 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
The Mood is on my Soul.
1827.
[_]
[On seeing a favourite tree, which grew in a field belonging to the late Mrs. Watkinson, of Gargrave, felled and lopped. This lady was one of my first Craven patrons.
The mood is on my soul! the mood which bards
Call inspiration—when some fancy bright,
Or feeling strong, compared—
And not inaptly so—
Call inspiration—when some fancy bright,
Or feeling strong, compared—
And not inaptly so—
To breeze and sunshine, strikes the frozen mind,
And melts it to its fount, until it flows,
O'ergushing from its depth,
In measure and in song!
And melts it to its fount, until it flows,
O'ergushing from its depth,
In measure and in song!
85
The mood is on my soul! But not for this
Expect heroic strain, or aught that tells
Of danger or of death
From steel or woman's eye;
Expect heroic strain, or aught that tells
Of danger or of death
From steel or woman's eye;
The Muse shall stoop—and haply not in vain—
To humble theme. Empowered to climb the stars,
She yet will pluck a flower
From Earth's most lowly vale.
To humble theme. Empowered to climb the stars,
She yet will pluck a flower
From Earth's most lowly vale.
Here lies a stately Tree! The axe and saw
Have done their work on what full many a Spring
Hath shed its rains and dews—
Full many a Summer found
Have done their work on what full many a Spring
Hath shed its rains and dews—
Full many a Summer found
In all its green magnificence of shade—
Full many an Autumn hung with glowing gold—
And many a Winter shook
With blast and roaring storm.
Full many an Autumn hung with glowing gold—
And many a Winter shook
With blast and roaring storm.
The woodbine, whose slight tendrils clung so fast
Around its base, and rendered by its blooms
Beauty for aid received,
All torn and trampled now,
Around its base, and rendered by its blooms
Beauty for aid received,
All torn and trampled now,
Shall never more—or sickly—give to Spring
Its clustered flowers—like Bard, unblest by wealth,
When falls the patron-lord
His grateful verse repaid!
Its clustered flowers—like Bard, unblest by wealth,
When falls the patron-lord
His grateful verse repaid!
Where shall the blackbird now, the speckled thrush,
Or throstle sweet repair? When May returns,
And in the snow-white thorn
The female warms her young,
Or throstle sweet repair? When May returns,
And in the snow-white thorn
The female warms her young,
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Where shall the partner of her care and joy
Find his accustomed bough, from which to pour
The melody he means
Shall thrill his feathered love?
Find his accustomed bough, from which to pour
The melody he means
Shall thrill his feathered love?
For them new thorns will blossom—other trees
Wave greenly for endearment or for song,
And this by me alone
Perchance be mourned and missed—
Wave greenly for endearment or for song,
And this by me alone
Perchance be mourned and missed—
A Dreamer whose fine joys and sorrows spring
From fountains to the worldling all unknown,
And which, if now exposed,
He could not, would not prize.
From fountains to the worldling all unknown,
And which, if now exposed,
He could not, would not prize.
Aye, there thou liest! branchless—bare—amid
The thin and skeleton leaves, stripped from thy boughs
By last December's winds—
And to that fibrous heap
The thin and skeleton leaves, stripped from thy boughs
By last December's winds—
And to that fibrous heap
No winter shall behold thee add again.
Spring, that was wont to wake thee, shall but clothe
With verdure thy dead roots,
And hide the ruin there!
Spring, that was wont to wake thee, shall but clothe
With verdure thy dead roots,
And hide the ruin there!
Ah! is it not e'en thus the grave conceals
Her who but lately wandered in thy shade,
And in these verdant fields—
These verdant fields her own!
Her who but lately wandered in thy shade,
And in these verdant fields—
These verdant fields her own!
Good without pride, and generous without show,
To her th' unsheltered flew—as birds to thee—
And in her kindness found
A shade from sun and storm!
To her th' unsheltered flew—as birds to thee—
And in her kindness found
A shade from sun and storm!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |