Poetical Sketches With other poems. By Alaric A. Watts. Fourth Edition. Illustrated with engravings from designs by T. Stothard, R. A. and W. Nesfield |
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 | Poetical Sketches |  |
88
EVENING.
A SKETCH.
The holy time is quiet as a Nun,
Breathless with adoration!
WORDSWORTH.
Breathless with adoration!
WORDSWORTH.
'Tis Evening.—On Abruzzo's hill
The summer sun is lingering still,—
As though unwilling to bereave
The landscape of its softest beam,—
So fair,—one can but look and grieve
To think, that like a lovely dream,
A few brief fleeting moments more
Must see its reign of beauty o'er!
'Tis Evening;—and a general hush
Prevails, save when the mountain spring
Bursts from its rock, with fitful gush,
And makes melodious murmuring;—
Or when from Corno's height of fear,
The echoes of its convent bell
Come wafted on the far-off ear
With soft and diapason swell.
But sounds so wildly sweet as they,
Ah, who would ever wish away?—
The summer sun is lingering still,—
As though unwilling to bereave
The landscape of its softest beam,—
So fair,—one can but look and grieve
To think, that like a lovely dream,
A few brief fleeting moments more
Must see its reign of beauty o'er!
89
Prevails, save when the mountain spring
Bursts from its rock, with fitful gush,
And makes melodious murmuring;—
Or when from Corno's height of fear,
The echoes of its convent bell
Come wafted on the far-off ear
With soft and diapason swell.
But sounds so wildly sweet as they,
Ah, who would ever wish away?—
Yet there are seasons when the soul,
Rapt in some dear delicious dream,
Heedless what skies may o'er it roll,
What rays of beauty round it beam,
Shuts up its inmost cell;—lest aught
However wondrous, wild, or fair,
Shine in—and interrupt the thought,
The one deep thought that centres there!
Though with the passionate sense, so shrined
And canonized, the hues of grief
Perchance be darkly, closely twined,
The lonely bosom spurns relief!
And could the breathing scene impart
A charm to make its sadness less,
'Twould hate the balm that healed its smart,
And curse the spell of loveliness
That pierced its cloud of gloom, if so
It stirred the stream of thought below.
Rapt in some dear delicious dream,
Heedless what skies may o'er it roll,
What rays of beauty round it beam,
Shuts up its inmost cell;—lest aught
However wondrous, wild, or fair,
Shine in—and interrupt the thought,
The one deep thought that centres there!
90
And canonized, the hues of grief
Perchance be darkly, closely twined,
The lonely bosom spurns relief!
And could the breathing scene impart
A charm to make its sadness less,
'Twould hate the balm that healed its smart,
And curse the spell of loveliness
That pierced its cloud of gloom, if so
It stirred the stream of thought below.
| Poetical Sketches | |