of all created things
To give glad welcome to the peering Morn.
In old Verona sweetly slept the while
That Bard of blessed soul, to whom pure dreams
Ministered ever, and sweet strains of song
Lulled him with holy charm the night-hours through.
Stole not so softly now the slow-paced light
Into that chamber dim, as moved before
His sight the vision of his Laura's form;
All still and heavenly, and her lustrous eyes
Quietly bent upon him, angel-mild,
Not in the restlessness of earthly love,—
Most like (but more serene) the look of one
Who hath drunk deep of woe, and rests in faith.
They had been severed long: meeting like this
Might seem to warrant question. She replied,
(Thou canst not tell, love, how she said those words,
But thou hast heard those sweetest notes of all
Prest from the rapturous breast of nightingale,
That have their airy dwelling here and there
Circling thee where thou standest in the gloom,)
“I live, belovèd; but 'tis thou art dead;
Time is, when thou shalt live.”
Soft prayers were rising to the gate of Heaven;
The busy lark had been before, and sung
Floating in middle air, whether she love
To swell the incense of the offering Earth,
Or to be first of all created things
To give glad welcome to the peering Morn.
In old Verona sweetly slept the while
That Bard of blessed soul, to whom pure dreams
Ministered ever, and sweet strains of song
Lulled him with holy charm the night-hours through.
Stole not so softly now the slow-paced light
Into that chamber dim, as moved before
His sight the vision of his Laura's form;
All still and heavenly, and her lustrous eyes
Quietly bent upon him, angel-mild,
Not in the restlessness of earthly love,—
Most like (but more serene) the look of one
Who hath drunk deep of woe, and rests in faith.
66
Might seem to warrant question. She replied,
(Thou canst not tell, love, how she said those words,
But thou hast heard those sweetest notes of all
Prest from the rapturous breast of nightingale,
That have their airy dwelling here and there
Circling thee where thou standest in the gloom,)
“I live, belovèd; but 'tis thou art dead;
Time is, when thou shalt live.”
See how the light
Dwells on yon mountain-side, marking each dell
And every buttress of the velvet turf,
So that we see the ribbed shadows stretch
Lengthened, as by the westering sun, along
This northward slope; and yet the day is high.
But turn we homeward; and that favoured hill
That overlooks our bay, reach, when the sun
Dips in the ocean brim. We may not lose,
After a day all consecrate as this,
The holy influence which on human souls
Flows from the sunset. Life, and earthly things,
And calls importunate for daily toil,
Grant not such respite often as this day
We two have freely shared. Thankfully rise,
Dear Sister of my heart, from thy low seat,
Thankfully rise, and softly move away;
Move like a dream; for all around us hangs
The balanced calm of hills and arching sky,
And the solemn sleep of Death; one startling word
Breaks the fair spell for ever.
Dwells on yon mountain-side, marking each dell
And every buttress of the velvet turf,
So that we see the ribbed shadows stretch
Lengthened, as by the westering sun, along
This northward slope; and yet the day is high.
But turn we homeward; and that favoured hill
That overlooks our bay, reach, when the sun
Dips in the ocean brim. We may not lose,
After a day all consecrate as this,
The holy influence which on human souls
Flows from the sunset. Life, and earthly things,
And calls importunate for daily toil,
Grant not such respite often as this day
We two have freely shared. Thankfully rise,
Dear Sister of my heart, from thy low seat,
Thankfully rise, and softly move away;
Move like a dream; for all around us hangs
The balanced calm of hills and arching sky,
And the solemn sleep of Death; one startling word
Breaks the fair spell for ever.
Pass we hence;
And as that reverend Priest of Poesy,
Whose presence shines upon these twilight times,
Hath, in the churchyard in the mountains, done
One sacrifice whose scent shall fill the world;
So shall this hour be fresh in memory,
A time to speak of in our thankful prayers,
If hallowed light of universal love
Each rising thought have steeped, and there have passed
Into our spoken words, aught that may teach
To the world's restless heart the bliss of calm,
The heavenly joy of well-assurèd Hope,
And the strong searchings of the soul for God.
And as that reverend Priest of Poesy,
67
Hath, in the churchyard in the mountains, done
One sacrifice whose scent shall fill the world;
So shall this hour be fresh in memory,
A time to speak of in our thankful prayers,
If hallowed light of universal love
Each rising thought have steeped, and there have passed
Into our spoken words, aught that may teach
To the world's restless heart the bliss of calm,
The heavenly joy of well-assurèd Hope,
And the strong searchings of the soul for God.
| The poetical works of Henry Alford | |