Part 2 — ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE.[439]

’Twas a bright moment of my life when first, O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing! That temple-chamber of thy glory burst On my glad sight! Thy pebbly couch lay glowing With deep mosaic hues; and, richly throwing O’er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn’s vest, High bloom’d the heath-flowers, and the wild wood’s crest Was touch’d with gold. Flow ever thus, bestowing Gifts of delight, sweet stream! on all who move Gently along thy shores; and oh! if love— True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught— Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to thee, Then full of kindness let thy music be, Singing repose to every troubled thought!

Majestic plant! such fairy dreams as lie, Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip’s bell, Are not thy train. Those flowers of vase-like swell, Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill’d from high, And in their monumental purity Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw Visions link’d strangely with that silent awe Which broods o’er sculpture’s works. A meet ally For those heroic forms, the simply grand Art thou: and worthy, carved by plastic hand, Above some kingly poet’s tomb to shine In spotless marble; honouring one whose strain Soar’d, upon wings of thought that knew no stain, Free through the starry heavens of truth divine.

“Stop, Christian passer-by! stop, child of God! And read with gentle breast:—Beneath this sod A Poet lies, or that which once seem’d he: Oh! lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.! That he, who once in vain, with toil of breath, Found death in life, may here find life in death: Mercy, for praise—to be forgiven, for fame— He ask’d and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same.”

Spirit! so oft in radiant freedom soaring High through seraphic mysteries unconfined, And oft, a diver through the deep of mind, Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring; And oft such strains of breezy music pouring, As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs, Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring Awhile that freshness left in Paradise; Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal? What the rich fruitage to man’s kindred soul From wealth of thine bequeathed? O strong and high, And sceptred intellect! thy goal confess’d Was the Redeemer’s Cross—thy last bequest One lesson breathing thence profound humility!

They float before my soul, the fair designs Which I would body forth to life and power, Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines Portray majestic buildings:—dome and tower, Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower Points to th’ unchanging stars; and high arcade, Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made For holiest rites. Meanwhile the waning hour Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o’erwrought, I sink. O friend! O link’d with each high thought! Aid me, of those rich visions to detain All I may grasp; until thou see’st fulfill’d, While time and strength allow, my hope to build For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane! 18th October.

If e’er again my spirit be allow’d Converse with Nature in her chambers deep, Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud, She broods o’er new-born waters, as they leap In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep From caves of mystery;—if I roam once more Where dark pines quiver to the torrent’s roar, And voiceful oaks respond;—may I not reap A more ennobling joy, a loftier power, Than e’er was shed on life’s more vernal hour From such communion? Yes! I then shall know That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought Their long, still work of preparation wrought, For that more perfect sense of God reveal’d below.

Oft in still night-dreams a departed face Bends o’er me with sweet earnestness of eye, Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace, But all the tender pity that may lie On the clear brow of Immortality, Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien; Th’ unshadow’d moonlight of some far-off sky Around it floats transparently serene As a pure veil of waters. O rich Sleep! The spells are mighty in thy regions deep, To glorify with reconciling breath, Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine Beauty’s high truth; and how much more divine Thy power when link’d, in this, with thy strong brother—Death!

Nobly thy song, O minstrel! rush’d to meet Th’ Eternal on the pathway of the blast, With darkness round him as a mantle cast, And cherubim to waft his flying seat. Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet, With trumpet-voice thy spirit call’d aloud, And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat, And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. But far more gloriously to earth made known By that high strain, than by the thunder’s tone, The flashing torrents, or the ocean’s roll, Jehovah spake, through thee imbreathing fire, Nature’s vast realms for ever to inspire With the deep worship of a living soul.

“Par correr miglior acqua alza le vele, Omai la navicella del mio Intelletto.”—Dante.

My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain; Its phantoms hung around the star of morn, A cloud-like, weeping train: Thro’ the long day they dimm’d the autumn gold On all the glistening leaves, and wildly roll’d, When the last farewell flush of light was glowing Across the sunset sky, O’er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing One melancholy dye. And when the solemn night Came rushing with her might Of stormy oracles from caves unknown, Then with each fitful blast Prophetic murmurs pass’d, Wakening or answering some deep Sybil-tone Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise With every gusty wail that o’er the wind-harp flies. “Fold, fold thy wings,” they cried, “and strive no more— Faint spirit! strive no more: for thee too strong Are outward ill and wrong, And inward wasting fires! Thou canst not soar Free on a starry way, Beyond their blighting sway, At heaven’s high gate serenely to adore! How shouldst thou hope earth’s fetters to unbind! O passionate, yet weak! O trembler to the wind! “Never shall aught but broken music flow From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe— Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh, From the reeds’ hollow shaken, When sudden breezes waken Their vague, wild symphony. No power is theirs, and no abiding-place In human hearts; their sweetness leaves no trace— Born only so to die! “Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain, On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour, From thy bruised life again A moment’s essence breathe; Thy life, whose trampled flower Into the blessed wreath Of household-charities no longer bound, Lies pale and withering on the barren ground. “So fade, fade on! Thy gift of love shall cling A coiling sadness round thy heart and brain— A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, All sensitive to pain! And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall O’er thy mind’s world, a daily darkening pall. Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued In cold and unrepining quietude!” Then my soul yielded: spells of numbing breath Crept o’er it heavy with a dew of death— Its powers, like leaves before the night-rain, closing; And, as by conflict of wild sea-waves toss’d On the chill bosom of some desert coast, Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing. When silently it seem’d As if a soft mist gleam’d Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling, To many a shape and hue Of vision’d beauty grew, Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling. Oh! the rich scenes that o’er mine inward eye Unrolling then swept by With dreamy motion! Silvery seas were there, Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch’d by skies Of southern midnight’s most transparent dyes; And gemm’d with many an island, wildly fair, Which floated past me into orient day, Still gathering lustre on th’ illumin’d way, Till its high groves of wondrous flowering-trees Colour’d the silvery seas. And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose, Height above spiry height! A soaring solitude of woods and snows, All steep’d in golden light! While as it pass’d, those regal peaks unveiling, I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings, And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing, From lyres that quiver’d through ten thousand strings— Or as if waters, forth to music leaping From many a cave, the Alpine Echo’s hall, On their bold way victoriously were sweeping, Link’d in majestic anthems!—while through all That billowy swell and fall, Voices, like ringing crystal, fill’d the air With inarticulate melody, that stirr’d My being’s core; then, moulding into word Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise, and bear In that great choral strain my trembling part, Of tones by love and faith struck from a human heart. Return no more, vain bodings of the night! A happier oracle within my soul Hath swell’d to power; a clear, unwavering light Mounts through the battling clouds that round me roll; And to a new control Nature’s full harp gives forth rejoicing tones, Wherein my glad sense owns The accordant rush of elemental sound To one consummate harmony profound— One grand Creation-Hymn, Whose notes the seraphim Lift to the glorious height of music wing’d and crown’d. Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, Faithful though faint? Shall not my spirit’s fire, If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend Now to its fount and end? Shall not my earthly love, all purified, Shine forth a heavenward guide, An angel of bright power—and strongly bear My being upward into holier air, Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode, And the sky’s temple-arch o’erflows with God? The radiant hope new-born Expands like rising morn In my life’s life: and as a ripening rose The crimson shadow of its glory throws More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream; So from that hope are spreading Rich hues, o’er nature shedding Each day a clearer, spiritual gleam. Let not those rays fade from me!—once enjoy’d, Father of Spirits! let them not depart— Leaving the chill’d earth, without form and void, Darken’d by mine own heart! Lift, aid, sustain me! Thou, by whom alone All lovely gifts and pure In the soul’s grasp endure; Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne All knowledge flows—a sea for evermore Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore— Oh, consecrate my life! that I may sing Of thee with joy that hath a living spring, In a full heart of music! Let my lays Through the resounding mountains waft thy praise, And with that theme the wood’s green cloisters fill. And make their quivering, leafy dimness thrill To the rich breeze of song! Oh! let me wake The deep religion, which hath dwelt from yore Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake, And wildest river-shore! And let me summon all the voices dwelling Where eagles build, and cavern’d rills are welling, And where the cataract’s organ-peal is swelling, In that one spirit gather’d to adore! Forgive, O Father! if presumptuous thought Too daringly in aspiration rise! Let not thy child all vainly have been taught By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs Of sad confession! Lowly be my heart, And on its penitential altar spread The offerings worthless, till thy grace impart The fire from heaven, whose touch alone can shed Life, radiance, virtue!—let that vital spark Pierce my whole being, wilder’d else and dark! Thine are all holy things—oh, make me thine! So shall I, too, be pure—a living shrine Unto that Spirit which goes forth from thee, Strong and divinely free, Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight, And brooding o’er them with a dove-like wing, Till thought, word, song, to thee in worship spring, Immortally endow’d for liberty and light.

‘Mutely and hopelessly she lay reposing.’

I stand upon the threshold stone Of mine ancestral hall; I hear my native river moan; I see the night o’er my old forests fall. I look round on the darkening vale That saw my childhood’s plays; The low wind in its rising wail Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days. But I must rule my swelling breast: A sign is in the sky! Bright o’er yon gray rock’s eagle-nest Shines forth a warning star—it bids me fly. My father’s sword is in my hand, His deep voice haunts mine ear; He tells me of the noble band Whose lives have left a brooding glory here. He bids their offspring guard from stain Their pure and lofty faith; And yield up all things, to maintain The cause for which they girt themselves to death. And I obey. I leave their towers Unto the stranger’s tread, Unto the creeping grass and flowers, Unto the fading pictures of the dead. I leave their shields to slow decay, Their banners to the dust: I go, and only bear away Their old majestic name—a solemn trust! I go up to the ancient hills. Where chains may never be, Where leap in joy the torrent-rills, Where man may worship God, alone and free. There shall an altar and a camp Impregnably arise; There shall be lit a quenchless lamp, To shine, unwavering, through the open skies. And song shall midst the rocks be heard, And fearless prayer ascend; While, thrilling to God’s holy word, The mountain-pines in adoration bend. And there the burning heart no more Its deep thought shall suppress, But the long-buried truth shall pour Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness. Then fare thee well, my mother’s bower! Farewell, my father’s hearth!— Perish my home! where lawless power Hath rent the tie of love to native earth. Perish! let deathlike silence fall Upon the lone abode; Spread fast, dark ivy! spread thy pall;— I go up to the mountains with my God.

By the blue waters—the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one! I pine for thee through all the joyless day— Through the long night I pine: the golden sun Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the spring Seems but to weep. Where art thou, my beloved? Night after night, in fond hope vigilant, By the old temple on the breezy cliff, These hands have heap’d the watch-fire, till it stream’d Red o’er the shining columns—darkly red Along the crested billows!—but in vain: Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles— Yet thou wert faithful ever. Oh! the deep Hath shut above thy head—that graceful head; The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks; The white sail never will bring back the loved! By the blue waters—the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one! Where art thou?—where? Had I but lingering press’d On thy cold lips the last long kiss—but smooth’d The parted ringlets of thy shining hair With love’s fond touch, my heart’s cry had been still’d Into a voiceless grief: I would have strew’d With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods— White violets, and the mournful hyacinth, And frail anemone, thy marble brow, In slumber beautiful! I would have heap’d Sweet boughs and precious odours on thy pyre, And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn, And many a garland of the pallid rose: But thou liest far away! No funeral chant, Save the wild moaning of the wave, is thine: No pyre—save, haply, some long-buried wreck; Thou that wert fairest—thou that wert most loved! By the blue waters—the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one! Come, in the dreamy shadow of the night, And speak to me! E’en though thy voice be changed, My heart would know it still. Oh, speak to me! And say if yet, in some dim, far-off world, Which knows not how the festal sunshine burns, If yet, in some pale mead of asphodel, We two shall meet again! Oh, I would quit The day rejoicingly—the rosy light— All the rich flowers and fountains musical, And sweet, familiar melodies of earth, To dwell with thee below! Thou answerest not! The powers whom I have call’d upon are mute: The voices buried in old whispery caves, And by lone river-sources, and amidst The gloom and mystery of dark prophet-oaks, The wood-gods’ haunt—they give me no reply! All silent—heaven and earth! For evermore From the deserted mountains thou art gone— For ever from the melancholy groves, Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound! And I—I pine through all the joyous day, Through the long night I pine—as fondly pines The night’s own bird, dissolving her lorn life To song in moonlight woods. Thou hear’st me not! The heavens are pitiless of human tears: The deep sea-darkness is about thy head; The white sail never will bring back the loved! By the blue waters—the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

O Thought! O Memory! gems for ever heaping High in the illumined chambers of the mind— And thou, divine Imagination! keeping Thy lamp’s lone star mid shadowy hosts enshrined; How in one moment rent and disentwined, At Fever’s fiery touch, apart they fall, Your glorious combinations! broken all, As the sand-pillars by the desert’s wind Scatter’d to whirling dust! Oh, soon uncrown’d! Well may your parting swift, your strange return, Subdue the soul to lowliness profound, Guiding its chasten’d vision to discern How by meek Faith heaven’s portals must be pass’d, Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast.

Thou art like Night, O Sickness! deeply stilling Within my heart the world’s disturbing sound, And the dim quiet of my chamber filling With low, sweet voices by Life’s tumult drown’d. Thou art like awful Night! thou gatherest round The things that are unseen—though close they lie; And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, Giv’st their dread presence to our mental eye. Thou art like starry, spiritual Night! High and immortal thoughts attend thy way, And revelations, which the common light Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray All outward life:—Be welcome, then, thy rod, Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.

Well might thine awful image thus arise With that high calm upon thy regal brow, And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, Unto the glorious artist! Who but thou The fleeting forms of beauty can endow For him with permanence? who make those gleams Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams, Immortal things? Let others trembling bow, Angel of Death! before thee;—not to those Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose, Art thou a fearful shape! And oh! for me, How full of welcome would thine aspect shine, Did not the cords of strong affection twine So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee!

O Nature! thou didst rear me for thine own, With thy free singing-birds and mountain-brooks; Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks, With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone; And thou didst teach me every wandering tone Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and waves, And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves, And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne Midst the green hills: and now that, far estranged From all sweet sounds and odours of thy breath, Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged, So glows the love of thee, that not for death Seems that pure passion’s fervour—but ordain’d To meet on brighter shores thy majesty unstain’d.

Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way? What solemn region first upon thy sight Shall break, unveil’d for terror or delight? What hosts, magnificent in dread array, My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay, After long strife is rent? Fond, fruitless quest! The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest, Sees but a few green branches o’er him play, And through their parting leaves, by fits reveal’d, A glimpse of summer sky; nor knows the field Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried. Thou art that bird!—of what beyond thee lies Far in the untrack’d, immeasurable skies, Knowing but this—that thou shalt find thy Guide?

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms! again Unto the shadowy stillness of my room! For not alone ye bring a joyous train Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom— Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom, Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells, Of stars that look down on your folded bells Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove Like sudden music: more than this ye bring— Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing Broods o’er the sufferer drawing fever’d breath, Whether the couch be that of life or death.

Back, then, once more to breast the waves of life, To battle on against the unceasing spray, To sink o’erwearied in the stormy strife, And rise to strive again; yet on my way, Oh! linger still, thou light of better day! Born in the hours of loneliness: and you, Ye childlike thoughts! the holy and the true— Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay, The faith, the insight of life’s vernal morn Back on my soul, a clear, bright sense, new-born, Now leave me not! but as, profoundly pure, A blue stream rushes through a darker lake Unchanged, e’en thus with me your journey take, Wafting sweet airs of heaven thro’ this low world obscure.

How many blessed groups this hour are bending, Thro’ England’s primrose meadow-paths, their way Towards spire and tower, midst shadowy elms ascending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow’d day! The halls from old heroic ages gray Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways—to the feverish bed Of sickness bound; yet, O my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath-peace hath fill’d My chasten’d heart, and all its throbbings still’d To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness!