The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems Part 16

Beauteous as blest, O Naiad, thou must be!

For, since thy birth, have all delightful things, Of form and hue, of silence and of sound, Circled thy spirit, as the crowding stars Shine round the placid Moon. Lov'st thou to sink Into thy cell of sleep? The water parts With dimpling smiles around thee, and below, The unsunn'd verdure, soft as cygnet's down, Meets thy descending feet without a sound.

Lov'st thou to sport upon the watery gleam?

Lucid as air around thy head it lies Bathing thy sable locks in pearly light, While, all around, the water lilies strive To shower their blossoms o'er the virgin queen.

Or doth the sh.o.r.e allure thee?--well it may: How soft these fields of pastoral beauty melt In the clear water! neither sand nor stone Bars herb or wild-flower from the dewy sound, Like Spring's own voice now rippling round the Tarn.

There oft thou liest 'mid the echoing bleat Of lambs, that race amid the sunny gleams; Or bee's wide murmur as it fills the broom That yellows round thy bed. O gentle glades, Amid the tremulous verdure of the woods, In stedfast smiles of more essential light, Lying, like azure streaks of placid sky Amid the moving clouds, the Naiad loves Your glimmering alleys, and your rustling bowers; For there, in peace reclined, her half-closed eye Through the long vista sees her darling Lake, Even like herself, diffused in fair repose.

Not undelightful to the quiet breast Such solitary dreams as now have fill'd My busy fancy; dreams that rise in peace, And thither lead, partaking in their flight Of human interests and earthly joys.

Imagination fondly leans on truth, And sober scenes of dim reality To her seem lovely as the western sky, To the rapt Persian worshipping the sun.

Methinks this little lake, to whom my heart a.s.signed a guardian spirit, renders back To me, in tenderest gleams of grat.i.tude, Profounder beauty to reward my hymn.

Long hast thou been a darling haunt of mine, And still warm blessings gush'd into my heart, Meeting or parting with thy smiles of peace.

But now, thy mild and gentle character, More deeply felt than ever, seems to blend Its essence pure with mine, like some sweet tune Oft heard before with pleasure, but at last, In one high moment of inspired bliss, Borne through the spirit like an angel's song.

This is the solitude that reason loves!

Even he who yearns for human sympathies, And hears a music in the breath of man, Dearer than voice of mountain or of flood, Might live a hermit here, and mark the sun Rising or setting 'mid the beauteous calm, Devoutly blending in his happy soul Thoughts both of earth and heaven!--Yon mountain-side, Rejoicing in its cl.u.s.tering cottages, Appears to me a paradise preserved From guilt by Nature's hand, and every wreath Of smoke, that from these hamlets mounts to heaven, In its straight silence holy as a spire Rear'd o'er the house of G.o.d.

Thy sanct.i.ty Time yet hath reverenced; and I deeply feel That innocence her shrine shall here preserve For ever.--The wild vale that lies beyond, Circled by mountains trod but by the feet Of venturous shepherd, from all visitants, Save the free tempests and the fowls of heaven, Guards thee;--and wooded knolls fantastical Seclude thy image from the gentler dale, That by the Brathay's often-varied voice Chear'd as it winds along, in beauty fades 'Mid the green banks of joyful Windermere!

O gentlest Lake! from all unhallow'd things By grandeur guarded in thy loveliness, Ne'er may thy poet with unwelcome feet Press thy soft moss embathed in flowery dies, And shadow'd in thy stillness like the heavens.

May innocence for ever lead me here, To form amid the silence high resolves For future life; resolves, that, born in peace, Shall live 'mid tumult, and though haply mild As infants in their play, when brought to bear On the world's business, shall a.s.sert their power And majesty--and lead me boldly on Like giants conquering in a n.o.ble cause.

This is a holy faith, and full of chear To all who worship Nature, that the hours, Past tranquilly with her, fade not away For ever like the clouds, but in the soul Possess a secret silent dwelling-place, Where with a smiling visage memory sits, And startles oft the virtuous, with a shew Of unsuspected treasures. Yea, sweet Lake!

Oft hast thou borne into my grateful heart Thy lovely presence, with a thousand dreams Dancing and brightening o'er thy sunny wave, Though many a dreary mile of mist and snow Between us interposed. And even now, When you bright star hath risen to warn me home, I bid thee farewell in the certain hope, That thou, this night, wilt o'er my sleeping eyes Shed chearing visions, and with freshest joy Make me salute the dawn. Nor may the hymn Now sung by me unto thy listening woods, Be wholly vain,--but haply it may yield A gentle pleasure to some gentle heart, Who blessing, at its close, the unknown bard, May, for his sake, upon thy quiet banks Frame visions of his own, and other songs More beautiful, to Nature and to Thee!

MARY.

Three days before my Mary's death, We walk'd by Gra.s.smere sh.o.r.e; "Sweet Lake!" she said with faultering breath, "I ne'er shall see thee more!"

Then turning round her languid head, She look'd me in the face; And whisper'd, "When thy friend is dead, Remember this lone place."

Vainly I struggled at a smile, That did my fears betray; It seem'd that on our darling isle Foreboding darkness lay.

My Mary's words were words of truth; None now behold the Maid; Amid the tears of age and youth, She in her grave was laid.

Long days, long nights, I ween, were past Ere ceased her funeral knell; But to the spot I went at last Where she had breath'd "farewell!"

Methought, I saw the phantom stand Beside the peaceful wave; I felt the pressure of her hand-- --Then look'd towards her grave.

Fair, fair beneath the evening sky The quiet churchyard lay: The tall pine-grove most solemnly Hung mute above her clay.

Dearly she loved their arching spread, Their music wild and sweet, And, as she wished on her death-bed, Was buried at their feet.

Around her grave a beauteous fence Of wild flowers shed their breath, Smiling like infant innocence Within the gloom of death.

Such flowers from bank of mountain-brook At eve we wont to bring, When every little mossy nook Betray'd returning Spring.

Oft had I fixed the simple wreath Upon her virgin breast; But now such flowers as form'd it, breathe Around her bed of rest.

Yet all within my silent soul, As the hush'd air was calm; The natural tears that slowly stole, a.s.suaged my grief like balm.

The air that seem'd so thick and dull For months unto my eye; Ah me! how bright and beautiful It floated on the sky!

A trance of high and solemn bliss From purest ether came; 'Mid such a heavenly scene as this, Death is an empty name!

The memory of the past return'd Like music to my heart,-- It seem'd that causelessly I mourn'd, When we were told to part.

"G.o.d's mercy, to myself I said, To both our souls is given-- To me, sojourning on earth's shade, To her--a Saint in Heaven!"

LINES

WRITTEN AT A LITTLE WELL BY THE ROADSIDE, LANGDALE.

Thou lonely spring of waters undefiled!

Silently slumbering in thy mossy cell, Yea, moveless as the hillock's verdant side From whom thou hast thy birth, I bless thy gleam Of clearest coldness, with as deep-felt love As pilgrim kneeling at his far-sought shrine; And as I bow to bathe my freshen'd heart In thy restoring radiance, from my lips A breathing prayer sheds o'er thy gla.s.sy sleep A gentle tremor!

Nor must I forget A benison for the departed soul Of him, who, many a year ago, first shaped This little Font,--emprisoning the spring Not wishing to be free, with smooth slate-stone, Now in the beauteous colouring of age Scarcely distinguished from the natural rock.

In blessed hour the solitary man Laid the first stone,--and in his native vale It serves him for a peaceful monument, 'Mid the hill-silence.

Renovated life Now flows through all my veins:--old dreams revive; And while an airy pleasure in my brain Dances unbidden, I have time to gaze, Even with a happy lover's kindest looks, On Thee, delicious Fountain!

Thou dost shed (Though sultry stillness fill the summer air And parch the yellow hills,) all round thy cave, A smile of beauty lovely as the Spring Breathes with his April showers. The narrow lane On either hand ridged with low shelving rocks, That from the road-side gently lead the eye Up to thy bed,--Ah me! how rich a green, Still brightening, wantons o'er its moisten'd gra.s.s!

With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze, Now that my thirsty soul is gratified, Live on the little cell! The water there, Variously dappled by the wreathed sand That sleeps below in many an antic shape, Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-hen Soothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless drip From the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's hand Vaulted most beautiful, even like a pulse Tells of the living principle within,-- A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild.

Yea, seldom heard: there is but one lone cot Beyond this well:--it is inhabited By an old shepherd during summer months, And haply he may drink of the pure spring, To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath-morn Going to pray,--or as he home returns At silent eve: or traveller such as I, Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills, Thankfully here may slake his burning thirst Once in a season. Other visitants It hath not; save perchance the mountain-crow, When ice hath lock'd the rills, or wandering colt Leaving its pasture for the shady lane.

Methinks, in such a solitary cave, The fairy forms belated peasant sees, Oft nightly dancing in a glittering ring, On the smooth mountain sward, might here retire To lead their noon-tide revels, or to bathe Their tiny limbs in this transparent well.

A fitter spot there is not: flowers are here Of loveliest colours and of sweetest smell, Native to these our hills, and ever seen A fairest family by the happy side Of their own parent spring;--and others too, Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joy, Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth, Here smile like strangers in a novel scene.

Lo! a tall rose-tree with its cl.u.s.tering bloom, Brightening the mossy wall on which it leans Its arching beauty, to my gladsome heart Seems, with its smiles of lonely loveliness, Like some fair virgin at the humble door Of her dear mountain-cot, standing to greet The way-bewildered traveller.

But my soul Long pleased to linger by this silent cave, Nursing its wild and playful fantasies, Pants for a loftier pleasure,--and forsakes, Though surely with no cold ingrat.i.tude, The flowers and verdure round the sparkling well.

A voice calls on me from the mountain-depths, And it must be obey'd: Yon ledge of rocks, Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow, Is ready for my footsteps, and even now, Wast-water blackens far beneath my feet, She the storm-loving Lake.

Sweet Fount!--Farewell!

LINES

WRITTEN ON SEEING A PICTURE BY BERGHEM, OF AN a.s.s IN A STORM-SHOWER.