Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III Keeping festival in Ardenne, a romance. St. Alban's Abbey, a metrical tale; With some poetical pieces. By Anne Radcliffe ... To which is prefixed: A memoir of the author, with extracts from her journals. In four volumes |
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AN ANCIENT BEECH-TREE. IN THE PARK, AT KNOLE.
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 | Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III |  |
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AN ANCIENT BEECH-TREE. IN THE PARK, AT KNOLE.
THE WOODLAND NYMPH.
Down in yon glade, that points to the red West,
O'erhung with ancient groves, whose shadows fall
So darkly on the ground, that the green moss
Is hardly known beneath them;—in yon glade,
Just where the trees irregularly part
In long perspective, and an evening scene
Of sylvan grandeur glimmers, stands a beech,
Like some gigantic sentinel, advanced
On watch to guard the pass to sacred haunts.
Approach, and let thy nobler mind prevail;
And, as thine eye measures its form, its large
Grey limbs upstretching in the air, among
The pendent, rich, luxuriant foliage,
Over the silvery rind, moss-mottled, showing
Like gleams of light 'mid their green shadows; if
Grace and grandeur ever touched thine heart, adore
And weep—weep tears of deep delight, and tears
Of gratitude, that thou canst weep such tears!
O'erhung with ancient groves, whose shadows fall
So darkly on the ground, that the green moss
Is hardly known beneath them;—in yon glade,
Just where the trees irregularly part
In long perspective, and an evening scene
Of sylvan grandeur glimmers, stands a beech,
Like some gigantic sentinel, advanced
On watch to guard the pass to sacred haunts.
Approach, and let thy nobler mind prevail;
And, as thine eye measures its form, its large
Grey limbs upstretching in the air, among
197
Over the silvery rind, moss-mottled, showing
Like gleams of light 'mid their green shadows; if
Grace and grandeur ever touched thine heart, adore
And weep—weep tears of deep delight, and tears
Of gratitude, that thou canst weep such tears!
If thou would'st see in full magnificence
This canopy, most surely the domain
Of some lone Dryad,—come when Evening casts
Her yellow light, and gives its lower shades
Their most luxuriant tinge; speak not, but watch
And thou 'lt see haply at this dewy hour
The Nymph of this deep shade 'rise from her sleep.
The scared hind, bounding athwart the glades,
Springs not so lightly, nor so graceful turns,
When, listening to the step, that startles her,
She bends her slender neck and branched head
And shows her dark eyes, bright and innocent.
This canopy, most surely the domain
Of some lone Dryad,—come when Evening casts
Her yellow light, and gives its lower shades
Their most luxuriant tinge; speak not, but watch
And thou 'lt see haply at this dewy hour
The Nymph of this deep shade 'rise from her sleep.
The scared hind, bounding athwart the glades,
Springs not so lightly, nor so graceful turns,
When, listening to the step, that startles her,
She bends her slender neck and branched head
And shows her dark eyes, bright and innocent.
Oh, Nymph of graces, playful as these boughs,
When gentle airs play o'er them, thee I know,
And have, at eve, beheld thy dance of joy
In the proud shade, that shields thee from the storm,
And guards thy slumbers from the summer rain.
Thy noon-tide slumbers, too, I have beheld,
And the high canopy of boughs bespread,
When, laid in peace upon the twilight moss,
Where the green shadows deep and coolest fall,
Thy fairy court watched round thee—court of Elves
That dwell unseen within the hollow leaves
Or inmost foliage, rocked by summer sighs.
These have I seen around thy mossy couch,
Fanning thy slumber with long leaves of lilies,
Scattering the white bells in thy twisted hair,
And binding each dark lock with wreaths of flowers.
Thy footsteps trod the tender hyacinth,
Blue and transparent as the light of Morn,
The dark-eyed violet, that weeps perfume,
The wild-rose tinted with the Dawn's first blush,
And sparkling with the tears and smiles she shed,
When, scattered from her hand, it fell to earth.
When gentle airs play o'er them, thee I know,
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In the proud shade, that shields thee from the storm,
And guards thy slumbers from the summer rain.
Thy noon-tide slumbers, too, I have beheld,
And the high canopy of boughs bespread,
When, laid in peace upon the twilight moss,
Where the green shadows deep and coolest fall,
Thy fairy court watched round thee—court of Elves
That dwell unseen within the hollow leaves
Or inmost foliage, rocked by summer sighs.
These have I seen around thy mossy couch,
Fanning thy slumber with long leaves of lilies,
Scattering the white bells in thy twisted hair,
And binding each dark lock with wreaths of flowers.
Thy footsteps trod the tender hyacinth,
Blue and transparent as the light of Morn,
The dark-eyed violet, that weeps perfume,
The wild-rose tinted with the Dawn's first blush,
And sparkling with the tears and smiles she shed,
When, scattered from her hand, it fell to earth.
This ancient beech, this sylvan wonder, triumphs
Over the oak, whose spreading pomp has crowned him
King o' the woods; but his magnificence
Is rude and heavy,—while this lonely beech,
With all its wealth of green, transparent shadows,
(A graceful hill of leaves in the blue air,)
Still must be hailed the hero of the forest!
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King o' the woods; but his magnificence
Is rude and heavy,—while this lonely beech,
With all its wealth of green, transparent shadows,
(A graceful hill of leaves in the blue air,)
Still must be hailed the hero of the forest!
| Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III | |