Part 7

Oh Wilderspin! I would attune the harp Of sweetest poesy to tell thee how, With heart and spirit, I esteem the work And labour of thy life! no harsher sound Than softest music will befit the theme— No tone less ’trancing than the poet’s lyre. Kind friend of Infants! who in early life, Amidst the haunts and dwellings of the poor, Looking around thee, saw them left to roam In paths of wickedness, untrained, untaught, Save in the deeds of ill; and with a heart Of tender care, a mind resolved to act, Didst love and pity them;—with deepest thought And observation piercing and intense, Didst keenly study all the mystic laws Of mind unfolding in the infant breast, And feeling rising in each little heart, That to the one thou mightest know aright Sweet simple truth in fitting form to give, And train the other in all moral good, Beneath the blessing of that God who gives Full oft a life to truth within the mind, As to the seeds we scatter in the ground. By simple stories from the sacred page, By parables and life-informing texts, And milk sincere, pure from the Word Divine, It was thy wish to lead them on to Christ, And teach them of His love. Woe lies on those Who with a wilful hand would force strong meat On minds of delicate and tender age, And thereby cause offence. The warning kind, The simple precept, and the promise sweet, The perfect picture of a holy life, The lovely prospect of a world of light, And joy and happiness, with God on high, Are food for little ones, and cords of love Whereby the Spirit may draw hearts to Him. Teacher of babes! thy cause, when in its rise, Drew friends around, who fostered it with care, Endured a little time, and then fell off. Alone, undaunted, in the face of scorn, Of opposition, slander, ridicule, And all that most can sink the heart of man And baffle perseverance, thou didst still, Upheld by strength imparted from on high, With boldness persevere, and plead the cause Of helpless infancy around the land, And work unceasing for its lasting good With untired ardour. Others now would reap The fields which thou hast sown, and cast aside Thy name into oblivion; would avail Themselves of all thy labours; would forget The mind from which they sprung, and leave thee now, When the chill winter of old age comes on, In dim obscurity. Nay, more than this— Some would traduce thee, and use slander’s tongue: But let the sinless cast a stone at thee! And let all judge thee by thy noble works, Thy deeds of true philanthropy, then all Would look upon thee with a heart of love, Of wonder, of astonishment and joy. And oh may “He who doth the ravens feed, Yea providently caters for the sparrow, Be comfort to thine age.” May He who said, A cup of water given in his name To little ones should have a full reward, Give thee the riches of eternal life, A spirit pure, a heart prepared and meet, For joy and glory in the worlds above!

1845

Wye Dale, Buxton.

Here Nature, with a lavish bounty, pours Her grandest beauties from her richest stores; On either hand high rifted rocks uprear Their summits proud that touching heaven appear, Whilst on their shelves soft mountain herbage grows, Fresh moss springs green, the pretty wild flower blows, And many a tree, on their steep sides, is seen Stretching broad branches, decked in living green, ’Mongst which the yew its gloomy boughs extends, Where the grey crag’s terrific form impends; Here the gay warbler’s sweetly carolled song Resounds reverberating rocks among, Whilst o’er mossed stones Wye’s new-born waters wail Spreading their murmurs through this lonely dale.

Rydal Water.

Addressed to Wordsworth.

How fair beneath the noontide light, In splendour rests this silver lake, Engirt by many a mountain height, High soaring rock, and purple peak.

Yon central isle, of sombre pines, With dark green hue, and spreading bough, Reflected in the water shines, A softer vision seen below!

Around, unnumbered fairy isles In rich luxuriant verdure lie, Like gems amidst the waters’ smiles, Or bright clouds on a summer sky.

Fair, spreading trees along the shore Adorn each lofty headland steep; Or on the marge their branches lave Amidst the shining crystal deep.

Woods, rocks, and fells, and mountain peaks, Sublime in hue, or rich and bright As through the clouds the sunbeam breaks, Reveal a vision of delight;

A scene so glorious and grand, We well might deem that He whose word Created all things, o’er this land Had primal paradise restored.

Can man such loveliness behold, So wondrous fair in every part, And not as incense give to heaven The adoration of his heart.

O! Lake, so beautiful and bright, How oft the Rydal Bard on thee Hath glanced his eye’s poetic light, Till song gushed forth like torrents free.

The soft and gentle summer breeze, As fairy-like it wanders round, With deep-toned music midst the trees, Gives forth his harp’s entrancing sound.

Each mountain soars in richer hues, Each rock gives forth a sound of fame, And streams in murmurs sweet diffuse The gentle sound of Wordsworth’s name.

O could Parnassus’ far famed peak, Or Castalie’s resplendent spring, More glorious feeling in us wake Or brighter dreams to fancy bring?

Amid a scene so rich and fair How does my spirit long to dwell, And quit the world, with all its care, And bid its noisy haunts farewell.

My heart was never framed to toil With Commerce on his crowded mart, From his rough tasks my thoughts recoil, But, oh! they love the poets’ art.

How sweet to me the woodland glade, The wild-flower pearled with morning dew, The noontide sun, the evening shade, And all that nature gives to view.

And sweet to see them pictured bright Upon the bard’s immortal page, Enshrined in pure and heavenly light, To charm the world from age to age.

Harp of the ancient British Bards! Had I but skill to tune thy strings, Entranced by thy delicious notes, My heart would leave all meaner things.

Thy music owns a magic spell To thrill my breast with glowing love; Each rising throb of anguish quell And make my pulse enraptured move!

No hoards of classic lore are mine; Few treasures of historic truth; No ancient themes my thoughts refine, And past’s the sunshine of my youth.

Thus boding sadness chills my heart, And bows my hopeless spirit down; In vain I woo the poets’ art,— The laurel wreath I ne’er shall own!

Sonnet to Elfrida.

Immortal being, whose career of time Hath just begun, with holy hope we bring Thee to the Temple of our Heavenly King, To ask his gracious blessing in the prime Of life’s fair infancy, ere earthly crime Hath cast its stains upon thee; and whilst now We sprinkle o’er thee, mid deep prayer and vow, Baptismal water, emblem most sublime, Of God’s eternal sanctifying Truth: Oh may his goodness, and restoring grace, Renew thy spirit, and from earliest youth Sustain thee onwards in a heavenly race And glorious fight of faith, till thou shaft rise By death to blissful life beyond the skies.

The Mountain Height.

Come with me, and climb the proud mountain’s brow, To view with high wonder the scene below, Where huge hills heave like a foaming sea By enchantment struck to tranquility.

Oh naught can depict to the mind’s deep sight The terrible view from a mountain height, As to fancy that ocean in awful storm Had been turned to stone, with each wave in form.

In vallies beneath, calm lakes glitter bright With radiant gleams of silvery light, As they sweetly lie mid fair woodland shores, Whence the purple peak of the mountain soars.

The hollow wind moans round these lofty rocks, Whence the waterfalls gush with echoing shocks, As they bound from their steeps with sparkling glee To sweep in bright streams to their parent sea.

Here slender blue bells, and the purple heath With flowery thyme, sweet fragrance breathe; And the rush, and the moss, and the short soft grass Spread a verdant pathway inviting to pass.

Oh! come let us climb the wild mountain brow, Where Solitude dwells mid the trickling flow Of rock-channelled rills, and desolate winds, And the strong winged eagle an eyrie finds.

Farewell to Elloughton.

This fair and sunny afternoon, Upon the green hill’s side Reclined, beneath a shady tree, To view the prospect wide, In varied beauty spread beneath Of woodland, corn-field, dell— I would invoke the Muse to give A poet’s warm farewell!

Farewell to all the rural walks I’ve ta’en with calm delight; Farewell to landscapes richly seen In evening’s golden light; Farewell—the deep dark woodland shade, The meadow’s flowery plain; But yet a farewell full of hope, The hope to meet again.

When man forsakes the crowded town, The loud and bustling mart, Amid the calm of rural scenes To renovate his heart, So peaceful, pure, and sweet around The lovely prospect lies, He feels as if his footsteps trod Again in paradise.

In childhood how we love to play Mid fields and woods and flowers, And ’neath the sunshine wile away Our infancy’s glad hours; And when such scenes in after years Can purest joy impart, It haply proves we yet retain Like innocence of heart!

How fair is Nature’s every scene, Viewed as a work Divine, When pious thought, and filial love, Make each green nook a shrine; The sunlight spreading o’er the land, Seems smiles from Heaven above, The gentle breeze a “still small voice” That whispers of His Love.

And where, to waken pure delight, Or elevate the thought, Can fairer, brighter charms be found, Or more with beauty fraught, Than here, where high and breezy hills O’er look Old Humber’s wave, And view the rich, green, wooded shores That His broad waters lave?

Far o’er the ample plain beneath, Lanes, corn-fields, woodlands lie, Till lost in distant purple hues They mingle with the sky. The lordly seat, the village church, The hamlet, cot and farm, ’Mid shady trees, or open grounds, With varied beauty charm.

O’er Humber’s wide-spread flowing stream, White, gliding sails are seen, Illumined by the sun’s bright rays, Or ’neath some cloudy screen; Whilst all His further shores repeat The brighter, nearer view— More faintly touched, more dimly seen— Arrayed in softest blue.

Here Welton’s richly wooded dale, Or Elloughton’s dark dell, Or Brantingham’s romantic vale, Charm as by magic spell! The song-bird’s note, the bee’s rich hum, The insect’s merry flight, The wild-flowers and the fragrant pines Must all enhance delight!

He who would choose the deep lone wood, Or forest’s tangled shade, The mingled prospect far and wide O’er distant lands displayed; The rural lane, the rustic walk, The cultivated plain, The woodbine or the wild-rose path— His every wish may gain.

In years long gone, I’ve wandered o’er Each nook of this sweet spot, To fill the mind with pictures fair That memory ne’er forgot; And now when all has been reviewed, It glows more fresh and bright And beauteous than in those first hours Of innocent delight.

Farewell, then, rural Elloughton, And each rich scene around! Full oft on Fancy’s pictured page Will all be clearly found; And oft these hours of pleasure pure O’er thought will fondly reign;— Farewell, until thy much-loved walks My footsteps trace again!

Killiney Bay.

The sunset lights are streaming Along Killiney Bay, And o’er its gentle ripples Like gems of splendour play.

Upon the distant mountains Soft hues of purple rest; And deeper shades of evening The sombre vales invest.

O’er all the varied landscape The richest beauty glows; And light and shade are mingling In calmness and repose.

Whilst thus sublimely roving The mountain’s lofty brow, We hear the calm sea murmur Amid the rocks below.

Around the thyme and heather, Bloom fragrant, fresh and fair, And health and joy seem floating Upon the breezy air.

The insect’s happy murmur, The wild bird’s rapid flight, The distant vessel gliding, All give the heart delight!

From scenes so rife with beauty, Sweet thoughts of gladness rise All calm and pure and peaceful, Like dreams of paradise.

But that which adds a sweetness, These circling joys above, Is this our happy meeting Of kindred—friendship—love!

This hour must gain a record On memory’s brightest page, And live in hues most lovely To life’s remotest age.

That scene hath swiftly faded, That time hath passed away, But oft is re-illumined By fancy’s kindling ray.

Whilst now in peace enjoying An English hearth and home, The mountain scenes of Erin In glorious vision come;

And thoughts and fancies flutter To prove this truth most sweet, That friends by distance parted Can yet in spirit meet!

Descent of the Dove.

The incident alluded to was represented to the writer, at the time of composition, as a natural one; but although its artificial character diminishes the poetry of the fact, it alters not the spirit of the poem.

Thousands on thousands throng The City’s spacious street, With loud acclaim and raptured shout A coming Queen to greet.

Exultant cries of joy Ring through the sun-bright air, And with one vast and giant-voice A Nation’s love declare.

“Queen of the brave and free! Queen of the ocean-foam! Welcome to this green Sister-isle, Glad as a welcome home!”

To utter forth the joy All human voices fail, So Nature sends her messenger To tell the gladsome tale.

Emblem of truth and love, Of peace like heaven serene, Forth flies Her timid gentle dove To greet the glorious Queen.

Bird of the woodland shade, And solitary calm, What spirit high thy breast inspired To fly without alarm,

Mid that joy-shouting crowd In pomp and bannered pride, To rest thy wing and nestle by Victoria’s loving side?

In Greece, the wise of old, From flights of birds divined The will of heaven, and deemed therein Deep prophecies enshrined.

Bird of the olive branch, Sweet harbinger of peace, Heaven sent thee to the Ark to tell— “The deluge-waters cease.”

We, like the patriarch hoar, And like those ancient seers, Would deem thy mystic flight portends Joy for the coming years.

Now Erin knows her Queen, And greets with welcome smile, And sees she bears a heart of love For th’ sons of th’ Emerald Isle.

She of the wild warm heart, Henceforth her harp will tune To songs of peace, and lays of love, Beneath the summer noon.

Waves, on their silver crests, Will waft the music o’er, Mixed with their own proud melody To Britain’s naval shore.

The Sister-Isles shall dwell In concord yet unknown, And shamrock wreathed with olive twine VICTORIA’S glorious crown!

Lines to a Butterfly.

Blithe reveller in sunny air, How gaily moves thy happy wing, In search of rich and dainty fare Amid the blooming flowers of spring.

The splendid colours brightly glance, Which form thy beautiful attire, Like tinted clouds o’er heaven’s expanse Illumed by sunset’s rosy fire.

How sprightly is thy rapid flight, Beneath the warm and cheering ray; Thine seems a life of pure delight, Gay innocence and mirthful play.

I would not mar thy joyous glee! Such happiness be ever thine! I only wish that light and free And buoyant were my heart as thine.

Stanzas.

Oh! where is the rose which was placed on thy bosom? Is it withered and strewn, and the giver forgot? Fond hope would now tell me—ah am I too sanguine— That brighter and fairer was its destined lot.

It was a mere trifle, yet given with feeling, When suddenly fated in sorrow to part: And gifts are not valued by trade’s sordid dealing, But esteem’d the more rich as they flow from the heart.

If this be their standard, that rose was a treasure! Yet how great its value I’ll not now reveal, But muse in calm silence, with sweet hopeful pleasure, On her who did it in her bosom conceal.

Dane’s Dyke, Flambro’.

How sweet in this secluded vale On soft green turf to calmly lie, And spend an hour in musing well, Whilst gazing on the sun-bright sky.

The busy world seems all shut out By circling hills on every side, So lofty, that you scarce can hear, O’er their proud tops, the breaking tide.

Here solitude and silence reign, Enhanced—not lost—by rural sounds; Wild, varied, woodland scenes prevail Within this deep glen’s winding bounds.

The rude furze clothes each rugged steep, And trees adorn each upland swell; Whilst in the warm and sheltered nooks, A thousand wild-flowers sweetly dwell.

The ash tree waves its feath’ry boughs Obedient to the light, soft breeze; And on the sense delightful falls The song of birds—the hum of bees.

Whilst ’mid this peaceful landscape laid, So free from strife, and thoughts of pain; It seems as if the pastoral days Of ancient times had come again.

Those days of happiness and calm, Ere war was known, or gold was found, When shepherds sung their dulcet lays, With flocks of lambkins feeding round.

What pure refreshment does it give, To leave awhile life’s bustling stage; And here to please and soothe the soul As calm as in a hermitage.

But why on such a scene as this Bestow, as if in mockery vain, The name—allied to blood and war— Of th’ ancient and piratic Dane?

Perhaps ’tis well! as thought returns, Back to that time of feud and war; The contrast makes us prize this age, Ruled o’er by Peace’s brightest star!

A Sea-Side Wish.

The sun shines clear on the sea, All calm beneath his ray; And the tiny waves, with musical sound, O’er the winding sand-beach ripple around, And with the shingle play.

Oh! that I a mermaid were, To sport o’er the blue expanse, To scatter around me, in joy and delight, A wide circle of foam-drops, sparkling bright, And mid the free waters dance.

I’d o’er the smooth surface glide, Like a sea-bird through the air; And in the cool bath of the briny wave Each languishing limb for refreshment lave, And play in rich luxury there.

When the golden glow of morn, Or the eve’s soft crimson beam, Illumined the glass of the azure deep, Should be the sweet time my revels to keep, And sport in the ocean’s stream.

But, midst high fervours of noon, I’d dive to the depths below, And dwell in the cool of the rock’s deep cells, Where lurk the rich agates and pink-valved shells, And many-hued seaweeds grow.

Oh! that I a mermaid were, To know all the sea’s delights, And make its broad waters—its snowy foam— And the calm of its dark green caves my home, And see all its glorious sights!

The Sea-Bird.

Oh! how fair is the sea-bird winging Its flight with a breast like snow, When its form, from the high rock springing, Is glassed in the sea below.

How it floats o’er the reefs and shallows, And glides round the rock’s rough form; It darts through the waves’ deep hollows, Undaunted amid the storm.

Oh, blithe bird of the mighty ocean, Would I had a breast like thine; As free from each passion’s commotion, As calm when life’s pleasures shine.

No deep waves of sorrow should daunt me, No winds of adversity chill; And if dark clouds of care should haunt me, My soul would be placid and still.

If all life should be fair and shining, How calm would my spirit be; Like thy pathway in brightness soaring, Alone o’er the sunlit sea.

Oh, bird of the ocean how lovely Thy pure and delicate form! Either floating in splendour above me, Or piercing through cloud and storm.

The Voice of the Sea.

I hear the deep voice of the sea, As slowly it breaks on the shore, With the self-same tone To my childhood known— Its music for evermore!

How sublimely its accents fall And pierce each recess of the soul, Recalling the past With a trumpet’s blast, And a might beyond control!

It tells of the gay infant hours When I play’d on the sun-lit sand, Whilst each shell and stone Was a wealth unknown, And the beach a fairy-land.

It speaks of the wild boyish days When I roam’d to the rocks afar, Where the black sea-weed Cracks loud to the tread, And shell-fish in thousand are.

All times on my spirit come back When I’ve dwelt by thy shore, O sea; Each friend I have known, Each look and each tone, Now cruelly reft from me.

Thy voice is the voice of a dirge, And mournfully sighs for the dead; Sound on, then, thy knell, Like a funeral bell, For the loved who from earth have fled.

Yet Hope seems to sweeten the sound, Bright Faith, and her sister Love; For whilst on thy brink, I cheerfully think, Of the calm blue heavens above!

The Fisherman.

The fisherman’s life is a mighty war,— He fights the winds and waves; And on the broad plain of ocean afar The hostile tempest braves.

When the sun shines clear, and the clouds float bright, He hoists his ruddy sail, And away he goes under breezes light From home with a joyous—hail!

He baits his long lines and prepares his nets, To take the finny prey; And sings at his work until he gets Far off in the open sea.

Now the land is gone, and no sights are near, But calm blue skies above, And ocean below him as bright and clear, Yet green as a summer grove.

Mid the emerald depths he strives to snare The swift free fish of the sea; And when he has won of the spoils a share He homeward plies his way.

Now the sun sinks down with a fierce red glare, And dark clouds crowd his path, To bid the fisherman bold beware O’ th’ coming tempest’s wrath.

The night grows dark, and the winds roar high, The wild waves proudly swell; But mid the dread gloom, no star in the sky, The mariner’s path to tell!

Each billow comes on like a mountain rock To crush his fragile bark, And cast him far down with an awful shock To a grave in the waters dark.

His courage is high, but his heart will think Of all in his happy home, How in tears they’ll rush to the cliffs steep brink And watch if his boat may come.

His home is where widows and orphans dwell, Whose kin were lost in the sea; And oft to each other they weeping tell Of the loved they no more shall see.