The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. | PART V. |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
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V. PART V.
How do I love thee, Westmoreland! long, long
I had beheld thee through the halls of song;
I knew each lofty mountain, wood, and vale,
Was sanctified by some undying tale;
I knew thy lakes sublime, thy mountains high,
That tower'd amid the temples of the sky;
But, when I saw, how higher didst thou seem,
How nobler far, than proudest thought could deem;
Thou wert another world—thy summits high,
Thy fields, woods, walks, each sight that filled the eye,
Streams, rivers, lakes, lawns, hedgerows, every place,
Each beauteous hue that glow'd on Nature's face,
Was fairer than I dreamt:—I was enwrapt
In visions beatific!
I had beheld thee through the halls of song;
I knew each lofty mountain, wood, and vale,
Was sanctified by some undying tale;
I knew thy lakes sublime, thy mountains high,
That tower'd amid the temples of the sky;
But, when I saw, how higher didst thou seem,
How nobler far, than proudest thought could deem;
Thou wert another world—thy summits high,
Thy fields, woods, walks, each sight that filled the eye,
Streams, rivers, lakes, lawns, hedgerows, every place,
Each beauteous hue that glow'd on Nature's face,
Was fairer than I dreamt:—I was enwrapt
In visions beatific!
How did I grieve the long years past away,
Thee having not beheld—each lovely day
Long past, whilst gentlest winds and waves flow'd on,
Whilst I had heard not their aërial song;
Nor known thy mountain music, nor the joy
Which the winds murmur forth without alloy;
Nor viewed thy setting suns, as o'er the sky
Rich clouds of glory flash'd upon the eye;—
The grandeur of the cliffs, the gorgeous hue
Of rainbows, that fierce cataracts embue;
I could not gaze for joy—I was a child
Stricken to tears—it made my bosom wild:
O rapture, beyond rapture most supreme,—
Sights glorious as the spirits of a dream.
Thee having not beheld—each lovely day
Long past, whilst gentlest winds and waves flow'd on,
Whilst I had heard not their aërial song;
Nor known thy mountain music, nor the joy
Which the winds murmur forth without alloy;
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Rich clouds of glory flash'd upon the eye;—
The grandeur of the cliffs, the gorgeous hue
Of rainbows, that fierce cataracts embue;
I could not gaze for joy—I was a child
Stricken to tears—it made my bosom wild:
O rapture, beyond rapture most supreme,—
Sights glorious as the spirits of a dream.
Thee, Windermere, with undecaying love,
Till life's last sands the lowest circles move,
This beating heart shall hold! exultant pride
I feel, that I have wander'd by thy side;
For thou wilt clothe my dreams, and 'mid the care
Of the great world will smile thy visage fair;
Thy melodies upon my soul will fall,
Thy bays, thine islands, these enchantments all,—
Lake, river, woodland, heath, and hilly crest,—
Each plenteous fruit of Nature's ample breast.
Till life's last sands the lowest circles move,
This beating heart shall hold! exultant pride
I feel, that I have wander'd by thy side;
For thou wilt clothe my dreams, and 'mid the care
Of the great world will smile thy visage fair;
Thy melodies upon my soul will fall,
Thy bays, thine islands, these enchantments all,—
Lake, river, woodland, heath, and hilly crest,—
Each plenteous fruit of Nature's ample breast.
What, though thou calmly in thy passion lie,
Bright as a fallen daughter of the sky?
What, though by moonlight comes no startling sound
Of cataracts, that o'er the rocks rebound?
Though Nature's wilder shapes, and ruder forms,
Rear not their horrent fronts to winter's storms?
Nor giant Skiddaw, Derwent's sable chief,
Nor Arran's peaks surround with shades of grief?
Thou shinest with mossy bays, where naïads sleep,
And the slim water-flowers their broad tents keep;—
Thou hast embowering woods, where, sailing by,
We hear all sweetest sounds that throng the sky;
And fairy islands, singing 'mid the flood,
(Blissful retreats of peace and solitude!)
In idlesse spread: and thou art full
Of heaven's continual changes, beautiful;
Yea, thou hast dwellings where the warm winds dwell,
To flout thy wave; and dells innumerable;
And spots of joy and grief, where the glad river
First clasps thy lovely breast, then parts from thee for ever.
Bright as a fallen daughter of the sky?
What, though by moonlight comes no startling sound
Of cataracts, that o'er the rocks rebound?
Though Nature's wilder shapes, and ruder forms,
Rear not their horrent fronts to winter's storms?
Nor giant Skiddaw, Derwent's sable chief,
Nor Arran's peaks surround with shades of grief?
Thou shinest with mossy bays, where naïads sleep,
And the slim water-flowers their broad tents keep;—
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We hear all sweetest sounds that throng the sky;
And fairy islands, singing 'mid the flood,
(Blissful retreats of peace and solitude!)
In idlesse spread: and thou art full
Of heaven's continual changes, beautiful;
Yea, thou hast dwellings where the warm winds dwell,
To flout thy wave; and dells innumerable;
And spots of joy and grief, where the glad river
First clasps thy lovely breast, then parts from thee for ever.
How many a long and idle summer day,
O'er thee, my boat hath won her languid way;
Whilst, half asleep, I dreamt away the hours,
Brooding of Nature, in thine island bowers;
And long clear nights, when every eye was dim,
Learnt from thy waters every various hymn;
Embraced each changeful shade of earth and sky,
Shower'd from the clouds and moonbeams mingling nigh;
And, as thy waters murmur'd in mine ear,
Fancied of dwellings in another sphere—
Such holy stillness, such untroubled calm,
Sights beatific, sounds of heavenly balm!
O'er thee, my boat hath won her languid way;
Whilst, half asleep, I dreamt away the hours,
Brooding of Nature, in thine island bowers;
And long clear nights, when every eye was dim,
Learnt from thy waters every various hymn;
Embraced each changeful shade of earth and sky,
Shower'd from the clouds and moonbeams mingling nigh;
And, as thy waters murmur'd in mine ear,
Fancied of dwellings in another sphere—
Such holy stillness, such untroubled calm,
Sights beatific, sounds of heavenly balm!
And thou, sweet Elleray!—what dreams arise,
Brooding of thee, with tear-drops in mine eyes,—
Oh say, ye moonbeams, is the wrong forgot,
That blinds me, gazing on each lovely spot:
Those eyes, that like the stars were bright and clear,
Say, shall a cloud disturb their crystal sphere?
Hath time no spell to mitigate the pain
Erased so long, nor e'er to wound again;
Thou, Bard of Elleray!—ye, Poet-born,—
Him, heaven-inspired,—they, creatures of the morn:
Speak, shall the unchanging forms that crowd below,
That smile no hate, nor frown when tempests blow—
Shall they not banish with that look of joy,
All doubts that vex, all tortures that annoy?
Brooding of thee, with tear-drops in mine eyes,—
Oh say, ye moonbeams, is the wrong forgot,
That blinds me, gazing on each lovely spot:
Those eyes, that like the stars were bright and clear,
Say, shall a cloud disturb their crystal sphere?
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Erased so long, nor e'er to wound again;
Thou, Bard of Elleray!—ye, Poet-born,—
Him, heaven-inspired,—they, creatures of the morn:
Speak, shall the unchanging forms that crowd below,
That smile no hate, nor frown when tempests blow—
Shall they not banish with that look of joy,
All doubts that vex, all tortures that annoy?
Oh, beauteous spot! so sweet thy waters weave,
And gentlest sounds of joy delight the eve;
Far through the trees the mountains wave-like sweep,
And, grimly vast, like weary giants sleep:
Woods, such as hid Diana and her maids,
When, bright as morn, they darted through the shades;
And smiling pastures, fields, and meadows wide,
Their treasures heap, and greet the sun with pride.
The tempests shall not harm thee as they flow;
Around thy bowers no hideous creatures go:
Joy fills thy chambers, sitteth at thy gate,
And summer's sweetest breezes o'er thee wait;
Thine are all treasures of the night and day—
Heaven's gentlest looks are thine, beloved Elleray!
And he thy lord, in early youth, cared nought
For cloud, or storm: the mountain summits brought
Rest and repose for his too rapid thought.
He soar'd as a young eagle, and his eyes,
Vivid and bright, shone fearless as the skies;
The mountains were his home, their blackest night,
Oft by his white tent kindled with delight;
And, pitching there his dwelling like a throne,
Nature heard songs even sweeter than her own.
And gentlest sounds of joy delight the eve;
Far through the trees the mountains wave-like sweep,
And, grimly vast, like weary giants sleep:
Woods, such as hid Diana and her maids,
When, bright as morn, they darted through the shades;
And smiling pastures, fields, and meadows wide,
Their treasures heap, and greet the sun with pride.
The tempests shall not harm thee as they flow;
Around thy bowers no hideous creatures go:
Joy fills thy chambers, sitteth at thy gate,
And summer's sweetest breezes o'er thee wait;
Thine are all treasures of the night and day—
Heaven's gentlest looks are thine, beloved Elleray!
And he thy lord, in early youth, cared nought
For cloud, or storm: the mountain summits brought
Rest and repose for his too rapid thought.
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Vivid and bright, shone fearless as the skies;
The mountains were his home, their blackest night,
Oft by his white tent kindled with delight;
And, pitching there his dwelling like a throne,
Nature heard songs even sweeter than her own.
Her hymns were thine, and they were part of thee,—
Her cataracts thy harp-strings: thou wert free
To house amid the storms: the hill-fox came
And crouch'd before thee, humbled down and tame:
The wilderness was glad when thou wert there;
Thou wert a sovereign ruler, bright and fair,
Dropt from the clouds: and thou wert strong and bright,
And godlike in thy bearing, with the light
Sublime of genius filling thee with might.
Her cataracts thy harp-strings: thou wert free
To house amid the storms: the hill-fox came
And crouch'd before thee, humbled down and tame:
The wilderness was glad when thou wert there;
Thou wert a sovereign ruler, bright and fair,
Dropt from the clouds: and thou wert strong and bright,
And godlike in thy bearing, with the light
Sublime of genius filling thee with might.
Oh, to have walk'd with thee, companion young,
As the fresh breezes through thy long hair sung;
And thy glad voice awoke the sounding earth,
Bird, bees, and blossoms, to responding mirth:
From thy lips' music I had never gone,
From where thy star-like form sublimely shone,
But by thy eloquent side had learnt to know
Where her divinest shapes Nature rejoiced to show.
As the fresh breezes through thy long hair sung;
And thy glad voice awoke the sounding earth,
Bird, bees, and blossoms, to responding mirth:
From thy lips' music I had never gone,
From where thy star-like form sublimely shone,
But by thy eloquent side had learnt to know
Where her divinest shapes Nature rejoiced to show.
Years now have gather'd o'er thee! but the light
Of thy proud youth still lives: never can night
Obscure those stately limbs, that starry soul—
O'er thy enduring deeds its billows roll!
And wheresoe'er thou goest, in bower or hall,
Fame hath gone with thee, coming at thy call;
Years now have gather'd o'er thee, but thine eye
Is lustrous as of yore, as clear thy forehead high!
And God hath made within thy bowers to grow
Fair spots, that yet shall bloom when thou art low,
Firm pillars of thy house that brightly stand,
Beauty divinest over all the land,—
Beauty supreme, that in the times of old,
Had brought to woo a hundred warriors bold—
Had filled the forest depths with lofty dreams,
And rear'd a Paradise, themselves the themes:
And, oh, if power or grace attends my lays,
The spell is thine—to thee belongs the praise!
Of thy proud youth still lives: never can night
Obscure those stately limbs, that starry soul—
O'er thy enduring deeds its billows roll!
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Fame hath gone with thee, coming at thy call;
Years now have gather'd o'er thee, but thine eye
Is lustrous as of yore, as clear thy forehead high!
And God hath made within thy bowers to grow
Fair spots, that yet shall bloom when thou art low,
Firm pillars of thy house that brightly stand,
Beauty divinest over all the land,—
Beauty supreme, that in the times of old,
Had brought to woo a hundred warriors bold—
Had filled the forest depths with lofty dreams,
And rear'd a Paradise, themselves the themes:
And, oh, if power or grace attends my lays,
The spell is thine—to thee belongs the praise!
Elleray is the seat of Professor Wilson, and is endeared to the author by many delightful associations. Some of the allusions here will be unintelligible to the general reader: nor would the author feel justified in offering a solution of the difficulties.
He died! the Bard I sing,—in grief he died,—
Him, Nature's self, from love could ne'er divide!
Weep for your own beloved, ye mountains wild!
Moon, forests, caverns, rocks, lament your child!
Weep, for the joy of summer is laid low,
The sound of music, and the streamlet's flow—
The glory of the storms!—he had a voice
As loud, as sweet, as strong!—he could rejoice
With every breeze that murmur'd o'er the flowers,
With every bird that charms the summer bowers:
He had a Poet's heart, by Nature made
Immortal as herself, whose mighty harp be play'd.
Him, Nature's self, from love could ne'er divide!
Weep for your own beloved, ye mountains wild!
Moon, forests, caverns, rocks, lament your child!
Weep, for the joy of summer is laid low,
The sound of music, and the streamlet's flow—
The glory of the storms!—he had a voice
As loud, as sweet, as strong!—he could rejoice
With every breeze that murmur'd o'er the flowers,
With every bird that charms the summer bowers:
He had a Poet's heart, by Nature made
Immortal as herself, whose mighty harp be play'd.
He died! and wailing youths and maidens near,
Bore the dead lover to his sepulchre.
They laid him underneath the same low stone,
Which guarded the sad damsel who was gone—
A savage place!—mountains that frown'd like night
Stretch'd all around, gloom'd fiercely through the light;
Their pinnacled crags far lifted from the power
Of climbing tree, meek moss, or wilder'd flower,
And, taught from Chaos, solely to resound
Backward the thunder, and the tempest's sound;
So wildly high they stood, that the church bell,
Ne'er heard its Sabbath voice, but in the dell,
Fainted away into its own “farewell.”
Bore the dead lover to his sepulchre.
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Which guarded the sad damsel who was gone—
A savage place!—mountains that frown'd like night
Stretch'd all around, gloom'd fiercely through the light;
Their pinnacled crags far lifted from the power
Of climbing tree, meek moss, or wilder'd flower,
And, taught from Chaos, solely to resound
Backward the thunder, and the tempest's sound;
So wildly high they stood, that the church bell,
Ne'er heard its Sabbath voice, but in the dell,
Fainted away into its own “farewell.”
In this deep dell they laid him, where the wind
Maketh perpetual moan through vaults that bind,—
Where the hoar abbey showers upon the sky
Old carved heads of monks in arches high;
And on his grave-stone, through the ancient yew,
Shineth continually the orient hue
Diverse, yet clear, of the deep purpled glass—
The infant Christ, the Virgin, and the Mass;
Ruth 'mid the reapers; Jacob's dream; the doubt
Of Thomas; and sweet Moses' finding out.
Maketh perpetual moan through vaults that bind,—
Where the hoar abbey showers upon the sky
Old carved heads of monks in arches high;
And on his grave-stone, through the ancient yew,
Shineth continually the orient hue
Diverse, yet clear, of the deep purpled glass—
The infant Christ, the Virgin, and the Mass;
Ruth 'mid the reapers; Jacob's dream; the doubt
Of Thomas; and sweet Moses' finding out.
He died,—the desolate one, in grief he died!—
A solitary man—and, by the side
Of her so loved, so worshipp'd, slumbers low:
The tyranny of Death could never throw
Despair on love like his: and well beseem'd
The same pale grave-flowers that together gleam'd
For both their shroud—the same brief epitaph,
Where lingering oft the pilgrim rests his staff;
The angel wings wide-stretched—the open book—
The sculptured quaint device—the holy look,
And breathing calm of monumental stone—
Sad images that mark that churchyard lone.
A solitary man—and, by the side
Of her so loved, so worshipp'd, slumbers low:
The tyranny of Death could never throw
Despair on love like his: and well beseem'd
The same pale grave-flowers that together gleam'd
For both their shroud—the same brief epitaph,
Where lingering oft the pilgrim rests his staff;
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The sculptured quaint device—the holy look,
And breathing calm of monumental stone—
Sad images that mark that churchyard lone.
Yet, are they not all dead!—and though we grieve
For that which seems the dust, still do they live,
Holy and beautiful, in might and power:
Clear, like a star, on memory's marble tower,
Twin spirits do they dwell; and through the night,
And through the day, shine in their robes of light.
The winds do touch them not with their low moan—
Quietly gleams the battlemented stone,
Untouched by cloud, or storm: and but the sun
Of holiest love, in constant dreams doth run
In rays of light and glory o'er their head,
Clothing with heavenly robes, the spiritual dead!
For that which seems the dust, still do they live,
Holy and beautiful, in might and power:
Clear, like a star, on memory's marble tower,
Twin spirits do they dwell; and through the night,
And through the day, shine in their robes of light.
The winds do touch them not with their low moan—
Quietly gleams the battlemented stone,
Untouched by cloud, or storm: and but the sun
Of holiest love, in constant dreams doth run
In rays of light and glory o'er their head,
Clothing with heavenly robes, the spiritual dead!
They are not dead: in gentlest song and hymn
Young maidens chant their woes, in moonlight dim
And the sun's glare; and most on winter eve,
When the wild winds among the pine trees grieve,
A lone and melancholy strain will come
From loneliest cottages, that have their home
Among the moors: and tale and madrigal,
And pity-laden sighs, and the tear's fall,
(Given by kind heaven the children of the eye,)
Proclaim the healing love of memory.
And, many a day, when kingdoms on the wane
Are tottering down; and the destructive reign
Of Tyranny declines; and raging War,
With its loud pomp of Fear, is heard afar,—
Still, shall this hapless pair remembered be!
Continuous in sound, as is the sea,
Be heard Compassion's voice, and, on the hill,
Aloft, of Memory, will they flourish still!
Young maidens chant their woes, in moonlight dim
And the sun's glare; and most on winter eve,
When the wild winds among the pine trees grieve,
A lone and melancholy strain will come
From loneliest cottages, that have their home
Among the moors: and tale and madrigal,
And pity-laden sighs, and the tear's fall,
(Given by kind heaven the children of the eye,)
Proclaim the healing love of memory.
And, many a day, when kingdoms on the wane
Are tottering down; and the destructive reign
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With its loud pomp of Fear, is heard afar,—
Still, shall this hapless pair remembered be!
Continuous in sound, as is the sea,
Be heard Compassion's voice, and, on the hill,
Aloft, of Memory, will they flourish still!
| The bard, and minor poems | |