NATURE
POEMS
Fourteen
Sonnets
AS
slow I climb the cliff's ascending
side,
Much musing on the track of
terror past
When o'er the dark wave rode
the howling blast
Pleas'd I look back, and view
the tranquil tide,
That laves the pebbled shore;
and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the grey
battlement,
And yon forsaken tow'r, that
time has rent.
The lifted oar far off with
silver gleam
Is touch'd and the hush'd
billows seem to sleep.
Sooth'd by the scene, ev'n
thus on sorrow's breast
A kindred stillness steals
and bids her rest;
Whilst the weak winds that
sigh along the deep,
The ear, like lullabies of
pity, meet,
Singing the saddest notes
of farewell sweet.
Bamborough Castle.
YE
holy tow'rs, that crown the
azure deep,
Still may ye shade the wave-worn
rock sublime,
Though, hurrying silent by,
relentless Time
Assail you, and the winter
Whirlwind's sweep!
For far from blazing Grandeur's
crowded halls,
Here Charity hath fix'd her
chosen seat,
Oft listening tearful when
the wild winds beat,
With hollow bodings, round
your ancient walls;
And Pity's self, at the dark
stormy hour
Of Midnight, when the Moon
is hid on high,
Keeps her lone watch upon
the topmost tow'r,
And turns her ear to each
expiring cry;
Blest if her aid some fainting
wretch might save,
And snatch him speechless
from the whelming wave.
Thou, whose stern command
and precepts pure...
O
THOU, whose stern command
and precepts pure
(Tho' agony in every vein
should start,
And slowly drain the blood-drops
from the heart)
Have bade the patient spirit
still endure;
Thou, who to sorrow hast a
beauty lent,
On the dark brow, with resolution
clad,
Illumining the dreary traces
sad,
Like the cold taper on a monument;
O firm Philosophy! display
the tide
Of human misery, and oft relate
How silent sinking in the
storms of fate,
The brave and good have bow'd
their head and died.
So taught by Thee, some solace
I may find,
Remembering the sorrows of
mankind.
To the River Wenbeck.
AS
slowly wanders thy forsaken
stream,
Wenbeck! the mossy-scatter'd
rocks among,
In fancy's ear still making
plaintive song
To the dark woods above: ah!
sure I seem
To meet some friendly Genius
in the gloom,
And in each breeze a pitying
voice I hear
Like sorrow's sighs upon misfortune's
tomb.
Ah! soothing are your quiet
scenes -- the tear
Of him who passes weary on
his way
Shall thank you, as he turns
to bid adieu:
Onward a cheerless pilgrim
he may stray,
Yet oft as musing memory shall
review
The scenes that cheer'd his
path with fairer ray,
Delightful haunts, he will
remember you.
To
the River Tweed.
O
TWEED! a stranger, that with
wand'ring feet
O'er hill and dale has journey'd
many a mile,
(If so his weary thoughts
he might beguile)
Delighted turns thy beauteous
scenes to greet.
The waving branches that romantick
bend
O'er thy tall banks, a soothing
charm bestow;
The murmurs of thy wand'ring
wave below
Seem to his ear the pity of
a friend.
Delightful stream! tho' now
along thy shore,
When spring returns in all
her wonted pride,
The shepherd's distant pipe
is heard no more,
Yet here with pensive peace
could I abide,
Far from the stormy world's
tumultuous roar,
To muse upon thy banks at
eventide.
Evening, as slow thy placid
shades descend...
EVENING,
as slow thy placid shades
descend,
Veiling with gentlest hush
the landscape still,
The lonely battlement, and
farthest hill
And wood; I think of those
that have no friend;
Who now perhaps, by melancholy
led,
From the broad blaze of day,
where pleasure flaunts,
Retiring, wander 'mid thy
lonely haunts
Unseen; and mark the tints
that o'er thy bed
Hang lovely, oft to musing
fancy's eye
Presenting fairy vales, where
the tir'd mind
Might rest, beyond the murmurs
of mankind,
Nor hear the hourly moans
of misery.
Ah! beauteous views, that
hope's fair gleams the while,
Should smile like you, and
perish as thy smile!
At a Village in Scotland.
O
NORTH! as thy romantic vales
I leave,
And bid farewell to each retiring
hill,
Where thoughtful fancy seems
to linger still,
Tracing the broad bright landscape;
much I grieve
That mingled with the toiling
croud, no more
I shall return, your varied
views to mark,
Of rocks winding wild, and
mountains hoar,
Or castle gleaming on the
distant steep.
Yet not the less I pray your
charms may last,
And many a soften'd image
of the past
Pensive combine; and bid remembrance
keep
To cheer me with the thought
of pleasure flown,
When I am wand'ring on my
way alone.
To the River Itchin, near
Winton.
ITCHIN,
when I behold thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and
thy silver breast,
On which the self-same tints
still seem to rest,
Why feels my heart the shiv'ring
sense of pain?
Is it, that many a summer's
day has past
Since, in life's morn, I carol'd
on thy side?
Is it, that oft, since then,
my heart has sigh'd,
As Youth, and Hope's delusive
gleams, flew fast?
Is it that those, who circled
on thy shore,
Companions of my youth, now
meet now more?
Whate'er the cause, upon thy
banks I bend
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace
at my heart,
As at the meeting of some
long-lost friend,
From whom, in happier hours,
we wept to part.
O Poverty! though from
thy haggard eye...
O
POVERTY! though from thy haggard
eye,
Thy cheerless mein, of every
charm bereft,
Thy brow, that hope's last
traces long have left,
Vain Fortune's feeble sons
with terror fly;
Thy rugged paths with pleasure
I attend; --
For Fancy, that with fairest
dreams can bless;
And Patience, in the Pall
of Wretchedness,
Sad-smiling, as the ruthless
storms descend;
And Piety, forgiving every
wrong,
And meek Content, whose griefs
no more rebel;
And Genius, warbling sweet
her saddest song;
And Pity, list'ning to the
poor man's knell,
Long banish'd from the world's
insulting throng;
With Thee, and loveliest Melancholy,
dwell.
On Dover Cliffs.
ON
these white cliffs, that calm
above the flood
Rear their o'er-shadowing
heads, and at their feet
Scarce hear the surge that
has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer
has stood;
And, whilst the lifted murmur
met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows
the still Eve
Sail'd slow, has thought of
all his heart must leave
To-morrow -- of the friends
he lov'd most dear, --
Of social scenes, from which
he wept to part: --
But if, like me, he knew how
fruitless all
The thoughts, that would full
fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings
of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and
unhearing tide,
The World his country, and
his God his guide.
Written at Ostend.
HOW
sweet the tuneful bells' responsive
peal!
As when, at opening morn,
the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling
sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their
force I feel!
And hark! with lessening cadence
now they fall,
And now, along the white and
level tide,
They fling their melancholy
music wide,
Bidding me many a tender thought
recall
Of summer-days, and those
delightful years,
When by my native streams,
in life's fair prime,
The mournful magic of their
mingling chime
First wak'd my wond'ring childhood
into tears!
But seeming now, when all
those days are o'er,
The sounds of joy, once heard,
and heard no more.
Written at a Convent.
IF
chance some pensive stranger,
hither led,
His bosom glowing from majestic
views,
The gorgeous dome, or the
proud landscape's hues,
Should ask who sleeps beneath
this lowly bed --
'Tis poor Matilda! To the
cloister'd scene,
A mourner, beauteous and unknown,
she came,
To shed her tears unseen;
and quench the flame
Of fruitless love: yet was
her look serene
As the pale midnight on the
moon-light isle --
Her voice was soft, which
e'en a charm could lend,
Like that which spoke of a
departed friend,
And a meek sadness sat upon
her smile!
Now here remov'd from ev'ry
human ill,
Her woes are buried, and her
heart is still.
Time! who know'st a lenient
hand to lay...
O
TIME! who know'st a lenient
hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound,
and slowly thence,
(Lulling to sad repose the
weary sense)
Stealest the long-forgotten
pang away;
On Thee I rest my only hope
at last,
And think, when thou hast
dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all
my soul held dear,
I may look back on many a
sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening
with a smile --
As some poor bird, at day's
departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeam, of the
transient shower
Forgetful, tho' its wings
are wet the while: --
Yet ah! how much must that
poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and
thee alone, a cure!
Summer Wind
IT
is a sultry day; the sun has
drank
The dew that lay upon the
morning grass,
There is no rustling in the
lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling,
and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent,
save the faint
And interrupted murmur of
the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers,
and then again
Instantly on the wing. The
plants around
Feel the too potent fervors;
the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves;
the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines
its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine
tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods,
silent and stern,
As if the scortching heat
and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved.
Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the
brazen heaven;--
Their bases on the mountains--their
white tops
Shining in the far ether--fire
the air
With a reflected radiance,
and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For
me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where
the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses
of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and
I woo the wind
That still delays its coming.
Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit
of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon
the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that
in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder
woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud
top, and now,
Among the nearer groves, chesnut
and oak
Are tossing their green boughs
about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow
runs in wives!
The deep distressful silence
of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of
unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is
come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms
from the shrubs,
And bearing on the fragrance;
and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling
of young boughs,
And soun of swaying branches,
and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All
the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath;
a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders
of the brook,
Nod gaily to each other; glossy
leaves
Are twinkling in the sun,
as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver
waters break
Into small waves and sparkle
as he comes.
The Constellations
O
CONSTELLATIONS of the early
night,
That sparkled brighter as
the twilight died,
And made the darkness glorious!
I have seen
Your rays grow dim upon the
horizon's edge,
And sink behind the mountains.
I have seen
The great Orion, with his
jewelled belt,
That large-limbed warrior
of the skies, go down
Into the gloom. Beside him
sank a crowd
Of shining ones. I look in
vain to find
The group of sister-stars,
which mothers love
To show their wondering babes,
the gentle Seven.
Along the desert space mine
eyes in vain
Seek the resplendent cressets
which the Twins
Uplifted in their ever-youthful
hands.
The streaming tresses of the
Egyptian Queen
Spangle the heavens no more.
The Virgin trails
No more her glittering garments
through the blue.
Gone! all are gone! and the
forsaken Night,
With all her winds, in all
her dreary wastes,
Sighs that they shine upon
her face no more.
No only here and there a little
star
Looks forth alone. Ah me!
I know them not,
Those dim successors of the
numberless host
That filled the heavenly fields,
and flung to earth
Their guivering fires. And
now the middle watch
Betwixt the eve and morn is
past, and still
The darkness gains upon the
sky, and still
It closes round my way. Shall,
then, the Night,
Grow starless in her later
hours? Have these
No train of flaming watchers,
that shall mark
Their coming and farewell?
O Sons of Light!
Have ye then left me ere the
dawn of day
To grope along my journey
sad and faint?
Thus I complained, and from
the darkness round
A voice replied--was it indeed
a voice,
Or seeming accents of a waking
dream
Heard by the inner ear? But
thus it said:
O Traveller of the Night!
thine eyes are dim
With watching; and the mists,
that chill the vale
Down which thy feet are passing,
hide from view
The ever-burning stars. It
is thy sight
That is so dark, and not the
heaens. Thine eyes,
Were they but clear, would
see a fiery host
Above thee; Hercules, with
flashing mace,
The Lyre with silver cords,
the Swan uppoised
On gleaming wings, the Dolphin
gliding on
With glistening scales, and
that poetic steed,
With beamy mane, whose hoof
struck out from earth
The fount of Hippocrene, and
many more,
Fair clustered splendors,
with whose rays the Night
Shall close her march in glory,
ere she yield,
To the young Day, the great
earth steeped in dew.
So spake the monitor, and
I perceived
How vain were my repinings,
and my thought
Went backward to the vanished
years and all
The good and great who came
and passed with them,
And knew that ever would the
years to come
Bring with them, in their
course, the good and great,
Lights of the world, though,
to my clouded sight,
Their rays might seem but
dim, or reach me not.
Auntum
THE
thistledown's flying, though
the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying,
now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain
now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting
it bubbles red-hot.
The
ground parched and cracked
is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked
is, bent dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter
like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung
from weed unto weed.
Hill-tops
like hot iron glitter bright
in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying
burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground,
liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity
there.
I Am!
I
AM! yet what I am none cares
or knows,
My friends forsake me like
a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of
my woes,
They rise and vanish, an oblivious
host,
Like shades in love and death's
oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with
shadows tost
Into
the nothingness of scorn and
noise,
Into the living sea of waking
dreams,
Where there is neither sense
of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of
my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest--that
I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger
than the rest.
I
long for scenes where man
has never trod;
A place where woman never
smil'd or wept;
There to abide with my creator,
God,
And sleep as I in childhood
sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled
where I lie;
The grass below--above the
vaulted sky.
Summer
COME
we to the summer, to the summer
we will come,
For the woods are full of
bluebells and the hedges full
of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak
a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds
in my true lover's breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn
a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover
with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face,
I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness
upon her lovely breast.
The
clock-a-clay is creeping on
the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling
the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding
on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where
I will lean upon my lover's
breast;
I'll lean upon her breast
and I'll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o'sleep
for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I
daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is
broken in the heat of the
day.
The Skylark
THE
rolls and harrows lie at rest
beside
The battered road; and spreading
far and wide
Above the russet clods, the
corn is seen
Sprouting its spiry points
of tender green,
Where squats the hare, to
terrors wide awake,
Like some brown clod the harrows
failed to break.
Opening their golden caskets
to the sun,
The buttercups make schoolboys
eager run,
To see who shall be first
to pluck the prize--
Up from their hurry, see,
the skylark flies,
And o'er her half-formed nest,
with happy wings
Winnows the air, till in the
cloud she sings,
Then hangs a dust-spot in
the sunny skies,
And drops, and drops, till
in her nest she lies,
Which they unheeded passed--not
dreaming then
That birds which flew so high
would drop again
To nests upon the ground,
which anything
May come at to destroy. Had
they the wing
Like such a bird, themselves
would be too proud,
And build on nothing but a
passing cloud!
As free from danger as the
heavens are free
From pain and toil, there
would they build and be,
And sail about the world to
scenes unheard
Of and unseen--Oh, were they
but a bird!
So think they, while they
listen to its song,
And smile and fancy and so
pass along;
While its low nest, moist
with the dews of morn,
Lies safely, with the leveret,
in the corn.
To Mary
I
SLEEP with thee, and wake
with thee,
And yet thou art not there;
I fill my arms with thoughts
of thee,
And press the common air.
Thy eyes are gazing upon mine
When thou art out of sight;
My lips are always touching
thine
At morning, noon, and night.
I
think and speak of other things
To keep my mind at rest,
But still to thee my memory
clings
Like love in woman's breast.
I hide it from the world's
wide eye
And think and speak contrary,
But soft the wind comes from
the sky
And whispers tales of Mary.
The
night-wind whispers in my
ear,
The moon shines on my face;
The burden still of chilling
fear
I find in every place.
The breeze is whispering in
the bush,
And the leaves fall from the
tree,
All sighing on, and will not
hush,
Some pleasant tales of thee.
The Winter's Spring
THE
winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts
their own
The winter is the spring.
No flowers to please--no bees
to hum--
The coming spring's already
come.
I
never want the Christmas rose
To come before its time;
The seasons, each as God bestows,
Are simple and sublime.
I love to see the snowstorm
hing;
'Tis but the winter garb of
spring.
I
never want the grass to bloom:
The snowstorm's best in white.
I love to see the tempest
come
And love its piercing light.
The dazzled eyes that love
to cling
O'er snow-white meadows sees
the spring.
I
love the snow, the crumpling
snow
That hangs on everything,
It covers everything below
Like white dove's brooding
wing,
A landscape to the aching
sight,
A vast expanse of dazzling
light.
It
is the foliage of the woods
That winters bring--the dress,
White Easter of the year in
bud,
That makes the winter Spring.
The frost and snow his posies
bring,
Nature's white spurts of the
spring.
Schoolboys in Winter
THE
schoolboys still their morning
ramble take
To neighboring village school
with playing speed,
Loitering with passtime's
leisure till they quake,
Oft looking up the wild-geese
droves to heed,
Watching the letters which
their journeys make;
Or plucking haws on which
their fieldfares feed,
And hips and sloes; and on
each shallow lake
Making glib slides, where
they like shadows go
Till some fresh passtimes
in their minds awake.
Then off they start anew and
hasty blow
Their numbed and clumpsing
fingers till they glow;
Then races with their shadows
wildly run
That stride huge giants o'er
the shining snow
In the pale splendour of the
winter sun.
Meet Me in the Green Glen
LOVE,
meet me in the green glen,
Beside the tall elm-tree,
Where the sweetbriar smells
so sweet agen;
There come with me.
Meet me in the green glen.
Meet
me at the sunset
Down in the green glen,
Where we've often met
By hawthorn-tree and foxes'
den,
Meet me in the green glen.
Meet
me in the green glen,
By sweetbriar bushes there;
Meet me by your own sen,
Where the wild thyme blossoms
fair.
Meet me in the green glen.
Meet
me by the sweetbriar,
By the mole-hill swelling
there;
When the west glows like a
fire
God's crimson bed is there.
Meet me in the green glen.
The Badger
WHEN
midnight comes a host of dogs
and men
Go out and track the badger
to his den,
And put a sack within the
hole and lie
Till the old grunting badger
passes by.
He comes and hears - they
let the strongest loose.
The old fox hears the noise
and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries
from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded
buzzes by.
They get a forkéd stick
to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take
him to the town,
And bait him all the day with
many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright
the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at
all he meets:
They shout and hollo down
the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the
loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their
very door.
The frequent stone is hurled
wher'er they go;
When badgers fight, then everyone's
a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged
to join the fray;
The badger turns and drives
them all away.
Though scarcely half as big,
demure and small,
He fights with dogs for hours
and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage
in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet
and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match
and waxes cold
The badger grins and never
leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows
at their heels
And bites them through - the
drunkard swears and reels.
The frighted women take the
boys away,
The blackguard laughs and
hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods,
an awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly
stop the chase.
He turns again and drives
the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in
noises loud.
He drives away and beats them
every one,
And then they loose them all
and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked
by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and
drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten
out he lies
And leaves his hold and cackles,
groans and dies.
To Nature
It
may indeed be fantasy when
I
Essay to draw from all created
things
Deep, heartfelt, inward joy
that closely clings;
And trace in leaves and flowers
that round me lie
Lessons of love and earnest
piety.
So let it be; and if the wide
world rings
In mock of this belief, it
brings
Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain
perplexity.
So will I build my altar in
the fields,
And the blue sky my fretted
dome shall be,
And the sweet fragrance that
the wild flower yields
Shall be the incense I will
yield to Thee,
Thee only God! and thou shalt
not despise
Even me, the priest of this
poor sacrifice.
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