 | Jones Very : The Complete Poems |  |
25
North River
How quiet sleep the silent waves!
As gentle as an infant's breath,
The gales across their slumbers sweep,
Nor wake that sleep as calm as death.
As gentle as an infant's breath,
The gales across their slumbers sweep,
Nor wake that sleep as calm as death.
But see, beneath that glassy breast
The mingling scenes of life arise;
There spring the leafy groves to meet
The blue expanse of upper skies:
The mingling scenes of life arise;
There spring the leafy groves to meet
The blue expanse of upper skies:
And hills uplift them mid the scene,
And herds beneath the bright wave feed
Upon the meadow's mirror'd green,
Or seek repose within the shade.
And herds beneath the bright wave feed
Upon the meadow's mirror'd green,
Or seek repose within the shade.
But look again,—that life has fled,
The breeze has swept too roughly o'er;
The crested wave now rears his head,
And frowns indignant on the shore.
The breeze has swept too roughly o'er;
The crested wave now rears his head,
And frowns indignant on the shore.
So rise within the soul's calm deep
The imag'd smiles of nature's love;
And claim at times their native seat,
And speak of heaven's mild peace above.
The imag'd smiles of nature's love;
And claim at times their native seat,
And speak of heaven's mild peace above.
(Oh! who has known such sacred hours,
And has not felt though all beside,—
Proud wealth's high domes, the pride of power,
All fortune gives,—had been denied;
And has not felt though all beside,—
Proud wealth's high domes, the pride of power,
All fortune gives,—had been denied;
Yet still beside some stream like this
His life would flow as gently on,
And his would be far purer bliss
Than sceptr'd monarch on his throne.)
His life would flow as gently on,
And his would be far purer bliss
Than sceptr'd monarch on his throne.)
But if upon the soul's calm face
Dash the rough blasts of passion wild,
Oh! then how soon is fled each trace
Of all that in that vision smil'd.
Dash the rough blasts of passion wild,
Oh! then how soon is fled each trace
Of all that in that vision smil'd.
Poem No. 199; 20 July 1835
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