 | The sentence of Kaires and other poems |  |
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XLIV. THE TWO RIVERS.
Full many a minstrel-harp can tell
The rugged glens of Wales,
I do not love them half so well
As England's laughing vales:
Through lonely moor and copsewood brake
Full many a stream is flowing,
Full many a tarn, and sunbright lake
In the far North is glowing;
Yet none of all, whose sparkling fountains
Ring merrily amid those mountains
To me is half so dear,
As those whose newly-mingled stream,
Like some bright unremembered dream,
Is lost in Windermere.
The rugged glens of Wales,
I do not love them half so well
As England's laughing vales:
Through lonely moor and copsewood brake
Full many a stream is flowing,
Full many a tarn, and sunbright lake
In the far North is glowing;
Yet none of all, whose sparkling fountains
Ring merrily amid those mountains
To me is half so dear,
As those whose newly-mingled stream,
Like some bright unremembered dream,
Is lost in Windermere.
Dear Rothay, wilt thou not disdain
The homage of a simple strain
On all-discordant things?
O worthy thou of higher praise,
Forgive my feeble earthbound lays
And false imaginings.
A bolder hand, with touch of fire,
Hath tuned for thee a truer lyre,
A nobler heart hath loved thee;
O for a breath of music brought
From him, to aid my wavering thought,
Whose burning words approved thee!
I've watched thee where thy waters sped
Glancing through their narrow bed,
What time the varying shadows fell
From Loughrigg on the breezy dell,
And gleams besprent of gold and green,
Scarce piercing though the leafy screen,
Played o'er thy dark unsunny places,
Like smiles in sleep on infant faces,
Striving, 'twould seem, with gentle wile
That sullen darkness to beguile.
I've watched thee when the moon's pale beam
Shone coldly on thy silent stream,
Where its chill-flowing eddies sweep
Beneath the bridgeway dark and deep;
A voice they seemed to have for me,
And I longed to thread the mystery.
Sweet minstrel of the echoing glen,
Though ever dear, yet dearest then,
When night her sable mantle flings
O'er thy unaudienced murmurings.
For gentle thoughts may best arise
When the moon is in the sky,
To disentrance the sympathies
Of sainted memory.
'Twas then thy accents spake most clear,
'Twas then his spirit seemed most near
Whose vows are in thy keeping;
And mingled thoughts of joy and pain
Came o'er my soul like summer rain
And filled my eyes with weeping.
O be those accents with me ever,
An echo still unbroken,
Still dwell with me, thou far-off river,
Still speak as thou hast spoken.
The homage of a simple strain
On all-discordant things?
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Forgive my feeble earthbound lays
And false imaginings.
A bolder hand, with touch of fire,
Hath tuned for thee a truer lyre,
A nobler heart hath loved thee;
O for a breath of music brought
From him, to aid my wavering thought,
Whose burning words approved thee!
I've watched thee where thy waters sped
Glancing through their narrow bed,
What time the varying shadows fell
From Loughrigg on the breezy dell,
And gleams besprent of gold and green,
Scarce piercing though the leafy screen,
Played o'er thy dark unsunny places,
Like smiles in sleep on infant faces,
Striving, 'twould seem, with gentle wile
That sullen darkness to beguile.
I've watched thee when the moon's pale beam
Shone coldly on thy silent stream,
Where its chill-flowing eddies sweep
Beneath the bridgeway dark and deep;
A voice they seemed to have for me,
And I longed to thread the mystery.
Sweet minstrel of the echoing glen,
Though ever dear, yet dearest then,
112
O'er thy unaudienced murmurings.
For gentle thoughts may best arise
When the moon is in the sky,
To disentrance the sympathies
Of sainted memory.
'Twas then thy accents spake most clear,
'Twas then his spirit seemed most near
Whose vows are in thy keeping;
And mingled thoughts of joy and pain
Came o'er my soul like summer rain
And filled my eyes with weeping.
O be those accents with me ever,
An echo still unbroken,
Still dwell with me, thou far-off river,
Still speak as thou hast spoken.
Nor be that elder stream unsung
Whose waters their wild descant rung,
With foam-bells glancing bright,
Where on the peat-stained rock I stood
And gazed upon the heaving flood
Poured down its dizzy height.
Yet deem not Brathay's foaming course
Can never lull its torrent force;
It hath mild graces too;
When fiercest passions rock the mind,
They leave a hidden store behind
Of musings good and true.
Smoothest its waters seem to glide
Where flickers mirrored on the tide
That little chapel cross;
Where gurgling by each polished stone
It utters forth a chaunt-like moan
For one who loved to sit thereon ,
Wreathing the dewy moss;
Yea, thou didst fling thine artless strain
O'er it, and ne'er shalt fling again,
Therefore its quiet pools beneath
Are types to me of good men's death.
On the shore of the far southern seas
An outcast thou art lying,
Where the whispers of the island breeze
Are ever, ever sighing;
They thought the altar-stone should be
Above where thou art laid,
That still the blessed Liturgy
Might over thee be said;
But all weak are human counsels
And human forethought vain,
If the Almighty Ruler wills
Its purpose to restrain.
Yet though no stately choir enclose
The holy place where thy limbs repose,
Nor at thy tomb in minster tall
Is sung the potent ritual,
Thou canst not lack the Church's prayer,
Thou still art 'neath her sheltering care,
Who for her children solace hath
Even in the dreary grave;
Though, for the anthem's wafted breath,
Loud ocean-billows rave;
And One, whose word can ne'er deceive
Hath sworn His own He will not leave,
Omnipotent to save.
Whose waters their wild descant rung,
With foam-bells glancing bright,
Where on the peat-stained rock I stood
And gazed upon the heaving flood
Poured down its dizzy height.
Yet deem not Brathay's foaming course
Can never lull its torrent force;
It hath mild graces too;
113
They leave a hidden store behind
Of musings good and true.
Smoothest its waters seem to glide
Where flickers mirrored on the tide
That little chapel cross;
Where gurgling by each polished stone
It utters forth a chaunt-like moan
For one who loved to sit thereon ,
Wreathing the dewy moss;
Yea, thou didst fling thine artless strain
O'er it, and ne'er shalt fling again,
Therefore its quiet pools beneath
Are types to me of good men's death.
On the shore of the far southern seas
An outcast thou art lying,
Where the whispers of the island breeze
Are ever, ever sighing;
They thought the altar-stone should be
Above where thou art laid,
That still the blessed Liturgy
Might over thee be said;
But all weak are human counsels
And human forethought vain,
114
Its purpose to restrain.
Yet though no stately choir enclose
The holy place where thy limbs repose,
Nor at thy tomb in minster tall
Is sung the potent ritual,
Thou canst not lack the Church's prayer,
Thou still art 'neath her sheltering care,
Who for her children solace hath
Even in the dreary grave;
Though, for the anthem's wafted breath,
Loud ocean-billows rave;
And One, whose word can ne'er deceive
Hath sworn His own He will not leave,
Omnipotent to save.
O surely I should do you wrong,
Dear brother streams, in this my song,
If hymning each, I poured no greeting
To celebrate your tuneful meeting,—
Sweet emblem of two kindred hearts
That into one are moulded,
Like harmony's mysterious parts
All mutually enfolded.
Even with such loving, virgin grace
Your waters meet in soft embrace
With Loughrigg o'er them bending;
And, if their onward course be brief,
Who would recall his earthly grief,
When life's long march is ending?
Though tasteless prove each fleeting joy,
True love alone shall never cloy;
And if our friendships here be pure
What though by death their bands are riven?
'Tis but a moment;—they endure
Through all eternity in heaven.
Dear brother streams, in this my song,
If hymning each, I poured no greeting
To celebrate your tuneful meeting,—
Sweet emblem of two kindred hearts
That into one are moulded,
Like harmony's mysterious parts
All mutually enfolded.
Even with such loving, virgin grace
Your waters meet in soft embrace
115
And, if their onward course be brief,
Who would recall his earthly grief,
When life's long march is ending?
Though tasteless prove each fleeting joy,
True love alone shall never cloy;
And if our friendships here be pure
What though by death their bands are riven?
'Tis but a moment;—they endure
Through all eternity in heaven.
| The sentence of Kaires and other poems | |