 | Poetical remains (1872) |  |
A Fragment,
WRITTEN AT BEACONSFIELD BEFORE MR. BURKE'S DEATH.
1797.
Yes! down this grassy bank as now I stray,
Beneath these oaks as now I bend my way,
Where'er I turn, familiar to my eyes
The lawn expands, woods wave, and uplands rise.
Thy church, sweet Penn! in simple beauty plain,
That from yon brow beholds this fair domain,
More widely looking on the distant side,
Where Thames in mazes rolls his wandering tide;
The beechen shades, that stretch along the hill,
Sweep down the slope, and half the valley fill;
The scattered cottages, that here and there
Skirt the green spot, yet sacred from the share;
The neighboring grange, which through the trees I catch,
Bright in the splendors of the recent thatch;
These sheep close nibbling, and the youthful steed,
That round his mother, sporting, tries his speed;
Those sober herds that ruminate reclined,
Or, grazing slowly, thro' the pasture wind,
While some retired, the sultry day to cool,
Seek in that bushy dell the limpid pool;
These groves of verdure rich in various hues,
Whose walks of pleasing gloom invite to muse,
Where bordering shrubs, and sheltered seats imply,
To Fancy's curious search, the mansion nigh;
And here the thickened mass of darker green,
Where the tall pines that well-placed mansion screen,
All I remember:—still in all I trace
The charms that smiled before on Nature's face.
All I remember:—where content I found,
Pleased with each rural sight, each rural sound.
Yet not within the same emotions spring.
To me no more these scenes familiar bring
The joy which here I knew in happier years:
The smiles of Nature but provoke my tears.
In every bush, at each green alley's end,
I see the form of some departed friend:
If Zephyr fan the leaves, in every breath
I hear some voice, for ever mute in death.
Alas! though drenched in dews from Lethe's lake
The Memory sleep, if Sorrow bid her wake,
How exquisite in torture, she employs
Alike her hoard of miseries and joys!
How present grief revives long-buried woes!
From what past trifles new-born anguish grows!
Nothing so light, that played around the heart,
But, like the feather, deeper drives the dart.
There, on that hillock, where, with whirling sails,
The busy mill collects the passing gales,
As now I cast my pensive view behind,
Thy image, Reynolds! rushes on my mind.
There I beheld thee stand, with lifted eyes,
That sparkled quaint delight and feigned surprise;
Unseen I saw, and marked within thy soul
The wayward fancies of Cervantes roll;
How Quixote's giants worked upon thy thought,
And the squire wondering as the master fought.
For thine was playful elegance of taste,
And humour thine [OMITTED]
Beneath these oaks as now I bend my way,
Where'er I turn, familiar to my eyes
The lawn expands, woods wave, and uplands rise.
Thy church, sweet Penn! in simple beauty plain,
That from yon brow beholds this fair domain,
More widely looking on the distant side,
Where Thames in mazes rolls his wandering tide;
The beechen shades, that stretch along the hill,
Sweep down the slope, and half the valley fill;
The scattered cottages, that here and there
Skirt the green spot, yet sacred from the share;
The neighboring grange, which through the trees I catch,
Bright in the splendors of the recent thatch;
107
That round his mother, sporting, tries his speed;
Those sober herds that ruminate reclined,
Or, grazing slowly, thro' the pasture wind,
While some retired, the sultry day to cool,
Seek in that bushy dell the limpid pool;
These groves of verdure rich in various hues,
Whose walks of pleasing gloom invite to muse,
Where bordering shrubs, and sheltered seats imply,
To Fancy's curious search, the mansion nigh;
And here the thickened mass of darker green,
Where the tall pines that well-placed mansion screen,
All I remember:—still in all I trace
The charms that smiled before on Nature's face.
All I remember:—where content I found,
Pleased with each rural sight, each rural sound.
Yet not within the same emotions spring.
To me no more these scenes familiar bring
The joy which here I knew in happier years:
The smiles of Nature but provoke my tears.
In every bush, at each green alley's end,
I see the form of some departed friend:
If Zephyr fan the leaves, in every breath
I hear some voice, for ever mute in death.
Alas! though drenched in dews from Lethe's lake
The Memory sleep, if Sorrow bid her wake,
108
Alike her hoard of miseries and joys!
How present grief revives long-buried woes!
From what past trifles new-born anguish grows!
Nothing so light, that played around the heart,
But, like the feather, deeper drives the dart.
There, on that hillock, where, with whirling sails,
The busy mill collects the passing gales,
As now I cast my pensive view behind,
Thy image, Reynolds! rushes on my mind.
There I beheld thee stand, with lifted eyes,
That sparkled quaint delight and feigned surprise;
Unseen I saw, and marked within thy soul
The wayward fancies of Cervantes roll;
How Quixote's giants worked upon thy thought,
And the squire wondering as the master fought.
For thine was playful elegance of taste,
And humour thine [OMITTED]
| Poetical remains (1872) | |