Poems By John Moultrie. New ed |
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STANZAS.
WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF ARRAN. |
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151
STANZAS. WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF ARRAN.
1838.
I
There was a time when scenes like theseWhich from our cottage door we see—
Those peaks which seem the clouds to kiss—
The sunlight on that crystal sea—
The solemn gloom of yon pine wood—
This burn which glides, in music, by,
Had charm'd me to that wish'd-for mood
Which oft gives birth to poesy.
II
'Tis not so now;—I gaze and gaze,And feed my pleased corporeal sense,
As gladly as in earlier days,
On Nature's rude magnificence.
Each feature of this glorious scene
Looks glorious as it look'd of yore,
But I am not as I have been,—
The spells, which charm'd me, charm no more.
152
III
'Tis not that now, in manhood's prime,My powers have sunk in swift decay;—
I rather deem the scythe of Time
Hath lopp'd their rank misgrowths away.
'Tis not that now, with soberer will,
I shun the visions loved so long;—
Full oft my heart is yearning still
To mingle with the sons of song.
IV
It is that life hath lost, for me,The shadowy veil of doubt and fear;
That depths, once hid in mystery,
Now lie before me close and clear.
It is that I can use no more
The workings of young Hope within,
To gild each outward object o'er
With glory to herself akin.
V
Long since when, in the spring of youth,My spirit wrought on airy themes,
Investing with the hues of truth
The substance of its wildest dreams,—
Then wood and hill and mountain-head,
And murmuring stream and billowy sea,
With draughts of pure enjoyment fed
The inner life of Phantasy.
VI
Each form of earthly beauty seem'dWith its own substance to endue
The emptiest joys that Fancy dream'd,
Or Hope's delusive pencil drew.
And thus, while Earth look'd heavenly-bright,
And Hope and Fancy still were strong,
153
Through many a dizzy path of song.
VII
But now—on life's sunshiny noonThere rests a clear, unclouded ray;
The lights and shades of star and moon
Have faded from the sober day.
My heart no more delights to dwell
In treacherous dreams of bliss to come;—
My present joys—I love them well,
But they are, with myself, at home.
VIII
And Nature's face is now to meNo prophecy of times more fair;
It speaks no more of things to be,
But tells of lovelier things that were.
Yon mountain-peaks—those sea-girt isles—
This sky, too oft with clouds o'ercast,
Remind me of life's varying smiles,
Its hopes, its fears, its interest past.
IX
Therefore, albeit I love to muse,In dreamy mood, on days gone by,
And still, well-pleased, the face peruse
Of stream and mountain, sea and sky,—
Not these, nor sights like these awake,
In me, the slumbering soul of song,
Nor those benumbing fetters break
Which Fancy's wing hath felt so long.
X
My days of tuneful thought are o'er,Nor need I at their loss repine;
Since home-content and letter'd lore,
And love and friendship still are mine:
154
With tranquil toil my powers employ;
And heavenly hope yields peace and rest
Sweeter than Earth's unquiet joy.
| Poems | |