The Alhambra and Other Poems By F. B. Money-Coutts [i.e. F. B. T. Coutts-Nevill] |
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To William Watson at Windermere |
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 | The Alhambra and Other Poems |  |
7
To William Watson at Windermere
I count thee, Watson, happier far
Than we who live in foolish noise,
With inharmonious minds that mar
The measure of our scanty joys!
Than we who live in foolish noise,
With inharmonious minds that mar
The measure of our scanty joys!
From thee the inarticulate hills
Expect the voice to them denied,
For thee the whisper of the rills
A thousand-fold is multiplied;
Expect the voice to them denied,
For thee the whisper of the rills
A thousand-fold is multiplied;
And every tarn reflects for thee
Procession of the bygone years,
When clouds in hooded pageantry,
Like memories, flit across the meres;
Procession of the bygone years,
When clouds in hooded pageantry,
Like memories, flit across the meres;
The flowers reach up to kiss thine hand,
The trees lean down to touch thine head,
The birds acclaim thee; all the land
Is conscious of a poet's tread!
The trees lean down to touch thine head,
The birds acclaim thee; all the land
Is conscious of a poet's tread!
All seems aloof from mortal pain;
Thou communest with all in song,
Clear-welling with a purer strain
Than ever flowed from human wrong.
Thou communest with all in song,
Clear-welling with a purer strain
Than ever flowed from human wrong.
8
O happy in the woodland maze!
O happy on the mountain steep!
But we are locked in wilder ways,
And alien from the hills of sleep!
O happy on the mountain steep!
But we are locked in wilder ways,
And alien from the hills of sleep!
No “rivulets dance,” no torrents flow,
No “forests muse” of pine or oak;
We marvel if a floweret blow
Beneath a heaven so smeared with smoke.
No “forests muse” of pine or oak;
We marvel if a floweret blow
Beneath a heaven so smeared with smoke.
And here no joyous impulse moves
The minds of men with random waves,
But up and down these stony grooves
We hurry, like a gang of slaves.
The minds of men with random waves,
But up and down these stony grooves
We hurry, like a gang of slaves.
Ah, vainly would'st thou bend to hear,
Or vainly would'st thou strain to see
The mystic Spirit bards revere
Of Nature's prodigality!
Or vainly would'st thou strain to see
The mystic Spirit bards revere
Of Nature's prodigality!
A giant, clanking golden chains;
A monster, bound in torments fierce;
Whose strong integument of pains
No shaft of joy is keen to pierce;
A monster, bound in torments fierce;
Whose strong integument of pains
No shaft of joy is keen to pierce;
What more than this can poet spy
Beneath our brave pretence and show?
'Tis light to lift, that bravery,
That broidered coverlid of woe!
Beneath our brave pretence and show?
'Tis light to lift, that bravery,
That broidered coverlid of woe!
9
And yet perchance I do thee wrong;
Perchance, beneath immediate ill,
Thy clearer insight, trained and strong,
May catch a deeper vision still:
Perchance, beneath immediate ill,
Thy clearer insight, trained and strong,
May catch a deeper vision still:
Maybe, though greeting Nature's face
In cloud and crag, in lake and glen,
At least her footsteps thou canst trace
Among the meaner ways of men!
In cloud and crag, in lake and glen,
At least her footsteps thou canst trace
Among the meaner ways of men!
Maybe, her paths by thee discerned,
Are less obscure than sages deem;
The poet's prescience having learned
What Science only dares to dream:
Are less obscure than sages deem;
The poet's prescience having learned
What Science only dares to dream:
That Nature is not twain or trine;
Though none know whither, none know whence
Her journey, yet no less divine
Is sense, than things perceived by sense.
Though none know whither, none know whence
Her journey, yet no less divine
Is sense, than things perceived by sense.
But take thou the unfinished thought,
To mould it, in some later lay,
By finer inspiration wrought,
And sing me all I fail to say;
To mould it, in some later lay,
By finer inspiration wrought,
And sing me all I fail to say;
Let not the cloistral peaks bar out
Profaner creatures from thy ken,
Or fold thee from the faith and doubt
Of common minds and fellow men!
Profaner creatures from thy ken,
Or fold thee from the faith and doubt
Of common minds and fellow men!
10
Though Windermere thy heart allure,
Or Rydal, with her sacred hills,
Forget not whom the towns immure
To turn the cranks and tread the mills!
Or Rydal, with her sacred hills,
Forget not whom the towns immure
To turn the cranks and tread the mills!
London. July, 1897.
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