166 HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, ΙΟ Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! Who_sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light? It is thine own calm home, thy crystal Who made thee parent of perpetual Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with Your strength, your speed, your fury, and my Thought, your joy, Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came), joy : 20 Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amainThou owest! not alone these swelling Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 51 tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, And stopped at once amid their maddest Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer and let the ice-plains echo, GOD! TO MATILDA BETHAM FROM A STRANGER ['One of our most celebrated poets, who had, I was told, picked out and praised the little piece "On a Cloud," another had quoted (saying it would have been faultless if I had not used the word Phœbus in it, which he thought inadmissible in modern poetry), sent me some verses inscribed "To Matilda Betham, from a Stranger"; and dated "Keswick, Sept. 9, 1802, S. T. C." I should have guessed whence they came, but dared not flatter myself so highly as satisfactorily to believe it, before I obtained the avowal of the lady who had transmitted them.'] Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the MATILDA! I have heard a sweet tune clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the element ! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy skypointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene play'd On a sweet instrument-thy PoesieSent to my soul by Boughton's pleading voice, Where friendship's zealous wish inspirited, Deepened and fill'd the subtle tones of taste: (So have I heard a Nightingale's fine notes Blend with the murmurs of a hidden stream!) Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy And now the fair, wild offspring of thy breast Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou genius, Those wanderers whom thy fancy had sent forth That as I raise my head, awhile bowed To seek their fortune in this motley Thou kingly Spirit throned among the Engarlanded with gadding woodbine hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, tendrils! A coronel, which, with undoubting hand, I twine around the brows of patriot HOPE! And tell the stars, and tell yon rising The Almighty, having first composed a Earth, with her thousand voices, praises Set him to music, framing Woman for AN ODE TO THE RAIN COMPOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERY WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT DETAIN I I KNOW it is dark; and though I have lain, Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, eyes, But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies. III Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say IV INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN THIS Sycamore, oft musical with bees,- May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long Dear Rain! if I've been cold and Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath, shy, 40 Take no offence! I'll tell you why. Impatiently to be alone. We three, you mark! and not one The strong wish makes my spirit sore. 50 Send up cold waters to the traveller V And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain! I'll sit and listen to you still; Nor should you go away, dear Rain! But only now, for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away. 1802. 61 Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain? Or throne of corses which his sword had slain? Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! THE PAINS OF SLEEP ERE on my bed my limbs I lay, Hath he not always treasures, always But silently, by slow degrees, friends, The good great man? three treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT, And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath: And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL Morning Post, Sep. 23, 1802. ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION But yester-night I pray'd aloud Do you ask what the birds say? The And whom I scorned, those only strong! Sparrow, the Dove, Thirst of revenge, the powerless will The Linnet and Thrush say, 'I love Still baffled, and yet burning still! and I love!' 21 Desire with loathing strangely mixed So two nights passed: the night's dismay But the Lark is so brimful of gladness Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me Distemper's worst calamity. and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky The third night, when my own loud above, scream That he sings, and he sings; and for ever Had waked me from the fiendish dream, sings he O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, 'I love my Love, and my Love loves me!' ['Tis no wonder that he's full of joy to |