Poems By Frederick William Faber: Third edition |
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| VIII. | VIII. ON REVISITING THE RIVER EDEN,
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 | Poems |  |
113
VIII. ON REVISITING THE RIVER EDEN,
IN WESTMORELAND, 1836.
At night I heard the river's quiet sound
Still flowing on o'er that enchanted ground
As years ago it flowed: th' autumnal breeze
Lay hushed within the dark-leaved alder-trees,
And from unclouded skies the moon's cold beam
Fell in a silver shower upon the stream;
And oh! how fair, how heavenly fair the scene
Caught through the leafy aisles and arches green,
Where light and shade, most marvellously thrown,
Rest on each giant tree and mossy stone!
Soft—as the light that Faith doth shed around,
Whene'er her pathway lies through holy ground;
Dim—as the mist through which she loves to see
But half-unveiled the lines of mystery;
Glorious beyond expression—as the thought,
The hour of death to saintly men hath brought!
Still flowing on o'er that enchanted ground
As years ago it flowed: th' autumnal breeze
Lay hushed within the dark-leaved alder-trees,
And from unclouded skies the moon's cold beam
Fell in a silver shower upon the stream;
And oh! how fair, how heavenly fair the scene
Caught through the leafy aisles and arches green,
Where light and shade, most marvellously thrown,
Rest on each giant tree and mossy stone!
Soft—as the light that Faith doth shed around,
Whene'er her pathway lies through holy ground;
Dim—as the mist through which she loves to see
But half-unveiled the lines of mystery;
Glorious beyond expression—as the thought,
The hour of death to saintly men hath brought!
Ah! Memory wakes to feel at this lone hour
Her own dear Eden's meekest, holiest power;
How many a tale of other times she brings
With her eternal, harp-like murmurings!
How sad the thought that weary years are gone
And the steep heights of virtue not yet won;
Alas! how sharp the pang, how keen the sense
Of vows forgotten, slighted penitence;
And yet how cheering too the hope from heaven
Of mercy there, and sin that is forgiven.
Her own dear Eden's meekest, holiest power;
How many a tale of other times she brings
With her eternal, harp-like murmurings!
How sad the thought that weary years are gone
And the steep heights of virtue not yet won;
114
Of vows forgotten, slighted penitence;
And yet how cheering too the hope from heaven
Of mercy there, and sin that is forgiven.
Dear Eden! the retreats of this green wood
Have heard the roar of many a winter flood,
Since last I wandered here to while away
The golden hours of schoolboy holiday:
Thoughtful even then because of the excess
Of boyhood's rich abounding happiness;
And sad whene'er St. Stephen's curfew-bell
Warned me to leave the spots I loved so well.
Each hazel-copse, each greenly-tangled bower
Is sacred to some well-remembered hour;
Some quiet hour when Nature did her part,
And worked her spell upon my childish heart.
Ah! little deemed I then that thou couldst wind
Thyself with such strange power into my mind.
Sweet scene! thou art not changed since then!—the air,
The trees, the fields, all are, as then they were,
Happy and beautiful, like fairy-land
Fresh born beneath the wild enchanter's wand.
Have heard the roar of many a winter flood,
Since last I wandered here to while away
The golden hours of schoolboy holiday:
Thoughtful even then because of the excess
Of boyhood's rich abounding happiness;
And sad whene'er St. Stephen's curfew-bell
Warned me to leave the spots I loved so well.
Each hazel-copse, each greenly-tangled bower
Is sacred to some well-remembered hour;
Some quiet hour when Nature did her part,
And worked her spell upon my childish heart.
Ah! little deemed I then that thou couldst wind
Thyself with such strange power into my mind.
Sweet scene! thou art not changed since then!—the air,
The trees, the fields, all are, as then they were,
Happy and beautiful, like fairy-land
Fresh born beneath the wild enchanter's wand.
But hark! down Kirby vale the curfew knell—
Then fare thee well, dear Eden, fare thee well!
And may thine image, wildly-dashing river,
Abide with me an household thing for ever.
Then fare thee well, dear Eden, fare thee well!
And may thine image, wildly-dashing river,
Abide with me an household thing for ever.
| Poems | |