A rival almost of the crows,
And weaves fresh-gathered blossoms there,
To bind upon his victor-brows.
The broad sea-myrtle glossy bright,
Mixed with the poppy’s scarlet bell,
And wall-flowers, dipt in golden light,
Twine in his sea-cliff coronal.
The breeze has stolen his pageant-crown;
He leans to mark how low it falls;
Oh, bend not thou! lest, headlong down,
Thou paint’st with death these fair sea-walls!
Now, o’er the sky’s concave I glance,
Now o’er the azure deep below,
Now on the long-drawn shores of France,
And now on England’s coast I go,
To where old Beachy’s beaked head,
High peering in the utmost West,
Bids the observant seaman dread,
Lest he approach his guarded rest.
What fairy hand hangs loose that sail
In graceful fold of sunny light?
Beneath what tiny figures move,
Traced darkly on the wave’s blue light?
It is the patient fisher’s sloop,
Watching upon the azure calm;
They are his wet sea-boys, that stoop,
And haul the net with bending arm.
But on this southern coast is seen,
From Purbeck hills to Dover piers,
No foam-tipt wave so clearly green,
No rock so dark as Hastings rears.
How grand is that indented bay,
That sweeps to Romney’s sea-beat wall,
Whose marshes slowly stretch away,
And slope into some green hill small.
Now North and East I bend my sight
To where the flats of Flanders spread;
And now where Calais cliffs are bright,
Made brighter by the sunset red.
Shows not this towering point so high
To him, who in mid-channel sails;
For the slant light from western sky
Ne’er on its awful front prevails.
But mark! on this cliff Shakspeare stood,
And waved around him Prospers wand,
When straight from forth the mighty flood
The Tempest “rose, at his command!”
THE FISHERS.
STEEPHILL.
BEHOLD this rocky bay! On either hand
Cliffs dark and frantic rise and stretch away
To yon bold promontories, East and West,
Hanging amid the clouds; that shut out all,
Save seas and skies and sails dim-moving on
Th’ horizon’s edge, and the rough boat, that skirts,
With slow and wary course, this ruinous strand.
Far ‘mong the waves, are shown gigantic limbs
Of these stem shores, whose outpost Terror is,
Whose eyes look down on desolation, pain,
Shipwreck and death. Yet, half way up the rocks,
And scarce beyond the salt spray’s reach, when storms
Of winter beat, perched where the sea-mew rests
In sunbeam, a low fisher’s cabin peeps
From its green sheltering nook. Wild mountainous shrubs
Hang beetling o’er it, and such flowers as grow
On rocky ledges, brought by the unseen
Air, messengers from off some fertile hill
Or dale, or haply from far forest’s side;
The scarlet poppy and the blue corn-flower,
The wild rose and the purple bells, that chime
In th’ evening breeze to the poor woodlark’s notes.
Full to the South, the fisher’s cottage peeps,
And overlooks how many lonely leagues
Of ocean, sleeping in its summer haze
Of downy blue, or green, or purple, shades,
Charming the heart to musing and sweet peace!
How solemn, when our autumn’s moon goes down,
And walks in silence on the farthest waves,
(Then sinks, leaving brief radiance in the air,)
To measure out a few short moments here,
By the sad, dying glow!
But sweet, O then, most sweet I when the clear dawn
Of Jane breaks on, and blesses the horizon.
In Holy stillness it dispels the shades
Of night, appearing like the work sublime
Of Goodness, — a meek emblem of the JUST
And LIVING GOD! Bending our heads with awe
And grateful adoration, we exclaim —
“FATHER OF LIGHT! Thou art our Father too;
We are Thy creatures; and these glorious beams
Attest, that in THY GOODNESS we are made
For bliss eternal.”
There stands the fisher’s hut, and close beside,
A mountain-stream winds round the mossed platform,
Singing wild lullaby to the wailing surge,
As ‘mid resisting brakes and massy crags,
It seeks a passage to the shore below.
There, hauled above the reach of flowing tides
And the high-abounding spray, the seaboat rèsts,
Huge, sturdy, heavy, almost round, and formed
For labour and hard strife with the rough sea;
About the fisher’s cot, from crag to crag,
His nets hang round in many a graceful sweep,
‘Midst his long lines and treacherous baits and hooks.
Beside his door, the aged fisher weaves
New meshes for his sons, and sends, at times,
A look far o’er the ocean, where the beam
O’ the west falls brightest, for the adventurers,
Who yester-mom went forth, and all night long
Watched patient on the waters, and all day
Have hauled the net, or laboured at the oar.
More fearful roves his eye, as sinks the sun,
While sad he marks September’s stormy cloud
Fire all the West, and tip with crimson hues,
Though less resplendent, ev’n the nearer waves
While the broad flush tinges his silver locks
And his brown visage and his garments blue.
Anxious, he throws aside th’ unfinished web,
And climbs the higher crag, and thence afar,
Turning the western cape, he sees the glance
Of oars withdrawing, and the square sail set
And swelling to the breeze. With struggling toil
The poor bark seeks its home, ere night and tempest
Meet on the billows. While she thus, scarce known,
Alternate rides the ridge and then is lost
Below the shelving wave, widely they steer
Athwart the dangerous surge, though not that, way
Lies their dear home; but well they know where lurk
The rocks unseen, and where the currents flow.
Suddenly drops the sail, and now again
This way they bend, while, as they ply once more
The oars, just heard, and turn, with scrupulous eyes,
To view their narrow course, a faint ray shows
Their sun-burnt features and their ragged locks,
Beneath the sea-worn hat. Nearer sow they move.
And now scarce lift the oar, so cautiously
They creep along the strand, and wind their way
Among its half-seen rocks.
Stays the old fisher on the high crag now?
No; yonder down the steep path slow he steps,
And his wave-faring children hails afar.
Meanwhile upon the beach, patient And cold,
Stands the poor horse, with drooping head and eyes
Half-shut, and panniers all too wide and deep,
Waiting the cargo, that his master, tired
And sauntering on the water’s edge, shall bring;
Then must he bear it up high cliffs and hills,
/>
To the for vale, where lies some peopled town.
Now slowly grounds the skiff, and the glad fishers,
Mounting the beach, the bended grapple cast.
“What luck? what luck? my boys!”
“Good luck, my father!”
And forth they pour the treasure of the main,
With many a scaly form unshapely, strange!
The dog-fish monstrous, with his high, round back,
And look voracious. Oh! ill-named is he,
After man’s careful, tender, faithful friend!
The spotted Seston, dragon-like, with wings
And jaws terrific; and the giant skate.
Then dark-mailed forms, that die in torture wild,
Unfitted, therefore, for the feast of man,
To whom abundant guiltless food is given.
And last, a shape, the fairy of the wave,
Clad in transparent tints of silver comes.
But see where the last gleam of the day’s sun,
Far from behind that western promontory,
Slants ‘thwart the deep curve of this shaded bay,
Tinges yon headland of the eastern shore,
And goes in stillness down on the fair waves,
Seeming to say, “Children of Time, farewell Î
Your course draws nearer to Eternity;
Even thus must fade your glory in this world
But sure as dark shades of the night lead on
To morning, the sun-set of earthly life
Leads to the dawn of an eternal day: —
Think of THAT DAWN!”
Now doth the aged fisher mutely watch,
While his stout sons fling o’er their shoulders broad
Deep osier baskets hung with pebbles round;
Then, wrapt in his blue mantle, stalks away,
Beneath the dark cliffs beetling o’er the sea,
To those low rocks, that stretch, point after point,
Far out amid the tide, crowned with black moss.
There, in the waves, safe from rapacious force,
And from the eye of plunderer close concealed,
He leaves his treasure, for tomorrow’s care;
Then hies he homeward. There, amidst the friends
He loves, reposes. All last night, he watched
Upon the rocking main; the arching sky
His sole, cold roof; the stars his only guides
Through the vast shadow of the lonely deep!
This night, how calm his dream, how sweet his sleep,
In the safe shelter of his cabin small,
With his glad family round him hush’d in peace!
IN THE NEW FOREST.
WANDERER! if thy path bend o’er these lawns
And forest-lands, stay thy rejoicing steps —
Though they would fain bound with yon fawns and hinds
Down the green slope, and skim the level turf
To other slopes, and other pluming groves, —
Stay thy intemperate spirit, and mark well
Each beauty of the scene, and the strong lights
And stormy sunshine, that fall o’er these shades!
Pause thou awhile, that, in some future hour,
When the long sunless storm of winter broods,
And thou sitt’st lonely by thy evening hearth,
In melancholy twilight, listening
The far-off tempest, — then sweet Memory
May come, and with her mirror cheer thy mind,
On whose bright surface lovelier scenes shall live
Than any shrined within Italian climes;
And every graceful form and shaded hue,
As now it lives, again shall smile before thee:
For England, beauteous England, scarce can boast,
Through her green vales and plains and wavy hills,
Another landscape of such sylvan grace.
‘Twas surely here, that Shakspeare dreamt of fays,
And in these shades Titania held her court.
And bade her tiny bands in starlight revel.
Those tufts of oak, that crown the swelling lawn,
Those were her shady halls at high moon-tide;
And yon light ash her summer-night pavilion,
Lighted by dewdrops and the flickering blaze,
That glances from the high electric north.
Where’er the groves retire and meadows rise,
There were her carpets spread, of various tints
From turf and amorous lichen, all combined
With soft flowers and transparent azure-bells,
On whose pure skin their purple veins appear.
And over all these hues a veil is thrown
Of silvery dew, oft lighted by the moon.
Temper thy joyous spirit, wanderer!
And ‘gainst the wintry hour, when thorns alone
Hold forth their berries, cull sweet summer-buds.
Then shall the deep gloom vanish, the storm sink!
The balmy air of woods shall soothe thy sense,
And their broad leaves thy landscape canopy,
E’en in December’s melancholy day!
And now bound with those fawns down the green slope,
Skim the smooth turf to other hills and groves,
In the full joy of sunshine and new hopes.
ON A FIRST VIEW OF THE GROUP CALLED THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS
IN THE APPROACH TO COLOGNE FROM XANTEN.
WHEN first I saw ye, Mountains, the broad sun
In cloudy grandeur sunk, and showed, far off,
A solemn vision of imperfect shapes
Crowding the southward sky and stalking on
And pointing us “the way that we should go.”
Dark thunder-mists dwelt on ye; and your forms,
Obscurely towering, stood before the eye,
Like some strange thing portentous and unknown.
I watched the coming storm. The sulphurous gloom
Clung sullenly round me, and a dull tinge
Began to redden through these mournful shades.
A low imperfect murmur o’er ye rolled.
Doubtful, I listened. On the breathless calm
Again I heard it — then, ye Mountains vast,
Amid the tenfold darkness ye withdrew,
And vanished quite, save that your high tops smoked,
And from your clouds the arrowy lightnings burst,
While peals resistless shook the trembling world! —
A SECOND VIEW OF THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS.
MOUNTAINS! when next I saw ye it was Noon,
And Summer o’er your distant steeps had flung
Her veil of misty light: your rock-woods hung
Just green and budding, though in pride of June,
And pale your many-spiring tops appeared,
While, here and there, soft tints of silver grey
Marked where some jutting cliff received the ray;
Or long-lived precipice its brow upreared.
Beyond your tapering pinnacles, a show
Of other giant-forms more dimly frowned,
Hinting the wonders of that unknown ground,
And of deep wizard-vales, unseen below.
Thus, o’er the long and level plains ye rose
Abrupt and awful, when my raptured eye
Beheld ye. Mute I gazed! ‘Twas then a sigh
Alone could speak the soul’s most full repose;
For of a grander world ye seemed the dawn,
Rising beyond where Time’s tired wing can go,
As, bending o’er the green Rhine’s liquid lawn,
Ye watched the ages of the world below.
ON ASCENDING A HILL CROWNED WITH A CONVENT, NEAR BONN.
UP the mossed steeps of this round hill we climbed,
Tracking amid close woods our doubtful way;
When, high above, the lonely vesper chimed
On the still hour of the declining day.
We pause
d to listen, and to taste awhile
The pure air scented with the bruised herb;
And catch the distant landscape’s parting smile,
Ere the light breeze the shadowy boughs disturbed.
“Oh verdant foliage! in your dancing play,
Hide not those soft blue lines, that northward swell,
And of far mountain-regions faintly tell!
Wrap not in your high shades those turrets grey,
That rear themselves above the Rhine’s broad flood,
Where the slow bark, with wide, outstretched wings,
Her lengthening shadow o’er the waters flings.”
Onward we pass amid the closing wood,
Till, once again emerging from the night,
O’er a near ridge of darkest pine we spy
The peaks of eastward mountains, peering high;
Touched with gay colours and with sunshine bright,
They draw clear lines on the transparent sky,
And lift their many-tinctured forms of light!
With weary step a convent’s porch we found.
What music met us on that holy ground,
Swelling the song of peace and praise to HIM,
Who clad with glory all the prospect round!
Our full hearts echoed back the grateful hymn.
A turret’s utmost height at length we gain,
And stand as on a point above the world,
Viewing the heaven’s vast canopy unfurled,
And the great circle’s widely-spreading line
Sink low, and softly into light decline.
There, in far distance, on the western plain,
Thy spires, Cologne, gleamed to the setting ray:
Thy useless ramparts and thy turrets grey
Hinted where still the cowled city lay.
Oh melancholy walls! unlike the view,
That the sweet poet of Vauclusa drew,
When, wreathed with flowers, thy maidens fair advance,
With choral songs and steps of airy dance,
And to the Rhine’s fleet wave, on summer’s eve,
Their blooming garlands and their sorrows give.
How changed the scene! Now paler forms appear.
Wrapt in black garments and with brow severe;
And, as with shaded eyes they stalk along,
Receive poor homage from the passing throng.
Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Page 267