Lyrics of the heart With other poems. By Alaric A. Watts. With forty-one engravings on steel |
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TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE BARRET. |
 | Lyrics of the heart |  |
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TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE BARRET.
One morn I missed him on the' accustomed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came, nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he!
GRAY.
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came, nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he!
GRAY.
Worthy disciple of his art divine,
Whose golden sunsets, rich romantic shores,
And pastoral vales, reflect fair Nature's face,
In every varying charm her beauty wears,
How have I loved thy pencil! Not a grace
Shed over earth from yon blue vault above,
At Dawn, Noon, Sunset, Twilight, or when Night
Draws o'er the sleeping world her silvery veil,
But thou hast traced its source and made thine own!
Nay, not an hour that circles through the day,
But thou hast marked its influence on the scene,
And touched each form with corresponding light;
Till all subdued the landscape round assumes,—
Like visions seen through Hope's enchanted glass,—
A beauty not its own; and “cloud-capped towers,”
And gorgeous palaces, and temples reared,
As if by magic, line the busy strand
Of some broad sea, that ripples on in gold
To meet the setting sun! Nor less I prize
Thy solemn twilight glooms; when to mine eye,
Indefinite, each object takes the shape
That fancy lists; and in the crimsoned west,
Bright as the memory of a blissful dream,
As unsubstantial too, the daylight fades,
And “leaves the world to darkness and to me.”
Whose golden sunsets, rich romantic shores,
And pastoral vales, reflect fair Nature's face,
In every varying charm her beauty wears,
186
Shed over earth from yon blue vault above,
At Dawn, Noon, Sunset, Twilight, or when Night
Draws o'er the sleeping world her silvery veil,
But thou hast traced its source and made thine own!
Nay, not an hour that circles through the day,
But thou hast marked its influence on the scene,
And touched each form with corresponding light;
Till all subdued the landscape round assumes,—
Like visions seen through Hope's enchanted glass,—
A beauty not its own; and “cloud-capped towers,”
And gorgeous palaces, and temples reared,
As if by magic, line the busy strand
Of some broad sea, that ripples on in gold
To meet the setting sun! Nor less I prize
Thy solemn twilight glooms; when to mine eye,
Indefinite, each object takes the shape
That fancy lists; and in the crimsoned west,
Bright as the memory of a blissful dream,
As unsubstantial too, the daylight fades,
And “leaves the world to darkness and to me.”
Primitive Painter! Neither age, nor care,
Nor failing health,—though all conspired to mar
The calmness of thy soul,—could dim the power
Thy pencil caught from Truth. Thou shouldst have lived,
Where sunny Claude his inspiration drew,
By Arno's banks, in Tempe's haunted vale;
Or learned Poussin, 'neath the' umbrageous oaks
Of some old forest, bad his sylvan groups,
Goddess with Mortal, Fawn with Dryad joined,
To Pan's untutored music circle round.
For such the themes thy chastened fancy loved:
But now thy sun has set, thy twilight sunk
In deepest night, and thou hast sought a sky
Where never cloud or shade can vex thee more.
Nor failing health,—though all conspired to mar
The calmness of thy soul,—could dim the power
Thy pencil caught from Truth. Thou shouldst have lived,
187
By Arno's banks, in Tempe's haunted vale;
Or learned Poussin, 'neath the' umbrageous oaks
Of some old forest, bad his sylvan groups,
Goddess with Mortal, Fawn with Dryad joined,
To Pan's untutored music circle round.
For such the themes thy chastened fancy loved:
But now thy sun has set, thy twilight sunk
In deepest night, and thou hast sought a sky
Where never cloud or shade can vex thee more.
| Lyrics of the heart | |