The Desolation of Eyam The Emigrant, a Tale of the American Woods: and other poems. By William and Mary Howitt |
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THE PILGRIMAGE OF FANCY. |
 | The Desolation of Eyam |  |
96
THE PILGRIMAGE OF FANCY.
Again amid the heartless throng
I mingle, yet my soul is still
The fields and quiet woods among,
Glad wandering as I will.
It is not where the many meet
My thoughts can travel free;
The path untrod by human feet
The pleasantest path may be.
The breath of heaven comes purest where
Man has not left his taint of care.
I mingle, yet my soul is still
The fields and quiet woods among,
Glad wandering as I will.
It is not where the many meet
My thoughts can travel free;
The path untrod by human feet
The pleasantest path may be.
The breath of heaven comes purest where
Man has not left his taint of care.
97
It is not here, it is not here,
My heart can ever feel at home;
Would that in Fancy's bright career
My foot had power to roam!
But for a little while I'll deem
The magic mantle brought;
I'll cheat me with the idle dream,
And wander free as thought.
It will be pleasant, even in mind,
To leave the chained throng behind.
My heart can ever feel at home;
Would that in Fancy's bright career
My foot had power to roam!
But for a little while I'll deem
The magic mantle brought;
I'll cheat me with the idle dream,
And wander free as thought.
It will be pleasant, even in mind,
To leave the chained throng behind.
It shall be spring—and I will take
My journey towards the “north countrie;”
There's many a mountain, many a lake,
And many a glen to see.
There's many a bonny brae where grows
The gowan's golden bloom;
There's many a strath where sweetly flows,
The burn among the broom;
There's many a valley, wood, and glade,
By old tradition lovely made.
My journey towards the “north countrie;”
There's many a mountain, many a lake,
And many a glen to see.
There's many a bonny brae where grows
The gowan's golden bloom;
There's many a strath where sweetly flows,
The burn among the broom;
There's many a valley, wood, and glade,
By old tradition lovely made.
98
And Fancy hath a bark can sail
With every tide, in every breeze;
And she shall breast the northern gale,
Upon the northern seas.
I'll go where the fierce sea-kings went,
In dark, old days gone by;
I'll see the meteor's merriment
Athwart a polar sky;
And patient rein-deer come and go,
'Mong rocks of ice, and wastes of snow.
With every tide, in every breeze;
And she shall breast the northern gale,
Upon the northern seas.
I'll go where the fierce sea-kings went,
In dark, old days gone by;
I'll see the meteor's merriment
Athwart a polar sky;
And patient rein-deer come and go,
'Mong rocks of ice, and wastes of snow.
Then Fancy shall my rein-deer be,
And bear me from that frozen clime;
And next in pleasant Italy,
I'll hear the ready rhyme
By Improvisatori made,
Among the lemon trees;
And partly sung and partly said,
So sweetly, that the breeze,
That o'er the harp doth swell and fall,
Hath not a tone more musical.
And bear me from that frozen clime;
And next in pleasant Italy,
I'll hear the ready rhyme
By Improvisatori made,
Among the lemon trees;
And partly sung and partly said,
So sweetly, that the breeze,
That o'er the harp doth swell and fall,
Hath not a tone more musical.
99
Then all of Greece immortal made,
The vales, the hills, the towns, the sea,
Thebes, Sparta, Marathon, Leucade,
Athens and old Thermopylæ.
Flowers still upon Parnassus grow
That shall be wreathed by me—
And yet the wonted waters flow
From sweetest Castaly.
And there are lovely forms that wear
The classic beauty's regal air.
The vales, the hills, the towns, the sea,
Thebes, Sparta, Marathon, Leucade,
Athens and old Thermopylæ.
Flowers still upon Parnassus grow
That shall be wreathed by me—
And yet the wonted waters flow
From sweetest Castaly.
And there are lovely forms that wear
The classic beauty's regal air.
Then, onward, through the Holy-land
My pilgrim path unwearying hold;
Where ancient prophets stood, to stand
'Mid ruin they foretold.
How pleasant, yet how strange, to see
The fisher cast his net
Within the lake of Galilee;—
Or, on Mount Olivet
To watch the setting sun-light gem,
The old towers of Jerusalem.
My pilgrim path unwearying hold;
Where ancient prophets stood, to stand
'Mid ruin they foretold.
How pleasant, yet how strange, to see
The fisher cast his net
Within the lake of Galilee;—
Or, on Mount Olivet
To watch the setting sun-light gem,
The old towers of Jerusalem.
100
And far and wide, o'er sea and land,
All marvellous and fair, to trace;
The Arab 'mid his desert sand
Without abiding place.
Thus Fancy for awhile may cheat;
'Tis but a dream—and then
Gone, like a bird, the fair deceit,
The mountain and the glen:—
The crowd, the tainted air are real,
The quiet lake, and the fresh gale ideal.
All marvellous and fair, to trace;
The Arab 'mid his desert sand
Without abiding place.
Thus Fancy for awhile may cheat;
'Tis but a dream—and then
Gone, like a bird, the fair deceit,
The mountain and the glen:—
The crowd, the tainted air are real,
The quiet lake, and the fresh gale ideal.
| The Desolation of Eyam | |