Poems By William Walsham How ... New and Enlarged Edition |
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The First Spring Day.
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59
The First Spring Day.
“Heaven lies about us in our infancy.”
Is Winter dreaming of sweet summer hours,
As guilty men may dream of innocence,
This perfect day, that stealeth soft and still
In between moaning winds and skies of grey,
Tenderly fair, like a celestial clime
Islanded in a sullen wintry sea?
'Tis such a day as this that melts the heart,
Hard beaten with the tramp of passing years,
Stirring its pulses with such trembling joy
They needs must break forth into flowers of song.
As guilty men may dream of innocence,
This perfect day, that stealeth soft and still
In between moaning winds and skies of grey,
Tenderly fair, like a celestial clime
Islanded in a sullen wintry sea?
'Tis such a day as this that melts the heart,
Hard beaten with the tramp of passing years,
Stirring its pulses with such trembling joy
They needs must break forth into flowers of song.
I stand alone, and gather to my soul
The strange sweet influences that are poured
Around me in the soft and shining calm.
Silence is on the hill, whose Western slopes
Are strewn with dreamy lights like gossamer,
Whose swelling knolls are lit each with his crown
Of slanting rays, above the hollow curves
Filled with dim shadows, which stretch far away
To where the Eastern scar falls off abrupt
In purple gloom. Silence is on the hill,
And in the trees, that, mid' the lichened crags,
Themselves as bare and gaunt, stand singly out,
And burn with ruddy fire. And deep below
In narrow hollow, massed in sombre shade,
Black yew-trees brood like Night, the tender mist
Of sun-rays dimly streaking their broad crowns
Over the grassy ridge; and from their feet
A little stream comes creeping ever on
From stone to stone with tremulous whispering;
While up against their blackness, in the calm
Of airy space suffused with golden haze,
Dim insects float like wandering sparks of fire.
The strange sweet influences that are poured
Around me in the soft and shining calm.
Silence is on the hill, whose Western slopes
Are strewn with dreamy lights like gossamer,
Whose swelling knolls are lit each with his crown
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Filled with dim shadows, which stretch far away
To where the Eastern scar falls off abrupt
In purple gloom. Silence is on the hill,
And in the trees, that, mid' the lichened crags,
Themselves as bare and gaunt, stand singly out,
And burn with ruddy fire. And deep below
In narrow hollow, massed in sombre shade,
Black yew-trees brood like Night, the tender mist
Of sun-rays dimly streaking their broad crowns
Over the grassy ridge; and from their feet
A little stream comes creeping ever on
From stone to stone with tremulous whispering;
While up against their blackness, in the calm
Of airy space suffused with golden haze,
Dim insects float like wandering sparks of fire.
I note each separate grace;—yet, while I stand
And marvel, over all there passeth down
A might of trancèd calm, a silent awe,
A dreamy mystery of grief-like joy,
That thro' the utter stillness and the gleam
Poureth around the heart a trembling sense
Of fair things far away. Oh! strange sweet power
In that which is itself so very fair
To banish all the present, and bring near
Only the farthest distance! Why is it
That when the scene, with all its mellow lights
And glorious hues, and with its subtle charm
Of tender influences strewn around,
Might well content with only that which is,—
Why is it that the spirit in such hour
To that which is not floateth far away,
List'ning intent to delicate undertones
That vibrate now from all the viewless strings
Which bind it ever to the golden past?
Where is the touch that plays those wondrous strings,
Whisp'ring along the spaces far away
In airy music, sad, aye unto tears,
Yet oh, how perfect!—Where the mystic power
That bears the wistful heart so far far off,
Like to some bird that on its poisèd wings
All motionless is ever onward borne
By airy stream, till, passing from all ken,
It seems to vanish thro' some opal gate
Of sunset heavens?—'Tis that such a day
Standeth apart from that on either side,
All unlike in its aspect, its soft calm
Cheating the heart with sweet forgetfulness,
And in its very strangeness banishing
The sense and memory of present things,
The chills of yesterday, the morrow's rain.
It cometh in its strangeness like a dream
Apart from all before and after it,
Too strange, too bright, too tender, to belong
To present things,—its very air suffused
With trembling fragile visions of fair scenes
Long past and far away,—its thrilling stillness
Instinct with memories, too sad for joy,—
Too sweet for sorrow,—yet all undefined,
Half-memories of all bright and far-off things,
Of strange sweet feelings, such as this day stirs,
Felt long ago:—I call them memories,
Yet, as they come, they seem to pass away
In infinite longings, hopes that reach far forth
Into a mystic void that only seems
That which I want,—and very far away.
The present is all gone; and thro' my soul
Two voices pour their intense harmony,
Wordless, yet taking captive all my being
With their great song,—ev'n Memory and Hope!
And marvel, over all there passeth down
A might of trancèd calm, a silent awe,
A dreamy mystery of grief-like joy,
That thro' the utter stillness and the gleam
Poureth around the heart a trembling sense
Of fair things far away. Oh! strange sweet power
In that which is itself so very fair
To banish all the present, and bring near
Only the farthest distance! Why is it
That when the scene, with all its mellow lights
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Of tender influences strewn around,
Might well content with only that which is,—
Why is it that the spirit in such hour
To that which is not floateth far away,
List'ning intent to delicate undertones
That vibrate now from all the viewless strings
Which bind it ever to the golden past?
Where is the touch that plays those wondrous strings,
Whisp'ring along the spaces far away
In airy music, sad, aye unto tears,
Yet oh, how perfect!—Where the mystic power
That bears the wistful heart so far far off,
Like to some bird that on its poisèd wings
All motionless is ever onward borne
By airy stream, till, passing from all ken,
It seems to vanish thro' some opal gate
Of sunset heavens?—'Tis that such a day
Standeth apart from that on either side,
All unlike in its aspect, its soft calm
Cheating the heart with sweet forgetfulness,
And in its very strangeness banishing
The sense and memory of present things,
The chills of yesterday, the morrow's rain.
It cometh in its strangeness like a dream
Apart from all before and after it,
Too strange, too bright, too tender, to belong
62
With trembling fragile visions of fair scenes
Long past and far away,—its thrilling stillness
Instinct with memories, too sad for joy,—
Too sweet for sorrow,—yet all undefined,
Half-memories of all bright and far-off things,
Of strange sweet feelings, such as this day stirs,
Felt long ago:—I call them memories,
Yet, as they come, they seem to pass away
In infinite longings, hopes that reach far forth
Into a mystic void that only seems
That which I want,—and very far away.
The present is all gone; and thro' my soul
Two voices pour their intense harmony,
Wordless, yet taking captive all my being
With their great song,—ev'n Memory and Hope!
Oh! why so rarely now come days like this?
Why must the daily round of trivial cares
And outward duties hang like a dark veil
Shutting away from me the joyous light
Of Nature's earnest face, which once I loved
How eagerly! For 'twas not always so.
My childhood's home was in a town, but there
A garden-terrace looked o'er meadow-lands
Out to a hill, whose hollow banks were rich
With knots of varied foliage. I should pass
Such scene a hundred times scarce noticed now.
But that was then my secret store of joy,
And thither I would run alone each day,
And oft-times in a day, to taste anew
The deep mysterious draught of my delight.
There too I well remember how my heart
Leapt up exulting, with a startled joy
And sudden thrill that held the breath, to see
Cracking the wintry earth with points of green
The venturous spirelets of the crocus-buds.
Why must the daily round of trivial cares
And outward duties hang like a dark veil
Shutting away from me the joyous light
Of Nature's earnest face, which once I loved
How eagerly! For 'twas not always so.
My childhood's home was in a town, but there
A garden-terrace looked o'er meadow-lands
Out to a hill, whose hollow banks were rich
With knots of varied foliage. I should pass
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But that was then my secret store of joy,
And thither I would run alone each day,
And oft-times in a day, to taste anew
The deep mysterious draught of my delight.
There too I well remember how my heart
Leapt up exulting, with a startled joy
And sudden thrill that held the breath, to see
Cracking the wintry earth with points of green
The venturous spirelets of the crocus-buds.
O glorious joys of childhood, what are ye?
O tender lights, that floated round my path,
O heavenly beauty, strewn before my feet,
O love intense, the dower of childish years,
Whence came ye? Whither have ye passed away?
To-day I seem to set my foot once more
Within the borders of your fairy-land.
Oh! tell me, ere ye go, ye fleeting guests,
What message bear ye? Are ye shattered lights
From a more luminous sphere,—faint memories
Of that which man once was, when from God's hand
Godlike he came, and streams of heav'n's own light
Played round him still? Are ye dim memories
Coming all intertwined with splendid hopes
Which may abide, when ye are seen no more?
Yea, I will wrest an answer, ere ye pass,
And ye shall speak these words unto my soul:
O tender lights, that floated round my path,
O heavenly beauty, strewn before my feet,
O love intense, the dower of childish years,
Whence came ye? Whither have ye passed away?
To-day I seem to set my foot once more
Within the borders of your fairy-land.
Oh! tell me, ere ye go, ye fleeting guests,
What message bear ye? Are ye shattered lights
From a more luminous sphere,—faint memories
Of that which man once was, when from God's hand
Godlike he came, and streams of heav'n's own light
Played round him still? Are ye dim memories
Coming all intertwined with splendid hopes
Which may abide, when ye are seen no more?
Yea, I will wrest an answer, ere ye pass,
And ye shall speak these words unto my soul:
64
‘O man, that weepest for youth's golden hours
When on the earth there lay a heavenly gleam
And lustrous radiance thou canst no more find,
Turn thou and gaze before thee.—Far away,
Over the weary plains, where thou must tread
In calm content thine ever onward path,
There on the dim horizon, faint and far,
Are striking up, like shadowy spears of fire
In northern midnights, gleams of wavering light
From some vast unseen glory. Yea, for there,
Whither thou goest, is the very fount
Whence flowed the early radiance and the gleam
That lit the earth to thy young eyes; and there
Thou shalt behold it yet again:—but now
No dim reflection, no rare transient joy,
Gilding some blissful solitary hour,
A dream of interwoven tremulous rays,
So delicately spun its airy woof
Melts at the breathing of a little word,
Fades at the coming of thy closest friend;—
But one eternal rapture, where all hearts
Are widened to embrace all joys in one,
And, banded in great love, are flooded o'er
With bliss that changeless ever seemeth new,
Seeing in glorious vision evermore
The infinite beauty, which no speck nor flaw
May sully, of the “very far off land.”’
When on the earth there lay a heavenly gleam
And lustrous radiance thou canst no more find,
Turn thou and gaze before thee.—Far away,
Over the weary plains, where thou must tread
In calm content thine ever onward path,
There on the dim horizon, faint and far,
Are striking up, like shadowy spears of fire
In northern midnights, gleams of wavering light
From some vast unseen glory. Yea, for there,
Whither thou goest, is the very fount
Whence flowed the early radiance and the gleam
That lit the earth to thy young eyes; and there
Thou shalt behold it yet again:—but now
No dim reflection, no rare transient joy,
Gilding some blissful solitary hour,
A dream of interwoven tremulous rays,
So delicately spun its airy woof
Melts at the breathing of a little word,
Fades at the coming of thy closest friend;—
But one eternal rapture, where all hearts
Are widened to embrace all joys in one,
And, banded in great love, are flooded o'er
With bliss that changeless ever seemeth new,
Seeing in glorious vision evermore
The infinite beauty, which no speck nor flaw
May sully, of the “very far off land.”’
(1858.)
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