The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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MY OWN STUDY. |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
134
MY OWN STUDY.
“In what is familiar and near at hand, the ordinary poet discerns no
form or comeliness: home is not poetical but prosaic....But yet as a
great moralist proposed preaching to the men of this century, so would we
fain preach to the poets ‘a sermon on the duty of staying at home.’
“The poet, we cannot but think, can never have far to seek for a subject:
the elements of his art are in him, and around him on every hand; for
him the ideal world is not remote from the actual, but under it and within
it: nay, he is a poet precisely because he can discern it there.”
—Carlyle.
If you have read some hundreds of these lines,
Reader, you 've grown quite intimate with me;
And, like a favoured friend, I make you now
Free of the little study where I write;
So that, whenever near the bolted door
I hear your footstep, I shall open it:
And if you be a Lady Beautiful,
I am your subject, you my royal guest—
You shall receive the welcome of a queen
From one you honour so.
Reader, you 've grown quite intimate with me;
And, like a favoured friend, I make you now
Free of the little study where I write;
So that, whenever near the bolted door
I hear your footstep, I shall open it:
And if you be a Lady Beautiful,
I am your subject, you my royal guest—
You shall receive the welcome of a queen
From one you honour so.
It is a room
Wherein my youthful fancy has run wild—
Antique and rich—a little Abbotsford.
Herein concentrates all my love of home—
A narrow region, yet an ample chase
For such unbounded and immense pursuits,
As all the years of life could not exhaust.
I here surround myself with memories
Of the great past, and hopes for time to come.
Science farsighted, speaking prophecy;
And History, a garrulous old man
With a bad memory, mixing useful truth
With spurious tales, repeated till the tongue
By habit forfeits the advice of Doubt,
The sire of Science.
Wherein my youthful fancy has run wild—
135
Herein concentrates all my love of home—
A narrow region, yet an ample chase
For such unbounded and immense pursuits,
As all the years of life could not exhaust.
I here surround myself with memories
Of the great past, and hopes for time to come.
Science farsighted, speaking prophecy;
And History, a garrulous old man
With a bad memory, mixing useful truth
With spurious tales, repeated till the tongue
By habit forfeits the advice of Doubt,
The sire of Science.
My small armoury,
(A helmet from the priory of Kirklees,
With sword and pistol underneath it) hangs
Above the panels of the chimneypiece.
That iron cap reminds me of the grave
Where Robert rests, “the Erle of Huntingdon.”
The pistol has belonged to some dragoon
In Cromwell's war; 'twas found in yonder orchard,
Deep in the soil beneath a damson-tree.
Some highbacked chairs are ranged about the room—
One laden with portfolios. On the walls,
A sword or two, and horns of buffaloes,
With portraits of old Flemish Burgomeisters,
Copied from Rembrandt with a boyish hand
Unequal to translate his majesty.
Still in the evening light those bearded men
Sit calmly gazing from their oaken frames,
Not ill according with the sombre room.
Like strong supporters of a blazoned shield,
My hearth is guarded by two massive chairs,
Whose backs and arms are rough with carvings quaint:
That which is near the window has a desk
Beside it; there I labour in the day:
But when long evenings come in winter time,
I light my lamp upon the little table
That to the wall on one stout pillar stands,
Close to the other chair, and there I sit
Reading the Poets; while upon the hearth,
Languid and panting with oppressive heat,
And barking feebly in her doating dreams,
Lies my old dog, the friend of many years.
Old friend! I pause a moment to record
Our long attachment, and my own regret
That years which bring increasing strength to me
Are thy decay. Sleep on that glowing hearth,
Thou dost not fear a colder place of rest.
(A helmet from the priory of Kirklees,
With sword and pistol underneath it) hangs
Above the panels of the chimneypiece.
That iron cap reminds me of the grave
Where Robert rests, “the Erle of Huntingdon.”
The pistol has belonged to some dragoon
In Cromwell's war; 'twas found in yonder orchard,
Deep in the soil beneath a damson-tree.
Some highbacked chairs are ranged about the room—
One laden with portfolios. On the walls,
A sword or two, and horns of buffaloes,
With portraits of old Flemish Burgomeisters,
Copied from Rembrandt with a boyish hand
Unequal to translate his majesty.
136
Sit calmly gazing from their oaken frames,
Not ill according with the sombre room.
Like strong supporters of a blazoned shield,
My hearth is guarded by two massive chairs,
Whose backs and arms are rough with carvings quaint:
That which is near the window has a desk
Beside it; there I labour in the day:
But when long evenings come in winter time,
I light my lamp upon the little table
That to the wall on one stout pillar stands,
Close to the other chair, and there I sit
Reading the Poets; while upon the hearth,
Languid and panting with oppressive heat,
And barking feebly in her doating dreams,
Lies my old dog, the friend of many years.
Old friend! I pause a moment to record
Our long attachment, and my own regret
That years which bring increasing strength to me
Are thy decay. Sleep on that glowing hearth,
Thou dost not fear a colder place of rest.
I have not shown you all. Those bookcases
Between the carved pilasters there recessed
Afford a curious index to my taste.
My good old tutor shakes his wealthy head,
And gravely looks unutterable things;
For Homer sleeps with half his leaves uncut—
Yes, I confess it—half his leaves uncut—
And Cæsar slumbers near Herodotus.
Shakspeare is more disturbed than Sophocles,
And Thomas Moore than sweet Anacreon;
Byron than Ovid; Pindar yields to Pope;
And Virgil, sadly thumbed in idleness,
To Milton gives precedence, as he ought.
But Horace—“Horace whom I hated so,”
Conciliates me by opening at the place
Where he describes a little glassy stream,
An ilex, and some water-hollowed rocks.
I hate the cant of sanctity, but have
Some Bibles better read than you suppose;
Sermons of old divines, and sounder strength
Of recent thinkers; books on harlot Rome,
Collected when my soul in ignorance
Burned to behold the doom of Antichrist;
Rejoicing when the Roman mob expelled
Pius from the Quirinal, deeming thus
The island saint's dark prophecy fulfilled—
Foreshadowings of the dread Apocalypse!
These on the higher shelves, but nearer hand,
The jarring sounds of controversy change
To music written by more gentle souls,
Whose very lives were songs and melodies—
Beethoven, Spohr, Viotti, and Mozart.
Between the carved pilasters there recessed
Afford a curious index to my taste.
My good old tutor shakes his wealthy head,
And gravely looks unutterable things;
137
Yes, I confess it—half his leaves uncut—
And Cæsar slumbers near Herodotus.
Shakspeare is more disturbed than Sophocles,
And Thomas Moore than sweet Anacreon;
Byron than Ovid; Pindar yields to Pope;
And Virgil, sadly thumbed in idleness,
To Milton gives precedence, as he ought.
But Horace—“Horace whom I hated so,”
Conciliates me by opening at the place
Where he describes a little glassy stream,
An ilex, and some water-hollowed rocks.
I hate the cant of sanctity, but have
Some Bibles better read than you suppose;
Sermons of old divines, and sounder strength
Of recent thinkers; books on harlot Rome,
Collected when my soul in ignorance
Burned to behold the doom of Antichrist;
Rejoicing when the Roman mob expelled
Pius from the Quirinal, deeming thus
The island saint's dark prophecy fulfilled—
Foreshadowings of the dread Apocalypse!
These on the higher shelves, but nearer hand,
The jarring sounds of controversy change
To music written by more gentle souls,
Whose very lives were songs and melodies—
Beethoven, Spohr, Viotti, and Mozart.
138
As sweet as these, as perfect harmonies,
The vignettes of that wonderful old man
Whose being was a myth, a mystery,
Secluded in a city, at whose death
The feeble critics whom his works refute
Confessed his greatness. His was honest faith
In nature, which would not anticipate,
With crude and childish systems of its own,
The wisdom it at length interpreted.
Rogers was guided by unerring sense
As well as taste, when, like a prudent father,
He gave the gentle daughters of his brain,
Refined, accomplished, bred in elegance,
In marriage to the works of such a man.
Painters may thank thee, Rogers; for thy pen
Exulteth not in mountains, while to him
They were companions; and thy words are thus
Subdued and quiet foils to Turner's force.
So Painting triumphs over Poetry,
Lines over language. His superior strength
Lifts up thy weakness to a higher seat
Than thou, unaided, mightest hope to reach.
Together welcome, then, ye wedded works,
Together welcome to my choicest shelf!
The vignettes of that wonderful old man
Whose being was a myth, a mystery,
Secluded in a city, at whose death
The feeble critics whom his works refute
Confessed his greatness. His was honest faith
In nature, which would not anticipate,
With crude and childish systems of its own,
The wisdom it at length interpreted.
Rogers was guided by unerring sense
As well as taste, when, like a prudent father,
He gave the gentle daughters of his brain,
Refined, accomplished, bred in elegance,
In marriage to the works of such a man.
Painters may thank thee, Rogers; for thy pen
Exulteth not in mountains, while to him
They were companions; and thy words are thus
Subdued and quiet foils to Turner's force.
So Painting triumphs over Poetry,
Lines over language. His superior strength
Lifts up thy weakness to a higher seat
Than thou, unaided, mightest hope to reach.
Together welcome, then, ye wedded works,
Together welcome to my choicest shelf!
We will not spoil a festival of bookworms,
Or break upon a banquet, or disturb
Those heavy tomes of county history,
Which no one cares to study but myself.
But this old griffin cabinet wants air
In its recesses, for its doors conceal
A heap of parchment genealogies,
With shields of worth besprinkled, some the toil
Of a strange boyhood spent in odd pursuits.
This oak-bound volume, full of shields of arms,
Each shield illumined on a leaf of parchment,
With brazen clasps and tassels like a missal,
Remains a trophy of my wanderings
Among the fossil lore of feudal times.
But brighter trophies of a nobler chase
Are treasured in the same old cabinet—
They were the dearest playthings of a child,
Whose pastimes were instruction. Pillars, jars,
And cylinders of crystal, spheres of brass,
And pointed rods, and coils of covered wire,
Relics of days when streams of purple sparks
Were to myself as thunderbolts to Jove;
And Knowledge first exulted in her strength,
And coiled her iron, clothing it with force
To lift huge weights, then suddenly deprived,
Drop them in utter weakness, paralysed,
Like a strong athlete stricken by disease.
Or break upon a banquet, or disturb
Those heavy tomes of county history,
139
But this old griffin cabinet wants air
In its recesses, for its doors conceal
A heap of parchment genealogies,
With shields of worth besprinkled, some the toil
Of a strange boyhood spent in odd pursuits.
This oak-bound volume, full of shields of arms,
Each shield illumined on a leaf of parchment,
With brazen clasps and tassels like a missal,
Remains a trophy of my wanderings
Among the fossil lore of feudal times.
But brighter trophies of a nobler chase
Are treasured in the same old cabinet—
They were the dearest playthings of a child,
Whose pastimes were instruction. Pillars, jars,
And cylinders of crystal, spheres of brass,
And pointed rods, and coils of covered wire,
Relics of days when streams of purple sparks
Were to myself as thunderbolts to Jove;
And Knowledge first exulted in her strength,
And coiled her iron, clothing it with force
To lift huge weights, then suddenly deprived,
Drop them in utter weakness, paralysed,
Like a strong athlete stricken by disease.
My window faces to the morning sun,
And in its bright recess has found a place
My music-stand, whose pillar bound with vines
Supports a panel which the carver left
Blank in the centre only, tempting me
Anachronism so to disregard,
That in the little circle you behold
A bronze medallion head of Paganini!
Now in the darkest corner of the room
My folded easel leans against the wall;
But on the table with my favourite books
Etchings are scattered, and the precious prints
Of Albert Durer, him of Nuremberg.
And in its bright recess has found a place
My music-stand, whose pillar bound with vines
140
Blank in the centre only, tempting me
Anachronism so to disregard,
That in the little circle you behold
A bronze medallion head of Paganini!
Now in the darkest corner of the room
My folded easel leans against the wall;
But on the table with my favourite books
Etchings are scattered, and the precious prints
Of Albert Durer, him of Nuremberg.
'Tis evening now, and through the painted glass
The mellow light of early autumn falls.
There are six yew-trees in the garden square;
And a coeval sundial in the midst.
The level breeze that plays upon the beds,
With tender fingers lifts the scarlet bells
Of the rich fuchsia; and the velvet leaves
Of that bright overblown anemone
Are curling backwards, blazing to the sun.
There is a tree of scentless mignonette;
Poppies with ribbon leaves, and many flowers
I love so well, that every morn I seek
To greet them with a pretty English name.
Mallows with petals softly pencilled deep,
That treasure in the bottom of their cups
A little cinquefoil of transparent green;
Nasturtians rambling wide with table leaves,
Whereon the crystal dew of early morn
Lingers till noon, and flowers of golden hue,
From which the limners of monastic times
First learned to shade their yellows with carmine;
A mountain flower, the dwarf campagnula,
With little snowy bells in tender green;
Horned violets; and pansies purple-winged,
With golden petals deepening where they meet;
A cinquefoil once all yellow with its flowers,
But now declining like a generous heart,
Who, having scattered freely all his gold,
Is beggared in the autumn of his life.
The mellow light of early autumn falls.
There are six yew-trees in the garden square;
And a coeval sundial in the midst.
The level breeze that plays upon the beds,
With tender fingers lifts the scarlet bells
Of the rich fuchsia; and the velvet leaves
Of that bright overblown anemone
Are curling backwards, blazing to the sun.
There is a tree of scentless mignonette;
Poppies with ribbon leaves, and many flowers
I love so well, that every morn I seek
To greet them with a pretty English name.
Mallows with petals softly pencilled deep,
That treasure in the bottom of their cups
A little cinquefoil of transparent green;
Nasturtians rambling wide with table leaves,
141
Lingers till noon, and flowers of golden hue,
From which the limners of monastic times
First learned to shade their yellows with carmine;
A mountain flower, the dwarf campagnula,
With little snowy bells in tender green;
Horned violets; and pansies purple-winged,
With golden petals deepening where they meet;
A cinquefoil once all yellow with its flowers,
But now declining like a generous heart,
Who, having scattered freely all his gold,
Is beggared in the autumn of his life.
All these are glowing through my lower panes,
With richer hues than any painted glass
That ever gleamed in Gothic tracery.
Nor want they fit relief, for sombre green
Clothes the six yews, whose solid cones arise
At all the angles of the garden walks,
Trimmed as they have been for a century.
The orchard lies beyond; the meadow then,
With its plantations backed by distant hills;
And over all the blueness of the sky.
With richer hues than any painted glass
That ever gleamed in Gothic tracery.
Nor want they fit relief, for sombre green
Clothes the six yews, whose solid cones arise
At all the angles of the garden walks,
Trimmed as they have been for a century.
The orchard lies beyond; the meadow then,
With its plantations backed by distant hills;
And over all the blueness of the sky.
I will not close the curtains, for the time
Is full of beauty. Near the southern tree
Venus is brightening in the quiet air;
And from the lofty gable overhead
An owl has launched, and takes his buoyant flight
On ghostly wings between the mournful yews.
Is full of beauty. Near the southern tree
Venus is brightening in the quiet air;
And from the lofty gable overhead
142
On ghostly wings between the mournful yews.
The dewy meadow is exhaling mist
That whitens in the moonlight like a lake,
Round clumps of birches fair as wooded isles.
Broad paths of shadow streak the glistening grass
Down gentle slopes. The dark plantations round
Grow faint with mist between. The distant hills
Melt all their outlines into vapour dim,
Along their ridges heavily-streaming red
Beneath the warm, grey sky. Now open wide
The window—listen to the flooded brook,
Still flooded though subsiding, in the glen,
Murmuring amongst the rocks with hollow voice.
The waning moon is grey, with sunken cheek.
Clouds there are none, save one ascending bank
That mars the outline of the southern hill.
The stars are few, and all their stony orbs
Gleam deathlike through the dull discoloured sky.
That whitens in the moonlight like a lake,
Round clumps of birches fair as wooded isles.
Broad paths of shadow streak the glistening grass
Down gentle slopes. The dark plantations round
Grow faint with mist between. The distant hills
Melt all their outlines into vapour dim,
Along their ridges heavily-streaming red
Beneath the warm, grey sky. Now open wide
The window—listen to the flooded brook,
Still flooded though subsiding, in the glen,
Murmuring amongst the rocks with hollow voice.
The waning moon is grey, with sunken cheek.
Clouds there are none, save one ascending bank
That mars the outline of the southern hill.
The stars are few, and all their stony orbs
Gleam deathlike through the dull discoloured sky.
But close the window now, for I have grown
Half sad with the solemnity of night.
I draw the crimson curtains, light my lamp,
And read again the “Ancient Mariner,”
Or that mysterious torso “Christabel.”
Half sad with the solemnity of night.
I draw the crimson curtains, light my lamp,
And read again the “Ancient Mariner,”
Or that mysterious torso “Christabel.”
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