University of Virginia Library

CLIFTON GROVE GARLAND.

TO ELIZA SUTTON.

Thou know'st how I, a child, twined wreaths of flowers
And weeds—for thee, a child too,—in gone hours
Of dear romance. Another Wreath is here
Made, still, of flowers and weeds. Around the dear
Presentment, I have woven it, of thy brow,
That they who shall behold this Garland now,
Seeing my hand thereon, may also see
Thy head therein, and at once mindful be
Of me, the weaver, and the wearer, thee.

CLIFTON GROVE GARLAND.

I. THE WALK.

Fieldward, in silent thought, I took my way.
Sweet was the air, magnificent the day,
The country all with invitation gay.
The meadows, whose expanse in season boasts
Of crocus-flowers innumerable hosts
That by the children's happy hands attain,
Through all the town, near every window-pane,
Extension of their purple proud domain,
I, quickly passing, hastened my descent
To where the chain is stretch'd across the Trent,
'Gainst which the upright iron pillar press'd,
Grates, turning in its sockets, to arrest
The vessel's downward glide, and with least loss
Of time and space control its course across.
The voyage over, I walk'd on awhile
By a sweet way which flowers help'd to smile
And trees shed shadow for:—first, by a plot
Of churchyard grass at Wilford, o'er the spot
Where Kirke White's willowonce was; then between
Twin rows of elms, like servitors, all green
With Spring's fresh favours:—afterwards across
The village green, over whose centre toss
Old arms of sycamore, and with a fence
Of garden'd cots for a circumference:—
Then on a bank whose wrinkled elm-boughs spr ead
An interference green betwixt the head
Of wayfarer and the unbashful sun:—
And thus on by fresh pasture, yearly won
And lost, by the alternate discontent
And shrinking weakness of old warrior Trent;—
Then gently to the right, to where are seen
Two pillars, with a gate and bridge between,
Made for patrician uses, and a plank
Or so, hand-rail'd, to serve the meaner rank
Of feet plebeian:—thereby going on
To the last stile the Grove's precincts upon:—
A walk thereafter, still more glorious made
With yellow lights and changeful verdurous shade,
Near umber tree-boles mossily reprieved
From utter brown; and branches freshest-leaved
Humouring the pettish little winds, by swinging
Ever themselves; and shaded coverts, ringing
With feather-throated voices sweet proclaiming
The morning's joy:—a walk, thence constant aiming
To kiss the river's side, and oft succeeding
In its perverse intent; me sometimes leading
Under or over a wind-ruin'd tree
Whose still green tresses dabbled mournfully
In the swift stream that flow'd o'er half its head,
And whose lorn fingers, witlessly outspread,
Comb'd alway the dark river's flowing hair,
And idly took a floating tollage there
Of straws and reeds:—a walk whereo'er did stray,
In other parts, rootlets across the way,
Emboss'd above the red, branch'd manifold,
Like wandering veins on arm of gypsy old:—
With now and then such roaming for the eye,
Such gush of landscape, such broad scenery,
Wide water-lapse with dark wind-crimpings grooved,
And green enrippled shades, and whites that moved
It twisting eddies in it, swirling o'er it
At every zephyr's instance; and, before it,
Round, and beyond it, such a green and grey,
Such blue-deep rapture in the far-away,
Such a quick pleasure-presence of the light
Exalting all things, dawn'd out to the right,
As would have ta'en possession of the eye
And it indentured to long truancy,
But that it still was summon'd back by old
Feet-tripping roots, whose snaky bodies bold
Bulged o'er the path, letting the moss to green
Their surface gaunt, and to be feathery in
Each age-drawn furrow. Such a walk, I say,
Had ta'en me, by a long and happy way,
Past where we've laugh'd o'er many a violet-prize,
And quoted of ‘the lids of Juno's eyes;’
Past Kirke White's Island, to its willowy head,
Above which, to the land tether'd and wed
A promontory was by isthmus-band,
On which the gold marsh-marigold did stand
With wealth of fragrant mint on either hand.

II. THE SEAT IN THE GROVE.

Waterwards stoop'd a willow there, and bore
Its elbow'd root a-kimbo from the shore:
There sat I, joyfully. Oh what a strain
Of the eye's music vibrated the brain!
Fix'd were the heavens above me all in blue,
As if they could not dream of other hue;
And the pure clouds were still, self-gather'd in,
Round, solid-seeming, and edged clear and clean,
Save where it look'd as though some hand had been,—
Some angel's fingers,—loosening their white hair,
Out-combing it upon the azure air.
Behind me, branch above branch tiptoe tried
Which should hold highest up its leafy pride
Above the green bank's high receding side;
A crumbling bank, to whose red substance moor'd
By many a delicate-intruded cord
Were hosts of field forget-me-nots, which made
A sapphire light far through the deep green shade;—
Forget-me-not, the lover's blue-eyed pet,
Whose name he prays his love not to forget,
When he has spoken it, until she dies;—
Forget-me-not, the flower that alway lies
Dearest unto the maiden's gentle bosom;—
The flower about whose sweet refreshful blossom
The sweetest little stars of yellow hue
Shine, each from its own private heaven of blue,
Till stars on stars, and skies on skies, uplifted
On rough-leaved stems, unite over the rifted
Red mother-earth. Ah, what a heavenly calm
Blue eye they make the bank to smile with! Psalm
By minster-choir sung, can not more praise
God's goodness than these flowers do, when they raise
Their cheerful faces for the love of day.
This bank was further wed, far and away,
To widths of greenness other than of grasses:
Oft clubb'd together were thick nettley masses
Of deep green spitefulness; loth, I'll be bound,
No fairest hand to grieve. Meanwhile, around,
The deeply cover'd and disguisëd ground,
Muffled close in a lighter green, receives,
In lesser celandine's heart-hinting leaves,
A jaundice from the hot increasing sun,
To atone for yellow blossoms o'er and done.
Herb-Robert, too, by his mild reds is seen
Amid the sapphire and the varied green;
Sapphire and green, which the red campion tries
To make ev'n yet cooler to the eyes
By contrast of his hot and vivid dyes.
Meanwhile some fairy,—Puck himself, mayhap,—
Hath in green sheath wake-robin tried to wrap,
And stuck him for a feather in earth's cap;
But the sport comes undone; for, upward pointing
His shrouded treasures for the light's anointing,
Already is his vesture part unfurl'd.
I caution thee, wake-robin, that the world
Tempt thee not from beneath that nettle's shade;
For never child who once thee has survey'd
At but a moment's glance, but straight will tear
Thy lush envelopment, to lay all bare
The ruddy treasures now half-hidden there.
Here, too, is speedwell, heaven-blue darling small,
Germander speedwell, frailest flower of all.
Out go its little hands toward holy heaven:—
What hath it done? What needs it be forgiven?
Why this appeal to the all-loving skies?
Here too, with melancholy memories, rise
Those many verdant cenotaphs, the leaves
Of dear departed violets. Spring yet grieves
Their early passage from this fleeting state,
And leaving of their green homes desolate.
A little higher, roots of silverweed
Soft silky tongues are thrusting up, to feed
On the new air, and taste the spring-tide sun;
And here ground ivy hiddenly doth run,
Blooming in budded blues along the ground.
Here, too, are many other treasures found,
The flower-jewels of the banks and fields
And lonely places; such as Nature yields
To all her friends. But now, what shall I say
About the birds, and their melodious play?
About the trees, that ripen'd every hour
Maturer shadow for this wandering bower?
About the sunshine, streaming down the side
Of this and that tree which it glorified?
About the vagrant bees, that came along,
Each with his scrip, and burly beggar's song?
About the glorious dragon-flies, that threw
Hither and thither their four wings, and drew
Blue lustre from the sun with their bright bodies blue?
And then, what a most comfortable note,
How snug and cosy, gurgled in the throat
Of the wood-pigeons; making one to find
A sort of fire-side feeling in the mind
Of warm'd delight and dear home-friendliness,—
Not quite without a hint, nevertheless,
Of sweetly smother'd moaning in the tone;—
A grief that Comfort deems her very own.
Just so is ‘Thank God’ sharpened with ‘Alas,’
When round the fire we sit at home, and pass
The happy glance, then for one moment think
How delicate our joy; o'er what a brink
It leans; for that the faces which we just
Look'd on so gratefully, are only dust
At one remove;—but instantly the sadness
Glides back into the trusting, loving gladness.—
To special notice, too, must have fair claim
That liquid mention of the cuckoo's name
Which fitfully from off the island came;
Whereat I said, Are there no wood-gods now?
The fairies, do they never lift a brow
Curious, from behind a branch o'erbent
To lick with its green tongues the soft-hair'd Trent?
Else I might think, upon some up-swoll'n root
In yonder isle, a mellow two-holed flute
Some fay or dryad hidden sat and play'd,
While cleverly self-hidden in the shade.
But, chief of all, note now how gently flow'd
With a broad body down his reedy road,—
As though in haste, anxious to be caressing
Those isles just by there, made for his possessing,—
That mid-link of a triple chain, whose ends
Are cloud and ocean, his enduring friends,
From and to whom he borrows and he lends,—
That preacher of Time's lapse, aye eloquent,—
That liquid present participle, Trent,
Passing, ne'er past. How gently down he went!
With what a dreamful whisperiness possest,
Mist-like arising from the restless rest
Of water-cords gush'd out along his breast;—
How tenderly his stream flow'd, with the sky
Deep in its bosom,—as might sink and lie
A blessing in the heart of duteous child!
Flags from his breast, too, would not be exiled;—
Nor fish, soft-gliding, waving their light fins;—
Sometimes a gallant way one of them wins,
Maugre the stream, with tremblings of his sides;
Anon his forkëd helm he turns, and glides
Off to his fellows in the deeper stream;
Then back again as swiftly, with a gleam
Of his white flashing side; then up he rises
Sometimes, and with a hungry leap surprises
The surface into waves and drops, which, falling,
And on the sun for recognition calling,
Are turn'd to special gold before they sink,
And leave a ripple which the river's brink
Might soon feel swelling to its shoremost sedge,
But the ridged currents cut it with their edge
And plane it down. While thus the river roll'd,
Beyond it many a field wide place did hold,
Joyful to show its wealth of green and gold;—
Green, of the grasses, which were now just fledging
Their waving ears unto a flossy edging;
And gold, of dandelions, fiercely burning
Against the sun, whose anger was fast turning
Into white blindness their presumptuous gaze.
Kingcups were there, too, with their gentler blaze,
Shining back softly on the shining sun,
Like gratitude on service kindly done.
Afar off, to the left, confusedly, all
A-row, nine poplars stood,—nine sentries tall
Guarding the farmer's stacks and stead and stall,
Rustling their plumes o'er the thin-shadow'd field;
And, opposite, the church at Beeston held
Its little turret on its manly shoulder,
As father might his child, to be beholder
Of some far spectacle. Many a home
Half-cover'd from the eye by the green foam
Of foliage toss'd up by vague winds, was set
About the distant meadows. Thus I let
Mine eyes drink the ripe vintage of the scene
In various draughts of blue, and grey, and green;
Pleasured,—yet sad, so little to be free
To accomplish what so strongly yearn'd in me.

III. THE MUSING HOUR.

IV. SEDLEY GROVE.

Thus flow'd thought, and the Trent flow'd, and the time;
Until had ceased the unharmonic chime
Of feather'd flutes; no finny sporter leapt;
For the hot afternoon had, king-like, kept
For some time now the throne whereon, at last, he slept.
Whether the heat made me also to doze
And dream, or not, that man may tell who knows;
But, all at once, the place had changed its style
From Clifton Grove, to Sedley; and the isle—
The largest of the three above whose heads
The river broaden'd by me,—two, mere beds
Of osiers, but the third a glassy plain,—
Was Mary Leeson's empire once again.
Sudden I heard owls' bass tu-whits, which seem'd
To multiply behind me; and there scream'd
The treble of some mystic chanticleer;
And dogs' barks and sheep's bleatings took my ear.
A moment's wonderment, and then loud laughter
Its merry gamut ran; and, soon thereafter,
I saw inside a boat upon the Trent
Two pairs of white shirt-sleeves, alternate bent
At elbow and then straighten'd out again,
In which were thrust the stout arms of two men,
Whose heads over their crooked knees stoop'd low
One instant, and, the next, jerk'd back to throw,
With tight-held breath, weight on the oar, whose pull
Against the current, makes the boat, though full
Of freight, thrust forward its sharp eager nose,
And give a wrestling leap-up as it goes.
Meanwhile, under its side, two upside-down
And watery-looking things wagg'd each a crown,
As the men's wagg'd above; and elbows four,
In liquid white shirt-sleeves, tugg'd each its liquid oar.
Other reflections, too, were there, related
To other counterparts, wherewith was freighted
That boat; a pleasant aristocracy,
That sat, and nothing did but laugh out free,
Add burden to the vessel, jest, and make
A pleasure of what gave the bones to ache
Of those two workers:—these were, Mary's mother
For one; and sweet aunt Emmeline another;
And little Mary of the soft blue eyes
And pale child's face, so merry, yet so wise;
Old Mr. Fenton, too, the vessel bore,
Man of dull sight, but deep canary-lore;
And wonderful Charles Sunderland, who held
The tiller, and his peace. Thus on impell'd
By uncle Edward's usage of the Trent,
Vig'rous, and Mary's father's, up they went;
Till out of sight the pleasant vision drove,
And left me once again in Clifton Grove.

V. THE WALK RESUMED.

Then from my lowly seat recess'd rose I,
And slowly went, still westward, and still by
A path uxorious of its river-bride;—
Sometimes must I an ill-bred branch aside
Shoulder, which had no manners, and so tried
Rudely to stop me; or else be off-striking,
From body clad but little to my liking,
A nettle's head; or halting to inspect
Some wondrous wingëd thing, whose presence deck'd
A leafy tablet; or else, inward sinking
The sense, indulge a pleasant vein of thinking
Concerning absent friends, with many a yearning
For some such presence here; or else concerning
Some problem to be solved, be sure, by no deep learning.
Thence soon recall'd by whirr and frighten'd flap
Of wings close by; or by the clambering clap
Of sheep's hooves loosening down the crumbling clay;
Or by the even-timed and vig'rous play
Of coney's hinder feet, as, terrified,
One scamper'd up, its tufty tail to hide
In its red hole; or by the plunging dash
Of eager vole retreating with a splash
Of sharp excitement;—and once, by the scene
Of kingfisher at sport. With eye full keen,
He sat upon an overhanging bough,
And spied right under him, by gristly prow
A gudgeon slit the water, which again
Upon her wake closed in. The shining bird
Dropp'd down on her, before his flight was heard,
Digging into the stream with all his weight,
Then rose up in a moment with a freight
Of struggling fins and flashing scales, and took
The booty to his deep and secret nook.
The cliff, still kept undress'd by wind and weather,
Now stares abrupt above us; put together
By clayey flood and flood; compact of red
By turns, and greenish white, bed upon bed,
'Mong which some sparsest gleam of gypsum shines.
Beneath this sauntering, come we where inclines
A lane up the art-mitigated side
Of that same cliff; a lane to southward leading
'Twixt red-sloped banks, and upward so proceeding
Past tree and shrub, past half-curl'd fern and flower;—
Under the hall;—beneath the old church tower;—
By the dark-shrouded lodge;—then eastward going
'Mong cots, with almost little gardens growing
On their old thatch, so rich in weedy store;—
Whose gardens, too, beside them, or before,
Make poverty look fair inside each open door.
These partly passing, soon is there discern'd
A stone-stepp'd stile, over the which I turn'd;
And then of two fields for a little while
Fretted the path; till, at the final stile,
Once more was I in Clifton Grove; but now
To deal no longer with its foot, but brow.

VI. THE LOCAL CLASSICS.

VII. THE FAIR MAID OF CLIFTON.

VIII. CONCLUSION.

The deep voice ceased. I lifted up my head.
Had I been sleeping? Was the vision fled?
The sharp and sudden silence seem'd to make
The Loneliness upon her couch to wake,
And half rise on her arm, and cold, serene,
Majestic, distant, like a conscious queen,
Silently, calmly, gaze me in the face.
Evening with dews had overspread the place
Almost as gently as the sweet wild rose
Her pilgrimage from bud to flower goes.
The distant town across the river grey
Was strengthening its glimmering display
Of invitation, adding ray to ray.
Homeward, in silent thought, I went my way.