"Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault!
Spread to the wind thy banner'd tree!
Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!
Murray is fall'n and Scotland free."
Vaults every warrior to his steed,
Loud bugles join their wild acclaim,
"Murray is fall'n, and Scotland free'd!
Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of flame !"
But, see! the minstrel vision fails,
The glimmering spears are seen no more;
The shouts of war die on the gales,
Or sink in Evan's lonely roar.
For the loud bugle, pealing high,
The blackbird whistles down the vale,
And sunk in ivy'd ruins lie
The banner'd towers of Evandale.
For chiefs, intent on bloody deed,
And vengeance shouting o'er the slain;
Lo! high-born beauty rules the steed,
Or graceful guides the silken rein.
And long may peace and pleasure own,
The maids, who list the minstrel's tale;
Nor e'er a ruder guest be known,
On the fair banks of Evandale !
Written a few Miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the Banks of
For five long winters! and again I hear
IVE years have pass'd; five summers, with the length
These waters, rolling from their mountain springs
With a sweet inland murmur. * Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
Which, on a wild, secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose,
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
The river is not affected with the tide a few miles above Tintern,
These plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts,
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Among the woods and copses lose themselves;
Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb
The wild green landscape., Once again I see
These hedge rows, hardly hedge rows, little lines,
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,
And the low copses-coming from the trees
With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye :
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have ow'd to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration :-feelings, too,
Of unremember'd pleasure; such, perhaps,
As may
have had no trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life;
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have ow'd another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lightened :-that serene and blessed mood,
In which th' affections gently lead us on,
Until the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul;
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
Be but a vain belief; yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless day-light, when the fretful stir,
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turn'd to thee,
O Sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods,
How often has my spirit turn'd to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again :
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts,
That in this moment there is life and food
Tho' changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first
I came among these hills; when, like a roe,
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led; more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he lov'd. For nature then
(The coarser pleasure of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by,)
To me was all in all.-I cannot paint
The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrow'd from the eye. That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur: other gifts
Have follow'd, for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learn'd
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Not harsh, nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfus'd,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
303
And the blue sky, and, in the mind of man,
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half-create*,
And what perceive; well pleas'd to recognize,
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay;
For thou art with me, here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend,
My dear, dear, friend, and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold thee what I was once,
My dear, dear sister! and this pray'r I make,
Knowing that nature never did betray
The heart that lov'd her; 'tis her privilege,
Thro' all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, or the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matur'd
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
This line bas a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young, the exact
expression of which I do not recollect.
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together, and that I, so long
A worshipper of nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service; rather say,
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That, after many wand'rings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.
Written on a Visit to Stowe, the Seat of the MARQUIS of BUCKINGHAM, in 1801. By E. N. Esq. (Never published.)
HO' Stowe, long known as classic ground, contains
A splendid palace, 'midst its vast domains;
Its owner's grateful friends can only find
A seat just suited to his lib'ral mind;
Where bounteous nature trac'd the great outline,
And choicest culture fill'd up the design.
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