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48
COWPER AT MUNDSLEY.
[_]
During the winter of 1795, which Cowper spent at Mundsley, he walked much by the sea, endeavouring vainly to throw off the dejection which now more than ever oppressed him.
When the blood runs cold and low,
When the winds of doubting blow,
When the shadow of my life
Silences the daily strife,
When the roses fade and fall,
When the violet-odours all
Are sickening with the scent of death,
When the lone soul sorroweth,
What shall light the sombre vale?
What for comfort shall avail?
When the winds of doubting blow,
When the shadow of my life
Silences the daily strife,
When the roses fade and fall,
When the violet-odours all
Are sickening with the scent of death,
When the lone soul sorroweth,
What shall light the sombre vale?
What for comfort shall avail?
Vague desire and aspiration
Haunt me like an inspiration:
Shadowy hopes that are despairs
Pass and mock my whisper'd prayers:
Solitude, thy silent calm
Lends to me no hallowed balm;
I am fully mournful only
When most intimately lonely;
When in the busy haunts that teem
With many a bruit of active scheme,
I crack the jest, and laugh my fill,
My demon laughs as loudly still;
Yet in the sight of other eyes
He frees me from his sorceries,
And then my weary spirit knows
A little respite of repose:
With Nature, too, a happy time
Is dedicate to thoughtful rhyme,
And in her presence I enjoy
Short solace for my great annoy.
Haunt me like an inspiration:
49
Pass and mock my whisper'd prayers:
Solitude, thy silent calm
Lends to me no hallowed balm;
I am fully mournful only
When most intimately lonely;
When in the busy haunts that teem
With many a bruit of active scheme,
I crack the jest, and laugh my fill,
My demon laughs as loudly still;
Yet in the sight of other eyes
He frees me from his sorceries,
And then my weary spirit knows
A little respite of repose:
With Nature, too, a happy time
Is dedicate to thoughtful rhyme,
And in her presence I enjoy
Short solace for my great annoy.
I wander'd down the grassy steep,
Where purple orchis-blossoms sleep,
Waiting until the voice of Spring
Shall wake them into blossoming;—
Alas! their Spring is yet to come;
They nestle in a happy home;
But mine, that such a promise bore,
Is frost-nipp'd and can bloom no more.
Beneath the slope, the fringèd sea,
Lulled by its own low minstrelsy,
Was dreaming in the amber light
Which like a woven mantle bright
The sun threw o'er it. Here and there
Great gulls flapp'd through the heavy air,
And, on the pebble-girdled shore,
The pale green wavelets o'er and o'er
Went tumbling with a drowsy sense
Of universal indolence.
It was a day as sweet as rare,
When January, cold and bare,
Put on for once the golden hue
Of apple-blossom time. I grew
Heart-soften'd by the warm excess
Of unexpected loveliness;
And for a while forgot the shade
That lurks for me in every glade,
The bony fear that will not rest,
Nor pause from troubling my poor breast.
I cannot hope to live again,
And lose this load of quiet pain,
Until the years that speed so fast
Shall bring delightful calm at last!
The grand fulfilment of desire
Shall tip their angel-wings with fire,
Or else the lapse of time shall bless
My spirit with forgetfulness;
God in his mercy grant me peace,
And bid this demon-sorrow cease,
Or bear me in his arms of love
To amaranthine bowers above!
Where purple orchis-blossoms sleep,
Waiting until the voice of Spring
Shall wake them into blossoming;—
50
They nestle in a happy home;
But mine, that such a promise bore,
Is frost-nipp'd and can bloom no more.
Beneath the slope, the fringèd sea,
Lulled by its own low minstrelsy,
Was dreaming in the amber light
Which like a woven mantle bright
The sun threw o'er it. Here and there
Great gulls flapp'd through the heavy air,
And, on the pebble-girdled shore,
The pale green wavelets o'er and o'er
Went tumbling with a drowsy sense
Of universal indolence.
It was a day as sweet as rare,
When January, cold and bare,
Put on for once the golden hue
Of apple-blossom time. I grew
Heart-soften'd by the warm excess
Of unexpected loveliness;
And for a while forgot the shade
That lurks for me in every glade,
The bony fear that will not rest,
Nor pause from troubling my poor breast.
51
And lose this load of quiet pain,
Until the years that speed so fast
Shall bring delightful calm at last!
The grand fulfilment of desire
Shall tip their angel-wings with fire,
Or else the lapse of time shall bless
My spirit with forgetfulness;
God in his mercy grant me peace,
And bid this demon-sorrow cease,
Or bear me in his arms of love
To amaranthine bowers above!
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