 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
282
Above the Line of Lamps.
1843.
Above the line of lamps, above
The smoke that dims the evening air,
The Moon, whose beams I used to love,
Is shining now as calmly fair—
The smoke that dims the evening air,
The Moon, whose beams I used to love,
Is shining now as calmly fair—
I cannot doubt—as when she smiled
Upon me in some Northern glen,
Or by some mountain vast and wild,
Where rocks were—not rock-hearted men.
Upon me in some Northern glen,
Or by some mountain vast and wild,
Where rocks were—not rock-hearted men.
And even now on many a spot—
Still loved, though left—she glances down;
Beheld by, but beholding not,
My friends in hamlet and in town.
Still loved, though left—she glances down;
Beheld by, but beholding not,
My friends in hamlet and in town.
I would I were upon her sphere!
And were with powers of vision blest,
Extensive as her beams and clear!—
O! where would, then, my vision rest?
And were with powers of vision blest,
Extensive as her beams and clear!—
O! where would, then, my vision rest?
Not on the stars—though Mystery
Sat 'mid their orbs, my gaze to draw!
Not on the seas—though gloriously
Flashed thence the pomp of Night I saw!
Sat 'mid their orbs, my gaze to draw!
Not on the seas—though gloriously
Flashed thence the pomp of Night I saw!
But on the hills, and by the streams,
Whose very names are song to me;
And round the homes, where fancy dreams
Warm-hearted friends of mine may be;
Whose very names are song to me;
And round the homes, where fancy dreams
Warm-hearted friends of mine may be;
283
On Cheviot, sung in many a lay;
By Beaumont, named in few but mine;
By Till, that past the ruins gray
Of Etal leads its silver line;
By Beaumont, named in few but mine;
By Till, that past the ruins gray
Of Etal leads its silver line;
By Wansbeck, rippling on its course;
By Tyne, that mirrors banks so fair;
By streamy Aire's romantic source;
And by the Ribble—dear as Aire!
By Tyne, that mirrors banks so fair;
By streamy Aire's romantic source;
And by the Ribble—dear as Aire!
Hallowed by Friendship and the Muse,
O'er them mine eyes would rove or rest:
For I am one who never lose
One kind emotion of the breast.
O'er them mine eyes would rove or rest:
For I am one who never lose
One kind emotion of the breast.
Let the cold sons of Reason claim
The praise of science and of art;
All art, all science, and their fame,
Are nothing—weighed against the Heart!
The praise of science and of art;
All art, all science, and their fame,
Are nothing—weighed against the Heart!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |