 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
5
MONNOW
AN ODE
“Then Christian and Hopeful out-went them again, and
went till they came to a delicate Plain called Ease, where they
went with much content: but that plain was but narrow, so
they were quickly got over it.”
The road was weary; and beside the road,
Beyond the meadow quivering in the sun,
The crystal Monnow murmured as it flowed;
Monnow, the clearest of clear streams that run
By shingly reaches, where the cattle drink,
Through islets dense with shadowy burdock-leaves,
By high red scarps, with alders on the brink,
In glimmering pools;—a leaping troutlet weaves
Swift rings, that cross and circle, till the ripples sink.
Beyond the meadow quivering in the sun,
The crystal Monnow murmured as it flowed;
Monnow, the clearest of clear streams that run
By shingly reaches, where the cattle drink,
Through islets dense with shadowy burdock-leaves,
By high red scarps, with alders on the brink,
In glimmering pools;—a leaping troutlet weaves
Swift rings, that cross and circle, till the ripples sink.
It is the Spring! How swift her tripping feet
Tread these sequestered valleys, though she dare
Not venture yet, where winds blow shrill and fleet,
And all the down is washed with keener air;
Yet here each quickset hedge is green with gems;
The bold moist king-cup stares upon the sun
From oozy creeks; the sweetbriar's polished stems
Grow rough with crumpled tufts, and one by one,
The cowslips wave a crown of clustered diadems.
Tread these sequestered valleys, though she dare
6
And all the down is washed with keener air;
Yet here each quickset hedge is green with gems;
The bold moist king-cup stares upon the sun
From oozy creeks; the sweetbriar's polished stems
Grow rough with crumpled tufts, and one by one,
The cowslips wave a crown of clustered diadems.
Here will I lie a little, till the sun
Slope westward, and the vale be brimmed with shade,
And hear the bubbling waters briskly run,
Till every drowsy sound,—the clinking spade,
Lowing of cattle from the windy down,
Crying of cocks, the slowly-creaking wain,
In deep content the peaceful thought shall drown,
Ay, even the measured puffing of the train,
That hurries busy hearts from town to dusty town.
Slope westward, and the vale be brimmed with shade,
And hear the bubbling waters briskly run,
Till every drowsy sound,—the clinking spade,
Lowing of cattle from the windy down,
Crying of cocks, the slowly-creaking wain,
In deep content the peaceful thought shall drown,
Ay, even the measured puffing of the train,
That hurries busy hearts from town to dusty town.
Stream, stream, thou hast a spirit, hast a soul,
I doubt not—thou art real, as I to thee:
Neckan or Nymph, fond Fay or merry Troll,—
Some conscious self, some breathing mystery!
No copse but hath its Dryad, each dark stone
Its crouching Lemur: oh, the foolish dream!
We have driv'n far hence, for all their piteous moan,
Our faithful sprites:—but thou, swift-leaping stream,
O presence, and O voice, by me art surely known!
I doubt not—thou art real, as I to thee:
Neckan or Nymph, fond Fay or merry Troll,—
Some conscious self, some breathing mystery!
No copse but hath its Dryad, each dark stone
7
We have driv'n far hence, for all their piteous moan,
Our faithful sprites:—but thou, swift-leaping stream,
O presence, and O voice, by me art surely known!
I know thy secret! how thy shivering rill
Leaps high on Cusop bluff, among the stones:
Till swelled by Escley brook, from Vagar hill,
Then, where by Craswall Chapel sleep the bones
Of grey-frocked friars, is heard a larger sound:—
'Tis Olchon, dimpling o'er his stony bed,
Olchon, from many a rood of moorland ground,
From heathery dingles, bare, unvisited,—
Him too thou dost enfold, and onward thou art bound.
Leaps high on Cusop bluff, among the stones:
Till swelled by Escley brook, from Vagar hill,
Then, where by Craswall Chapel sleep the bones
Of grey-frocked friars, is heard a larger sound:—
'Tis Olchon, dimpling o'er his stony bed,
Olchon, from many a rood of moorland ground,
From heathery dingles, bare, unvisited,—
Him too thou dost enfold, and onward thou art bound.
Onward, aye onward;—fed by falling streams,
Still changing, yet eternally the same;—
And men are born beside thee, dream their dreams,
And leave the fading shadow of a name;
Still thou dost leap, and carve thy shelving shore,
And push each boulder further from its home,
Till, in the widening vale, thou hear'st the roar
Of wide-flung breakers, white with crested foam,
And drink'st the pungent brine along thy oozy floor.
Still changing, yet eternally the same;—
And men are born beside thee, dream their dreams,
And leave the fading shadow of a name;
Still thou dost leap, and carve thy shelving shore,
And push each boulder further from its home,
Till, in the widening vale, thou hear'st the roar
8
And drink'st the pungent brine along thy oozy floor.
What art thou? the philosopher shall say!
A tempered element, that suns distil,
In some convenient fissure bound to stray!
And one would claim thee for his grumbling mill,
And one would praise thee that thou may'st be drawn
Through fretted watercourse, and brimming leat,
To fill the blade, to quicken lea and lawn,
To make the grass rich and the pasture sweet,
And fill the dripping pitcher in the half-lit dawn.
A tempered element, that suns distil,
In some convenient fissure bound to stray!
And one would claim thee for his grumbling mill,
And one would praise thee that thou may'st be drawn
Through fretted watercourse, and brimming leat,
To fill the blade, to quicken lea and lawn,
To make the grass rich and the pasture sweet,
And fill the dripping pitcher in the half-lit dawn.
I blame not thee! all things of hourly birth
Are born for simple service; serve thou too!
But I that linger sadly on the earth,
Shortlived as fire, and fading as the dew,
Must dream thou hast a fairer destiny,
For him that marks thee truly: thou art meet
To gather healing from the gusty sky,
To give cool thoughts to travel-laden feet,
To serve unknown a secret ministry
Of honour and delight, and mysteries pure and sweet.
Are born for simple service; serve thou too!
But I that linger sadly on the earth,
Shortlived as fire, and fading as the dew,
Must dream thou hast a fairer destiny,
For him that marks thee truly: thou art meet
To gather healing from the gusty sky,
To give cool thoughts to travel-laden feet,
To serve unknown a secret ministry
Of honour and delight, and mysteries pure and sweet.
9
To me to-day thou speakest! let me hear
Thy certain voice, that hearing, I may taste
Thy sweet light-hearted rapture, void of fear
And envy, swift without inglorious haste.
Now that the level sunlight softly broods
On park and pasture, over field and fell,
And dims with haze the moorland solitudes,
I am attuned to listen, apt to spell
The solemn secret, hid in leagues of dreaming woods.
Thy certain voice, that hearing, I may taste
Thy sweet light-hearted rapture, void of fear
And envy, swift without inglorious haste.
Now that the level sunlight softly broods
On park and pasture, over field and fell,
And dims with haze the moorland solitudes,
I am attuned to listen, apt to spell
The solemn secret, hid in leagues of dreaming woods.
Ay, by thy tender pleading, gracious stream,
I am made patient: I am one with light
And glory; one with every sacred dream
Of pure delays and undiminished might.
One little step ascended nearer Heaven,
One vantage gained, that, howsoe'er I grieve,—
By din of fretful days dismayed and driven,—
Deep in my soul 'tis easier to believe
That all things are made new, all dark desires forgiven.
I am made patient: I am one with light
And glory; one with every sacred dream
Of pure delays and undiminished might.
One little step ascended nearer Heaven,
One vantage gained, that, howsoe'er I grieve,—
By din of fretful days dismayed and driven,—
Deep in my soul 'tis easier to believe
That all things are made new, all dark desires forgiven.
But see, the sun descends o'er Cusop hill,
And sudden shivers down the dingle run;
Cold is thy voice, inhospitable thrill,
That mock'st the smouldering embers of the sun.
The glory fades: my dreams are cold, are cold!
Homewards I hasten; yet within my heart
A treasure sleeps, not bought with any gold,
That shall outlast the striving and the smart
That weary hand and brain, where men are bought and sold.
And sudden shivers down the dingle run;
Cold is thy voice, inhospitable thrill,
That mock'st the smouldering embers of the sun.
The glory fades: my dreams are cold, are cold!
Homewards I hasten; yet within my heart
A treasure sleeps, not bought with any gold,
10
That weary hand and brain, where men are bought and sold.
Monnow, yet hear me, till my tale be done!
Speed all thy rushing waters, leap and dart,
Forget my mournful questioning: softly run!
Hast thou not spoken with me, heart to heart?
Such golden hours are few, as beacon-pyres
In high hill-places, that, one festal night,
Leap into roaring and tumultous fires,
To spell a people's joy from height to height
And bridge the jubilant tracts with infinite desires.
Speed all thy rushing waters, leap and dart,
Forget my mournful questioning: softly run!
Hast thou not spoken with me, heart to heart?
Such golden hours are few, as beacon-pyres
In high hill-places, that, one festal night,
Leap into roaring and tumultous fires,
To spell a people's joy from height to height
And bridge the jubilant tracts with infinite desires.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |