England :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh, but it is indeed a lovely morn!
Hot, burning, sultry, though it is but spring.
The sky is clear and fresh, as newly born;
Among the groves the birds all gaily sing;
With leaping fish the glancing waters ring,
Like rainbows on the misty summer tide.
'Tis such a morn as Fancy loves to wing
Her fairy flights, and o'er the sunbeams glide,
Pouring enraptur'd dreams from grove and mountain side.

The lazy stream can scarcely wind along;
There is no motion in the dizzy air;
A languor dreams from every warbled song;
Dull Indolence sits sceptred everywhere;
Yet doth all life a steady action bear.
The finest fibres grow, the leaves spring forth—
The leaves and blossoms both. The grass is fair,
And gemm'd with flowers; all nature hath a birth,
Loading with treasures rare the lean and hungry earth.

Joy, joy from mountain, cave, and rolling river!
Joy, from the valleys and the sounding sea!
Joy, from the azure skies! Joy, joy for ever,
Eternal joy and constant jubilee!
Spring hath come forth, all young, and fresh, and free—
The balmy Spring, first daughter of the skies.
The nations leap with joy her steps to see;
From all the earth loud gratulations rise—
Her worshippers the pure, the eloquent, the wise.

Spring hath come forth; and Winter, banished,
Laments his shattered frost-works sunk away;
The snows are melted from the mountain's head;
The ice-chains gone that bound the streams in sway.
Now doth a brighter sunlight warm our day;
Now blows a softer breeze o'er hill and dale;
Gone are the storms that held the waves at bay,
And swept tempestuous through each shatter'd sail;
Gone the dead wither'd years on Time's remorseless gale.

Come, then, ye south-winds, from your pastures come!
Come from the desert moors, and let us hear
The wondrous stories of your distant home;
Of cliffs and rugged haunts, in that strange sphere;
Of voices that disturb'd your listening ear,
From wild birds and the heath-cock in his pride;
Of stunning winds that fill the brain with fear,
The cruel winter snows, and whirlwind's tide,
And strange sepulchral forms that wander at your side!

Come, come ye south-winds—all our vales are green;
The pleasant May-time spreads her carpet fair;
The little birds beside their mates are seen,
Singing sweet songs to wile each hour of care.
What clouds of perfume satiate the air,
From the rich yellow broom and hawthorn white;
(Celestial blooms that greet us everywhere.)
O, ye will find fresh bowers by day and night,
Where ye may wander free, in gladness and delight!

Come, ye shall rove about by every stream,
And see the golden fishes leap in joy;
Flowers rich and rare shall blossom in your dream,
And the green glade afford serene employ;
The high o'erhanging cliffs, your sole annoy,
Shall make Æolian noise; and you shall climb
The pine-clad mountains like a happy boy,
And hear the harping cuckoo mock at time,
And each enchanting sound of Spring's delightful prime.

And where the ocean beats the cliffs in pride,
And roareth from its caves in royal glee,
Or moaneth out wild dirges from its tide,
Singing wild songs, as lovers wander free—
There, with the falling wavelets, ye shall be;
There, with the snow-white sea-birds, ye shall roam;
And, as your wings wind o'er the sounding sea,
Each mermaid, from its caves beneath the foam,
Shall breathe delicious songs to wile you to their home.

O, day of glory and supreme delight,
Shining upon the earth a lovely star!
How shall I drag my thoughts from out the night
That hath been near, whilst thou, O Spring, wert far?
How strike my harp without a flaw or jar?
The Winter hath been tyrannous and strong;
My lyre was laid upon his frozen car;
Yea, every tone was silent, every song
That erst in holy tides, linger'd its chords among.

What though my brain was bursting to be free;
What though I gnaw'd the chains that wrung my heart;
What though I shrieked aloud in agony,
I could not break these bonds by any art.
The world, even like a hound, watch'd every part.
I knew that glorious spirits roll'd away,
And pour'd sweet hymns from breasts that had no smart;
I knew celestial harpings murmur'd aye;
But I was weak and faint, oppress'd in every way.

I could not go, on unconfined wing,
Unto the distant place that I did seek;
I saw the stars at heaven's clear portals sing;
I saw the moon in waves of glory break;
I saw the northern streamers wild and bleak.
The clouds lay curl'd along the still blue sky;
The waters, 'neath their bondage, murmur'd meek;
The silent snows clad all the mountains high;
The flowers were buried deep, and sank them down to die.

I look'd abroad. The bleating lamb was still,
The yellow corn was gone, the fruit was dead.
Time, the old conqueror, seem'd to have his will,
And all the earth was his, and they were wed—
Our fruits and flowers adorn'd his marriage-bed.
Wherefore I spake, “Whither is spring-time gone?
Alas! alas! where doth she rest her head?
Shall we for ever pine and grieve alone,
And mourn, in winter bowers, o'er what the frosts have won?

“There were no streaks upon the evening sky,
There was no freshness in the sullen air;
I knew the ghostlike trees and flowers must die,
Each garden lose the hues that shone so fair;
For desolate snows and winds dwell everywhere.
Come forth, O Spring, thy bright hair rolling free,
Thy blue eyes beaming forth, serene and clear;
Come forth, and spread thy banners out in glee,
And sing aloud the songs of love and liberty.

“Shake from thy lap fresh flowers upon the plain,
Strew wild blooms in the depth of woodland green;
From off thy hair let fall the dripping rain,
And o'er our mountains be thy presence seen,
Thou, who shalt be our everlasting queen!
And we will chant thee hymns, who art so good,
So lifted up o'er all things poor and mean;
Thou shalt be sung aloud o'er field and wood,
And worshippers from far around thy altars crowd!

“The shepherd-boy, along the green hill-side,
Will proudly sing in mellow'd praise of thee;
The cottage girl, forth walking in her pride,
Will weep for joy to view thy garments free;
Love will throw back its hair, and laugh for glee;
The maiden, who hath wept thro' many a night
Her sailor lost upon the hungry sea;—
The lover, who hath mourn'd his lady bright,
And orphan tongues, shall sing thy reign of love and light.

“Sing, till the mountain caverns hear thy voice!
Sing, till the ocean hears our jubilee!
Sing, till the naked crags and cliffs rejoice,
And the loud vales are stirr'd with rapturous glee!
Yea, thou shalt heal our woes and make us free,
And with thy presence wake our thoughts on high,
Bear through our brains the songs of liberty,
And lift us upward to the azure sky,
Where mist, nor snow, nor storm, shall ever dim the eye,”

Methinks that Autumn hath no lovelier hue
Than hath the garment of awakening Spring.
I speak not of the skies' intenser blue,
Nor of the cloud-groves, borne on shadowy wing,
But of the tinted woods, where sweet birds sing.
There broods the sovereign oak, array'd in brown:
A sturdy woodsman he, a royal king;
Unflinching, strong, no might can tear him down,
That heeds not summer's heat, nor winter's angry frown.

There, all in green, like Petrarch's gentle maid,
The stately elm uplifts his shaded head;
There stands the broad-arm'd sycamore arrayed,
With rank on rank of flowers, all sweetly spread;
(O, that such beauty should so soon be dead!)
There, too, the lady-lover of the grove,
The silvery birch, awaketh from her bed,
Shaking her tresses to the breeze's love—
O, 'tis a tree might bloom among the fields above!

Nor thou, old kingly beech, be thou forgot,
Twin-brother of the oak, co-sceptred king;
Thee, loves the deer, forsaking every spot;
Thee, love the little birds, on distant wing,
That, 'mid thy light-leav'd branches, gaily sing.
Ye all have various hues—ye all are great;
In wealth, distinct, all liveried by spring;
And lovers, poets, patriarchs, ever wait
To meet your honey'd smiles, and greet your homag'd state.

And Spring herself, is she not like a maid
That loves to roam alone—her father's pride?
She wanders forth all plain and unarrayed;
The breezes flow among her ringlets' tide,
And cheer her healthful blood. All undenied,
She goeth where she will. Her loveliness
And innocence, like angels at her side,
Protect her. All she blesseth all do bless,
And the blue heavens are glad to view her happiness.

In silent places doth she meekly rest,
Seeking lone bowers untwined by human hand,
Now gazing on the linnet in its nest,
Now seeking wild flowers in each starry band;
Yet harming nought. In the far distant land
Of vision is her soul, from whence she came,
She knows bright sisters wave the magic wand
To beckon her away: she hears her name
Call'd from the azure depths, and from the evening's flame.

Most fair and beautiful—the poet's dream!
Far, far he seeks her through each sunny day;
She is his hope, his rapture, and his theme;
He ever views her eyeballs' glistening ray,
Her coral cheeks, her bosom's “milky way;”
He hears among the flowers her fairy feet;
He sees her robes among the gales of May,
And knows her voice, that ever soundeth sweet:
She is his love, his bride—all, all that is most meet!

But, oh, shall I forget you, ye strange flowers
And wilder'd weeds, that deck the silent woods?
And you wild trailing plants and hidden bowers,
Shall I not seek your hidden solitudes,
Far, where the linnet sings, the ring-dove broods?
Anemone and harebell scatter'd wide,
And the sweet violet hid, where none intrudes;
Meek yellow primrose, deck'd in humble pride,
The dearest flower that grows along the mountain side?

And thou, black ivy, climbing up on high,
Even to the raven's nest; and woodbine fair,
Shrouder of lovers from intruding eye;
And thou, rough brier, with dishevelled hair,
That, like a poet, roamest without care.
How are the woods with loveliness prank'd o'er?
What sights and perfumes fill the o'erburthen'd air!
Our woods are full of high and sacred lore—
There nature's book is writ, to last for evermore!

Spring is the time of youth, and love, and gladness,
And passion, newly-waken'd, walks the earth;
We have thrown off the Winter's weary sadness,
And things start up again to newer birth—
O'er hill and vale is jubilee and mirth.
The hare is sporting in the enamell'd mead,
Among bright flowers, far scattered, without dearth;
The deer lies languishing in love's sweet need,
Where, on the dewy leaves, the loving moonbeams feed.

His even song, the thrush, from topmast spray,
Unto his mate doth sing in rivalry;
The ring-dove fills the woodlands all the day,
With notes of heart-created harmony;
The wanton fishes leap about in glee;
And sighs of love are borne along the gale,
From the white-spreading thorn and meadows free.
Yea, over mountain side, and hill, and vale,
And every bower'd grove, doth love—young love prevail.

Now, wandering far, and scarcely knowing why,
The poet seeks each lone and hidden place,
Fancying he views upon the azure sky,
His mistress' lovely and applauding face;
Or views among the clouds her footsteps' trace.
He hears her voice in every breeze that blows,
Singing her love-songs in their jocund race;
And where the stars at midnight do repose,
He sees her beauteous eyes down-looking on his woes.

Or, resting on the green and mossy ground,
Beside the trotting of some murmurous stream,
(Lulled by the holy sweetness of its sound)
He views among the skies, as in a dream,
Bright, beauteous shapes, (yet scarcely what they seem)
Fair, sculptur'd forms, born of old classic time;
Brave knights, all deck'd for ladies love, I deem;
Or kings and giants tread that distant clime—
Forms royal, mighty, vast, heroic, and sublime.

Yea, he will see old visions far away,
(As gazing through the thickly ivyed shade
He views along the leaves the summer ray,)
Of bright Diana, hunting through the glade,
And of her beauteous nymphs, all unarray'd
In naked loveliness:—he'll see them clear,
Drying their shining limbs, and undismay'd;
Gazing on which, the sun faints in his sphere,
And the blue heavens look out from many a dewy tear.

Or dream of Delphos, and the sacred grove
Oracular, from cave or secret shrine;
Where earth hears messages from heaven above,
Responses wild, and oracles divine!
Or dreams of Bacchus and the streaming vine;
Or satyrs rude, all racing in the shade,
Who, flush'd and swollen with the voluptuous wine,
Seek, 'mid the gloom, some lonely wandering maid,
Walking among the flowers unconscious, undismay'd.

Spring hath come back again—her steps I hear,
I see her lovely face where'er I go;
“But sorrow comes with the revolving year,”
And grief still hunts my footsteps to and fro!
Methinks in every face I see a foe,
Who would tramp down these limbs into the mire,
And o'er my coffin black oblivion throw;
Circle my brow with red and burning fire,
And scatter on the wastes my dearest all—my lyre.

Since I was born, no rest was ever mine;
I seem to have nor home, nor hope, nor love;
Heaven, ocean, earth—all elements combine
To chace my footsteps wheresoe'er they rove;
In every place do rage and hatred move.
But am I all deserted? Is there none
To hear me? O there is a God above,
Who from his holy temple hears each groan,
And views each suppliant's woes from his celestial throne.

Thou gnarled oak, all desolate and bare,
Waving thine arms upon the hungry wind;
Thou that for centuries hast blossom'd fair
In well-leaf'd grandeur, O be good and kind!
Here let me rest, beneath thy shade inclined.
What have I done each man should seem my foe?
What is my error? Where's the stain ye find?
Why, why with savage hatred strike the blow
O'er one who harmeth nought wherever he may go?

For I have ever worshipped poetry;
My life hath been a long and lovely dream;
The mountain paths I've ever wander'd free,
Taking no heed, nor seeking any theme;
(Thinking not of those reptiles whose wild gleam,
Of furious eyes, lit up the glooms beneath)
There, on the barren heights, 'twas mine, I deem,
To commune with the tempest's sullen breath,
And hear the pine trees groan, as from the ribs of death.

There did I see the sunlight over-head,
Setting the battlemented heavens on fire;
There did I view the quiet cloudland spread,
Fancying of spirits on each sparkling tear;
There did I tune the many-voiced lyre,
To thee, bright moon, and you, ye starry train!
Seeking on loftiest pinions to aspire,
(The power and passion of the sacred strain)
That with the immortal dead a place I might attain.

There have I heard the cataract roar loud,
As if a demon struggled with his chain;
There in the mists I've walked as in a shroud,
Seeking the hidden splendours all in vain;
Yet there, as if to ease my bitter pain,
I've fancied glorious spirits wander'd near,
And heard wild voices o'er the moorland plain,
That fill'd my soul with wonder, awe, and fear,
As if dim ancient ghosts were wandering from their bier.

In the deep woods, full many a summer day,
I've heard each curious note that warbled nigh;
I've mark'd amid our streams the bright fish play,
And watch'd each hue reflected from the sky.
Shunning ambition, 'twas my joy to lie
On the green grass, and trace each beauteous thing,
Insect or flower, and heave the pensive sigh.
The ocean doth her dearest voices bring—
Where'er my footsteps roam all nature seems to sing.

What, then, ye virulent and full of guile—
What, ye malignant vipers, have I done?
Is it that I will never lend the smile
To rank hypocrisy? assume the tone
Of gentleness, when in my heart was none?
Do I want poison? am I not the toad
That ye are, that ye throw the damning stone?
Or do ye curse, because I spurn the load
Of all your damning lies? what is't that makes ye gourd?

No matter! I am happy in the thought
That fear was never mine. That I could die
Even at this hour. That I have never brought
Hatred to cowardice, but still do try
To bear myself aloft, with fearless eye.
Good for the evil I have aye assay'd.
But when the oppressor would not list my cry,
Then have I link'd myself with other aid,
Standing in honour's field unflinching, undismay'd.

No matter!—have I not a glorious theme?
O England, art thou not enough for me?
Thou hast for ever linger'd in my dream,
And all my wandering thoughts still cling to thee!
Thee have I traced through childhood's early glee
Among the hills! I've seen thee in the prime,
When Boadicæ, Alfred, made thee free;
Causing thy fame to live o'er hungry time,
Borne to eternal age, in majesty sublime!

I've sung of glorious Spencer—he who threw
Thought, passion, fancy, beauty, all in one;
I traced the old religion's gorgeous hue;
The legendary kings that now are gone;
The Aborigines, the bold, the strong.
'Twas mine to sing of England in her pride,
And Rome's battalions her hills among.
Of thou old Troynavaunt, by Thames' side,
Listening the kingly tone with which his waters glide.

Of those sweet innocent children, first, who brought
The ways of Christ to our barbarian land.
Of that glad time when men of pious thought
Planted the tree—a pure and righteous band!
Of fell Rowena, blood upon her hand.
Of royal Arthur, pride of chivalry,
'Neath whose right arm no other knight could stand.
Of kingly Alfred, from whose eagle eye
The savage Dane drew back;—who gave us liberty.

Of holy Benedict, a hermit pure,
Who worshipped God, in the untrodden wood,
Learning each dread privation to endure;
A hermit whose whole life was just and good.
Of sweet Elgiva, bathed in her own blood;
Of royal Edward, by his mother slain;
Of fair Elfrida, by a monarch woo'd;
Of royal Canute, binding in the main;
Of the last Saxon king, on Hastings' battle plain.

Of William, “son of love and lord of war;”
And Rufus, who by Tyrell's arrow fell;
And of the first crusader—he who far
Spread blood-bound piety, and made to dwell
Murder on every shore. Of the wild tale
Of William's shipwreck; of the civil strife;
Of beauteous Rosamond, murdered by the fell
And furious Queen; how Becket lost his life;
How Cœur de Lion pined beneath the Austrian's knife.

Of Robin Hood, who 'mong the green woods sped;
Of youthful Arthur in the dungeon slain;
And of that charter won at Runnymede—
Our noblest right, our most heroic gain;
Of royal Edward and the battle plain,
And Eleonora's great and lofty deed;
And of Orleans mission'd damsel's pain,
Burnt in hot fires—the patriot's proudest breed;
And of that piteous act by Ebor's son decreed!

Of the “first star of English martyrdom,”
Hight Gerard—praying in the burning flame,
And undismay'd, even by his bitter doom,
Still hearing angels call aloud his name.
And last, of those dear children—dear to fame—
By ruffians murdered in their innocent pride;
Blest children, unto you no sorrow came—
Ye sweetly sleep where grief can never bide,
In death, even as in life, still resting side by side!

And now again my theme must flow along—
Glad, like a race-horse, I return again!
Not the loud nightingale's serenest song,
Murmur'd aloft in ecstasy of pain,
Can joy it more, than me my humbler plain.
And O 'tis pleasant, all the summer long,
In the dim groves to weave the inspired strain,
Singing to birds and streams the rapturous song,
Still wandering all alone, the leafy trees among.

I see before me a long glorious dream
Of noble nations, that must yet be known!
Before me is a high and lofty theme,
Fitted for inspiration's proudest tone.
The fairest and the best, these, these alone
Demand the lyre; and, O, is it not here
Among the brave, the good, the just; each one
Of history's records, blazon'd bright and clear,
And shining out, like stars, in their eternal sphere?

Each reign of king or queen is studded o'er
With those who made our fame ring far and wide;—
Of those who sent our ships to every shore,
And made our conquests sound on every tide;
Of poets, singing by the mountain-side;
Of statesmen, who o'er earth have held command;
Patriots, whose deeds shall always speak in pride;
Philanthropists, who walk'd o'er every land,
Diffusing peace and joy, as with a seraph's hand!

Of martyrs, who in burning fires were tried;
Of preachers, eloquent, and meek, and good;
Of heroes great, who, for their country, died,
Shedding for her their patriotic blood;
Of exiles, wandering o'er the ocean flood!
O, England, thou art graven in my heart;
With thee my loftiest visions are imbued;
Thy glory is with me a sacred part;
And, O, I love thee well, that thou so glorious art!

May heaven protect thee from the traitor's guile,
And dash the standard of rebellion down!
Oh! look on this our richly-favoured isle—
Send, send thy guardian angels round the throne,
And keep pure watch about our monarch's crown!
May heaven direct his councils, make them wise,
That in their harvests may no tares be sown;
And England, thus, o'er all the earth will rise,
Until her fame shall be coeval with the skies!

Protect our holy church: protect our king;
Uphold the pillars of the state, and bear
The people high, as on an eagle's wing!
Oh, make us loyal; scatter in the air
The traitor's curse—the rebel's anxious care;
Crush down the venom'd viper in the mire,
That crawls among our fields and meadows fair.
Oh! let us feel the purifying fire,
That we may rise again—once more toward heaven aspire!

Hark, 'tis the twenty-ninth of May! I hear
From the square tower the sweet-resounding bell,
Chiming among the echos, soft and clear!
Children, like youthful poets, roam each dell,
Their brows with verdant oak-branch crown'd. 'Tis well;
I love to see old memories still retain'd.
This is the blessed day when traitors fell,
Like blood-hounds, hunted royal Charles; all stain'd
With his dead father's gore, whilst he in peace remain'd

In the old Royal Oak. For this alone
I love thee, that thou wast a holy bower.
I love thee that thou wert a monarch's throne—
Thy leafy shade his citadel and tower.
On thee may all the sweetest seasons shower
Sunshine and freshening dews. Oh, mayst thou be
Ever and ever; long thy branches lour,
And be our ark on the victorious sea;
Of patriots still the pride—of love the chosen tree.

England, my country, as my dearest theme,
Again I call thee to throw off the stain—
The nightmare lying on thy fever'd dream.
View blood-stain'd France, and how canst thou restrain
Thy fury? Look abroad on coward Spain
And Portugal, all scorch'd in treason's fire.
Lo! and beyond the dim and hungry main,
Italy, Greece, lie weltering in the mire;
And Poland, Poland shrieks, and can no more aspire!

Keep, keep thee as thou art! Thy fields are green,
Thy woods and forests fair, thy harvests strong.
Bravely thy spires salute the heavens serene;
Thy temples stand in pomp, the glooms among;
Thy castles still shine far—and may they long!
Where'er I look, on mountain, vale, or sea,
I see thy wealth and grandeur move along;
I still behold thee brave, and bright, and free,
Thy breast and brow all cloth'd with holiest liberty!

But I must close my strain. Yet, not alone,
For this. Sad, weary, worn, and desolate,
Still must I wander on, 'mid tear and groan—
I, who was once so happy and elate,
And deem'd the world could never change my state!
Alas, the oil is scatter'd, and the light
Is quench'd! I nothing see but hungry hate,
And murky clouds, where all was once so bright;
And where the sunbeams play'd is now tempestuous night!

Ye sacred Nine, so often sore prophan'd
By unknown voices! Ye, who sit afar,
Where nought of earthly sorrow ever reign'd,
Beside the morning and the evening star,
And where the spheres join their melodious jar,
Hear me, and bear me up, nor let me fall!
Ye, unto whom the moonbeams make a car;
Into whose ears heaven's voices ever call,
O lift me from the dust into your sacred hall!

The gauzy-fleeced clouds attire ye well,
Richer than Indian silk's embroidery;
Among your locks the brightest sunbeams dwell,
And, for your jewels, shines the starred sky;
Innumerable worlds delight your eye;
The halo of young stars affords your zone;
And, for your sandals, early breezes fly,
Incens'd and perfum'd, all for you alone;
And ye have constant rest beside the eternal throne.

You view the Northern streamers in their flight,
And hunt them in your glee. You see the moon,
And fill your urns with her celestial light.
Ye see the midnight in its starry noon,
And greet the planets clear. And, late and soon,
'Tis yours to view the wondrous glories spread,
When blushing morning from her couch comes down;
And when the gorgeous evening sinks to bed;
And when pale phantoms seek the dwellings of the dead.