And basked him in the pure light, and then asked
A lullaby to soothe his care, for he
Was sad and weary, and had, all the day,
Toiled on a north-beam; and now Titania,
For whom he sought, had left the spicy steeps
Of India, on a bat’s wing, at twilight.
We asked a story of the northern clime
To pay our melody, and I remember
It told of castles moving on the waves,
Of a soft emerald throne upon an isle,
Beyond the falling sun, and other wonders,
That we, all night, could well have listened him,
But that he craved our pity and our song.
On that we breathed a soul into our shells,
And charmed him into slumber!”
SONNET TO THE LARK.
SWEET lark! I hear thy thrilling note on high,
Thé note of rapture, that thy bosom pours
To Spring’s fresh gales, green plains and azure sky,
As o’er the mountains steal Morn’s blushing hours.
With silent step they come and meekened grace,
In twilight’s veil half-hid from mortal view,
Wafting rich fragrance through the crystal space,
O’er groves and valleys shedding April dew.
Gay bird! now all the woods in silence sleep,
How sweet thy music comes upon the air,
And dies at distance, as, up heaven’s blue steep,
Thou, lessening, soar’st to meet Aurora’s star!
Oh! bird of hope and joy, thou point’st the way
That I would go — high o’er life’s cloudy day!
ON READING THE FOLLOWING BEAUTIFUL LINES
WRITTEN BY THE LATE LADY ELIZABETH LEE, SISTER OF EARL HARCOURT, IN A BOWER CALLED BY HER NAME, AT ST. LEONARD’S HILL, THE SEAT OF THE EARL, IN WINDSOR FOREST; A SEAT WHICH STRANGERS ARE SOMETIMES PERMITTED TO VIEW.
“This peaceful shade — this green-roofed bower,
GREAT MAKER! all are full of Thee;
Thine is the bloom, that decks the flower,
And Thine the fruit, that bends the tree.
As much Creative Goodness charms
In these low shrubs, that humbly creep,
As in the oak, whose giant-arms
Wave o’er the high romantic steep.
The bower, the shade, retired, serene,
The grateful heart may most affect;
Here, GOD in every leaf is seen,
And man has leisure to reflect!
AND! TOO WAS ONCE OF ARCADIA.
FROM this high lawn, beneath the varied green
Of grove and bower, dark oak and blossomed shade,
How brightly spreads the vale! how grand the scene
Of forest woods and towers, that lift the head
Majestic from the strife of ages past!
And seem to view, with melancholy smile,
The gloom of thought by solemn Pity cast
On the world, fleeting to its rest; — the while
The fleeting world, all varions and gay,
Sports in those villas and those hamlets free,
Where stretching tints of ripened harvest play
Among dark woods and meads of Arcady.
There Spires of Peace arise, and straw-roofed farm
By village green, from ‘mid it’s antient grove
Sends the high curling smoke, renowned charm
Of those, who watch how lights and shadows rove.
Embattled Windsor, throned upon the vale,
Beneath these boughs displays its bannered state;
And learned Eton, o’er its willows pale,
Looks stem and sad, as mourning Henry’s fate.
On this high lawn, where Nature’s wealth we view,
All is instinct with life and fine delight!
Trees of all shades, the flowers of every hue,
Shrubs breathing joy and blooming on the sight.
Here bliss may dwell, and never, never die!
Vain thought! in that low bower there seems a voice,
Breathed, soft as summer winds o’er waters sigh,
“I once, like you, could in this scene rejoice.
This was my bower of bliss! Approach and read!”
It sunk, that solemn sound, and died on ait.
Within the cell I passed with reverend dread,
And found the angel-spirit still was there.
Still in “that green-roofed bower,” that “peaceful shade,”
Whose changeful prospect seems for ever new,
The pomp of forests stretching till they fade,
And sleep in softness on the distant blue. —
Still in that fine repose — that once-loved bower,
Breathe thoughts of heavenly mind, that speak of GOD!
And tell a heart, which, grateful, owned His power
In every leaf, that paints the humble sod.
Fast fell my tears, as flowed with her’s my thought,
The living feeling with the voice of Death!
The glowing joy by Nature’s beauty wrought
With proof how transient is even rapture’s breath.
Here in this shade she sat! fast fell my tears;
When my sad mind a hushing music won;
Again mild accents seemed to soothe my fears,
And murmur, “Grieve not that her race is run!
The pious heart, the comprehensive mind,
These were of Heaven, and are to Heaven -returned!”
It was a seraph’s voice upon the wind;
I heard her song of joy; I heard! nor longer mourned.
TO THE RIVER DOVE.
OH! stream beloved by those,
With Fancy who repose,
And court her dreams *mid scenes sublimely wild,
Lulled by the summer-breeze,
Among the drowsy trees
Of thy high steeps, and by thy murmurs mild,
My lonely footsteps guide,
Where thy blue waters glide,
Fringed with the Alpine shrub and willow light;
‘Mid rocks and mountains rude,
Here hung with shaggy wood,
And there upreared in points of frantic height.
Beneath their awful gloom,
Oh! blue-eyed Nymph, resume
The mystic spell, that wakes the poet’s soul!
While all thy caves around
In lonely murmur sound,
And feeble thunders o’er these summits roll.
O shift the wizard scene
To banks of pastoral green
When mellow sun-set lights up all thy vales;
And shows each turf-born flower,
That, sparkling from the shower,
Its recent fragrance on the air exhales.
When Evening’s distant hues
Their silent grace diffuse
In sleepy azure o’er the mountain’s head;
Or dawn in purple faint,
As nearer cliffs they paint,
Then lead me ‘mid thy slopes and woodland shade.
Nor would I wander far,
When Twilight lends her star,
And o’er thy scenes her doubtful shades repose;
Nor when the Moon’s first light
Steals on each bowery height,
Like the winged music o’er the folded rose.
Then, on thy winding shore,
The fays and elves, once more,
Trip in gay ringlets to the reed’s light note;
Some launch the acorn’s ring,
Their sail — Papilio’s wing,
Thus shipped, in chace of moonbeams, gay they float.
But, at the midnight hour,
I woo thy thrilling power,
While silent moves the glowworm’s light along,
And o’er the dim hill-tops
The gloomy red moon drops,
And in the grave of darkness leaves thee long.
>
Even then thy waves I hear,
And own a nameless fear,
As, ‘mid the stillness, the night winds do swell,
Or (faint from distance) hark
To the lone watch-dog’s bark!
Answering a melancholy far sheep bell.
O! Nymph fain would I trace
Thy sweet awakening grace,
When summer dawn first breaks upon thy stream;
And see thee braid thy hair;
And keep thee ever there,
Like thought recovered from an antique dream!
THE SEA-MEW.
FORTH from her cliffs sublime the sea-mew goes
To meet the storm, rejoicing! To the woods
She gives herself; and, borne above the peaks
Of highest headlands, wheels among the clouds,
And hears Death’s voice in thunder roll around,
While the waves far below, driven on the shore,
Foaming with pride and rage, make hollow moan.
Now, tossed along the gale from cloud to cloud,
She turns her silver wings touched by the beam,
That through a night of vapours darts its long,
Level line; and, vanishing ‘mid the gloom,
Enters the secret region of the storm;
But soon again appearing, forth she moves
Out from the mount’nous shapes of other clouds,
And, sweeping down them, hastens to new joys.
It was the wailing of the deep she heard!
No fears repel her: when the tumult swells,
Ev’n as the spirit-stirring trumpet glads
The neighing war-horse, is the sound to her.
O’er the waves hovering, while they lash the rocks,
And lift, as though to reach her, their chafed tops,
Dashing the salt foam o’er her downy wings,
Higher she mounts, and from her feathers shakes
The shower, triumphant. As they sink, she sinks,
And with her long plumes sweeps them in their fall,
As if in mockery; then, as they retreat,
She dances o’er them, and with her shrill note
Dares them, as in scorn.
It is not thus she meets their summer smiles;
Then, skimming low along the level tide,
She dips the last point of her crescent wings,
At measured intervals, with playful grace,
And rises, as retreating to her home
High on yon ‘pending rock, but poised awhile
In air, as though enamoured of the scene,
She drops, at once, and settles on the sea.
On the green waves, transparent then she rides.
And breathes their freshness, trims her plumage white,
And, listening to the murmur of the surge,
Doth let them bear her wheresoe’er they will.
Oh! bird beloved of him? who, absent long
From his dear native land, espies thee ere
The mountain tops o’er the far waters rise,
And hails thee as the harbinger of home!
Thou bear’st to him a welcome on thy wings;
His white sail o’er th’ horizon thou hast seen
And hailed it, with thy oft-repeated cry,
Announcing England. “England is near!” he cries,
And every seaman’s heart an echo beats,
And “England — England!” sounds along the deck,
Mounts to the shrouds, and finds an answering voice,
Ev’n at the top-mast bead, where, posted long.
The “look out” sailor clings, and “with keen eye,
By long experience finely judging made,
Reads the dim characters of air-veiled shores.
O happy bird! whom Nature’s changing: scenes
Can ever please; who mount’st upon the wind
Of Winter and amid the grandeur soar’st
Of tempests, or sinkest to the peaceful deep,
And float’st with sunshine on the summer calm!
O happy bird! lend me thy pinions now.
Thy joys are mine, and I, like thee, would skim
Along the pleasant curve of the salt bays,
Where the blue seas do now serenely sleep;
Or, when they waken to the Evening breeze,
And every crisping wave reflects her tints
Of rose and amber, — like thee, too, would I
Over the mouths of the sea-rivers float,
Or watch, majestic, on the tranquil tide,
The proud ships follow one another down,
And spread themselves upon the mighty main,
Freighted for shores that shall not dawn’on sight,
Till a new sky uplift its burning arch,
And half the globe be traversed. Then to him,
The home-bound seaman, should my’ joyous flight
Once more the rounding river point, — to him
Who comes, perchance, from coasts of darkness, where
Grim Ruin, from his throne of hideous rocks,
O’ercanopied with pine, or giant larch,
Scowls on the mariner, and Terror wild
Looks through the parting gloom with ghastly eye,
Listens to woods, that groan beneath the storm,
And starts to see the river-cedar fall.
How sweet to him, who from such strands returns,
How sweet to glide along his homeward stream
By wellknown meads and woods and village cots,
That lie in peace around the ivied spire
And ancient parsonage, where the small, fresh stream
Gives a safe haven to the humbler barks
At anchor, just as last he viewed the scene.
And soft as then upon the surface lies
The sunshine, and as sweet the landscape
Smiles, as on that day he sadly bade farewell
To those he loved. Just so it smiles, and yet
How many other days and months have fled,
What shores remote his steps have wandered o’er,
What scenes of various life unfolded strange,
Since that dim yesterday! The present scene
Unchanged, though fresh, appears the only truth,
And all the interval a dream! May those
He loves still live, as lives the landscape now;
And may tomorrow’s sun light the thin clouds
Of doubt with rainbow-hues of hope and joy!
Bird! I would hover with thee o’er the deck,
Till a new tide with thronging ships should tremble;
Then, frightened at their strife, with thee I’d fly
To the free waters and the boundless skies,
And drink the light of heaven and living airs;
Then with thee haunt the seas and sounding shores,
And dwell upon the mountain’s beaked top,
Where nought should come but thou and the wild winds.
There would I listen, sheltered in our cell,
The tempest’s voice, while midnight wraps the world.
But, if a moonbeam pierced the clouds, and shed
Its sudden gleam upon the foaming waves,
Touchinng with pale light each sharp line of cliff,
Whose head towered darkly, which no eye could trace, —
Then downward I would wheel amid the storm,
And watch, with untired gaze, the embattled surges
Pouring in deep array, line after line,
And hear their measured war-note sound along
The groaning coast, whereat the winds above
Answer the summons, and each secret cave,
Untrod by footsteps, and each precipice,
That oft had ou the unconscious fisher frowned,
And every hollow bay and utmost cape
Sighs forth a fear for the poor mariner.
He, meanwhile, hears, the sound o’er waters wide;
Lashed to the
mast, he hears, and thinks of home.
O bird! lend me thy wings,
That swifter than the blast I may out-fly
Danger, and from yon port the life-boat call.
And see! e’en now the guardian bark rides o’er
The mountain-billows, and descends through chasms
Where lurks Destruction eager for his prey,
With eyes of flashing fire and foamy jaws.
He, by -strange storm lights shown, uplifts his;head,
And, from the summit of each rising wave,
Darts a grim glance upon the daring crew,
And sinks the way their little boat must go!
But she, with blessings armed, best shield! as if
Immortal, surmounts the abyss, and rides
The watery ridge upon her pliant oars,
Which conquer the wild, raging element
And that dark demon, with angelic power.
Wave after wave, he sullenly retreats,
With oft repeated menace, and beholds
The poor fisherman, with all his fellows,
Borne from his grasp in triumph to the shore —
There Hope stands watchful, and her call is heard
Wafted on wishes of the crowd. Hark! hark!
Is that her voice rejoicing. ‘Tis her song
Swells high upon the gale, and ‘tis her smile,
That gladdens the thick darkness. They are saved.
Bird of the winds and waves and lonely shores,
Of loftiest promontories — and clouds,
And tempests — Bird of the sunbeam, that seeks
Thee through the storm, and glitters on thy wings
Bird of the sunbeam and the azure calm,
Of the green cliff, hung with gay summer plants,
Who lov’st to sit in stillness on the bough,
That leans far o’er the sea, and hear est there
The chasing surges and the hushing sounds,
That float around thee, when tall shadows tremble,
And the rock-weeds stream lightly on the breeze.
O bird of joy! what wanderer of air
Can vie with thee in grandeur of delights,
Whose home is on the precipice, whose sport
Is on the waves? O happy, happy bird!
Lend me thy wings, and let thy joys be mine!
Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Page 270