 | Under the dawn |  |
196
FROM BLACKHEATH TO GRAVESEND.
[1]
I journeyed by wild marshes yesterday,
Where lonely bands of wandering cattle fed,
With here and there a straw-stack or a shed,
And all the skies were overhung with grey;
It was a dismal region, yet I say
That many swift and pleasing fancies sped
Throughout me, nor was rapture wholly dead;
No lack of colour poesy can slay.
Where lonely bands of wandering cattle fed,
With here and there a straw-stack or a shed,
And all the skies were overhung with grey;
It was a dismal region, yet I say
That many swift and pleasing fancies sped
Throughout me, nor was rapture wholly dead;
No lack of colour poesy can slay.
In that dim waste I seemed to apprehend
A spirit present, lordly and as fair
As any whose bright sceptre doth extend
Thro' viewless avenues of mountain air,
Or over slopes where clustering birches bend,
And many a scudding goshawk finds his lair.
A spirit present, lordly and as fair
As any whose bright sceptre doth extend
Thro' viewless avenues of mountain air,
Or over slopes where clustering birches bend,
And many a scudding goshawk finds his lair.
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2.
Since not in mountain-regions I was born,
But by the silver bank of gliding Thames,
Where many an iron steamer duly stems
The current, somewhat have I of high scorn
For singers who can only sound their horn
In lofty regions, where the sun begems
Cold mountain-tops—whose blazing diadems
From lustrous scenes of easy thought are torn.
But by the silver bank of gliding Thames,
Where many an iron steamer duly stems
The current, somewhat have I of high scorn
For singers who can only sound their horn
In lofty regions, where the sun begems
Cold mountain-tops—whose blazing diadems
From lustrous scenes of easy thought are torn.
The grandeur of a mountain, who denies?
Grant me the patient insight, heavenly muse,
To own thy sacred presence 'mid dim skies,
And low surrounding flats of slime and ooze
O'er which the wandering love-sick plover flies,
Tender with uniformity of hu es.
Grant me the patient insight, heavenly muse,
To own thy sacred presence 'mid dim skies,
And low surrounding flats of slime and ooze
O'er which the wandering love-sick plover flies,
Tender with uniformity of hu es.
3.
O mountain-regions, stately and exalt,
Am I then false and treacherous to you,
Your perfectly transparent skies of blue,
Your grand rock-masses woven of basalt,
And precipices where the wild birds halt
With some more daring, giddier flight in view
And nooks where birches cluster two and two
And verdant sheen of many a mossy vault?
Am I then false and treacherous to you,
Your perfectly transparent skies of blue,
Your grand rock-masses woven of basalt,
And precipices where the wild birds halt
With some more daring, giddier flight in view
And nooks where birches cluster two and two
And verdant sheen of many a mossy vault?
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Not so! but one has sung you whom to attempt
To rival were a folly—as for me,
From giddy mountain-eulogies exempt,
Let me the rather seek the still grey sea,
And rivers as the river where I dreamt
But yesterday, my vanished love, of thee.
To rival were a folly—as for me,
From giddy mountain-eulogies exempt,
Let me the rather seek the still grey sea,
And rivers as the river where I dreamt
But yesterday, my vanished love, of thee.
4.
For not the mountains, not the lordly void
Of untempestuous and ecstatic air
That finds 'mid those high summits cool and fair
A resting-place and temple unalloyed,
Not these allure me—nor, by these decoyed,
Do I forget, sweet muse, my native lair—
The home, still more significant, of her
By whose sweet face my fainting youth was buoyed.
Of untempestuous and ecstatic air
That finds 'mid those high summits cool and fair
A resting-place and temple unalloyed,
Not these allure me—nor, by these decoyed,
Do I forget, sweet muse, my native lair—
The home, still more significant, of her
By whose sweet face my fainting youth was buoyed.
Amid the marshes spreading towards the deep,
By Woolwich and by Gravesend, with the power
Of coming ocean-life upon their sleep,
I still can linger many a happy hour,
And many a happy silent watch can keep,
Happier than in a fern-clad mountain bower.
By Woolwich and by Gravesend, with the power
Of coming ocean-life upon their sleep,
I still can linger many a happy hour,
And many a happy silent watch can keep,
Happier than in a fern-clad mountain bower.
5.
The great ships steal along—I muse, I think
Of wonders that their keels shall soon traverse;
I mark the mariners our islets nurse,
Clustered in gazing circles on the brink
Of pier and shore, watching slow topmasts sink,
As many a hardy story they rehearse;
Waste regions I divide with fancy terse,
And unintelligible joys I drink.
Of wonders that their keels shall soon traverse;
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Clustered in gazing circles on the brink
Of pier and shore, watching slow topmasts sink,
As many a hardy story they rehearse;
Waste regions I divide with fancy terse,
And unintelligible joys I drink.
The spirit of the universe is mine,
Perhaps most of all in such a quiet scene,
Where floating logs along the river line
Give motion to an endless waste serene,
And here and there black rocking boats combine
To hint at life that elsewise had not been.
Perhaps most of all in such a quiet scene,
Where floating logs along the river line
Give motion to an endless waste serene,
And here and there black rocking boats combine
To hint at life that elsewise had not been.
6.
Steal on, slow circles of the eddying river,
Climb on, swift prows of sharp ascending boats!
I mark ye, and I mark each straw that floats
Upon the waves, and sun's red rays that quiver
Thro' the dense air of afternoon, and shiver
Across my searching gaze like lustrous motes;
Each item of the view my outlook notes,
From the long hills to flats that ebb for ever.
Climb on, swift prows of sharp ascending boats!
I mark ye, and I mark each straw that floats
Upon the waves, and sun's red rays that quiver
Thro' the dense air of afternoon, and shiver
Across my searching gaze like lustrous motes;
Each item of the view my outlook notes,
From the long hills to flats that ebb for ever.
But now the robe of evening mist descends,
The river groweth darker, and the tides
Are less apparent, as their outset blends
With the green shore's remote inclosing sides,
And with the closing day my spent lyre ends,
And this faint tune its passionate love provides.
The river groweth darker, and the tides
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With the green shore's remote inclosing sides,
And with the closing day my spent lyre ends,
And this faint tune its passionate love provides.
7.
But, O ye solemn mountains, loved of him
Who most of all has stood with accents pure
Among our recent bards whose songs endure,
Who now sits 'mid the winged seraphim
With harp not weary and with eyes not dim,
And lips no earthly sickness can obscure,
Sweet mountains, be not wroth with me,—be sure
With love of ye my looks do ofttimes swim.
Who most of all has stood with accents pure
Among our recent bards whose songs endure,
Who now sits 'mid the winged seraphim
With harp not weary and with eyes not dim,
And lips no earthly sickness can obscure,
Sweet mountains, be not wroth with me,—be sure
With love of ye my looks do ofttimes swim.
But in that I was born in lowly lands,
And in a lowly region sought my bride,
These speak to me as no man understands,—
And, with unearthly mystic power supplied,
I seem to tread the desolate reach of sands,
And mark the low waste washing of the tide.
And in a lowly region sought my bride,
These speak to me as no man understands,—
And, with unearthly mystic power supplied,
I seem to tread the desolate reach of sands,
And mark the low waste washing of the tide.
| Under the dawn | |