 | Poems: Second Series |  |
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THE STEPPING STONES.
Thou nameless meeting of two nameless streams—
Sweet haunt—familiar to my wandering feet—
So well beloved, that in my very dreams
Thy murmuring waters meet.
Sweet haunt—familiar to my wandering feet—
So well beloved, that in my very dreams
Thy murmuring waters meet.
My heart is weary of the ways of men:
Fain would I set the busy world aside,
And seek thy solitary paths again,
And hear thy wavelets glide.
Fain would I set the busy world aside,
And seek thy solitary paths again,
And hear thy wavelets glide.
Lo! I am with thee: though yon purple height
Still stands between, and thou art far beyond,
Yet thou dost ever come to bless my sight
When fancy waves her wand.
Still stands between, and thou art far beyond,
Yet thou dost ever come to bless my sight
When fancy waves her wand.
I close my eyes, and out of empty space
I bid them rise, obedient to my will,
The many blended features of thy face—
Mist, moorland, stream and hill.—
I bid them rise, obedient to my will,
The many blended features of thy face—
Mist, moorland, stream and hill.—
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Above—the bluffs of bracken and of rock,
Where desolation has its own sweet charm:—
The scanty pasture,—the wide-wandering flock,—
The last lone upland farm.
Where desolation has its own sweet charm:—
The scanty pasture,—the wide-wandering flock,—
The last lone upland farm.
Below—the broken boulders and the maze
Of waters half bewildered, half in haste,
That wind and wander by so many ways,
Threading thy rocky waste.
Of waters half bewildered, half in haste,
That wind and wander by so many ways,
Threading thy rocky waste.
And the grey causeway through the river's bed,
So rudely shaped that I have deemed it strewn
By Nature's artless hand—in turn I tread
Each wave-worn stepping-stone.
So rudely shaped that I have deemed it strewn
By Nature's artless hand—in turn I tread
Each wave-worn stepping-stone.
And the wide wilderness of moors around,
The russet grass, the fringe of stunted fir,
The ever wakeful wind's mysterious sound,
The moorcock's rushing whirr.
The russet grass, the fringe of stunted fir,
The ever wakeful wind's mysterious sound,
The moorcock's rushing whirr.
I know them all, and wander, not astray,
With tender recollection for my guide,
By every devious heather-hidden way
That leads me to thy side.
With tender recollection for my guide,
By every devious heather-hidden way
That leads me to thy side.
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For who shall tell how often I pursued
My wonted paths to thee, till time had taught
My heart to know thee in each change of mood
That changing Nature wrought?
My wonted paths to thee, till time had taught
My heart to know thee in each change of mood
That changing Nature wrought?
I know that season when the tender haze
Of verdure, stealing through the stunted trees,
Tells me that winter dreams of summer days,
Sunshine and balmy breeze.
Of verdure, stealing through the stunted trees,
Tells me that winter dreams of summer days,
Sunshine and balmy breeze.
And when the summer comes with skies of blue
And purple twilights lingering in the west,
I've stood and watched the clouds of rosy hue
That slumbered on thy breast.
And purple twilights lingering in the west,
I've stood and watched the clouds of rosy hue
That slumbered on thy breast.
And when the rain clouds from the south-west blacken
The lower heaven, and mists of autumn rise,
I've seen the glories of thy faded bracken
Atone for faded skies.
The lower heaven, and mists of autumn rise,
I've seen the glories of thy faded bracken
Atone for faded skies.
Nor least I love thee when the untrodden snow
Enshrouds the moorlands in their swoon of death,
And bleak and bitter are the winds that blow,
With winter in their breath.
Enshrouds the moorlands in their swoon of death,
And bleak and bitter are the winds that blow,
With winter in their breath.
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Nay more—I love thy solitude so well,
That not to thee alone I went to make
My pilgrimage, but every clough and fell
Is sacred for thy sake.
That not to thee alone I went to make
My pilgrimage, but every clough and fell
Is sacred for thy sake.
Thou lesser stream, whose infant life is fed
On western slopes, confess that I have traced
The windings back to where a verdurous thread
Streaks the brown upland waste.
On western slopes, confess that I have traced
The windings back to where a verdurous thread
Streaks the brown upland waste.
And thou fair child of dew and cloud and rain,
What though thy valley is a dreamland still,
Yet chide me not—I tremble to profane
The fancy-haunted hill—
What though thy valley is a dreamland still,
Yet chide me not—I tremble to profane
The fancy-haunted hill—
That hallowed spot where moorland mist conceals
The lonely nymph that holds thy fountain urn,
And ever bending o'er thy cradle kneels,
Waist-deep in heath and fern.
The lonely nymph that holds thy fountain urn,
And ever bending o'er thy cradle kneels,
Waist-deep in heath and fern.
And I have tracked the mingled streams below
Through one deep gorge of wood and crag and heath,
And heard the waves with murmured music flow
Invisible beneath.
Through one deep gorge of wood and crag and heath,
And heard the waves with murmured music flow
Invisible beneath.
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Why do I love thee so? What magic spell,
What subtle charm has thus enthralled my heart?
I know not—'tis enough that I love well
Thee, whatsoe'er thou art.
What subtle charm has thus enthralled my heart?
I know not—'tis enough that I love well
Thee, whatsoe'er thou art.
Love cares but little how or whence she came—
In what an hour—from what sufficient source:—
Her only warrant is her own pure flame—
Her calm and constant course.
In what an hour—from what sufficient source:—
Her only warrant is her own pure flame—
Her calm and constant course.
I have seen stately rivers roll the snow
Of mighty mountains through a boundless plain,
And blend in one their ample floods and flow
Broad bosomed to the main.
Of mighty mountains through a boundless plain,
And blend in one their ample floods and flow
Broad bosomed to the main.
I have seen streams that wandered murmuring down
Deep dales in many-tinted verdure drest,
Mingle with melody their waters brown
By bending branches blest.
Deep dales in many-tinted verdure drest,
Mingle with melody their waters brown
By bending branches blest.
I have seen mountain torrents held asunder
In lonely chasms, leap quivering with the shock
Into one dark abyss of foam and thunder,
Through gates of dungeon rock.
In lonely chasms, leap quivering with the shock
Into one dark abyss of foam and thunder,
Through gates of dungeon rock.
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Fair nymphs are those whose queenly locks are wound
With garland rare or pearl-inwoven wreath,—
But fairer far thy simple tresses bound
With spray of russet heath.
With garland rare or pearl-inwoven wreath,—
But fairer far thy simple tresses bound
With spray of russet heath.
And still each pious pilgrimage reveals
Thee in thy wonted beauty—fresh as fair—
Fresh as the breath of spring-time when it heals
The earth of her despair.
Thee in thy wonted beauty—fresh as fair—
Fresh as the breath of spring-time when it heals
The earth of her despair.
And still I learn of thee, and still renew
The thrill of peace that erst thy message gave,
That there are rifts of pure ethereal blue,
Though blinding tempests rave.
The thrill of peace that erst thy message gave,
That there are rifts of pure ethereal blue,
Though blinding tempests rave.
I learn of thee that there are isles of palm
Sown in the weariest waste of burning sand,
And dews of twilight falling fresh and calm
To bless the thirstiest land.
Sown in the weariest waste of burning sand,
And dews of twilight falling fresh and calm
To bless the thirstiest land.
I learn of thee that nature yet doth keep
Some secret havens of unrippled rest,
Where rise and sink in rhythmic accents deep
The pulses of her breast.
Some secret havens of unrippled rest,
Where rise and sink in rhythmic accents deep
The pulses of her breast.
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And still, when winds awake and billows beat,
I go to thee—blest haven that thou art—
And in thy solitude hold converse sweet
With nature—heart to heart.
I go to thee—blest haven that thou art—
And in thy solitude hold converse sweet
With nature—heart to heart.
| Poems: Second Series | |