'Tis well-but what are helps of time and place, When wisdom stands in need of nature's grace; Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, descend, Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues to befriend; If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say, VII. THE leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill, And sky that danced among those leaves, are still; Rest smooths the way for sleep; in field and bower [power Soft shades and dews have shed their blended On drooping eyelid and the closing flower; Sound is there none at which the faintest heart Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start; Save when the Owlet's unexpected scream Pierces the ethereal vault; and (mid the gleam Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream, Grave Creature! whether, while the mocn shines bright On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight, Thou art discovered in a roofless tower, Rising from what may once have been a lady's bower: Or spied where thou sitt'st moping in thy mew At the dim centre of a churchyard yew; A puzzling notice of thy whereabout- In classic ages men perceived a soul And, near the golden sceptre grasped by Jove, His Eagle's favorite perch, while round him sate The Gods revolving the decrees of Fate, Thou, too, wert present at Minerva's side:Hark to that second larum !-far and wide, The elements have heard, and rock and cave replied. 1834. VIII. [This Impromptu appeared, many years ago, among the Author's poems, from which, in subsequent editions, it was excluded. It is reprinted, at the request of the Friend in whose presence the lines were thrown off.] THE sun has long been set, The stars are out by twos and threes, The little birds are piping yet Among the bushes and trees; Who would "go parading" With that beautiful soft half-moon, IX. COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING CF EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOR AND BEAUTY. I. HAD this effulgence disappeared But 'tis endued with power to stay, Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, Strains suitable to both.-Such holy rite, Methinks, if audibly repeated now Than doth this silent spectacle-the gleam- II. No sound is uttered,-but a deep The hollow vale from steep to steep, Herds range along the mountain side; Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread On ground which British shepherds tread! Is crossed by knowledge, or by dread, of change, And if not so, whose perfect joy makes sleep A thing too bright for breathing man to keep. Hail to the virtues which that perilous life Extracts from Nature's elemental strife; And welcome glory won in attles fought As bravely as the foe was ke nly sought. But to each gallant Captain and his crew A less imperious sympathy is due, Such as my verse now yields, while moonbeams play On the mute sea in this unruffled bay; Such as will promptly flow from every breast, Where good men, disappointed in the quest Of wealth and power and honors, long for rest; Or, having known the splendors of success, Sigh for the obscurities of happiness. Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend' That bid me hail thee as the SAILOR'S FRIEND; So call thee for heaven's grace through thee made known By confidence supplied and mercy shown, Both for the adventurer starting in life's prime; And veteran ranging round from clime to clime, Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins, And wounds and weakness oft his labor's sole remains. 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, (COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, ON THE Or crossed by vapory streaks and clouds that move Catching the lustre they in part reprove- And make the serious happier than the gay? Yes, lovely Moon! if thou so mildly bright Dest 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 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 sigh- Tired with its daily share of earth's unrest, And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave Glory of night, conspicuous yet serene, And all those attributes of modest grace, Down to the green earth fetched thee from thy sphere, To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear! 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 splendor; still those farshot beams Tremble on dancing waves and rippling streams 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.] |