Poems By William Walsham How ... New and Enlarged Edition |
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Shelsley Beauchamp.
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52
Shelsley Beauchamp.
Thou say'st that it is nobler far to sing
Of Man, with all his majesty of will,
His Godlike mind, his mysteries of thought,
His might of hope and dread and joy and woe,
The crown of all creation,—than to sing
God's lesser works, the things in earth and sky
Most beautiful, the mountains, and the wood,
The breezy lake, and clouds suffused with light
And hues unutterable, the delicate flower,
The voicèd spring,—all perfect things that move
The loving heart to thankfulness and joy;—
Man is the poet's subject.
Of Man, with all his majesty of will,
His Godlike mind, his mysteries of thought,
His might of hope and dread and joy and woe,
The crown of all creation,—than to sing
God's lesser works, the things in earth and sky
Most beautiful, the mountains, and the wood,
The breezy lake, and clouds suffused with light
And hues unutterable, the delicate flower,
The voicèd spring,—all perfect things that move
The loving heart to thankfulness and joy;—
Man is the poet's subject.
Be it so:—
Then I will plead great lack of nobler thoughts,
And of the skill to mould them into rhyme.
Be mine the lowlier aim: for on my heart
Never hath deed of high renown, or scene
Of tender interest, drawn by purest art,
Fall'n with such true and living influence
As some sweet passing touch that hath awaked
A memory of Nature's simple truth.
And I would dwell in that which is divine,
Least fallen; I would train my heart to feel
The mystic might of things that never change,
Things whose great meaning always is the same,
Whose voices always speak to them that hear,—
The glory and the beauty of the world.
Yes, I would change thy saying, if I might;
Man is the poet's object: there we meet.
To make man feel what he himself hath felt,
This is the poet's work. To rouse the heart,
By all the gentle artifice of verse
Winning the imagination to our side
And gaining subtle entrance, to smite then
With all those touches that have smitten us
For pleasure or for good:—this is our work.
Then I will plead great lack of nobler thoughts,
And of the skill to mould them into rhyme.
Be mine the lowlier aim: for on my heart
Never hath deed of high renown, or scene
Of tender interest, drawn by purest art,
Fall'n with such true and living influence
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A memory of Nature's simple truth.
And I would dwell in that which is divine,
Least fallen; I would train my heart to feel
The mystic might of things that never change,
Things whose great meaning always is the same,
Whose voices always speak to them that hear,—
The glory and the beauty of the world.
Yes, I would change thy saying, if I might;
Man is the poet's object: there we meet.
To make man feel what he himself hath felt,
This is the poet's work. To rouse the heart,
By all the gentle artifice of verse
Winning the imagination to our side
And gaining subtle entrance, to smite then
With all those touches that have smitten us
For pleasure or for good:—this is our work.
O Nature! high and pure and holy Nature!
Grant me the lowliest place within thy courts,
Where I may serve thee, winning golden smiles.
Oh for the voice of song to hymn thy might!
Oh for the genius that should set in rhyme
All richly chased the jewels of thy wealth
For men to gaze upon! Yea, I would tell
Of wondrous thoughts, and courage, and resolve,
And holy hope, and power to conquer life,
Born of the eternal stars;—such truth and power
As never proudest deed of man best told
Hath given: I would tell of glorious joy
Gathered among the lonely glist'ning snows
Of Alpine summits; of large stores of love
Drawn from the moving shadows of the woods;
Of praise o'erflowing midst the sunny slopes
Of hills; and valleys that have made me pray.
Oh! I could pass in memory one by one
A thousand station-points, rich varied scenes
Of plain and mountain, moors and riverside,
Sunsets, and glorious nights, and first Spring days,
Deep woodland hollows, rock-clefts fringed with ferns,
The roll of mighty waves, the still blue lake,
The wide earth and the airy ocean seen
From mountain-summits, the pale light of mists,
The full-toned colouring of clouded days:—
Points where my heart hath halted in its journey
And laid up stores for all its after need.
Grant me the lowliest place within thy courts,
Where I may serve thee, winning golden smiles.
Oh for the voice of song to hymn thy might!
Oh for the genius that should set in rhyme
All richly chased the jewels of thy wealth
For men to gaze upon! Yea, I would tell
Of wondrous thoughts, and courage, and resolve,
And holy hope, and power to conquer life,
Born of the eternal stars;—such truth and power
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Hath given: I would tell of glorious joy
Gathered among the lonely glist'ning snows
Of Alpine summits; of large stores of love
Drawn from the moving shadows of the woods;
Of praise o'erflowing midst the sunny slopes
Of hills; and valleys that have made me pray.
Oh! I could pass in memory one by one
A thousand station-points, rich varied scenes
Of plain and mountain, moors and riverside,
Sunsets, and glorious nights, and first Spring days,
Deep woodland hollows, rock-clefts fringed with ferns,
The roll of mighty waves, the still blue lake,
The wide earth and the airy ocean seen
From mountain-summits, the pale light of mists,
The full-toned colouring of clouded days:—
Points where my heart hath halted in its journey
And laid up stores for all its after need.
That moment when upon the gloomy pass
Thro' clouds and dreary wastes ascending slow
First I could pierce Dunlow's long rugged gorge,
And through the rent, as through a wondrous glass,
(The roof all hung with curtains of thick cloud,)
Could see far off a little glittering space
Of sunny plain,—that moment is to me
A rich possession, richer far than e'er
I won from plain where classic battle raged,
Or town where storied names have lived and wrought.
Thro' clouds and dreary wastes ascending slow
First I could pierce Dunlow's long rugged gorge,
And through the rent, as through a wondrous glass,
(The roof all hung with curtains of thick cloud,)
Could see far off a little glittering space
Of sunny plain,—that moment is to me
A rich possession, richer far than e'er
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Or town where storied names have lived and wrought.
An hour of calm pure moonlight, all too brief,
Beside thy ripply marge, O fair Lugano,
That perfect night when shoreward breezily
The quivering waters all their shining tost,
Is worth to me all hours that e'er I passed
Tracking memorials of mighty men
In castles camps and palaces.
Beside thy ripply marge, O fair Lugano,
That perfect night when shoreward breezily
The quivering waters all their shining tost,
Is worth to me all hours that e'er I passed
Tracking memorials of mighty men
In castles camps and palaces.
And thou,
Sweet Shelsley, 'mid the wanderings of my thought
And dreamy recollections of fair spots,
Now gatherest up thy beauties one by one,
Building thyself into a perfect truth.
Oh! to awake unto a woodland scene,
To gaze with the first look on golden fields
And curvèd hill-sides bowered with shadowy trees,
The freshness and the beauty and the sun,
When thou hast dwelt in some great town, and seen
From thy dim lattice nought but weary streets
Of squalid misery,—what joy of joys!
Thus, fairest Shelsley, on thy perfect vale
I gazed entranced on one sweet summer morn.
From a long slope I looked across the fields,
The lush and flowery fields, where gentle Teme
Glided amidst his willows, to the hills
That opposite were ruddy as they woke,
Lifting their dewy freshness to the day.
The butterflies were fluttering on the grass,
The swallows raced and twined in giddy maze,
With tiny joyous scream, incessantly:—
And I was glad with them.
Sweet Shelsley, 'mid the wanderings of my thought
And dreamy recollections of fair spots,
Now gatherest up thy beauties one by one,
Building thyself into a perfect truth.
Oh! to awake unto a woodland scene,
To gaze with the first look on golden fields
And curvèd hill-sides bowered with shadowy trees,
The freshness and the beauty and the sun,
When thou hast dwelt in some great town, and seen
From thy dim lattice nought but weary streets
Of squalid misery,—what joy of joys!
Thus, fairest Shelsley, on thy perfect vale
I gazed entranced on one sweet summer morn.
From a long slope I looked across the fields,
The lush and flowery fields, where gentle Teme
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That opposite were ruddy as they woke,
Lifting their dewy freshness to the day.
The butterflies were fluttering on the grass,
The swallows raced and twined in giddy maze,
With tiny joyous scream, incessantly:—
And I was glad with them.
And then a voice
Spake in my soul, disloyally it spake:—
‘Oh for a lot cast amid all that's fair,
‘Where my great work might only be to learn
‘The glory and the beauty of God's earth!’
But soon another voice made answer thus:—
‘A truer wisdom were alway to take
‘Beauty within thy heart, a gentle inmate,
‘Cheering thy steps, like music after toil.
‘Thy portion is not here; go, work thy work.’
Spake in my soul, disloyally it spake:—
‘Oh for a lot cast amid all that's fair,
‘Where my great work might only be to learn
‘The glory and the beauty of God's earth!’
But soon another voice made answer thus:—
‘A truer wisdom were alway to take
‘Beauty within thy heart, a gentle inmate,
‘Cheering thy steps, like music after toil.
‘Thy portion is not here; go, work thy work.’
(1850.)
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