 | Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell |  |
38
A SUMMER DAY AT AMBLESIDE.
There lies a hush on all the summer woods,
Unbroken save by pipe of joyous bird;
Still is the air, and motionless the clouds—
By not a breeze the sleeping lake is stirr'd.
All nature swoons. No bleating of the flocks
Comes from the meadow grass, or echoes from the rocks.
Unbroken save by pipe of joyous bird;
Still is the air, and motionless the clouds—
By not a breeze the sleeping lake is stirr'd.
All nature swoons. No bleating of the flocks
Comes from the meadow grass, or echoes from the rocks.
There was a sound of welcome rain last night,
Blowing from up the dale, and o'er the hills;
But now the storm has passed, and all is bright;
The becks are fuller, and a thousand rills
Rush foaming down the hollows in white streams,
Flashing from crag to crag with rainbow-coloured gleams.
Blowing from up the dale, and o'er the hills;
But now the storm has passed, and all is bright;
The becks are fuller, and a thousand rills
Rush foaming down the hollows in white streams,
Flashing from crag to crag with rainbow-coloured gleams.
Like diamonds shine the rain-drops in the sun,
Gemming each shimmering leaf, each spike of grass,
And sweet shy flowers that 'neath the hedgerows run,
To hide their loveliness from all who pass;
While honeysuckle and the golden broom
Fling on the long June day odorous rich perfume.
Gemming each shimmering leaf, each spike of grass,
And sweet shy flowers that 'neath the hedgerows run,
To hide their loveliness from all who pass;
While honeysuckle and the golden broom
Fling on the long June day odorous rich perfume.
39
The tender shadows quickly come and go,
Climbing the hills, and creeping up the dell;
And all the valley is with light aglow,
And crowned with glory every rugged fell;
Sunshine is on the landscape far and wide,
Sparkles in every mere, and down the country-side.
Climbing the hills, and creeping up the dell;
And all the valley is with light aglow,
And crowned with glory every rugged fell;
Sunshine is on the landscape far and wide,
Sparkles in every mere, and down the country-side.
I know this land by heart, ay, every nook—
Each copse, each tarn, and every leafy dell:
Each brawling streamlet, and each tinkling brook—
I know it all by heart, and love it well.
Oft have I watched the daylight dawn, and pale,
And evening wrap the valley in her dusky veil.
Each copse, each tarn, and every leafy dell:
Each brawling streamlet, and each tinkling brook—
I know it all by heart, and love it well.
Oft have I watched the daylight dawn, and pale,
And evening wrap the valley in her dusky veil.
Not far from hence is seen the massive spire,
Where sunbeams rest upon the house of prayer;
The blazoned windows burn as if on fire;
And, palpitating on the crystal air,
I fancy that I hear the chiming bell,
And distant dreamy music from the organ swell.
Where sunbeams rest upon the house of prayer;
The blazoned windows burn as if on fire;
And, palpitating on the crystal air,
I fancy that I hear the chiming bell,
And distant dreamy music from the organ swell.
Wordsworth's dear mount is yonder, old and grey,
And guarded well by Fairfield's purple crest;
Walled in with laurel, and with fragrant bay,
A very Paradise of peace and rest,
With beauty all around, both far and near,
And, full in front, the queen of lakes, fair Windermere.
And guarded well by Fairfield's purple crest;
Walled in with laurel, and with fragrant bay,
A very Paradise of peace and rest,
With beauty all around, both far and near,
And, full in front, the queen of lakes, fair Windermere.
40
There in the valley—I can see it now—
Haunted by memories of the great and good,
Lies Arnold's favourite home, his sweet Fox How,
Hid in a bower of shrubs and waving wood;
Far from the restless, troubled world withdrawn,
A poet's dream of river, garden, copse, and lawn.
Haunted by memories of the great and good,
Lies Arnold's favourite home, his sweet Fox How,
Hid in a bower of shrubs and waving wood;
Far from the restless, troubled world withdrawn,
A poet's dream of river, garden, copse, and lawn.
Without what beauty, and within what grace
Of cultured minds,—true “sweetness” and true “light!”
Him death had throned long since in his just place—
Man of the ample brain, keen, polished, bright;
But she lived still, the loving tender wife,
Helpmeet and friend through all his grand heroic life.
Of cultured minds,—true “sweetness” and true “light!”
Him death had throned long since in his just place—
Man of the ample brain, keen, polished, bright;
But she lived still, the loving tender wife,
Helpmeet and friend through all his grand heroic life.
Who can forget, that ever knew her well,
The rapid sympathies, the genial smile,
The wise, true words from gracious lips that fell,
Charming the listener, as she talked the while,
Now grave—now gay—now earnest with deep thought,
As truths of highest reach before her mind were brought?
The rapid sympathies, the genial smile,
The wise, true words from gracious lips that fell,
Charming the listener, as she talked the while,
Now grave—now gay—now earnest with deep thought,
As truths of highest reach before her mind were brought?
All this is now a memory,—a sigh,—
Like other memories both sweet and sad;
How the years rob us as they hurry by,
Taking away so much that made us glad!
Yet leaving to us still so much that's bright,
Our path is not all dark,—at worst a chequered light.
Like other memories both sweet and sad;
How the years rob us as they hurry by,
Taking away so much that made us glad!
Yet leaving to us still so much that's bright,
Our path is not all dark,—at worst a chequered light.
41
Poorer that home, poorer the valley now;
For on a tomb is carved a pure white cross,
That tells to all who through the churchyard go,
Her everlasting gain and our sore loss.
Traced on the stone this record fronts the sight,—
“Her meetness for the saints' inheritance in light.”
For on a tomb is carved a pure white cross,
That tells to all who through the churchyard go,
Her everlasting gain and our sore loss.
Traced on the stone this record fronts the sight,—
“Her meetness for the saints' inheritance in light.”
What thrills me? Pain or bliss? O pain, to think
Of happy hours for ever past and flown!
O bliss, again to stand upon the brink
Of this dear fell, and muse of what is gone!
O pain, to ponder on the days now o'er!
O bliss, to feel this pleasure all my own once more!
Of happy hours for ever past and flown!
O bliss, again to stand upon the brink
Of this dear fell, and muse of what is gone!
O pain, to ponder on the days now o'er!
O bliss, to feel this pleasure all my own once more!
Sweet pain, keen bliss,—I know not which is best,
The pain that fills my saddened eyes with tears,
The bliss that throbs through all my happy breast,
As here again I feel the joy of years!
I know not which I'd choose, or that, or this,—
The pain so bitter sweet, the sweet yet bitter bliss.
The pain that fills my saddened eyes with tears,
The bliss that throbs through all my happy breast,
As here again I feel the joy of years!
I know not which I'd choose, or that, or this,—
The pain so bitter sweet, the sweet yet bitter bliss.
| Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell | |