The fair Isabel of Cotehele a Cornish romance, in six cantos. By the author of Local attachment, and translator of Theocritus [i.e. Richard Polwhele] |
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To WALTER SCOTT, Esq.
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 | The fair Isabel of Cotehele |  |
342
To WALTER SCOTT, Esq.
Yes! I have oft my ditties sung,
When hope was gay, and fancy young;
At peep of morn attun'd my note
To meet the blackbird's early throat,
And warbled where to evening gray
The redbreast pour'd her plaintive lay.
Sweet, o'er the dew, the stealing breeze,
Amidst my trembling infant trees—
My sycamores that soft display'd
(The first of all the varied shade)
Light-purpling sprays and buds between,
So large a leaf, so bright a green;
That, yet a boy, with wild delight
I rear'd, along their southern scite;—
As Mira to my labours there
Would lend a sister's fondest care.
Her pretty flowers that learn'd to breathe
Adown the gentle slope beneath,
And open'd to the summer-sun,
A brother's mutual tendance won.
And we had melody at will
For every jasmine and jonquil!
And we had music—such a store—
We sung to every sycamore!
Sweet too, was our sequester'd dell:
It had a grotto and a well,
Fair willows, and a waterfall;
An ancient beech that shelter'd all.
We cried, with pensive pleasure, oft:
“Our grotto-light, how shadowy-soft!
“Mild as the summer's evening hour!”
Nor toil could ask a cooler bower.
Clear was our well, and running o'er;
And polisht was its pebbled floor:
To noon's bright beams that pierc'd the shade,
Its crisped waters sparkling play'd.
Ah, so doth innocence impart
Pure radiance to the untroubled heart!
Nor less, as headlong down the rock
On the beech-roots the torrent broke,
To its broad foam to lure the sight,
It wash'd the spreading fibres white.
Yet, tho' it pleas'd, yet all the while,
(Such is the world's deceitful smile)
Our aged friend it undermin'd:
Attractive thus is treachery kind!—
When hope was gay, and fancy young;
At peep of morn attun'd my note
To meet the blackbird's early throat,
And warbled where to evening gray
The redbreast pour'd her plaintive lay.
343
Amidst my trembling infant trees—
My sycamores that soft display'd
(The first of all the varied shade)
Light-purpling sprays and buds between,
So large a leaf, so bright a green;
That, yet a boy, with wild delight
I rear'd, along their southern scite;—
As Mira to my labours there
Would lend a sister's fondest care.
Her pretty flowers that learn'd to breathe
Adown the gentle slope beneath,
And open'd to the summer-sun,
A brother's mutual tendance won.
And we had melody at will
For every jasmine and jonquil!
And we had music—such a store—
We sung to every sycamore!
Sweet too, was our sequester'd dell:
It had a grotto and a well,
344
An ancient beech that shelter'd all.
We cried, with pensive pleasure, oft:
“Our grotto-light, how shadowy-soft!
“Mild as the summer's evening hour!”
Nor toil could ask a cooler bower.
Clear was our well, and running o'er;
And polisht was its pebbled floor:
To noon's bright beams that pierc'd the shade,
Its crisped waters sparkling play'd.
Ah, so doth innocence impart
Pure radiance to the untroubled heart!
Nor less, as headlong down the rock
On the beech-roots the torrent broke,
To its broad foam to lure the sight,
It wash'd the spreading fibres white.
Yet, tho' it pleas'd, yet all the while,
(Such is the world's deceitful smile)
345
Attractive thus is treachery kind!—
Happy, indeed, were childhood's years,
Ere yet my solitary tears
Staining the crystal of my well,
Drop after drop in silence fell!
(So falls the sad autumnal leaf)
To speak, dear Shade! a brother's grief!
Then the lone muse would fain inspire,
Alas! my little trembling lyre!
Yet soon, to yon responsive stream
My whispers told Eliza's name.
On its green banks the lover stray'd,
And thither woo'd his charming maid.
There, o'er the bloom of young desire
Hath kindled oft my amourous fire,
Whilst to her dear delicious eyes
That heaving bosom blush'd in sighs!
Then every twinkling leaf above
Seem'd conscious to the breath of love.
The winding pathway's easy flow
Wav'd in a gentler curve below;
Each flower assum'd a soften'd hue,
And clos'd its cup in brighter dew.
Then, as I own'd luxurious stings,
I seiz'd, and swept the glowing strings!
Then passion eloquently pour'd
The soul of love thro' every chord!
But, it was mine erelong to roam,
A listless exile, far from home,—
Far from these walls that mark my birth,
To rear my unambitious hearth,
Where Isca widening seeks the main,
Amidst the titled proud and vain.
'Twas there on topographic lore
Some evil genius bade me pore;
By day alert with keen research
Hunt out a ruin, hail a church;
Explore, tho' faint from wan disease,
By the pale lamp long pedigrees;
The look of cold indifference rue,
Yet still the thankless toil pursue,
And brave the insidious critic's blame,
Unrecompens'd by gold or fame.
Ere yet my solitary tears
Staining the crystal of my well,
Drop after drop in silence fell!
(So falls the sad autumnal leaf)
To speak, dear Shade! a brother's grief!
Then the lone muse would fain inspire,
Alas! my little trembling lyre!
Yet soon, to yon responsive stream
My whispers told Eliza's name.
On its green banks the lover stray'd,
And thither woo'd his charming maid.
There, o'er the bloom of young desire
Hath kindled oft my amourous fire,
Whilst to her dear delicious eyes
That heaving bosom blush'd in sighs!
Then every twinkling leaf above
Seem'd conscious to the breath of love.
346
Wav'd in a gentler curve below;
Each flower assum'd a soften'd hue,
And clos'd its cup in brighter dew.
Then, as I own'd luxurious stings,
I seiz'd, and swept the glowing strings!
Then passion eloquently pour'd
The soul of love thro' every chord!
But, it was mine erelong to roam,
A listless exile, far from home,—
Far from these walls that mark my birth,
To rear my unambitious hearth,
Where Isca widening seeks the main,
Amidst the titled proud and vain.
'Twas there on topographic lore
Some evil genius bade me pore;
By day alert with keen research
Hunt out a ruin, hail a church;
Explore, tho' faint from wan disease,
By the pale lamp long pedigrees;
347
Yet still the thankless toil pursue,
And brave the insidious critic's blame,
Unrecompens'd by gold or fame.
Vain years avaunt! The favouring muse
Gilds life's decline with softer hues.
Again that woodland of the child
Tho' now a thicket dark and wild,
Where spread my statelier sycamores,
Its spirit to my soul restores:
And thro' the ivied shade I break,
And listen to the hawk's shrill shriek,
Flush from her nook the barn-owl gray,
And chase, how pert, the painted jay.
Yet, as I trace these scenes again,
I feel alternate joy and pain;
And e'en tho' years have sped their flight,
I languish for my grotto-light:
I languish for my water-fall,
And my old beech that shadow'd all.
Gilds life's decline with softer hues.
Again that woodland of the child
Tho' now a thicket dark and wild,
Where spread my statelier sycamores,
Its spirit to my soul restores:
And thro' the ivied shade I break,
And listen to the hawk's shrill shriek,
Flush from her nook the barn-owl gray,
And chase, how pert, the painted jay.
Yet, as I trace these scenes again,
I feel alternate joy and pain;
And e'en tho' years have sped their flight,
I languish for my grotto-light:
I languish for my water-fall,
And my old beech that shadow'd all.
348
Ah! well-a-day! alike for me,
Are fled the torrent and the tree!
The rushing flood hath ceas'd to roar;
My old beech-roots are blanch'd no more;
The green brook on its sedges sleeps;
With fox-gloves shagg'd the grotto weeps;
And one poor willow seems to join
In widow'd grief its sighs with mine!
Are fled the torrent and the tree!
The rushing flood hath ceas'd to roar;
My old beech-roots are blanch'd no more;
The green brook on its sedges sleeps;
With fox-gloves shagg'd the grotto weeps;
And one poor willow seems to join
In widow'd grief its sighs with mine!
And thou, lorn stream! Again I stray
Along thy wild and devious way.
Delightful stream! whose murmurs clear
Meet, once again, my pensive ear;
That wanderest down thine osier'd vale
Where passion breath'd her melting tale;
Thy evening-banks to memory sweet
I tread, once more, with pilgrim-feet!
Along thy wild and devious way.
Delightful stream! whose murmurs clear
Meet, once again, my pensive ear;
That wanderest down thine osier'd vale
Where passion breath'd her melting tale;
Thy evening-banks to memory sweet
I tread, once more, with pilgrim-feet!
Tho' not the same these views appear,
As when I rov'd a lover here;
Yet with no languid glance I see
This winding-path, that aspin-tree,
And eager catch, at every pace,
Of former joys some fading trace,
Some features of the past that seem
The illusion of too fond a dream.
As when I rov'd a lover here;
Yet with no languid glance I see
This winding-path, that aspin-tree,
349
Of former joys some fading trace,
Some features of the past that seem
The illusion of too fond a dream.
Such are the dear domestic views
That yet attract my simple muse.
Nor do I mourn the cold regard
Of sordid minds that slight the bard;
As here, tho' care or sorrow lour,
I steal from gloom a golden hour;
As, no mean intermeddler nigh,
My boyish steps I still descry;
Still, midst my budding lilacs pale,
The first sweet vernal promise hail;
Still, if young May breathe life and bloom,
Survey some faery power illume
The orient hills with richer light;
Still see, with fluid radiance bright,
Some faery power the pencil hold
To paint the evening cloud with gold;
Still, where amid the horizon dim
The scatter'd elms distinctly gleam,
And fade from darkening crost to crest
The last cool tints that streak the west,
Still heave, tho' others wonder why,
And cherish an enamour'd sigh!
And if, in sooth, one wish aspires
Beyond these satisfied desires,
'Tis that my song, tho' unrefin'd,
May not displease some kindred mind;
That I may boast, tho' distance part
Our cordial looks, one generous heart,
And hold, tho' o'er the grave I bend,
That heart my meed—and SCOTT, my friend!
That yet attract my simple muse.
Nor do I mourn the cold regard
Of sordid minds that slight the bard;
As here, tho' care or sorrow lour,
I steal from gloom a golden hour;
As, no mean intermeddler nigh,
My boyish steps I still descry;
Still, midst my budding lilacs pale,
The first sweet vernal promise hail;
Still, if young May breathe life and bloom,
Survey some faery power illume
The orient hills with richer light;
Still see, with fluid radiance bright,
Some faery power the pencil hold
To paint the evening cloud with gold;
350
The scatter'd elms distinctly gleam,
And fade from darkening crost to crest
The last cool tints that streak the west,
Still heave, tho' others wonder why,
And cherish an enamour'd sigh!
And if, in sooth, one wish aspires
Beyond these satisfied desires,
'Tis that my song, tho' unrefin'd,
May not displease some kindred mind;
That I may boast, tho' distance part
Our cordial looks, one generous heart,
And hold, tho' o'er the grave I bend,
That heart my meed—and SCOTT, my friend!
THE END.
| The fair Isabel of Cotehele | |