The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
 |
| I. |
 |
|
|
A WINTER SKETCH FROM OLDERMANN.
|
| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
241
A WINTER SKETCH FROM OLDERMANN.
Fair are the Springtide features of the hills—
Glorious their Summer aspect of repose—
Calm in Autumnal hues their shadowy forms—
But not less beautiful when Winter fills—
Their wild untrodden solitudes; and throws
Around them all the grandeur of its storms!
Such are my musings on the craggy crown
Of Oldermann, the sterile, stern, and cold,
As days sink sloping to the evening hour;
Round my proud centre mountain regions frown,
Abrupt and lone, wherein my eyes behold
Gigantic proofs of God's unmeasured power,
Which wake mute worship in the eloquent heart,
And lift the aspiring soul from common things apart.
Glorious their Summer aspect of repose—
Calm in Autumnal hues their shadowy forms—
But not less beautiful when Winter fills—
Their wild untrodden solitudes; and throws
Around them all the grandeur of its storms!
Such are my musings on the craggy crown
Of Oldermann, the sterile, stern, and cold,
As days sink sloping to the evening hour;
Round my proud centre mountain regions frown,
Abrupt and lone, wherein my eyes behold
Gigantic proofs of God's unmeasured power,
Which wake mute worship in the eloquent heart,
And lift the aspiring soul from common things apart.
What a religious silence is outspread
O'er all the rude and solitary scene—
So cold, so pure, so solemn, so serene—
From the deep valley to the mountain's head!
Ice-roofed, the stream runs mutely o'er its bed;
The torrent lingers in its mid-way leap;
The firs, in all their branches, are asleep;
The bird is absent, and the bee is fled;
From moss-fringed fountains not a tear is shed;
Of human life no shape or voice is near;
And the sole sound that greets my passive ear
Is the crisp snow-floor yielding to my tread:
Dumb seems the earth, and rifled of her bloom,
Like breathless beauty shrouded for the tomb.
O'er all the rude and solitary scene—
So cold, so pure, so solemn, so serene—
From the deep valley to the mountain's head!
Ice-roofed, the stream runs mutely o'er its bed;
The torrent lingers in its mid-way leap;
The firs, in all their branches, are asleep;
The bird is absent, and the bee is fled;
From moss-fringed fountains not a tear is shed;
242
And the sole sound that greets my passive ear
Is the crisp snow-floor yielding to my tread:
Dumb seems the earth, and rifled of her bloom,
Like breathless beauty shrouded for the tomb.
Dear Heaven! it is a blessed thing to feel
My heart unwithered by the world,—my mind
Wakeful as ever, and as glad to steal
Into the realms of wonder, unconfined,
As round me drops the drapery of night,
With the delicious dimness of a dream,
While the one herald-star, of restless beam,
Climbs, with the quiet moon, the ethereal height.
Winter is Nature's Sabbath-time; and now,
With all her energies within her breast,
She folds her matron garments round her brow,
Sits down in peace, and takes her holy rest:
For wave, wood, mountain, star, moon, cloud and sky,
In deep-adoring stillness, prove that God is nigh!
My heart unwithered by the world,—my mind
Wakeful as ever, and as glad to steal
Into the realms of wonder, unconfined,
As round me drops the drapery of night,
With the delicious dimness of a dream,
While the one herald-star, of restless beam,
Climbs, with the quiet moon, the ethereal height.
Winter is Nature's Sabbath-time; and now,
With all her energies within her breast,
She folds her matron garments round her brow,
Sits down in peace, and takes her holy rest:
For wave, wood, mountain, star, moon, cloud and sky,
In deep-adoring stillness, prove that God is nigh!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |