 | The Legend of Genevieve |  |
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THE ARBOUR.
Thoughts, that do often lie too deep for tears.
Wordsworth.
Wordsworth.
O, 'tis delightful, on a vernal eve,
Within the tranquil and embower'd recess
Of a green arbour to recline alone,
While gentle rains, descending from the sky,
Make pleasant music on the thirsty ground;
And there indulge that pleasing pensiveness,
That languor of the meditative mind,
Which broods upon the ocean of the past,
Slow sailing onwards. O, 'tis sadly sweet,
To hear the small drops splashing on the stems
Of succulent herbs, and on the opening buds,
While, gently murmuring past, the west wind sighs
To and fro, waving, in the twilight air,
The broad expanse of melancholy leaves;
To see the swallow, 'mid the falling shower,
Darting aloft, and wheeling 'mid the sky;
And buzzing home, the startled humble-bee,
Journeying, in mazy flight, from flower to flower.
Then doubly sweet, and doubly touching then,
If, from the distant light-green groves, be heard
Soft Music's dying, undulating fall;
As if, again, the Pagan deities,
Pan or Sylvanus, for one season more,
Had sought the empires of their ancient reign:
And, turning from the concord of sweet sounds,
Gaze on the lovely blossoms, pink and white,
Of pear and apple tree; the varied bloom
Of varied herb; the many-tinctured flowers,
Recumbent with the weight of dew, between
Their girdles of green leaves; the freshen'd coats
Of evergreens; the myrtle, and the box,
And cypress, mid whose darkly-clustering boughs
The blackbird sits.
Within the tranquil and embower'd recess
Of a green arbour to recline alone,
While gentle rains, descending from the sky,
Make pleasant music on the thirsty ground;
And there indulge that pleasing pensiveness,
That languor of the meditative mind,
Which broods upon the ocean of the past,
Slow sailing onwards. O, 'tis sadly sweet,
To hear the small drops splashing on the stems
Of succulent herbs, and on the opening buds,
While, gently murmuring past, the west wind sighs
To and fro, waving, in the twilight air,
220
To see the swallow, 'mid the falling shower,
Darting aloft, and wheeling 'mid the sky;
And buzzing home, the startled humble-bee,
Journeying, in mazy flight, from flower to flower.
Then doubly sweet, and doubly touching then,
If, from the distant light-green groves, be heard
Soft Music's dying, undulating fall;
As if, again, the Pagan deities,
Pan or Sylvanus, for one season more,
Had sought the empires of their ancient reign:
And, turning from the concord of sweet sounds,
Gaze on the lovely blossoms, pink and white,
Of pear and apple tree; the varied bloom
Of varied herb; the many-tinctured flowers,
Recumbent with the weight of dew, between
Their girdles of green leaves; the freshen'd coats
Of evergreens; the myrtle, and the box,
And cypress, mid whose darkly-clustering boughs
The blackbird sits.
Such melancholy eves
Have nameless charms for me, too deep for words
To utter and unbosom. Feelings dwell
Deep, in theinner shrine of human hearts,
And shelter'd from the rude and passing shocks
Of common life, that need the electric spark
To fire them,—and at once the soul is flame!
Have nameless charms for me, too deep for words
To utter and unbosom. Feelings dwell
Deep, in theinner shrine of human hearts,
And shelter'd from the rude and passing shocks
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To fire them,—and at once the soul is flame!
To him, who sojourns 'mid the busy crowd
Of cities, where contention's jar is heard
For ever dissonant; whose pathway lies
'Mid tumult, yet whose youth hath pass'd away,—
His earlier, better years—in privacy,
Sequester'd from the rude shocks of the world,
'Mid hills, and dales, and woods, and quiet lawns,
And streamy glens, and pastoral dells; to him
Who, every eve, listed the blackbird's song,
And, every morn, beheld the speckled lark
Ascend to greet the sun; to him an hour
Like this, so pregnant with deep-seated thought,
Thought kindled at the shrine of earlier years,
Long quench'd, is more delightful than the mirth
Of smiling faces, 'mid the perfumed vaults
Of echoing halls majestic, where the pride
Of Art emblazon'd forth, extinguishes
The glow of Nature in the human heart!
Of cities, where contention's jar is heard
For ever dissonant; whose pathway lies
'Mid tumult, yet whose youth hath pass'd away,—
His earlier, better years—in privacy,
Sequester'd from the rude shocks of the world,
'Mid hills, and dales, and woods, and quiet lawns,
And streamy glens, and pastoral dells; to him
Who, every eve, listed the blackbird's song,
And, every morn, beheld the speckled lark
Ascend to greet the sun; to him an hour
Like this, so pregnant with deep-seated thought,
Thought kindled at the shrine of earlier years,
Long quench'd, is more delightful than the mirth
Of smiling faces, 'mid the perfumed vaults
Of echoing halls majestic, where the pride
Of Art emblazon'd forth, extinguishes
The glow of Nature in the human heart!
Oh! not the most intense of present joys
Can match the far-departed loveliness
Of vanish'd landscapes, when the wizard Time
Hath spread o'er all their clefts and roughnesses
His twilight mantle, and the spirit broods
On what alone is beautiful, and soft,
And pure—as summer waters in the sun
Sleeping, when not a cloud is on the sky.
Oh! not the gorgeous splendour that invests
The evening cloud, when, from his western tent,
Resplendent glows the setting sun, and beams
O'er earth, and sea, and sky, his glorious light,
As if to shew us, with derisive smiles,
How sweet a paradise this world can be—
Oh! not the mid-day brightness, nor the blush
Of crimson morning, have the deep delight,
The state, the grandeur, the impressiveness
Of this most intellectual hour, which draws
The feelings to a focus, and restores—
As native music to a wanderer's ear,
In foreign climes afar beyond the sea—
The lightening vista of departed years.
Can match the far-departed loveliness
Of vanish'd landscapes, when the wizard Time
Hath spread o'er all their clefts and roughnesses
His twilight mantle, and the spirit broods
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And pure—as summer waters in the sun
Sleeping, when not a cloud is on the sky.
Oh! not the gorgeous splendour that invests
The evening cloud, when, from his western tent,
Resplendent glows the setting sun, and beams
O'er earth, and sea, and sky, his glorious light,
As if to shew us, with derisive smiles,
How sweet a paradise this world can be—
Oh! not the mid-day brightness, nor the blush
Of crimson morning, have the deep delight,
The state, the grandeur, the impressiveness
Of this most intellectual hour, which draws
The feelings to a focus, and restores—
As native music to a wanderer's ear,
In foreign climes afar beyond the sea—
The lightening vista of departed years.
There runs a current through the ocean depths,
A current through the ocean of the soul,
Made up of uncommunicable thoughts—
It is in vain, we cannot utter them—
Like lava in the bowels of the hill,
They dwell unseen—like lightning in the cloud;
They hold no concourse with the passing thoughts
Of common being, nor communion hold
With what is passing round us; like the rays
Of broken sunshine, they illume our paths;
Like relics snatch'd from paradise, they rise
Before us, telling us of something fair,
Which is not, but which hath been; to the soul
They are familiar, but we know not where,
Nor when, their first acquaintance-ship began:
All speak a language soothing to the heart,
Even from their voiceless silence; the thin smoke,
Bluely ascending from the cottage roof,
Through the still air; the sombre, quiet sky;
The shelving hills, whose green acclivities
Rise in the distance; the umbrageous woods,
Forming a canopy of gloom, beneath
Whose ample cope the shelter'd cattle rest;
The paradise of blossom round; the tints
Of freshen'd flowers; the dark and dewy ground;
The fanning of the zephyr, in its path,
Telling of perfume; the melodious hymn
Of birds amid the boughs; and, far away,
Scarce heard, the murmurs of the cataract.
A current through the ocean of the soul,
Made up of uncommunicable thoughts—
It is in vain, we cannot utter them—
Like lava in the bowels of the hill,
They dwell unseen—like lightning in the cloud;
They hold no concourse with the passing thoughts
Of common being, nor communion hold
223
Of broken sunshine, they illume our paths;
Like relics snatch'd from paradise, they rise
Before us, telling us of something fair,
Which is not, but which hath been; to the soul
They are familiar, but we know not where,
Nor when, their first acquaintance-ship began:
All speak a language soothing to the heart,
Even from their voiceless silence; the thin smoke,
Bluely ascending from the cottage roof,
Through the still air; the sombre, quiet sky;
The shelving hills, whose green acclivities
Rise in the distance; the umbrageous woods,
Forming a canopy of gloom, beneath
Whose ample cope the shelter'd cattle rest;
The paradise of blossom round; the tints
Of freshen'd flowers; the dark and dewy ground;
The fanning of the zephyr, in its path,
Telling of perfume; the melodious hymn
Of birds amid the boughs; and, far away,
Scarce heard, the murmurs of the cataract.
| The Legend of Genevieve | |