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149
OCCASIONAL POEMS.
151
STANZAS. WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF ARRAN.
1838.
I
There was a time when scenes like theseWhich from our cottage door we see—
Those peaks which seem the clouds to kiss—
The sunlight on that crystal sea—
The solemn gloom of yon pine wood—
This burn which glides, in music, by,
Had charm'd me to that wish'd-for mood
Which oft gives birth to poesy.
II
'Tis not so now;—I gaze and gaze,And feed my pleased corporeal sense,
As gladly as in earlier days,
On Nature's rude magnificence.
Each feature of this glorious scene
Looks glorious as it look'd of yore,
But I am not as I have been,—
The spells, which charm'd me, charm no more.
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III
'Tis not that now, in manhood's prime,My powers have sunk in swift decay;—
I rather deem the scythe of Time
Hath lopp'd their rank misgrowths away.
'Tis not that now, with soberer will,
I shun the visions loved so long;—
Full oft my heart is yearning still
To mingle with the sons of song.
IV
It is that life hath lost, for me,The shadowy veil of doubt and fear;
That depths, once hid in mystery,
Now lie before me close and clear.
It is that I can use no more
The workings of young Hope within,
To gild each outward object o'er
With glory to herself akin.
V
Long since when, in the spring of youth,My spirit wrought on airy themes,
Investing with the hues of truth
The substance of its wildest dreams,—
Then wood and hill and mountain-head,
And murmuring stream and billowy sea,
With draughts of pure enjoyment fed
The inner life of Phantasy.
VI
Each form of earthly beauty seem'dWith its own substance to endue
The emptiest joys that Fancy dream'd,
Or Hope's delusive pencil drew.
And thus, while Earth look'd heavenly-bright,
And Hope and Fancy still were strong,
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Through many a dizzy path of song.
VII
But now—on life's sunshiny noonThere rests a clear, unclouded ray;
The lights and shades of star and moon
Have faded from the sober day.
My heart no more delights to dwell
In treacherous dreams of bliss to come;—
My present joys—I love them well,
But they are, with myself, at home.
VIII
And Nature's face is now to meNo prophecy of times more fair;
It speaks no more of things to be,
But tells of lovelier things that were.
Yon mountain-peaks—those sea-girt isles—
This sky, too oft with clouds o'ercast,
Remind me of life's varying smiles,
Its hopes, its fears, its interest past.
IX
Therefore, albeit I love to muse,In dreamy mood, on days gone by,
And still, well-pleased, the face peruse
Of stream and mountain, sea and sky,—
Not these, nor sights like these awake,
In me, the slumbering soul of song,
Nor those benumbing fetters break
Which Fancy's wing hath felt so long.
X
My days of tuneful thought are o'er,Nor need I at their loss repine;
Since home-content and letter'd lore,
And love and friendship still are mine:
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With tranquil toil my powers employ;
And heavenly hope yields peace and rest
Sweeter than Earth's unquiet joy.
INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST
OF THE LATE WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
Not that in him, whom these poor praises wrong,
Gifts, rare themselves, in rarest union dwelt;
Not that, reveal'd through eloquence and song,
In him the Bard and Statesman breathed and felt;—
Gifts, rare themselves, in rarest union dwelt;
Not that, reveal'd through eloquence and song,
In him the Bard and Statesman breathed and felt;—
Not that his nature, graciously endued
With feelings and affections pure and high,
Was purged from worldly taint, and self-subdued,
Till soul o'er sense gain'd perfect mastery;—
With feelings and affections pure and high,
Was purged from worldly taint, and self-subdued,
Till soul o'er sense gain'd perfect mastery;—
Not for this only we lament his loss,—
Not for this chiefly we account him blest;
But that all this he cast beneath the Cross,
Content for Christ to live, in Christ to rest.
Not for this chiefly we account him blest;
But that all this he cast beneath the Cross,
Content for Christ to live, in Christ to rest.
HYMN
FOR THE OPENING OF A CHURCH ORGAN.
I
Throughout all earth, and air, and sea,Sweet sounds our Father bless,
In hymns of natural harmony
From voices numberless.
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II
The carol shrill of joyous bird,—The hum of honey-bee,—
The leaves, by summer breezes stirr'd,
Which whisper on the tree—
III
The cataract's rush,—the ocean's roarUnite with one accord,
In ceaseless chorus to adore
Their own—all Nature's Lord.
IV
The Church, with pipes and keys combinedBy Man's profounder art,
Appropriate utterance strives to find
For music in her heart.
V
Father! to-day accept our gift,And by thy presence bless
The hymns thy children here uplift
To praise thy bounteousness.
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