Poems By Richard Chenevix Trench: New ed |
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ON REVISITING THE SEINE. |
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246
ON REVISITING THE SEINE.
Ye are the same, ye meadows and green banks,
And pastures level to the river's edge;
Ye shores with poplar fringed in graceful ranks,
And towns that nestle under rocky ledge;
And pastures level to the river's edge;
Ye shores with poplar fringed in graceful ranks,
And towns that nestle under rocky ledge;
Ye island-spots of greenery, fast embraced
By the dividing arms of this fair stream,
Which, parting for a moment, meet in haste,
And then in breadths of lake-like beauty gleam.
By the dividing arms of this fair stream,
Which, parting for a moment, meet in haste,
And then in breadths of lake-like beauty gleam.
The quiet cattle, feeding quietly,
They seem the very same I saw of yore;
And the same picture lives upon mine eye,
Methinks, that lived upon mine eye before.
They seem the very same I saw of yore;
And the same picture lives upon mine eye,
Methinks, that lived upon mine eye before.
Fair were ye, seen of old; ye now are fair,
As ye were then: and not a change appears,
Unless that all doth stranger beauty wear,
This time beholden through a mist of tears.
As ye were then: and not a change appears,
Unless that all doth stranger beauty wear,
This time beholden through a mist of tears.
For oh! ye streams, ye meadows, and ye hills,
To which there cometh no mutation nigh,
Dim trouble at your sight my bosom fills,
You looking at me with this changeless eye.
To which there cometh no mutation nigh,
Dim trouble at your sight my bosom fills,
You looking at me with this changeless eye.
247
It troubles me that ye, unfeeling things,
Should be exempted from our tears and fears,
While we—the lords of nature and its kings—
Servile remain to all the changeful years.
Should be exempted from our tears and fears,
While we—the lords of nature and its kings—
Servile remain to all the changeful years.
On this swift-sliding stream I sail once more,
Whose beauty brings unutterable pain;
For ye who saw with me this sight before,
Three were ye—but, oh! where are now the twain?
Whose beauty brings unutterable pain;
For ye who saw with me this sight before,
Three were ye—but, oh! where are now the twain?
Ye are not here—the floods, the hills are here,
They look on me with their unaltered eye;
Dowered with a strength eternal they appear,
And we like weak wan phantoms flitting by.
They look on me with their unaltered eye;
Dowered with a strength eternal they appear,
And we like weak wan phantoms flitting by.
| Poems | |