England :: :: University of Virginia Library

“O God, methinks it were a happy life,
To be no better than a simple swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run!
Ah! what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery.”
—Shakspeare.

“Love had he found in huts, where poor men lie,
His daily teachers had been woods and rills;
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

In him, the savage virtue of his race,
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place,
The wisdom which adversity had bred.”

(Wordsworth's noble Poem on the same subject.)

Gentle and pleasant is the shepherd's life.
Nor Clifford wert thou first to throw away,
In thy rich youth, the world's corroding strife.
Where Judah's consecrated mountain's lay;
Where the blue hills received each lingering ray;
There kings and prophets had their gentle cheer.
They herded their meek charge the livelong day,
And worshipped God in humbleness and fear,
And view'd him in his works thro' many a feeling tear.

They were the shepherd-kings, and wore a crown
More lustrous far, than monarchs on a throne.
Their flocks were willing subjects: they look'd down
From hills eternal, where they dwelt alone,
In more than regal pride. The sunbeams shone
For them at earliest morn; the breezes blew
Their earliest welcoming, their kindest tone;
The seasons show'd them every changing hue,
And brought them summer sunbeams and the summer dew.

Yea, they were more than kings; and their domain
Was sanctified by God's eternal sight.
They dwelt in peace. War's reeking battle plain
They knew not—sword, and spear, and faulchion bright,
And the war trumpet, and the cannon's might,
And the loud drum. The nations ne'er combin'd
To hunt them down. The assassin, in the night,
They feared not, who in peace were aye inclined:—
Theirs was the constant empire of the heart and mind.

The shepherd-kings, they were a mighty race.
Of them was pious Abraham—he trod
Judea's mountains with monarchic pace;
Or, kneeling meekly, on the grassy sod,
Worshipp'd the true and omnipresent God.
Then lived a pastoral people, whose delight
It was to make the hills their lone abode,
Sleeping at peace beneath the stars of night,
The heath-bells for their couch—the moon their taper's light.

Of them, were that pure band, who, far remote
Beneath the calm of eastern midnight skies,
Heard tidings of great joy by angels brought;
And saw the star of glorious triumph rise,
And watch'd its silent march with wondering eyes,
Till o'er the Son of God its glories faded;
Who in the wisdom of religion wise,
Then worshipp'd, and with precious offerings, laded
The Saviour, and with gold and pearls his forehead shaded.

Of them was David, a true shepherd-king,
Monarchic in his youth, and with the glow
Of health and strength, that mountain breezes bring:
Who pierc'd the Philistinean giant's brow;
Who brought the towering foes of Israel low.
Of them, were the astronomers, who sway'd
The eastern worlds; and on the lands did throw
A bondage, in their mystic robes array'd,
And in their lofty watch-towers contemplative laid.

O what elate and mighty joy we feel,
Sitting upon the mountains as a throne;
Majestic feelings through the bosom steal,
And we are multiplied, though all alone.
We feel a higher and a purer tone
Of thought, and gazing on the vales below,
Fancy we hear the wretches pule and groan,
And marvel that in earthly dust they bow,
When they might soar like us, where the hill-breezes blow.

Our mountains were the pillars that were rear'd,
Land marks and monuments to future time,
When the broad deluge gradual disappear'd;
The living frames of many a scátter'd clime;
Fathers and children perish'd in their prime;
Within their depths, lie hidden far and deep.
Leviathan, his jaw-bones rear'd, sublime,
Form arches vast, where gold and diamonds sleep;
And Mammoth, like a giant, doth his vigils keep.

Perchance, full many a strong ribb'd ship doth ride,
'Mid time's defying springs at anchor there.
Kings, potentates, and rulers there abide,
Who lived before Deucalion left his lair:
And beauty lies entangled in her hair.
The old primeval forests left their breed
With them entomb'd—the lion, and the bear:
And the great sea, in its exceeding need,
Disgorged to them the wealth that ages had decreed.

Our mountains now are bright, and fresh, and green,
Where the old legendary kings lie dead;
And now the lamb and shepherd boy are seen,
Where generations bow'd the dying head,
Where yet rude cairns and hollow caves are spread.
Here martyrs worshipp'd God thro' fear of blood,
(Druids and Christians) and the vulture fed.
Here patriots fought unconquer'd, unsubdued,
Till with their reeking gore, the heath turn'd crimson-hued.

Still undiminish'd and undimm'd ye stand,
And shape a mirror for the sister sky—
A bound and limit for the ocean strand;
The roaring winter tempests ye defy—
Mists, snows, and cataracts. The rainbows lie
All lovingly among your peaks. The sun,
And moon, and stars, come to you from on high;
And, when the lean and lazy day is done,
The brightest evening beams along your turrets run.

Still, still the same, whilst nations on the wane
Sink down to nought; and war's tremendous roar
Shakes crowns and empires; and the hideous train
Of pestilence, with all its ghosts, moves o'er
The earth; and murder wallows in its gore,
And death gets fat with death! Yet you change not,
But stand erect, and shall for evermore,
Beaming with many a bright and sunny spot,
And many a lovely vale, and brooklet's merry trot.

Braving the heavens with beauties like their own,
Deep painted mosses—silken, long, and bright,
And gorgeous tufts of moss that shape a crown
Around their brows—a carpet, where the light
And airy-footed spirits dance at night.
Towering with knotty cliffs, chasm'd dark and deep,
Where the black raven reigneth in its might,
And like those deserts' king his court doth keep;
And where long beauteous grasses and meek wild-flowers sleep.

Oh to be ever with you; in the pride
And power of song go with the wild deer free,
And meet the tempests in their stormiest tide!
Ye have the spell that makes the heart to be
Elate, and fills the soul with liberty.
Ye can exalt the reptile to the god,
And make a Mease a man! Ye bow the knee
To none, save only the Almighty's nod;
And none, save only He, your utmost bounds hath trod.

And ye have homes of hospitality!
Pure hearts and strong inhabit lonely places;
Maidens most gentle, innocent and free,
With minds as fair and lovely as their faces,
Whom, from their childhood, nature's self embraces.
Bold honest men who for their king would die,
On whom the cities' sins have left no traces;
Simple, pure-minded, brave, exalted, high,
Whose hearts were made for thee—thy champions, liberty!

But what of Clifford? What doth Clifford here
Among our Yorkshire hills? Perchance, he came
Where now I sit, and saw those valleys clear,
And mid their sunbeams, read his father's name,
And heard the waterfalls his deeds proclaim.
These heath-clouds of dense gold perchance his feet
Shook out, here, where the hills seem all on flame:
And, on our highest mountains, took his seat,
And heard the waters roar and the loud tempests beat.

The wildered moors with many a patch of green
Gave him a fitting home, and there he dwelt.
Yea, like a monarch did he rule, I ween,
And, on his towering throne, a monarch felt:—
The drifting snows surround, the wild rains pelt—
What cared the happy shepherd-boy for them?
There, like a youthful patriarch, oft he knelt,
And clasp'd his innocent hands to praise God's name;
Whilst, round his saint-like head, the sun wreath'd lambent flame!

Far, far away from strife and hate and fear,
He dwelt a lonely and a loving child;
Caring not, 'mid this happy hemisphere,
For aught that, in high places, men beguil'd:
The deaths of kings—war's terrors roaring wild—
The noise of earthquakes—plague's polluted breath.
His soul no festal show nor triumph wil'd;
A hermit-child, like him, knew nought of death,
And love and peace, alone, dwelt with him on the heath.

And well I ween, that all things loved him well!
The fanged worm would sting him not; the bee—
The little busy bee, for him would swell
Her tiny horn, and hum melodiously.
The wild fox would come near and wanton free,
And timid birds eat crumbs from out his hand:
The heathcock and the plover joy'd to see
So fair a creature in their barren land,
And he be as their lord to hold them in command.

The wild deer, bounding like a whirlwind past,
Starting, would gaze upon his golden hair;
The eagle, in the clouds careering fast,
Would sudden stop to view a thing so fair!
The spirits, that aye wander on the air,
Would watch his sleep, and brush the crystal dews
From his bright locks, and mildest winds blow there;
And fairies, with his visions, interfuse
Delicious, lovely sights, to mingle with their hues.

Oh! what a pleasant thing it is to lie
Upon the golden heath in Summer's prime,
To seek strange shapes upon the silver'd sky—
Phantoms of shades and countenances sublime!—
In dreams confus'd to pass away the time,
Weaving wild fancies to an ancient song;
And, gazing on the peaceful, heavenly clime,
Weep that our earthly fears should bind so strong,
And yearn for that calm land where is nor hate nor wrong.

To feel the mountain-breezes fan our head;
To hear the distant ocean murmur low
A requiem o'er the chambers of the dead;
To count the hours, as lazily they flow
O'er God's own dial, moving proudly slow;
To view the cheerful lambs, and hear them bleat,
And, round their mother, amble to and fro,
All reckless of the burning summer heat;
And hear pale echo mourn from every rocky seat.

He was a young astronomer, and here,
At midnight, resting on the silent ground,
Bath'd in the moonlight, view'd the stars shine clear,
And watch'd their courses—heard their mystic sound.
His spirit, high and wise, knew well to bound
From star to star; and, 'mid the crystal deep,
Rejoic'd to take at ease its pleasant round;
And, when the world was laid in dreamless sleep,
Wander the azure skies, and lofty vigils keep.

The book, from which he read, was written o'er
With God's own hand in characters of light;
The page he conn'd was heaven's bespangled floor;
His taper was the moon that glitter'd bright,
(The moon, fair chambermaid of glorious night.)
And, when he slept, 'twas on the incens'd earth,
High above human dwellings, where the blight
Of poisonous air can come not, nor have birth,
And where, by moonlight, fairies hold their court of mirth.

A poet and philosopher!—Than these
Greater exist not. And he was more free,
And high, perchance, than those 'mid festal glare
Of princely halls and regal jubilee!
Greater than was his sire in victory,
When, at his footsteps, reek'd a prince's blood!
Greater, when on his desert-mountains, he
Roam'd at his will in sovran solitude,
Than in his castled domes or his ancestral wood!

His soul was nourish'd by the constant food
Of outward impulse. Every flower and tree
Had secret charms o'er which to think and brood.
The hollow murmur of the distant sea
Proclaim'd the warnings of eternity;
The smallest blade of grass that woo'd the breeze—
The smallest insect, moving glad and free—
The smallest motion of the summer trees—
Spoke of the king of heaven and heavenly mysteries.

And, 'mid the deep and desert wilderness,
Leaning against the rocks his languid head,
He much had ponder'd human happiness,
And human woe—the living and the dead!
A hermit, still to human feelings wed—
A poet, yet not wrapt in self alone—
Philosopher, yet willing to be led:—
And thus his spirit bore a lofty tone,
That from his weeds spake out of rank and lineage gone.

And, after all his woes, when Lonesborough
No more received him, and, amid the shade
Of Bolton's solemn groves he wander'd slow,
Hearing loud Wharf, as, with swift steps, he stray'd
Through vales of deepest beauty: undismay'd
He ponder'd o'er his history, and said,
“I was a happy shepherd-boy, and made
“My life a holiday; the heath bloom spread
“A carpet for my feet, and, when I slept, a bed.

“I hunted then the rainbow in the spray,
“The cuckoo in his solitary bowers;
“The butterfly enticed me from my way,
“Guiding my steps among the sweetest flowers.
“I chaced the owl among her ivy towers;
“I sought the ringdove's nest in the pine grove:
“Wiling with constant change the pleasant hours;
“Listening among the trees the songs of love;
“Or hearing, with deep joy, the running streamlets move.

“Then I became a man, and passion came,
“Deep feelings, and the high resolves of thought,
“Ambition and the ecstacy of fame—
“Dreams with my father's lofty lineage wrought!
“Now, all in vain, through bitter tears, I sought
“My boyhood's rapture. Never, as of yore,
“The mountains, now, elate aspirings brought,
“Nor deep thoughts came from ocean's sounding shore—
“The rainbows of my dreams were gone for evermore!

“I deem'd that manhood was a wall of light,
“A star of glory 'mid life's murky gloom;
“Full of sweet love, and power, and feeling bright,
“To shed a lustre o'er the gaping tomb;
“That sin and dust and sorrow had no room
“On earth—no agonized tears to shed—
“No dread of present woe or future doom
“Perplex our paths—no feelings ache the head
“Until we madly pray to mingle with the dead!

“I look'd around; love welter'd in his bier,
“And friendship was a phantom never seen;
“I saw old grey-hair'd men drop oft the tear
“Of misery, and youth turn wan and lean,
“And droop beneath the coverlet of green.
“Death had a mighty strength, beyond our own,
“And struck the good more than the base and mean;
“Wearing o'er all the earth a conqueror's crown—
“Wreathing, with dead men's bones, a sceptre and a throne!

“That loveliness and youth will pine away,
“And genius and promise lose their light,
“And, in their palmiest greatness, all decay;
“That war and rude contention gave delight;
“That toil, with sweaty forehead, day and night
“Strain'd heavily for crumbs of bitter food;
“That gold and avarice had greatest might,
“Holding the earth in chains of wrong and blood,
“Making, for cruel greed, the world a solitude.

“O child, but thou wert great, and bold, and free,
“Leaning thy head against the snow-white breast!
“O boy, but in thy gambols and rich glee,
“Thou, truly, hadst a spirit unopprest!
“O youth, but in thy wild and strange unrest,
“With wood-walks and lone murmurings, and the light
“Of nature in her gayest trappings drest,
“Beaming upon thee in her beauty bright,
“Glad and rejoicing wert thou—robed with giant might!”

Oft hadst thou felt, bold Clifford, moments lone,
When strength, and hope, and feeling, sunk away,
And expectation seem'd for ever gone;
When clouds came o'er thy life's exultant ray,
And sudden mists and whirlwinds closed the day;
And, like a dreamer down a vast abyss
Of hideous shapes, and winds, and clashing spray,
Thou deem'dst thou never more shouldst feed on bliss,
But sink to endless woe and sad unhappiness.

Yet, O thou hadst thy mighty joys! Why mourn?
Thousands must pine through years of bitter woe,
And toil, and shame—from every solace torn!
But thou, amidst untrodden wastes, could go,
Heedless of summer heat and winter snow,
A comrade for the eagle and the deer.
Thou heardst the cataract sublimely flow,
And look'd on mighty vales that glitter'd clear,
Standing on mountain cliffs, and gazing far and near.

Thou, to the thunder storms, couldst shout reply,
And bare unto the blast thy shining head;
And call upon the spirits of the sky,
As on the whirlwind's trumpet-tones they fed!
The phantoms of the high and kingly dead,
Long ages buried on that solemn moor,
Would glide in radiant robes before thy bed,
Crown'd regally, and sceptred as of yore,
And bring thee wondrous dreams and strange, mysterious lore.

And not in vain for thee thy father's fame!
Flodden beheld thy snow-white plumes on high,
Redden'd with spots of blood, and heard the name
Illustrious of Clifford, o'er the cry
Of death and slaughter. Now his bones do lie
Beneath the marble slab, in holy sleep,
Where stands in pride fair Bolton's priory:
The breezy woods, like mourners, stand and weep,
And, for his dirge, swift Wharf sobs audibly and deep.