The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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TO NATURE. |
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
TO NATURE.
Nature, I love thee! in thy varying form,
Soft with the dew, and maddening with the storm;
The wild wind struggling with the tameless sea,
The zephyr murmuring in the greenwood tree;
I love thee, Nature, from the withered leaf
That falls the tribute tear of autumn grief,
To the proud forest clad by summer-love,
Calm in its bed, but rock'd by winds above!
Spirit of song! the minstrel's nurturing breast,
Where is thy dwelling, where thy place of rest?
Lov'st thou the fountain of the autumn rill,
When breezes slumber, and the birds are still?
Or soarest thou when thunder's womb is rent,
On eagles' pinions through the firmament?
Dost thou not wander through the peaceless sky,
Its fire the lightning of thy meteored eye?
Dost thou not fly where ocean tempests are,
Tread on the waves, and veil the evening star?
Thou dost, fair queen! I see thy image rise,
Poised on the earth, and grasping at the skies,
Around thy brow the clouds of evening meet,
And morning flowers are opening at thy feet,
Blent with the hues of earth thy broidered vest,
The tints of heaven soft mingling o'er thy breast,
Lovely thy dwelling-place, thy throne of air,
For beauty ministers a handmaid there!
There's not a flower that summer suns can warm
That does not bless thee for its meted charm;
There's not an autumn breeze that wantons by
Which bears not music from thy whispered sigh.
All love thee, Nature, from the Switzer-maid,
Culling thy blossoms for a ringlet-braid,
To the proud Arab girl with loosened hair,
Winning thy fragrant breath a bridegroom there!
Soft with the dew, and maddening with the storm;
The wild wind struggling with the tameless sea,
The zephyr murmuring in the greenwood tree;
I love thee, Nature, from the withered leaf
That falls the tribute tear of autumn grief,
To the proud forest clad by summer-love,
Calm in its bed, but rock'd by winds above!
Spirit of song! the minstrel's nurturing breast,
Where is thy dwelling, where thy place of rest?
Lov'st thou the fountain of the autumn rill,
When breezes slumber, and the birds are still?
Or soarest thou when thunder's womb is rent,
On eagles' pinions through the firmament?
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Its fire the lightning of thy meteored eye?
Dost thou not fly where ocean tempests are,
Tread on the waves, and veil the evening star?
Thou dost, fair queen! I see thy image rise,
Poised on the earth, and grasping at the skies,
Around thy brow the clouds of evening meet,
And morning flowers are opening at thy feet,
Blent with the hues of earth thy broidered vest,
The tints of heaven soft mingling o'er thy breast,
Lovely thy dwelling-place, thy throne of air,
For beauty ministers a handmaid there!
There's not a flower that summer suns can warm
That does not bless thee for its meted charm;
There's not an autumn breeze that wantons by
Which bears not music from thy whispered sigh.
All love thee, Nature, from the Switzer-maid,
Culling thy blossoms for a ringlet-braid,
To the proud Arab girl with loosened hair,
Winning thy fragrant breath a bridegroom there!
Yes! Art may gild with bright and varied beam
The sculptor's vision and the painter's dream,
But thou art fairer on thy own green sod
Than Luxury templed with her Dagon-god:
Thy smiles are brighter where young roses spring
Than all that imaged loveliness can bring!
To pride's high dwelling—glory's pillared dome,
Ruin will fly and claim a Samson tomb.
But where thy robe is mantling o'er the hill,
Sunbeams and flowers will shine and blossom still.
Where chieftains dwelt the ivy-wreaths have grown,
And foxes earth'd beneath the sculptured stone.
Where goblets circled and where minstrels sung,
The midnight bird is nestling o'er her young!
The sculptor's vision and the painter's dream,
But thou art fairer on thy own green sod
Than Luxury templed with her Dagon-god:
Thy smiles are brighter where young roses spring
Than all that imaged loveliness can bring!
To pride's high dwelling—glory's pillared dome,
Ruin will fly and claim a Samson tomb.
But where thy robe is mantling o'er the hill,
Sunbeams and flowers will shine and blossom still.
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And foxes earth'd beneath the sculptured stone.
Where goblets circled and where minstrels sung,
The midnight bird is nestling o'er her young!
Heard ye the eagle screaming on the blast,
As o'er her plumes the quivering lightning passed?
The rain-drops sound, the music of the rill,
The breeze awakening on the eastern hill?
Saw ye the wild-bird droop his wing of fear?
The earth is listening if the storm be near—
There stirs no leaf, there floats no wavy cloud,
And yet the distant fountain's gush is loud!
These are thy charms, fair Nature, this the scene,
Where, like the Tishbite's robe, thy soul hath been,
Breath'd thy sweet sigh, and shed thy gentle tear,
O'er gladness clinging to the breast of fear!
Oh! thou art lovely in thy storms of night,
Thy rainless clouds that herald summer light,
Thy stars sweet shining, and thy suns of fire,
Thy breezy music and proud tempest lyre!
As o'er her plumes the quivering lightning passed?
The rain-drops sound, the music of the rill,
The breeze awakening on the eastern hill?
Saw ye the wild-bird droop his wing of fear?
The earth is listening if the storm be near—
There stirs no leaf, there floats no wavy cloud,
And yet the distant fountain's gush is loud!
These are thy charms, fair Nature, this the scene,
Where, like the Tishbite's robe, thy soul hath been,
Breath'd thy sweet sigh, and shed thy gentle tear,
O'er gladness clinging to the breast of fear!
Oh! thou art lovely in thy storms of night,
Thy rainless clouds that herald summer light,
Thy stars sweet shining, and thy suns of fire,
Thy breezy music and proud tempest lyre!
And I will hail thee, love thee as the flower
Loves the young night-wind and the morning shower;
For thou hast nurtured me, and thine the breast
My infant minstrel lips in fear have prest,
And thine the voice that cheered my trembling way,
To song's high shrine with boyhood's tribute-lay.
Loves the young night-wind and the morning shower;
For thou hast nurtured me, and thine the breast
My infant minstrel lips in fear have prest,
And thine the voice that cheered my trembling way,
To song's high shrine with boyhood's tribute-lay.
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |