The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
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| POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1842. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
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POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1842.
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LINES
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE VIRTUOUS AND PATRIOTIC WIVES AND MOTHERS OF ENGLAND.
Daughters of England! forms of love and grace,Warmed with compassion for a suffering race,
You leave your household pleasures for a while,
The child's companionship—the husband's smile,
To show your hatred of oppressive laws,
To lift your banner in a holy cause,
To lend your mild endeavours to secure
Bread to the hungry—justice to the poor!
Spirits of pity, you were ever prone
To make another's sorrows all your own,
And with a feeling, sacred and sincere,
To soothe and strengthen, sympathise and cheer!
Go forth and triumph in this stirring hour,
Strong in your weakness, gentle in your power!
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And proudly prosper in your task benign!
Go forth, a faithful and angelic band,
And wake the grateful voice of every groaning land!
Manchester, January 7, 1842.
185
ANTI-CORN-LAW LYRIC.
Hark! a nation's suppliant cry
Goeth upward to the sky—
“Give us bread!”
While those who spurn that nation's weal
With stubborn souls and hearts of steel,
Disdain to heed the wild appeal—
“Give us bread!”
Goeth upward to the sky—
“Give us bread!”
While those who spurn that nation's weal
With stubborn souls and hearts of steel,
Disdain to heed the wild appeal—
“Give us bread!”
Does the God of Justice sleep
While His children wail and weep?—
“Give us bread!”
He sends the soft and summer rain
To feed and fertilise the plain;
Does He work such good in vain?—
“Give us bread!”
While His children wail and weep?—
“Give us bread!”
He sends the soft and summer rain
To feed and fertilise the plain;
Does He work such good in vain?—
“Give us bread!”
No! from His unshaken throne
He hears, and He will help his own:—
“Give us bread!”
Against the oppressors of the land
The Lord shall lift His mighty hand,
Till they shall feel and understand—
“Oh, give us bread!”
He hears, and He will help his own:—
“Give us bread!”
Against the oppressors of the land
The Lord shall lift His mighty hand,
Till they shall feel and understand—
“Oh, give us bread!”
February 2, 1842.
186
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE COMPANION OF MY WALK, J. HILL, ESQ.
Young herald of the spring, pale Primrose flower,
Peering so sweetly from the frozen earth,
Why art thou blooming in this sunless hour,
When not a daisy in the field or bower
Hath sprung to birth;—
When Nature sleepeth in her wintry thrall,
Leafless, and verdureless, and silent all?
Peering so sweetly from the frozen earth,
Why art thou blooming in this sunless hour,
When not a daisy in the field or bower
Hath sprung to birth;—
When Nature sleepeth in her wintry thrall,
Leafless, and verdureless, and silent all?
Thy stainless sister, Snowdrop, is not here,
Though called the earliest of thy fragrant race;
Upon the stormy threshold of the year
None of thy kindred venture to appear
With new-born grace,
Lest the keen frost-wind, with remorseless breath,
Should blow into their hearts the seeds of death.
Though called the earliest of thy fragrant race;
Upon the stormy threshold of the year
None of thy kindred venture to appear
With new-born grace,
Lest the keen frost-wind, with remorseless breath,
Should blow into their hearts the seeds of death.
No lark is chanting o'er the lonely hill,
No thrush is piping in the sheltered vale;
The streams are voiceless, and the silvery rill,
Which seems to quiver, stands subdued and still,
Beneath the gale;
There is no motion in the tenderest trees,
And the frail bulrush bends not to the breeze.
No thrush is piping in the sheltered vale;
The streams are voiceless, and the silvery rill,
Which seems to quiver, stands subdued and still,
Beneath the gale;
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And the frail bulrush bends not to the breeze.
The buds are yet in embryo; the light
Hath brought no vernal promise to the thorn;
The fields are shrouded in resplendent white,
And in this solemn time—half day, half night—
Follows the morn;
A cold, grey sky bends o'er the barren plain,
And the blind sun looks from his throne in vain.
Hath brought no vernal promise to the thorn;
The fields are shrouded in resplendent white,
And in this solemn time—half day, half night—
Follows the morn;
A cold, grey sky bends o'er the barren plain,
And the blind sun looks from his throne in vain.
Welcome thou art, though, like a poor man's child,
Brought without joy into a home of gloom;
'Mid mournful sounds and tearful tempests wild,
Thou comest forth, fresh, fair, and undefiled,
From Nature's womb,
Baring thy breast to the inclement sky,
To brave its storms, or prematurely die.
Brought without joy into a home of gloom;
'Mid mournful sounds and tearful tempests wild,
Thou comest forth, fresh, fair, and undefiled,
From Nature's womb,
Baring thy breast to the inclement sky,
To brave its storms, or prematurely die.
Gazing on thee, association brings
A thousand golden intervals of time,
A thousand pleasant, unforgotten things,
Which Memory colours with her magic wings,
Bright and sublime;—
Old loves and friendships, happy hearts and faces,
Old songs and tales, and old romantic places.
A thousand golden intervals of time,
A thousand pleasant, unforgotten things,
Which Memory colours with her magic wings,
Bright and sublime;—
Old loves and friendships, happy hearts and faces,
Old songs and tales, and old romantic places.
I feel thy breath, and Fancy leads the way
To many a solitude of youthful choice,
Where the glad lark, his tribute hymn to pay,
Hails the Aurora of returning day
With merry voice,
When the faint starlight of the night-time yields
To the sweet floral starlight of the fields.
To many a solitude of youthful choice,
Where the glad lark, his tribute hymn to pay,
Hails the Aurora of returning day
With merry voice,
When the faint starlight of the night-time yields
To the sweet floral starlight of the fields.
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Green forest haunts come back to me, where I
Feasted my soul with man's immortal words;
And winding lanes, where dewy roses sigh
Their odours out to breezes passing by,—
Where happy birds
Sing to the sparkling waters, as they creep
Brightly and blithely, onward to the deep.
Feasted my soul with man's immortal words;
And winding lanes, where dewy roses sigh
Their odours out to breezes passing by,—
Where happy birds
Sing to the sparkling waters, as they creep
Brightly and blithely, onward to the deep.
I hear the voice of children at their play,
Gathering sweet garlands from the hedge-row side;
I hear the talk of lovers as they stray,
Absorbed in joy, along some bowery way
Or valley wide,
Earnest but soft, with frequent pause they speak,
While blushes mantle on the maiden's cheek.
Gathering sweet garlands from the hedge-row side;
I hear the talk of lovers as they stray,
Absorbed in joy, along some bowery way
Or valley wide,
Earnest but soft, with frequent pause they speak,
While blushes mantle on the maiden's cheek.
Fair, fragrant promiser of brighter hours,
Like Hope, thou smilest on my weary eye;—
Fairer, because the firstling of the flowers,—
Dearer, because a shade of sadness lowers
Along the sky,—
Richer, because thou teachest from the sod,
A lore which lifts my musings unto God!
Like Hope, thou smilest on my weary eye;—
Fairer, because the firstling of the flowers,—
Dearer, because a shade of sadness lowers
Along the sky,—
Richer, because thou teachest from the sod,
A lore which lifts my musings unto God!
189
ON QUITTING NORTH WALES.
Farewell, proud region, where the living GodHath built a temple for the human heart
To worship in, sincerely: I have trod—
From cloudy towns and fretful men apart—
Thine aisles of majesty: in truth thou art
A vast cathedral, where devotion springs
In feelings, not in words. Thou dost impart
Sublimest doctrines by sublimest things:
The mountains are thy priesthood—Snowdon flings
A silent language from his awful face;
Prayer goeth up from streams—the cataract sings
Incessant anthems to the Throne of Grace;
And I have lingered in thy fane to feel
The Eternal's Presence o'er my spirit steal!
190
STANZAS,
WRITTEN AFTER A WINTER'S WALK IN THE COUNTRY.
Once more, old trees, I seek your solemn shades,
And pensive trample on your fallen leaves:
But, as I pierce your patriarchal glades,
Mythoughts are chastened, and remembrance grieves—
Grieves for the precious but departed hours
Which I have spent away from your embracing bowers.
And pensive trample on your fallen leaves:
But, as I pierce your patriarchal glades,
Mythoughts are chastened, and remembrance grieves—
Grieves for the precious but departed hours
Which I have spent away from your embracing bowers.
Sadness is sitting on your boughs, old trees,
Tossed by the blast, and beaten by the rain;
But summer sunlight and the summer breeze
Shall bring your sylvan majesty again;—
So may the renovating hand of Time
Give to my broken mind its former strength and prime!
Tossed by the blast, and beaten by the rain;
But summer sunlight and the summer breeze
Shall bring your sylvan majesty again;—
So may the renovating hand of Time
Give to my broken mind its former strength and prime!
Bright waters of the solitude, I come
To catch your silvery voices as they flow;
But Frost hath walked upon ye,—ye are dumb,
Sleeping beneath a coverlet of snow;
Your flowers are withered, and your waves at rest,
Your springs of gladness closed, like those within my breast.
To catch your silvery voices as they flow;
But Frost hath walked upon ye,—ye are dumb,
Sleeping beneath a coverlet of snow;
Your flowers are withered, and your waves at rest,
Your springs of gladness closed, like those within my breast.
But southern airs shall melt your icy sleep,
And send ye singing on your devious way,
And bright, fresh verdure to your sides shall creep,
And flowers bend listening to your liquid lay;—
May my lorn soul throw off its pall of gloom,
And rise, renewed in power, from Care's oppressive tomb!
And send ye singing on your devious way,
And bright, fresh verdure to your sides shall creep,
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May my lorn soul throw off its pall of gloom,
And rise, renewed in power, from Care's oppressive tomb!
All shapes of Nature! ye are wondrous fair,
And ever soothing to my aching mind,
Although I see you cold, unsunned, and bare,
Shorn of your glories by the boreal wind;
Your very silence is a voice, a tone
Of purity and peace, which comes from God alone.
And ever soothing to my aching mind,
Although I see you cold, unsunned, and bare,
Shorn of your glories by the boreal wind;
Your very silence is a voice, a tone
Of purity and peace, which comes from God alone.
In the dark labyrinths of yonder town,
I feel, alas! that I have stayed too long,
Bringing my soul's proud aspirations down,
By unsubstantial revelry and song;
But now, kind Nature! like a wayward child,
Weary I turn to thee for pleasures undefiled.
I feel, alas! that I have stayed too long,
Bringing my soul's proud aspirations down,
By unsubstantial revelry and song;
But now, kind Nature! like a wayward child,
Weary I turn to thee for pleasures undefiled.
What is the voice of Flattery to me,
If it withdraw me from exalted things?
Would we admire the lark's melodious glee,
Yet dispossess him of his skyward wings?
Alas! we pluck the wild-flower with a smile,
Inhale its fragrant breath, but stain its leaves the while!
If it withdraw me from exalted things?
Would we admire the lark's melodious glee,
Yet dispossess him of his skyward wings?
Alas! we pluck the wild-flower with a smile,
Inhale its fragrant breath, but stain its leaves the while!
Let me resume my long-neglected lyre,
The purest solace of my earlier days;
And, if my soul retain that spark of fire
Which gave me poesy and won me praise,
Let me improve the “faculty divine,”
And snatch a wreath from Fame's imperishable shrine.
The purest solace of my earlier days;
And, if my soul retain that spark of fire
Which gave me poesy and won me praise,
Let me improve the “faculty divine,”
And snatch a wreath from Fame's imperishable shrine.
192
LINES ON SEEING A PICTURE.
I saw two sisters,
The semblance of two lovely human fays,
Which the bold hand of Genius had thrown
Upon the canvas in a happy hour.
On one ten springs had shed their light and bloom,
And seven had waked the other into joy.
Like tendrils on one parent stem, they twined
Their snowy arms around each other's neck,
In gentle dalliance, while their silken locks,
Like waves of amber, on their shoulders fell
In beautiful luxuriance. Some strange thing
Had made them glad, for they were laughing both.
Both faces had a merry look, but each
In mirth's expression differed from the other:
The elder sister's joy seemed uncontrolled,—
For her wild soul sent out its silvery laugh,
Like a full fountain bubbling o'er in music:
The younger elf, with arch and sidelong glance,
And dimpled cheek, was laughing to herself;
Her gladness was not boisterous, but spoke
Mutely but mirthfully in her bright eye,
Her lifted finger, and her cherry lip,
Like some clear well, which sounds not though it shine.
The semblance of two lovely human fays,
Which the bold hand of Genius had thrown
Upon the canvas in a happy hour.
On one ten springs had shed their light and bloom,
And seven had waked the other into joy.
Like tendrils on one parent stem, they twined
Their snowy arms around each other's neck,
In gentle dalliance, while their silken locks,
Like waves of amber, on their shoulders fell
In beautiful luxuriance. Some strange thing
Had made them glad, for they were laughing both.
Both faces had a merry look, but each
In mirth's expression differed from the other:
The elder sister's joy seemed uncontrolled,—
For her wild soul sent out its silvery laugh,
Like a full fountain bubbling o'er in music:
The younger elf, with arch and sidelong glance,
And dimpled cheek, was laughing to herself;
Her gladness was not boisterous, but spoke
Mutely but mirthfully in her bright eye,
Her lifted finger, and her cherry lip,
Like some clear well, which sounds not though it shine.
I saw the father of these little dames
Stand with his arms enfolded on his breast,
Gazing on these his blessed ones, and long,
With earnest scrutiny and inward pride—
(A holy pride, which fathers only feel!)—
Scan every single feature, while his soul
Seemed to absorb their every line and hue.
After a time, I saw his restless lip
Tremble with deep emotion, and a tear
Drop as a witness of the painter's power.
That tear—that one most sweet and eloquent tear—
Reminded me of home and home's affections,—
Of lips which sent their blessings for my weal,
Though far away—of eyes which looked and wept,—
Of hearts which sighed, and ached for my return;
And as I thought, I melted like a child!
Stand with his arms enfolded on his breast,
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With earnest scrutiny and inward pride—
(A holy pride, which fathers only feel!)—
Scan every single feature, while his soul
Seemed to absorb their every line and hue.
After a time, I saw his restless lip
Tremble with deep emotion, and a tear
Drop as a witness of the painter's power.
That tear—that one most sweet and eloquent tear—
Reminded me of home and home's affections,—
Of lips which sent their blessings for my weal,
Though far away—of eyes which looked and wept,—
Of hearts which sighed, and ached for my return;
And as I thought, I melted like a child!
194
TO THE FALL OF THE SWALLOW,
NORTH WALES.
Fall of the Swallow, whose impetuous streamSends its astounding voice adown the glen,
A wandering truant from the haunts of men
Comes to behold thy glory, and to dream
An hour within thy presence. Noon's bright beam
In broken splendour sparkles on thy breast,
As if to charm thee from thy wild unrest,
And soothe thee into quiet. Thou dost seem
A mighty prophet in the wilderness,
Placed here to awe, to dazzle, and to bless
With high and holy mysteries. I deem
Thou art a priest within this lonely bower,
Teaching the love of God, His wisdom, and His power!
195
SONNET
WRITTEN IN THE CASTLE OF CAERNARVON.
How glorious is thy fall, rich summer's day!How deeply tender is thy dying hour!
Lonely I linger on this crumbling tower,
And watch with silent joy thy sweet decay.
Upon the blushing bosom of the bay
Thy last kiss trembles, and the clouds that lie
In beautiful disorder round the sky
Absorb the latest vestige of thy ray.
But now the chill of twilight doth betray
The coming of the night;—yon mountain range
Hath put the garb of darkness on;—a change
Creeps o'er the deepening waters. Who may say
How many griefs, or hopes, or dreams sublime
Awake the human soul in this mysterious time!
196
VERSES,
SUGGESTED BY THE RHAIDR MAWR; OR, THE GREAT WATERFALL, IN THE VALE OF CONWAY.
Thou splendid thing of beauty and of power,
Fed by the mountain rill—the fitful shower,
From spring to winter, and from day to day;
Fain would I build me a domestic bower,
Where I might share love, solitude, and thee,
From toilsome cities and their vices free,
And far away!
Fed by the mountain rill—the fitful shower,
From spring to winter, and from day to day;
Fain would I build me a domestic bower,
Where I might share love, solitude, and thee,
From toilsome cities and their vices free,
And far away!
Thy voice came to me as I mused below,
Where silvery Conway's tranquil billows flow
Through the rich windings of his fair domain;
And I have laboured up the hill to know
Thine awful features, and to rest awhile,
My world-afflicted spirit to beguile
From care and pain.
Where silvery Conway's tranquil billows flow
Through the rich windings of his fair domain;
And I have laboured up the hill to know
Thine awful features, and to rest awhile,
My world-afflicted spirit to beguile
From care and pain.
I see thee, hear thee, feel thee, but thy face
Hath more of rugged grandeur than of grace,
Which fills the soul and fascinates the eye;
And as I linger in thy “pride of place”
'Tis sweet to watch thee in thy motions stern
Sprinkle with constant baptism the fern
That trembles by.
Hath more of rugged grandeur than of grace,
Which fills the soul and fascinates the eye;
And as I linger in thy “pride of place”
'Tis sweet to watch thee in thy motions stern
Sprinkle with constant baptism the fern
That trembles by.
At first, soft, warbling like a summer bird,
Gushing from verdant darkness, thou art heard,
Falling like strings of pearl from many a steep;
But soon thy tall and tearful trees are stirred
By the rough chidings of thy waters hoarse,
Which, waxing wilder in their downward course,
Flash, writhe, and leap.
Gushing from verdant darkness, thou art heard,
Falling like strings of pearl from many a steep;
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By the rough chidings of thy waters hoarse,
Which, waxing wilder in their downward course,
Flash, writhe, and leap.
And now I see thee boiling, bounding under
Umbrageous arches, and I hear thy thunder,
As fierce thou fallest from thy rock of pride!
Anon, escaping from thy home of wonder
By channels branching down the mountain's breast,
Thou findest, after all thy troubles, rest
In Conway's tide.
Umbrageous arches, and I hear thy thunder,
As fierce thou fallest from thy rock of pride!
Anon, escaping from thy home of wonder
By channels branching down the mountain's breast,
Thou findest, after all thy troubles, rest
In Conway's tide.
So have I travelled o'er the waste of life
A weary journey, with afflictions rife,
Which stung and tortured me along the way;
But after waging this unequal strife,
May I go down in quietude, like thee,
And find, in regions which I cannot see,
A calmer day!
A weary journey, with afflictions rife,
Which stung and tortured me along the way;
But after waging this unequal strife,
May I go down in quietude, like thee,
And find, in regions which I cannot see,
A calmer day!
Yet thou art beautiful, in spite of all
Which waits to hold thee in unwelcome thrall,
Or break the even course of thy career:
The mixed complainings of thy frequent fall,
Thy stern impatience of the rifted rock,
And thine impetuous plunge and startling shock,
Have brought me here.
Which waits to hold thee in unwelcome thrall,
Or break the even course of thy career:
The mixed complainings of thy frequent fall,
Thy stern impatience of the rifted rock,
And thine impetuous plunge and startling shock,
Have brought me here.
Even so it seemeth with the child of song,
His very fretfulness doth make him strong—
Awaking fancies which he must reveal;
And as he strives with wretchedness and wrong,
Enduring agony without a choice,
He gains a power, a grandeur, and a voice
Which myriads feel!
His very fretfulness doth make him strong—
Awaking fancies which he must reveal;
And as he strives with wretchedness and wrong,
Enduring agony without a choice,
He gains a power, a grandeur, and a voice
Which myriads feel!
198
AN EVENING SONG.
'Tis wearing late, 'tis wearing late, I hear the vesper bell,
And o'er yon misty hill the sun hath looked a bright farewell;
The bee is in its honey-home, the bird is in its nest,
And every living being yearns for solace and for rest;
The household gathers round the hearth, and loving souls draw near,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
And o'er yon misty hill the sun hath looked a bright farewell;
The bee is in its honey-home, the bird is in its nest,
And every living being yearns for solace and for rest;
The household gathers round the hearth, and loving souls draw near,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
It is the hour, the happy hour, when I was wont to be
Hushed to a calm and blessed sleep upon my mother's knee,
While she would sing with voice subdued, and ever tuneful tongue,
Some well-remembered melody, some old and simple song;
And sometimes on my cheek would fall affection's holy tear,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
Hushed to a calm and blessed sleep upon my mother's knee,
While she would sing with voice subdued, and ever tuneful tongue,
Some well-remembered melody, some old and simple song;
And sometimes on my cheek would fall affection's holy tear,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
It is the heart-awakening time when breezes rock the rose,
Which drooping folds its vermeil leaves in Nature's soft repose,
And silvery-winged butterflies, in field or garden fair,
Are swinging in their dewy beds by every passing air;
And birds are rocked in cradles green, till morning's hues appear,
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
Which drooping folds its vermeil leaves in Nature's soft repose,
And silvery-winged butterflies, in field or garden fair,
Are swinging in their dewy beds by every passing air;
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Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
The star-engirdled moon looks down, and sees her welcome beam
Rocked on the undulating breast of ocean, lake, and stream;
And mariners, who love her light, are rocked by wave and wind,
Pining for home and all its joys which they have left behind,
Till Hope's sweet sunshine comes again their sickening souls to cheer,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
Rocked on the undulating breast of ocean, lake, and stream;
And mariners, who love her light, are rocked by wave and wind,
Pining for home and all its joys which they have left behind,
Till Hope's sweet sunshine comes again their sickening souls to cheer,—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
Oh! it would be a pleasant thing, had we the will and power,
To change the present for the past, and fly to childhood's hour;
To seek old haunts, to hear old tales, resume our former play,—
To live in joyous innocence but one, one little day—
Oh! that would be a precious pause on life's unknown career—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
To change the present for the past, and fly to childhood's hour;
To seek old haunts, to hear old tales, resume our former play,—
To live in joyous innocence but one, one little day—
Oh! that would be a precious pause on life's unknown career—
Young mothers rock, young mothers rock, oh, rock your children dear!
200
SONG.
I have rarely sung of Love—
Cherished being of my soul!
Yet that blessing from above
Holds me in its sweet control:
How can I give fitting voice
To a passion so divine?
'Tis enough that I rejoice
That thou art mine—thou art mine.
Cherished being of my soul!
Yet that blessing from above
Holds me in its sweet control:
How can I give fitting voice
To a passion so divine?
'Tis enough that I rejoice
That thou art mine—thou art mine.
I have worshipped Beauty's form,
I have wooed as others woo,
Perchance with words less wild and warm,
But with feelings quite as true;
How often have I lingered, dear,
With my fond heart pressed to thine,
And whispered in thy willing ear—
Thou art mine—thou art mine.
I have wooed as others woo,
Perchance with words less wild and warm,
But with feelings quite as true;
How often have I lingered, dear,
With my fond heart pressed to thine,
And whispered in thy willing ear—
Thou art mine—thou art mine.
Then our divided lot became
Mingled in a world of care,
We had one wish, one life, one name—
Of joy and grief an equal share;
And after sorrow, deep and long,
Our love hath never known decline,
For I can say, in truthful song,
“Thou art mine—thou art mine.”
Mingled in a world of care,
We had one wish, one life, one name—
Of joy and grief an equal share;
And after sorrow, deep and long,
Our love hath never known decline,
For I can say, in truthful song,
“Thou art mine—thou art mine.”
201
THE BANKS OF CONWAY.
I lay me down to rest awhile
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
While summer evening's golden smile
Sleeps on thy waves, sweet Conway!
I lay me down beside thy stream,
To revel in the realms of dream,
Or mourn o'er many a ruined scheme,
Far from thy banks, sweet Conway!
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
While summer evening's golden smile
Sleeps on thy waves, sweet Conway!
I lay me down beside thy stream,
To revel in the realms of dream,
Or mourn o'er many a ruined scheme,
Far from thy banks, sweet Conway!
The lark still lingers in the sky,
Above thy banks, sweet Conway!
And drops his image from on high,
Upon thy breast, sweet Conway!
The thrush still singeth from the shade,
The cuckoo answers from the glade,
And every bird for music made
Is on thy banks, sweet Conway!
Above thy banks, sweet Conway!
And drops his image from on high,
Upon thy breast, sweet Conway!
The thrush still singeth from the shade,
The cuckoo answers from the glade,
And every bird for music made
Is on thy banks, sweet Conway!
Yon castle's clustered turrets frown
Beside thy brink, sweet Conway!
And send their feudal shadows down
Upon thy face, sweet Conway!
Their ancient reign of strength is o'er,
Their regal splendours are no more,
But thou hast yet the charms of yore—
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
Beside thy brink, sweet Conway!
And send their feudal shadows down
Upon thy face, sweet Conway!
Their ancient reign of strength is o'er,
Their regal splendours are no more,
But thou hast yet the charms of yore—
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
202
I've seen the Thames' vast waters flow,—
They're not like thine, sweet Conway!
I've seen the Seine meandering go,
Yet not like thee, sweet Conway!
And, save the blue and storied Rhine,
No waters may compare with thine,
For Nature's beauties all combine—
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
They're not like thine, sweet Conway!
I've seen the Seine meandering go,
Yet not like thee, sweet Conway!
And, save the blue and storied Rhine,
No waters may compare with thine,
For Nature's beauties all combine—
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
There are vast mountains, stern and drear,
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
And broken fountains, grand and clear,
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
And there are wild-woods, rich and green,
And broad lands, sunny and serene,
And many a happy home between—
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
And broken fountains, grand and clear,
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
And there are wild-woods, rich and green,
And broad lands, sunny and serene,
And many a happy home between—
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
Lo! yonder is thy “mother Sea,”
Whose arms embrace thee, Conway!
And glorious must that mother be
Whose arms embrace thee, Conway!
The clouds will take thee up in rain,
And pour thee on the earth again,
To wander through each vale and plain
That blooms around thee, Conway?
Whose arms embrace thee, Conway!
And glorious must that mother be
Whose arms embrace thee, Conway!
The clouds will take thee up in rain,
And pour thee on the earth again,
To wander through each vale and plain
That blooms around thee, Conway?
Oh! for a pure and tranquil life
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
Afar from towns of sin and strife,
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
With one unchanged companion nigh,
To watch me with affection's eye,
How calmly could I live and die
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
Afar from towns of sin and strife,
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
With one unchanged companion nigh,
To watch me with affection's eye,
How calmly could I live and die
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
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Oh! that the world might hear my name
Beyond thy banks, sweet Conway!
And the enchanting voice of fame
Float o'er thy waters, Conway!
Oh! that the great, the good, the brave
Might come to muse beside thy wave,
And bend above my simple grave
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
Beyond thy banks, sweet Conway!
And the enchanting voice of fame
Float o'er thy waters, Conway!
Oh! that the great, the good, the brave
Might come to muse beside thy wave,
And bend above my simple grave
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
The sun is down, the birds are still
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
The mist is creeping up the hill,
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
The waning of another day
Will see me musing far away,
No more in happy thought to stray
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
The mist is creeping up the hill,
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
The waning of another day
Will see me musing far away,
No more in happy thought to stray
Upon thy banks, sweet Conway!
204
STANZAS
SUGGESTED AT THE GRAVE OF SHAKESPEARE.
Once mortal here, but now Immortal One,
Thou great and glorious favourite of Fame,
Thoughtful I stand upon thy grave alone,
Tranced by the mighty magic of thy name;
Filled with a slender portion of thy flame,
Hither, a pilgrim, I have proudly sped,
To linger for a brief but happy space
About the genius-hallowed resting-place
Of England's honoured Dead.
Thou great and glorious favourite of Fame,
Thoughtful I stand upon thy grave alone,
Tranced by the mighty magic of thy name;
Filled with a slender portion of thy flame,
Hither, a pilgrim, I have proudly sped,
To linger for a brief but happy space
About the genius-hallowed resting-place
Of England's honoured Dead.
King of the poet's fair, ideal land!
Thou of my country's stars the brightest, best!
I scarce believe me that I waking stand
Where thy far-worshipped relics calmly rest;
But yet this stone, these graven words, attest
That he whose voice hath charmed me, slumbers near;
And truly I rejoice that I am come,
A lonely wanderer from my northern home,
To pay my homage here.
Thou of my country's stars the brightest, best!
I scarce believe me that I waking stand
Where thy far-worshipped relics calmly rest;
But yet this stone, these graven words, attest
That he whose voice hath charmed me, slumbers near;
And truly I rejoice that I am come,
A lonely wanderer from my northern home,
To pay my homage here.
When I was yet a simple-hearted boy,
I heard men whisper of thy wondrous powers;
And it became with me a cherished joy
To ponder o'er thy page in after hours,—
To bathe my spirit in the genial showers
Of splendour shaken from thy meteor pen;
To fly with thee on Fancy's vagrant wings,
Beyond the reach, the stain of earthly things,
And earthly-minded men.
I heard men whisper of thy wondrous powers;
And it became with me a cherished joy
To ponder o'er thy page in after hours,—
To bathe my spirit in the genial showers
205
To fly with thee on Fancy's vagrant wings,
Beyond the reach, the stain of earthly things,
And earthly-minded men.
I've laughed and mused, I've talked and wept with thee,
Drunk with the kindling essence of thy lore,
Until my inmost heart hath seemed to be
With every happier feeling gushing o'er;
And thoughts which slumbered in my soul before
Have sprung to blessed being fast and bright;
And visions wild, tumultuous, and strange,
With constant beauty and with constant change,
Have thrilled me with delight.
Drunk with the kindling essence of thy lore,
Until my inmost heart hath seemed to be
With every happier feeling gushing o'er;
And thoughts which slumbered in my soul before
Have sprung to blessed being fast and bright;
And visions wild, tumultuous, and strange,
With constant beauty and with constant change,
Have thrilled me with delight.
Thy worldly wisdom hath great lessons taught;
Thy playful wit hath cleared the brow of care;
Thy stormy grief hath many a wonder wrought;
Thy joy hath conquered e'en the fiend Despair;
Thy power hath laid the hidden secrets bare
Of every human passion, good or ill,
And mingled thousands in thy presence placed,
Who feel by thy gigantic arm embraced,
Are creatures of thy will.
Thy playful wit hath cleared the brow of care;
Thy stormy grief hath many a wonder wrought;
Thy joy hath conquered e'en the fiend Despair;
Thy power hath laid the hidden secrets bare
Of every human passion, good or ill,
And mingled thousands in thy presence placed,
Who feel by thy gigantic arm embraced,
Are creatures of thy will.
Some look for glory in the fields of strife,
The fools and followers of unholy war,
And some get foremost in the march of life,
Because self-chained to Mammon's golden car;
But thou art higher, greater, nobler far
Than all who seek such false and vain renown;
Thy name shall brighten on from age to age,
But theirs shall keep no place on Memory's page,
For Time will tread them down.
The fools and followers of unholy war,
And some get foremost in the march of life,
Because self-chained to Mammon's golden car;
But thou art higher, greater, nobler far
Than all who seek such false and vain renown;
Thy name shall brighten on from age to age,
But theirs shall keep no place on Memory's page,
For Time will tread them down.
206
Thou shouldst be sleeping on that lonely isle
Where banished Prospero was wizard king;
Where sweet Miranda gently did beguile
Her father's sorrows, like some holy thing;
There, through the sunny hours should Ariel sing
Melodious requiems above thy tomb;
And troops of midnight fays should gather round,
To brush the dews from off the moonlit ground,
And scatter buds of bloom.
Where banished Prospero was wizard king;
Where sweet Miranda gently did beguile
Her father's sorrows, like some holy thing;
There, through the sunny hours should Ariel sing
Melodious requiems above thy tomb;
And troops of midnight fays should gather round,
To brush the dews from off the moonlit ground,
And scatter buds of bloom.
No gaudy temple, reared by mortal might,
Should rise around that sacred dust of thine;
No arch, save that which God hath filled with light,
With suns that burn, and stars that coldly shine.
The simple sod should be thine only shrine;
And proud green trees which whisper as they wave—
But argosies from every land should sweep
Athwart the silvery bosom of the deep,
With pilgrims to thy grave.
Should rise around that sacred dust of thine;
No arch, save that which God hath filled with light,
With suns that burn, and stars that coldly shine.
The simple sod should be thine only shrine;
And proud green trees which whisper as they wave—
But argosies from every land should sweep
Athwart the silvery bosom of the deep,
With pilgrims to thy grave.
I leave thee to thy slumbers; I must go
Back to the struggles of my adverse lot,
To feel the nameless agonies that flow
From a cold world which understands me not.
Greater than I may linger on this spot,
Of many a language, and of many a shore;
Some other bard of loftier mind may raise
A song more sweet, more lasting, in thy praise,—
But none can love thee more!
Back to the struggles of my adverse lot,
To feel the nameless agonies that flow
From a cold world which understands me not.
Greater than I may linger on this spot,
Of many a language, and of many a shore;
Some other bard of loftier mind may raise
A song more sweet, more lasting, in thy praise,—
But none can love thee more!
207
THE MOUNTAIN SPRING.
Alone I lingered at the rocky foot
Of Snowdon's throne—Snowdon, the awful king
Of Cambria's mountain realm,—and as I gazed
With longing eyes upon his cloudy crown,
I yearned, with feelings strong as they were strange,
To plant my daring foot upon his head
Of glory and sublimity. The wish
Inspired me with the power, and I prepared
With an enthusiast's ardour, to explore
The solitudes of mystery and might.
Of Snowdon's throne—Snowdon, the awful king
Of Cambria's mountain realm,—and as I gazed
With longing eyes upon his cloudy crown,
I yearned, with feelings strong as they were strange,
To plant my daring foot upon his head
Of glory and sublimity. The wish
Inspired me with the power, and I prepared
With an enthusiast's ardour, to explore
The solitudes of mystery and might.
Wild was the way, and weary was the steep,
Up which I travelled with a tardy pace;
The sun shone fiercely in the summer sky,
And scarce the mountain winds could temper down
His sultry splendour. As I upward strained,
My brow was beaded with the dews of toil;
My tongue was wordless with increasing thirst,
Yet not a rill, or stream, or shaded well
Was seen to twinkle in the burning light.
Yet was the mind the conqueror; my dreams
Sustained and strengthened me along the way
Of savage desolation, till the crown,
The peaked, fantastic crown, on Snowdon's brow,
Loomed sternly, darkly in the azure air,
And lent new vigour to my panting heart.
Up which I travelled with a tardy pace;
The sun shone fiercely in the summer sky,
And scarce the mountain winds could temper down
His sultry splendour. As I upward strained,
My brow was beaded with the dews of toil;
My tongue was wordless with increasing thirst,
Yet not a rill, or stream, or shaded well
Was seen to twinkle in the burning light.
Yet was the mind the conqueror; my dreams
Sustained and strengthened me along the way
Of savage desolation, till the crown,
The peaked, fantastic crown, on Snowdon's brow,
Loomed sternly, darkly in the azure air,
And lent new vigour to my panting heart.
A moment's rest, a moment's wildering thought,
A moment's look upon the world below,
And up I bounded with renewed delight,
To end my toilsome task. More wild and steep,
More terrible and strange, more silent yet,
Became the scene of grandeur I had sought;
And as I gained the goal of my desires,—
The utmost summit of the place of storms,
The highest stone in Cambria's magic land,
The granite diadem on Snowdon's head,—
A whirl of wonder and a gush of joy,
A mingled sense of terror and of love,
Came o'er my soul, and, languid as a child,
I sat in speechless ecstasy and awe!
208
And up I bounded with renewed delight,
To end my toilsome task. More wild and steep,
More terrible and strange, more silent yet,
Became the scene of grandeur I had sought;
And as I gained the goal of my desires,—
The utmost summit of the place of storms,
The highest stone in Cambria's magic land,
The granite diadem on Snowdon's head,—
A whirl of wonder and a gush of joy,
A mingled sense of terror and of love,
Came o'er my soul, and, languid as a child,
I sat in speechless ecstasy and awe!
I may not tell, in this imperfect strain,
The things I felt, the glories I beheld,
In this transcendent solitude; a pen
Dipped in a fountain of celestial fire,
And wielded by an angel's mystic hand,
Might fail in fitting language to convey
To mortal ear the feelings of my heart,
Or paint the matchless majesty that reigns
In this enchanting corner of the world.
The things I felt, the glories I beheld,
In this transcendent solitude; a pen
Dipped in a fountain of celestial fire,
And wielded by an angel's mystic hand,
Might fail in fitting language to convey
To mortal ear the feelings of my heart,
Or paint the matchless majesty that reigns
In this enchanting corner of the world.
Thirsting and faint, and feeble with excess
Of pleasure and amazement, I essayed
To find some herb wherewith to cool my lips,
And stay the pangs of agonising thirst.
Long was my search in vain; a scanty grass,
Brown, dry, and seared, was all I found,—anon
A line of glittering moisture on the stones
Caught my expectant eye; soon, soon I traced
The silvery promise to its source, and lo!
A cool delicious spring, a tiny well,
Scarce broader than a maiden's looking-glass,
Displayed its crystal bosom to my sight,
And wooed my willing lip. With eager haste
I stooped to quaff its nectar, while a thrill
Of exquisite delight ran through my veins,
Imparting strength and gladness. On its brink
I sat, exulting in my loneliness,
Feeding my soul with poesy. Afar
The dim blue circle of the level sea
Zoned the unbounded prospect: lakes and streams,
Gleaming and glittering in the valleys fair,
Mixed in the mighty picture; mountains vast,
Enclosing regions sterile, dark, and stern,
Bristled on every side, as if the world,
Tortured and tossed, like tempest-trodden waves,
To fury inconceivable, had turned
To sudden stone,—a monument of power
Built by the Eternal's wonder-working hand!
Soft snatches of green field, of waving wood,
Of human-dwelling-places, towns, and towers,
And corn-producing plains, filled up the whole,
Leaving an impress on my mind and heart
Which time can never weaken or destroy!
Of pleasure and amazement, I essayed
To find some herb wherewith to cool my lips,
And stay the pangs of agonising thirst.
Long was my search in vain; a scanty grass,
Brown, dry, and seared, was all I found,—anon
A line of glittering moisture on the stones
Caught my expectant eye; soon, soon I traced
The silvery promise to its source, and lo!
A cool delicious spring, a tiny well,
Scarce broader than a maiden's looking-glass,
Displayed its crystal bosom to my sight,
209
I stooped to quaff its nectar, while a thrill
Of exquisite delight ran through my veins,
Imparting strength and gladness. On its brink
I sat, exulting in my loneliness,
Feeding my soul with poesy. Afar
The dim blue circle of the level sea
Zoned the unbounded prospect: lakes and streams,
Gleaming and glittering in the valleys fair,
Mixed in the mighty picture; mountains vast,
Enclosing regions sterile, dark, and stern,
Bristled on every side, as if the world,
Tortured and tossed, like tempest-trodden waves,
To fury inconceivable, had turned
To sudden stone,—a monument of power
Built by the Eternal's wonder-working hand!
Soft snatches of green field, of waving wood,
Of human-dwelling-places, towns, and towers,
And corn-producing plains, filled up the whole,
Leaving an impress on my mind and heart
Which time can never weaken or destroy!
Another draught from the inspiring spring,
And I descended from the silent height
Of storm-defying Snowdon; as I went,
Grateful for dangers past, for beauties won,
For toils accomplished, and for pleasures felt,
In fancy then, but since in feeble words,
I sang the tiny Fountain of the Wild:—
And I descended from the silent height
Of storm-defying Snowdon; as I went,
Grateful for dangers past, for beauties won,
For toils accomplished, and for pleasures felt,
In fancy then, but since in feeble words,
I sang the tiny Fountain of the Wild:—
“Well of the Mountain Wild! I leave thee now,
No more to linger by thy crystal side:
No more to stand upon thy father's brow,
Who owns a kingdom wonderful and wide;
Yet I would help thee to a far renown,
Thou brightest gem on Snowdon's awful crown!
No more to linger by thy crystal side:
No more to stand upon thy father's brow,
Who owns a kingdom wonderful and wide;
210
Thou brightest gem on Snowdon's awful crown!
“Other fair scenes may lure me from my home,
Other bright springs may tempt me to partake;
But wheresoe'er my vagrant feet may roam,
Still will I love thee for thy own sweet sake,
For thou didst soothe my painful fever down,
Thou brightest gem on Snowdon's barren crown!
Other bright springs may tempt me to partake;
But wheresoe'er my vagrant feet may roam,
Still will I love thee for thy own sweet sake,
For thou didst soothe my painful fever down,
Thou brightest gem on Snowdon's barren crown!
“Thou art old giant Snowdon's tranquil eye!—
His one unsleeping eye without a veil,
Gazing for ever on the changeful sky,
To watch the clouds career before the gale;
Undimmed by lightning or the tempest's frown,
Thou art a gem on Snowdon's lonely crown!
His one unsleeping eye without a veil,
Gazing for ever on the changeful sky,
To watch the clouds career before the gale;
Undimmed by lightning or the tempest's frown,
Thou art a gem on Snowdon's lonely crown!
“It were, indeed, a joy by thee to rest,
In calm companionship throughout the night,
While the sweet dew-stars slumbered on thy breast,
And the mild moon beheld her own pure light,
Until the dawn sent kindling glory down,
To wake thy smiles, rich gem on Snowdon's crown!
In calm companionship throughout the night,
While the sweet dew-stars slumbered on thy breast,
And the mild moon beheld her own pure light,
Until the dawn sent kindling glory down,
To wake thy smiles, rich gem on Snowdon's crown!
“By many a wanderer thy place and name
Are known and sought, as they shall ever be;
To other men thy freshness and thy fame
Shall go abroad, till they shall come to thee
From plain and glen, from hamlet and from town
Thou brightest gem on Snowdon's awful crown!”
Are known and sought, as they shall ever be;
To other men thy freshness and thy fame
Shall go abroad, till they shall come to thee
From plain and glen, from hamlet and from town
Thou brightest gem on Snowdon's awful crown!”
211
THE STUDENT OF NATURE.
A FRAGMENT.
Books are a blessed dower, when they enshrine
Thoughts, words, and feelings of immortal men;—
Gushes of glory from a fount divine,
Flashes of freedom from the chainless pen;
Mirrors of mental light, condensed and strong,
Pure treasures of philosophy and song;
Records of truth which all should understand,
Voices of wisdom heard in every land:
I have a passion for each page of power,
And love to try its spells at midnight's quiet hour!
Thoughts, words, and feelings of immortal men;—
Gushes of glory from a fount divine,
Flashes of freedom from the chainless pen;
Mirrors of mental light, condensed and strong,
Pure treasures of philosophy and song;
Records of truth which all should understand,
Voices of wisdom heard in every land:
I have a passion for each page of power,
And love to try its spells at midnight's quiet hour!
But my chief study is in Nature's halls,
For ever fair, magnificent, sublime;
The everlasting mountains are its walls,
Which rarely shrink beneath the touch of time.
Pictured with clouds that o'er its surface roam,
Its ceiling is vast heaven's eternal dome;
By day sun-lit with splendour, and by night
Hung with a myriad lamps of never-dying light.
For ever fair, magnificent, sublime;
The everlasting mountains are its walls,
Which rarely shrink beneath the touch of time.
Pictured with clouds that o'er its surface roam,
Its ceiling is vast heaven's eternal dome;
By day sun-lit with splendour, and by night
Hung with a myriad lamps of never-dying light.
My study hath an ever-open door,
Stretching away from golden east to west;
It hath a broad and variegated floor,
The loveliest human foot hath ever pressed;
'Tis pranked with flowers of every form and hue,
Woven with streams of living crystal through;
Studded with silvery lakes and shadowy woods,
Glassed with the green expanse of Ocean's restless floods!
Stretching away from golden east to west;
It hath a broad and variegated floor,
The loveliest human foot hath ever pressed;
212
Woven with streams of living crystal through;
Studded with silvery lakes and shadowy woods,
Glassed with the green expanse of Ocean's restless floods!
On every spot beneath the embracing skies,
In every season, and in every place,
Some page of beauty lingers on my eyes,
A blending of sublimity and grace;
Some living odour hangs upon the air,
From clustered leaves, fresh herbs, and blossoms fair;
Tones of strange melody, from sources dim,
Mingle to greet me with a choral hymn;
All air-born sounds, birds, bees, and gushing springs,
Breathe to my listening soul a thousand happy things!
In every season, and in every place,
Some page of beauty lingers on my eyes,
A blending of sublimity and grace;
Some living odour hangs upon the air,
From clustered leaves, fresh herbs, and blossoms fair;
Tones of strange melody, from sources dim,
Mingle to greet me with a choral hymn;
All air-born sounds, birds, bees, and gushing springs,
Breathe to my listening soul a thousand happy things!
If I go down to the unconquered deep,
On the frail ship where man embarks his life,
When horror-wingèd storms around me sweep,
Trampling the briny waters into strife—
Tossed upward to the lightning-riven clouds,
Dashed downward even to the topmost shrouds;—
I feel, or could feel, glory in the rout
Of angry waves, a language in the shout
Of wind to wind, of thunder unto thunder—
A wild and dreamy sense of danger and of wonder!
On the frail ship where man embarks his life,
When horror-wingèd storms around me sweep,
Trampling the briny waters into strife—
Tossed upward to the lightning-riven clouds,
Dashed downward even to the topmost shrouds;—
I feel, or could feel, glory in the rout
Of angry waves, a language in the shout
Of wind to wind, of thunder unto thunder—
A wild and dreamy sense of danger and of wonder!
And then to loiter on the shell-paved shore,
When calm broods o'er the billows like a dove,—
Are there not things around me as before,
To see, to feel, to dream upon and love?
Pensive to wander on the sandy verge,
And watch the snow-fringed and advancing surge
Come rolling up from out the tranquil sea,
Is peace, is joy, is luxury to me!
While the far murmur of the waves at play
Sounds like a grateful voice for troubles passed away.
When calm broods o'er the billows like a dove,—
Are there not things around me as before,
To see, to feel, to dream upon and love?
Pensive to wander on the sandy verge,
And watch the snow-fringed and advancing surge
Come rolling up from out the tranquil sea,
Is peace, is joy, is luxury to me!
213
Sounds like a grateful voice for troubles passed away.
Away on Fancy's world-exploring pinions,
To Araby's wide wilderness—away;
Where the high sun hangs o'er his dread dominions,
With looks that make intolerable day,
Save when the swift and terrible simoom
Covers the face of heaven with burning gloom;
Walks o'er the surface of the sandy sea,
A formless fiend of dark sublimity;
Builds baseless mountains by his sultry breath,
And reigns, the scourge of life, the minister of death!
To Araby's wide wilderness—away;
Where the high sun hangs o'er his dread dominions,
With looks that make intolerable day,
Save when the swift and terrible simoom
Covers the face of heaven with burning gloom;
Walks o'er the surface of the sandy sea,
A formless fiend of dark sublimity;
Builds baseless mountains by his sultry breath,
And reigns, the scourge of life, the minister of death!
'Tis eve—and hark! the camel-bell is ringing;
The caravan, with perilous toils oppressed,
Stays where the tree-girt well is sweetly springing,
To snatch some fleeting hours of blessed rest.
The sun is set, and twilight, like a veil,
Floats o'er the cooling skies; the stars are pale,
But ere another hour the breath of night
Shall fan them till they burn intensely bright;
While the lone wanderers of that desert plain
Shall dream of hope and home till morn return again.
The caravan, with perilous toils oppressed,
Stays where the tree-girt well is sweetly springing,
To snatch some fleeting hours of blessed rest.
The sun is set, and twilight, like a veil,
Floats o'er the cooling skies; the stars are pale,
But ere another hour the breath of night
Shall fan them till they burn intensely bright;
While the lone wanderers of that desert plain
Shall dream of hope and home till morn return again.
In thought I sojourn in the solitudes,
The silent regions of the western star,—
The awful, dark, interminable woods,
The level prairies, stretching fair and far;
The uninvaded mountain peaks, that stand
Like the stern barriers to an unknown land;
And mighty hollows, where the Storm alone
Hath dared to plant his footsteps and his throne,—
Caverns of gloomy grandeur, where the power
Of Art hath never triumphed to this hour;
And all the thousand mysteries sublime
Which rose when Earth began,—the co-mates of old Time.
The silent regions of the western star,—
The awful, dark, interminable woods,
The level prairies, stretching fair and far;
The uninvaded mountain peaks, that stand
Like the stern barriers to an unknown land;
And mighty hollows, where the Storm alone
Hath dared to plant his footsteps and his throne,—
Caverns of gloomy grandeur, where the power
Of Art hath never triumphed to this hour;
214
Which rose when Earth began,—the co-mates of old Time.
I come once more unto the milder charms
Of calm, green England, the enlightened Isle
Which lies encircled by old Ocean's arms,
And wears upon its face a placid smile;
I come unto her pastoral vales to dream
Beneath the sylvan shadows, where the stream
Twinkles with chequered radiance, as it singeth
Through grassy dingles where the wild-flower springeth,
Bent by the butterfly and gorgeous bee;
Where birds from sunny sky and trembling tree
Fill the bright summer with melodious voice;
So that my spirit cannot but rejoice
That heaven hath dropped such pleasures from above,
To cheer the human soul with poesy and love!
Of calm, green England, the enlightened Isle
Which lies encircled by old Ocean's arms,
And wears upon its face a placid smile;
I come unto her pastoral vales to dream
Beneath the sylvan shadows, where the stream
Twinkles with chequered radiance, as it singeth
Through grassy dingles where the wild-flower springeth,
Bent by the butterfly and gorgeous bee;
Where birds from sunny sky and trembling tree
Fill the bright summer with melodious voice;
So that my spirit cannot but rejoice
That heaven hath dropped such pleasures from above,
To cheer the human soul with poesy and love!
215
THE INQUIRY.
“Tell me, where canst thou be seen,
Poesy?
I yearn to see thy face serene,
Poesy!”
“Ask the stars, the dews, the flowers,
Ask the hills, the brooks, the bowers;
Ask the clouds when lightning-riven,
Or gleaming with the gold of even;
Ask the bow that spans the plain,
Ask the sunny-twinkling rain,—
And they will answer thee!”
Poesy?
I yearn to see thy face serene,
Poesy!”
“Ask the stars, the dews, the flowers,
Ask the hills, the brooks, the bowers;
Ask the clouds when lightning-riven,
Or gleaming with the gold of even;
Ask the bow that spans the plain,
Ask the sunny-twinkling rain,—
And they will answer thee!”
“Tell me, where canst thou be heard,
Poesy?
Alas! I pine with hope deferred,
Poesy?”
“Ask the thunders as they leap,
Ask the never-sleeping deep;
Ask the winds that roar, or sigh,
Ask the waters babbling by;
Ask the bee who sings, and sips
Sweets from a thousand fragrant lips;
Ask the language of the leaves,
The shivering thrill of golden sheaves,
The coo of doves, the rush of wings:
Ask the breeze-awakened strings,—
Ask the birds in sun and shade,—
Ask all sounds that God hath made,—
And they will answer thee!”
Poesy?
Alas! I pine with hope deferred,
Poesy?”
“Ask the thunders as they leap,
Ask the never-sleeping deep;
Ask the winds that roar, or sigh,
Ask the waters babbling by;
Ask the bee who sings, and sips
Sweets from a thousand fragrant lips;
Ask the language of the leaves,
The shivering thrill of golden sheaves,
The coo of doves, the rush of wings:
Ask the breeze-awakened strings,—
216
Ask all sounds that God hath made,—
And they will answer thee!”
“Tell me, how canst thou be known,
Poesy?
Make thy spirit all my own,
Poesy!”
“Ask the feelings which awake
Within thee for compassion's sake;
Ask the sorrows of thy soul,
Ask the joy which mocks control;
Ask thy hopes—affections—love;
Ask thy dreams of bliss above,—
And they will answer thee!”
Poesy?
Make thy spirit all my own,
Poesy!”
“Ask the feelings which awake
Within thee for compassion's sake;
Ask the sorrows of thy soul,
Ask the joy which mocks control;
Ask thy hopes—affections—love;
Ask thy dreams of bliss above,—
And they will answer thee!”
“Tell me, how canst thou be spoken,
Poesy?
Give me some unfailing token,
Poesy!”
“Ask the wailings of the poor,
A stricken crowd who much endure;
Ask the child's endearing tongue,
And the mother's answering song;
Ask the fervent vows of youth,
Ask the words of steadfast truth;
Ask the poet, who hath brought
Rich language from the mines of thought;
Ask the breathings of despair,
Ask the contrite sinner's prayer;
Ask the syllables that fall
From Nature's lips—the best of all,—
And they will answer thee!”
Poesy?
Give me some unfailing token,
Poesy!”
“Ask the wailings of the poor,
A stricken crowd who much endure;
Ask the child's endearing tongue,
And the mother's answering song;
Ask the fervent vows of youth,
Ask the words of steadfast truth;
Ask the poet, who hath brought
Rich language from the mines of thought;
Ask the breathings of despair,
Ask the contrite sinner's prayer;
Ask the syllables that fall
From Nature's lips—the best of all,—
And they will answer thee!”
217
“I thank thee with a gladdened heart,
Poesy;
Henceforth my fears shall all depart,
Poesy!
I'll go abroad upon the earth,
And give my dreamy feelings birth;
My every sense of sadness lull,
By gazing on the beautiful;
‘And rise from out my mean estate,’
By mingling with the good and great,
Whose aim has been, mid toil and strife,
To give a thousand charms to life.
I'll follow thee in all thy moods,
Through Nature's awful solitudes;
I'll seek the ruins of the past,
Mid regions still, and wild, and vast;
Where pride and splendour once have been,
Where weary wastes are only seen
To mock the pilgrim's eye, and show
His lasting home is not below.
Through peopled towns my feet shall pass,
And o'er the barren, dark morass,
And o'er the mountain's giant form,
The nurse and birthplace of the storm.
My lonely footsteps shall abide
In forests wildering and wide,
And on the banks of mighty rivers,
Whose waves are broken into shivers
By gusty winds that o'er them sweep,
Or rocks precipitously steep.
And in the desert I will linger,
When early Morning's golden finger
Plays on Memnon's mystic stone,
And wakes it into music lone.
Poesy;
Henceforth my fears shall all depart,
Poesy!
I'll go abroad upon the earth,
And give my dreamy feelings birth;
My every sense of sadness lull,
By gazing on the beautiful;
‘And rise from out my mean estate,’
By mingling with the good and great,
Whose aim has been, mid toil and strife,
To give a thousand charms to life.
I'll follow thee in all thy moods,
Through Nature's awful solitudes;
I'll seek the ruins of the past,
Mid regions still, and wild, and vast;
Where pride and splendour once have been,
Where weary wastes are only seen
To mock the pilgrim's eye, and show
His lasting home is not below.
Through peopled towns my feet shall pass,
And o'er the barren, dark morass,
And o'er the mountain's giant form,
The nurse and birthplace of the storm.
My lonely footsteps shall abide
In forests wildering and wide,
And on the banks of mighty rivers,
Whose waves are broken into shivers
By gusty winds that o'er them sweep,
Or rocks precipitously steep.
And in the desert I will linger,
When early Morning's golden finger
Plays on Memnon's mystic stone,
And wakes it into music lone.
218
Where'er thy genial spirit reigns,
On wintry wastes, or sunny plains,
My vagrant feet shall find a place,
Where I will gaze upon thy face,
Until I utter words of flame,
To wreathe with light my humble name.
I'll talk with thought-exalted things,
Until, on Fancy's strengthened wings,
I pierce the infinite afar,
And journey on from star to star,
Through dazzling files of sun-like spheres,
Which, seen from earth, are but like tears
Which hang on blade, and flower, and thorn
Shook from the dewy locks of Morn.
Or I will travel on the path
Which the mysterious comet hath,
Perchance to see it past me driven,
Filling with fire the cope of heaven,
And roaring like ten thousand seas,
Through its vast realms of mysteries,
Till fierce and far it fades away,
Beyond where human thoughts can stray.
On wintry wastes, or sunny plains,
My vagrant feet shall find a place,
Where I will gaze upon thy face,
Until I utter words of flame,
To wreathe with light my humble name.
I'll talk with thought-exalted things,
Until, on Fancy's strengthened wings,
I pierce the infinite afar,
And journey on from star to star,
Through dazzling files of sun-like spheres,
Which, seen from earth, are but like tears
Which hang on blade, and flower, and thorn
Shook from the dewy locks of Morn.
Or I will travel on the path
Which the mysterious comet hath,
Perchance to see it past me driven,
Filling with fire the cope of heaven,
And roaring like ten thousand seas,
Through its vast realms of mysteries,
Till fierce and far it fades away,
Beyond where human thoughts can stray.
“Grown faint with splendour, Fancy falls
Down from the blue and boundless halls,
Where distant planets wax and wane,
To rest awhile on earth again.
Still thou art with me here below,
Spirit of Song! and well I know
Thou art the soul of every thing
That comes with renovating Spring,—
Of all that Summer wakes to light,
Luxuriant, blooming, green, and bright,—
Of all that reeling Autumn yields,
Of luscious fruits and laden fields,—
Of all that Winter ushers in
With stormy revelry and din;—
The pictures of fantastic frost,
The feathery snow-shower, tempest-tost,
The fierce and unexpected hail,
Smit downwards by the raging gale;
The trees that sway and groan aghast,
Beneath the wrestling of the blast,
And all the powers which reign sublime
Throughout that cold tumultuous time.
Thou art a spirit, too, at rest
Within the human soul and breast;
Felt beneath the palace dome,
And in the peasant's cottage home;
Spoken by the watchful sage,
Written on the poet's page,
Dispensing light to many a mind,
With joys exalted and refined.
Down from the blue and boundless halls,
Where distant planets wax and wane,
To rest awhile on earth again.
Still thou art with me here below,
Spirit of Song! and well I know
Thou art the soul of every thing
That comes with renovating Spring,—
Of all that Summer wakes to light,
Luxuriant, blooming, green, and bright,—
Of all that reeling Autumn yields,
Of luscious fruits and laden fields,—
219
With stormy revelry and din;—
The pictures of fantastic frost,
The feathery snow-shower, tempest-tost,
The fierce and unexpected hail,
Smit downwards by the raging gale;
The trees that sway and groan aghast,
Beneath the wrestling of the blast,
And all the powers which reign sublime
Throughout that cold tumultuous time.
Thou art a spirit, too, at rest
Within the human soul and breast;
Felt beneath the palace dome,
And in the peasant's cottage home;
Spoken by the watchful sage,
Written on the poet's page,
Dispensing light to many a mind,
With joys exalted and refined.
“Spirit of beauty, sound, and feeling!
So calmly o'er my vision stealing,—
Lend me thy purest, holiest fire,
To raise my aspirations higher,
Until I seem to spurn the sod,
And feel thine essence—which is God!”
So calmly o'er my vision stealing,—
Lend me thy purest, holiest fire,
To raise my aspirations higher,
Until I seem to spurn the sod,
And feel thine essence—which is God!”
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |