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40
Habberly Valley.
(NEAR KIDDERMINSTER.)
Out from the gloomy rows of homes—(what homes
For man with his home-loving heart!)—far out
Beyond the discontented murmuring
Of streets that throb with the great looms, where I
Day after day sad-hearted move along,—
Far out this holy evening have I past.
For man with his home-loving heart!)—far out
Beyond the discontented murmuring
Of streets that throb with the great looms, where I
Day after day sad-hearted move along,—
Far out this holy evening have I past.
It is an evening of such temperament
As makes the heart gush out with streams of beauty,
Mingling its own with that which is without,
Making a tenfold loveliness. I choose
The head of a small valley for my throne,
And all the spirits of beauty do my bidding.
The soft turf where I sit is intertwined
With mosses delicate, and eyebrights pure
Dot all its smoothness, with rock-roses frail
And crimson-lipped cup-moss; and on the stone,
That stands out rough and grey on either side,
Grow maiden-hair and tufts of purple heath.
And far away above the swelling copse
And ferny hollow with its close-cropt grass,
Where the sheep browse and tinkle their small bells,
And far beyond the green and level fields,
Whose trees crowd up upon the slanting sight
Into one constant woodland, there is reared
Beautiful Malvern, purple-robed and faint,
With sunny streaks upon his Western summit.
As makes the heart gush out with streams of beauty,
Mingling its own with that which is without,
Making a tenfold loveliness. I choose
The head of a small valley for my throne,
And all the spirits of beauty do my bidding.
The soft turf where I sit is intertwined
With mosses delicate, and eyebrights pure
Dot all its smoothness, with rock-roses frail
And crimson-lipped cup-moss; and on the stone,
41
Grow maiden-hair and tufts of purple heath.
And far away above the swelling copse
And ferny hollow with its close-cropt grass,
Where the sheep browse and tinkle their small bells,
And far beyond the green and level fields,
Whose trees crowd up upon the slanting sight
Into one constant woodland, there is reared
Beautiful Malvern, purple-robed and faint,
With sunny streaks upon his Western summit.
Oh! know'st thou not when evening fair as this
Will call back to thy mind far other scenes
Of bygone years when thou hast felt the same,
And memory pours sweetness on the thought
And absence sorrow, till thou needst must weep?
So I will dream awhile. I'll lay me here
Upon the thymy hill, with eyes half-closed
And pondering the swimming depths of blue.
The slanting sun plumeth the gnats with gold
That dance across my sight; the fresh young breeze,
That slept all day, cometh across the vale;
And oh! a flood hath set unto my soul—
A flood of eddying thoughts—the strange sad sense
Of utter loneliness, and time, and change,—
The bright bright days of old, the ancient scenes
Full of a thousand bursting memories,
All of sad hue, and yet how beautiful!
Will call back to thy mind far other scenes
Of bygone years when thou hast felt the same,
And memory pours sweetness on the thought
And absence sorrow, till thou needst must weep?
So I will dream awhile. I'll lay me here
Upon the thymy hill, with eyes half-closed
And pondering the swimming depths of blue.
The slanting sun plumeth the gnats with gold
That dance across my sight; the fresh young breeze,
That slept all day, cometh across the vale;
And oh! a flood hath set unto my soul—
A flood of eddying thoughts—the strange sad sense
Of utter loneliness, and time, and change,—
The bright bright days of old, the ancient scenes
Full of a thousand bursting memories,
All of sad hue, and yet how beautiful!
42
O ye soft airs, and sunny warmth of heaven,
Ye sounds and sights I love, ye have a spell
To conjure up dead feelings, and old dreams,
And ancient homes of thought, long ruinous,
And flowers that now are food for canker-worms.
Ye sympathies that bind the living heart
To all the outward glory of the earth,
Ye pour swift streams of recollection round me
That ripple onward to the far far past,
Till my whole soul is full of their sad music!
I wander far away;—I see again
The glorious haunts of former days, those scenes
That taught me first of beauty and of love.
I see the graves of many hopes and joys;
Ay, and about the graves are flitting still
The shades of things that were. O happy days
Light-hearted days, again ye wander by,
Spectre-like company! the same, yet changed!
The very lights and shadows pass again,
And yet they seem half-new. Ah! Memory,
Wander thou where thou wilt, thou canst not banish
That sense of distance and of creeping change,
That linketh all the present to the past:—
Seek thou what fairest times and scenes thou wilt,
Times and scenes crowded with life's sunniest flowers,
Thou'lt find some straggling wreaths of sadder hue,
Whose root is in the present, twining there!
Ye sounds and sights I love, ye have a spell
To conjure up dead feelings, and old dreams,
And ancient homes of thought, long ruinous,
And flowers that now are food for canker-worms.
Ye sympathies that bind the living heart
To all the outward glory of the earth,
Ye pour swift streams of recollection round me
That ripple onward to the far far past,
Till my whole soul is full of their sad music!
I wander far away;—I see again
The glorious haunts of former days, those scenes
That taught me first of beauty and of love.
I see the graves of many hopes and joys;
Ay, and about the graves are flitting still
The shades of things that were. O happy days
Light-hearted days, again ye wander by,
Spectre-like company! the same, yet changed!
The very lights and shadows pass again,
And yet they seem half-new. Ah! Memory,
Wander thou where thou wilt, thou canst not banish
That sense of distance and of creeping change,
That linketh all the present to the past:—
Seek thou what fairest times and scenes thou wilt,
Times and scenes crowded with life's sunniest flowers,
Thou'lt find some straggling wreaths of sadder hue,
Whose root is in the present, twining there!
(1848.)
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