 | The British Months |  |
The winter day's walk. Its delightfulness. The mountain Brook. The Pool. The Wood. The Avenue. Its likeness to a Cathedral. Lincoln, York, Salisbury, Winchester Cathedral. Winchester College
The village road, the grassy sward;
Climb we the winding path, that guides
Around the mountain's craggy sides;
Roam the wide down, the breezy heath,
And freshness, health, and gladness breathe.
What than this wintry scene more fair?
What purer than this wintry air,
The frame to strengthen, and impart
New spirit to the buoyant heart?
And fail we not aside to look
In passing on the mountain brook,
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By nature with the wild cascade.
Here, where the channel'd waters glide
Along the vale, on either side
Is edg'd the green o'erhanging grass
With fringe of silver-seeming glass.
Here, where o'er dam, or mill-wheel steep,
Amass'd the plunging waters leap,
Or ere the scatter'd spray escapes,
'Tis caught, and moulded into shapes
Fantastick by the wizard Frost:
Thin splinters, by each other crost,
And crusting o'er the slippery stones;
Ascending spires, inverted cones,
Pellucid store of crystal spars
Concrete, and radiated stars.
Then, where the spacious pool expands,
A pleasure new the sight demands,
As o'er the level smooth we pace
With feet unwet; and thro' its face
Translucent mark the bending reed
Beneath, and every floating weed,
And every pebbly stone below;
Clear as imbedded insects show,
Or leaves, within the amber tear,
Or as the Alpine crystal clear.
Nor fail we thro' the wood to stray,
Now that each branch, and bough, and spray,
Is cloth'd with rime of moisture frore:—
So thickly is that mantle hoar
Of rich embroidery o'er them thrown,
They seem almost transform'd to stone.
Chief in that long-drawn avenue,
Where those columnar trees you view
In ranks to answering trees oppos'd,
And overhead their branches clos'd
To form a fretted arch above;
Fancy might deem the pillar'd grove,
With arch, and fret, and groinings graced,
And nature's richest tracery laced,
A solemn temple fit to raise
High anthems to the Maker's praise.
Now that each branch, and bough, and spray,
Is cloth'd with rime of moisture frore:—
So thickly is that mantle hoar
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They seem almost transform'd to stone.
Chief in that long-drawn avenue,
Where those columnar trees you view
In ranks to answering trees oppos'd,
And overhead their branches clos'd
To form a fretted arch above;
Fancy might deem the pillar'd grove,
With arch, and fret, and groinings graced,
And nature's richest tracery laced,
A solemn temple fit to raise
High anthems to the Maker's praise.
Such temples, art's sublimest work,
Majestick Lincoln, stately York,
Are ye! And thou of simpler mien,
Whose matchless spire, ascending seen
Far o'er that Druid-hallow'd plain,
Turns to the sun its gilded vane!
And such, whose long perspective range
Of mullion'd lights, with interchange
Of storied buttress, greets the sight
Of traveller from yon western height,
Thou, Winton!—Oft thy antique pile,
Thy length of nave, and high-roof'd aisle,
Long since with boyish step I paced;
And window, shrine, and pillar traced
With boyish eye.—Now far away
In age to thee the debt I pay
Of memory for my early time:
When in my boyhood's opening prime
That pinnacled and window'd tower,
Which crowns fair learnign's classick bower,
And shares with thee the rival claim
Of interest in thy Wykeham's name,
Enroll'd me in its stoled train;
And, stranger yet to care and pain,
Youth, health, and sport my footsteps led
By Itchin's banks, round Catherine's head.
Ev'n then, as now, I lov'd to share
The freshness of the frosty air,
Pleas'd to explore the incrusted wood,
Upland, and brook, and frozen flood;
But little apt, (for graver themes
Accord but ill with school-boys' dreams,)
Too little apt, with pleasure sought
To mingle heart-improving thought,
And, bee-like, from the fragrant flower
Cull sweets of salutary power!
Majestick Lincoln, stately York,
Are ye! And thou of simpler mien,
Whose matchless spire, ascending seen
Far o'er that Druid-hallow'd plain,
Turns to the sun its gilded vane!
And such, whose long perspective range
Of mullion'd lights, with interchange
Of storied buttress, greets the sight
Of traveller from yon western height,
Thou, Winton!—Oft thy antique pile,
Thy length of nave, and high-roof'd aisle,
Long since with boyish step I paced;
And window, shrine, and pillar traced
With boyish eye.—Now far away
In age to thee the debt I pay
Of memory for my early time:
When in my boyhood's opening prime
That pinnacled and window'd tower,
Which crowns fair learnign's classick bower,
469
Of interest in thy Wykeham's name,
Enroll'd me in its stoled train;
And, stranger yet to care and pain,
Youth, health, and sport my footsteps led
By Itchin's banks, round Catherine's head.
Ev'n then, as now, I lov'd to share
The freshness of the frosty air,
Pleas'd to explore the incrusted wood,
Upland, and brook, and frozen flood;
But little apt, (for graver themes
Accord but ill with school-boys' dreams,)
Too little apt, with pleasure sought
To mingle heart-improving thought,
And, bee-like, from the fragrant flower
Cull sweets of salutary power!
| The British Months | |