 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
7
THE VALLEY OF FERN.
PART I.
There is a lone valley, few charms can it number,
Compar'd with the lovely glens north of the Tweed;
No mountains enclose it where morning mists slumber,
And it never has echoed the shepherd's soft reed.
No streamlet of crystal, its rocky banks laving,
Flows through it, delighting the ear and the eye;
On its sides no proud forests, their foliage waving,
Meet the gales of the Autumn or Summer wind's sigh;
Yet by me it is priz'd, and full dearly I love it,
And oft my steps thither I pensively turn;
It has silence within, Heaven's proud arch above it,
And my fancy has nam'd it the Valley of Fern.
Compar'd with the lovely glens north of the Tweed;
No mountains enclose it where morning mists slumber,
And it never has echoed the shepherd's soft reed.
No streamlet of crystal, its rocky banks laving,
Flows through it, delighting the ear and the eye;
On its sides no proud forests, their foliage waving,
Meet the gales of the Autumn or Summer wind's sigh;
Yet by me it is priz'd, and full dearly I love it,
And oft my steps thither I pensively turn;
It has silence within, Heaven's proud arch above it,
And my fancy has nam'd it the Valley of Fern.
8
O deep the repose which its calm recess giveth!
And no music can equal its silence to me;
When broken, 'tis only to prove something liveth,
By the note of the sky-lark, or hum of the bee.
On its sides the green fern to the breeze gently bending,
With a few stunted trees, meet the wandering eye;
Or the furze and the broom their bright blossoms extending,
With the braken's soft verdure delightfully vie;—
These are all it can boast; yet, when Fancy is dreaming,
Her visions, which Poets can only discern,
Come crowding around, in unearthly light beaming,
And invest with bright beauty the Valley of Fern.
And no music can equal its silence to me;
When broken, 'tis only to prove something liveth,
By the note of the sky-lark, or hum of the bee.
On its sides the green fern to the breeze gently bending,
With a few stunted trees, meet the wandering eye;
Or the furze and the broom their bright blossoms extending,
With the braken's soft verdure delightfully vie;—
These are all it can boast; yet, when Fancy is dreaming,
Her visions, which Poets can only discern,
Come crowding around, in unearthly light beaming,
And invest with bright beauty the Valley of Fern.
Sweet Valley! in seasons of grief and dejection,
I have sought in thy bosom a shelter from care;
And have found in my musings a bond of connexion
With thy landscape so peaceful, and all that was there:
In the verdure that sooth'd, in the flowers that brighten'd,
In the blackbird's soft note, in the hum of the bee,
I found something that lull'd, and insensibly lighten'd,
And felt grateful and tranquil while gazing on thee.
Yes! moments there are, when mute nature is willing
To teach, would proud man but be humble and learn;
When her sights and her sounds on the heart-strings are thrilling:
And this I have felt in the Valley of Fern.
I have sought in thy bosom a shelter from care;
And have found in my musings a bond of connexion
With thy landscape so peaceful, and all that was there:
In the verdure that sooth'd, in the flowers that brighten'd,
In the blackbird's soft note, in the hum of the bee,
I found something that lull'd, and insensibly lighten'd,
And felt grateful and tranquil while gazing on thee.
Yes! moments there are, when mute nature is willing
To teach, would proud man but be humble and learn;
When her sights and her sounds on the heart-strings are thrilling:
And this I have felt in the Valley of Fern.
9
For the bright chain of being, though widely extended,
Unites all its parts in one beautiful whole;
In which Grandeur and Grace are enchantingly blended,
Of which GOD is the Centre, the Light, and the Soul!
And holy the hope is, and sweet the sensation,
Which this feeling of union in solitude brings;
It gives silence a voice—and to calm contemplation,
Unseals the pure fountain whence happiness springs.
Then Nature, most loved in her loneliest recesses,
Unveils her fair features, and softens her stern;
And spreads, like that Being who bounteously blesses,
For her votary a feast in the Valley of Fern.
Unites all its parts in one beautiful whole;
In which Grandeur and Grace are enchantingly blended,
Of which GOD is the Centre, the Light, and the Soul!
And holy the hope is, and sweet the sensation,
Which this feeling of union in solitude brings;
It gives silence a voice—and to calm contemplation,
Unseals the pure fountain whence happiness springs.
Then Nature, most loved in her loneliest recesses,
Unveils her fair features, and softens her stern;
And spreads, like that Being who bounteously blesses,
For her votary a feast in the Valley of Fern.
And at times in its confines companionless straying,
Pure thoughts born in stillness have pass'd through my mind;
And the spirit within, their blest impulse obeying,
Has soar'd from this world on the wings of the wind:—
The pure sky above, and the still scene around me,
To the eye which survey'd them, no clear image brought;
But my soul seem'd entranced in the vision which bound me,
As by magical spell, to the beings of thought!
And to Him, their dread Author! the Fountain of Feeling!
I have bow'd, while my heart seem'd within me to burn;
And my spirit contrited, for mercy appealing,
Has call'd on his name in the Valley of Fern.
Pure thoughts born in stillness have pass'd through my mind;
And the spirit within, their blest impulse obeying,
Has soar'd from this world on the wings of the wind:—
The pure sky above, and the still scene around me,
To the eye which survey'd them, no clear image brought;
But my soul seem'd entranced in the vision which bound me,
As by magical spell, to the beings of thought!
10
I have bow'd, while my heart seem'd within me to burn;
And my spirit contrited, for mercy appealing,
Has call'd on his name in the Valley of Fern.
Farewell, lovely Valley!—when Earth's silent bosom
Shall hold him who loves thee, thy beauties may live:—
And thy turf's em'rald tint, and thy broom's yellow blossom,
Unto loiterers like him soothing pleasure may give.
As brightly may morning, thy graces investing
With light, and with life, wake thy inmates from sleep;
And as softly the moon, in still loveliness resting,
To gaze on its charms, thy lone landscape may steep.
Then, should friend of the bard, who hath paid with his praises
The pleasure thou'st yielded, e'er seek thy sojourn,
Should one tear for his sake fill the eye while it gazes,
It may fall unreprov'd in the Valley of Fern.
Shall hold him who loves thee, thy beauties may live:—
And thy turf's em'rald tint, and thy broom's yellow blossom,
Unto loiterers like him soothing pleasure may give.
As brightly may morning, thy graces investing
With light, and with life, wake thy inmates from sleep;
And as softly the moon, in still loveliness resting,
To gaze on its charms, thy lone landscape may steep.
Then, should friend of the bard, who hath paid with his praises
The pleasure thou'st yielded, e'er seek thy sojourn,
Should one tear for his sake fill the eye while it gazes,
It may fall unreprov'd in the Valley of Fern.
1817.
11
PART II.
Thou art chang'd, lovely spot! and no more thou displayest,
To the eye of thy votary, that negligent grace,
Which, in moments the saddest, the tenderest, the gayest,
Allur'd him so oft thy recesses to trace.
The hand of the spoiler has fallen upon thee,
And marr'd the wild beauties that deck'd thee before;
And the charms, which a poet's warm praises had won thee,
Exist but in memory, and bless thee no more.
Thy green, palmy fern, which the softest and mildest
Of Summer's light breezes could ruffle,—is fled;
And the bright-blossom'd ling, which spread o'er thee her wildest
And wantonest hues,—is uprooted and dead.
To the eye of thy votary, that negligent grace,
Which, in moments the saddest, the tenderest, the gayest,
Allur'd him so oft thy recesses to trace.
The hand of the spoiler has fallen upon thee,
And marr'd the wild beauties that deck'd thee before;
And the charms, which a poet's warm praises had won thee,
Exist but in memory, and bless thee no more.
Thy green, palmy fern, which the softest and mildest
Of Summer's light breezes could ruffle,—is fled;
And the bright-blossom'd ling, which spread o'er thee her wildest
And wantonest hues,—is uprooted and dead.
12
Yet now, even now, that thou neither belongest,
Or seem'st to belong, unto Nature or Art;
The love I still bear thee is deepest and strongest,
And thy fate but endears thee the more to my heart.
Thou art passing away, like some beautiful vision,
From things which now are, unto those that have been!
And wilt rise to my sight, like a landscape elysian,
With thy blossoms more bright, and thy verdure more green.
Thou wilt dwell in remembrance, among those recesses
Which fancy still haunts; though they were, and are not;
Whose loveliness lives, and whose beauty still blesses,
Which, though ceasing to be, can be never forgot.
Or seem'st to belong, unto Nature or Art;
The love I still bear thee is deepest and strongest,
And thy fate but endears thee the more to my heart.
Thou art passing away, like some beautiful vision,
From things which now are, unto those that have been!
And wilt rise to my sight, like a landscape elysian,
With thy blossoms more bright, and thy verdure more green.
Thou wilt dwell in remembrance, among those recesses
Which fancy still haunts; though they were, and are not;
Whose loveliness lives, and whose beauty still blesses,
Which, though ceasing to be, can be never forgot.
We know all we see in this beauteous creation,
However enchanting its beauty may seem,
Is doom'd to dissolve, like some bright exhalation,
That dazzles, and fades in the morning's first beam.
The gloom of dark forests, the grandeur of mountains,
The verdure of meads, and the beauty of flowers;
The seclusion of valleys, the freshness of fountains,
The sequester'd delights of the loveliest bowers:
Nay, more than all these, that the might of old ocean,
Which seems as it was on the day of its birth,
Must meet the last hour of convulsive commotion,
Which, sooner or later, will uncreate earth.
However enchanting its beauty may seem,
Is doom'd to dissolve, like some bright exhalation,
That dazzles, and fades in the morning's first beam.
The gloom of dark forests, the grandeur of mountains,
The verdure of meads, and the beauty of flowers;
The seclusion of valleys, the freshness of fountains,
The sequester'd delights of the loveliest bowers:
Nay, more than all these, that the might of old ocean,
Which seems as it was on the day of its birth,
Must meet the last hour of convulsive commotion,
Which, sooner or later, will uncreate earth.
13
Yet, acknowledging this, it may be that the feelings
Which these have awaken'd, the glimpses they've given,
Combin'd with those inward and holy revealings
That illumine the soul with the brightness of heaven,
May still be immortal, and destin'd to lead us,
Hereafter, to that which shall not pass away;
To the loftier destiny God hath decreed us,
The glorious dawn of an unending day.
And thus, like the steps of the ladder ascended
By angels, (which rose on the patriarch's eye,)
With the perishing beauties of earth may be blended
Sensations too pure, and too holy to die.
Which these have awaken'd, the glimpses they've given,
Combin'd with those inward and holy revealings
That illumine the soul with the brightness of heaven,
May still be immortal, and destin'd to lead us,
Hereafter, to that which shall not pass away;
To the loftier destiny God hath decreed us,
The glorious dawn of an unending day.
And thus, like the steps of the ladder ascended
By angels, (which rose on the patriarch's eye,)
With the perishing beauties of earth may be blended
Sensations too pure, and too holy to die.
Nor would Infinite Wisdom have plann'd and perfected,
With such grandeur and majesty, beauty and grace,
The world we inhabit, and thus have connected
The heart's better feelings with nature's fair face,
If the touching emotions, thus deeply excited,
Towards Him who made all things, left nothing behind,
Which, enduring beyond all that sense has delighted,
Becomes intellectual, immortal, as mind!
But they do; and the heart that most fondly has cherish'd
Such feelings, nor suffer'd their ardour to chill,
Will find, when the forms which inspir'd them have perish'd,
Their spirit and essence remain with it still.
With such grandeur and majesty, beauty and grace,
The world we inhabit, and thus have connected
The heart's better feelings with nature's fair face,
If the touching emotions, thus deeply excited,
Towards Him who made all things, left nothing behind,
Which, enduring beyond all that sense has delighted,
Becomes intellectual, immortal, as mind!
But they do; and the heart that most fondly has cherish'd
Such feelings, nor suffer'd their ardour to chill,
Will find, when the forms which inspir'd them have perish'd,
Their spirit and essence remain with it still.
14
Thus thinking, I would not recall the brief measure
Of praise, lovely valley! devoted to thee;
Well has it been won by the moments of pleasure
Afforded to some, justly valued by me.
May their thoughts and mine often silently ponder
Over every lov'd spot that our feet may have trod;
And teach us, while through nature's beauties we wander,
All space is itself but the temple of God!
That so, when our spirits shall pass through the portal
Of Death, we may find, in a state more sublime,
Immortality owns what could never be mortal!
And Eternity hallows some visions of Time!
Of praise, lovely valley! devoted to thee;
Well has it been won by the moments of pleasure
Afforded to some, justly valued by me.
May their thoughts and mine often silently ponder
Over every lov'd spot that our feet may have trod;
And teach us, while through nature's beauties we wander,
All space is itself but the temple of God!
That so, when our spirits shall pass through the portal
Of Death, we may find, in a state more sublime,
Immortality owns what could never be mortal!
And Eternity hallows some visions of Time!
1819.
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |