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129
Pencil or Pen.
(CWM ELAN, NEAR RHAYADR.)
Oh, for the spell of the artist's brush,
To carry this golden glen,
And to set it there 'mid the roar and rush
Of wearily toiling men!
To carry this golden glen,
And to set it there 'mid the roar and rush
Of wearily toiling men!
They should gaze on the mountain's eloquent face,
They should breathe its fragrant air,
And perchance a dream of the wondrous grace
Might lighten a dim heart there.
They should breathe its fragrant air,
And perchance a dream of the wondrous grace
Might lighten a dim heart there.
Ah, toiler! not for myself alone
Would I love all fair things well;—
Thou shalt sit with me on my mossy throne
At the foot of the upland dell.
Would I love all fair things well;—
Thou shalt sit with me on my mossy throne
At the foot of the upland dell.
Thou shalt gaze with me on the mountain sweep,
With its manifold changeful hue;
Thou shalt watch with me the cloudlet sleep
On the breast of the changeless blue.
With its manifold changeful hue;
Thou shalt watch with me the cloudlet sleep
On the breast of the changeless blue.
130
Here purple with heather, there green with fern,
The broad slopes gleam afar;
And ruddy the slanting sun-rays burn
In the thorn-bush on the scar.
The broad slopes gleam afar;
And ruddy the slanting sun-rays burn
In the thorn-bush on the scar.
Thou shalt watch the stream, from pool to pool
Singing and smiling still,
In its mimic waterfalls, bright and cool,
As it drops from the far-drawn hill.
Singing and smiling still,
In its mimic waterfalls, bright and cool,
As it drops from the far-drawn hill.
See how it creeps by the alder-roots
And the mosses brown and green!
See how in silver bars it shoots
The boulder-stones between!
And the mosses brown and green!
See how in silver bars it shoots
The boulder-stones between!
See how the fountains of snowy spray,
As joyously on they run
Over the level slabs of grey,
Are dancing in the sun!
As joyously on they run
Over the level slabs of grey,
Are dancing in the sun!
I envied thee, painter, thy artist eye,
As I looked on the hollow hill;
Yet are there no graces too softly shy
For the magic of thy skill?
As I looked on the hollow hill;
Yet are there no graces too softly shy
For the magic of thy skill?
Lo! wonderful mosses and tiny flowers
Make the marge of the streamlet fair,
For it is not a grudging hand that dowers
The glen with its beauty rare.
Make the marge of the streamlet fair,
For it is not a grudging hand that dowers
The glen with its beauty rare.
131
And the mystic wonder of the place,
In things both great and small,
Is the witchery of exquisite grace
That crowns and perfects all.
In things both great and small,
Is the witchery of exquisite grace
That crowns and perfects all.
And while thou, O artist, the great things seest,
And the splendour, as 'tis meet,
I may turn my freer gaze to feast
On the small grace at my feet.
And the splendour, as 'tis meet,
I may turn my freer gaze to feast
On the small grace at my feet.
The Pimpernel twines its tender thread
'Mid the mosses green and wet,
And the Sundew nestles in russet bed
With its glistening coronet.
'Mid the mosses green and wet,
And the Sundew nestles in russet bed
With its glistening coronet.
The Wild-thyme curves out its fretted spray,
And many a cushion swells
Of the Ivy-leafed Campanula
With its thousand fairy bells.
And many a cushion swells
Of the Ivy-leafed Campanula
With its thousand fairy bells.
Then the magic pencil I'll crave no more,
But I'll wield my uncouth pen,
And the mosses and flowers shall bring their store
For the solace of weary men.
But I'll wield my uncouth pen,
And the mosses and flowers shall bring their store
For the solace of weary men.
And the care-worn toiler in dusty ways
The things that I see shall see,
And shall sing to the Giver his song of praise,
As he shares my joy with me.
The things that I see shall see,
And shall sing to the Giver his song of praise,
As he shares my joy with me.
(1883.)
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