The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 3

How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide First came, and on the Coomb's romantic side Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill!

Fresh flowers shall fringe the margin of the stream, As with the songs of joyance and of hope The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope The poplars sparkle in the pa.s.sing beam; The shrubs and laurels that I loved to tend, Thinking their May-tide fragrance would delight, With many a peaceful charm, thee, my poor friend, Shall put forth their green shoots, and cheer the sight!

But I shall mark their hues with sadder eyes, And weep the more for one who in the cold earth lies!

AT OXFORD, 1786.

Bereave me not of Fancy's shadowy dreams, Which won my heart, or when the gay career Of life begun, or when at times a tear Sat sad on memory's cheek--though loftier themes Await the awakened mind to the high prize Of wisdom, hardly earned with toil and pain, Aspiring patient; yet on life's wide plain Left fatherless, where many a wanderer sighs Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long, 'Twere not a crime should we a while delay Amid the sunny field; and happier they Who, as they journey, woo the charm of song, To cheer their way;--till they forget to weep, And the tired sense is hushed, and sinks to sleep.

AT DOVER, 1786.

Thou, whose stern spirit loves the storm, That, borne on Terror's desolating wings, Shakes the high forest, or remorseless flings The shivered surge; when rising griefs deform Thy peaceful breast, hie to yon steep, and think,-- When thou dost mark the melancholy tide Beneath thee, and the storm careering wide,-- Tossed on the surge of life how many sink!

And if thy cheek with one kind tear be wet, And if thy heart be smitten, when the cry Of danger and of death is heard more nigh, Oh, learn thy private sorrows to forget; Intent, when hardest beats the storm, to save One who, like thee, has suffered from the wave.

RETROSPECTION.

I turn these leaves with thronging thoughts, and say, Alas! how many friends of youth are dead; How many visions of fair hope have fled, Since first, my Muse, we met.--So speeds away Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing, Stretched in the noontide bower, as if the day Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing That fans us; while aloft the gay clouds shine!

Oh, ere the coming of the long cold night, Religion, may we bless thy purer light, That still shall warm us, when the tints decline O'er earth's dim hemisphere; and sad we gaze On the vain visions of our pa.s.sing days!

ON ACCIDENTALLY MEETING A LADY NOW NO MORE.

WRITTEN MANY YEARS AFTER THE FOREGOING SONNETS.

When last we parted, thou wert young and fair-- How beautiful let fond remembrance say!

Alas! since then old Time has stol'n away Nigh forty years, leaving my temples bare:-- So hath it perished, like a thing of air, That dream of love and youth:--we now are gray; Yet still remembering youth's enchanted way, Though time has changed my look, and blanched my hair, Though I remember one sad hour with pain, And never thought, long as I yet might live, And parted long, to hear that voice again;-- I can a sad, but cordial greeting, give, And for thy welfare breathe as warm a prayer, Lady, as when I loved thee young and fair!

ON HEARING "THE MESSIAH"

PERFORMED IN GLOUCESTER CATHEDRAL, SEPT. 18, 1835.

Oh, stay, harmonious and sweet sounds, that die In the long vaultings of this ancient fane!

Stay, for I may not hear on earth again Those pious airs--that glorious harmony; Lifting the soul to brighter orbs on high, Worlds without sin or sorrow!

Ah, the strain Has died--ev'n the last sounds that lingeringly Hung on the roof ere they expired!

And I, Stand in the world of strife, amidst a throng, A throng that recks not or of death, or sin!

Oh, jarring scenes! to cease, indeed, ere long; The worm hears not the discord and the din; But he whose heart thrills to this angel song, Feels the pure joy of heaven on earth begin!

WOODSPRING ABBEY, 1836.[14]

These walls were built by men who did a deed Of blood:--terrific conscience, day by day, Followed, where'er their shadow seemed to stay, And still in thought they saw their victim bleed, Before G.o.d's altar shrieking: pangs succeed, As dire upon their heart the deep sin lay, No tears of agony could wash away: Hence! to the land's remotest limit, speed!

These walls are raised in vain, as vainly flows Contrition's tear: Earth, hide them, and thou, Sea, Which round the lone isle, where their bones repose, Dost sound for ever, their sad requiem be, In fancy's ear, at pensive evening's close, Still murmuring{b} MISERERE, DOMINE.

[14] Three mailed men, in Canterbury Cathedral, rushed on the Archbishop of Canterbury, and murdered him before the altar. Conscience-stricken, they fled and built Woodspring Abbey, in the remote corner of Somersetshire, near Western Super Mare, where the land looks on the Atlantic sea. There are three unknown graves on the Flat Holms.

LAc.o.c.k NUNNERY.

JUNE 24, 1837.

I stood upon the stone where ELA lay, The widowed founder of these ancient walls, Where fancy still on meek devotion calls, Marking the ivied arch, and turret gray-- For her soul's rest--eternal rest--to pray;[15]

Where visionary nuns yet seem to tread, A pale dim troop, the cloisters of the dead, Though twice three hundred years have flown away!

But when, with silent step and pensive mien, In weeds, as mourning for her sisters gone, The mistress of this lone monastic scene Came; and I heard her voice's tender tone, I said, Though centuries have rolled between, One gentle, beauteous nun is left, on earth, alone.

[15] "Eternam Requiem dona."

ON A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE.

Beautiful landscape! I could look on thee For hours, unmindful of the storm and strife, And mingled murmurs of tumultuous life.

Here, all is still as fair; the stream, the tree, The wood, the sunshine on the bank: no tear, No thought of Time's swift wing, or closing night, That comes to steal away the long sweet light-- No sighs of sad humanity are here.

Here is no tint of mortal change; the day,-- Beneath whose light the dog and peasant-boy Gambol, with look, and almost bark, of joy,-- Still seems, though centuries have pa.s.sed, to stay.

Then gaze again, that shadowed scenes may teach Lessons of peace and love, beyond all speech.

ART AND NATURE.

THE BRIDGE BETWEEN CLIFTON AND LEIGH WOODS.

Frown ever opposite, the angel cried, Who, with an earthquake's might and giant hand, Severed these riven rocks, and bade them stand Severed for ever! The vast ocean-tide, Leaving its roar without at his command, Shrank, and beneath the woods through the green land Went gently murmuring on, so to deride The frowning barriers that its force defied!

But Art, high o'er the trailing smoke below Of sea-bound steamer, on yon summit's head Sat musing; and where scarce a wandering crow Sailed o'er the chasm, in thought a highway led; Conquering, as by an arrow from a bow, The scene's lone Genius by her elfin-thread.

CLIFTON, _27th August 1836._

PICTURE OF AN OLD MAN.

Old man, I saw thee in thy garden chair Sitting in silence 'mid the shrubs and trees Of thy small cottage-croft, whilst murmuring bees Went by, and almost touched thy temples bare, Edged with a few flakes of the whitest hair.

And, soothed by the faint hum of ebbing seas, And song of birds, and breath of the young breeze, Thus didst thou sit, feeling the summer air Blow gently;--with a sad still decadence, Sinking to earth in hope, but all alone.

Oh! hast thou wept to feel the lonely sense Of earthly loss, musing on voices gone!

Hush the vain murmur, that, without offence, Thy head may rest in peace beneath the churchyard stone.

PICTURE OF A YOUNG LADY.

When I was sitting, sad, and all alone, Remembering youth and love for ever fled, And many friends now resting with the dead, While the still summer's light departing shone, Like many sweet and silent summers gone; Thou camest, as a vision, with a mien And smile like those I once on earth had seen, And with a voice of that remembered tone Which I in other days, long since, had heard: Like Peace approaching, when distempers fret Most the tired spirit, thy fair form appeared; And till I die, I never shall forget,-- For at thy footstep light, the gloom was cheered,-- Thy look and voice, oh! gentle Margaret.

HOUR-GLa.s.s AND BIBLE.

Look, Christian, on thy Bible, and that gla.s.s That sheds its sand through minutes, hours, and days, And years; it speaks not, yet, methinks, it says, To every human heart: so mortals pa.s.s On to their dark and silent grave! Alas For man! an exile upon earth he strays, Weary, and wandering through benighted ways; To-day in strength, to-morrow like the gra.s.s That withers at his feet!--Lift up thy head, Poor pilgrim, toiling in this vale of tears; That book declares whose blood for thee was shed, Who died to give thee life; and though thy years Pa.s.s like a shade, pointing to thy death-bed, Out of the deep thy cry an angel hears, And by his guiding hand thy steps to heaven are led!

MILTON.

ON THE BUSTS OF MILTON, IN YOUTH AND AGE, AT STOURHEAD.