 | The poetical works of Barry Cornwall |  |
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A HAUNTED STREAM.
‘Of objects all inanimate I made
‘Idols.’
Byron.
‘Idols.’
Byron.
It is perhaps a fable: yet the hind
Tells it with reverence, and at times I deem
The tale allied to truth. They say yon brook
That circles with its silver arms that grove
Of forest trees, is—haunted: nay, you smile;
But I was born beside it, and through life,
Aye, 'midst the jarrings of this bitter world,
In pain, in calumny, my mind hath dwelt
Upon this stream as on some holy thought.
See where it wanders from its mossy cave,
And toward the dark wood, like a bashful thing
Surprised, runs trembling as for succour. Look!
Such streams as these did Dian love, and such
Naiads of old frequented. Still its face
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In former times, rivers were celebrate:
One told how Achelöus dived beneath
Sicilian seas, to meet his nymph divine,
The blue Arethusa; one (‘the loftiest’) sung
The rough Scamander, oh, and how he rushed
And mingled with Troy fight; and some did tell
Of Aganippe's fount; of Hippocrene,
And Simois, and ‘immortal Castaly.’
Come then, my stream, and I will sing of thee:
Worthy from beauty, oh! but worthier far
From sweet associate pleasures. Thou to me
Art like the glass of memory, where the mind
Sees, charmed and softened by thy murmuring, things
It elsewhere dare not dream of; things that fled
With early youth, and went—I know not whither:
Shadows forgot, and hope that perished.—
—Beautiful river! on thy banks remote
Still does the half-sunned primrose waste its sweets,
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Like purity) comes forth; blue violets,
The wild-brier-rose, and spotted daisies, which
The young year scatters on the sward, and all
That June or April love, or Autumn spares
Amidst her golden bounty, live unhurt.
Here, on May mornings, I may hear the thrush
Pour from his silver throat sweet music; and,
'Neath summer stars the nightingale—(for she
Is queen of all earth's choristers, and holds
Acquaintance with the evening winds, which waft her
Sweet tidings from the rose.) The stockdove here
Breathes her deep note complaining, 'till the air
Seems touch'd, and all the woods and hollows, sighing,
Prolong the sound to sadness. Hark! a noise.
Song.
Look upon these ‘yellow sands,’
Coloured by no mortal hands:
Look upon this grassy bank,
Crown'd with flowers and osiers dank,
Whereon the milk-white heifers feed:
(White as if of Io's breed.)
Look upon these glassy waters,
Where earth's loveliest daughters
Bathe their limbs and foreheads fair
And wring their dark and streaming hair.
Coloured by no mortal hands:
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Crown'd with flowers and osiers dank,
Whereon the milk-white heifers feed:
(White as if of Io's breed.)
Look upon these glassy waters,
Where earth's loveliest daughters
Bathe their limbs and foreheads fair
And wring their dark and streaming hair.
Here, if on summer nights you stray,
When rolls the bright and orbed moon
Thro' the sultry skies of June,
You will see the Spirits play,
And all the Fays keep holiday.
Think not that 'tis but a dream:
For I (the Naiad of the stream)
Have often by the pale moonlight,
Seen them dancing, joyous, light.
Some, heedless of the midnight hours,
Laugh, and 'wake the sleeping flowers:
Some on water-lilies lie
And down the wave float silently:
Some, in circles flying,
Beat with their tiny wings the air,
And rouse the zephyr when he's dying:
Some tumble in the fountain's spray,
And in the lunar rainbows play:
All seem as they were free from care.
—Yet, One there was, who at times would stray,
As on her breast some sorrow weigh'd,
And rest her in the pine-tree shade:
(The blue-eyed queen Titania;)
She, from very grief of heart,
Would from the revel oft depart,
And like a shooting sun-beam, go
To where the Tigris' waters shine,
Or the Cashmere roses blow,
Or where the fir-clad Appennine
Frowns darkly on Italian skies,
Or where, 'neath Summer's smile divine,
Tydoré's spicy forests rise.
—But hark! my master Ocean calls,
And I must hie to his coral halls.
What think you now?—Believe the spirit; and own
When rolls the bright and orbed moon
Thro' the sultry skies of June,
You will see the Spirits play,
And all the Fays keep holiday.
Think not that 'tis but a dream:
For I (the Naiad of the stream)
Have often by the pale moonlight,
Seen them dancing, joyous, light.
Some, heedless of the midnight hours,
Laugh, and 'wake the sleeping flowers:
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And down the wave float silently:
Some, in circles flying,
Beat with their tiny wings the air,
And rouse the zephyr when he's dying:
Some tumble in the fountain's spray,
And in the lunar rainbows play:
All seem as they were free from care.
—Yet, One there was, who at times would stray,
As on her breast some sorrow weigh'd,
And rest her in the pine-tree shade:
(The blue-eyed queen Titania;)
She, from very grief of heart,
Would from the revel oft depart,
And like a shooting sun-beam, go
To where the Tigris' waters shine,
Or the Cashmere roses blow,
Or where the fir-clad Appennine
Frowns darkly on Italian skies,
Or where, 'neath Summer's smile divine,
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—But hark! my master Ocean calls,
And I must hie to his coral halls.
The place is haunted. On yon slanting tree
That dips its tresses in the wave, 'tis said
Poets have leant, and when the moon hath flung
Her bright smile on the quivering element,
Have thought a strange communion liv'd between
That planet and the stream. Perhaps a nymph
Of Dian's train, here, for her voice or beauty,
Was changed by some envious deity.
Whate'er it be, it well doth manifest
The lives of those who dwell around it: Calm,
And undisturbed its current, never chafed
By the rude breeze, it flows on till—'tis lost.
But I have sailed upon a stormier wave,
And, in my course of life, dark shoals were hid,
And rocks arose, and thundering currents clashed;
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Meet the tempestuous seas; but still I lived,
And held my way undaunted. Now, I come
To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree,
And bush and fragrant flower and hilly path,
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds
Its morning incense, is my friend; for I
Did make acquaintance with inanimate things
In very boyhood, and did love to break
With shouts the mountain silence, and to hang
O'er flashing torrents, when the piny boughs
Shook their dark locks, and plained in mournful tones
Mysterious to the barren wilderness;
And still in solitary spots my soul
Resumes its youth.—Think not that this is all
An idle folly; he who can draw a joy
From rocks, or woods, or weeds, or things that seem
All mute, and does it—is wise.
| The poetical works of Barry Cornwall | |