 | Memorials of Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe |  |
29
IV.
Then welcome lawns, and welcome shades,
And round-frock'd swains, and rosy maids;
Welcome the little merry train,
That loiter in our grassy lane;
There, ere they cross the stile that leads
Down a slant path, through dewy meads,
To yonder vale, where humble knowledge
Founded long since a rural college,
They chat, they play, they pick up flowers,
And spend deliciously the hours
Of morn or eve, when fresh and cool,
'Tis everywhere—except at school—
“Oh, Caroline! that you and I
Could draw the archness of their eye,
Paint to the life the nameless graces,
That character their various faces;
Pourtray the happiness that speaks
In the sleek dimple of their cheeks;
And as it deeper grows, catch half
The joyous beauty of their laugh!
Oh! could we trace with rapid lines,
A few of Nature's sweet designs,
When she has bid the little troop
Disperse in many a scattered group!
Some sitting in a sunny place,
With winking eyes and glowing face,
To count the blue bells in their lap,
Or hang them in each other's cap;
Half blinded, but without the wit,
Poor imps! the other way to sit.”
Some, clustered on a rising bank,
Where the long grass is green and rank,
And spreading elms stand close behind,
With fragrant honeysuckles 'twined,
In shade luxuriously repose;
While, now a foot, and now a nose,
The sun just peeps at, as the trees
Wave their long branches in the breeze.
Then up they start, away they hie
To chase a flecker'd butterfly;
And should they catch him, straight one sees
Their little heads, like swarming bees,
Close huddled to survey the prize;
Nor come alone the prying eyes,
But each a busy finger brings
To help disrobe the gorgeous wings.
And round-frock'd swains, and rosy maids;
Welcome the little merry train,
That loiter in our grassy lane;
There, ere they cross the stile that leads
Down a slant path, through dewy meads,
To yonder vale, where humble knowledge
Founded long since a rural college,
They chat, they play, they pick up flowers,
And spend deliciously the hours
Of morn or eve, when fresh and cool,
'Tis everywhere—except at school—
“Oh, Caroline! that you and I
Could draw the archness of their eye,
Paint to the life the nameless graces,
That character their various faces;
Pourtray the happiness that speaks
In the sleek dimple of their cheeks;
And as it deeper grows, catch half
The joyous beauty of their laugh!
30
A few of Nature's sweet designs,
When she has bid the little troop
Disperse in many a scattered group!
Some sitting in a sunny place,
With winking eyes and glowing face,
To count the blue bells in their lap,
Or hang them in each other's cap;
Half blinded, but without the wit,
Poor imps! the other way to sit.”
Some, clustered on a rising bank,
Where the long grass is green and rank,
And spreading elms stand close behind,
With fragrant honeysuckles 'twined,
In shade luxuriously repose;
While, now a foot, and now a nose,
The sun just peeps at, as the trees
Wave their long branches in the breeze.
Then up they start, away they hie
To chase a flecker'd butterfly;
And should they catch him, straight one sees
Their little heads, like swarming bees,
Close huddled to survey the prize;
Nor come alone the prying eyes,
But each a busy finger brings
To help disrobe the gorgeous wings.
Alas! our labours but burlesque,
Great mistress of the picturesque,
Nature! thy matchless power to please,
Born of inimitable ease,
Thy brilliant tints, thy fine expression,
Thy youthful forms in soft succession,
But chief, thy fav'rite playmate wild—
The little happy village child—
Sweet subject still, however rude,
Graceful in every attitude!
Great mistress of the picturesque,
Nature! thy matchless power to please,
Born of inimitable ease,
Thy brilliant tints, thy fine expression,
31
But chief, thy fav'rite playmate wild—
The little happy village child—
Sweet subject still, however rude,
Graceful in every attitude!
Then, Caroline, let you and I
Despairing throw our pencils by.
I've wonder'd oft, and wonder'd much,
That man's presumption should be such,
As e'er to form the bold design
Of imitating works Divine.
But more I marvel, marvel most,
He proudly of success should boast,
And still the worthless copies prize,
While living models round him rise.
Nor springs from self-applause the joy
Alone, that crowns his fond employ;
People, who never cast an eye
On the rich colouring of the sky,
The vesture of departing day,
And know not how each splendid ray
In the blue concave melts away,
Will prate of Rubens by the hour
And seem to feel the magic power
Of tones harmonious, such as rule
The Flemish and Venetian school.
Mere jargon all! Soon learnt by rote!
Cease we the Pedant then to quote,
And ask the man whom nature warms,
Genuine admirer of her charms,
Whence spring the unbidden joys that rise
From pencill'd groves, and lakes, and skies?
How should the mockery of art
Touch the fine fibres of his heart?
E'en though she reach not forth her hand
To seize on forms sublimely grand,
Such as on wildest beauty wait,
And yielding fancy captivate;
But fragments, that we hourly see,
Of rustic, common scenery,
And pass them by, as little worth,
Till memory fondly calls them forth;
These simple truths, as simply told,
Pleas'd, we remember, pleas'd, behold.
Gives memory, then, the secret charm?
Or does simplicity disarm
The critic of his chastening brow?
Or, rather, Nature! art not thou
Still the bright form to which we bow?
In every path which thou hast trod
Are seen the footsteps of a God;
For, eldest born of Him who spake,
And bade the dust His image take—
Ere man became a living soul
To lord it o'er this goodly whole—
Thou wert—and earliest, latest, best,
Thy love is cherished in his breast;
Therefore the meanest things that bear
Impression of a form so fair,
Or of the race that dwell with thee,
Children of sweet simplicty,
Wake in the heart some hidden spring,
And find the charm they cannot bring.
Then why, my friend, should you and I,
Despairing, throw our pencils by?
We'll carry them to Nature's school,
And learn of her some golden rule,
Which haply to the work shall give
One glowing touch to bid it live.
Unless that stamp of life be there,
Ah! what avails the artist's care?
Vain is the poet's tuneful strain,
The patient sculptor toils in vain,
Truth gives the charm, and truth alone;
Else all is paper, paint, and stone.
Despairing throw our pencils by.
I've wonder'd oft, and wonder'd much,
That man's presumption should be such,
As e'er to form the bold design
Of imitating works Divine.
But more I marvel, marvel most,
He proudly of success should boast,
And still the worthless copies prize,
While living models round him rise.
Nor springs from self-applause the joy
Alone, that crowns his fond employ;
People, who never cast an eye
On the rich colouring of the sky,
The vesture of departing day,
And know not how each splendid ray
In the blue concave melts away,
Will prate of Rubens by the hour
And seem to feel the magic power
Of tones harmonious, such as rule
The Flemish and Venetian school.
Mere jargon all! Soon learnt by rote!
Cease we the Pedant then to quote,
And ask the man whom nature warms,
Genuine admirer of her charms,
Whence spring the unbidden joys that rise
32
How should the mockery of art
Touch the fine fibres of his heart?
E'en though she reach not forth her hand
To seize on forms sublimely grand,
Such as on wildest beauty wait,
And yielding fancy captivate;
But fragments, that we hourly see,
Of rustic, common scenery,
And pass them by, as little worth,
Till memory fondly calls them forth;
These simple truths, as simply told,
Pleas'd, we remember, pleas'd, behold.
Gives memory, then, the secret charm?
Or does simplicity disarm
The critic of his chastening brow?
Or, rather, Nature! art not thou
Still the bright form to which we bow?
In every path which thou hast trod
Are seen the footsteps of a God;
For, eldest born of Him who spake,
And bade the dust His image take—
Ere man became a living soul
To lord it o'er this goodly whole—
Thou wert—and earliest, latest, best,
Thy love is cherished in his breast;
Therefore the meanest things that bear
Impression of a form so fair,
Or of the race that dwell with thee,
Children of sweet simplicty,
Wake in the heart some hidden spring,
And find the charm they cannot bring.
33
Despairing, throw our pencils by?
We'll carry them to Nature's school,
And learn of her some golden rule,
Which haply to the work shall give
One glowing touch to bid it live.
Unless that stamp of life be there,
Ah! what avails the artist's care?
Vain is the poet's tuneful strain,
The patient sculptor toils in vain,
Truth gives the charm, and truth alone;
Else all is paper, paint, and stone.
There is a small endowed school, at the foot of our hill, and the present school-master being almost as much in repute as Mr. Lancaster, numbers of little children are sent thither from Chipstead and the adjoining villages. Most of them pass through a broad lane that parts the grounds of Shabden. They are much addicted to play, are very pretty, and sometimes have their pictures drawn at a shilling ahead.
| Memorials of Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe | |