The bard, and minor poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I have loved Nature from my very birth—
Flowers, rivers, mountains, trees, have been to me
As gods to them of old, a hope and love;
And oft has stern contempt and bitter scorn
Gather'd within mine eye, and on my brow,
Whilst thinking of the coldness of vain man
Who loves not Nature's charms, but idle gold.

Oh, that the mighty God should thus have thrown
So much of grandeur and of love away!
Oh, that the everlasting hills and wilds,
And forests and proud rivers, thus should be
Unloved and scoff'd by man's uncaring eye!
Full of his own base, clinging selfishness,
Which twineth as a serpent round his soul,
Or ivy to the drooping mountain-ash,
He coldly looks on Nature's majesty!
I oft have wept e'en o'er a little flower,

A faded flower, dropt from its broken stem.
I oft have wept to see the lily hand
Of maiden fair, snatch with unfeeling haste
The gentle, lovely rose from its sweet bower;
For then I thought of her young beauty's bloom,
How soon the hand of death might pluck it thence.

I have seen those who could behold the sea
Moving in sullen, vast magnificence,
Like some proud monarch from the battle's wreck,
And almost cursed it for its ceaseless roar.
I have seen men walking on mountain tops,
And o'er the lofty heights of sky-loved cliffs
That laugh'd in bitter mirth upon the storms
Raging in idle wrath and hate below,
In whose dark bosoms no high feelings glowed.
I have seen men, who, on the river's banks,
Could see no moral in the rolling flood.
I have seen men who gazed on heaven's far host
Of shining worlds—the bright, celestial stars—
And saw in them no vast Omnipotence.
And I have seen the inspired of soul, whose eye
Compass'd, as eagle's doth, the verdant plain,
Drinking in every glory which was there.
I have walked with them at the midnight hour,
And mark'd their quivering lip and gather'd brow,
Whilst gazing on the glorious vastitude

Of heaven, with all its stars and Virgin queen!
I have been with them on the mountain top,
And heard the bursting word of swelling joy,
Whilst contemplating o'er the far expanse;
The proud, the mighty, and the vast, which lay
In dim magnificence enrobed around!
With them I have beheld the gorgeous clouds
Which came and kiss'd the sun ere he should go
Down to his realms of warmth, and love, and bliss!
The sea, which in its giant majesty
Doth roll and heave for ever o'er its bed.
The waving of the gloomy forest trees,
Like plumes of battling warriors in hosts!
And oh, how far, how wide apart, are these
From the vile mass that worships nought but gold!
I sooner would be one who in the fields,
And on the mountain, and by ocean's shores,
And in a little flower, and in a star,
And on a river's fair and grassy banks,
And 'mid the fury of the storm, could see
A glory and a grandeur everywhere,
Than be the mightiest monarch that ere held
Sceptre and power o'er an obsequious world!

There is no bliss like that which poets feel
When gazing on their parent Nature's stores.
A doting mother loves not more her child,
Nor thinks it lovelier in the calm of sleep—
A lover sees not in his charmer's eyes,
Nor in her sylph-like form, or queen-like air,

Or beaming countenance, a livelier grace,
A deeper, wilder, more enchanting joy,
Than do the lovers of earth's majesty
See in each holy form that dwelleth there.

Where are there palaces or halls like those,
Shaped out in rocks, in mountains, and in clouds?
Show me an eye, in passion, or in love,
Lovelier than is yon glorious evening star!
Show me a bosom whiter than the snow
Which gleams in winter on the mountain height!
Show me a cheek of fairer bloom and shade
Than blushing sky at morn—or modest rose!

I have heard maidens' songs, so sweetly wild,
So deeply, passionately musical,
So full of fainting, warbling harmony,
Melodious as their own pure thoughts in sleep,
Their own soft sighs in dreams of love and joy—
But I have heard a small, bright, mountain stream,
As it hath murmur'd through its paths of bliss,
Kissing each shining pebble on its way,
Afford far deeper music to the ear,—
And I have heard most gentle instruments,
The soft-toned lute, and harp, and harpsichord,
And sweet guitar, which Spanish maidens love,
Mingled with lover's song and lover's sighs!
But oh! the evening breeze, so softly sweet,
Gliding away amongst the sunny trees,
Kissing, like fainting lover, each fond leaf,

Till, jealous grown, they dash against each other,
And give fresh joyaunce to the melody,
Hath a far deeper music even than these.

Yea, winter's tempests in their boisterous joy,
Sweeping along in terror and in storm
'Mid the wild dashing of the mountain brooks,
Which as in anger fret, and heave, and fume,
Bear in their thunders music more intense,—
More terrible and potent in their roar,
Whether amid the Alpine summits rude,
Or through the cavern'd cliffs and Lapland pines,
Than aught of earthly skill, or practised art
Of cunning mechanist from metal ore,
Or many-measured pipes can e'er devise
In belfry sounding, or cathedral aisle.
There is not in the monarch's gilded hall
Lady, so gaily drest in gem and gold,
And purples of the east so madly prized,
That hath a robe of such fine workmanship,
(So thin and delicate, that, whilst it hides
The fulness of the beauty from man's eye,
Scatters bright gleams of silent loveliness,)
As that rich fret-work, which at midnight hour,
Oft throws its silvery mantle o'er the sky,
And as the balmy breezes lift their skirts,
The glimmering stars, like seraph-eyes look forth,
And the clear azure with its luminous orb,
Is opened to our sight, as we have seen
Glimpses of heaven beneath young beauty's veil.

Yea, Nature hath a million secret charms
Of glory, joy, and bliss with sadness mixed.
For him who loves to gaze on lovely things,
On objects, whereon beauty hath her mark,
Birds to his soul will lend their sweetest song;
The woods will teem with melody for him;
The stars all gazing in each other's eyes;
The winds that ever whisper to the groves;
The modest sweetness of the midnight moon;
The silent grandeur of the boundless sky;
The trees, which laugh together as the breeze
Wantons among them like a lover true,
These, with ten thousand everlasting charms,
Will rouse, to bliss divine, his aching soul!

Do ye seek gloom?—hate ye the selfish world,
With all its train of coldness, pride, and hate?
Have ye loved beauty, and hath beauty been
Unto your heart a scorpion lurking there?
Have ye found falseness under friendship's mask,
Baseness and lies for sympathy and love?
Have ye found children whom ye fondly nursed
In your own bosom, fed from your own blood,
Start up like fiends against their parent's peace,
And blast your cup of hope with grim despair?
Have you found hatred watch at every step,
And black-lipp'd envy, and cold, bitter hate,
To hem you on all sides, like fiends of hell?
Then go, at dead of night, when all your foes
Lie sleeping, (if remorse and hate can sleep?)

Low in their couch of horror and despair;
Go listen to the thunder and the storms
That revel in wild mirth among the woods,
And rouse from out their rest the frighted deer;
Go look upon the angry, raging sea,
That heaves its giant waves in proud contempt
Of all the bellowing tempest's furious strife,—
(Whilst far within its waves some gallant ship,
Which late was full of life, and mirth, and joy,
Sinketh with all its shrieking inmates down!)
Go far into the waste of wilderness
Where no shunn'd human foot hath ever trod,
Where no rude human voice was ever heard!
Go to the mountain top, whilst she alone,
The maiden, loved by poets, walks on high,
Amid her glorious garniture of stars,
And cast around your eye on heaven and earth—
Here is a noble and a great revenge,
For thou art quaffing now the cup divine,
Sacred to prophets, poets, and the gods.

All men may here find that for which they toil.
He who would seek to stay the atheist's vile
And boisterous blasphemy, and crush him down,
As we would crush a viper 'neath our feet,
May in each beauteous object that is near
See the vast impress of the mighty God!
The stars, so beautiful, like angel's eyes
Looking from heaven on man as he doth sleep,
And weeping o'er his sins, black as the night,

Which casts its gloomy mantle o'er the world,
Show that a God hath set them in their sphere.
The universal sun, at whose broad glance
Roses shake off the dew, and violets weep
The dimness all away which hid their bloom.
(As love or joy doth drive from maiden's eye
The filmy tear which veiled its light before!)
The mighty sun, at whose imperial look
Flowers start from out the earth in youth and joy;
And Love, like some gay giant, sits enthroned
The mighty monarch of the whole green world,
Listening unto the melody of earth—
The birds, and woods, and breezes, and bright streams,
All mingling in wild mirth,—as we have known
A thousand instruments in festal throng,
All musical, though various, strike at once
Into some soul-enchanting, magic strain;
The mighty sun, at whose imperial front
Nations bow down and worship as a god,
And tremble in the glory of his beam!
The mighty sun, the sov'reign of the skies,
Doth speak at once unto the heart of man,
There is a God, vast and omnipotent,
Who, as a mother leading her young child,
Guides him across the heaven's eternal vault!

We know that were its light shut out from earth,
Herbs, flowers, and plants would lose their hue and bloom,
This earth would be a waste where howling winds
Would wildly revel in unconquering rage;

Man would despair and die; the moon and stars
No more afford their light,—the tameless sea
Rush forth upon the world, and revel there;
Vapours, all death and poison, wander o'er
The earth like blasts from hell, and ruin reign
With tempest and with darkness, monarch sole,
O'er an upturn'd, chaotic, desert world.
The ever-heaving sea, on whose dark waves
Commerce erects its throne—and ships track o'er
With wealth and produce of most distant lands;
The everlasting mountains, on whose heads
Heaven rests its weary load, and circling clouds
Form a tiara for their Monarch's brow,
More costly far than Persia's diadem.
The mighty forests in their gloom
Abode of all that fiercest is of earth,
The lordly, kingly lion, monarch there;
The tiger gorgeously marked out like heaven
At evening, all streaked o'er with golden light;
Sea, mountain, forest, all with one acclaim
Tell of a mighty God, whose single power
Commands old Ocean's wilderness of waves,
Sustains the mountains and the forests wide;—
Sole, silent monarch of the mighty world!

Here may Philosophy unbare his head!
The very stone that strikes his wand'ring foot
Holds mystery and wonder in its breast,
Which he in vain attempts to open out.
The rose-leaf which he snatches from its bower

With its most fainting fragrance, and bright hue,
And streaks of beauty, delicate, divine,
Spread all about by some angelic hand,
Is monarch o'er philosophy, and thwarts
The boldest efforts of vain-glorious man.
Say, can he light the liquid blood of life
To dart along, in passion or in shame?
Can he shoot lava-lustre in the eye?
Can he form lips that quiver to love's breath?
Can he shape out a vein like that which spreads
Along the marble brow of loveliness?
Can he infuse heaven's rapture in the voice
Heard at soft twilight 'mid the bowers of bliss?
Can he infuse a richness to the face,
Like that which glorifies the bridal vow—
Love's purest challenge, and the heart's reply?
Can he weave ringlets of so dark a gloss,
That pine-tree of the heath, nor midnight cloud,
So dazzle in their raven loveliness!

Hush, hush, vain reptile, thou who can'st not add
One leaf to Nature's verdure, nor one stone
To her gigantic cliffs and mountains high;
Or virgin whiteness unto bosom bright;
Who can'st not even wreathe a nest as bird's;
Nor honey-comb as bee's; nor hall as ant's;
Thou who art but a crawling, obscene worm,
Who liveth for a day, and then art cast
To rot away among thy brother worms
In hideous ghastliness; who can'st not tell

What liveth for the morrow, even an hour!
Thou, who in all thy stately manhood's pride
May, by a lightning flash, or tempest blast,
Or ocean wave, or falling of a tree,
Be hurl'd for ever to that land of mist,
“That bourne from whence no traveller returns.”
Hush, hush, vain reptile! think not to arraign
The mighty mysteries of Providence;
Or with thy brutish clamour to put down
The innate principle which lives in man,
And lifteth up his thoughts from earth to heaven,
From lovely “Nature's works to Nature's God.”

There is a moral in each thing we see,
Each beauteous thing of Nature's bounteous stores:
The moving of the wind doth speak to us
Of Time's gigantic stride—the blooming trees
Speak to our heart of youth with all its joy
And dawning happiness, and careless mirth!
The Autumn leaf, wither'd, and sear'd, and dead,
And floating in the wild, tempestuous blast,
Doth show us dreary-hearted, snow-hair'd age,
Beat by the storms of time, and cast about
Helpless, uncared for by the winter storm.

Which way soe'er we look all Nature speaks.
She is the Monitor that points on high;
She is the Warder of the gate of Truth,
She watches at her portals. He who seeks
And owns her rightly, claims a mighty doom,

A destiny, the fruit of elder times.
He who in purest poetry ascends,
Nor idly worships, but with breath of prayer,
Raises an altar in the wilderness,
And consecrates an offering unto God!

Guisborough, 1830.

And it was nothing more.”

Wordsworth.