 | Desultory Thoughts in London |  |
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THIRD BOOK.
Address to the Muse
1
Is the muse fled, or am I self-accusedFrom slighting her low-whisper'd revelations?
For often are her fosterings abused
By absent hearts, and wandering inclinations.
Oft her long-suffering waits to have infused
Her potent influence o'er our meditations.
But our unfaithful minds, and deafen'd ears,
Scorn her, except in triumph she appears.
2
We will not wait on her, but rather hopeThat she with our caprices should comply;
To all our alienations give a scope;
And should consent, with deep humility,
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For every whim, and opportunity
Of time and place; and thus, though she inspires,
Act as ourselves could regulate her fires.
3
But she is coy to those, as well she may—Who will not sometimes on her bidding wait:
And if we put her off from day to day,
We may at length so oft procrastinate,
That that which was at first but mere child's play,
Becomes the inexorable doom of fate.
So apt is man with a presumptuous aim
To be a self-conspirer 'gainst his fame.
4
Oh! if in after-life we could but gatherThe very refuse of our youthful hours!
Oft—than its dull realities—we'd rather
The very poorest of them should be ours!
Thus 'tis save when our infancy's the father
Of our experience, from youth's blissful bowers
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Else retrograde 'till all's oblivion!
5
'Tis nothing but our frailty makes us think(An universal thought) that infancy
Of subsequent existence, shames each link.
What! When unfolding our vast powers we see,
Why in life's combat from their trial shrink?
It is that, ere they gain maturity,
We have anticipated, by the taste
Of good and evil, that which lays them waste.
6
Howe'er ye may receive it (whether fable,Or literally true) 'tis still sublime,
The lesson couch'd (for wisdom profitable)
Beneath the history of man's earliest crime,
We know too much to make it equitable
To impute to weakness our neglected time.
We talk of ignorance when our faith is tried
We talk of knowledge to defend our pride!
7
Poison would I as soon administer,As soil the bloom of any virgin heart,
That hath not (in relation whatsoe'er)
Yet of the fruit of knowledge had a part.
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Penance had never been a human art.
He in whose breast no appetence doth start e'er,
Though all possessing, holds from heaven his charter.
8
It is not heaven that aught prohibits us;The prohibition to ourselves we owe;
Heaven of enjoyment ne'er is envious,
Its springs from thence immeasurably flow.
But human wisdom, vain, fallacious,
With gratitude content not, sought to know
The nature of its blessings! These detected,
Faded like flowers by botanist dissected.
9
Thus self-denial only is inferred,When through the fogs of foul concupiscence,
We feel our hearts too consciously stirred
By any of the pleasances of sense.
As heaven comes chiefly where no wish averred
Ever propos'd it as a consequence,
So ne'er were sensuous pleasures fairly got,
'Till held unconsciously as though held not.
10
Fruition then is bless'd! And it is evilTo bring down those whom God hath rais'd on high,
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Rather should we in their immunity
Rejoice, nor imitate the sly arch Devil,
Who, as first fruits of his apostasy,
Those, for their blameless happiness, reviled,
Who had not its perennial springs defiled.
11
'Till we can prove enjoyment is of sin,We ne'er can prove, because a thing's enjoyed
That, if some cause exist not from within
Corrupting it, its charm should be destroyed.
We know where'er the race of man has been,
Penance has ever been by Saints employed.
But what proves this? Not that the thing is tainted,
But that th' applier is with vice acquainted!
12
We speak not here of that renunciation,Which all are call'd to, of forbidden things,
But abstinence from lawful recreation
To which stern conscience many good men stings.
Could law be laid down here: th' interpretation
Private should be of scrup'lous shudderings;—
Inexorably barring compromise
With Vice, however specious her disguise.
13
If for itself were self-renouncement good—As Heaven is a better place than earth,
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Of penances to which Sin e'er gave birth.
No! we confess that general aptitude
In Man, to recognize this instinct's worth,
Much doth confirm the doctrine of his fall!
Th' intrinsic good of penance not at all!—
14
Thus, when man's heart perceives a prohibitionGrowing between it and its wonted pleasure,
Let it not tax the pleasure with perdition,
But that false sense which would deprave its measure.
Pleasures so tasted that their full fruition
Never encroaches on our mental leisure,
But leaves free umpire our unbiass'd reason,
Ne'er can be construed into moral treason.
15
Oh, were the eye of youth a moment ours!When every flower that gemm'd the various earth
Brought down from Heaven enjoyment's genial showers!
And every bird, of everlasting mirth
Prophecied to us in romantic bowers!
Love was the garniture, whose blameless birth
Caus'd that each filmy web where dew-drops trembled,
The gossamery haunt of elves resembled!
16
We can remember earliest days of spring,When violets blue and white, and primrose pale,
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Each peep'd from under the broad leaf's green veil.
When streams look'd blue; and thin clouds clustering
O'er the wide empyrean did prevail,
Rising like incense from the breathing world,
Whose gracious aspect was with dew impearl'd.
17
When a soft moisture, steaming every where,To the earth's countenance mellower hues imparted;
When sylvan choristers self-pois'd in air,
Or perched on boughs, in shrilly quiverings darted
Their little raptures forth; when the warm glare
(While glancing lights backwards and forwards started,
As if with meteors silver-sheath'd 'twere flooded)
Sultry, and silent, on the hill's turf brooded.
18
Oh, in these moments we such joy have felt,As if the earth were nothing but a shrine;
Where all, or awe inspir'd, or made one melt
Gratefully towards its architect divine!
Father! in future (as I once have dwelt
Within that very sanctuary of thine,
When shapes, and sounds, seem'd as but modes of Thee!)
That with experience gain'd were heaven to me!
19
Oft in the fullness of the joy ye give,Oh, days of youth! in summer's noon-tide hours,
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From insects' drowsy hum, that all my powers
Would baffle to pourtray! Let them that live
In vacant solitude, speak from their bowers
What nameless pleasures letter'd ease may cheer,
Thee, Nature! bless'd to mark with eye and ear!—
20
Who can have watch'd the wild rose' blushing dye,And seen what treasures its rich cups contain;
Who, of soft shades the fine variety,
From white to deepest flush of vermeil stain?
Who, when impearl'd with dew-drop's radiancy
Its petals breath'd perfume, while he did strain
His very being, lest the sense should fail
T' imbibe each sweet its beauties did exhale?
21
Who amid lanes, on eve of summer days,Which sheep brouze, could the thicket's wealth behold?
The fragrant honey-suckle's bowery maze?
The furze bush, with its vegetable gold?
In every satin sheath that helps to raise
The fox-glove's cone, the figures manifold
With such a dainty exquisiteness wrought?—
Nor grant that thoughtful love they all have taught?
22
The daisy, cowslip, each have to them given—The wood anemone, the strawberry wild,
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Bright, as the brightening eye of smiling child,
And bathed in blue transparency of heaven,
Veronica; the primrose pale, and mild;—
Of charms (of which to speak no tongue is able)
Intercommunion incommunicable!
23
I had a cottage in a Paradise!'Twere hard to enumerate the charms combin'd
Within the little space, greeting the eyes,
Its unpretending precincts that confin'd.
Onward, in front, a mountain stream did rise
Up, whose long course the fascinated mind
(So apt the scene to awaken wildest themes)
Might localize the most romantic dreams.
24
When winter torrents, by the rain and snow,Surlily dashing down the hills, were fed,
Its mighty mass of waters seem'd to flow
With deafening course precipitous: its bed
Rocky, such steep declivities did shew
That towards us with a rapid course it sped,
Broken by frequent falls; thus did it roam
In whirlpools eddying, and convulsed with foam.
25
Flank'd were its banks with perpendicular rocks,Whose scars enormous, sometimes grey and bare,
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The birch, the hazel, pine, and holly, were.
Their tawny leaves, the sport of winter's shocks,
Oft o'er its channel circled in the air;
While, on their tops, and mid-way up them, seen,
Lower'd cone-like first and yews in gloomiest green.
26
So many voices from this river cameIn summer, winter, autumn, or the spring;
So many sounds accordant to each frame
Of Nature's aspect, (whether the storm's wing
Brooded on it, or pantingly, and tame,
The low breeze crisp'd its waters) that, to sing
Half of their tones, impossible! or tell
The listener's feelings from their viewless spell.
27
When fires gleam'd bright, and when the curtain'd room,Well stock'd with books and music's implements,
When children's faces, dress'd in all the bloom
Of innocent enjoyments, deep content's
Deepest delight inspir'd; when nature's gloom
To the domesticated heart presents
(By consummate tranquility possest)
Contrast, that might have stirr'd the dullest breast;
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28
Yes,—in such hour as that—thy voice I've known.Oh, hallow'd stream!—fitly so nam'd—(since tones
Of deepest melancholy swell'd upon
The breeze that bore it)—fearful as the groans
Of fierce night spirits! Yes, when tapers shone
Athwart the room (when, from their skiey thrones
Of ice-pil'd height abrupt, rush'd rudely forth,
Riding the blast, the tempests of the north;)
29
Thy voice I've known to wake a dream of wonder!For though 'twas loud, and wild with turbulence,
And absolute as is the deep-voic'd thunder,
Such fine gradations mark'd its difference
Of audibility, one scarce could sunder
Its gradual swellings from the influence
Of harp Æolian, when, upon the breeze,
Floats in a stream its plaintive harmonies.
30
One might have thought, that spirits of the airWarbled amid it in an undersong;
And oft one might have thought, that shrieks were there
Of spirits, driven for chastisement along
The invisible regions that above earth are.
All species seem'd of intonation (strong
To bind the soul, Imagination rouse,)
Conjur'd from preternatural prison-house.
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31
But when the heavens are blue, and summer skiesAre pictur'd in thy wave's cerulean glances,
Then thy crisp stream its course so gaily plies,
Trips on so merrily in endless dances,
Such low sweet tone, fit for the time, does rise
From thy swift course, methinks, that it enhances
The hue of flowers which decorate thy banks,
While each one's freshness seems to pay thee thanks.
32
Solemn the mountains that the horizon close,From whose drear verge thou seem'st to issue forth,
Sorcery might fitly dwell, one could suppose,
(Or any wondrous spell of heaven or earth,
Which e'en to name man's utterance not knows,)
Amid the forms that mark thy place of birth.
Thither direct your eye, and you will find
All that excites the imaginative mind!
33
Return we now to that delicious place,Where contravening banks impede thy course,
After that thou hast rush'd with rapid pace
O'er many a shelving rock, where thou by force
Art check'd, and, settling for a little space
Into a fairy lake, becom'st the source
Of other interest: here thy waves awhile
Linger, as charm'd, around a wood-crown'd isle.
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34
But see what bold majestic hill, aboveThis little lake, swells into upper air!
Its undulating top might fitly prove
A test of form most exquisitely fair.
A knot of dwellings, like a nest of love,
Hangs o'er the stream, as placed by nature there.
Beneath this hill, on a rock's beetling brow,
It peeps, 'mid trees, upon the waves below.
35
A wide-arch'd bridge here spans the stream, at lastTir'd of confinement round that houseless isle:
A barn hangs o'er it. Fern, and ivy cast
(Clinging in part to rock, part to the pile
Of buildings there) in nature's happiest taste
A blending, which the group doth reconcile.
Here, Nature! one, with most devoted heart
To thee, might stretch his love to forms of art.
36
How have my children dallied with that pool!There launch'd the little bark; and there, in hours
Of ardent summer, sought their blood to cool,
Bathing beneath its rich and leafy bowers!
How oft, in winter, there, when freed from school,
Borne on the winged skait, melted the hours
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Echoing their jocund glee from side to side.
37
How oft have I, with book, alone, or oftWhile she, with whom society was bliss,
Would lean upon my arm; or whispering soft
To childhood's cherub-challenge for a kiss;
Watch'd th' elder train—from lawn somewhat aloft—
Bounded by every flower that beauteous is—
Exultingly,—while from the river's side
Headlong they plung'd, or clave its yielding tide!
38
Ah, days for ever gone! Ye must no moreReturn to me! Yet will not I complain
So long as it is given me to restore,
In dreams poetic, your delights again!
E'en now I see the child I lov'd of yore
Rush to some cherish'd flower, nor ask in vain,
With suppliant eye up-turn'd, where archly play'd
The coy, sly smile,—grasping the well-aim'd spade,—
39
Leave to transplant it to his own small plot!How oft has coat of mine sustain'd a rent,
From strong solicitation, that this spot,
Of which this blossom was chief ornament
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With forked fingers, 'thwart the stalk, whence bent
The drooping floweret, that it so might raise
Its modest charms, to challenge all my praise!
40
Ye are for ever gone, delightful days!I linger round you, like a ghost that pines
Of one, whom Fate did prematurely raze
From being's catalogue, and still so 'twines
All its attachment round some form whose ways
Are mortal still, that, where that dwells, inclines
The constant sever'd one to hover ever!
Fade, of some joys, though frail, the memory never!
41
And ye are such to me, ye, that, from unionOf parent's heart with childhood, once were mine;
There is a blessedness in that communion,
'Tis so profound, so calm, yet so divine,
Try it—'tis perfect—by whate'er criterion:—
With manhood's deeper thoughts doth it combine
The reproduction of those days gone by,
When Heaven about our path and bed did lie.
42
Yet, Heaven, I bend in utter passivenessTo each decree that seemeth best to Thee;
I have no voice to ask for happiness
That's gone, to be restor'd once more to me!
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My heart with resignation! Finally,
Let all things work to me for spiritual good;
Bless thy ways to me, though not understood;
43
And I am satisfied! My prayer is heard!Then, while I dwell unknowing and unknown,
In this vast city, 'mid a human herd
Who little reck of that whence many a groan,
And many a heaving sigh, my heart has stirr'd;
So might I sometimes make past joy my own,
By thus commemorating what I keep
Lock'd from all eyes—bless'd were the tears I weep!
44
The flowers that deck'd that happy dwelling place,To me seem'd as such amaranthine flowers,
As fitting are exclusively to grace
The haunt of lovers, or Elysian bowers.
On them, Love's purple light one well might trace,
And Fancy flush'd them with aërial powers,
And all their bloom and all their fragrance seem'd
As if from Paradise alone they teem'd!
45
The lavatera, paly pink and white;Sweet peas of either hue; the mignionette;
The queen of flowers in all its infinite
Shades of perfection, there together met.—
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Fragrance, from tufts of musky violet.—
The modest snow-drop, and the crocus there,
Pledg'd future flowery honours of the year.
46
Liburnams, with the lilac thrice array'd,There droop'd with tufts of vegetable gold;
With these, Syringa form'd a screen, whose shade
Fenc'd all those flowers of whose charms we have told.
Of branchy woof, with foliage interlaid,
The walls seem'd, of that cottage, which did hold
All my heart lov'd: on which the eye of day
Looking, knew there that all my treasure lay.
47
Plants parasitical train'd there, aspired,And found a fond protection; there did spread
Virginia's creeper, gorgeously attired
In leaves now brown, now green, yellow and red.
For its profuse umbrageousness desired
The traveller's joy, like curtains round a bed,
Luxuriantly wanton, with rich dower,
Transform'd our cottage to a leafy bower.
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The Pyracanthus with its glossy green,And scarlet berries; and, as yet unsung,
The jasmine white and yellow, deck'd this scene;
And o'er our little porch tenacious clung,
And round each window, (while beneath them seen
Moss roses peep'd, like birds, in nests, when young,
From beds of leaves,) with red and purple flower
From thread-like stem, the pensile virgin's bower.
49
The scene in front of our sweet dwelling placeSo far I've traced.—Another now remains—
Fraught with a different, tho' as bright a grace—
T' excite from me commemorative strains.
As from the west this river ran its race,
And as it seemed with tributary pains
Purposely flowing to adorn our home—
Which, as with human eye, beheld it roam,
50
For western was its front—so to the eastBackward, where stretch'd rich meads capaciously,
Broken by woody knolls, it seemed releas'd
From all that ruffled its tranquility.
Revert your gaze—the mountain waves compress'd,
And chaf'd by rocks, which rolled tumultuously
In eddies and o'er stones, now softly creep
Through cultivated scenes, as charmed to sleep.
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51
The river now is seen,—and now is lostBehind a tuft of trees:—and now again
Emerges.—Here, its banks, with shrubs emboss'd,
Shew like a garden,—there, thro' wide champain
The blue sky in its calm blue channel, gloss'd
With Summer's sheen, is render'd back again.
As its lapse silent, on its surface float
The freighted barge, or more trim pleasure boat.
52
At last, as round a wood-crown'd promontoryIt slowly creeps, hid from all vulgar eyes,
In silence and in solitude most hoary,
Where rocks abrupt and naked scars arise
From forth its waves,—surrounded with meet glory
For celebrating Nature's mysteries,—
In consecrated scenes for beauty prized—
Its marriage with the lake is solemnized.
53
Beyond these spacious meads of which I spake,On which its waves a new charm did confer,
A mountain graciously doth seem to take
A semblance, to the stream's new character,
Adapted:—at a distance boldly break
Its outlines to the eye; like Lucifer
It seems to scale the heavens; but stretching wide,
A barrier to the horizon, its bleak pride
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Softens: and southward as it sweeps along,Each summit, tho' aspiring, still aspires
Less than its brother, 'till at last among
Scenes of high culture, where the eye desires
In all a well-match'd softness, where the long,
Long lake dies into distance, and retires,
And mingles with the heavens, it yields its reign,
To the soft beauties of a smiling plain.—
55
Southward it yields its reign.—Northward, there rise—Screening the vale at once from each rude wind,
And satisfactory too as boundaries
To such a rich display as here you find
Of all in Nature that most tempts the eyes—
Mountains and rocks; with trees of every kind,
The visiting of keener winds which brook,
Their base is varied, and each shelter'd nook.
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Amid this vale, by its peculiar treeScreen'd and half hid, full many a cot doth gleam—
Of snowy whiteness some; while others, see!
Of the rough rock's grey hue; at once, to them,
A parent and a shelter! willingly
To the rude pile, with whose hard blocks did teem
Its fostering bosom, doth it shelter lend:—
—Thus Nature's sternest forms her sons befriend.
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See, at yon mountain's base, all interspers'dWith trees, where peeps a village-chapel tower?
Thence was my young imagination nurs'd,
There hoped I in some future favour'd hour
Of life, that every pressure might be burst
Which cripples man of half his native power.
Yes, tho' that spot unseen, with dreams I panted,
'Till it I saw, abiding-place they wanted.
58
Dreams afterwards I dream'd, and this the placeTo which their consummation evermore
I did refer. There is a mountain grace,
A grace peculiar, which I ne'er before,
Or since, beheld, in its romantic face:
In cove of mighty hills, amid the roar
Of unseen cataracts, whose voice you hear,
It stands!—meet haunt for visionary fear!—
59
Can I forget, when,—after having throughThe long day, for the first time, travelled
'Mid mountain scenes,—towards this spot I drew
At close of day, as eve on all things shed
A dubious curtain—while, as if with dew
Reeking, all vegetation glistened
From copious rains—since many pelting showers
Had marked the fortune of its varied hours?—
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Can I forget the ravishment I felt,Winding my way amid the tangled trees,
When first thy own peculiar torrent dealt
Out unexpectedly its melodies,—
While as the last ray from the west did melt—
To me; untutor'd in the mysteries
Of nature—and as much in those ungifted
The spirit's mysteries, by Nature lifted?
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No, never! Ambleside, my youth's first home—Home of my fancy! Haven of my heart!
Though o'er the world I be constrain'd to roam,
From thy dear image I shall never part!
Thou hast been much to me! with thee did come
My first domestic bliss! Towards thee did start,
As to a goal, all my deep treasured schemes
Of fairy happiness—youth's morning gleams!
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Still thou art much to me! I need but sayOne word, to prove how much! Of heaven's best gifts
The choicest—eight dear children saw the day
First in thy lovely precincts! and still lifts
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Of morn to meet betwixt thy site, and shifts
The scene to that lone spot, whose turf beneath
I did one darling to the earth bequeath.—
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Dear Innocent, thou sleepest there! could senseBe thine within thy narrow earthy bed,
Thou dost repose where spring flowers' redolence
Might on thy powers a balmy influence shed.
The mossy stone from storms thy sole defence!
The thymy turf sole covering for thy head!
Thou moulderest, and the wild flowers on thy tomb,
Which bloom so sweet, once equall'd not thy bloom.
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Yet, for thy sake, dear child! is consecrateThe region to the which I did commit
Thy mortal relics; and I hope that fate
Will give me yet one little hour, to sit
And muse upon thy bed! Or soon, or late,
He who writes this must fill one like to it!
Though innocent as thee he cannot die,
Yet to thy home may his freed spirit fly!
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To Heaven, the Infant's home! Of InnocenceThe inalienable port, the certain haven!
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'Till it from them have been asunder riven.
If of a Sinner 'tis the residence,—
Through mercy and free grace to man is given,—
And through the atoning blood of him who died,—
Even to knock, where gates for babes ope wide.
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There is a time when on all things a gloryLays a rich colouring tongue can never tell;
When e'en with mountain from snow-tempest hoary,
By fusion fine, and by a passionate spell,
And interminglings as of fairy story,
Love can link forms in beauty which excel.
When gloom voluptuous seems, and there's an union
'Twixt all created things with strange communion.
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There is a powerful presence then of life!An impulse, which, though active, consecrates
Scenes where most hopeless blemishes are rife!
We bid defiance then to mortal fates!
With spots most negative we're not at strife,
There most man feels how much himself creates!
While o'er the richest vision of the senses,
The same power sheds exalting influences!
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Oh! when I've seen my little garden bloom!With snow-drop, crocus, purple, yellow, white,
Though snow-drifts menac'd all their charms t'entomb,
I've felt a permeating full delight!—
Those blossoms seem'd first heralds of the doom
Pronounc'd on winter; and their exquisite,
Yet simple beauty, was to me a token,
That Nature's gladdening bond was yet unbroken.
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There is for him, to whom imaginationThe faculty allows of doubling all
The joy we owe to what excites sensation,
Which never words could worthily extol!
A hue, a scent, a secret combination
Of trifles, that more serious scenes recall,
Each, and all, have, for him, however light
Or trivial, the essential infinite!—
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To him so gifted from rapidityOf thought, and impulse still more rapid, rise
Such quick associating faculty,
Such aptitude whatever he espies
In wide-diverging series to apply;
That oft, from what would seem non-entities
To other men, the potent spell he sways,
Into vast structures causes him to raise.—
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Where this rapidity the mind possesses,And with it perceptivity intense
Of character, in common scenes, whose stress is
On other men devoid of influence,
There is no form however mean its dress is
Where subtle interest has no prevalence.
Bare walls such temperament would fertilize,
It feels most power, where fortune most denies.
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E'en bleakest scenes assume a characterAmid their unproductive desolation;
Such minds from them would potently infer,
By dim and delicate association,—
While others saw in them death's register,—
By apt and energetical creation,—
Creation, that converts the negative,
By breathing powers which to love, only live,
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A sway, though saddening, not to paralyze:—Dark heaths 'twould people with appropriate forms,
And it would give intelligence to sighs
Of Nature, in her desolating storms.—
Exulting in its strength, 'twould recognize
It's power most chiefly, when alone it warms
Benumbing dreariness, and most with awe,
Acts on, though talks not of, love's genial law!
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'Tis curious to observe how different menContemplate Nature's works with different feeling;
One walks to botanize; another's ken
Pierces the bowels of the earth, thence stealing
His mineralogic specimens; again,
A third is ever frowardly repealing
Nature's untoward tricks,—in wonder rooted
Just as a scene is to his easel suited.—
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Give me the man who, for thy sake alone—Not for his hortus siccus; cabinet
Of fossil, spar, shell, coral, mineral, stone;
Or for his pencil's sake, doth contemplate,
Thee, Nature! Give the man who oft has known
Himself, when he saw thee, self to forget;
And in a depth of ravishment transfused,
On thee, with silent meditation, mused!
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And let this meditation heightened be,Religion! by thy flame, to adoration!
And then for things of earth what careth he?
For what distress hath he not consolation?
He who in Solitude his God can see.
'Mid Nature's loftiest scenes, has found salvation
From all the petty miseries of life;
A balm has gain'd for prejudice and strife.—
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Oh, cultivate this sense, and 'twill be foundExceeding great reward, and manifold,
To bring its votaries! In the earth's vast round
No scene presents itself so poor and cold,
As not for him to be with blessings crown'd:
He has a curious eye, which can behold
Topic for admiration every where!
A charm in scenes fit to inspire despair!
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A tree, a cottage, or a child at play,And where the earth is destitute, the sky,
Fantastic clouds, when on them the sun's ray
Confers e'en supernatural imagery!
The speechless lustre of the new-born day!
The solemn pageant when night broods on high!
In these, and thousand more such forms as these,
His moisten'd eye his Maker's goodness sees!
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Blessings be on my children! We have longWander'd in sever'd paths of life apart!
I rather think, this desultory song
Draws towards a close. I cannot please my heart
Better, than its last numbers to prolong,
By twining round them, with poetic art,
Your several recollections:—by divulging
Day-dreams in which 'bout you I'm oft indulging.
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May He who hears the ravens cry, and feedsThe stork and bittern in the wilderness,
May He your portion be! May He who leads
Your sire in labyrinthine tracklessness,
At last unite us all! And may the seeds
Sown early in your souls, from deepest stress
Of his affection, into blossoms shoot;
And may he yet survive to see their fruit.
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The ways of Heaven are mystery: and oftThrough means, to us, unfathomably dark,
And likely least, in their eyes, who aloft
Ne'er turn them, to obtain the wish'd-for mark,
Us He conducts to it. At once, in soft
And smiling harbour, steals life's shatter'd bark!
Heaven's bitterest visitings, in rugged ways,
Ending in bliss, oft claim our loudest praise.
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Some of you still, in that delightful land,(Which in these lays has many a votive line
From me extorted) some still tarry! Wand
Of fairy could not raise a more divine
Assemblage of all charms than there expand!
May you from it, as from oracular shrine,
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So largely dealt to its own Bard, inherit!
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May you come forth from thence, each baser thing,Each worldly maxim, every selfish aim,
Despising! Be ye borne on Fancy's wing!
And may Imagination's holiest flame,
Like magic vestment, round your spirits cling!
Be like a wall of fire 'twixt you and shame!
May Nature fix you to her love for ever;
Nor change, your constant yearnings from her sever!
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I well remember days I've spent with youIn that delicious place. See ye me not
When the pil'd mountain's height attracts your view?
Recall ye ne'er how oft, upon that spot,
Hand grasp'd in hand, we've stray'd where violets grew,
Or primrose pale? How oft ye've forward shot
If seen fine tuft, like diamonds in a casket?
How soon deposited within your basket?
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I feel a yearning towards you, not to be,By aught, save breathings of the soul, imparted.
God bless you in Himself! And bless He me
In you! And may our hearts be never parted!
Then though, in course of things, we may not see
Each one the other, we can ne'er be thwarted
Of that communion dear, and interchange
Of spirits, which nor time nor place estrange!
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Oh, Children! when ye gaze upon those mountains,Think there your father's spirit still might dwell!
Recall, when looking on its sky-born fountains,
The impassion'd and unutterable spell
That bound him to them, as Jove, with his frown, chains
Prometheus to the rock: He lov'd them well,
The forms which ye now see, and from them drew
Full many a dream of preternatural hue.
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Is it that there's a misery entail'dOn all impassion'd creatures? They may be
Compared to lyre Æolian, which—when fail'd
The breeze to woo it so invitingly—
Wax'd dumb and voiceless. Yes, those beings hail'd
Perpetual influences of harmony,
Keeping themselves in languid passiveness,
And thinking gales would evermore caress.
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They, like the flower dependent on the breeze,Dependent on the sun, and culture's aid,
Shrink in their sensitiveness when all these—
To them appliances so needful—fade.
They have no self-pois'd power, when ministries
Of Love are gone, to make them not afraid.
They are as insects, basking in the sun;
Unpitied, soon their earthly course is run!
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The bower of pleasure is composed of bloom,Shrinking from sun-beams fierce, and pattering rains,
Like to a fair maid, who though, to the tomb,
Her hard fate destine her, nathless retains
Her living beauty; soon with cheerless gloom
Must it be shrouded, while no trace remains
Of its once-glorious aspect. Death, grim chief,
Lowers o'er its tempest toss'd, sere, lonely leaf!
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And yet 'twas once engarlanded with flowers;—And all that precious is in earth or heaven,
Seem'd there to fall in renovating showers,
As if the very elements had striven,
And all the essences of fragrant powers,
That in immortal bloom it should have thriven.
The rose blush'd there, the violet in its prime,
And amaranthine plants of Heaven's own clime.
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Rich was the dew that on its blossoms glisten'd!Its exquisite perfumes seemed to draw thence
A more voluptuous softness; and who listen'd
Might think the very leaves had eloquence.
Such fairy music when the breezes kiss'd, and
Played with their tendrils, drew existence thence.
Armida or Alcina ne'er possessed,
For love's delight, more necromantic nest.
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There was a rill there, whose transparencyAnd gurgling freshness, well might make one dream
It was immortal. Gods might wish to hie,
And goddesses, from heaven, in its pure stream
To bathe! And Gods and Goddesses were nigh,
Indeed! For, to its inmates, life did seem,
And all its forms, a shadowing forth of those
Transcendant pageantries, which bards disclose.
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The Sylvans haunted, and benignant Pan,Diana and her Nymphs, its precincts wild;
There, with her doves, Venus did often plan
Her snares, and held frank dalliance with her child.
E'en Jove might wish once more to be a swan,
And Leda once more to be unbeguil'd,
That he might float upon a little lake,
To which its stream a mirthful course did take.
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Who has not felt in youth, that youthful hopesCan realize all that the Bards e'er sung?
And here their dreams all liv'd in airy groupes,
For ever joyful and for ever young,
(Or so they seem'd:) the real needs not tropes,
Nor are there tropes for him, whose full heart, stung
With sense of being e'en to perfect bliss,
Feels that to be, includes all happiness!—
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Surely, the poets of the elder times—(I talk not now—my theme permits it not—
How much they lost of rapture that sublimes,
Through heavenly influence, man's terrestrial lot;)
Surely, these poets—to whom Gods sometimes,
And Goddesses, across their vision shot
Like to familiar forms—must in earth see,
To us, an unconceiv'd festivity.—
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To them each fountain, and to them each grove,The weltering waters, and the mountains steep,
Teem'd with forms dire or bland, which sure must prove
Of power t'impart a consecration deep
T' earth's haunts so tenanted! What dreams of love
Must have invited Cyprian maids to sleep
Beneath their azure skies, whose glittering sheen
Was but an effluence of their mystic queen?—
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But earth is tenanted as heretofore,While the young blood runs mantling through the veins,
Howe'er austere the hereditary lore,
Thy fire, Imagination, that restrains.
Yet, in that bower of pleasure as of yore,
And yet to him expell'd not its domains,
Lives the same spirit that, in times of old,
Peopled the earth with beings manifold.—
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But, at the same time, howe'er much I prize,And much I prize it, classical tradition,
I still must feel what difference there lies
'Twixt it, and gospel truth's sublimer mission.
From one for fancy many charms may rise;
To the sense grateful is its exhibition!
This its sole boast! how can the heart, most fond
To muse on it, find excellence beyond.—
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But, in the gospel page, Imagination,Herself eclips'd e'en in her highest blaze,
May find! while there dejected Tribulation,
On solaces, for every woe, may gaze
Herself, to heights sublime, calm Meditation
Thence, from theme inexhaustible, may raise!
Intelligence may there have perfect scope,
Nurtur'd by Faith, by Charity, and Hope!
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I envy more the most unletter'd hindWho, from the gospel's page, can see reflected
Truths, that in him responsive feelings find,
Than e'en the man on earth the most respected,
If only from wealth, rank, and sense combin'd
Rise that respect! Sooner had I selected
One contrite feeling as my dearest treasure,
Than all earth gives, though given in triple measure!—
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Wealth's but a corpse lying in state, if prizedSave from benevolent wish to spend its store
For other's good! Pride, a disease, disguised
In borrow'd trappings; rotten at the core!
And Intellect, by Truth not exercised,
Arms in a madman's hand t' increase the more
His power of evil! Save Faith, all produce
Good, only correspondent to their use!
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And be this Faith your dower, my children! may,“The day spring from on High” on you descend!
Oh, may your hearts such feelings ever sway,
That you may have your Maker for your friend!
Then, whether I can help you on your way
Or not, its goal a blessing will attend!
Go on your road, and prosper then! Engage
The God of Jacob for your heritage!
“So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I do grow old,
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.”—
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I do grow old,
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.”—
Wordsworth.
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