The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems Part 10

Others, with rushing haste, and eager voice, Would drag new victims to the insatiate power, That like a savage idol did rejoice Whate'er his suppliants offer'd to devour.

And aye strange murmurs o'er the mountains roll'd, As if from sprite immured in cavern lone, While higher rose pale Luna to behold Our mystic orgies, where no light had shone, For many and many a year of silence--but her own.

O! gracious G.o.ddess! not in vain did shine Thy spirit o'er the heavens; with reverent eye We hail'd thee floating through the happy sky; No smiles to us are half so dear as thine!

Silent we stood beside our dying flame, In pensive sadness, born of wild delight, And gazing heavenward, many a gentle name Bestow'd on her who beautifies the night.

Then, with one heart, like men who inly mourn'd, Slowly we paced towards our fairy cell, And e'er we enter'd, for one moment turn'd, And bade the silent majesty farewell!

Our rushy beds invite us to repose; And while our spirits breathe a grateful prayer, In balmy slumbers soon our eyelids close, While, in our dreams, the Moon, serenely fair, Still bathes in light divine the visionary air!

Methinks, next night, I see her mount her throne, Intent with loving smile once more to hail The deep, deep peace of this her loneliest vale, --But where hath now the magic dwelling flown?

Oh! it hath melted like a dream away, A dream by far too beautiful for earth; Or like a cloud that hath no certain stay, But ever changing, like a different birth.

The aged holly trees more silently, Now we are gone, stand on the silent ground; I seem to hear the streamlet floating by With a complaining, melancholy sound.

Hush'd are the echoes in each mountain's breast, No traces there of former mirth remain; They all in friendly grandeur lie at rest And silent, save where Nature's endless strain, From cataract and cave, delights her lonely reign.

Yet, though the strangers and their tent have past Away, like snow that leaves no mark behind, Their image lives in many a guiltless mind, And long within the shepherd's cot shall last.

Oft when, on winter night, the crowded seat Is closely wheel'd before the blazing fire, Then will he love with grave voice to repeat (He, the gray-headed venerable sire,) The conversation he with us did hold On moral subjects, he had studied long; And some will jibe the maid who was so bold As sing to strangers readily a song.

Then they unto each other will recal Each little incident of that strange night, And give their kind opinion of us all: G.o.d bless their faces smiling in the light Of their own cottage-hearth! O, fair subduing sight!

Friends of my heart! who shared that purest joy, And oft will read these lines with soften'd soul, Go where we will, let years of absence roll, Nought shall our sacred amity destroy.

We walk'd together through the mountain-calm, In open confidence, and perfect trust; And pleasure, falling through our b.r.e.a.s.t.s like balm, Told that the yearnings that we felt were just.

No slighting tone, no chilling look e'er marr'd The happiness in which our thoughts reposed, No words save those of gentleness were heard, The eye spoke kindly when the lip was closed.

But chief, on that blest day that wakes my song, Our hearts eternal truth in silence swore; The holy oath is planted deep and strong Within our spirits,--in their inmost core,-- And it shall blossom fair till life shall be no more!

Most hallow'd day! scarce can my heart sustain Your tender light by memory made more mild; Tears could I shed even like unto a child, And sighs within my spirit hush the strain.

Too many clouds have dimm'd my youthful life, These wakeful eyes too many vigils kept; Mine hath it been to toss in mental strife, When in the moonlight breathing Nature slept.

But I forget my cares, in bliss forget, When, peaceful Valley! I remember thee; I seem to breathe the air of joy, and yet Thy bright'ning hues with moisten'd eyes I see.

So will it be, till life itself doth close, Roam though I may o'er many a distant clime; Happy, or pining in unnoticed woes, Oft shall my soul recal that blessed time, And in her depths adore the beauteous and sublime!

Time that my rural reed at last should cease Its willing numbers; not in vain hath flow'd The strain that on my singing heart bestow'd The holy boon of undisturbed peace.

O gentlest Lady! Sister of my friend, This simple strain I consecrate to thee; Haply its music with thy soul may blend, Albeit well used to loftier minstrelsy.

Nor, may thy quiet spirit read the lay With cold regard, thou wife and mother blest!

For he was with me on that Sabbath-day, Whose heart lies buried in thy inmost breast.

Then go my innocent and blameless tale, In gladness go, and free from every fear, To yon sweet dwelling above Gra.s.smere vale, And be to them I long have held so dear, One of their fire-side songs, still fresh from year to year!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Mr Wordsworth accompanied the author on this excursion.

[2] At that time the residence of Mr Wordsworth's family.

[3] The author's cottage on the banks of Windermere.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

_Oh! Nature! whose Elysian scenes disclose His bright perfections at whose word they rose, Next to that Power who form'd thee and sustains, Be thou the great inspirer of my strains.

Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expand Thy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand._ COWPER.

THE HERMITAGE.

Stranger! this lonely glen in ancient times Was named the glen of blood; nor Christian feet By night or day, from these o'er-arching cliffs That haply now have to thy joyful shouts Return'd a mellow music, ever brought One trembling sound to break the depth of silence.

The village maiden, in this little stream, Though then, as now, most clearly beautiful, Ne'er steeped her simple garments, while she sang Some native air of sadness or of mirth.

In these cold, shady pools, the fearless trout Ne'er saw the shadow, but of sailing cloud, Or kite that wheeling eyed the far-off lamb; And on yon hazel bowers the ripen'd fruit Hung cl.u.s.tering, moved but by the frequent swing Of playful squirrel,--for no school-boy here With crook and angle light on holiday Came nutting, or to snare the sportive fry.

Even bolder spirits shunn'd the glen of blood!

These rocks, the abode of echo, never mock'd In sportive din the huntsman's bugle horn; And as the shepherd from the mountain-fold Homewards return'd beneath the silent Moon, A low unconscious prayer would agitate His breathless heart, for here in unblest grave Lay one for whom ne'er toll'd the pa.s.sing-bell!

And thus was Nature by the impious guilt Of one who scorn'd her gracious solitude, Defrauded of her worshippers: though pure This glen, as consecrated house of G.o.d, Fit haunt of heaven-aspiring piety, Or in whose dripping cells the poet's ear Might list unearthly music, this sweet glen With all its tender tints and pensive sounds, Its balmy fragrance and romantic forms, Lay lonely and unvisited, yea worse, Peopled with fancied demons, and the brood At enmity with man.

So was it once: But now far other creed hath sanctified This dim seclusion, and all human hearts Unto its spirit deeply reconciled.

'Tis said, and I in truth believe the tale, That many years ago an aged man, Of a divine aspect and stately form, Came to this glen, and took up his abode In one of those wild caves so numerous Among the hanging cliffs, though hid from view By trailing ivy, or thick holly-bush, Through the whole year so deeply, brightly green.

With evil eye the simple villagers First look'd on him, and scarcely dared to tell Each other, what dim fears were in their souls.

But there is something in the voice and eye Of beautiful old age, with angel power That charms away suspicion, and compels The unwilling soul to reverence and love.

So was it with this mystical old man!

When first he came into the glen, the spring Had just begun to tinge the sullen rocks With transient smiles, and ere the leafy bowers Of summer rustled, many a visitant Had sat within his hospitable cave, From his maple bowl the unpolluted spring Drunk fearless, and with him partook the bread That his pale lips most reverently had bless'd With words becoming such a holy man!

Oft was he seen surrounded by a groupe Of happy children, unto whom he spake With more than a paternal tenderness; And they who once had gazed with trembling fear On the wild dweller in th' unholy glen, At last with airy trip and gladsome song Would seek him there, and listen on his knee To mournful ditties, and most touching tales!

One only book was in this hermit's cell, The Book of Life; and when from it he read With solemn voice devoutly musical, His thoughtful eye still brightening as the words, The words of Jesus, in that peaceful cave Sounded more holily,--and his grey hair, Betokening that e'er long in Jesus' breast Would be his blessed sleep,--on his calm brows Spread quietly, like thin and snowy clouds On the husht evening sky:--While thus he sate, Ev'n like the Apostle whom our Saviour loved, In his old age, in Patmos' lonely isle Musing on him that he had served in youth,-- Oh! then, I ween, the awe-struck villagers Could scarce sustain his tones so deeply charged With hope, and faith, and grat.i.tude, and joy.

But when they gazed!--in the mild lineaments Of his majestic visage, they beheld How beautiful is holiness, and deem'd That sure he was some spirit sent by G.o.d To teach the way to Heaven!

And yet his voice Was oft times sadder, than as they conceived An Angel's voice would be, and though to sooth The sorrows of all others ever seem'd His only end in life, perhaps he had Griefs of his own of which he nothing spake; Else were his locks more grey, more pale his cheek, Than one had thought who only saw his form So stately and so tall.--

Once did they speak To him of that most miserable man Who here himself had slain,--and then his eye Was glazed with stern compa.s.sion, and a tear,-- It was the first they e'er had seen him shed, Though mercy was the attribute he loved Dearest in G.o.d's own Son,--bedimm'd its light For a short moment; yea, that hermit old Wept,--and his sadden'd face angelical Veil'd with his wither'd hands,--then on their knees He bade his children (so he loved to call The villagers) kneel down; and unto G.o.d Pray for his brother's soul.--

Amid the dust The hermit long hath slept,--and every one That listen'd to the saint's delightful voice.

In yonder church-yard, near the eastern porch, Close to the altar-wall, a little mound As if by nature shaped, and strewn by her With every tender flower that sorrow loves, Tradition calls his grave. On Sabbath-day, The hind oft hears the legendary tale Rehea.r.s.ed by village moralist austere With many a pious phrase; and not a child, Whose trembling feet have scarcely learnt to walk, But will conduct thee to the hallow'd spot And lisp the hermit's name.

Nor did the cave That he long time from Nature tenanted Remain unhonour'd.--Duly every spring, Upon the day he died, thither repair'd Many a pure spirit, to his memory Chaunting a choral hymn, composed by one Who on his death-bed sat and closed his eyes.

"I am the resurrection and the life,"

Some old man then would, with a solemn voice, Read from that Bible that so oft had blest The Hermit's solitude with heavenly chear.

This Book, sole relic of the sinless man, Was from the dust kept sacred, and even now Lies in yon box of undecaying yew, And may it never fade!--

Stranger unknown!

Thou breath'st, at present, in the very cave Where on the Hermit death most gently fell Like a long wish'd-for slumber. The great Lord, Whose castle stands amid the music wild Breathed from the bosom of an hundred glens, In youth by nature taught to venerate Things truly venerable, hither came One year to view the fair solemnity: And that the forest-weeds might not obstruct The entrance of the cave, or worm defile The soft green beauty of its mossy walls, This ma.s.sive door was from a fallen oak Shaped rudely, but all other ornament, That porch of living rock with woodbines wreathed, And outer roof with many a pensile shrub Most delicate, he with wise feeling left To Nature, and her patient servant, Time!

Stranger! I know thee not: yet since thy feet Have wandered here, I deem that thou art one Whose heart doth love in silent communings To walk with Nature and from scenes like these Of solemn sadness, to sublime thy soul To high endurance of all earthly pains Of mind or body; so that thou connect With Nature's lovely and more lofty forms, Congenial thoughts of grandeur or of grace In moral being. All creation takes The spirit of its character from him Who looks thereon; and to a blameless heart, Earth, air, and ocean, howsoe'er beheld, Are pregnant with delight, while even the clouds, Embath'd in dying sunshine, to the base Possess no glory, and to the wicked lower As with avenging thunder.

This sweet glen, How sweet it is thou feel'st, with sylvan rocks Excluding all but one blue glimpse of sky Above, and from the world that lies around All but the faint remembrance, tempted once To most unnatural murder, once sublimed To the high temper of the seraphim: And thus, though its mild character remain'd Immutable,--with pious dread was shunn'd As an unholy spot, or visited With reverence, as a consecrated shrine.

Farewell! and grave this moral on thy heart, "That Nature smiles for ever on the good,-- But that all beauty dies with innocence!"