 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
Dark gloomy day of Winter's darkest month!
Scarce through the lowering sky your dawning light
In one pale watery streak breaks feebly forth.
No sunbeam through that congregated mass
Of heavy rolling clouds will pierce to-day.
Beams of the cheering sun! I court ye not.
Best with the saddened temper of my soul
Accords the pensive stillness Nature wears;
For Memory, with a serious reckoning, now
Is busy with the past—with other years,
When the return of this, my natal day,
Brought gladness to warm hearts that loved me well.
As wayworn Pilgrim on the last hill-top
Lingers awhile, and, leaning on his staff,
Looks back upon the pleasant plain o'erpast,
Retracing far, with retrospective eye,
The course of every little glancing stream
And winding valley path, late hurried o'er,
Perchance, with careless unobservant eye,
Fixed on some distant point of fairer promise—
As with long pause the highest summit gained—
Dividing, like the Tyrolean ridge,
Summer from winter,—that wayfaring man
Leans on his staff, and looks a long farewell
To all the lovely land: So linger I,
Life's lonely Pilgrim, on the last hill-top,
With thoughtful, tender, retrospective gaze,
Ere, turning, down the deep descent I go,
Of the cold shadowy side.
Scarce through the lowering sky your dawning light
In one pale watery streak breaks feebly forth.
No sunbeam through that congregated mass
Of heavy rolling clouds will pierce to-day.
Beams of the cheering sun! I court ye not.
Best with the saddened temper of my soul
Accords the pensive stillness Nature wears;
For Memory, with a serious reckoning, now
Is busy with the past—with other years,
2
Brought gladness to warm hearts that loved me well.
As wayworn Pilgrim on the last hill-top
Lingers awhile, and, leaning on his staff,
Looks back upon the pleasant plain o'erpast,
Retracing far, with retrospective eye,
The course of every little glancing stream
And winding valley path, late hurried o'er,
Perchance, with careless unobservant eye,
Fixed on some distant point of fairer promise—
As with long pause the highest summit gained—
Dividing, like the Tyrolean ridge,
Summer from winter,—that wayfaring man
Leans on his staff, and looks a long farewell
To all the lovely land: So linger I,
Life's lonely Pilgrim, on the last hill-top,
With thoughtful, tender, retrospective gaze,
Ere, turning, down the deep descent I go,
Of the cold shadowy side.
Fair sunbright scene!
Not sunny all—ah, no!—I love to dwell,
Seeking repose and rest, on that green track,
Your farthest verge, along whose primrose path
Danced happy Childhood, hand in hand with Joy,
And dove-eyed Innocence—unawakened yet
Their younger sister Hope—while flowers sprang up
Printing the fairy footseps as they passed.
Return, ye golden hours! old times! return:
Even ye, ye simple pleasures, I invoke,
With rose-hues tinting life's delightful dawn!
Yes, I invoke ye, dear departed days!
I call ye from the land of shadows back,
Mellowed by softening Time, but not obscured,
Distinct in twilight beauty, such as steals,
Like grey-robed Vestal in some pageant's train,
With slow advance on sunset's crimson wake.
Come in your mellowed hues, long vanished years!
Not sunny all—ah, no!—I love to dwell,
Seeking repose and rest, on that green track,
Your farthest verge, along whose primrose path
Danced happy Childhood, hand in hand with Joy,
And dove-eyed Innocence—unawakened yet
Their younger sister Hope—while flowers sprang up
Printing the fairy footseps as they passed.
Return, ye golden hours! old times! return:
Even ye, ye simple pleasures, I invoke,
With rose-hues tinting life's delightful dawn!
Yes, I invoke ye, dear departed days!
I call ye from the land of shadows back,
Mellowed by softening Time, but not obscured,
Distinct in twilight beauty, such as steals,
3
With slow advance on sunset's crimson wake.
Come in your softened outline, passing slow
O'er the charmed mirror, as I gaze entranced—
There first I see, when struggling into life,
Dawned the first ray of infant consciousness;
There first I see a tender, watchful group,
Hailing delightfully that token faint.
Two Parents then, inestimable wealth!
Two Parents me, their only darling, blessed:
And one—the good, the gentle, the beloved!—
My Mother's Mother. Still methinks I see
Her gracious countenance. The unruffled brow,
The soft blue eye, the still carnationed cheek
Unwrinkled yet, though sixty passing years
Of light and shade—ah! deeply shaded some—
Had streaked with silvery grey her tresses fair.
Even now methinks that placid smile I see,
That kindly beamed on all, but chief on me,
Her age's darling! Nor of hers alone:
One yet surviving in a green old age,
Her Mother lived; and, when I saw the light,
Rejoicing hailed her daughter's daughter's child.
Nor from that kindred patriarchal group
Be thou excluded, long-tried humble friend!
Old faithful Servant! Sole survivor now
Of those beloved, for whom thine aged hands
The last sad service tremblingly performed,
That closed their eyes, and for the long, long sleep
Arrayed them in the vestments of the grave.
Yes, thou survivest still to tend and watch
4
My cradle hast thou rocked; with patient love,
Love all enduring, all indulgent, borne
My childhood's wayward fancies, that from thee
Never rebuke or frown encountered cold.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |