University of Virginia Library

1.

Bright came the last departing gleam
To lonely Cherwell's silent stream,
And for a moment stayed to smile
On tall St. Mary's graceful pile.
But brighter still the glory stood
On Marston's scattered lines of wood.
The lights that through the leaves were sent,
Of gold and green were richly blent;
Oh! beautiful they were to see,
Gilding the trunk of many a tree,
Just ere the colors died away
In evening's meditative gray.
Sweet meadow-flowers were round me spread,
And many a budding birch-tree shed
Its woodland perfume there;
And from its pinkly-clustering boughs,
A fragrance mild the hawthorn throws
Upon the tranquil air.
Deep rung St. Mary's stately chime
The holy hour of compline time,
And, as the solemn sounds I caught
Over the distant meadows brought,
I heard the raptured nightingale
Tell, from yon elmy grove, his tale
Of melancholy love,
In thronging notes that seemed to fall
As faultless and as musical
As angel strains above:—
So sweet, they cast on all things round
A spell of melody profound.
They charmed the river in its flowing,
They stayed the night-wind in its blowing,
They lulled the lily to her rest,
Upon the Cherwell's heaving breast.

2.

How often doth a wildflower bring
Fancies and thoughts that seem to spring
From inmost depths of feeling!
Nay, often they have power to bless
With their uncultured loveliness,
And far into the aching breast
There goes a heavenly thought of rest
With their soft influence stealing.
How often, too, can ye unlock,
Dear Wildflowers! with a gentle shock,
The wells of holy tears,
While somewhat of a Christian light
Breaks sweetly on the mourner's sight
To calm unquiet fears!
Ah! surely such strange power is given
To lowly flowers, like dew, from heaven;
For lessons oft by them are brought,
Deeper than mortal sage hath taught,
Lessons of wisdom pure, that rise
From some clear fountains in the skies!

3.

Fairest of Flora's lovely daughters
That bloom by stilly-running waters,
Fair Lily! thou a type must be
Of virgin love and purity!
Fragrant thou art as any flower
That decks a lady's garden-bower.
But he who would thy sweetness know,
Must stoop and bend his loving brow
To catch thy scent, so faint and rare,
Scarce breathed upon the summer air.
And all thy motions, too, how free,
And yet how fraught with sympathy!—
So pale thy tint, so meek thy gleam
Shed on thy kindly father-stream!
Still, as he swayeth to and fro,
How true in all thy goings,
As if thy very soul did know
The secret of his flowings.
And then that heart of living gold,
Which thou dost modestly infold,
And screen from man's too searching view
Within thy robe of snowy hue!
To careless men thou seem'st to roam
Abroad upon the river,
In all thy movements chained to home,
Fast-rooted there for ever:
Linked by a holy, hidden tie,
Too subtle for a mortal eye,
Nor riveted by mortal art,
Deep down within thy father's heart.
Emblem in truth thou art to me
Of all a daughter ought to be!
How shall I liken thee, sweet flower!
That other men may feel thy power,
May seek thee on some lovely night,
And say how strong, how chaste the might,
The tie of filial duty,
How graceful too, and angel-bright,
The pride of lowly beauty!
Thou sittest on the varying tide
As if thy spirit did preside
With a becoming, queenly grace,
As mistress of this lonely place;
A quiet magic hast thou now
To smooth the river's ruffled brow,
And calm his rippling water:
And yet so delicate and airy,
Thou art to him a very fairy,
A widowed father's only daughter.