Xeniola Poems, including Translations from Schiller and De la Motte Fouqube. By John Anster |
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SOLITUDE. |
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 | Xeniola |  |
69
SOLITUDE.
Oh, what a lovely silent spot!
'Mid such a scene the eremite would hope
To build his lonely cot,
Just where with easy slope
The wooded mountain bends,
Where the clear rill descends,
Now hid the jutting rocks beneath,
Now faintly sparkling on the eye,
Itself concealed, its course we now descry
By the long grass and blossomy heath,
By the cowslip's saffron hue,
By the violet's clouded blue,
Beside its fostering bed
In waste profusion spread;
Its widening wave at distance now we hail,
Where bright, and blue, and broad, it rolls along the vale.
'Mid such a scene the eremite would hope
To build his lonely cot,
Just where with easy slope
The wooded mountain bends,
Where the clear rill descends,
Now hid the jutting rocks beneath,
Now faintly sparkling on the eye,
Itself concealed, its course we now descry
By the long grass and blossomy heath,
By the cowslip's saffron hue,
By the violet's clouded blue,
Beside its fostering bed
In waste profusion spread;
Its widening wave at distance now we hail,
Where bright, and blue, and broad, it rolls along the vale.
—At Spring's return the earth is glad,
And yet to me, at this lone hour,
The wood-dove's note from yonder natural bower,
Though winning sweet, is sad;—
Calmly the cool wind heaves
The elm's broad boughs, whose shadows seem
Like some deep vault below the stream:
—The melancholy beech still grieves,
As in the scattering gale are shed
Her red and wrinkled leaves:—
And, from the yew, by yon forgotten grave,
Hark! the lone robin mourning o'er the dead.
And yet to me, at this lone hour,
70
Though winning sweet, is sad;—
Calmly the cool wind heaves
The elm's broad boughs, whose shadows seem
Like some deep vault below the stream:
—The melancholy beech still grieves,
As in the scattering gale are shed
Her red and wrinkled leaves:—
And, from the yew, by yon forgotten grave,
Hark! the lone robin mourning o'er the dead.
Spirit, by whom man's spirit is subdued,
Thou, that, mid awful Nature's quietude,
Dost on the green earth breathe a tenderer hue,
On the reposing skies a darker blue;
Spirit, whate'er thy name,
No other hymn than thine
Shall tremble from the Clarshec's frame,
Whose strings, neglected long,
Again shall echo to the song,
Shall hail the inspiring nymph, whose holy power
Bids wisdom and delight to bless the lonely hour.
Thou, that, mid awful Nature's quietude,
Dost on the green earth breathe a tenderer hue,
On the reposing skies a darker blue;
Spirit, whate'er thy name,
No other hymn than thine
Shall tremble from the Clarshec's frame,
Whose strings, neglected long,
Again shall echo to the song,
Shall hail the inspiring nymph, whose holy power
Bids wisdom and delight to bless the lonely hour.
—See where, most mild, most sad,
The Goddess, on her mountain throne
Of rocks, with many-coloured lichens clad,
Is soothed by gurgling waters near,
Or song of sky-lark wild and clear,
Or music's mellow tone:
The scarce-heard hum of distant strife
Breaks not the consecrated rest,
The sabbath quiet of that breast,
Unruffled by the woes, above the mirth of life;
Awful thoughts for ever roll,
Shadowing the silent soul,
Like the twilight tall rocks throw
Far into the vale below:—
Here Genius, in fantastic trance,
Enjoys his wildest reverie,
Or pores with serious eye
Upon some old romance,
Till all the pomp of chivalry,
The vizor quaint of armed knight,
And stately dame, and tournay bright,
Are present to his glance.
And Fancy here delights to stray,
And shed around her smiles serene,
Not those alone that for the Poet play,—
Too grandly, too divinely bright,
They pain with luxury of light!
Here she exerts a gentler sway,
And gives to Happiness the tranquil scene;
She breathes with soft control
An holy sense of sobered joy,
And sorrows, that no more annoy,
Are pleasant to the soul:—
The breast, that throbbed before too much
At Sorrow's wound, at Pleasure's touch,
Indulging here in calm repose
No change of shifting passions knows;
Thus, when the winds, with wanton play,
Among the aspin's branches stray,
The twinkling leaves are seen
Give to the light their lively gray,
But when the breezes die away,
They smile in softest green:—
Oft, in that quiet silence of the breast,
When passions pause, and all is peace within,
Feelings awake, and thoughts that will not rest
Of Heaven and Man,—of Holiness and Sin;—
Like thunders, o'er the evening vale that roll,
There comes a voice of more than mortal birth,
Its accents are not of the earth—
'Tis God that speaketh to the Soul!
The Goddess, on her mountain throne
Of rocks, with many-coloured lichens clad,
71
Or song of sky-lark wild and clear,
Or music's mellow tone:
The scarce-heard hum of distant strife
Breaks not the consecrated rest,
The sabbath quiet of that breast,
Unruffled by the woes, above the mirth of life;
Awful thoughts for ever roll,
Shadowing the silent soul,
Like the twilight tall rocks throw
Far into the vale below:—
Here Genius, in fantastic trance,
Enjoys his wildest reverie,
Or pores with serious eye
Upon some old romance,
Till all the pomp of chivalry,
The vizor quaint of armed knight,
And stately dame, and tournay bright,
Are present to his glance.
And Fancy here delights to stray,
And shed around her smiles serene,
Not those alone that for the Poet play,—
Too grandly, too divinely bright,
They pain with luxury of light!
Here she exerts a gentler sway,
And gives to Happiness the tranquil scene;
She breathes with soft control
72
And sorrows, that no more annoy,
Are pleasant to the soul:—
The breast, that throbbed before too much
At Sorrow's wound, at Pleasure's touch,
Indulging here in calm repose
No change of shifting passions knows;
Thus, when the winds, with wanton play,
Among the aspin's branches stray,
The twinkling leaves are seen
Give to the light their lively gray,
But when the breezes die away,
They smile in softest green:—
Oft, in that quiet silence of the breast,
When passions pause, and all is peace within,
Feelings awake, and thoughts that will not rest
Of Heaven and Man,—of Holiness and Sin;—
Like thunders, o'er the evening vale that roll,
There comes a voice of more than mortal birth,
Its accents are not of the earth—
'Tis God that speaketh to the Soul!
Who hath not felt, in some lone hour,
Feelings, sublimely sad,
Steal o'er his spirit with resistless power?
Go seek that man among the Bad,
Go seek him where the heartless throng
In worse than mirth the hours prolong!
Yet will there come an hour to him,
When anguish in his breast shall wake,
And that bright eye-ball—weak and dim,
Gazing on former days shall ache;—
When Solitude bids phantoms drear
Of raptures, now no longer dear,
In gloomy ghastliness appear;—
When visions rise of errors past—
Of prospects foully overcast—
Of Passion's unresisted rage—
Of Youth, that thought not upon Age—
Of earthly hopes, too fondly nursed,
That caught the giddy eye at first,
But, like the flowers of Syrian sands,
That crumbled in the closing hands.
—Blame not the silent monitress
That thus the bosom would address—
—Blame not the Guardian Spirit sent
To call the guilty to repent—
Oh blame not her, whose holy breath
Inspires with hopes from heaven the soul that starts at death!
Feelings, sublimely sad,
Steal o'er his spirit with resistless power?
Go seek that man among the Bad,
Go seek him where the heartless throng
In worse than mirth the hours prolong!
73
When anguish in his breast shall wake,
And that bright eye-ball—weak and dim,
Gazing on former days shall ache;—
When Solitude bids phantoms drear
Of raptures, now no longer dear,
In gloomy ghastliness appear;—
When visions rise of errors past—
Of prospects foully overcast—
Of Passion's unresisted rage—
Of Youth, that thought not upon Age—
Of earthly hopes, too fondly nursed,
That caught the giddy eye at first,
But, like the flowers of Syrian sands,
That crumbled in the closing hands.
—Blame not the silent monitress
That thus the bosom would address—
—Blame not the Guardian Spirit sent
To call the guilty to repent—
Oh blame not her, whose holy breath
Inspires with hopes from heaven the soul that starts at death!
Are we indeed in solitude alone?
Are there not Spirits hovering near
The lonely mind to cheer,
And breathe into the heart a holy tone?
Hath not the Poet heard, with ear entranced,
As, by some devious stream,
He lay in strange romantic dream,
Hath not he heard his harp faint-echoing,
As if an angel's hand had glanced
Along its every string?
Have not the Dead, in such an hour as this,
Bent from their homes of bliss,
To tell the mourner that they do not sleep
Within the grave's unbroken gloom,
The damp, dull silence of the tomb,
Oh! come they not from heaven, to soothe the hearts that weep?
In such an hour the Prophet's tone hath woke
On mortal's hallowed lips, and on the eye
Visions of other days have broke,
Of days, that slumber yet in deep futurity;
Such sights and sounds as met his eye and ear,
When slept in Patmos' isle the solitary Seer.
Are there not Spirits hovering near
The lonely mind to cheer,
And breathe into the heart a holy tone?
Hath not the Poet heard, with ear entranced,
74
He lay in strange romantic dream,
Hath not he heard his harp faint-echoing,
As if an angel's hand had glanced
Along its every string?
Have not the Dead, in such an hour as this,
Bent from their homes of bliss,
To tell the mourner that they do not sleep
Within the grave's unbroken gloom,
The damp, dull silence of the tomb,
Oh! come they not from heaven, to soothe the hearts that weep?
In such an hour the Prophet's tone hath woke
On mortal's hallowed lips, and on the eye
Visions of other days have broke,
Of days, that slumber yet in deep futurity;
Such sights and sounds as met his eye and ear,
When slept in Patmos' isle the solitary Seer.
Say not, that it is solitude,
When stands in loneliness the Good
Amid surrounding enemies—
When Pain, and Woe, and Malice rise,
When Tyranny hath fixed his fate,
Even then, in that eventful hour,
Shall Virtue triumph most, and Power
Shall envy him she still must hate!
—Was there, when fearless Sidney fell,
No angel form to guard his cell?
And when around the tyrant's throne
The courtly sons of flattery stood,
Oh, saw he then their pomp alone?—
Dwelt not his ear on Sidney's groan?
Gazed not his eye on Sidney's blood?—
Oh heard he not—though music's breath,
Though rapture's voice his soul address—
Oh heard he not a voice of death,
And all was loneliness—
But, Sidney, there were those who stood
Around to guard thy solitude;
Yes! martyr, there are thoughts of healing,
That on thy wounded spirit gleam,
And many a proud and patriot feeling
Is mingling with thy dream;
Angelic hosts surround thee, and forbid
The dew of selfish fear thine eye to cloud;
Unseen they stand, as when, his foes amid,
Elisha woke, and seemed to Man's weak gaze
Alone, till bursting from the tempest's shroud,
With cars and arms of fire his seraph guardians blaze.
When stands in loneliness the Good
Amid surrounding enemies—
When Pain, and Woe, and Malice rise,
When Tyranny hath fixed his fate,
Even then, in that eventful hour,
Shall Virtue triumph most, and Power
Shall envy him she still must hate!
75
No angel form to guard his cell?
And when around the tyrant's throne
The courtly sons of flattery stood,
Oh, saw he then their pomp alone?—
Dwelt not his ear on Sidney's groan?
Gazed not his eye on Sidney's blood?—
Oh heard he not—though music's breath,
Though rapture's voice his soul address—
Oh heard he not a voice of death,
And all was loneliness—
But, Sidney, there were those who stood
Around to guard thy solitude;
Yes! martyr, there are thoughts of healing,
That on thy wounded spirit gleam,
And many a proud and patriot feeling
Is mingling with thy dream;
Angelic hosts surround thee, and forbid
The dew of selfish fear thine eye to cloud;
Unseen they stand, as when, his foes amid,
Elisha woke, and seemed to Man's weak gaze
Alone, till bursting from the tempest's shroud,
With cars and arms of fire his seraph guardians blaze.
Oh thou, whose influence breathes through solitude,
Spirit, whate'er thy name,
With all thy warmth inflame
A heart that long, in no unholy mood,
The loveliness of Nature's charms hath wooed;
Long with no idle gaze mine eye hath viewed
The beauteous scene of earth, and air, and sky,
But Wisdom lives in all that I descry;—
All that I hear is speaking to my breast,
The thunder's crash, the lark's enlivening lay,
All Nature's sights and sounds, or sad or gay,
Dwell in my soul indelibly imprest:
And now the view of yonder ruinous tower,
Whose fissured walls admit the moon's cold beams,
Sheds on my bosom melancholy dreams,
Most suited to the sober hour,—
Mine eye beholds those early days,
When shining in the pride of Power,
They burst upon the gaze;—
But soon, like Man, the turret falls,
The pilgrim mourns beneath its walls,
Sees o'er its strength the wild-flower rise,
Hears from its heights the night-bird's cries;—
But from this lonely dream of earth,
What feelings spring to sudden birth;
No more the pilgrim looks beneath,
For him new hopes, new raptures breathe,
The soul beholds new worlds before it rise,
Feels its own powers, and communes with the skies!
76
With all thy warmth inflame
A heart that long, in no unholy mood,
The loveliness of Nature's charms hath wooed;
Long with no idle gaze mine eye hath viewed
The beauteous scene of earth, and air, and sky,
But Wisdom lives in all that I descry;—
All that I hear is speaking to my breast,
The thunder's crash, the lark's enlivening lay,
All Nature's sights and sounds, or sad or gay,
Dwell in my soul indelibly imprest:
And now the view of yonder ruinous tower,
Whose fissured walls admit the moon's cold beams,
Sheds on my bosom melancholy dreams,
Most suited to the sober hour,—
Mine eye beholds those early days,
When shining in the pride of Power,
They burst upon the gaze;—
But soon, like Man, the turret falls,
The pilgrim mourns beneath its walls,
Sees o'er its strength the wild-flower rise,
Hears from its heights the night-bird's cries;—
But from this lonely dream of earth,
What feelings spring to sudden birth;
No more the pilgrim looks beneath,
For him new hopes, new raptures breathe,
77
Feels its own powers, and communes with the skies!
1814.
| Xeniola | |