 | The poetical works of Barry Cornwall |  |
178
STANZAS.
And now with gleams of half extinguish'd thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again.
Wordsworth.
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again.
Wordsworth.
I
I have liv'd many seasons: and I standNor low nor lofty on this world at last:
Yet with some hope (which I cannot withstand)
I shall not wholly bow me to the blast,
Nor, all unknown, like a base weed be cast
Away, and wither in my wintry grave,
Shaming the soil that fed me: For the past—
'Tis gone: and 'twould be idle now to rave
Of wasted hours, or mourn: I am not folly's slave.
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II
Yet, like a pestilence, despondence hungUpon the spirit of my prime. In vain
I sought for cure: like wasting fire it clung
Against my heart: it struck upon my brain.
Then, like a lion bursting from his chain,
(For I was not the fool of phantasy)
I rush'd away, and rid me of my pain;
And, with that courage that becomes the free,
Stood on the verge again: safe—for at liberty.
III
In deep embowering woods I built my home,For Nature nurses best the sickly mind;
And when Apollo thro' my leafy dome
Came visiting, I rose: at eve, reclined,
I caught strange secrets from the whispering wind,
That with its cooling freshness bath'd my head
As with Olympian dews: 'twas then my mind
Gather'd its powers, and sickly visions fled.
I stood like a man new born—recover'd from the dead.
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IV
It is upon the mountains—the vast sea,That we hear Nature's language: 'tis the tide
Which rolls for ever, speaks ‘Eternity:’
The hills declare she is to Heaven allied,
And in the thunder comes her voice of pride:
Her mirror is the lake: her garb the field
With all the colours of the Iris dyed:
Somewhat of mighty moment does she yield
From every part. To me, her soul she hath revealed.
V
For I did woo her in my early youth,And sought the marvels of her lonely ways;
And often in those fountain depths, where truth
Springs from its parent source, I loved to gaze,
And watch'd its many wanderings, where it strays
The world's rude rocks, and wildering woods among;
And where the elemental lightnings blaze
I've trod—aye, stood above 'em, while along
The precipice they play'd, wild, glittering, and strong.
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VI
I've roamed amongst the eternal Alps. I've stoodAnd gazed upon the diminish'd world below;
Marking, at frightful distance, field and flood,
And spire and town, like things of pigmy show,
Shrink into nothing: while those peaks of snow
(Which yet the winds themselves but seldom climb)
Arose like giants from the void below,
But fashion'd all for everlasting time:
Imperishable things—unstain'd, as 'twere, by crime.
VII
Oh, ye unbending mountains! If ye beAught more than human view may contemplate—
If on your crowned heads the Deity
Rests his bright foot eternal, when in state
He bends arrayed in lightnings; consecrate
Then stand for ever. Perchance your heaven-ward look
Infused such feeling, strong and elevate,
That madness in the soul's bright temple shook.
Silent ye pointed high. I read as from a book.
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VIII
Sacred ye are. The very eye of GodDarts roses on ye as it shuts at even.
The earthquake on your breast hath never trod;
Nor in vast fragments have your limbs been riven;
Nor through your heart the red volcano driven,
That foams in lava-cataracts from its bound;
Or flings its blazing columns up to heaven,
Sinking in darkening ashes on the ground.
Thus Hecla, Etna feel; and all, save ye, around.
IX
And oh! thou viewless Spirit, who dost breatheLife on the world: whose home is on the seas,
And plains, and mountain summits, and beneath
This earth; whose couriers are the storm and breeze;
Whose children, the gay birds—the beasts—the trees,
And we (the monarchs of mortality)
And whatsoe'er hath being. That thou didst please
To draw from me the mind's calamity,
I thank thee. Thou hast given the world again to me
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X
For not alone with Alpine heights my soulCommuned in silence: 'Twas from forests deep—
The everlasting ocean that doth roll
Bursting in thundering billows 'gainst the steep;
The rainbow that, when summer vapours weep,
Arches the sky; the free and sightless wind:
The Moon, the Sun, and (last) those fires that keep
Nightly their starry watch. From all my mind
Caught light, and strength, and joy, to no one aid confined,
XI
Two poets saw I there: one had I seenIn boyhood mix in many an idle game;
Since when his hand had gathered laurels green
For his own brows, and on the scroll of fame
Had written his imperishable name,
Amidst the golden characters that lie
Distinguishable there—even as the flame
Of moon or sun burns out conspicuously
Amongst the stars that crowd the bosom of the sky.
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XII
Upon his beautiful forehead scorn was sitting,And weariness and woe; and o'er his eye
Shadows of dim tumultuous thought were flitting,
And passions, which are buried ere they die,
Exorcised by the enchantress Memory
From their dark grave—the heart. But quickly these
Like clouds of rain in summer, passed by;
And then he wantoned with the mountain breeze,
And with the soft mysterious music of the trees
XIII
Held frequent talk, like some familiar spirit.And his companion young would join him then,
And tell how mortal creature might inherit
Ethereal essence here, and haply again
(Though like a world-abandoned denizen)
Expand into that perfect element,
Whate'er it be, that fills the frames of men
With their incomparable light. Intent
Upon that theory sublime his soul was bent.
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XIV
And who may tell (though I believe it not)But that the soul by meditation may
Plume its bright wings, and from its grosser lot
Spring, like a thing immortal, far away;
Or, as the white Alps mount and meet the day,
Accumulate upon its airy head
Thoughts that fine spirits have bequeathed, ere they
Lay down in silence on their wormy bed,
And conquer that chill voice which summons to the dead.
XV
I have seen the Alpine sun-set:—oh! how weakMy verse to tell what flash'd across my sight.
Green, blue and burning red, was every streak:
Like rainbow-beams, but trebly, trebly bright;
The earth, the air, the heavens, were living light:
My vision was absorbed. I trembled—then
Softening his glance, and sinking in his might,
The Sun slow faded from the eyes of men,
And died away. Ne'er have I seen the like again.
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XVI
Yet have I lain in many a leafy nookSequester'd, hiding from the summer beam,
Idling, or haply with that charmed book
Writ by the Avon side; and loved to dream
Of pale Cordelia, gentle Imogen:
Or, on some brook that slid, like guilt, away,
Hurrying the pilfered mosses down its stream,
Pondered, and often at the close of day
Gazed on the coming Moon, and felt, perhaps, her sway.
XVII
It is in high, remoter scenes, that weBecome sublim'd, yet humble: there we learn
That still beyond us spreads—infinity,
And we still clay: or, all admiring, turn
To where those characters of beauty burn,
Which God hath printed on the starry skies:
And haply guess why we alone may learn
The world's vast wonders: why alone our eyes
See far: why we alone have such proud sympathies
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XVIII
For with creation and its marvels noneSave we, can hold communion. On the earth
Are many stately footsteps, and the Sun
Shines on eyes bright as ours: yet hath our birth
(Holy) shed 'round us an immortal worth,
Beyond the rest: though with the rest we fade,
And are encircled by as frail a girth
To life, as they: and in the deadly shade
Wither as quick, and are as loathsome when decayed.
XIX
But while we live, the air, the fruit, the flower,Doth own to us a high, superior charm:
And the soul's radiance in our wintry hour
Flings a sweet summer halo round us, warm;
And then, the multitudinous things that swarm
From the brain's secret cells, and never die,
(Though mortal born,)—Oh! for that boasted balm
Of life, to raise the mighty when they lie
Wrecks, both in frame and mind—common mortality.
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XX
Seems it not hard, that they whose spirits haveEngendered and matured such thoughts sublime,
And lived but for the world, must in the grave
At last sink like the things of folly—crime,
Ere yet the soul hath blossom'd in its prime?
For who may tell how high the labouring thought
Might reach, if giv'n to live till after-time:
And what a pyramid it might build, how fraught
With treasures, but from time and meditation caught?
| The poetical works of Barry Cornwall | |