 | The Eden of Imagination |  |
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THE Eden of Imagination.
------ “See here be all the pleasures
“That Fancy can beget on youthful thoughts,
“When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns
“Brisk as the April buds in Primrose season.”
Milton.
“That Fancy can beget on youthful thoughts,
“When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns
“Brisk as the April buds in Primrose season.”
Milton.
Bright on the sea the sun's last glories rest,
Unruffled sleep on Ocean's glossy breast;—
His travel o'er, his brilliance mellowing fast,
Yet deepening in its beauty to the last,
He now prepares his golden head to steep,
In the smooth stillness of the distant deep.
He sinks—He sets!—Farewell that Form of Fire,
Which eyes, though dazzled, gaze on to admire:
And welcome that soft light he leaves in Heaven
To check the shade, and harmonize the Even;
Each summer cloud that slowly sails away,
Bears a light lovely gladness from his ray;
The sea still glows in all its golden pride,
As if the sun had melted in the tide;
As if each ray the Godhead seem'd to lave,
Had roll'd a liquid brightness o'er the wave.
Thus at some moment, when our joys are bright,
We look on Pleasure as a form of Light;
And when the brilliance of the time is past,
Still on the mind the recollections last;
And Memory's tint, unwilling to depart,
Casts a warm, mellow lustre o'er the heart.
Unruffled sleep on Ocean's glossy breast;—
His travel o'er, his brilliance mellowing fast,
Yet deepening in its beauty to the last,
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In the smooth stillness of the distant deep.
He sinks—He sets!—Farewell that Form of Fire,
Which eyes, though dazzled, gaze on to admire:
And welcome that soft light he leaves in Heaven
To check the shade, and harmonize the Even;
Each summer cloud that slowly sails away,
Bears a light lovely gladness from his ray;
The sea still glows in all its golden pride,
As if the sun had melted in the tide;
As if each ray the Godhead seem'd to lave,
Had roll'd a liquid brightness o'er the wave.
Thus at some moment, when our joys are bright,
We look on Pleasure as a form of Light;
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Still on the mind the recollections last;
And Memory's tint, unwilling to depart,
Casts a warm, mellow lustre o'er the heart.
Each scatter'd boat is making for the land,
Forced by the flashing oar and toiling hand;—
The sail, if hoisted, hangs from yard and mast
In lazy folds, unswell'd by breeze or blast;
The sea-birds flit around the rocky shore,
To mock its silence, now the day is o'er;
And every scream wins echo from the strand,
Dies 'mid the crags, or fades along the sand.
Forced by the flashing oar and toiling hand;—
The sail, if hoisted, hangs from yard and mast
In lazy folds, unswell'd by breeze or blast;
The sea-birds flit around the rocky shore,
To mock its silence, now the day is o'er;
And every scream wins echo from the strand,
Dies 'mid the crags, or fades along the sand.
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Here, while each object round me seems to smile,
Upon this mossy seat I'll rest a while;—
And here shall Fancy in her favourite spot,
Arrange the wood, the waters, and the cot,—
Add life and loveliness where nature fails,
Restrain the wild luxuriance of the vales,
Twine the green arbours, point the winding way,
And plan the pleasures of each summer-day.
Upon this mossy seat I'll rest a while;—
And here shall Fancy in her favourite spot,
Arrange the wood, the waters, and the cot,—
Add life and loveliness where nature fails,
Restrain the wild luxuriance of the vales,
Twine the green arbours, point the winding way,
And plan the pleasures of each summer-day.
Thus, in the glowing scene that round me lies,
Imagination paints her Paradise!
Imagination paints her Paradise!
The rill that wanders down yon mountain's side,
And seeks in laziness the Ocean's tide,
Shall flow through meadows where the cowslip grows,
And kiss the grass, and prattle as it flows.
The speckled inmate of the waters then
May cleave the element unharm'd by men;—
May, when the evening sun-beam gilds the brook,
Rise at the fly, nor feel the treacherous hook.
The moor-hen, undisturb'd, may lonely lave
In the clear deeps, and breast the little wave.
The wild-duck, where the sedges fringe the tide,
In wat'ry solitude may gladly hide;—
Nor fear the spaniel's yelp—the sportsman's gun,
But plume its feathers in the silent sun.
Let there be trees along the streamlet's brink,
Beneath whose shadows I may sit and think;—
May muse on those my heart hath long approv'd,
The many I've esteem'd, the few I've lov'd.
And be that mournful tree for ever seen,
Which throws a pleasing sadness o'er the scene;—
That tree, which ever at the water's side,
Looks on itself, and weeps into the tide;—
The graceful willow, waving to the breeze,
A green Narcissus of surrounding trees.
And seeks in laziness the Ocean's tide,
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And kiss the grass, and prattle as it flows.
The speckled inmate of the waters then
May cleave the element unharm'd by men;—
May, when the evening sun-beam gilds the brook,
Rise at the fly, nor feel the treacherous hook.
The moor-hen, undisturb'd, may lonely lave
In the clear deeps, and breast the little wave.
The wild-duck, where the sedges fringe the tide,
In wat'ry solitude may gladly hide;—
Nor fear the spaniel's yelp—the sportsman's gun,
But plume its feathers in the silent sun.
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Beneath whose shadows I may sit and think;—
May muse on those my heart hath long approv'd,
The many I've esteem'd, the few I've lov'd.
And be that mournful tree for ever seen,
Which throws a pleasing sadness o'er the scene;—
That tree, which ever at the water's side,
Looks on itself, and weeps into the tide;—
The graceful willow, waving to the breeze,
A green Narcissus of surrounding trees.
Through yon loose crags the stream may idly crawl,
And down those rough rocks form a waterfall;—
'Twill beam with beauty when the moon is bright,
And fling its silv'ry spray to woo the light;
The fall at distance will be heard around,—
A constant,—pleasing,—melancholy sound!
And down those rough rocks form a waterfall;—
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And fling its silv'ry spray to woo the light;
The fall at distance will be heard around,—
A constant,—pleasing,—melancholy sound!
Across the stream a rough-hewn bridge shall rest,
To bear its master o'er the water's breast;
And its broad shade will form in mid-day heat,
For finny shoals, a calm and cool retreat.
There I may sojourn when the day is done,
When sparkling insects flaunt it in the sun;—
There I may trace the light clouds break and float,
And hear at intervals the cuckoo's note:
Or view the swallow in swift windings fly
Up the quick stream, and shoot into the sky.
To bear its master o'er the water's breast;
And its broad shade will form in mid-day heat,
For finny shoals, a calm and cool retreat.
There I may sojourn when the day is done,
When sparkling insects flaunt it in the sun;—
There I may trace the light clouds break and float,
And hear at intervals the cuckoo's note:
Or view the swallow in swift windings fly
Up the quick stream, and shoot into the sky.
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How sweet it is to pause at evening hour,
When all is still, and when no storm-clouds lower;—
And in that luxury of freshness live,
Which vales, and fields, and woods, and waters give.
The mind may then its better thoughts assume,
Live o'er the past, and think on what may come;
Revive its pleasures—find them pleasures still,
Form new resolves to mould the wish and will;—
With sudden sorrow call up strength to cope,
And give an elasticity to Hope!
When all is still, and when no storm-clouds lower;—
And in that luxury of freshness live,
Which vales, and fields, and woods, and waters give.
The mind may then its better thoughts assume,
Live o'er the past, and think on what may come;
Revive its pleasures—find them pleasures still,
Form new resolves to mould the wish and will;—
With sudden sorrow call up strength to cope,
And give an elasticity to Hope!
Through yonder grove the easy path can pass,
And, serpent-like, may wander in the grass.
Let trees of roses blush on either side,
Hang o'er the walk, and cluster in their pride.
Let tufts of “love in idleness” be there,
To gem the path, and mock the wandering pair;
That little flower which Fancy long hath taught,
To glad the gazer, and to waken thought,
Around the heart a sweet content to shed,
And woo the hand to cull it from the bed .
Oh! may the sides display the brightest flowers
That spring in meadows, or that bloom in bowers;
So shall their very sweetness lure the feet
To shun the fields, and haunt their rich retreat.
And, serpent-like, may wander in the grass.
Let trees of roses blush on either side,
Hang o'er the walk, and cluster in their pride.
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To gem the path, and mock the wandering pair;
That little flower which Fancy long hath taught,
To glad the gazer, and to waken thought,
Around the heart a sweet content to shed,
And woo the hand to cull it from the bed .
Oh! may the sides display the brightest flowers
That spring in meadows, or that bloom in bowers;
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To shun the fields, and haunt their rich retreat.
There when the day is past, and evening comes,—
What time the bee returning, gladly hums;—
I'll thread the mazes of the winding way,
Breathe o'er again the pleasures of the day,
Twine the young shrubs that need the fresh'ning shower,
And read a moral in the smallest flower ;
There view the linnet, startled at the breeze,
On wing of wildness, flutter through the trees;
Or hear the dove, at distance, and alone,
Give to the air her melancholy moan:—
See 'mid the thicket which the woodbine weaves,
The little red-breast, blushing through the leaves;—
The bird in youth so sacred, and so dear,
The summer's ornament—the winter's cheer,—
Our garden favourite, ever sought and blest,—
A thing of life—a gay and welcome guest!
What time the bee returning, gladly hums;—
I'll thread the mazes of the winding way,
Breathe o'er again the pleasures of the day,
Twine the young shrubs that need the fresh'ning shower,
And read a moral in the smallest flower ;
There view the linnet, startled at the breeze,
On wing of wildness, flutter through the trees;
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Give to the air her melancholy moan:—
See 'mid the thicket which the woodbine weaves,
The little red-breast, blushing through the leaves;—
The bird in youth so sacred, and so dear,
The summer's ornament—the winter's cheer,—
Our garden favourite, ever sought and blest,—
A thing of life—a gay and welcome guest!
There may the maiden of my bosom bring
Her lute, and lightly touch the answering string;
There may she bid her voice divinely float,
And give a sweetness to each lingering note.
Oh! Fancy pauses now, and listens long,
To trace the tone she touches—hear the song,—
That lovely lute, she ever plays to please,
Perchance may echo to such words as these.
Her lute, and lightly touch the answering string;
There may she bid her voice divinely float,
And give a sweetness to each lingering note.
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To trace the tone she touches—hear the song,—
That lovely lute, she ever plays to please,
Perchance may echo to such words as these.
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SONG.
1
The lights in the summer-house brightly were burning,The lady sang mirthfully o'er the guitar,—
Her lover sat by her, nor thought of returning
From the bower of his beauty, to mountains afar:
And fondly he listen'd, and sweetly her finger
Snatch'd a melody, lightly to answer the lay;—
But the star of the morn still'd the beautiful singer,
And lighted the hope of her bosom away.
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2
Ah! lone was the day, to this fair Eastern Flower,Her lover fled far when the sun-beam was bright;
In the day on the mountain, at eve in her bower,
He went with the morning, and came with the night;—
And dear was his presence to her at the Even,—
A tear told her bliss, which he kiss'd as it fell;
But the star of the morning came smiling in heaven,
And she sigh'd on his bosom a silent farewell.
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Beneath the shade of trees, how sweet to hear
Those tones, which love can render doubly dear;
To catch those words, so form'd to move and melt,
Which few have never listen'd to, or felt.
How sweet! through woven branches then to trace,
The moonlight stealing softly o'er her face;—
As if each beam of gentleness had lov'd
To light that face,—that figure as it mov'd:—
As if chaste Dian, in such solitude,
Finding a semblance of her long-lov'd wood,
Had thought,—so free her form! so sweet her tone!—
The chaste fair maid of melody, her own.
Those tones, which love can render doubly dear;
To catch those words, so form'd to move and melt,
Which few have never listen'd to, or felt.
How sweet! through woven branches then to trace,
The moonlight stealing softly o'er her face;—
As if each beam of gentleness had lov'd
To light that face,—that figure as it mov'd:—
As if chaste Dian, in such solitude,
Finding a semblance of her long-lov'd wood,
Had thought,—so free her form! so sweet her tone!—
The chaste fair maid of melody, her own.
And dearer are these lonely walks, than all
The heartless pleasures of the crowded hall,
Where heated hands meet hands, to press, and part,
Where silence shews the coldness of the heart,—
Or nonsense flits from lip to lip with ease,
In gilded lies, and jaded repartees.
The heartless pleasures of the crowded hall,
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Where silence shews the coldness of the heart,—
Or nonsense flits from lip to lip with ease,
In gilded lies, and jaded repartees.
Oh! how I love, when Dian beams most bright,
To wander in her pale and sleeping light;
And gaze upon the solemn, silent sky,
Peace in the breast, and pleasure in the eye.
A knowledge glows upon that sacred place,
Which few have sought for, and but few can trace;—
It smiles in loveliness, and looks repose,
Can awe, inspire, can dignify, compose,—
Add grace to thoughtfulness, give grief release,
And shed upon the mind its own soft peace.
Place me my cot in yonder clustering trees,
Where I may live in humbleness and ease;
Near the tall elms, whose branches skyward reach,
And by that spot where grows the purple beech.
Let it, with usefulness, not luxury,
Smile through the branches on my searching eye.
My books
must find a resting-place, for they
Can cheer my dreams by night, my thoughts by day.
Let Shakespear, Milton, Spenser, and the rest,
Who glad the fancy and instruct the breast,
Lie on my table, negligently free,
To charm my friends, or yield their worth to me:
Not with gilt leaves, and letter'd backs, arrang'd,
On some high shelf, and ne'er disturb'd, nor chang'd;
Plac'd there as size demands, or fancy rules,
A prey to dullness, worms, and dust, and fools.
Oh! there let Byron give my mind delight,
And tell his Eastern narratives at night;—
His mind, which ever soars on Fancy's wings,
Is quite as glowing as the clime he sings.
Let Campbell lead his Hope within my bowers,—
And Wordsworth's genius illustrate my flowers;
Though he may yet, in some great hour, resign
The simple violet and celandine,—
He may with bolder finger sweep the lyre,
And give to after-times a song of fire.
Southey shall bring his “wild and wond'rous lays;”
And sad Alcæus paint primæval days.
With Moore o'er Erin's valour I'll rejoice,
And hear again, in him, Anacreon's voice;—
Learn from his muse what glowing pleasures lie,
O'er the flush'd cheek, and in the sparkling eye.
Scott may recite his tales of yore, and touch
The harp of Scotland, which I love so much.
Rogers—I'll not forget thee:—oh! 'twere hard
If Memory should omit her sweetest bard.
Crabbe too may not refuse me, to impart
His pure, bold excellence to mend the heart:—
And though the last, yet not admir'd the least,
Hunt shall describe to me a Poet's Feast .
Oh! in the days when life and love are young,
'Tis sweet to cherish what the bards have sung;—
Their lays of glory, ever grand and great,
Can still inspire the mind to emulate;—
Their softer songs steal sweetly on the ear,
And wake those feelings which are held so dear,—
The heart will sympathize o'er woes long past,
If melody but bid their memories last.
To wander in her pale and sleeping light;
And gaze upon the solemn, silent sky,
Peace in the breast, and pleasure in the eye.
A knowledge glows upon that sacred place,
Which few have sought for, and but few can trace;—
It smiles in loveliness, and looks repose,
Can awe, inspire, can dignify, compose,—
Add grace to thoughtfulness, give grief release,
And shed upon the mind its own soft peace.
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Where I may live in humbleness and ease;
Near the tall elms, whose branches skyward reach,
And by that spot where grows the purple beech.
Let it, with usefulness, not luxury,
Smile through the branches on my searching eye.
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Can cheer my dreams by night, my thoughts by day.
Let Shakespear, Milton, Spenser, and the rest,
Who glad the fancy and instruct the breast,
Lie on my table, negligently free,
To charm my friends, or yield their worth to me:
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On some high shelf, and ne'er disturb'd, nor chang'd;
Plac'd there as size demands, or fancy rules,
A prey to dullness, worms, and dust, and fools.
Oh! there let Byron give my mind delight,
And tell his Eastern narratives at night;—
His mind, which ever soars on Fancy's wings,
Is quite as glowing as the clime he sings.
Let Campbell lead his Hope within my bowers,—
And Wordsworth's genius illustrate my flowers;
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The simple violet and celandine,—
He may with bolder finger sweep the lyre,
And give to after-times a song of fire.
Southey shall bring his “wild and wond'rous lays;”
And sad Alcæus paint primæval days.
With Moore o'er Erin's valour I'll rejoice,
And hear again, in him, Anacreon's voice;—
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O'er the flush'd cheek, and in the sparkling eye.
Scott may recite his tales of yore, and touch
The harp of Scotland, which I love so much.
Rogers—I'll not forget thee:—oh! 'twere hard
If Memory should omit her sweetest bard.
Crabbe too may not refuse me, to impart
His pure, bold excellence to mend the heart:—
And though the last, yet not admir'd the least,
Hunt shall describe to me a Poet's Feast .
Oh! in the days when life and love are young,
'Tis sweet to cherish what the bards have sung;—
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Can still inspire the mind to emulate;—
Their softer songs steal sweetly on the ear,
And wake those feelings which are held so dear,—
The heart will sympathize o'er woes long past,
If melody but bid their memories last.
Beside my cot, in yonder green recess,
Where many a tree waves wild its summer tress ;
A sweet and shady arbour I'll entwine,
Of lilac, myrtle, and of jessamine:—
A marble urn, within, I'll fondly place,
And Shenstone's name its polish'd side shall grace.
There I may ponder o'er his rural page,
Which well might charm and melodize the age;
Perchance some sweet inscription of his own,
My hand may trace to ornament the stone.
Oh! then some gentle one will, lingering near,
Hang o'er the monument, and drop the tear.
There will the loveliest flowers, uncultur'd, spring,
Their best—their lost admirer, honouring;—
Birds on the boughs may there be heard to mourn,
And trees, in sadness, sigh above his urn.
Where many a tree waves wild its summer tress ;
A sweet and shady arbour I'll entwine,
Of lilac, myrtle, and of jessamine:—
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And Shenstone's name its polish'd side shall grace.
There I may ponder o'er his rural page,
Which well might charm and melodize the age;
Perchance some sweet inscription of his own,
My hand may trace to ornament the stone.
Oh! then some gentle one will, lingering near,
Hang o'er the monument, and drop the tear.
There will the loveliest flowers, uncultur'd, spring,
Their best—their lost admirer, honouring;—
Birds on the boughs may there be heard to mourn,
And trees, in sadness, sigh above his urn.
Close by the sea, amid the rocks I'll have
Some sparry grot, and call it Fancy's cave;—
There, in the softness of a moonlight eve,
I'll watch the Ocean—nymphs their garlands weave.
And when they wake the music of their shells,
Hear it swell far, and sweeten as it swells;—
And as across the sea a murmur floats,
Watch the glad waves dance up to catch the notes.
There will I listen to their evening strain,
Till they shall seek their coral homes again.
Some sparry grot, and call it Fancy's cave;—
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I'll watch the Ocean—nymphs their garlands weave.
And when they wake the music of their shells,
Hear it swell far, and sweeten as it swells;—
And as across the sea a murmur floats,
Watch the glad waves dance up to catch the notes.
There will I listen to their evening strain,
Till they shall seek their coral homes again.
In the fresh morning, when the summer sky
Beams blue and cloudless to the wakeful eye;—
Forth from my cot I'll saunter to the fields,
And revel midst the joys which nature yields,—
Roam down the hedge where honeysuckle grows,
Where sweet in wildness springs the blushing rose;—
Or idly stray along the grove's green side,
Where poppies hang the head in gaudy pride,
To hear the black-bird pour his morning song,
Midst the light chirping of a feathery throng:—
And view the lark, fresh springing from her nest.
To catch the early sunbeams on her breast.
Through the rude brakes, at times, I may behold,
Bright with the rising sun, a sea of gold;
Or, when across its breast breathe western gales,
See the blue waters studded o'er with sails.
Then may I linger at each rugged stile,
And, gazing at the pleasing prospect, smile.
These—these are joys surpassing human art,
Which cast a ray of sunshine on the heart,—
Which hush each ruder passion in the breast,
And breathe of innocence, and whisper rest:—
These give a pleasure of the purest kind,
And form at once the banquet of the mind.
Beams blue and cloudless to the wakeful eye;—
Forth from my cot I'll saunter to the fields,
And revel midst the joys which nature yields,—
Roam down the hedge where honeysuckle grows,
Where sweet in wildness springs the blushing rose;—
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Where poppies hang the head in gaudy pride,
To hear the black-bird pour his morning song,
Midst the light chirping of a feathery throng:—
And view the lark, fresh springing from her nest.
To catch the early sunbeams on her breast.
Through the rude brakes, at times, I may behold,
Bright with the rising sun, a sea of gold;
Or, when across its breast breathe western gales,
See the blue waters studded o'er with sails.
Then may I linger at each rugged stile,
And, gazing at the pleasing prospect, smile.
These—these are joys surpassing human art,
Which cast a ray of sunshine on the heart,—
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And breathe of innocence, and whisper rest:—
These give a pleasure of the purest kind,
And form at once the banquet of the mind.
And I may stray through fields and woods by night,
When brilliant stars have gemm'd the heaven with light;
Then I may love to pass each green retreat,
And deem the brakes and lengthening shadows sweet:—
Gaze on the sky, or linger in the vale,
To hear the music of the nightingale .
How like the lover is that lonely bird,
In daylight silent, in retirement heard!
Nurs'd by the lateness of the solemn hour,
Imagination might awake her power,—
And view the spirits of our bards, above
Each hallow'd rock, and haunting every grove,
Musing in silence, and in solitude,
O'er the dark stream and in the deepest wood.
Imagination at that hour might find
A mournful music sighing in the wind;—
Hear the last Bard his angry vengeance pour
From some rude rock, that frowns above the shore;—
Dimly at distance, fill'd with wild dismay,
See the first Edward march his long array.
Oh! Fancy wildly wandering thus alone,
Might, in this lovely Eden of its own,
See little elves o'er flowery meadows sport,
The lively sparklers of Titania's court;—
Might see them with the wings of butterflies,
Fanning the silvery moon-beams from the eyes;—
Behold the dew-pearl in the cowslip hung,
And view those very sweets the Bard hath sung.
When brilliant stars have gemm'd the heaven with light;
Then I may love to pass each green retreat,
And deem the brakes and lengthening shadows sweet:—
Gaze on the sky, or linger in the vale,
To hear the music of the nightingale .
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In daylight silent, in retirement heard!
Nurs'd by the lateness of the solemn hour,
Imagination might awake her power,—
And view the spirits of our bards, above
Each hallow'd rock, and haunting every grove,
Musing in silence, and in solitude,
O'er the dark stream and in the deepest wood.
Imagination at that hour might find
A mournful music sighing in the wind;—
Hear the last Bard his angry vengeance pour
From some rude rock, that frowns above the shore;—
34
See the first Edward march his long array.
Oh! Fancy wildly wandering thus alone,
Might, in this lovely Eden of its own,
See little elves o'er flowery meadows sport,
The lively sparklers of Titania's court;—
Might see them with the wings of butterflies,
Fanning the silvery moon-beams from the eyes;—
Behold the dew-pearl in the cowslip hung,
And view those very sweets the Bard hath sung.
Amidst the groves Æolian harps shall breathe,
And I may listen to the swell beneath;
'Twill seem the airy music of a sprite,
Who loves to roam, and sing in woods by night.
And I may listen to the swell beneath;
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Who loves to roam, and sing in woods by night.
Here too let friendship come,—without its aid
In vain this scene of happiness were made;
The heart would languish 'mid the sweets alone,
For some kind, gentle one to rest upon:—
Some faithful friend to turn the inspired leaf,
To smile in mirth, and shed the tear in grief;
To check the wild enthusiastic mind,
And keep alive the love of human-kind.
In vain this scene of happiness were made;
The heart would languish 'mid the sweets alone,
For some kind, gentle one to rest upon:—
Some faithful friend to turn the inspired leaf,
To smile in mirth, and shed the tear in grief;
To check the wild enthusiastic mind,
And keep alive the love of human-kind.
Oh! for some mystic power,—some fairy hand,—
To form what Fancy hath so richly plann'd;
To lead the rill, and arch the sparry grot,
Twine the sweet eglantine, erect the cot,
Throw the rude bridge across the prattling stream,
And trace, and finish my luxurious dream.
Oh! nothing then were left to fret the breast,
In such a scene of lusciousness and rest;—
From every wish,—from every sorrow freed,—
All—all so richly perfect!—I might lead,
While Summer scatter'd round her laughing lights,
A life of Eastern days and Fairy nights!
To form what Fancy hath so richly plann'd;
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Twine the sweet eglantine, erect the cot,
Throw the rude bridge across the prattling stream,
And trace, and finish my luxurious dream.
Oh! nothing then were left to fret the breast,
In such a scene of lusciousness and rest;—
From every wish,—from every sorrow freed,—
All—all so richly perfect!—I might lead,
While Summer scatter'd round her laughing lights,
A life of Eastern days and Fairy nights!
The following passage of Milton is so beautifully descriptive of the most attractive flowers and shrubs, that fancy could not imagine a more exquisite selection.
“Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
“The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
“The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
“The glowing violet,
“The musk rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
“With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head.”
Lycidas.
“The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
“The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
“The glowing violet,
“The musk rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
“With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head.”
Lycidas.
Many poets have given an importance to trifles of apparently the most unpoetical nature. Burns has chosen the “Mountain Daisy,” and the “Field Mouse,” for subjects; and in each of them, (particularly at the conclusion of the latter,) a beautiful and moral strain of feeling at once astonishes and delights the reader.
A purple beech, in the grounds of the gentleman to whom I have dedicated this poem, does not form one of their least beauties. It has, independent of its fine growth and rich appearance, the charm of being sacred to friendship; as the following inscription, marked on a root seat, which is placed under its shade, will testify.
Amicitæ et T. Y. Sellulam hanc, Et Qua tegeris arborem, Sacras esse Voluit J. F. M. D.
------ “They give
“New views to life, and teach us how to live;
“They soothe the griev'd, the stubborn they chastise;
“Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise:
“Their aid they yield to all: they never shun
“The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone:
“Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,
“They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd;
“Nor tell to various people, various things,
“But shew to subjects what they shew to kings.”
“New views to life, and teach us how to live;
“They soothe the griev'd, the stubborn they chastise;
“Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise:
“Their aid they yield to all: they never shun
“The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone:
“Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,
“They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd;
“Nor tell to various people, various things,
“But shew to subjects what they shew to kings.”
See Crabbe's Poem of “The Library,” which contains a great deal of excellent moral reasoning.
I know of no one so fit to inhabit this Eden of Imagination as Mr. Wordsworth; he is possessed of ideas and feelings very much above those of common men, and appears (to judge of him by his works) to look deeply and thoughtfully into things. The smallest flowers yield him a pleasure of no ordinary description, and his own words inform us that he can, in the bustle of towns and cities, and in the loneliness of solitude, revive from them recollections of the most refreshing nature—
“But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din“Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
“In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
“Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
“And passing even into my purer mind,
“With tranquil restoration.”
Lyrical Ballads, Vol. 1.
This passage is from one of those Poems in which Mr. Wordsworth has turned his powers (which are of the highest order) to a proper use, and in which he has awakened his best reflections. For a fine estimate of his genius, see the Notes in Hunt's “Feast of the Poets.”
It were to be wished that Mr. Hunt would come before the world oftener in his poetical character, for he is really in the possession of a most brilliant fancy.
This beautiful songster is the promoter as well as the performer of exquisite music, for we are indebted to it for one of Wordsworth's best poems.—See Lyrical Ballads, Vol. I. page 90.
Shakespear, in his “Midsummer Night's Dream,” has given a loose to his fancy. Every scene in which the fairies either appear, or are mentioned, is full of deliciousness.
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A Recollection.
I stood upon the hill,
When the sun shone at golden intervals,
And gaz'd upon the world around me; all
Was loveliness and life. The wind of heaven
Was playing with the flowrets on the rocks,
And wafting up their coloured heads, to catch
The brilliance of the moment. Yet at times,
Roughly it blew, and swept the mountain's side,
Sang in the caverns, and amid the cliffs,
Its stormy song:—the very strong trees stagger'd,
And bent beneath its rage. But, oh! how soon
This passion of the wild wind pass'd away;
Or trembled to a soft and soothing breeze,
Which o'er the scene most gently seem'd to sigh,
At its past fury.
When the sun shone at golden intervals,
And gaz'd upon the world around me; all
Was loveliness and life. The wind of heaven
Was playing with the flowrets on the rocks,
And wafting up their coloured heads, to catch
The brilliance of the moment. Yet at times,
Roughly it blew, and swept the mountain's side,
38
Its stormy song:—the very strong trees stagger'd,
And bent beneath its rage. But, oh! how soon
This passion of the wild wind pass'd away;
Or trembled to a soft and soothing breeze,
Which o'er the scene most gently seem'd to sigh,
At its past fury.
I stood upon the hill,
Gazing upon the gaieties of summer,
And banquetting my mind, with thoughts that sprung
From flowers, and rocks, and trees. The very wind
Could wake some feeling of delight, and whisper
The language of its birth-place. Oh! I caught
A silent luxury in that lone hour,
From every thing around. My wandering eye
Revell'd on rocks,—and even within the vale,
It snatch'd pure pleasures from the slumbering groves,—
From rills that glitter'd with a dancing light,—
From still, wide fields, with aged elms encircled,—
And gave them to the heart. Far in the valley,
Bosom'd beneath, amid the full-leav'd trees,
(Which ever in such scene of quiet slept),
A little cot display'd its yellow thatch;—
More yellow from the sunny beams that fell
Upon its glossy straw. It seem'd that Peace
Had singled out this spot, and o'er it breath'd
The air of stillness. The surrounding fields,
Were spotted o'er with cattle, and they seem'd
But ornaments by Nature sprinkled there.
Gazing upon the gaieties of summer,
And banquetting my mind, with thoughts that sprung
From flowers, and rocks, and trees. The very wind
Could wake some feeling of delight, and whisper
The language of its birth-place. Oh! I caught
39
From every thing around. My wandering eye
Revell'd on rocks,—and even within the vale,
It snatch'd pure pleasures from the slumbering groves,—
From rills that glitter'd with a dancing light,—
From still, wide fields, with aged elms encircled,—
And gave them to the heart. Far in the valley,
Bosom'd beneath, amid the full-leav'd trees,
(Which ever in such scene of quiet slept),
A little cot display'd its yellow thatch;—
More yellow from the sunny beams that fell
Upon its glossy straw. It seem'd that Peace
Had singled out this spot, and o'er it breath'd
The air of stillness. The surrounding fields,
40
But ornaments by Nature sprinkled there.
How much this scene of summer gave the heart
Of real happiness. How sweet—how various
The objects which I view'd; yet they all 'woke
Thoughts in the bosom of a still delight,
And quiet rapture. The loud restless wind,
That rush'd so madly o'er the mountain, breath'd
Most softly on the heart. My mind repos'd
Upon the rocking trees,—the living rills
Of sparkling light,—and even upon the flowers,
Which, budding o'er some craggy precipice,
Threw their light leaves and glowing loveliness
Fearlessly to the gale.
I love to linger upon such a scene
Of life and light. I love the loneliness
Of the rude hills, where nought is ever heard
Save the wild birds—the sleepless winds—the fall
Of water down the rocks—or Echo's voice,
Heard in the hollows, faintly mocking all.
I love to breathe my thoughts in such a scene,
And calm my mind in mountain solitude.
Of real happiness. How sweet—how various
The objects which I view'd; yet they all 'woke
Thoughts in the bosom of a still delight,
And quiet rapture. The loud restless wind,
That rush'd so madly o'er the mountain, breath'd
Most softly on the heart. My mind repos'd
Upon the rocking trees,—the living rills
Of sparkling light,—and even upon the flowers,
Which, budding o'er some craggy precipice,
Threw their light leaves and glowing loveliness
Fearlessly to the gale.
41
Of life and light. I love the loneliness
Of the rude hills, where nought is ever heard
Save the wild birds—the sleepless winds—the fall
Of water down the rocks—or Echo's voice,
Heard in the hollows, faintly mocking all.
I love to breathe my thoughts in such a scene,
And calm my mind in mountain solitude.
THE END.
| The Eden of Imagination | |