University of Virginia Library

Ye clear waves, with your murmuring, murmuring flow,
Whence do you come—and whither do ye go?
You seem in gentle haste, as though to escape
Some fast pursuer, which my thoughts can shape
Fantastically and grotesquely now
Into some Sea-God, with his furrowed brow—
Into some rough old Sea-God's rugged form,
Chief of the tides, and ruler of the storm—
Lord of the depths, and master of the wave,
Liege of the rock, and monarch of the cave!
Who, shaking back the deep locks from his face,
Drives the light dancing waves with idle chace;
Or, we might dream you onwards, onwards come
To seek the shore as Exiles would their home—
But like a keen fond hope, whose darling aim
Is ever missed—ye, vainly, wander tame
Like shepherdless flocks, although in sooth ye reach
That which appears your goal—the shell-strewn beach;
But when ye reach it—still do ye recoil
And but repeat your task—renew your toil
As though by disappointment faintly crossed,
And while your end was gained, yourselves were lost.
So in confusion sweet, ye seem to track
Your own light watery footsteps softly back.
Bear with ye—Oh! ye wanderers—bear my thoughts,
Mournful and faint, as Echo's dying notes!—
But bear them with ye wheresoe'er ye go,
So that no more unto myself they flow!
Whither they may escape I little care—
To lose them—to forget them—is my pray'r,
For heavy are they, sad and full of gloom,
And make this Earth a universal tomb!
Oh! could erazure be serenely made
Of their dull traceries—painfully displayed
Along this altered aspect—that no more
May wear that lightsome look which once it wore,
Then might I hail the glory and the grace
That lives on Nature's ever-changing face,
Nor feel my hopeless, restless self the while
Almost a blot upon her beam-bright smile—
A dull deep silence in that song of praise
Which she doth ever in her gladness raise—
Lone in her populous and stirring scenes,
Whence the sick heart but dubious solace gleans;
Dead in her life—and dark within her light,
A spot upon her garments sheen and white,
A drop of gall in her deep cup of bliss—
And could it be I was reserved for this?

Be still, vain thoughts; let soul, and ear, and eye,
Drink in this slumberous monotony,
This quiet of the Ocean—hushed and calm,
That through the Existence sheds a blessed balm—
Aye! even despite of many griefs, through mine,
And I will rouse me now and not repine.
Yet could ye, could ye, little wandering waves,
O'er whose light wreaths no rough'ning storm-gust raves,
Could you but take my keen thoughts for your guests,
And lull them as in ever-rocking nests,
'Mid your blue ripples, and soft rufflings mild,
Till they, that were like vultures fierce and wild,
As calm and still as halcyons even might grow,
Forgetful of their fond and feverish woe;
Or could you but far hence those vain thoughts bear,
Oh! could ye waft them swiftly—any where!
E'en to the Horizon's aëry harbour dim,
Where fails the eye to mark its shadowy rim—
Or to the Ocean's wide and wond'rous waste,
Where Sea and Sky together seem embraced—
I care not where they may their dwelling find,
So they are banished from my weary mind!

The hour's enchanting—the transcendent sky
Is blue as Homer imaged Pallas' eye;
Blue—blue, and bright even painfully! I turn
My dazzled eyes away, that throb and burn,
Fatigued by Beauty—Beauty ev'n will tire
Eyes that have quenched in tears their pristine fire.

I sit me down beside this lovely Sea,
Fain to partake its pure tranquillity;
How fair it is, how calm and smooth it lies,
As 'twould not break the image of the Skies,
So brightly painted on its polished breast,
In all the placid loveliness of rest!
How fair it is!—how gently should those wild,
Those fierce concussions of jarred thought sink mild
Before such happy influences as here
With tenderest power and soft prevailings dear
Come consentaneously upon the Soul!—
Still warbling—shining on, and warbling roll
Ye waves of beauty then, and wile away
The ills that cloud my spirit night and day,
Till those sad visitors, dark Grief and Pain,
(Wont, if we once receive them, to remain)
And sick Depression with its half formed tear!
And vain and passionate Regret—pale Fear—
And paler far Suspense—lie down and sleep,
And Memory, hushed and lulled, forgets to weep!
Oh! could we keep our Spirits pure and fair,
That Heaven might be serenely mirror'd there
As now upon this glad and glassy tide
Stamped with its face, with its complexion dyed,
Nor break its blessed Image in our Soul,
Where Pride's stern billows dark and threat'ning roll,
Where Passion's stormy rufflings troublous spread,
And terrors dire awake, and tumults dread—
Then were we happy—then most truly blest—
Then were our lot Earth's brightest and Earth's best.
But mark how few do thus—Alas! how few,
Though all believe 'tis Peace that they pursue
The while anxieties of every kind
They seek to plant within the unquiet mind,
And rashly court to their own bitter grief
Those ills from which they most should pray relief,
Till all their Being's fountains, which should be
Preserved in clear transparent purity,
Are clouded o'er, disturbed, and dimmed, and stained,
And no fair trace of Heaven is there retained!
Wrapped round with gloom and darkness as a vest,
With vile or troublous images impressed,
How are the Soul's unfathomable deeps
Lost to the peace the very Ocean reaps
From time to time—when winds forget to blow,
And the Elements their hour of stillness know.

Beautiful—beautiful—the purple floor
Of Ocean is, as 'twere strewed brightly o'er
With gems of old monarchic pomp; 'tis lit
As if by melting stars—I pondering sit—
And let the Beauty that around me glows
Sink through my gladdened spirit—from the rose
These hours seem coloured, and too clear and bright
Are they to be insulted in their flight,
(Around them scattering visions of delight)
By Sorrow's trembling accents and her tears,
By Care's vain bodements and uneasy fears?
No! we should chase our sorrows, and aside
Should cast our inner weight, and closely hide
Our cares within their secret, silent nest,
At Nature's feast to move a fitting guest;
Where all appear to triumph and rejoice,
Shall we uplift a harsh discordant voice?
Where all are smiling, shall we coldly frown,
And dash the cup of proffered gladness down,
And spurn the flowers presented by her hand,
With kind allurement and persuasion bland?
To throw the ashes of despair instead
Upon the heavy and dejected head!
And come into her glorious presence, drest
As in a sombre and a mourning vest,
As though to insult her with a proud neglect,
And brave her with a pomp of disrespect!

Paven with myriad Golden Lightnings keen
Art thou—blue, bluest Mediterranean, seen!
On this sweet day of sunlight, what a wealth
Of splendours, without stain, or stint, or stealth,
Hast thou accumulated here—bright Sea!
Challenging Earth with sweet rivality,
Earth, that might tremble at the match despite
Her ever-beauteous fixtures of Delight!
Despite the wond'rous glory, and the pride
Of her rich treasures scattered free and wide,
Her violet-covered banks and sunny glades,
Her verdurous pastures and her bowery shades,
Her broad savannahs and her boundless woods,
And soaring mountains capped with snow-white hoods.
Yes! still despite of these, of all, bright Sea,
Thou bravely battlest for supremacy—
Thou that art varying ever thine array,
And altering thy fine aspect night and day;
Thou—whom no swiftly-passing minute leaves
Unto the next unchanged, since ever heaves
In ceaseless motion thy fair glittering breast,
Restless—yet in a rapture of deep rest!
For ofttimes dost thou in thy strife ev'n seem
Like one who lightly stirs him in his dream—
Who feels the blessedness of Slumber's balm,
And feeds upon the consciousness of calm!
While every vein with soft enjoyment glows,
And every pulse is telling of repose,
Each breath is bliss—each sense is sooth'd with sleep,
And heavenly languors through the lulled frame creep!
So dost thou seem at times even in thy strife,
As but luxuriating in glowing life.
And though thou'rt changing—changing evermore,
Thy bright inconstancy we still adore;
And even between thy most discrepant moods
There are bless'd links and sweet similitudes;
Or when thou'rt ploughed by sudden rising gale,
Or when smooth summer clouds above thee sail—
Fair decked with all the beauty of the stars,
Or warring midst the Elements wild wars,
Or brightened by the Rainbow's coloured sheen,
When peace presides o'er all the pleasant scene,
Or blazoned by the Lightning's bickering flame,
Ever art thou Another and the Same!

All golden, golden melodies that dream
Or sense can compass here commingling seem
To crave attention with persuasion such
As Hope might use to soften and to touch
A heart that had perceived her dangerous power,
And shrunk from her delirious rapturous shower
Of quick emotions and enchanted dreams—
For still with these her magic empire teems!
Oh! let this soft and odorous-breathing air
Make sweet erazure of the lines of care
Drawn o'er this aching forehead, and no more
Let hoarded fears and doubts—a gloomy store
Crush down the heart, which doth their freight contain,
That vainly tries to battle with its pain!
And let not now uneasy thoughts distract
The mind, too long by their harsh discord racked;
Nor fatal Reminiscences destroy
The Soul's new Quiet ripening into Joy,
Though imperceptibly, mid this bright scene
Of splendour, where high Nature is the Queen!
This wide and wonderous and eternal court,
Where those who own her Sovereign Power resort.
Yes! blow, kind winds! and make erazure sweet
Of Grief's dull characters, and gently cheat
These languid lips into a lingering smile,
Though the stern Mistress harshly shall revile
And roughly shall endeavour to retain
Her shaken empire of puissant Pain!
In pity, gentle winds, prevailing blow
With all the grateful freshness ye bestow,
With all your soft small harmonies, and wealth
Of odours and delights—and so by stealth
Shall ye now win me from myself!—Alas!
The happiest fortune that can come to pass
For me, in these my melancholy years,
To Grief's dark truths devoted, and to tears;
For Fancy and gay Hope, and all their dreams,
So bright, so glad, so lit by Heaven-caught beams,
Have long deserted one whom ruthless Fate
Hath bowed to Earth with Sorrow's leaden weight.
Yes!—win me from myself!—for me were this
The best of benefits—the brightest bliss,
The most victorious and the proudest feat
That could be compassed, since doth ever beat
With all too much of trouble and distrust
My weary heart—unto itself unjust,
And almost—if, indeed, it so could be—
Unjust unto this world of misery!—
For ever and anon even here we find
Fair shows, and sunny scenes, and natures kind—
Nay, bright realities—not harsh—not stern,
But these to meet—ah! whither shall I turn?
For Life's realities to me seem still
All that is gloomy—bitter—hard and chill.
And ever doth my stubborn heart refuse
All comfort, save the indulgence which it wooes
In its own desolate and dreary grief—
From which it seeks not, nor expects relief;
But win this weak heart from itself at last,
And wean it from all memory of the Past,
And wrest away each form stamped there before,
And wring regret's black drop from out its core.
Aye! win me from myself—the dearest boon
That may be given, is sweet Oblivion,
To marked and mourning Spirits, that essay
Vainly to battle with the opposing clay
That clogs, and curbs, and checks them every way.
Nature! thou soothest thy children best in truth,
Nay! it is thou alone who knowest to soothe;
Thou only who canst medicine the o'er-wrought mind,
And minister to morbid thoughts enshrined
Deep in the bosom's hushed and haunted cell,
Where vain regrets and mournful fancies dwell
O'er the heart's wounds—the spirit's achings sore,
And the brain's tempest-throbbings—thou canst pour
A soothing and a most sufficient balm,
And bless us with a bright and breathing calm.
The o'erwhelming Passion-hurricanes that shake
The Spirit to its centre, when they wake
In all the deadly outburst of their power,
In the full sweep of their prevailing hour,
Thou canst, with silent and with 'suasive skill,
Chain down to peace—and soften and make still.
And thou, too, canst uplift the fardels cold,
That crush the very Soul's soul, and enfold
In healing bands, that fevered, wildered brain,
That makes a dim Religion of its Pain!

Bright glowing Italy! thou want'st a charm
Unto my yearning heart—which can disarm
Thine aspect of its dazzling pomp and might,
Its glory, and its witchery, and its light,
By calling from its depths those treasured forms,
How well preserved 'mid all Life's fearful storms.
The forms it worshipped in the days of old,
When it and they seemed cast in one bright mould,
One mould celestial—perfect and supreme—
And this was but the mockery of a dream!
But yet this mockery of a dream outweighs
All that shines forth in Beauty's proudest blaze,
And challengeth Reality to show
Aught that may match with its display below.
The forms, the scenes beloved in th' earlier times,
Still haunt us through all changes and all climes.
Yes, Italy! for me thou want'st one charm,
To entrammel, and to enrapture, and to warm,
The charm of the Old Associations dear,
Which bid us most our Father Land revere,
Where in glad childhood's cloudless faith we moved,
And saw and worshipped, and believed and loved;
Where, in the light of lovely thoughts, we walked,
And dwelt with visions, and with Angels talked,
Uncurbed in Fancy, as unchecked by Fear,
And Earth was as a fair seraphic sphere!
And, therefore, while I gaze and muse apart,
That true magician, the all skilful heart,
Can strip thee of thy dazzling glory's might,
And bid a shadow fall upon thy light,
And cloud thy splendour's overpowering pride,
And half thy loveliness obscure and hide;
And yet thou art most lovely and most fair,
And glorious is thy sky, thine earth, thine air;
There is a witchery in thy wildest scene,
And still thou seem'st Heaven's Bride and Earth's crown'd Queen.
How doth that Heaven with its own precious hues
Thy lovely aspect radiantly suffuse,
And seal thy forehead with its living Sun,
As a bright symbol that thou'rt wooed and won;
So dost thou seem its gorgeous Bride to stand
Forth singled, Beauteous One—from every land.
For where else doth the eternal boundless sky
Shine down with such o'erpowering majesty?
As when of old the dread Olympian Jove
Sought, passion-swayed, to win his Danae's love,
And in his proudest splendours shone arrayed,
His glorious blaze revealed, his light displayed,
When in his full celestial state he came,
And put on all the God, her soul to inflame;
So Heaven appears, with all its radiant powers,
To greet thee with a stream of golden showers;
A myriad and a myriad dyes and beams
Still flash upon thy woods, and hills, and streams.
Scarce, as we look upon the dazzling scene,
In all its glorying glow and sparkling sheen,
Can we distinguish clearly land from sky,
All seems commixed in boundless majesty;
One universal outstretched Heaven appears,
To charm us wheresoe'er we look, and rears
Triumphant Beauty here, an eye that drinks our tears!
And yet I err, for though I sit beside
Blue-rolling seas, upon whose glassy tide
All glories shine retraced, of Heaven and Earth,
Which they bring forth in yet diviner birth—
Upon a shore as fair as river-banks,
Where brightly bloom, in starred and rainbowed ranks,
The dewy children of the golden hours,
The lovely marvels of resplendent flowers.
Cannot dejected Memory fairer show,
Recalling days of old, when with the glow
Of Summer, and the royal, royal Rose
Mingled the glow of Hope, whose brightness throws
All else into the shade—and whose decay
Steals all its fairest radiance from the day.
On light-swift pinions, Hope, sweet traitress! flies,
And half the etherial beauty of the Skies,
And glory of the Sun, away it bears,
And Earth thenceforward a changed aspect wears—
Aye! the third part of Heaven's rare splendours seem
To share its wane, and wither beam by beam!
As when, of old, the Serpent drew away
A third part of Heaven's lights to dark decay.
Now cares incessant trouble my repose,
And dim despondencies and pallid woes,
And sickening fears, do ofttimes darkly steal
Delight away—forbidding still to feel
That loveliness which to behold must be
Inevitable—when we dwell with thee,
Maternal Nature! in a land like this,
With beauty overflowing and with bliss!

But doubts and woes, despondencies and fears,
And care's vile troublings, and regret's vain tears,
Shall all give way to thee ev'n now, awhile,
Sweet Memory! with thy pensive song and smile.
Yes! thou shalt gently every thought enchain,
And come with thousand shadows for thy train!
Now shalt thou make my heart's dulled pulses thrill!
Days of my fair and fairy Childhood, fill
With rapturous reminiscences my Soul—
Days, when my Heart was not a living Coal,
My Brain was not a razed and withered Scroll,
My Life was not a tempest—and a toil,
My Thought was not a wrung and ravelled coil,
My Soul was not a sun-scorched wilderness—
My Being not a burthen of Distress.
Old Days! come back upon my Spirit now,
Flush the re-kindling cheek and smoothe the brow,
And thence unnumbered dark revealings chase,
And softer, tenderer meanings lightly trace;
With pleasurable tears mine eyes shall fill,
My pulse confess a pleasurable thrill,
And full of gentle strength, and trust, and joy,
(The dearer for long seasons of annoy,)
Shall sweet Sensations bless my heart once more,
And Life and gladness for awhile restore!
Those sweet sensations, neither cold nor dull,
But quick and fine, and fresh and beautiful,
That take on this material Earth no name,
But whisper to the Spirit whence they came!
Vague, strange, and indistinct, in truth they are,
And with our mortal Natures seem at war.
But oh! that precious indistinctness even
Makes them more mind us of our distant Heaven.
They are not wholly joy, nor wholly fear,
Not wholly clouded, and not wholly clear—
Not wholly pleasure, and not wholly pain,
But of all these partaking, they enchain,
With countless links, the Soul o'er which they reign.
England! I still must turn to thee—to thee,
When I would walk the World of Memory!
When I would 'midst its bowers of Beauty stray,
And bask in its sweet dream-light, where each ray
Is precious, consecrated, mystic, clear,
Though trembling as the gleams from some far sphere,
A sunny smile—and a transparent tear
Together mingling there, together met—
Form that loved light—which flows from Suns long set.
England!—thine air, thy sky, thy well-known ground,
For me with recollections blest, abound;
And fates and feelings ne'er to be forgot,
Are linked with many a scene and many a spot
In thy maternal bosom, pure and fair,
Which blights shall never blot—nor tempests tear.
Heaven's favoured and Earth's honoured land art thou,
And mayst thou ever be as thou art now.
Ever—oh! best of tests!—mayst thou thus prove
As hallowed by thy children's yearning love.
England, thou mayst not boast of skies so blue
As here are bent in lustre ever new,
In splendour ever fresh and ever pure,
Above our heads, to enchant and to allure.
But Native Land—my own bright Land beloved,
At whose dear mention all my soul is moved,
How true it is that Love's transpiercing eyes
See Heaven far clearer through familiar skies!
A mystery of sweet consciousness is there—
They seem more open to our gaze and prayer,
And less estranged from the encircled earth,
When thus we view them from our place of birth.
Love! Love! what is there that thou canst not do,
Thou only perfect, only bright and true?
Thou canst make Earth as holy as a shrine—
In its own self, as 'twere almost divine!
And even make Heaven more heavenly through thy Power,
In the sweet strength of thine enchanted hour!
All things beneath thy touch become more fair,
And the deep hues of thy own Beauty wear;
All Nature craves from thee a costly gift,
Or ere she can the expanding heart uplift,
And light with fervent admiration's flame—
Yea! still she calls for aid upon thy name,
Since all without thee is but cold and tame.
Thou, even thou, immortal Power! canst lend
Beauty sublime and Glory without end
To things least lovely—think, oh! think but then
What charms must Love impart to that which men
Look on with swelling hearts and raptured eyes,
Though unendeared by fond and fast-bound ties,
Affections and associations old,
And wonted habits closely-clinging fold,
Even such a scene as this, now brightly spread
Around me, who on ground enchanted tread,
And breathe an air itself a Paradise,
And gaze on glorious and magnific skies,
And scent a thousand odorous balmy gales,
That tell of fragrant haunts, delicious tales;
For now the orange-flower in bowered retreats
Is budding forth—a treasury of rich sweets,
And sheds its perfumed tidings far around,
Till the Ocean's deep pulsations ev'n seem bound
In rapture and voluptuous glad amaze,
While winds a thousand and a thousand ways
The enthralling fragrance passing richly o'er
The terraced slopes, the palaced streets—the shore—
And floating o'er the bosom of the bay,
As there alone it were content to stay.
Then think—Oh! think but then what charms supreme
Must Love impart to every mount and stream,
To every fountain and to every flower,
To every 'broidered bank and every bower,
In such a Land as this—a fairy Land,
Where Nature smiles for ever bright and bland.
But yet, in sooth, I cannot envy those
Who claim this Land of Rainbow and the Rose;
Something there is more dear and holy yet
Than dazzling suns in pomp that rise and set,
And make Creation like one Glory round
Their burning throne, whose splendour hath no bound—
Than flashing skies, that scarce seem to require
That Sun to illume their depths of azure fire!
Than waves of beauty, and than woods of balm,
And glowing hours of dream, and light, and calm—
Than groves like those Hesperian gardens old
That flamed with ever-clustering fruits of gold—
Than deep dyed flowers, and perfume-breathing trees,
And singing fountain, and soft genial breeze.
Something more dear and sacred far than these
There surely is, howe'er they may inspire
And light the spirit with poetic fire—
The inviolate altar, and the hallowed hearth,
The free fair home—that dearest spot of Earth,
The unsullied and the consecrated sod,
By step of slave or foeman yet untrod—
The privileges pure, the established rights,
The sacred bond, which still all hearts unites—
The happy household blessings shared by all,
The glorious freedom that ne'er knew a thrall—
The firm yet tolerant faith—the enlightened views—
The unbroken peace that wears Heaven's own deep hues:
These things beyond a doubt are nobly worth
All the outward-glittering pomps of Heaven and Earth.
And where may these so certainly be found
As, England, on thy fair and favoured ground?
Therefore it is, I little envy those
Who claim these skies of gold, this land of rose,
These airs of incense, and these waves of light,
That thrill the senses, and that thrall the sight;
Therefore it is, that while I wondering gaze
On all this pride and show, and pomp and blaze,
My thoughts, like passage birds, fly back to thee,
My own dear country o'er the deep blue sea.
What though ten thousand and ten thousand things
Charm and enchant them here—they keep their wings!
Those wings that bear them homeward evermore
From this delicious but divided shore;
Those wings that ever waft them back to thee,
My Land! the dear, the happy, and the free!
To thee and to mine own delightful home
In thy calm bosom, and while still I roam
More steadfastly transfixed my thoughts become
In love to thee, my England—and not less
To that sweet home of heart-stored happiness!
Where all my soul's most cherished treasures dwell,
Loved with affection words are weak to tell,
That home in home!—that Shrine within a Shrine—
That thrice-prized mine, amidst Earth's richest mine—
That star set in my England's star-bright skies—
That Paradise within a Paradise!

My child!—my child!—I am not near thee now
To part the hair that clusters o'er thy brow,
And plant ten thousand kisses there—to view
Thy faëry joys, and ah! to share them too;
To watch thy golden slumbers when thou'rt laid
In Innocency's vesture pure arrayed,
Like a tired bird within its warm sweet nest,
And all thy raptures are composed to rest!
And oh! to soothe thy little sorrows still,
For infancy is not exempt from ill!
Though soon effaced from its transparent thought
The shadows there, by some slight grievance brought,
While its expanding and upspringing mind
Still forward flies, and leaves all pain behind.
My child!—the music of thy laughter now
I dream of—but I hear not—o'er thy brow
Wander ten thousand meanings new and sweet,
I may not see them—may not guide thy feet
To spots of pleasantness, now that the Spring
That calls to life each bright and blooming thing
Is bursting over England's golden fields,
Till every bank a wealth of blossoms yields
For Childhood's dimpled hands!—'tis glorious here
In this warm azure Italy—most clear,
Most exquisite the pure and perfumed air,
The sky unshadowed, and the sunshine fair;
And fair the almond-blossoms clustered close
Upon the loaded bough—while many a rose
Trails its resplendent wonder, richly bowed
Beneath its beauty as beneath a cloud
Along the trellised walk or fountain side,
A dazzling trophy—Nature's loveliest pride.
But oh! my child, my child! I fain would be
Now wandering 'midst our English haunts with thee,
Amongst those cowslip-scattered fields so bright,
They flash one glistening lake of living light,
One deep and shining galaxy of gold,
A glory and a luxury to behold,
While their massed sunshine-hoards wave to and fro,
Beneath the softest breezes that may blow!
And load the air with sweets that greet the sense
With sudden gusts of witching redolence.
My feelings and my fancies are with ye,
Haunts of my early days—far o'er the Sea!
They are with ye—old woods of deepest shade,
Where in my childhood's joyous hours I played
With ye—ye winding paths and hawthorn lanes,
Where oft I listened to the bird's blithe strains,
When most those strains of joy appeared to agree
With mine own Spirit's unbroken melody!—
With ye, ye violet-clustered banks, that pour
A flood of sweetness from your fragrant store—
With ye, ye fair fields, where the daisy-flower,
The humblest offspring of the sunny hour,
Is breaking like a star from the deep moss
Which silvery dews so sparklingly emboss.
Oh! happiest haunts of joyaunce and delight,
To Memory's tearful vision far too bright:
My feelings and my fancies are with ye,
But I am distant—barred by Land and Sea—
And but rejoin ye—when upon the wings
Upborne, of my unchained imaginings
But oh! so well ye are painted on my mind
So clearly there, by unseen hand designed,
That I 'mongst ye can find my wand'ring way,
Lit by a light beyond the light of day!—
Can pierce, unchecked, your old beloved retreats,
And joyously retrack my well-known beats;
My former paths can, step by step, retrace,
And haunt in spirit each familiar place;
Nay—can at once those different scenes recall,
And gather in one glowing Picture—all!—
And shed abroad the presence of my thought,
The rapture-kindled and the joy-o'erfraught;
O'er all those loved and lovely haunts distinct,
But by the Heart so well and closely linked,
Till, while the dear illusion gains and grows,
One Picture and one Passion they compose!
One outstretched view—one vision they become,
And I remain with pleased amazement dumb!
Oh! Memory! thy sweet Omnipresence gives
A tenfold joy which the o'erwrought Soul receives;
Rapt in that rich imaginative trance
Which sees a world of wonders at a glance;
No limits can the dreaming sense surround,
The exalted fancy knows no stubborn bound;
The glowing, soaring, and creative mind,
By no dull bars is circled or confined,
All is contained within its wide embrace—
Tamer of Time and Sovereign over space!—
It maketh its own Circumstance and Place;
It biddeth the outward, actual world obey,
Or shrink to nothing underneath its sway;
Or it uprears a sweet world of its own,
Where love and gladness can have part alone;
But when with Memory and Affection twined,
It may not leave its earthly sphere behind,
And but sublimes, etherializes all,
Which thus is bound in its triumphant thrall;
Even so 'tis now with me—and it is well—
And long in such glad mood I fain would dwell.
Now, I at one blest Vision can behold
A hundred happy haunts beloved of old;
A hundred glowing prospects seem to be
Conjoined in one enchanted Unity;
A hundred smiling scenes appear to arise
Before my lighted and enraptured eyes;
A hundred lovely landscapes do unite
Into one Paradise of perfect Light!
Their various beauties blending into one,
Like scattered Stars immingling to a Sun!
Their charms distinct, at once divinely grow
To one Perfection—ne'er beheld below
Save by thy fine and vision-haunted eye,
Bright Fancy—Victor o'er Reality;
So do an hundred separate leaves compose
The full and finished beauty of a Rose.
Sweet Memory! thy bright omnipresence 'tis
That yields the Spirit thus a tenfold bliss!
My own fair Home in England! fairer far
Than loveliest image, or of Rose or Star;
Lovely as Love itself—thou the Unforgot!
How well I knew each path of thine—each spot—
How well I know, distinctly to recall
Thy various scenes—thy different features all.
No little knoll is there—no tiny nook,
On which even now I cannot clearly look!
And nothing that belongs to thee but brings
To me a joy that round my heart's core clings.
And oh! no trivial circumstance and slight,
But yields me some warm transport of delight:
How well I know each dim and dewy bed
Where the rathe snowdrop hangs its fragile head;
Or where the frail anemone's meek flower
Looks meet to grace a fairy's favourite bower;
Or where the primrose constellations shine,
On the mossed bank, or by the path's mazed line,
In paly brilliancy soft, calm, serene,
And throw a new enchantment o'er the scene;
Or where the daffodils, in proud array,
Blaze back the sunshine and bepaint the day,
And where the rarer lily of the vale,
Transparently—etherially pale,
Clad—a sweet amazon in silvery mail—
And armed with shield of emeralds dark and deep,
Doth all the air in softest fragrance steep;
Or, dearer yet than these—than all beside,
Where the surpassing violet doth abide!
As the branched veins of Cytherea, blue,
And with her musked sighs, pure perfume too.
Even precious as the ambrosial-streaming hair,
Whose cloud of Beauty veiled her shoulders fair.
The violet! why the very name exhales
An odour, and breathes forth delicious tales—
The violet! why the very thought appears
To sun away the shadows of dark years,
To give me back a world of Love and Hope,
And make me half forget to doubt or droop;
To bid the Actual and the True look fair,
The Time—the Clime—a charm familiar wear;
To bring—since my chained step may move not free,
My own bright happy England unto me!
Nor let that place of beauty be forgot,
That gentle—that frequented favourite spot,
Where the may-flower boughs, clustered sweet and close,
And perfumed every zephyr as it rose;
Nor the dear gardens with their shading bowers
And rainbow-beds of choice and odorous flowers,
Where the light summer-fly and honey-bee,
Sang out their matin tunes so joyously!
Be none forgot—but all fair-imaged forth—
Oh! Dream of Gladness, what art thou not worth?
In their own native beauty—and in all
The charms that fancy to her aid can call?
Oh Love and Memory, ye are wond'rous powers,
And fair ye make this cloudy world of ours;
But your consummate Visions may not last—
They droop before the Truth's cold cutting blast;
They die beneath the Present's crushing tread,
And leave a heart as drooping—or as dead:
And so my fleeting Happiness departs,
Nor Fancy's self, with all her gentIest arts,
Can now that withered Happiness restore,
It was a rapture, but is now no more!

Sea! lovely awful Sea—when the Earth is scared
Unto our prejudiced and sick regard,
As 'twere by sorrows we have suffered there,
Gladly we turn to thee, thou ever fair—
Thou ever glorious—yea we turn to thee,
As thou our mighty Comforter couldest be;
Our gracious Counsellor and our pitying Friend,
On whom we might with fearless trust depend,
And our sublime Companion!—as though thou
From thy stupendous state couldst deign to bow,
And lower thy voice of billows and of storms,
And soften thy severe and glorious forms,
To commune with a mortal yet more frail
Than thy light foam-wreaths driven before the gale—
And petty as the sand-grains on thy shore,
By new-piled heaps so quickly covered o'er.
But yet—thou wond'rous and thou awful sea,
The Earth-sick turn their weary eyes on thee;
And truly, when thou will'st to smile serene,
They look upon a deep and lovely scene.
The weary ones of Earth to the Ocean turn,
And struggle to forget to weep and mourn!
Oh! ever lovely—howsoe'er it show,
In sweeping tempest or in measured flow;
Oh! ever lovely is that rolling main,
And ever triumphing in beauty's reign;
Oh! ever lovely—whether veiled in gloom,
And darkly yawning like an opening tomb,
Or blazoned with thy sweet reflections pale,
Fair Moon! what time thou dost through Sky Land sail!
Oh! ever lovely—but how beauteous now,
When the blue Heaven might earthwards seem to bow
In very love and peace—when sea and shore
Are flooded with one stream of brightness o'er,
And o'er thy sunshine-fretted surface plays,
Proud Ocean—this rich restless crown of rays!
The Angel of Consolations deign to be,
Imperial Element! even now to me,
Since thou hast thus serenely laid aside
Thy startling awfulness and haughty pride,
Yet ever awful—whatsoe'er thy mood,
Thou never-fathomed, never-understood—
Thou glorious mystery—mighty and profound,
Outstretched, sublime, without a bar or bound,
We gaze with wonder and delight on thee,
In thy triumphant greatness proud and free,
And own that thou, transcendant Ocean! art
A grand creation—matchless and apart.
Oh! ever awful—in thine every state,
Whether the Tempest-Genii round thee wait,
And marshall forth their terrors at thy word,
And watch the pleasure of their Sovran Lord;
Or the light Zephyrs their soft wings unfurl,
And scarcely dare thy slumbering waves to curl.
Oh! ever awful—on thy billowy throne,
Though not thus wholly for thyself alone,
But to the mind thy mighty aspect brings,
A deep, deep thought of dread and glorious things.
Thou seemest the noblest image here below,
Of all the Soul doth seek to view and know,
Of Glory, and of Majesty, and Power;
And are not these thy attributes and dower,
However in faint degree to thee they are lent,
Compared with that thou seemest to represent?
Oh! for awhile, yet lovely awful sea,
The Angel of my Consolations be!

How perfect is the dazzling water's hue,
Whose exquisite and most etherial blue
Is caught from Heavens without a cloud, whose smile
From this vain world all shades of care should wile;
How lustrous, on this clear and glowing day,
The watery Empire's splendour of display!
The Beauty of the far-extended scene
Brings Dreams of Beauty, smiling and serene,
Unto the enkindling and delighted thought,
A world of glowing dreams, unwooed—unsought—
And many a gleaming vision pure and fair
Floats by upon the blue enchanted air!—
Arrayed in loveliest hues to inspire and bless,
As Loveliness attracted Loveliness!—
As though Enchantments from Enchantments sprung,
And evermore a new-born brightness flung—
The Beautiful brought forth the Beautiful—
And nothing there might be of dark or dull!

Oh! this delicious, calming, soothing sound,
That calleth forth responses sweet around!
This most antique and perfect melody—
This everlasting Anthem of the Sea—
Whose glorious tones in the Elder ages sent
A hushing awe with solemn gladness blent
Through the rapt Listener's raised and chastened soul,
While on his ear the sounds of beauty stole,
That still, as deeply they unfailing float,
(A Hymn in every organ-pealing note!)
To all suggest exalted thoughts and pure—
They that the same for ever shall endure!
Till that dread hour, when every sound shall be
Even thine, thou proud and never-silenced Sea!
Lost in that deep and dreadful Trumpet-call,
Which shall in awful triumph roll o'er all!
Yea! even thy voice of thundering might shall then
Fail, like the smothered voice of fear-struck men,
And not one murmur from thy breast arise
Of all thy dread and echoing melodies!
But let me list now to thy voice, which still
Delights the sense, and with prevailing skill
The hollow ear of Night can richly fill,
And charm its rugged sternness all away,
Heightening the heavenly Harmonies of Day
With its unparalleled enchantment too,
Old as Creation's self—yet ever new!
These seem but the echoes of that glorious voice—
While thou dost in auspicious mood rejoice
What time we hear them—lingering by thy side
And watching thee—in thy triumphant pride!
Thus in the peaceful hours of this sweet morn
The various sounds from the inland places borne,
Softened by distance down, appear to be
Reverberations low—Oh! voiceful Sea!
Of thine unceasing chaunt's deep harmony!
All blent and all united to a strain,
Which soothes the soul and stills the restless brain.

I must not cast unheeding eyes on all
The beauty here spread round me, though a pall
Of inly-woven gloom may half obscure
To me fair Nature's various portraiture!
I should not cast unmindful thoughts on things
Which ought to stir Life's deepest, purest springs,
(And force a sense of sacred loveliness
Even where all other feelings by distress
Were crushed, and changed, and darkened, and o'erborne,
By cares distracted, and by sufferings torn!
By trials wasted, and by troubles worn!
Till long-endured and never-ceasing care
Assume the harsher features of Despair!)
Nor do I thus—but in a softened mood—
Though still at times vain fancies will intrude,
I linger 'mid the bright perfections here,
And chase afar the phantoms of my Fear.
Yes! carefully and curiously I look
On this fair prospect—tears, meanwhile, that shook
My heart to shed but some few hours ago,
Now softly and with soothing influence flow—
Most watchfully I think—and bind among
My heavier feelings pure thoughts fresh and strong,
Which though from the Earth upspringing, seem to shine
Tinged with the finer hues of Heaven—divine!
Among my shadowy memories, Hopes I bind,
Which shall not all be scattered on the wind;
Most studiously and strenuously I strive
From mine own dreams the darkening shades to drive,
And still in some slight measure do succeed,
And feel from many a galling fetter freed!

There is a Joy in Sorrow—and in Woe
A luxury, which all feeling natures know—
There is a Joy in Sorrow!—and she hath
Some lovely blossoms scattered o'er her path.
Those who have never wept and mourned below
Nor borne a dark reverse, nor felt a blow,
Have but imperfect knowledge of Delight,
Howe'er it seem for ever in their sight!
Oh, Sorrow!—bright the prospects thou'st reveal'd,
And deep the blessings are 'tis thine to yield,
For not of this World are they—not of this—
Thy hints of happiness—thy beams of bliss—
They come from other and serener spheres,
Unchill'd by falsehood, and uncheck'd by fears—
In thy deep mines are costly jewels found,
In thy dark skies resplendent stars abound.
Oh, Sorrow! thy chief blessing to the mind
Is when thou lead'st it to leave Earth behind—
When thou dost wrench it from all worldly things,
And bidd'st it soar upon immortal wings!—
For all can prove but Vanity below,
And gilded hollowness and empty show—
And though some loudly boast that they are blest,
Oft aches a gloomy void within the breast;
And still entangled 'midst their very joys,
And bound to Pleasure's glare, and Folly's noise;
And by their countless earthly ties enchained,
And closely to the World's vain service trained;
Absorbed in things that swiftly pass away,
And firmly, deeply fettered to their clay,
Without one lofty dream, one bright desire,
To dwell amidst far happier things and higher,
Without one glorious movement in the Soul
To rise above cold Destiny's controul—
One breathing of a splendid discontent—
With rich expectancies profoundly blent
They walk upon their smooth unchanging way,
Nor from the accustomed paths attempt to stray.
But thou canst teach far loftier things below,
And noblest benefits canst thou bestow,
Oh! mighty Sorrow! and 'tis thine to yield
A golden harvest from no earthly field!
There is a charm in Sorrow, when we spring
Out of ourselves on thought's exulting wing—
There is a charm in Sorrow, when we rise
Out of ourselves full gladly—with the Skies
To hold a tongueless conference—and to learn
Such truths as make the aspiring Spirit burn
And pant to increase its knowledge' heav'nly store,
And many a deeper secret to explore!
There is a charm in sacred Sorrow still!
For those who long have borne with mortal ill,
And bowed to mortal suffering and dark Care,
And breathed Dejection's dull and heavy air—
And battled with a harsh and bitter fate,
And writhed beneath stern Misery's leaden weight—
Out of themselves with more delight can spring,
And soar away from every mortal thing,
With more of gladness and with more of zeal,
While to their Soul the inspiring glow they feel—
Than those who find a thousand charms on Earth,
And mingle most in its delight and mirth!
Yea! we who deeply and who dearly know
The shadowy paths and hidden depths of Woe,
Who long have been afflicted, often tried,
And much oppressed and grieved—can cast aside
Ourselves at once, more joyously than those
Who thus dismiss not dim regrets and woes—
Who thus no miseries and no griefs dismiss,
But bright realities of glowing bliss—
But busy schemes, and hopes of restless aim,
And all that most the entrammelled thoughts can claim,
The affections and the passions of the heart—
Too dear and lovely to be laid apart—
The glad emotions of the unclouded mind,
Which they would little wish to leave behind—
The engagements and light pleasures of the day,
Which they can scarce desire to put away.
Sorrow! a glorious privilege is thine,
Known to the votaries of thy Shadowy Shrine!
Thou hast a privilege and advantage still,
And those who climb thy steep and rugged hill
Behold a prospect wonderful and wide,
Which far surpasseth Nature's noblest pride;
But few would follow in thy solemn train,
Few would endure thy yoke of gloom and pain,
To prove the advantage and partake the good,
To snatch the meed and share the exalted mood!

Yet who can doubt that one rich glimpse and taste
Midst this World's glare, and noise, and strife, and haste—
Of things eternal and of things sublime,
Things not terrestrial, not confined to time—
Not of this petty life—this mortal birth—
Not of these Elements—this changeful Earth—
But of the everlasting Worlds above,
The Worlds of deathless joy and endless love,
Where change can never come, nor death intrude,
Nor evil enter, nor foul sin delude;
Where bliss is not precarious or confined,
But ample and eternal as the mind—
Is deeply, brightly, exquisitely worth
All the vain pleasures and delights of Earth,
All its poor comforts and its passing joys,
Its glare and strife, its hurry and its noise—
And that bright glimpse, that sweet and sacred taste,
Most precious 'mid Life's wild and sterile waste,
Can never be so rapturously enjoyed,
So utterly unchecked, and unalloyed,
As when the escaping and the exulting mind
Leaves blights and shadows and regrets behind—
The cloud—the storm—the dungeon and the chain—
The rod of punishment—the rack of pain—
Then—then indeed it is we gladly spring
Out of ourselves at once with conquering wing,
Out of ourselves at once in some blest hour
Of peace renewed and renovated power;
Out of ourselves at once—nor stay to throw
One glance behind upon our World of Woe!
Out of ourselves, to mingle and unite
With the deep Universe of life and light;
Out of ourselves, to mingle and to blend
With things that have no limit and no end!
Then—then we fling undoubtingly away
The vain and vile enthralments of our clay,
And throw, unhesitating, throw aside
Our poor Mortality's encumbering pride;
While other feelings, and while different ties,
And fairer prospects opening to our eyes—
And new resources, and affections new,
And fresh impressions and emotions too—
New aims, hopes, interests, objects, and desires,
And purer fervours and more hallow'd fires
Fill and engage the whole enraptured Soul,
While scenes divine before its view unroll!

Loveliness dwells on every side!—around
Is matchless Beauty spread without a bound—
Beauty and Loveliness on every side!
Immortal Nature in her state and pride!
And all that is most smiling and most bland
Salutes the Stranger in this peerless Land!
And all that is most witching and most fair
Arrests the Wanderer's footsteps every where!
Yet Nature here, even here, 'tis certain, hath
Her more appalling forms of gloom and wrath,
And her more awful hints—and sterner moods—
While 'mid her own most glorious scenes she broods!
Broods 'mid her own enchantments—yet, the while,
Plots fearful mischief with a Circe's guile.
The ground is hollow where the Wanderer treads,
A Hell beneath its Heaven-like surface spreads—
And direst terrors slumbering there are hid,
Like Serpents foul, the fairest flowers amid.
And let us turn our dazzled eyes to where
Yon angry Mountain darkens up the Air—
A fearful Eminence!—Yea, turn and look
At those dense clouds of sunshine-blotting Smoke—
Those black and blasted sides, that threatening brow,
So stern and gloomy and terrific now—
And own that where the brightest Scenes are spread,
There oft-times frown the darkest Forms of dread!

Yet all is girt with peace, and nought disturbs
That exquisite placidity which curbs
To its most sweet Dominion all around,
While floats a freshness from the dewy ground,
A laughing light lives in the Sea and Sky,
A breathing beauty o'er the scene doth lie—
A fettering fragrance streams upon the air,
And all seems gladly—innocently fair!
Then let us taste the rapture and the charm,
Nor shrink with cold distrust and vain alarm—
Enjoy these bright hours in their tranquil flow,
Nor image fearful scenes of future woe—
Nor cast a look of sorrowing, sick dismay
Back to the horrors of a by-gone day.
Oft-times we join in festal mirth, and yet
Unnumbered Dangers round our paths are set;
A thousand winged Deaths are hovering round,
With treacherous Fates all elements abound,
And hideous Perils gird us night and day,
To ruin and o'erwhelm us and betray!
Still, still 'twere surely weak and most unwise
To close 'gainst every charm our careful eyes,
Because the hidden ill may there be veiled
By which we yet may darkly be assailed,
Then shall we turn in shrinking doubt and fear
From all the lavish splendours scattered here,
Because concealed the glorious show beneath
May dwell the forms of Danger and of Death?
No! let us pluck and wreathe the Time's fair flowers,
We count by years a Life that is of hours.

The stilliness and balminess around
Hath tranquillized my restlessness!—no sound
That is not ministrant to gentlest peace
Is heard on this fair shore—so should you cease
To heave in vain distrustfulness, my heart!
To throb in fond disquietude and smart,
And rock with troublous beatings—you would bring
Your sorrows here too rashly, and would cling
Too madly to your dull and moody cares,
And slight the glory Nature's aspect wears.—
Ah! surely such a glad and lovely spot
Cannot be fitting haunt for one whose lot
Is Grief—and whose dejected wayward will
Is to abide by that dark sentence still,
And in that heavy Shadow to remain,
And abject bend before the powers of Pain!
One who hath made that bitter choice, in sooth,
Despite that still, inspired, and smiling Youth
A faint soft light about her pathway flings,
And throws a beauty o'er all earthly things;
Since still doth Youth, 'midst Fate's o'ershadowing glooms,
Bind these reluctant brows with some few blooms,
Some scattered flowers, that, dim and pale of hue,
Are fainting for the sunshine and the dew,
With parched cups and colours half effaced,
Such flowers as could but shine amid a waste;
With broken stems, and with wan drooping leaves,
Such flowers as only weeping Sorrow weaves
To shed a pensive smile round recent Graves!
So dull and scentless, and so fallen away
From what they were ere Grief's o'er-clouding day.
But shall I then, thus abjectly consent
To dwell, beneath the yoke of Sorrow bent;
And shall I make so harsh and dire a choice,
And turn away from Hope's dear whisp'ring voice?
And say with dark Distrust, or passionate Pride,
“By my own shadowy Lot will I abide.”
No! Resignation's self should watch and wait
To snatch a kind reprieve from frowning Fate—
It is not Resignation to bow down
In still prostration underneath that frown,
'Gainst every brighter dream the eyes to close,
And court the long continuance of our woes,
Without an effort and without a hope,
Content 'mid dull Dejection's shades to droop,
And thus in dark ungracious mood to say,
“I will not more be won from Grief away,”
To embrace with shadows and with memories dwell,
And fear the touch that yet might make us well;
The stricken heart with stubborn Will to steel
'Gainst each soft touch that yet might soothe and heal—
And still to murmur, in a proud despair,
“Weeping—aye! endless weeping be my share;”
And still to each kind questioning to reply,
“'Tis Weeping—endless weeping till I die!”
To encourage and to foster in the breast
The impassioned Anguish and the sick Unrest;
To enthrone even as an idol in the Soul
That Grief to which we dedicate the Whole;
And to enshrine for ever in the heart
The Pain from which we thus refuse to part!
This is not Resignation!—'tis a tide
Of impious Passion and impetuous Pride—
'Tis our Humanity's presumption still
That must assert a choice—and have a Will!
Our fiery Stubbornness—through weal or woe—
That will not thus far and no farther go.
Our mortal Nature's weak and helpless ire,
That leads us thus to heap our funeral pyre,
And sacrifice ourselves to our distress
In luxury of delirious recklessness.
This is not Resignation—this is not
What thou serenely counsellest—sweet Spot!
With all thy soft Air-breathings light and free,
And Water-voices from the sounding Sea!
And I will list to these—and lull my mind,
And strive to be in humble truth resigned,
Nor deeper seek to plunge the envenomed dart
Which Mercy's self would pluck from out my heart—
Nor boast that Resignation must be mine,
Because my Soul to suffering I consign,
And dare to dedicate my darkened years
To vain regrets and unavailing tears!
Nor rashly cry, with fixed obdurate will,
“Let me abide by Grief's dark sentence still!”