The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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THE TOKEN STREAM OF TIDNA COMBE. |
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
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THE TOKEN STREAM OF TIDNA COMBE.
A source of gentle waters, mute and mild,
A few calm reeds around the sedgy brink,
The loneliest bird, that flees to waste or wild,
Might fold its feathers here in peace to drink.
A few calm reeds around the sedgy brink,
The loneliest bird, that flees to waste or wild,
Might fold its feathers here in peace to drink.
I do remember me of such a scene,
Far in the depths of memory's glimmering hour,
When earth looked e'en on me with tranquil mien,
And life gushed, like this fountain in her bower.
Far in the depths of memory's glimmering hour,
When earth looked e'en on me with tranquil mien,
And life gushed, like this fountain in her bower.
But lo! a little on, a gliding stream,
Fed with fresh rills from fields before unknown,
Where the glad roses on its banks may dream
The watery mirror spreads for them alone.
Fed with fresh rills from fields before unknown,
Where the glad roses on its banks may dream
The watery mirror spreads for them alone.
Ah! Woe is me! that flood, those flowers, recall
A gleaming glimpse of Time's departed shore,
Where now no dews descend, no sunbeams fall,
And leaf and blossom burst, no more, no more!
A gleaming glimpse of Time's departed shore,
Where now no dews descend, no sunbeams fall,
And leaf and blossom burst, no more, no more!
See now! with heart more stern, and statelier force,
Through Tidna's vale the river leaps along;
The strength of many trees shall guard its course,
Birds in the branches soothe it with their song.
Through Tidna's vale the river leaps along;
The strength of many trees shall guard its course,
Birds in the branches soothe it with their song.
O type of a far scene! the lovely land
Where youth wins many a friend, and I had one;
Still do thy bulwarks, dear old Oxford, stand?
Yet, Isis, do thy thoughtful waters run?
Where youth wins many a friend, and I had one;
Still do thy bulwarks, dear old Oxford, stand?
Yet, Isis, do thy thoughtful waters run?
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But hush! a spell is o'er thy conscious wave,
Pause and move onward with obedient tread;
At yonder wheel they bind thee for their slave,
Hireling of man, they use thy toil for bread.
Pause and move onward with obedient tread;
At yonder wheel they bind thee for their slave,
Hireling of man, they use thy toil for bread.
Still is thy stream an image of the days
At duty's loneliest labour meekly bound;
The foot of joy is hush'd, the voice of praise,
We twain have reached the stern and anxious ground.
At duty's loneliest labour meekly bound;
The foot of joy is hush'd, the voice of praise,
We twain have reached the stern and anxious ground.
And now what hills shall smile, what depths remain,
Thou tamed and chastened wanderer, for thee?
A rocky path, a solitary plain
Must be thy broken channel to the sea.
Thou tamed and chastened wanderer, for thee?
A rocky path, a solitary plain
Must be thy broken channel to the sea.
Come then, sad river, let our footsteps blend
Onward, by silent bank, and nameless stone:
Our years began alike, so let them end,—
We live with many men, we die alone.
Onward, by silent bank, and nameless stone:
Our years began alike, so let them end,—
We live with many men, we die alone.
Why dost thou slowly wind and sadly turn,
As loth to leave e'en this most joyless shore?
Doth thy heart fail thee? do thy waters yearn
For the far fields of memory once more?
As loth to leave e'en this most joyless shore?
Doth thy heart fail thee? do thy waters yearn
For the far fields of memory once more?
Ah me! my soul, and thou art treacherous too,
Linked to this fatal flesh, a fettered thrall:
The sin, the sorrow, why would'st thou renew?
The past, the perish'd, vain and idle all!
Linked to this fatal flesh, a fettered thrall:
The sin, the sorrow, why would'st thou renew?
The past, the perish'd, vain and idle all!
Away! behold at last the torrent leap,
Glad, glad to mingle with yon foamy brine;
Free and unmourn'd, the cataract cleaves the steep—
O river of the rocks, thy fate is mine!
Glad, glad to mingle with yon foamy brine;
Free and unmourn'd, the cataract cleaves the steep—
O river of the rocks, thy fate is mine!
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |