 | The British Months |  |
Dreariness of the season, how best relieved. The mountain torrent. The garden brook. The Meadows overflowed. The expanded Lake. The Flood. All things equally easy to Omnipotence. A calm morning. Appearances after the storm. Darkness of the landscape. All objects partake of the general gloominess
Ah! drear is now the season's pow'r,
And dull the lazy-footed hour,
To them whose minds the sway confess
Of apathetick listlessness;
Nor their's the body's boon employ,
Nor their's the mind's sublimer joy.
And dull the lazy-footed hour,
To them whose minds the sway confess
Of apathetick listlessness;
Nor their's the body's boon employ,
Nor their's the mind's sublimer joy.
O, now be mine, tho' pent at home,
In thought o'er distant climes to roam;
Or summon round my lonely hearth
The wise and learned of the earth;
Still better pleas'd, such converse there,
Combin'd with those I love, to share!
Mine through the present minute's space,
The lore of bygone times to trace,
In never-dying records shown;
And make the ages past my own!
Be mine, shut out from rural views,
To meditate the rural Muse;
Or, by the pen's or pencil's aid,
Survey before my sight portray'd
By mimick art kind nature's store;
Her universal works explore;
And thence to nature's Author look,
Or mark Him in his written book!
Great in his works, but still more great
Is He, and in his word, complete:
Those his great pow'r and godhead prove;
This loud proclaims that “God is love!”
In thought o'er distant climes to roam;
Or summon round my lonely hearth
The wise and learned of the earth;
Still better pleas'd, such converse there,
Combin'd with those I love, to share!
Mine through the present minute's space,
The lore of bygone times to trace,
In never-dying records shown;
And make the ages past my own!
454
To meditate the rural Muse;
Or, by the pen's or pencil's aid,
Survey before my sight portray'd
By mimick art kind nature's store;
Her universal works explore;
And thence to nature's Author look,
Or mark Him in his written book!
Great in his works, but still more great
Is He, and in his word, complete:
Those his great pow'r and godhead prove;
This loud proclaims that “God is love!”
To him, who thus the gloom can cheer,
No season's dull, no weather drear.
But still abroad their sway maintain
No season's dull, no weather drear.
The beating wind, the pouring rain.
And see, 'tis mark'd, that heathy hill,
With many a strange unwonted rill;
A brawler, full of rage and sound,
Scattering its turbid froth around;
Made no perennial course to hold,
And feed the vegetative mould;
But such as troublous times produce,
For wild o'erflowing floods a sluice,
Which dangerous less, less straitly pent,
Here find a salutary vent:
In days serene and calm unknown,
'Tis here to-day, to-morrow gone!
Now too, the garden's little pride,
Wont with clear stream and calm to glide,
And bathe the trees' o'er-arching roots,
And paint the flowers, mature the fruits;
The brook, that babbling crept along,
Scarce heard amid the blackbird's song,
By night's, by day's, swift torrents swell'd,
With still augmenting force propell'd,
Down the slope fall impetuous pours
His restless waves, and foams, and roars.
Whate'er of late obstruction kept
His course aback, before it swept,
Or leafy heap, or transverse bough,
Is gone; as forth it passes now
In one diffuse unbroken stream,
Which swelling meets the margin's brim.
Till, to a little river grown,
It scorns its wonted banks to own;
And, more and more uplifted, spreads
Its waters o'er the subject meads:—
Where evening saw the cattle graze,
Disclosing to the morrow's gaze,
What may to stranger eyes appear,
No meadow, but a fish-fraught mere.
While, o'er the necks of severing land,
The flood the fish-fraught meres expand;
And gathering, unrestrained and free,
Form thro' the vale a midland sea.
Wont with clear stream and calm to glide,
455
And paint the flowers, mature the fruits;
The brook, that babbling crept along,
Scarce heard amid the blackbird's song,
By night's, by day's, swift torrents swell'd,
With still augmenting force propell'd,
Down the slope fall impetuous pours
His restless waves, and foams, and roars.
Whate'er of late obstruction kept
His course aback, before it swept,
Or leafy heap, or transverse bough,
Is gone; as forth it passes now
In one diffuse unbroken stream,
Which swelling meets the margin's brim.
Till, to a little river grown,
It scorns its wonted banks to own;
And, more and more uplifted, spreads
Its waters o'er the subject meads:—
Where evening saw the cattle graze,
Disclosing to the morrow's gaze,
What may to stranger eyes appear,
No meadow, but a fish-fraught mere.
While, o'er the necks of severing land,
The flood the fish-fraught meres expand;
And gathering, unrestrained and free,
Form thro' the vale a midland sea.
Thus, if the venturous Muse may dare
Small things with greatest to compare,
Above the “outstanding earth ” of old
Were her collected waters roll'd,
Join'd with the waters from the sky;
And into flood transformed “the dry.”
But what is great, and what is small,
To Him who made and governs all?
Alike to Him, a cloke to spread
Of water o'er the pastur'd mead;
Or ope “heaven's floodgates ,” and set free
O'er the broad earth the boundless sea.
He bids the clouds their stores expand,
And metes the waters in his hand !
Small things with greatest to compare,
Above the “outstanding earth ” of old
Were her collected waters roll'd,
456
And into flood transformed “the dry.”
But what is great, and what is small,
To Him who made and governs all?
Alike to Him, a cloke to spread
Of water o'er the pastur'd mead;
Or ope “heaven's floodgates ,” and set free
O'er the broad earth the boundless sea.
He bids the clouds their stores expand,
And metes the waters in his hand !
Another night! In calm repose
The heav'ns again their windows close.
Again the peaceful brook has found
On either hand its wonted bound:
Where, a thin vein, the waters run,
Quick glancing to the morning sun,
And broider each uncover'd brim
Bright sparkling with a silver rim.
As sinks the slow subsiding surge,
Again the unburden'd meads emerge;
But still the slime and oozy mud
Mark with fresh stains the vanished flood:
Not pleasing to the idle eye;
Yet there the thoughtful mind may spy,
In store beneath the unsightly slime,
The promise of the early prime,
Bright fields with mantle fresh array'd,
The painted flower, the verdant blade!
The heav'ns again their windows close.
Again the peaceful brook has found
On either hand its wonted bound:
Where, a thin vein, the waters run,
Quick glancing to the morning sun,
And broider each uncover'd brim
Bright sparkling with a silver rim.
As sinks the slow subsiding surge,
Again the unburden'd meads emerge;
But still the slime and oozy mud
Mark with fresh stains the vanished flood:
Not pleasing to the idle eye;
Yet there the thoughtful mind may spy,
In store beneath the unsightly slime,
The promise of the early prime,
Bright fields with mantle fresh array'd,
The painted flower, the verdant blade!
457
How scant amid the wintry scene
Is joy's bright tint, the cheerful green!
The brush another Pow'r has caught,
The Genius he of solemn thought;
And all the landscape's face endues
With varied shades of sober hues;
O'er hill and valley, rise and fall,
In mingled patches, dismal all.
All but the sprouting wheat, which shows
Its tender blades in light green rows;
Or where, by peasant's straw-thatched cot,
Peeps forth a little garden plot;
Or their fresh tints the turnips keep,
Fit pasture for the nibbling sheep.
Is joy's bright tint, the cheerful green!
The brush another Pow'r has caught,
The Genius he of solemn thought;
And all the landscape's face endues
With varied shades of sober hues;
O'er hill and valley, rise and fall,
In mingled patches, dismal all.
All but the sprouting wheat, which shows
Its tender blades in light green rows;
Or where, by peasant's straw-thatched cot,
Peeps forth a little garden plot;
Or their fresh tints the turnips keep,
Fit pasture for the nibbling sheep.
Dark is the hill with furrow'd brow,
Fresh turn'd beneath the riving plough.
Stripp'd of each straggling bramble bush,
Of tussock'd grass, and spiky rush,
All dark, and darkly spotted o'er
With turf-stacks, is the peaty moor.
Dark is the mountain, forest-crown'd;
The mantling copse; the hedgerow bound.
All brown, no more with pendants graced
Purple or pink, the heath-clad waste.
Brown, of its waving honours shorn,
The stubble of the golden corn.
With scant and withered herbage brown
The pastures of the upland down.
With gleams of fading verdure mixt,
Light shades of yellowish brown betwixt
Invest the lawn, whose wavy sweep
Is spotted with the fleecy sheep;
But darker still, and day by day
More dismal, shows its dun array.
Ev'n meads, of late so fresh and fair,
The winter's dusky livery wear;
Save where small patches intervene
Of lighter tint, or stripes of green
Mark where the limpid waters pass
In runnels through the living grass.
Like acts of kindness, which dispense
Refreshment to the languid sense,
And of their passage leave a trace
Imprinted on the cheerful face.
Fresh turn'd beneath the riving plough.
Stripp'd of each straggling bramble bush,
Of tussock'd grass, and spiky rush,
All dark, and darkly spotted o'er
With turf-stacks, is the peaty moor.
Dark is the mountain, forest-crown'd;
The mantling copse; the hedgerow bound.
All brown, no more with pendants graced
Purple or pink, the heath-clad waste.
Brown, of its waving honours shorn,
The stubble of the golden corn.
With scant and withered herbage brown
The pastures of the upland down.
With gleams of fading verdure mixt,
Light shades of yellowish brown betwixt
Invest the lawn, whose wavy sweep
Is spotted with the fleecy sheep;
458
More dismal, shows its dun array.
Ev'n meads, of late so fresh and fair,
The winter's dusky livery wear;
Save where small patches intervene
Of lighter tint, or stripes of green
Mark where the limpid waters pass
In runnels through the living grass.
Like acts of kindness, which dispense
Refreshment to the languid sense,
And of their passage leave a trace
Imprinted on the cheerful face.
| The British Months | |