[ocr errors][merged small]


[ocr errors]



in prayer

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the
How silently! Around thee and above

Deep is the air and dark, substantial, Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter

praise ! An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest Who_sank thy sunless pillars deep in it,

Earth? As with a wedge! But when I look | Who fill’d thy countenance with rosy again,

light? It is thine own calm home, thy crystal Who made thee parent of perpetual shrine,

streams? Thy habitation from eternity! o áread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely thee,

glad ! Till thou, still present to the bodily Who called you forth from night and sense,

utter death, Didst vanish from my thought : entranced From dark and icy caverns called you

forth, I worshipped the Invisible alone. Down those precipitous, black, jagged

rocks, Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, For ever shattered and the same for So sweet, we know not we are listening

ever ? to it,

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 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 ? joy:

And who commanded (and the silence Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,

came), Into the mighty vision passing—there Here let the billows stiffen, and have As in her natural form, swelled vast to

rest? Heaven !

Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the mountAwake, my soul ! not only passive

ain's brow praise

Adown enormous ravines slope amainThou owest ! not alone these swelling Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty tears,

voice, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, And stopped at once amid their maddest Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart,

plunge! awake!

Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Who made you glorious as the Gates of Hymn.


Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of

the sun the Vale !

Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with O struggling with the darkness all the living flowers night,

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your And visited all night by troops of

feet? stars,

God! let the torrents, like a shout of Or when they climb the sky or when

nations, they sink :

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, Companion of the morning-star at dawn,





GOD! sing ye meadow - streams with

TO MATILDA BETHAM FROM A gladsome voice !

бо Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul

STRANGER like sounds!

[One of our most celebrated poets, who had, And they too have a voice, yon piles of

I was told, picked out and praised the little snow,

piece “On a Cloud,” another had quoted (saying And in their perilous fall shall thunder, it would have been faultless if I had not used the God!

word Phæbus in it, which he thought inadmis

sible in modern poetry), sent me some verses inYe living flowers that skirt the eternal scribed" To Matilda Betham, from a Stranger”; frost !

and dated “Keswick, Sept. 9, 1802, S. T. C.” Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's I should have guessed whence they came, but nest!

dared not flatter myself so highly as satisfactorily

to believe it, before I obtained the avowal of the Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain

lady who had transmitted them.'] storm ! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the MATILDA ! I have heard a sweet tune clouds!

play'd Ye signs and wonders of the element ! On a sweet instrument—thy PoesieUtter forth God, and fill the hills with Sent to my soul by Boughton's pleading praise !


Where friendship’s zealous wish inThou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky

spirited, pointing peaks,

70 Deepened and fill’d the subtle tones of Oft from whose feet the avalanche, un

taste : heard,

(So have I heard a Nightingale's fine notes Shoots downward, glittering through the Blend with the murmurs of a hidden pure serene

stream !) Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy And now the fair, wild offspring of thy breast

genius, Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! Those wanderers whom thy fancy had thou

sent forth That as I raise my head, awhile bowed To seek their fortune in this motley low

world, In adoration, upward from thy base Have found a little home within my Slow travelling with dim eyes suffuscd

heart, with tears,

And brought me, as the quit-rent of their Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,

lodging, To rise before me-Rise, O ever rise, Rose-buds, and fruit-blossoms, and pretty Rise like a cloud of incense from the

weeds, Earth!

80 And timorous laurel leaflets half-disclos'd, Thou kingly Spirit throned among the Engarlanded with gadding woodbine hills,

tendrils ! Thou dread ambassador from Earth to A coronel, which, with undoubting hand, Heaven,

I twine around the brows of patriot Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent

HOPE! sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising The Almighty, having first composed a sun

Man, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises Set him to music, framing Woman for GOD.



IO 20


And fitted each to each, and made them

AN ODE TO THE RAIN one ! And 'tis my faith, that there's a natural


MORNING APPOINTED FOR THE Between the female mind and measur'd


BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, Nor do I know a sweeter Hope than this,

WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN That this sweet Hope, by judgment un

That our own Britain, our dear mother


I KNOW it is dark ; and though I have May boast one Maid, a poetess indeed,

lain, Great as th’impassion'd Lesbian, in Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, sweet song,

I have not once open'd the lids of my And O! of holier mind, and happier fate.


But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.
Matilda ! I dare twine thy vernal wreath O Rain ! that I lie listening to,
Around the brows of patriot Hope! But | You're but a doleful sound at best :

I owe you little thanks, 'tis true,
Be wise ! be bold ! fulfil my auspices ! For breaking thus my needful rest!
Tho' sweet thy measures, stern must be Yet if, as soon as it is light,
thy thought,

O Rain ! you will but take your flight, 10 Patient thy study, watchful thy mild eye !

I'll neither rail, nor malice keep, Poetic feelings, like the stretching boughs Though sick and sore for want of sleep. Of mighty oaks, pay homage to the But only now, for this one day, gales,

Do go, dear Rain ! do go away! Toss in the strong winds, drive before the gust,

II Themselves one giddy storm of fluttering leaves ;

O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound, Yet, all the while self-limited, remain

The clash hard by, and the murmur all

round ! Equally near the fix'd and solid trunk Of Truth and Nature in the howling

You know, if you know aught, that we, storm,

Both night and day, but ill agree :

40 As in the calm that stills the aspen grove.

For days and months, and almost years, Be bold, meek Woman ! but be wisely Have limp'd on through this vale of bold !

tears, Fly, ostrich-like, firm land beneath thy Since body of mine, and rainy weather, feet,

Have lived on easy terms together.
Yet hurried onward by thy wings of fancy Yet if, as soon as it is light,
Swift as the whirlwind, singing in their

O Rain ! you will but take your flight, quills.

Though you should come again toLook round thee! look within thee !

morrow, think and feel !

And bring with you both pain and What nobler meed, Matilda ! canst thou

sorrow; win,

Though stomach should sicken and knees

should swellThan tears of gladness in a BOUGHTON'S

I'll nothing speak of you but well. eyes, And exultation even in strangers' hearts?

But only now for this one day, 1802.

Do go, dear Rain ! do go away!


3c III

INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN Dear Rain ! I ne'er refused to say You're a good creature in your way ;

ON A HEATH Nay, I could write a book myself,

This Sycamore, oft musical with bees, Would fit a parson's lower shelf,

Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long Showing how very good you are.-

unharmed What then ? sometimes it must be fair !

May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy And if sometimes, why not to-day? The small round basin, which this jutting Do go, dear Rain ! do go away!


Keeps pure from falling leaves ! Long IV

may the Spring, Dear Rain ! if I've been cold and Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,

Send shy,

cold waters to the traveller


With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease Take no offence! I'll tell you why. 40

Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless A dear old Friend e'en now is here,

dance, And with him came my sister dear ;

Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page, After long absence now first met,

As merry and no taller, dances still, Long months by pain and grief beset

Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the We three dear friends! in truth, we

Fount. groan Impatiently to be alone.

Here twilight is and coolness : here is We three, you mark! and not


A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. more! The strong wish makes my spirit sore.

Thou may'st toil far and find no second

tree. We have so much to talk about, So many sad things to let out ;

Drink, Pilgrim, here! Here rest! and So many tears in our eye-corners,

if thy heart

Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh Sitting like little Jacky Horners

Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound, In short, as soon as it is day, Do go, dear Rain ! do go away.

Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees !




[ocr errors]

And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain !
Whenever you shall come again,
Be you as dull as e'er you could
(And by the bye 'tis understood,
You're not so pleasant as you're good),
Yet, knowing well your worth and place,
I'll welcome you with cheerful face ; 61
And though you stay'd a week or more,
Were ten times duller than before ;
Yet with kind heart, and right good

I'll sit and listen to you still ;
Nor should you go away, dear Rain!
Uninvited to remain.
But only now, for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 1802.

THE GOOD, GREAT MAN How seldom, friend ! a good great man

inherits Honour or wealth with all his worth

and pains ! It sounds like stories from the land of

spirits If any man obtain that which he merits

Or any merit that which he obtains.'


FOR shame, dear friend, renounce this

canting strain ! What would'st thou have a good great

man obtain?



Place? titles ? salary ? a gilded chain ?

THE PAINS OF SLEEP Or throne of corses which his sword had slain ?

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, Greatness and goodness are not means, It hath not been my use to pray but ends !

With moving lips or bended knees; Hath he not always treasures, always But silently, by slow degrees, friends,

My spirit I to Love compose,
The good great man? three treasures, In humble trust mine eye-lids close,

With reverential resignation, And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as No wish conceived, no thought exprest, infant's breath :

Only a sense of supplication; And three firm friends, more sure than A sense o'er all my soul imprest day and night,

That I am weak, yet not unblest, HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL

Since in me, round me, every where DEATH !

Eternal Strength and Wisdom are.
Morning Post, Sep. 23, 1802.

But yester-night I pray'd aloud
In anguish and in agony,

Up-starting from the fiendish crowd

Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me:

A lurid light, a trampling throng,

Sense of intolerable wrong, 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 !'

Desire with loathing strangely mixed In the winter they’re silent—the wind is On wild or hateful objects fixed. so strong ;

Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! What it says, I don't know, but it sings And shame and terror over all ! a loud song.

Deeds to be hid which were not hid, But green leaves, and blossoms, and which all confused I could not know sunny warm weather,

Whether I suffered, or I did : And singing, and loving—all come back For all seem'd guilt, remorse or woe, 30 together.

My own or others still the same [' I love, and I love,' almost all the birds | Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame !

say From sunrise to star-rise, so gladsome So two nights passed : the night's dismay are they !]


and stunned the coming day. But the Lark is so brimful of gladness Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me and love,

Distemper's worst calamity. 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 'I love my Love, and my Love loves

wild, me !!

I wept as I had been a child ; ['Tis no wonder that he's full of joy to And having thus by tears subdued the brim,

My anguish to a milder mood, When he loves his Love, and his Love Such punishments, I said, were due loves him !]

1802. To natures deepliest stained with sin :


« VorigeDoorgaan »