 | Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell |  |
42
AN AUTUMN DAY AT AMBLESIDE.
A utumn with magic hand hath touched the leaves,
And turn'd their glossy green to burning gold;
The twittering swallows chatter on the eaves
Of flight to summer lands from regions cold;
Soft cloudlets rest upon the clear blue sky,
And breezes from the lake come wafted by.
And turn'd their glossy green to burning gold;
The twittering swallows chatter on the eaves
Of flight to summer lands from regions cold;
Soft cloudlets rest upon the clear blue sky,
And breezes from the lake come wafted by.
A valley 'tis which woods and streams adorn;
Few plains the golden tillage richly yield,
Few sickles flash, few reapers bind the corn,
Few harvest songs are heard from fold or field;
Stretches there are of emerald pasture-ground,
Girdled by mountain beauty all around.
Few plains the golden tillage richly yield,
Few sickles flash, few reapers bind the corn,
Few harvest songs are heard from fold or field;
Stretches there are of emerald pasture-ground,
Girdled by mountain beauty all around.
But now the gorgeous woods are all ablaze,
Glowing with colours of more brilliant dyes
Than gleam from monarch's robes on gala days,
Or strike with sudden light men's dazzled eyes,
As coming forth in royal pomp and state,
He enters halls where thronging courtiers wait.
Glowing with colours of more brilliant dyes
Than gleam from monarch's robes on gala days,
Or strike with sudden light men's dazzled eyes,
As coming forth in royal pomp and state,
He enters halls where thronging courtiers wait.
43
A golden lustre fills the wooing air;
Each rock and scar bathed in an amber mist
Transfigured seem to shapes divinely fair,
Suffused with orange, rose, and amethyst,
Which o'er their hoary brows a radiance fling,
Bright as the iris on an angel's wing.
Each rock and scar bathed in an amber mist
Transfigured seem to shapes divinely fair,
Suffused with orange, rose, and amethyst,
Which o'er their hoary brows a radiance fling,
Bright as the iris on an angel's wing.
The mountains glow with ever-changing sheen,
That varies with the shifting gleams of light;
Here golden ferns, that rise 'midst mosses green,
Shake out their curling plumes on every height;
There fragrant heath, each bell a pendent gem,
Crowns the deep grass with purple diadem.
That varies with the shifting gleams of light;
Here golden ferns, that rise 'midst mosses green,
Shake out their curling plumes on every height;
There fragrant heath, each bell a pendent gem,
Crowns the deep grass with purple diadem.
The balmy day is musical with sounds;
The plaintive robin's song, the caw of rooks,
The low of herds in far-off pasture-grounds,
Whispers of leaves and noise of babbling brooks,
With rush of streams that flow in milk-white rills,
Down the blue hollows of the distant hills.
The plaintive robin's song, the caw of rooks,
The low of herds in far-off pasture-grounds,
Whispers of leaves and noise of babbling brooks,
With rush of streams that flow in milk-white rills,
Down the blue hollows of the distant hills.
Autumn is in her young and lusty noon;
Nor fallen leaves, nor withered flowers, betray
That this proud pomp of splendour all too soon
Shall change, and fade, and pass into decay;
That Winter with his cold and chilling breath,
Shall freeze this beauty all to icy death.
Nor fallen leaves, nor withered flowers, betray
That this proud pomp of splendour all too soon
Shall change, and fade, and pass into decay;
That Winter with his cold and chilling breath,
Shall freeze this beauty all to icy death.
44
Ye Autumn days, that crown the waning year,
And flush the glowing hills with tender light;
Ye Suns, that rising crimson every mere,
Or setting fringe with gold the skirts of night;
How often have I stood,—as I do now,—
And watched your glories from this sloping brow.
And flush the glowing hills with tender light;
Ye Suns, that rising crimson every mere,
Or setting fringe with gold the skirts of night;
How often have I stood,—as I do now,—
And watched your glories from this sloping brow.
O days all fair, half sad, which to the mind
Bring memories of times for ever flown;
Of pleasures in the years so far behind,
And voices silent, and dear friends now gone;
I live a two-fold life within your light—
The past and present are at once in sight.
Bring memories of times for ever flown;
Of pleasures in the years so far behind,
And voices silent, and dear friends now gone;
I live a two-fold life within your light—
The past and present are at once in sight.
Ah me! how much I love this country fair!
The valley and the hills, both far and wide;
The quiet village builded here and there,
Part on the plain, part on the mountain-side,
The houses stretching up to Stock Ghyll's Fall;
They were my pastoral charge, both one and all.
The valley and the hills, both far and wide;
The quiet village builded here and there,
Part on the plain, part on the mountain-side,
The houses stretching up to Stock Ghyll's Fall;
They were my pastoral charge, both one and all.
Dear Autumn days! What fruitless yearnings rise
That loved ones erst with us, were here again;
What tears unbidden spring up to the eyes,
To know such longings idle are and vain;—
That they who gladdened the bright days of yore,
Shall look with us upon these scenes no more.
That loved ones erst with us, were here again;
What tears unbidden spring up to the eyes,
To know such longings idle are and vain;—
That they who gladdened the bright days of yore,
Shall look with us upon these scenes no more.
45
Yet comes the past with mellow softened light,
And clear, if faint impressions to the mind,
Like to some sweet sad dream of yesternight,
Where pain and pleasure closely intertwined,
Nor knew we which was greatest when the morn
Broke in white beauty o'er the hills forlorn.
And clear, if faint impressions to the mind,
Like to some sweet sad dream of yesternight,
Where pain and pleasure closely intertwined,
Nor knew we which was greatest when the morn
Broke in white beauty o'er the hills forlorn.
And still the mem'ry of those happy hours,
Old pleasures and old joys for which we sigh,
Will stay with us, and be for ever ours,
A felt possession that can never die,
And when with fond regret the heart is bow'd,
Will like a rainbow arch the darkest cloud.
Old pleasures and old joys for which we sigh,
Will stay with us, and be for ever ours,
A felt possession that can never die,
And when with fond regret the heart is bow'd,
Will like a rainbow arch the darkest cloud.
O happy Autumn! O bright halcyon days!
When earth lies basking in the golden light;
O mellow moons, that shine with softest rays,
Flooding with splendour all the solemn night;
Pathetic season of the waning year,
Too soon thou diest, linger with us here.
When earth lies basking in the golden light;
O mellow moons, that shine with softest rays,
Flooding with splendour all the solemn night;
Pathetic season of the waning year,
Too soon thou diest, linger with us here.
It may not be. The happy year must wane,
And go the way of all things bright and fair,
Of hopes that die not to revive again—
Of pleasures numbered 'mongst the things that were.
Here all is change—upward we turn our sight;
Suns set not there, nor Moons withdraw their light.
And go the way of all things bright and fair,
Of hopes that die not to revive again—
Of pleasures numbered 'mongst the things that were.
Here all is change—upward we turn our sight;
Suns set not there, nor Moons withdraw their light.
| Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell | |