The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
135
And with his eye her outlines he could trace;
In youth he begged for colours to be bought,
To place upon the canvas what he thought.
With practice now he can in shades portray
The varied tints of soft departing day,
Touch the rich landscape with such light and shade,
That many thought the pencilled objects played.
The youths and virgins, in the bowers of love,
Were so like nature, that they seemed to move.
Whene'er the landscape was by Paros shown,
The varied trees and every shrub were known.
Send Paros where you would, in every place
His lively eyes were fixed on Nature's face;
But such his application for a name,
Deep study shook at last his tender frame,
And for his health, and for the art he loved,
From Cumbria's scenes to Paris he removed.
Pleased with the paintings where the masters shone,
He gazed upon them as a chiselled stone
Formed to a statue; so engaged his mind,
He thought not then of Nature's scenes behind;
But when the time arrived that he must part,
The thoughts of Grasmere rushed upon his heart.
No scenes in Paris gave him such delight
As he had found upon Helvellyn's height,
Where o'er its top the eagle soars on high,
And round its rocks the croaking ravens fly.
136
But not tremendous, like great Skiddaw's storms.
Walk Paris round, and view its beauties o'er,
What are its fountains to the grand Lowdore,
Where, dashing from the dreadful chasm on high,
The cataract seems as rushing from the sky?
These Paros saw—retiring in despair,
He durst not try such grandeur as was there.
Oft he beheld the mist from Derwent lake
Slow curling to the hills in many a flake,
And as the morning sun sent forth his rays,
The scene was far above the greatest praise;
Such there is seen when not a zephyr blows,
When the pure lake upon its surface shows
Skiddaw inverted, and the cliffs on high—
Fit scenes to wake the noblest minstrelsy.
Oft Paros viewed the yellow orb of night,
When rising on the lake with golden light,
Her shadow dancing like a sheet of flame,
And with the scene soft Meditation came.
Beneath the oaks, and opposite Lowdore,
Oft Paros sat, and heard its torrent roar,
Sketching the trembling waves, when Keswick's bell
Hummed through the valley with a solemn swell.
The hills returned the sound with weakened power,
And told the artist 'twas the midnight hour.
He thought upon the peace he left behind—
The thoughts of Ellen pressed upon his mind;
137
At Grasmere dwelt, where waves the solemn yew.
Oft had he led her up Helvellyn's height,
Her cheeks like roses, and her gown as white
As is the snow where British eagles yell,
Upon the mighty rocks where Goothë fell.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |