University of Virginia Library

OTHER SCENES.

THE RIVER TRAUN.

WRITTEN IN LOMBARDY.

TO AN ENGLISH LADY,

WHO HAD SUNG A ROMAN BALLAD.

Blame not my vacant looks; it is not true,
That my discourteous thoughts did vainly stray
Out of the presence of your gentle lay,
While other eager listeners nearer drew,
Though sooth I hardly heard a note; for you,
Most cunning songstress, did my soul convey
Over the fields of space, far, far away,
To the dear garden-land, where long it grew.
Thus, all that time, beneath the ilex roof
Of an old Alban hill, I lay aloof,
With the cicala faintly clittering near,
Till, as your song expired, the clouds that pass
Athwart the Roman plain, as o'er a glass,
Thickened, and bade the vision disappear.

ON THE CHURCH OF THE MADELEINE AT PARIS.

ON REVISITING CAMBRIDGE,

AFTER A LONG ABSENCE ON THE CONTINENT.

Nor few, nor poor in beauty, my resorts
In foreign climes,—nor negligent or dull
My observation, but these long-left courts
I still find beautiful, most beautiful!
And fairly are they more so than before;
For to my eye, fresh from a southern land,
They wear the colouring of the scenes of yore,
And the old Faith that made them here to stand.
I paint the very students as they were,
Not the men-children of these forward days,
But mild-eyed boys just risen from their knees,
While, proud as angels of their holy care,
Following the symbol-vested priest, they raise
The full response of antique litanies.

THE SAME.

I have a debt of my heart's own to Thee,
School of my Soul! old lime and cloister shade,
Which I, strange suitor, should lament to see
Fully acquitted and exactly paid:
The first ripe taste of manhood's best delights,
Knowledge imbibed, while mind and heart agree,
In sweet belated talk on winter nights,
With friends whom growing time keeps dear to me,—
Such things I owe thee, and not only these:
I owe thee the far beaconing memories
Of the young dead, who, having crossed the tide
Of Life where it was narrow, deep, and clear,
Now cast their brightness from the further side
On the dark-flowing hours I breast in fear.

ON COWPER'S GARDEN AT OLNEY.

From this forlornest place, at morn and even,
Issues a voice imperative, “Begone,
All ye that let your vermin thoughts creep on
Beneath the unheeded thunders of high Heaven;
Nor welcome they, who, when free grace is given
To free from usual life's dominion,
Soon as the moving scene or time is gone,
Return, like penitents unfitly shriven.
But Ye, who long have wooed the memory
Of this great Victim of sublime despair,
Encompassed round with evil as with air,
Yet crying, ‘God is good, and sinful He,’—.
Remain, and feel how better 'tis to drink
Of Truth to Madness even than shun that fountain's brink.”

ON MILTON'S COTTAGE, AT CHALFONT ST. GILES,

WHERE HE REMAINED DURING THE GREAT PLAGUE.

Beneath this roof, for no such use designed
By its old owners, Fleetwood's banished race,
Blind Milton found a healthful resting-place,
Leaving the city's dark disease behind:—
Here, too, with studies noble and refined,
As with fresh air, his spirits he could brace,
And grow unconscious of the time's disgrace,
And the fierce plague of disappointed mind.
The gracious Muse is wont to build for most
Of her dear sons some pleasant noontide bower;
But for this One she raised a home of fame,
Where he dwelt safe through life's chill evening hour,
Above the memo'ry of his Hero lost,
His martyred brethren and his country's shame.

ANSWER TO WORDSWORTH'S SONNET AGAINST THE KENDAL AND BOWNESS RAILWAY.

The hour may come, nay must in these our days,
When the swift steam-car with the cata'ract's shout
Shall mingle its harsh roll, and motley rout
Of multitudes these mountain echoes raise.
But Thou, the Patriarch of these beauteous ways,
Canst never grudge that gloomy streets send out
The crowded sons of labour, care, and doubt,
To read these scenes by light of thine own lays.
Disordered laughter and encounters rude
The Poet's finer sense perchance may pain,
But many a glade and nook of solitude
For quiet walk and thought will still remain,
Where He those poor intruders can elude,
Nor lose one dream for all their homely gain.

TINTERN ABBEY.

The Men who called their passion piety,
And wrecked this noble argosy of faith,—
They little thought how beauteous could be Death,
How fair the face of Time's aye deepe'ning sea!
Nor arms that desolate, nor years that flee,
Nor hearts that fail, can utterly deflower
This grassy floor of sacramental power
Where we now stand commu'nicants—even We,
We of this latter, still protéstant age,
With priestly ministrations of the Sun
And Moon and multitudinous quire of stars
Maintain this consecration, and assuage
With tender thoughts the past of weary wars,
Masking with good that ill which cannot be undone.

ON THE GRAVE OF BISHOP KEN,

AT FROME, IN SOMERSETSHIRE.