Whereat, a tender twilight streak
Of colour dawned upon the Damsel's cheek; And her lips, quickening with uncertain red, Seemed from each other a faint warmth to borrow.
Deep was the awe, the rapture high,
Of love emboldened, hope with dread entwining,
When, to the mouth, relenting Death Allowed a soft and flower-like breath, Precursor to a timid sigh,
To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining.
In silence did King Arthur gaze Upon the signs that pass away or tarry; In silence watched the gentle strife Of Nature leading back to life; Then eased his soul at length by praise Of God, and Heaven's pure Queen-the blissful Mary.
Then said he, "Take her to thy heart,
Bound by indissoluble ties to thee Through mortal change and immortality; Be happy and unenvied, thou who art A goodly Knight that hath no peer that liveth!" Not long the Nuptials were delayed; And sage tradition still rehearses
The pomp, the glory of that hour
When toward the altar from her bower King Arthur led the Egyptian Maid,
And Angels carolled these far-echoed verses ;- Who shrinks not from alliance Of evil with good Powers To God proclaims defiance, And mocks whom he adores.
A Ship to Christ devoted From the Land of Nile did go; Alas! the bright Ship floated, An Idol at her prow.
By magic domination, The Heaven-permitted vent Of purblind mortal passion, Was wrought her punishment.
The Flower, the Form within it, What served thee in her need? Her port she could not win it, Nor from mishap be freed. The tempest overcame her, And she was seen no more; But gently, gently blame her- She cast a Pearl ashore. The Maid to Jesu hearkened, And kept to him her faith, Till sense in death was darkened, Or sleep akin to death.
But Angels round her pillow Kept watch, a viewless band; And, billow favouring billow, She reached the destined strand. Blest Pair! whate'er befal you, Your faith in Him approve Who from frail earth can call To bowers of endless love!
Sir Galahad! a treasure, that God giveth,
THE RIVER DUDDON.
A SERIES OF SONNETS.
THE RIVER DUDDON rises upon Wrynose Fell, on the confines of Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lancashire; and, having served as a boundary to the two last counties for the space of about twenty-five miles, enters the Irish Sea, between the Isle of Walney and the Lordship of Millum.
TO THE REV. DR WORDSWORTH.
Or, at an earlier call, to mark, By blazing fire, the still suspense Of self-complacent innocence; The mutual nod, the grave disguise Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er; And some unbidden tears that rise
(WITH THE SONNETS TO THE RIVER DUDDON, And other poemS IN THIS COLLECTION, 1820.) The minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage-eaves; While, smitten by a lofty moon, The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, That overpowered their natural green. Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest with folded wings: Keen was the air, but could not freeze, Nor check, the music of the strings; So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand! And who but listened?-till was paid Respect to every Inmate's claim: The greeting given, the music played, In honour of each household name, Duly pronounced with lusty call, And
'merry Christmas" wished to all! O Brother! I revere the choice That took thee from thy native hills; And it is given thee to rejoice: Though public care full often tills (Heaven only witness of the toil) A barren and ungrateful soil.
Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, Hadst heard this never-failing rite; And seen on other faces shine
A true revival of the light
Which Nature and these rustic Powers,
In simple childhood, spread through ours! For pleasure hath not ceased to wait On these expected annual rounds; Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate Call forth the unelaborate sounds, Or they are offered at the door That guards the lowliest of the poor. How touching, when, at midnight, sweep Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, To hear and sink again to sleep!
NOT envying Latian shades-if yet they throw A grateful coolness round that crystal Spring, Blandusia, prattling as when long age
For names once heard, and heard no more; Tears brightened by the serenade For infant in the cradle laid.
Ah! not for emerald fields alone, With ambient streams more pure and bright Than fabled Cytherea's zone
Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, Is to my heart of hearts endeared
The ground where we were born and reared! Hail, ancient Manners! sure defence, Where they survive, of wholesome laws; Remnants of love whose modest sense Thus into narrow room withdraws; Hail, Usages of pristine mould, And ye that guard them, Mountains old! Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought That slights this passion, or condemns; If thee fond Fancy ever brought From the proud margin of the Thames, And Lambeth's venerable towers,
To humbler streams, and greener bowers Yes, they can make, who fail to find, Short leisure even in busiest days; Moments, to cast a look behind, And profit by those kindly rays
That through the clouds do sometimes steal, And all the far-off past reveal.
Hence, while the imperial City's din Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, A pleased attention I may win To agitations less severe, That neither overwhelm nor cloy, But fill the hollow vale with joy!
The Sabine Bard was moved her praise to sing; Careless of flowers that in perennial blow Round the moist marge of Persian fountains cling;
How shall I paint thee?-Be this naked stone My seat, while I give way to such intent; Pleased could my verse, a speaking monument, Make to the eyes of men thy features known. But as of all those tripping lambs not one Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent To thy beginning nought that doth present Peculiar ground for hope to build upon. To dignify the spot that gives thee birth, No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem Appears, and none of modern Fortune's care; Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a gleam Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshness rare; Prompt offering to thy Foster-mother, Earth!
"CHANGE me, some God, into that breathing rose!"
The love-sick Stripling fancifully sighs, The envied flower beholding, as it lies On Laura's breast, in exquisite repose; Or he would pass into her bird, that throws The darts of song from out its wiry cage; Enraptured, could he for himself engage The thousandth part of what the Nymph bestows,
And what the little careless innocent Ungraciously receives. Too daring choice! There are whose calmer mind it would content To be an unculled floweret of the glen, Fearless of plough and scythe; or darkling
Dancing with all their brilliant equipage In secret revels-haply after theft
Of some sweet Babe-Flower stolen, and coarse Weed left
For the distracted Mother to assuage
HAIL to the fields-with Dwellings sprinkled o'er,
And one small hamlet, under a green hill Clustering, with barn and byre, and spouting mill!
A glance suffices:-should we wish for more, But when bleak Gay June would scorn us. winds roar
Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard ash,
Dread swell of sound! loud as the gusts that lash
The matted forests of Ontario's shore By wasteful steel unsmitten-then would I Turn into port; and, reckless of the gale, Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by, While the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale, Laugh with the generous household heartily At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale !
O MOUNTAIN Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot
Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude; Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude A field or two of brighter green, or plot Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot Of stationary sunshine:- thou hast viewed These only, Duddon! with their paths renewed By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not. Thee hath some awful Spirit impelled to leave, Utterly to desert, the haunts of men, Though simple thy companions were and few; And through this wilderness a passage cleave Attended but by thy own voice, save when The clouds and fowls of the air thy way pur-
FROM this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play
Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold A gloomy NICHE, capacious, blank, and cold;
Her grief with, as she might !-But, where, A concave free from shrubs and mosses grey;
Is traceable a vestige of the notes
That ruled those dances wild in character?- Deep underground? Or in the upper air, On the shrill wind of midnight? or where floats O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer?
ON, loitering Muse-the swift Stream chides
Albeit his deep-worn channel doth immure, Objects immense portrayed in miniature, Wild shapes for many a strange comparison ! Niagaras, Alpine passes, and anon Abodes of Naiads, calm abysses pure, Dht liquid mansions, fashioned to endure
In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray, Some Statue, placed amid these regions old For tutelary service, thence had rolled, Startling the flight of timid Yesterday! Was it by mortals sculptured?-weary slaves Of slow endeavour! or abruptly cast Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast Tempestuously let loose from central caves? Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves, Then, when o'er highest hills the Deluge pass'd?
SUCH fruitless questions may not long beguile Or plague the fancy 'mid the sculptured shows Conspicuous yet where Oroonoko flows;
There would the Indian answer with a smile Aimed at the White Man's ignorance the while, Of the GREAT WATERS telling how they rose, Covered the plains, and, wandering where they chose,
Mounted through every intricate defile, Triumphant,-Inundation wide and deep, O'er which his Fathers urged, to ridge and steep
Else unapproachable, their buoyant way; And carved, on mural cliff's undreaded side, Sun, moon, and stars, and beast of chase or prey;
Whate'er they sought, shunned, loved, or deified!*
SACRED Religion! "mother of form and fear," Dread arbitress of mutable respect, New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked, Or cease to please the fickle worshipper: Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee here)
Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect, Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere That seeks to stifle it;-as in those days When this low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew Whose good works formed an endless retinue: A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse pourtrays; Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew;
And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise!
My frame hath often trembled with delight When hope presented some far-distant good, That seemed from heaven descending, like the flood
Of yon pure waters, from their aëry height Hurrying, with lordly Duddon to unite; Who, 'mid a world of images imprest On the calm depth of his transparent breast, Appears to cherish most that Torrent white, The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all!
* See Humboldt's Personal Narrative.
And seldom hath ear listened to a tune More lulling than the busy hum of Noon, Swoln by that voice-whose murmur musica Announces to the thirsty fields a boon Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall fall.
THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE.
THE old inventive Poets, had they seen, Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains Thy waters, Duddon! 'mid these flowery plains;
Transferred to bowers imperishably green, The still repose, the liquid lapse serene, Had beautified Elysium! But these chains Will soon be broken;-a rough course remains, Rough as the past; where Thou, of placid mien, Innocuous as a firstling of the flock, And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, Shalt change thy temper; and, with many a shock
Given and received in mutual jeopardy, Dance like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock, Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high!
WHENCE that low voice?-A whisper from the heart,
That told of days long past, when here I roved With friends and kindred tenderly beloved; Some who had early mandates to depart, Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart By Duddon's side; once more do we unite, Once more beneath the kind Earth's tranquil light;
And smothered joys into new being start. From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory; Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and free As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall On gales that breathe too gently to recal Aught of the fading year's inclemency!
A LOVE-LORN Maid, at some far-distant time, Came to this hidden pool, whose depths surpass In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass; And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from the prime
Derives its name, reflected as the chime Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound: The starry treasure from the blue profound She longed to ravish ;-shall she plunge, or climb
The humid precipice, and seize the guest Of April, smiling high in upper air? Desperate alternative! what fiend could dare To prompt the thought? - Upon the steep rock's breast
The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom, Untouched memento of her hapless doom!
SAD thoughts, avaunt!-partake we their blithe
Who gathered in betimes the unshorn flock To wash the fleece, where haply bands of rock, Checking the stream, make a pool smooth and
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