THE DESCENT OF THE RHONE.

Often when my thought has been Pondering on what solemn scene, Which of all the glorious shows Nature can at will disclose, Once beholden by the eye, Ever after would supply Most unto the musing heart Of memories which should not depart— It has seemed no ampler dower Of her beauty or her power We could win, than night and day, An illimitable way, To sail down some mighty river, Sailing as we would sail for ever. Lo! my wish is almost won, Broadly flows the stately Rhone, And we loosen from the shore Our light pinnace, long before The young East in gorgeous state Has unlocked his ruby gate, And our voyage is not done At the sinking of the sun; But for us the azure Night Feeds her golden flocks with light: Ours are all the hues of heaven, Sights and sounds of morn and even; In our view the day is born; First the stars of lustre shorn, Until Hesper, he who last Kept his splendour, now fades fast; A faint bloom over heaven is spread, And the clouds blush deeper red, Till from them the stream below Catches the same roseate glow; The pale east lightens into gold, And the west is with the fold Of the mantle of dim night Scarcely darkened or less bright— Till, his way prepared, at length Rising up in golden strength, Tramples the victorious sun The dying stars out, one by one. Fairer scene the opening eye Of the day can scarce descry— Fairer sight he looks not on Than the pleasant banks of Rhone; Where in terraces and ranks, On those undulating banks, Rise by many a hilly stair Sloping tiers of vines, where’er From the steep and stony soil Has been won by careful toil, And with long laborious pains Fenced against the washing rains, Fenced and anxiously walled round, A little patch of garden ground. Higher still some place of power, Or a solitary tower, Ruined now, is looking down On some quiet little town In a sheltered glen beneath, Where the smoke’s unbroken wreath, Mounting in the windless air, Rests, dissolving slowly there, O’er the housetops like a cloud, Or a thinnest vapourous shroud. Morn has been, and lo! how soon Has arrived the middle noon, And the broad sun’s rays do rest On some naked mountain’s breast, Where alone relieve the eye Massive shadows, as they lie In the hollows motionless; Still our boat doth onward press. Now a peaceful current wide Bears it on an ample tide, Now the hills retire, and then Their broad fronts advance again, Till the rocks have closed us round, And would seem our course to bound, But anon a way appears, And our vessel onward steers, Darting swiftly as between Narrow walls of a ravine. Morn has been and noon—and now Evening falls about our prow: But the sunken sunset still Burns behind the western hill; Lo! the starry troop again Gather on the ethereal plain; Even now and there were none, And a moment since but one; And anon we lift our head, And all heaven is overspread With a still assembling crowd, With a silent multitude— Venus, first and brightest set In the night’s pale coronet, Armed Orion’s belted pride, And the Seven that by the side Of the Titan nightly weave Dances in the mystic eve, Sisters linked in love and light; ’Twere in truth a solemn sight, Were we sailing now as they, Who upon their western way To the isles of spice and gold, Nightly watching, might behold These our constellations dip, And the great sign of the Ship Rise upon the other hand, With the Cross that seems to stand In the vault of heaven upright, Marking the middle hour of night— Or with them whose keels first prest The mighty rivers of the west, Who the first with bold intent Down the Orellana went,[6] Or a dangerous progress won On the mighty Amazon, By whose ocean-streams they tell How yet the warrior-maidens dwell. But the Fancy may not roam; Thou wilt keep it nearer home, Friend, of earthly friends the best, Who on this fair river’s breast Sailest with me fleet and fast, As the unremitting blast With a steady breath and strong Urges our light boat along. We this day have found delight In each pleasant sound and sight Of this river bright and fair, And in things which flowing are Like a stream, yet without blame These my passing song may claim, Or thy hearing may beguile, If we not forget the while, That we are from childhood’s morn On a mightier river borne, Which is rolling evermore To a sea without a shore, Life the river, and the sea That we seek—eternity. We may sometimes sport and play, And in thought keep holiday, So we ever own a law, Living in habitual awe, And beneath the constant stress Of a solemn thoughtfulness, Weighing whither this life tends, For what high and holy ends It was lent us, whence it flows, And its current whither goes. There is ample matter here For as much of thought and fear, As will solemnize our souls— Thought of how this river rolls Over millions wrecked before They could reach that happy shore, Where we have not anchored yet; Of the dangers which beset Our own way, of hidden shoal, Waters smoothest where they roll Over point of sunken rock, Treacherous calm, and sudden shock Of the storm, which can assail No boat than ours more weak or frail— Matter not alone of sadness, But no less of thankful gladness, That, whichever way we turn, There are steady lights that burn On the shore, and lamps of love In the gloomiest sky above, Which will guide our bark aright Through the darkness of our night— Many a fixed unblinking star Unto them that wandering are Through this blindly-weltering sea. Themes of high and thoughtful glee, When we think we are not left, Of all solaces bereft, Each to hold, companionless, Through a watery wilderness, Unaccompanied our way, As we can—this I may say, Whatsoever else betide, With thee sitting at my side, And this happy cherub sweet, Playing, laughing at my feet.