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Such hues from their celestial Urn
-"Tis past, the visionary splendour fades ; And night approaches with her shades.
And if not so, whose perfect joy makes sleep
The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love,
Glories of evening, as ye there are seen
Speak one of you, my doubts remove,
Note.--The multiplication of mountain-ridges, described at the commencement of the third Stanza of this Ode, as a kind of Jacob's Ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced either by watery vapours, or sunny haze;–in the present instance by the latter cause. Allusions to the Ode, entitled • Intimations of Immortality,' pervade the last stanza of the foregoing Poem.
TO THE MOON.
(COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, -ON THE COAST OF
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SHORE.
What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret,
WANDERER ! that stoop’st so low, and com’st so near
Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins,
Oft with his musings does thy image blend,
The aspiring Mountains and the winding Streams Empress of Night! are gladdened by thy beams; A look of thine the wilderness pervades, And penetrates the forest's inmost shades; Thou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom, Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb; Canst reach the Prisoner—to his grated cell Welcome, though silent and intangible !And lives there one, of all that come and go On the great waters toiling to and fro, One, who has watched thee at some quiet hour Enthroned aloft in undisputed power, Or crossed by vapoury streaks and clouds that move Catching the lustre they in part reproveNor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day, And make the serious happier than the gay?
QUEEN of the stars !--so gentle, so benign,
Yes, lovely Moon! if thou so mildly bright Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite, To fiercer mood the phrenzy-stricken brain, Let me a compensating faith maintain ; That there's a sensitive, a tender, part Which thou canst touch in every human heart, For healing and composure.-But, as least And mightiest billows ever have confessed Thy domination; as the whole vast Sea Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty; So shines that countenance with especial grace On them who urge the keel her plains to trace Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude, Cut off from home and country, may have stood Even till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye, Or the mute rapture ended in a sighTouched by accordance of thy placid cheer, With some internal lights to memory dear, Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast Tired with its daily share of earth’s unrest, Gentle awakenings, visitations meek; A kindly influence whereof few will speak, Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek.
O still belov'd (for thine, meek Power, are charms That fascinate the very Babe in arms, While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs outright, Spreading his little palms in his glad Mother's sight) O still belov’d, once worshipped! Time, that frowns In his destructive flight on earthly crowns, Spares thy mild splendour; still those far-shot
beams Tremble on dancing waves and rippling streams With stainless touch, as chaste as when thy praise Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays; And through dark trials still dost thou explore Thy way for increase punctual as of yore, When teeming Matrons--yielding to rude faith In mysteries of birth and life and death And painful struggle and deliverance-prayed Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. What though the rites be swept away, the fanes Extinct that echoed to the votive strains ; Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot, cease Love to promote and purity and peace; And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may trace Faint types of suffering in thy beamless face.
And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave; Then, while the Sailor, mid an open sea Swept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free, Paces the deck-no star perhaps in sight, And nothing save the moving ship's own light To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night
Then, silent Monitress! let us-not blind To worlds unthought of till the searching mind Of Science laid them open to mankind
Told, also, how the voiceless heavens declare
Learn from thy course, where'er their own be taken,
COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR, IN THE SUMMER OF 1833.
(Having been prevented by the lateness of the season, in 1831, from visiting Staffa and Iona, the author made these the principal objects of a short tour in the summer of 1833, of which the following series of poems is a Memorial. The course pursued was down the Cumberland river Derwent, and to Whitehaven; thence (by the Isle of Man, where a few days were passed) up the Frith of Clyde to Greenock, then to Oban, Staffa, Iona; and back towards England, by Loch Awe, Inverary, Loch Goil-head, Greenock, and through parts of Renfrewshire, Ayrshire, and Dumfries-shire to Carlisle, and thence up the river Eden, and homewards by Ullswater.]
Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown
would shelter in a happy home,
Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate,
Farewell ! no Minstrels now with harp new-strung
They called Thee MERRY ENGLAND, in old time; To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours
A happy people won for thee that name Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors,
With envy heard in many a distant clime ;
And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same
Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through For inattentive Fancy, like the lime this Isle
Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask, Repine as if his hour were come too late ?
This face of rural beauty be a mask Not unprotected in her mouldering state,
For discontent, and poverty, and crime ; Antiquity salutes him with a smile,
These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will ? Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil, Forbid it, Heaven !-and MERRY ENGLAND still And pleasure-grounds where Taste, refined Co-mate Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme !
ADDRESS FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKERMOUTH
TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK. GRETA, what fearful listening! when huge stones Rumble along thy bed, block after block :
“ Thou look’st upon me, and dost fondly think, Or, whirling with reiterated shock,
Poet! that, stricken as both are by years, Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans :
We, differing once so much, are now Compeers, But if thou (like Cocytus from the moans
Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert named
Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link The Mourner, thy true nature was defamed,
United us; when thou, in boyish play, And the habitual murmur that atones
Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey For thy worst rage, forgotten. Oft as Spring
To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand thrones, of light was there ;—and thus did I, thy Tutor, Seats of glad instinct and love's carolling,
Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the grave; The concert, for the happy, then may vie
While thou wert chasing the wing'd butterfly With liveliest peals of birth-day harmony : Through my green courts; or climbing, a bold suitor, To a grieved heart, the notes are benisons. Up to the flowers whose golden progeny
Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave."
TO THE RIVER DERWENT.
Among the mountains were we nursed, loved
NUN'S WELL, BRIGHAM.
The cattle crowding round this beverage clear Thou near the eagle's nest—within brief sail, To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod I, of his bold wing floating on the gale,
The encircling turf into a barren clod; Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint the Through which the waters creep, then disappear, Of human life when first allowed to gleam [beam Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near; On mortal notice.—Glory of the vale,
Yet, o'er the brink, and round the lime-stone cell Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail, Of the pure spring (they call it the “ Nun's Well,” Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam
Name that first struck by chance my startled ear) Of thy soft breath !—Less vivid wreath entwined
A tender Spirit broods—the pensive Shade
Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled
Into the shedding of 'too soft a tear.'
IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH.
TO A FRIEND.
(Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains
(ON THE BANKS OF THE DERWENT.)
MARY QUEEN OP SCOTS.
Yet, while each useful Art augments her store,
of St. Bees.
(LANDING AT THE MOUTH OF THE DERWENT, WORKINGTON.)
“Cruel of heart were they, bloody of hand,
To aid the Votaress, miracles believed STANZAS SUGGESTED IN A STEAM-BOAT OFF SAINT
Wrought in men's minds, like miracles achieved ; BEES' HEADS, ON THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND.
So piety took root; and Song might tell If Life were slumber on a bed of down,
What humanizing virtues near her cell Toil unimposed, vicissitude unknown,
Sprang up, and spread their fragrance wide around; Sad were our lot: no hunter of the hare
How savage busoms melted at the sound Exults like him whose javelin from the lair Of gospel-truth enchained in harmonies Has roused the lion; no one plucks the rose, Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through close trees, Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter blows From her religious Mansion of St. Bees. 'Mid a trim garden's summer luxuries, With jofolike his who climbs, on hands and knees, When her sweet Voice, that instrument of love, For some rare plant, yon Headland of St. Bees. Was glorified, and took its place, above
The silent stars, among the angelic quire, This independence upon oar and sail,
Her chantry blazed with sacrilegious fire, This new indifference to breeze or gale,
And perished utterly; but her good deeds This straight-lined progress, furrowing a flat lea, Had sown the spot, that witnessed them, with seeds And regular as if locked in certainty
Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze
Her intercessions made for the soul's rest
Among the good (when love might else have slept,
Are not, in sooth, their Requiems sacred ties As millions thus shall do, the Headlands of St. Bees. Woven out of passion's sharpest agonies,