University of Virginia Library

Devon!
The smile of summer is upon thy woods,
The breath of summer is upon thy sea;—
Would I were thine!—when last I linger'd with thee,
It was a dreary season, and the day
Slept pillow'd upon clouds, mocking the night;
The wind aye wander'd through the sullen woods,
And found no leaf to touch its voice with pity;
The troublous sound of water was about,
Startling the uncouth air;—'twas vacant all:
Old winter frown'd upon the staring sea.
But oh! I saw thee at a lovelier tide,
And grew enamour'd of thee;—Autumn then
Was busy plucking all her golden leaves,
Or listening to the blackbird's fitful song,
Whistled in her hollow woods;—and the light flowers
Were nodding prettily at the fickle bees,
That left them heedlessly.—I will be with thee!
My heart shall haunt the spots it loved the best,
Borne on by that strange voyager, the mind.
Though caged in cities, still my thoughts are free
To visit the green fields, and beautiful woods,
And rivulets, that chaunt a lowly ditty
In the sleepy ear of summer,—and the sea,
That talks for ever to the quiet sands.
Nor from my bodily sight are beauties held:
The sky is open to me,—and the sun,—
That golden traveller o'er the patient heavens;
And the sweet moon that is a-bathing ever
In the blue untroubled waters of the sky;
The changing clouds; and those perpetual stars,
The silent watchers from eternity!

Beautiful Devon!
Receive me, now a mental visitor,
Into thy green retreats: young Memory
Shall be my mild attendant.—'Tis to her,
And to that fairy of the soul, sweet Hope,
I owe the light of life. The first doth sketch
Features, and favorite scenes,—and breathe dear tones
Into my charmed ears,—and deck with stars
The dreary night of Time. And blue-eyed Hope
Shows me a sunny distance—lends me joys,
Bright as the wild eyes of the nightingale,
And rapturous as her song.
And now I bend me to my favorite wood:—
Here is the gentle flower “forget me not,”
As simple and as fresh of hue as ever.
How still and beautiful are all the trees!
The leaves are strangely bright;—and, through the branches,
Their golden threads are weaved by the sun:—
Perchance the god Apollo here hath wander'd,
And left his rich lute, strung with chords of light,
Mid the leaves in which he play'd. Methinks I hear
Sounds of his song divine—afar—afar—
Dying through Echo's shell!—I do remember
Those who were with me when I last was here,—
Peace be within the dear loved hearts of both!
We gather'd wood flowers,—some, blue as the vein
O'er Hero's eyelid stealing,—and some as white
In the clustering grass, as rich Europa's hand
Nested amid the curls on Jupiter's forehead,
What time he snatch'd her through the startled waves;—
Some purple too, such as in Enna's meadows
Forsook their own green homes and parent stalks,
To kiss the fingers of Proserpina;
And some were small as fairies' eyes, and bright
As lover's tears!—We gather'd, as we stray'd,
These dewy stars of the wood; and one dear hand
Became their beautiful and silvery vase:
Sweet flowers, how sweetly held!—Hark! hear ye not?
The streamlet in that dell is not at rest,—
'Tis muttering something to the drowsy wood.
Once, how adown the brambles wild I broke,
To trace the hidden murmurer: How oft,
In solitary hours, the lonely sound
Of that obscure and melancholy stream
Comes blending with my thoughts!

Now upward winding,
I rise above the trees, and look upon
A sea of wood, with all its billowy leaves
Rolling in heavy sunshine,—and one field,
Like a green island, pleasant and at rest.—
Thou madcap bird! thy sudden gush of song,
Pour'd out through amber leaves, hath startled me
Into a wild delight:—thou sing'st, and then
Spreadest thy wings, as though it were thy wish
To chase the giddy song. Be ever here,
Free to the leaves, a summer chorister,
A feather'd spirit of peace and airy pleasure.
There was a cottage,—but I see it not,—
Where in a dreaming mood I once had wish'd
To have dwelt for life:—Ah! do I wish it now?
Our fanciful desires depart as fast
As they are framed;—some solid purpose comes,—
And they fleet from us like the sunned snow.

Old wood, farewell!
I'll bless thee when my feet again return
Into thy peaceful grass.

Here, on a hill, I stretch
My form along in boyish happiness.—
Here is the stile on which I quietly sat
In the sunny morn,—and there, the wandering Sid,
With its lilac flowers:—and lo! beneath me lies
The huge majestic sea. I hear it not—
But I can see it curling to the shore,
And whitening on the yellow beach. The sun—
The only eye worthy to watch the sea,—
Is shedding diamonds to enrich the waves,
That rise to catch them. All my being seems
To swell with o'erwrought feelings,—and to shake
With thronging thoughts,—and to be well nigh sick
With vain surmises, and deep yearnings, that
I might associate with the enormous sun,
Or be a lone companion to the sea.
Tremendous thoughts come o'er us, when we gaze,
With all the mind weighing upon the eyes,
At the huge sea—the sun!—A wearing pain
Clings heavily to the heart:—a consciousness
Of mortal want, of fatal poverty,
Haunts all the waking soul. The full relief
Is some romantic dream which hides the earth,
Some momentary and most strange possession
Of an ideal vastness, or the voice
Of that intense sure hope which ne'er betrays.
The ocean old hath my deep reverence,—
And I could watch it ever:—when it sleeps,
And its hush'd waves but throb at intervals,
Like some fair infant's breath in sad repose,—
'Tis strangely sweet to gaze; or when it starts
At the voice of the torturing storm, and like mad age,
Tosses its hoar-hair on the raving wind,
'Tis wild delight to watch it. But I love
To see it gently playing on loose rocks,
Lifting the idle sea-weed carelessly;
Or hear it in some dreary cavern, muttering
A solitary legend of old times.
The gentle memory of many things
Is hovering o'er my brain,—of breathing eves
When the curl'd moon was up, and the lonely star
Was quietly dwelling in its own blue world;—
Of nights that found me listening to the grief,
And the wild ditties of the young Ophelia,—
Or seeing Juliet o'er her lattice leaning,
In the soft, passioned moon. Ah! might I live
For ever near the sea—the fields—the wood—
To watch the day go by on golden wings,
Woo the lone morn that sleeps in balmy light,
And kiss the quiet breath from Evening's lips.
But now my fancies do in part subside,
And set realities come o'er me; now
The visionary scenes have fleeted from me,
And left me lonely in this populous city.
The mind hath, like the sea, its swells and sinkings,
Its turbulence, its tremblings, and its sleep;
Sway'd by the very temper of the elements.
No bird sings now its rash enchanting lay
In my startled ear; no green and careless wave
Vexeth the indolent pebble on the beach;
No solitary bee rocks the wild-flower,
Or hangs upon the air with drowsy humming;
No rustling of gold leaves is heard; no song
Framed by the moist lips of the pilgrim brook:—
All these are quiet now, or only heard
Like mellow'd murmurings of the distant sea.