 | Landscapes in verse |  |
Fir-grove farewell!—for homeward now we bend
Our matin step, along the down-hill path
That steals into the town: We view the wall,
Along whose top the deathless laurel shews
Its glossy foliage, sacred to the lyre.
With verdure old o'ergrown we note the gate
Of Gothic arching, mantled in the moss,
With clinging ivy crown'd, and many a shrub
That, spurning culture, vegetates on stone,
Mineral or spar, or bloom-forbidding rock!
Sturdy companions of the barren waste,
That artless blossom where the tender flower,
Helpless and delicate, would fade and die:
Like the soft nursling lillies of the world,
That ask the mildest soil, the gentlest breeze,
The fondest care, and wither in the storm,
Which hardier plants, accustom'd to the wild
And season'd to the elements of life,
Would brave. Lo! in perspective fair,
Contrasting yonder poplars' vivid rows,
Where well-arrang'd the vista shines complete,
The clust'ring yew-trees wave the funeral branch
Of never-changing green;—while ancient oaks,
Forefathers of the shade, their patriarch arms
Stretch 'thwart the dell, where many a fathom down
Glooms the still lake, across whose surface dun,
Haunted by pensive water-fowl alone,
The sable moor-hen housing in the sedge,
Or querulous sparrow of the humid reeds)
Slopes the sad willow, weeping as she dips,
In the dark stream her melancholy boughs.
Amidst this varied scenery we sit
A world within ourselves—till forc'd at last
To seek the city, the fair landscape fades
Till morning blooms:—Such, Fancy, are thy gifts;
Thus thou redeem'st remembrance of the past,
At once delicious, dreadful, sadly dear,
Commixture strong of agony and joy,
Transcendent both, and cherish'd both by love,
Whose very griefs are precious:—Take then, take
Thy vot'ry's thanks, pour'd from the fervid heart,
And in the desolate hour of absence dear,
Be ever present, and be ever kind!
Our matin step, along the down-hill path
That steals into the town: We view the wall,
Along whose top the deathless laurel shews
Its glossy foliage, sacred to the lyre.
With verdure old o'ergrown we note the gate
Of Gothic arching, mantled in the moss,
With clinging ivy crown'd, and many a shrub
That, spurning culture, vegetates on stone,
51
Sturdy companions of the barren waste,
That artless blossom where the tender flower,
Helpless and delicate, would fade and die:
Like the soft nursling lillies of the world,
That ask the mildest soil, the gentlest breeze,
The fondest care, and wither in the storm,
Which hardier plants, accustom'd to the wild
And season'd to the elements of life,
Would brave. Lo! in perspective fair,
Contrasting yonder poplars' vivid rows,
Where well-arrang'd the vista shines complete,
The clust'ring yew-trees wave the funeral branch
Of never-changing green;—while ancient oaks,
Forefathers of the shade, their patriarch arms
52
Glooms the still lake, across whose surface dun,
Haunted by pensive water-fowl alone,
The sable moor-hen housing in the sedge,
Or querulous sparrow of the humid reeds)
Slopes the sad willow, weeping as she dips,
In the dark stream her melancholy boughs.
Amidst this varied scenery we sit
A world within ourselves—till forc'd at last
To seek the city, the fair landscape fades
Till morning blooms:—Such, Fancy, are thy gifts;
Thus thou redeem'st remembrance of the past,
At once delicious, dreadful, sadly dear,
Commixture strong of agony and joy,
Transcendent both, and cherish'd both by love,
53
Thy vot'ry's thanks, pour'd from the fervid heart,
And in the desolate hour of absence dear,
Be ever present, and be ever kind!
| Landscapes in verse | |