 | The Literary Works of James Smetham |  |
BLANK VERSE
Nothing more sweet than this blank rhythmic verse
In which the meditative soul may pour
Its endless musings. It is like a lane
In the deep rural regions, where the trees
Bend over rustling, casting flickering shades
To cool the way, and wandering up and down
In its mild confines, over hill and dale
It leads by many a gray, milk-scented farm,
Admitting glimpses of its drowsy peace.
Now past the windy, open, heathland goes,
Where lapwings limp, and curlews wheeling cry,
Or where the brimming corn hangs grand and brown,
Speaking of solemn harvests soon to be,
And from some sudden hilltop catching sight
Of rolling woods, or champaign glittering wide:—
Thus on, and on, through all things winds the verse,
Unfettered by perplexities of rhyme,
Or too prosaic reason. Nought more sweet!
In which the meditative soul may pour
Its endless musings. It is like a lane
In the deep rural regions, where the trees
Bend over rustling, casting flickering shades
To cool the way, and wandering up and down
In its mild confines, over hill and dale
It leads by many a gray, milk-scented farm,
Admitting glimpses of its drowsy peace.
Now past the windy, open, heathland goes,
Where lapwings limp, and curlews wheeling cry,
Or where the brimming corn hangs grand and brown,
Speaking of solemn harvests soon to be,
And from some sudden hilltop catching sight
280
Thus on, and on, through all things winds the verse,
Unfettered by perplexities of rhyme,
Or too prosaic reason. Nought more sweet!
Come then, dear English muse, whoe'er thou art,
Come like a mild, dear daughter of the land,
The land and language that I always love.
Come like an English matron, pure and bright,
Or like an English maiden, frank and fair;
Come with the honeysuckle breath of eve;
Come with the simple wild-rose flush of morn;
Come with no Greek pretension—Russian cold—
Or Persian fever. Come just as thou art,
Clasped by the loving Present; teach to me
The long, mellifluous, voluntary lay,
Unvexed by hard necessities of sound,
Yet always sensibly subordinate
To one clear music and unshackled law.
Come like a mild, dear daughter of the land,
The land and language that I always love.
Come like an English matron, pure and bright,
Or like an English maiden, frank and fair;
Come with the honeysuckle breath of eve;
Come with the simple wild-rose flush of morn;
Come with no Greek pretension—Russian cold—
Or Persian fever. Come just as thou art,
Clasped by the loving Present; teach to me
The long, mellifluous, voluntary lay,
Unvexed by hard necessities of sound,
Yet always sensibly subordinate
To one clear music and unshackled law.
| The Literary Works of James Smetham | |