With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track; Whilst above, the sunless sky, Big with clouds, hangs heavily, And behind, the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet, Riving sail and cord and plank Till the ship has almost drank Death from the o'erbrimming deep; And sinks down, down, like that sleep When the dreamer seems to be Weltering through eternity; And the dim low line before Of a dark and distant shore Still recedes, as, ever still Longing with divided will, But no power to seek or shun, He is ever drifted on O'er the unreposing wave To the haven of the grave.
Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide agony: To such a one this morn was led My bark, by soft winds piloted.
Mid the mountains Euganean I stood listening to the pean With which the legioned rooks did hail The sun's uprise majestical: Gathering round with wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar
Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Flecked with fire and azure, lie In the unfathomable sky, So their plumes of purple grain, Starred with drops of golden rain, Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes On the morning's fitful gale, Through the broken mist they sail; And the vapors cloven and gleaming Follow, down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright and clear and still Round the solitary hill.
Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; Underneath day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half reclined
On the level quivering line
Of the waters crystalline; And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright, Column, tower, and dome, and spire Shine like obelisks of fire,
Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise, As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old.
Sun-girt city! thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier.
A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne among the waves, Wilt thou be when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state, Save where many a palace-gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way Wandering at the close of day Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore,
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep, Lead a rapid mask of death O'er the waters of his path.
Noon descends around me now: 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist, Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved star, Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound
To the point of heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky; And the plains that silent lie Underneath; the leaves unsodden Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet: And the red and golden vines, Piercing with their trellised lines
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandalled Apennine In the south dimly islanded;
And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun; And of living things each one ; And my spirit, which so long Darkened this swift stream of song, Interpenetrated lie
By the glory of the sky; Be it love, light, harmony, Odor, or the soul of all
Which from heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe.
Noon descends, and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon
And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs : And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies Mid remembered agonies, The frail bark of this lone being)
Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot, Pain, Sits beside the helm again.
Other flowering isles must be In the sea of life and agony; Other spirits float and flee
O'er that gulf; even now, perhaps, On some rock the wild wave wraps, With folding winds they waiting sit For my bark, to pilot it
To some calm and blooming cove, Where for me, and those I love, May a windless bower be built, Far from passion, pain, and guilt, In a dell mid lawny hills, Which the wild sea-murmur fills, And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round, And the light and smell divine
Of all flowers that breathe and shine. -We may live so happy there, That the spirits of the air,
Envying us, may even entice
To our healing paradise
The polluting multitude; But their rage would be subdued By that clime divine and calm, And the winds whose wings rain balm On the uplifted soul, and leaves Under which the bright sea heaves; While each breathless interval
In their whisperings musical The inspired soul supplies With its own deep melodies; And the love which heals all strife, Circling, like the breath of life, All things in that sweet abode With its own mild brotherhood. They, not it, would change; and soon Every sprite beneath the moon Would repent its envy vain, And the earth grow young again!
[The Vale of the Towy embraces, in its winding course of fifteen miles, some of the loveliest scenery of South Wales. If it be less cultivated than the Vale of Usk, its woodland views are more romantic and frequent. The neighborhood is historic and poetic ground. From Grongar Hill the eye discovers traces of a Roman camp; Golden Grove, the home of Jeremy Taylor, is on the oppo site side of the river; Merlin's chair recalls Spenser; and a farmhouse near the foot of Llangumnor Hill brings back the memory of its once genial occupant, Richard Steele. Spenser places the cave of Merlin among the dark woods of Dinevawr.]
SILENT nymph, with curious eye, Who, the purple even, dost lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man, Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings, Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale, Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy sister Muse. Now, while Phoebus, riding high, Gives lustre to the land and sky, Grongar Hill invites my song, Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar, in whose mossy cells Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; Grongar, in whose silent shade, For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill, Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.
About his checkered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves and grottoes where I lay, And vistas shooting beams of day. Wide and wider spreads the vale, As circles on a smooth canal. The mountains round, unhappy fate! Sooner or later, of all height, Withdraw their summits from the skies, And lessen as the others rise. Still the prospect wider spreads, Adds a thousand woods and meads; Still it widens, widens still, And sinks the newly risen hill.
Now I gain the mountain's brow; What a landscape lies below! No clouds, no vapors intervene ; But the gay, the open scene Does the face of Nature show
In all the hues of heaven's bow ! And, swelling to embrace the light, Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise, Proudly towering in the skies; Rushing from the woods, the spires Seem from hence ascending fires; Half his beams Apollo sheds On the yellow mountain-heads, Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, And glitters on the broken rocks. Below me trees unnumbered rise, Beautiful in various dyes: The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, The yellow beech, the sable yew, The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs; And beyond, the purple grove, Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love! Gaudy as the opening dawn, Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high, Holds and charms the wandering eye; Deep are his feet in Towy's flood; His sides are clothed with waving wood; And ancient towers crown his brow, That cast an awful look below; Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, And with her arms from falling keeps ; So both a safety from the wind In mutual dependence find.
"T is now the raven's bleak abode ; 'T is now the apartment of the toad; And there the fox securely feeds; And there the poisonous adder breeds, Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds; While, ever and anon, there fall Huge heaps of hoary, mouldered wall. Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low And level lays the lofty brow, Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state. But transient is the smile of Fate ! A little rule, a little sway, A sunbeam in a winter's day, Is all the proud and mighty have Between the cradle and the grave.
And see the rivers, how they run Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, Wave succeeding wave, they go A various journey to the deep, Like human life to endless sleep! Thus is Nature's vesture wrought To instruct our wandering thought; Thus she dresses green and gay To disperse our cares away.
Ever charming, ever new, When will the landscape tire the view' The fountain's fall, the river's flow: The woody valleys, warm and low; The windy summit, wild and high, Roughly rushing on the sky; The pleasant seat, the ruined tower, The naked rock, the shady bower; The town and village, dome and farm, Each gives each a double charm, As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.
See on the mountain's southern side, Where the prospect opens wide, Where the evening gilds the tide, How close and small the hedges lie! What streaks of meadow cross the eye! A step, methinks, may pass the stream, So little distant dangers seem; So we mistake the Future's face, Eyed through Hope's deluding glass; As yon summits, soft and fair, Clad in colors of the air, Which, to those who journey near, Barren, brown, and rough appear; Still we tread the same coarse way, · The present's still a cloudy day. O, may I with myself agree, And never covet what I see; Content me with a humble shade, My passions tamed, my wishes laid; For while our wishes wildly roll, We banish quiet from the soul. "T is thus the busy beat the air, And misers gather wealth and care. Now, even now, my joys run high, As on the mountain-turf I lie; While the wanton Zephyr sings, And in the vale perfumes his wings ; While the waters murmur deep; While the shepherd charms his sheep · While the birds unbounded fly, And with music fill the sky, -
FROM "THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH."
MEANTIME, the moist malignity to shun Df burdened skies, mark where the dry champaign
Swells into cheerful hills: where marjoram And thyme, the love of bees, perfume the air ; And where the cynorrhodon with the rose For fragrance vies; for in the thirsty soil Most fragrant breathe the aromatic tribes. There bid thy roofs high on the basking steep Ascend, there light thy hospitable fires. And let them see the winter morn arise, The summer evening blushing in the west: While with umbrageous oaks the ridge behind O'erhung, defends you from the blustering North, And bleak affliction of the peevish East. O, when the growling winds contend, and all The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm, To sink in warm repose, and hear the din Howl o'er the steady battlements, delights Above the luxury of vulgar sleep. The murmuring rivulet, and the hoarser strain Of waters rushing o'er the slippery rocks, Will nightly lull you to ambrosial rest. To please the fancy is no trifling good, Where health is studied; for whatever moves The mind with calm delight promotes the just And natural movements of the harmonious frame. Besides, the sportive brook forever shakes The trembling air, that floats from hill to hill, From vale to mountain, with incessant change Of purest element, refreshing still Your airy seat, and uninfected gods. Chiefly for this I praise the man who builds High on the breezy ridge, whose lofty sides The ethereal deep with endless billows chafes. His purer mansion nor contagious years Shall reach, nor deadly putrid airs annoy.
ON Alpine heights the love of God is shed; He paints the morning red, The flowerets white and blue, And feeds them with his dew.
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.
On Alpine heights, o'er many a fragrant heath, The loveliest breezes breathe; So free and pure the air,
His breath seems floating there.
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.
On Alpine heights, beneath his mild blue eye, Still vales and meadows lie; The soaring glacier's ice Gleams like a paradise.
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.
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