University of Virginia Library

SONNETS, WRITTEN AT BURSTAL.

INTRODUCTORY VERSES.

SONNET I. BERRY'S HILL.

Who gave this spot the name of Berry's Hill
I know not, and in sooth care not to know,
For names, like fashions, ofttimes come and go,
By mere caprice of arbitrary will:
But 'tis a lovely spot! enough of skill
Hath been employed to make it lovelier show,
Yet not enough for Art to overthrow
What Nature meant should wear her livery still.
That gleaming lakelet, sparkling in the ray
Of summer sunshine; these embowering trees,
Rustled each moment by the passing breeze;
And those which clothe with many-tinted spray
Yon wooded heights; green meads with flowrets gay;
Each gives to each yet added powers to please.

SONNET II. THE SEAT AT BERRY'S HILL.

It was a happy thought—upon the brow
Of this slight eminence, abrupt and sheer,
This artless seat and straw-thatched roof to rear;
Where one may watch the labourer at his plough;
Or hear, well-pleased, as I am listening now,
The song of wild birds falling on the ear,
Blended with hum of bees, or sound more drear,
The solemn murmur of the wind-swept bough.
Tent-like the fabric! in its centre stands
The sturdy oak, that spreads its boughs on high
Above its roof; while to the unsated eye
Beauteous the landscape which below expands!
Where grassy meadows, richly cultured lands,
With leafy woods and hedge-row graces vie.

SONNET III. THE SAME SCENE, CONTINUED.

It were, methinks, no very daring flight
Unto a poet's fond imagination,
To make this tent a prouder habitation;
Where Nature's worshipper and votary might,
With each appropriate and simple rite,
Bow to her charms, in quiet adoration
Of Him who meant his visible creation
Should minister to more than sense or sight!
Oh, then, this tent-like seat might well become
A temple—more befitting prayer or praise,
Than the mere listless loiterer's idle gaze;
And if it struck the sordid worldling dumb,
Proving of Nature's charms the countless sum,
'Twere not less worthy of the poet's lays!

SONNET IV. IN THE SHRUBBERY, NEAR THE COTTAGE.

Fair Earth! thou surely wert not meant to be
Time's show-room! but the glorious vestibule
Of scenes that stretch beyond his sway and rule,
Or that of aught we now can hear or see!
For he who most intently looks on thee,
Must be a novice e'en in Nature's school,
In one far higher a more hopeless fool,
To go no further with her master-key!
Beautiful as thou art, thou art no more
Than a faint shadow, or a glimmering ray,
Of beauty, glory, ne'er to pass away;
Nor thankless is thy minstrel, at threescore,
While he can revel in thy bounteous store,
To look beyond thy transitory day.

SONNET V. THE BURSTAL LAKELET.

The dweller on Ullswater's grander shore,
Or Keswick's, would deny thee any claim
Even to bear a lakelet's borrowed name,
Of thy small urn so scanty seems the store!
And such would, doubtless, scout the poet's lore,
Who one poor Sonnet should presume to frame
In celebration of thy humble fame,
Although to their's he could award no more!
Yet all the pomp and plenitude of space
They boast, can but reflect the wider scene
Of beauty round: as lovely is the sheen
Of thy clear mirror, in which now I trace
The softened impress and the heightened grace
Of earth and sky, both silent and serene!

SONNET VI. THE TWO OAKS.

There are, among the leafy monarchs round,
Trees loftier far than you, of ampler size,
And likelier to attract a stranger's eyes,
With sylvan honours more superbly crowned:
And yet in you a higher charm is found,
And purer—to our sweetest sympathies,
Than all that Nature's lavish hand supplies
To others—growing on this fairy ground.
Ye are mementos of a wedded pair,
Once wont this loved, familiar scene to tread!
Death, which has lowly laid one honoured head,
Has but conferred on YOU an added share
Of love and interest; since to us ye are
Memorials of the living! and the dead!

SONNET VII. EVENING EFFECT ON THE VALLEY.

“Earth has not any thing to show more fair!”
So Wordsworth sang, what time he made his theme
The bridge that arches Westminster's proud stream:
Yet had he seen this lovely valley wear
The lingering brightness day hath yet to spare,
Each lengthening shadow, and each sunny gleam,
Silent in all their changes as a dream!
He might have doubted which the palm should bear
And now calm eve would draw her curtain grey
Over the melting landscape's mellower flush!
But for the brightly-glowing roseate blush
That tinges still the west:—it fades away!
And Nature owns the meek and gentle sway
Of pensive Twilight's universal hush!

SONNET VIII. BURSTAL, IN THE FOUR SEASONS.

How sweet it were, methinks, to sojourn here,
And watch the seasons in their changeful flight;
To see the Spring bedeck, with wild flowers bright,
The valley and those swelling uplands near;
To mark the Summer, in her blithe career,
Bursting in rich luxuriance on the sight;
And matron Autumn reassert her right
To crown with harvest boons the circling year!
Nor undelightful would it be, I ween,
At Christmas, here to trim the cottage fire,
Pore o'er the lay, or tune the Muses' lyre,
What time rude Winter, with his sterner mien,
In spotless snow arrayed the altered scene,
And hushed in stillness all the woodland choir.