The Desolation of Eyam The Emigrant, a Tale of the American Woods: and other poems. By William and Mary Howitt |
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INTRODUCTION;—THE PEAK. |
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 | The Desolation of Eyam |  |
INTRODUCTION;—THE PEAK.
Land of green hills, and fairy dales,
Of fountains and of streams!
Again the sun thy region hails
With beauty in his beams.
The leaves, in light and crisped pride,
Are clustering on each mountain side.
Thy shrubby tors and spires of grey
Shine clear and solemn through the day.
The lily of the valley opes
Its pure bells on thy wooded slopes.
The trembling cistus waves its gold
On tufted bank, and cliff-top bold.
The orchis and the bee-flower blow
Sweet in the grassy glen below.
The light bird's-cherry hangs its flag,
In snowy splendour, from the crag.
Thy beautiful waters—how they fly!
Sparkling and pure, as beams the sky
Down on their fleet and wandering way,
Through banks rich with the wild-wood spray.
'Tis joy! 'tis joy! to wander here
In the green glory of the year!
Of fountains and of streams!
Again the sun thy region hails
With beauty in his beams.
The leaves, in light and crisped pride,
Are clustering on each mountain side.
Thy shrubby tors and spires of grey
Shine clear and solemn through the day.
4
Its pure bells on thy wooded slopes.
The trembling cistus waves its gold
On tufted bank, and cliff-top bold.
The orchis and the bee-flower blow
Sweet in the grassy glen below.
The light bird's-cherry hangs its flag,
In snowy splendour, from the crag.
Thy beautiful waters—how they fly!
Sparkling and pure, as beams the sky
Down on their fleet and wandering way,
Through banks rich with the wild-wood spray.
'Tis joy! 'tis joy! to wander here
In the green glory of the year!
So deep the flower-crop in thy vales;
So light and freshly flit the gales
O'er thy soft slopes and verdant hills;
The sky-lark's song so sweetly fills
The soothed ear, from morn till night,
Soaring in his entranced flight,
As if to heaven he fain would go
Telling of all the bliss below;
Within thy sun-lit, leafy dells
The soul of solitude so dwells;
Is shed so on the cliffs around;
So rises in the eternal sound
Of living waters, rushing o'er
Their rock-bed, with a sea-like roar;
Such brightness fills the arched sky;
So quietly the hill-tops lie
In sunshine, and the wild-bird's glee
Rings from the rock-nursed service tree;
Such a delicious air is thrown,
Such a reposing calm is known
On these delightful hills,
That, as the dreaming poet lies
Drinking the splendour of the skies,
The sweetness which distils
From herbs and flowers—a thrilling sense
Steals o'er his musing heart, intense,
Passive, yet deep; the joy which dwells
Where nature frames her loneliest spells.
And Fancy's whispers would persuade
That peace had here her sojourn made,
And love and gladness pitched their tent,
When from the world, in woe, they went.
That each grey hill had reared its brow
In peaceful majesty, as now.
That thus these streams had traced their way
Through scenes as bright and pure as they;
That here no sadder strain was heard
Than the free note of wandering bird;
And man had here, in nature's eye,
Known not a pain, except, to die.
The sun still shone, the gales flew bland
Over this pleasant fairy-land,
Hidden by a spell—a place of light
Through the world's long and barbarous night.
So light and freshly flit the gales
O'er thy soft slopes and verdant hills;
The sky-lark's song so sweetly fills
The soothed ear, from morn till night,
Soaring in his entranced flight,
5
Telling of all the bliss below;
Within thy sun-lit, leafy dells
The soul of solitude so dwells;
Is shed so on the cliffs around;
So rises in the eternal sound
Of living waters, rushing o'er
Their rock-bed, with a sea-like roar;
Such brightness fills the arched sky;
So quietly the hill-tops lie
In sunshine, and the wild-bird's glee
Rings from the rock-nursed service tree;
Such a delicious air is thrown,
Such a reposing calm is known
On these delightful hills,
That, as the dreaming poet lies
Drinking the splendour of the skies,
The sweetness which distils
From herbs and flowers—a thrilling sense
Steals o'er his musing heart, intense,
Passive, yet deep; the joy which dwells
Where nature frames her loneliest spells.
6
That peace had here her sojourn made,
And love and gladness pitched their tent,
When from the world, in woe, they went.
That each grey hill had reared its brow
In peaceful majesty, as now.
That thus these streams had traced their way
Through scenes as bright and pure as they;
That here no sadder strain was heard
Than the free note of wandering bird;
And man had here, in nature's eye,
Known not a pain, except, to die.
The sun still shone, the gales flew bland
Over this pleasant fairy-land,
Hidden by a spell—a place of light
Through the world's long and barbarous night.
Poets may dream—alas! that they
Should dream so wildly, even by day—
Poets may dream of love and truth,
Islands of bliss, and founts of youth:
But, from creation's earliest birth,
The curse of blood has raged on earth.
Since the first arm was raised to smite
The sword has travelled like a blight,
From age to age, from realm to realm,
Guiding the seaman's ready helm.
Go! question well—search far and near,
Bring me of earth a portion here.
Look! is not that exuberant soil
Fraught with the battle's bloody spoil?
Turn where thou may'st, go where thou wilt,
Thy foot is on a spot of guilt.
Should dream so wildly, even by day—
Poets may dream of love and truth,
Islands of bliss, and founts of youth:
7
The curse of blood has raged on earth.
Since the first arm was raised to smite
The sword has travelled like a blight,
From age to age, from realm to realm,
Guiding the seaman's ready helm.
Go! question well—search far and near,
Bring me of earth a portion here.
Look! is not that exuberant soil
Fraught with the battle's bloody spoil?
Turn where thou may'st, go where thou wilt,
Thy foot is on a spot of guilt.
The curse, the blight have not passed by
These dales now smiling in thine eye.
Of human ills an ample share,
Ravage, and dearth, domestic care,
They have not 'scaped. This region blest
Knew not of old its pleasant rest.
Grandeur there was, but all that cheers,
Is the fair work of recent years.
The Druid-stones are standing still
On the green top of many a hill;
The fruitful plough, with mining share,
At times, lays some old relic bare;
The Danish mell; the bolt of stone,
To a yet ruder people known;
And oft, as on some point which lies
In the deep hush of earth and skies,
In twilight, silence, and alone,
I've sate upon the Druid-stone,
The visions of those distant times,
Their barbarous manners, creeds and crimes,
Have come, joy's brightest thrill to raise,
For life's blest boon in happier days.
But not of them—rude race—I sing;
Nor yet of war, whose fiery wing,
From age to age, with waste and wail,
Drove from wide champaign, and low vale,
Warrior and woman: child and flock,
Here, to the fastness of the rock.
The husbandman has ceased to hear
Amidst his fields the cry of fear.
Waves the green corn—green pastures rise
Around,—the lark is in the skies.
The song a later time must trace
When faith here found a dwelling-place.
The tale is tinged with grief and scath,
But not in which man's cruel wrath,
Like fire of fiendish spirit shows,
But where, through terrors, tears, and woes,
He rises dauntless, pure, refined;
Not chill'd by self, nor fired by hate,
Love in his life,—and even his fate
A blessing on his kind.
These dales now smiling in thine eye.
Of human ills an ample share,
Ravage, and dearth, domestic care,
They have not 'scaped. This region blest
Knew not of old its pleasant rest.
Grandeur there was, but all that cheers,
Is the fair work of recent years.
8
On the green top of many a hill;
The fruitful plough, with mining share,
At times, lays some old relic bare;
The Danish mell; the bolt of stone,
To a yet ruder people known;
And oft, as on some point which lies
In the deep hush of earth and skies,
In twilight, silence, and alone,
I've sate upon the Druid-stone,
The visions of those distant times,
Their barbarous manners, creeds and crimes,
Have come, joy's brightest thrill to raise,
For life's blest boon in happier days.
But not of them—rude race—I sing;
Nor yet of war, whose fiery wing,
From age to age, with waste and wail,
Drove from wide champaign, and low vale,
Warrior and woman: child and flock,
Here, to the fastness of the rock.
The husbandman has ceased to hear
Amidst his fields the cry of fear.
9
Around,—the lark is in the skies.
The song a later time must trace
When faith here found a dwelling-place.
The tale is tinged with grief and scath,
But not in which man's cruel wrath,
Like fire of fiendish spirit shows,
But where, through terrors, tears, and woes,
He rises dauntless, pure, refined;
Not chill'd by self, nor fired by hate,
Love in his life,—and even his fate
A blessing on his kind.
| The Desolation of Eyam | |