Nugae Canorae Poems by Charles Lloyd ... Third Edition, with Additions |
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LINES
TO THE SCENERY OF CUMBERLAND AND
WESTMORELAND.
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92
LINES TO THE SCENERY OF CUMBERLAND AND WESTMORELAND.
Written at Barnwell, near Cambridge, April, 1800.
To quit a world where strong temptations try,
And, since we cannot conquer, learn to fly.
Goldsmith.
And, since we cannot conquer, learn to fly.
Goldsmith.
Sin, has ne possim naturæ adcedere partes,
Frigidus obstiterit circum præcordia sanguis;
Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes;
Flumina amem silvasque inglorius.
Georgicon Virgilii, lib. ii.
Frigidus obstiterit circum præcordia sanguis;
Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes;
Flumina amem silvasque inglorius.
Georgicon Virgilii, lib. ii.
Fair scenes, I may not see you, yet my heart
From your enchantment will not long depart:
I turn from man's unprofitable strife,
From all the fruitless stir of polished life,
To think on you; to bid your prospects roll,—
A wondrous vision,—o'er my gladden'd soul.
Ah, scenes beloved, that I with you could stray,
And loiter out with you the summer day;
Could I the rosy beams of morning view
Shed on your gorgeous heights its magic hue;
Could I recline beneath your rocking woods,
Whose secret shades, where solemn Fancy broods,
Shroud the deep murmurs of your mountain floods;
Or could I slumber on those banks which lave
Their fairy verdure in the crystal wave
Of many a Lake that lies beneath the sky
In solitary, silent majesty:
Your visionary train of forms sublime
Should wake the ardour of the lofty rhyme;
Should lift my soul above whate'er of low
It haply learned in other scenes to know.
To you I turn!—I turn from human lore:
Of what the world affords I ask no more.
To me kind Heaven has given a faithful friend,
And competence: no more Heaven's self can send!
Now, all I seek is peace, a silent nook,
Whence, with unruffled spirit, I may look
On all those tempests of life's early morn,
That wrung a heart by restless passion torn;
And told, did pitying Heaven not interpose,
Of short-liv'd raptures, and of fatal woes.
From your enchantment will not long depart:
I turn from man's unprofitable strife,
From all the fruitless stir of polished life,
To think on you; to bid your prospects roll,—
A wondrous vision,—o'er my gladden'd soul.
Ah, scenes beloved, that I with you could stray,
And loiter out with you the summer day;
93
Shed on your gorgeous heights its magic hue;
Could I recline beneath your rocking woods,
Whose secret shades, where solemn Fancy broods,
Shroud the deep murmurs of your mountain floods;
Or could I slumber on those banks which lave
Their fairy verdure in the crystal wave
Of many a Lake that lies beneath the sky
In solitary, silent majesty:
Your visionary train of forms sublime
Should wake the ardour of the lofty rhyme;
Should lift my soul above whate'er of low
It haply learned in other scenes to know.
To you I turn!—I turn from human lore:
Of what the world affords I ask no more.
To me kind Heaven has given a faithful friend,
And competence: no more Heaven's self can send!
Now, all I seek is peace, a silent nook,
Whence, with unruffled spirit, I may look
On all those tempests of life's early morn,
That wrung a heart by restless passion torn;
And told, did pitying Heaven not interpose,
Of short-liv'd raptures, and of fatal woes.
94
Ah, scenes of peace!—Might I your charms explore,
Devote to nature, I would ask no more!
Might I with you consume my daily bread,
And pillow nightly my reposing head;
With you awake at morning's breezy voice,
And in my calm course, like yon sun, rejoice;
Might I with you wear out the sultry day
Viewing your wonders in the noon-tide ray;
With you repose at shadowy even-tide,
And list her meek songs by some wild brook's side;
Or many a cloud of lurid red descry,
Weaving bright visions for the poet's eye:
Might I, when April's mildest evenings seem
Like some pale mourner's earliest smiles to gleam,
View the soft azure of her dewy cloud
With faint flush tinged the silent landscape shroud;
Oh! would kind Heaven on me such scenes bestow,
'Twould give a comfort to each parted woe.
Here, as I welcome morning's silken ray,
And drink the spirit of the vernal day,
And turn with anxious thought, mine eyes around,
To catch whate'er in this bleak waste is found;
If chance the heathy hill at distance rise
Bath'd in the aërial brightness of the skies;
Or winnowing zephyr of the fruitful west
Shed healthy freshness on my weary breast;
If chance a clear brook musically flow
Adown some nameless mead, where willows grow,
Along whose mossy banks of tenderest green
The earliest violets of the year are seen,
And many a daisy, mixed with primrose pale,
Bends at the touch of spring's rejoicing gale,
The gale which loves to trace the streamlet's source,
And steals as wedded to its nameless course;
If chance a cot, beneath some bowery oak,
Send up in silence its pale wreath of smoke;
If sudden noon-beams, like enchantment, wake
The voice of sylvan mirth from mead or brake;
If dewy meads with bright luxuriance glow,
And every flower with new-born radiance blow;
If chance a village church, or village cot,
Mark the embowered hamlet's peaceful spot,
Where waves the elm beside the churchyard wall,
Vocal with red-breast's trill, or sparrow's call;
Around whose hollow trunk, beneath whose shade,
Stands the known bench for rustic converse made;
And stretches towards the road the slanting green,
Where village hinds in pastime oft are seen;
While merry bells in tuneful peals convey
The jocund news of heartsome holiday:
If chance these rustic sounds and shapes impart,
Some comfort to my nature-kindling heart,
Clothed in the wildness of poetic light,
Your brighter wonders sweep before my sight.
Devote to nature, I would ask no more!
Might I with you consume my daily bread,
And pillow nightly my reposing head;
With you awake at morning's breezy voice,
And in my calm course, like yon sun, rejoice;
Might I with you wear out the sultry day
Viewing your wonders in the noon-tide ray;
With you repose at shadowy even-tide,
And list her meek songs by some wild brook's side;
Or many a cloud of lurid red descry,
Weaving bright visions for the poet's eye:
Might I, when April's mildest evenings seem
Like some pale mourner's earliest smiles to gleam,
View the soft azure of her dewy cloud
With faint flush tinged the silent landscape shroud;
Oh! would kind Heaven on me such scenes bestow,
'Twould give a comfort to each parted woe.
95
And drink the spirit of the vernal day,
And turn with anxious thought, mine eyes around,
To catch whate'er in this bleak waste is found;
If chance the heathy hill at distance rise
Bath'd in the aërial brightness of the skies;
Or winnowing zephyr of the fruitful west
Shed healthy freshness on my weary breast;
If chance a clear brook musically flow
Adown some nameless mead, where willows grow,
Along whose mossy banks of tenderest green
The earliest violets of the year are seen,
And many a daisy, mixed with primrose pale,
Bends at the touch of spring's rejoicing gale,
The gale which loves to trace the streamlet's source,
And steals as wedded to its nameless course;
If chance a cot, beneath some bowery oak,
Send up in silence its pale wreath of smoke;
If sudden noon-beams, like enchantment, wake
The voice of sylvan mirth from mead or brake;
96
And every flower with new-born radiance blow;
If chance a village church, or village cot,
Mark the embowered hamlet's peaceful spot,
Where waves the elm beside the churchyard wall,
Vocal with red-breast's trill, or sparrow's call;
Around whose hollow trunk, beneath whose shade,
Stands the known bench for rustic converse made;
And stretches towards the road the slanting green,
Where village hinds in pastime oft are seen;
While merry bells in tuneful peals convey
The jocund news of heartsome holiday:
If chance these rustic sounds and shapes impart,
Some comfort to my nature-kindling heart,
Clothed in the wildness of poetic light,
Your brighter wonders sweep before my sight.
The little hill, at distance seen to rise,
Of mountain speaks, whose summits pierce the skies;
Brings to my view the majesty of forms,
Which bid defiance to the North's bleak storms;
The rising zephyr tells of sportive gales,
That curl your lakes and fan your laughing vales;
Or, borne aloft on pinion more sublime,
To the peaked cliff's aërial summit climb;
The crystal stream which winds where willows grow,
With more than mountain murmurs seems to flow,
Near its smooth lapse, and sand of sunny dyes,
The chasm yawns, and rock-piled summits rise;
And o'er its vacant banks does fancy see
The stormy torrent's fearful imagery,
The peaceful cottage to my soul recalls
Your more fantastic shed, with leafy walls,
Where I, with Love, would gladly wear away
What more remains of life's mysterious day:
It brings the little hut, the nameless stream,
Where Hope might ponder on her softest theme;
It brings the mead that spreads before the door,
Its cheerful verdure, and its flowery store;
It brings the woods above the roof that rise,
Whence many a glad bird's song salutes the skies;
It brings the garden prankt with many a flower,
The sacred transports of the evening bower,
Where, clothed in peacefulness, my soul should prove
The father's fondness, and the husband's love:
It brings with all its charms the imaged cell,
Which hopeful fancy fears to love too well!
Of mountain speaks, whose summits pierce the skies;
Brings to my view the majesty of forms,
Which bid defiance to the North's bleak storms;
The rising zephyr tells of sportive gales,
That curl your lakes and fan your laughing vales;
97
To the peaked cliff's aërial summit climb;
The crystal stream which winds where willows grow,
With more than mountain murmurs seems to flow,
Near its smooth lapse, and sand of sunny dyes,
The chasm yawns, and rock-piled summits rise;
And o'er its vacant banks does fancy see
The stormy torrent's fearful imagery,
The peaceful cottage to my soul recalls
Your more fantastic shed, with leafy walls,
Where I, with Love, would gladly wear away
What more remains of life's mysterious day:
It brings the little hut, the nameless stream,
Where Hope might ponder on her softest theme;
It brings the mead that spreads before the door,
Its cheerful verdure, and its flowery store;
It brings the woods above the roof that rise,
Whence many a glad bird's song salutes the skies;
It brings the garden prankt with many a flower,
The sacred transports of the evening bower,
Where, clothed in peacefulness, my soul should prove
The father's fondness, and the husband's love:
98
Which hopeful fancy fears to love too well!
As yet this must not be! my weary feet,
Must still awhile toil on where proud men greet.
The obtrusive world's unprofitable load
Must still with many a pang my bosom goad:
Yet grant, oh Heaven, a spirit to endure,
Not yield; though art in every shape allure.
E'en now I feel within my burthen'd mind
An anxious trouble 'mid your charms to find,
That day of rest from each polluting thing,
Which silence, solitude, and nature bring;
And every shape and sound that here annoy
Speak, though in accents rude, of future joy.
Must still awhile toil on where proud men greet.
The obtrusive world's unprofitable load
Must still with many a pang my bosom goad:
Yet grant, oh Heaven, a spirit to endure,
Not yield; though art in every shape allure.
E'en now I feel within my burthen'd mind
An anxious trouble 'mid your charms to find,
That day of rest from each polluting thing,
Which silence, solitude, and nature bring;
And every shape and sound that here annoy
Speak, though in accents rude, of future joy.
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