Oh melancholy walls! always, as now,
Be seen at distance on the landscape’s brow!
That stretching landscape various shades o’erspread,
Of yellow corn and bowery vineyards green;
There the brown orchard reared its tufted head,
And there the Rhine’s long-winding light was seen,
With castles crowned was its rocky shore,
And famed for dismal tales in early lore.
Northward, the for Westphalian lands withdrew,
Line above line, in level tints of blue;
While to the West, where forest hills extend,
The long perspective lifts a pomp of shade,
Mellowed with evening lights, where sweetly blend
Convents and spires, as if for peace-marks made.
Such were the scenes, that from the falling sun,
(When he his bright and blessed course had run)
Threw their long shadows, mourners of past day,
And then in stillness slept beneath his ray.
But other scenes a holier homage paid,
Where, eastward, pointing up the heavenly way,
Above the thunder’s cloud and cloud of Time,
Those everlasting mountains stand sublime,
And to the sun’s CREATOR lift the head!
Steadfast upon the Rhine’s tumultuous shore,
Ye listened, Mountains, to the distant roar,
The battle-shout of nations now no more.
Ye viewed the suns of centuries go down,
And smiled, as now, beneath their farewell beam;
Ye saw the thunder-storms of ages gleam,
The elemental and the human frown,
And heard afar the mingled strife pass by
Into the silence of Eternity!
Unchanged amid the ever-changing scene,
A» in the world’s first dawn, ye still appear,
With beauty bright, majestic, young, serene,
Clothed in the colours of the various year.
While rainbow-colours indistinctly lay
On the lone summits, till, in slow decay,
They seemed like far-hung clouds on Evening’s pall,
Just purpled with a melancholy ray;
While dark we saw the mountain-shadows fall,
And steal the valleys and the woods away!
Then all in paleness came the twilight-star,
And, pensive, seemed to bend upon the West;
As though she watched th’ expiring sun afar,
And bade, with tearful smile, his spirit rest!
Oh! then how sweetly and how solemn rose
The requiem-strains, that, in the parting hour,
Beneath the sacred roof responses pour;
While all without was hushed in deep repose.
The air’s soft breathings scarce were heard to die,
Save when among the braided vines it crept,
And waked the quivering tendril with its sigh.
Thus earth and air their hour of slumber kept!
All but the stars! Slumbering too long in light,
They now through shade their opening eyes reveal,
In trembling glances, to their empress — Night,
Keeping high watch till forth the Morning steal,
From adverse darkness. Self-supported, great,
Ye, tranquil ‘mid the louring storms of fate,
Rise, like the honest mind, in the dread hour,
When stern Adversity tries Virtue’s power: —
Thus ye, distinguished through the fearful gloom,
A steadfast strength and brighter mien assume.
Thus, ‘mid the changing lights, that life pervade,
May we, like you, assailing clouds dispel —
Grateful in sunshine — steadfast in the shade!
Farewell! ye awful monitors, farewell!
THE SNOW-FIEND.
HARK! to the Snow-Fiend’s voice afar
That shrieks upon the troubled air!
Him by that shrilly call I know —
Though yet unseen, unfelt below —
And by the mist of livid grey,
That steals upon his onward way.
He from the ice-peaks of the North
In sounding majesty comes forth;
Dark amidst the wondrous light,
That streams o’er all the northern night.
A wan rime through the airy waste
Marks where unseen his car has past;
And veils the spectre-shapes, his train,
That wait upon his vengeful reign.
Disease and Want and shuddering Fear
Danger and Woe and Death are there.
Around his head for ever raves
A whirlwind cold of misty waves. —
But oft, the parting surge between,
His visage, keen and white, is seen;
His savage eye and paly glare.
Beneath a helm of ice appear;
A snowy plume waves o’er the crest,
And wings of snow his form invest.
Aloft he bears a frozen wand;
The ice-bolt trembles in his hand;
And ever, when on sea he rides,
An iceberg for his throne provides.
As, fierce, he drives his distant way,
Agents remote his call obey,
From half-known Greenland’s snow-piled shore
To Newfoundland and Labrador;
O’er solid seas, where nought is scanned
To mark a difference from land,
And sound itself does but explain
The desolation of his reign;
The moaning querulous and deep,
And the wild howl’s infuriate sweep
Where’er he mores, some note of woe
Proclaims the presence of the foe;
While he, relentless, round him flings
The white shower from his flaky wings.
Hark! ‘tis his voice: — I shun his call,
And shuddering seek the blaring hall.
O ! speak of mirth; O! raise the song!
Hear not the fiends, that round him throng!
Of curtained rooms and firesides tell,
Bid Fancy work her genial spell,
That wraps in marvel and delight
December’s long tempestuous night;
Makes courtly groups in summer bowers
Dance through pale Winter’s midnight hours
And July’s eve its rich glow shed
On the hoar wreath, that binds his head;
Or knights on strange adventure bent,
Or ladies into thraldom sent;
Whatever gaiety ideal
Can substitute for troubles real.
Then let the storms of Winter sing,
And his sad veil the Snow-Fiend fling,
Though wailing lays are in the wind,
They reach not then the ‘tranced mind;
Nor murky form, nor dismal sound
May pass the high, enchanted bound!
AN ANCIENT BEECH-TREE. IN THE PARK AT KNOLE.
THE WOODLAND NYMPH.
DOWN in yon glade, that points to the red West,
O’erhung with ancient groves, whose shadows fall
So darkly on the ground, that the green moss
Is hardly known beneath them in yon glade,
Just where the trees irregularly part
In long perspective, and an evening scene
Of sylvan grandeur glimmers, stands a beech,
Like some gigantic sentinel, advanced
On watch to guard the pass to sacred haunts.
Approach, and let thy nobler mind prevail;
And, as thine eye measures its form, its large
Grey limbs upstretching in the air, among
The pendent, rich, luxuriant foliage,
Over the silvery rind, moss-mottled, showing
Like gleams of light ‘mid their green shadows; if
Grace and grandeur ever t
ouched thine heart, adore
And weep — weep tears of deep delight, and tears
Of gratitude, that thou canst weep such tears!
If thou would’st see in full magnificence
This canopy, most surely the domain
Of some lone Dryad, — come when Evening casts
Her yellow light, and gives its lower shades
Their most luxuriant tinge; speak not, but watch
And thou ‘lt see haply at this dewy hour
The Nymph of this deep shade ‘rise from her sleep.
The scared hind, bounding athwart the glades,
Springs not so lightly, nor so graceful turns,
When, listening to the step, that startles her,
She bends her slender neck and branched head
And shows her dark eyes, bright and innocent.
Oh, Nymph of graces, playful as these boughs,
When gentle airs play o’er them, thee I know,
And have, at eve, beheld thy dance of joy
In the proud shade, that shields thee from the storm,
And guards thy slumbers from the summer rain.
Thy noontide slumbers, top, I have beheld,
And the high canopy of boughs bespread,
When, laid in peace upon the twilight moss,
Where the green shadows deep and coolest fall,
Thy fairy court watched round thee — court of Elves,
That dwell upseen within the hollow leaves
Or inmost foliage, rocked by summer sighs.
These have I seen around thy mossy couch,
Fanning thy slumber with long leaves of lilies,
Scattering the white bells in thy twisted hair,
And binding each dark lock with wreaths of flowers.
Thy footsteps trod the tender hyacinth,
Blue and transparent as the light of Morn,
The dark-eyed violet, that weeps perfume,
The wild-rose tinted with the Dawn’s first blush,
And sparkling with the tears and smiles she shed,
When, scattered from her hand, it fell to earth.
This ancient beech, this sylvan wonder, triumphs
Over the oak, whose spreading pomp has crowned him
King o’ the woods; but his magnificence
Is rude and heavy, — while this lonely beech,
With all its wealth of green, transparent shadows,
(A graceful hill of leaves in the blue air,)
Still must be hailed the hero of the forest!
SEA-VIEWS.
MIDNIGHT.
CAROLLING sweetly to the midnight gale
Above the strife of waves, his voice is heard —
The sea-boy’s voice, who, on some top-sail yard,
Bows with the mast, and hangs amid the clouds,
Or sweeps the salt foam from the billow’s ridge,
And mocks its fury. Far around he sees,
Beneath the night-gloom, ocean’s wondrous fires
Flashing from surge to surge — a “boding light,
That seems the spirit of the troubled realm.
Palely it gleams, though bright, now near, now distant,
Shapeless, though visible — though threatening, mute:
Still, sweet he carols on the dizzy cap.
Anon, he hears the storm-bird’s slender cry,
And scarcely marks her flitting round and round
And sheltering in the shrouds. Oh, fearful bird!
Herald of warring winds! he heeds thee not;
Nor yet those hollow sounds from strand unseen;
Nor e’en those sullen lights among the clouds.
Whose hue they show more livid; for, behold!
Like to a star, which in th’ horizon dawns,
There gleam those guiding, ever watchful fires,
Placed on some low peninsula’s long line,
Or on some promontory’s pointed horn,
And spied far on the solitary waves
By the poor mariner, who, rocked upon
His dark and billowy cradle, thinks of home,
His little cabin, sheltered by the cliff,
His blazing hearth, bright through the casement seen,
And all the dear-loved faces shining round;
And knows the smiles of welcome ambushed there.
Still cheerly sings the watch-boy; down he goes
Through gasping seas; now driving down the gulph,
Now rising light in air; while nearer roll
The thunders of the shore, reverbed from cates
Surge-worn, and cliffs high arching o’er the tide.
But now the plunging lead is heard, and now
The sullen voice of one below calls out
The sounded fathoms; then the master bids
His last sail furl; for wellknown sands are nigh,
And louder sweeps the gale. At last, he nears
Those friendly beacon fires, the level line
Of distance changes for the rugged shores,
Whose tops the horizontal twilight mark;
Soon they rise up more bold, solemn, distinct;
And wide unfolds the hospitable bay,
On whose deep margin spreads the wished-for port,
With many dim lamps quivering in the blast.
No joyful shout hails th’ approaching crew;
For Sleep has waved his potent wand on high!
The lonely pier receives them; on they steer
For quiet depth, and gradually steal
Into the silent harbour — silent save
The drowsy rippling of the faint sea-tide,
Or when the watch-dog, on some neighbouring deck,
His honest vigil barks, as strangers pass.
And now each heart beats joyfully, as drops
The ready anchor; busy footsteps sound;
Loud swells the mingled voice; the narrow plank
Is hoisted and extends a tottering bridge,
That bears them to the quay; there, bounding light
Once more they press the firm earth, and once more
Each to his long-left home in safety goes.
Dark is the way and silent; yet awhile
And an awakening voice shall call up hope,
And all the poor man’s wealth, the wealth of heart!
TO THE SWALLOW.
O HAPPY bird! thy gay return I hail;
For now I see young Spring, with all her train
Of sports and joys, borne on the western gale,
And hear afar her sweetly warbling strain.
Once more the opening clouds shall now disclose
The heaven’s blue vault — the sun’s all-cheering ray;
The vales, once more, in tender green repose,
The violet wake beneath the breath of May.
O happy bird! how playful and how light
Thy circling pinions skim the upward air;
Exulting, gay and playful in thy flight,
Companion of the Summer season fair!
Yet? while I welcome thee, and wish thee long,
I sigh to think that ere the Autumn fade
Thou ‘It seek, in other climes, a vernal song,
More gentle gales and renovated shade.
Ev’n now I see thee on the light clouds soar,
And melt in distant aether from my view;
As laughing Summer, to the western shore,
Over the seas Biscayan you pursue.
Thy policy to us, ah! dost thou lend?
Flies thus, with gay prosperity — the friend?
FOREST LAWNS.
OH, forest lawns! — Oh, lawns of tender green,
That spread in sunshine, crowned with copsy groves,
Or, winding in deep glades, retire among
The shades of ages, my glad steps receive!
Oh! let me, with your fawns, bound o’er these slopes,
Fresh with the dew, that melts apace before
The morning ray, leaving long level l
ines
Of hoary silver, ‘mid the various hues
Of lichen, turf and mead-flower. Let me seek,
With tempered pace and reverential thought,
Your far seen solitudes and deepest gloom,
And often note the monarch of the woods
In pious wonder. Oh, ye stem-browed oaks,
That raise your giant arms on all the scene,
How like your parent Druids ye appear!
Lonely, severe and in your grandeur dark,
Your fearful shades, like superstitious night,
Fall on the awe-struck spirit! —— —
Steadfast ye stand, and ever silent, save
Unto the potent, unknown winds, that shake
Your grey tops, when a voice of plaint is heard.
The traveller, listening this, at eventide,
Thinks ‘tis the voice of one departed hence,
Prophet of evil, warning him of death!
Then to his fancy lours, with deeper gloom,
The cloud, which sheds a pale and ghastly light
Upon the woods. He pauses oft, and back
Through the long forest-glades marks the last gleam
The sun has left, for in the lonely West;
While shapes uncertain seem to glide athwart
The twilight vista, and approach his path;
The hollow murmur swells upon his ear!
And, shuddering then, he takes his onward way.
How oft, ye Druid oaks! —
Your voice has sounded, in a distant age,
To him, who hears no more; and now it speaks
In the same tone to him, who then was not —
The passing traveller of the living hour!
Thus, ever and anon, it sounds the knell
Of fleeting, swift mortality!
ON THE RONDEAU
“JUST LIKE LOVE IS YONDER ROSE.”
No, ah! no; not jnst like love,
Is you gay and conscious rose;
‘ All its flaunting leaves disclose
Sunshine joy — and fearless prove;
Not like love!
But yonder little violet-flower,
That, folded in its purple veil,
And trembling to the lightest gale,
Weeps beneath that shadowing bower,
Is just like love!
Though filled with dew its closing eyes,
Though bends its slender stem in air,
It breathes perfume and blossoms fair,
It feeds on tears, and lives on sighs,
Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Page 268