LONE Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they
But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, way- lay
The rising sun, and on the plains descend: Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May
Shall soon behold this border thickly set With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers; Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger Spring,
And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER.
With a selection from the Poems of Anne, Countess of Winchilsea; and extracts of
similar character from other Writers; transcribed by a female friend.
LADY! I rifled a Parnassian Cave
(But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore; And culled, from sundry beds, a lucid store Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave The azure brooks where Dian joys to lave Her spotless limbs; and ventured to explore Dim shades-for reliques, upon Lethe's shore, Cast up at random by the sullen wave.
LADY! the songs of Spring were in the grove While I was shaping beds for winter flowers: While I was planting green unfading bowers, And shrubs-to hang upon the warm alcove, And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy wove The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
I gave this paradise for winter hours, A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines, Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom Or of high gladness you shall hither bring: And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
Be gracious as the music and the bloom And all the mighty ravishment of spring.
Which only Poets know; 'twas rightly said THERE is a pleasure in poetic pains
Whom could the Muses else allure to tread Their smoothest paths, to wear their ligh chains?
When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains, How oft the malice of one luckless word Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board, Haunts him belated on the silent plains! Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear, At last, of hindrance and obscurity, Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn; Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear The moment it has left the virgin's eye, Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn.
THE Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art bright!"
Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread And penetrated all with tender light,
She cast away, and showed her fulgent head Uncovered; dazzling the Beholder's sight
As if to vindicate her beauty's right,
Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown aside, Went floating from her, darkening as it went: And a huge mass, to bury or to hide, Who meekly yields, and is obscured-content Approached this glory of the firmament; With one calm triumph of a modest pride.
WHEN haughty expectations prostrate lie, And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing, Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring Mature release, in fair society
Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try; Like these frail snow-drops that together cling. And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by.
Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand
The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate; And so the bright immortal Theban band, Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command Might overwhelm, but could not separate!
WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,
"How silently, and with how wan a face!" Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh Which they would stifle, move at such a pace! The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase, Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be: And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven, Should sally forth, to keep thee company, Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven;
But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given, Queen both for beauty and for majesty.
EVEN as a dragon's eye that feels the stress Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless: The lake below reflects it not; the sky, Muffled in clouds, affords no company To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing Which sends so far its melancholy light, Perhaps are seated in domestic ring A gay society with faces bright, Conversing, reading, laughing-or they sing, While hearts and voices in the song unite.
THE stars are mansions built by Nature's hand And, haply, there the spirits of the blest Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest; Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand, A habitation marvellously planned, For life to occupy in love and rest; All that we see-is dome, or vault, or nest, Or fortress, reared at Nature's sage command. Glad thought for every season! but the Spring Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart, 'Mid songs of birds, and insects murmuring; And while the youthful year's prolific art--
Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower-was fashioning Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part.
DESPONDING Father! mark this altered bougn, So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, Or moist with dews; what more unsightly now, Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if formed, Knits not o'er that discolouring and decay Invisible? yet Spring her genial brow As false to expectation. Nor fret thou At like unlovely process in the May Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall Of human life: a Stripling's graces blow, (Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call : In all men, sinful is it to be slow
To hope-in Parents, sinful above all.
CAPTIVITY.-MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. "As the cold aspect of a sunless way Strikes through the Traveller's frame with deadlier chill,
Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill, Or shining slope where he must never stray; Glistening with unparticipated ray, So joys, remembered without wish or will, Sharpen the keenest edge of present ill,- Just Heaven, contract the compass of my mind On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay. Quench those felicities whose light I find To fit proportion with my altered state! Reflected in my bosom all too late!- O be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait And, like mine eyes that stream with sorrow, blind!"
ST CATHERINE OF LEDBURY.
WHEN human touch (as monkish books attest) Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury bells Broke forth in concert flung adown the dells, And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy crest; Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady blest To rapture! Mabel listened at the side Of her loved mistress: soon the music died, And Catherine said, Here I set up my rest. Warned in a dream, the Wanderer long had sought
A home that by such miracle of sound Must be revealed:-she heard it now, or felt The deep, deep joy of a confiding thought; And there, a saintly Anchoress, she dwelt Till she exchanged for heaven that happy round.
Jo chase for ever, on aërial grounds! XXX.
FOUR fiery steeds, impatient of the rein Whirled us o'er sunless ground beneath a sky as void of sunshine, when, from that wide plain,
Clear tops of far-off mountains we descry, Like a Sierra of cerulean Spain,
All light and lustre. Did no heart reply? Yes, there was One-for One, asunder fly The thousand links of that ethereal chain; And green vales open out, with grove and field, And the fair front of many a happy Home; Such tempting spots as into vision come While Soldiers, weary of the arms they wield And sick at heart of strifeful Christendom, Gaze on the moon by parting clouds revealed.
BROOK! whose society the Poet seeks, Intent his wasted spirits to renew And whom the curious Painter doth pursue Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks; If wish were mine some type of thee to view, Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, Channels for tears; no Naiad shouldst thou be,-
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs:
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, And hath bestowed on thee a safer good; Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.
COMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM. DOGMATIC Teachers, of the snow-white fur! Ye wrangling Schoolmen, of the scarlet hood! Who, with a keenness not to be withstood, Press the point home, or falter and demur, Checked in your course by many a teasing burr; These natural council-seats your acrid blood Might cool-and, as the Genius of the flood Stoops willingly to animate and spur
Each lighter function slumbering in the brain, Yon eddying balls of foam, these arrowy gleams That o'er the pavement of the surging streams Welter and flash, a synod might detain With subtle speculations, haply vain, But surely less so than your far-fetched themes!
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1802. EARTH has not any thing to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky: All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep : And all that mighty heart is lying still!
If these brief Records, by the Muses' art Produced as lonely Nature or the strife
* Waters (as Mr Westall informs us in th letter-press prefixed to his admirable views) art invariably found to flow through these caverns
That animates the scenes of public life * Inspired, may in their leisure claim a part; And if these Transcripts of the private heart Have gained a sanction from thy falling tears; Then I repent not. But my soul hath fears Breathed from eternity (for as a dart Cleaves the blank air, Life flies; now every day Is but a glimmering spoke in the swift wheel Of the revolving week. Away, away, All fitful cares, all transitory zeal!
So timely Grace the immortal wing may heal, And honour rest upon the senseless clay.
THOUGH the bold wings of Poesy affect The clouds, and wheel around the mountain tops
Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops Well pleased to skim the plain with wild flowers deckt,
Or muse in solemn grove whose shades protect The lingering dew-there steals along, or stops Watching the least small bird that round her hops,
Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. Her functions are they therefore less divine, Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent Her simplest fancies? Should that fear be thine, Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present One offering, kneel before her modest shrine, With brow in penitential sorrow bent!
Not while-to aid the spirit of the place- The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough;
But in plain daylight :-She, too, at my side, Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, Maintains inviolate its slightest vow! Sweet Fancy! other gifts must I receive; Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim;
And to that brow life's morning wreath restore ; Let her be comprehended in the frame Of these illusions, or they please no more.
RECOLLECTION OF THE PORTRAIT OF KING HENRY EIGHTH, TRINITY LODGE, CAMBRIDGE.
THE imperial Stature, the colossal stride, Are yet before me; yet do I behold The broad full visage, chest of amplest mould, The vestments 'broidered with barbaric pride: And lo! a poniard, at the Monarch's side, Hangs ready to be grasped in sympathy With the keen threatenings of that fulgent eye, Below the white-rimmed bonnet, far-descried. Who trembles now at thy capricious mood? 'Mid those surrounding Worthies, haughty King,
We rather think, with grateful mind sedate, Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of good, How Providence educeth, from the spring
Which neither force shall check nor time abate V.
ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY (GEORGE THE THIRD).
WARD of the LAW!-dread Shadow of a King Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room Darkness as thick as life o'er life could fling, Save haply for some feeble glimmering Of Faith and Hope-if thou, by nature's doom Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb, Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling, When thankfulness were best?-Fresh-flowing
Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh Yield to such after-thought the sole reply Which justly it can claim. The Nation hears In this deep knell, silent for threescore years, An unexampled voice of awful memory!
FAME tells of groves-from England far away- *Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill And modulate, with subtle reach of skill Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying lay; Such bold report I venture to gainsay: For I have heard the quire of Richmond hill Chanting, with indefatigable bill,
Strains that recalled to mind a distant day; When, haply under shade of that same wood, And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars Plied steadily between those willowy shores, The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons stood- Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood, Ye heavenly Birds! to your Progenitors.
A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE.
WHERE holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, Is marked by no distinguishable line; The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends, Garden, and that Domain where kindred, friends,
Take from her brow the withering flowers of And neighbours rest together, here confound
* This line alludes to Sonnets which will be found in another Class.
Their several features, mingled like the sound Of many waters, or as evening blends
* Wallae. is the country alluded to.
With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower,
Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; And while those lofty poplars gently wave Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of eternity,
To saints accorded in their mortal hour.
COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IN NORTH WALES.
THROUGH shattered galleries,'mid roofless halls, Wandering with timid footsteps oft betrayed, The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid Old Time, though he, gentlest among the Thralls Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid His lenient touches, soft as light that falls, From the wan Moon, upon the towers and walls, Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade. Relic of Kings! Wreck of forgotten wars, To winds abandoned and the prying stars, Time loves Thee! at his call the Seasons twine Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar; And, though past pomp no changes can restore, A soothing recompence, his gift, is thine!
TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P.
Composed in the Grounds of Plass Newidd, near Llangollen, 1824.
A STREAM, to mingle with your favourite Dee, Along the VALE OF MEDITATION* flows; So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see In Nature's face the expression of repose; Or haply there some pious hermit chose To live and die, the peace of heaven his aim ; To whom the wild sequestered region owes, At this late day, its sanctifying name. GLYN CAFAILLGAROCH, in the Cambrian tongue, In ours, the VALE OF FRIENDSHIP, let this spot Be named; where, faithful to a low-roofed Cot, On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long; Sisters in love, a love allowed to climb, Even on this earth, above the reach of Time!
IN THE WOODS OF RYDAL.
WILD Redbreast! hadst thou at Jemima's lip Pecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love might say, A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip Its glistening dews; but hallowed is the clay Which the Muse warms; and I, whose head is grey,
Am not unworthy of thy fellowship: Nor could I let one thought-one motion-slip That might thy sylvan confidence betray. For are we not all His without whose care Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to the ground? Who gives his Angels wings to speed through air, And rolls the planets through the blue profound; Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer! nor forbear To trust a Poet in still musings bound.
WHEN Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle Like a Form sculptured on a monument Lay couched on him or his dread bow unbent Some wild Bird oft might settle and beguile The rigid features of a transient smile, Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent, Slackening the pains of ruthless banishmen From his loved home, and from heroic toil. And trust that spiritual Creatures round us
Griefs to allay which Reason cannot heal; Yea, veriest reptiles have sufficed to prove lo fettered wretchedness, that no Bastile Is deep enough to exclude the light of love, Though man for brother man has ceased to feel.
WHILE Anna's peers and early playmates tread, In freedom, mountain-turf and river's marge; Or float with music in the festal barge; Reign the proud steed, or through the dance are led;
Her doom it is to press a weary bed- Till oft her guardian Angel, to some charge More urgent called, will stretch his wings at large,
And friends too rarely prop the languid head. Yet, helped by Genius-untired comforter, The presence even of a stuffed Owl for her Can cheat the time; sending her fancy out To ivied castles and to moonlight skies, Though he can neither stir a plume, nor shout: Nor veil, with restless film, his staring eyes.
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