Chapter 16

I see thee glittering from afar-- And then thou art a pretty star, Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;-- May peace come never to his nest, Who shall reprove thee!

Sweet Flower! for by that name at last When all my reveries are past I call thee and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent Creature! That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature!

W. WORDSWORTH.

255. ODE TO AUTUMN.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers; And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them,--thou hast thy music too, While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

J. KEATS.

256. ODE TO WINTER.

_Germany_, _December_, 1800.

When first the fiery mantled Sun His heavenly race began to run, Round the earth and ocean blue His children four the Seasons flew:-- First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel-grace; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rush'd into her sire's embrace-- Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe's olive-shaded steep Or India's citron-cover'd isles. More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar To hills that prop the polar star; And loves on deer-borne car to ride With barren darkness at his side Round the shore where loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the hall where Runic Odin Howls his war-song to the gale-- Save when adown the ravaged globe He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe And trampling on her faded form; Till light's returning Lord assume The shaft that drives him to his northern fields, Of power to pierce his raven plume And crystal-cover'd shield.

O sire of storms! whose savage ear The Lapland drum delights to hear, When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye Implores thy dreadful deity-- Archangel! Power of desolation! Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart: Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruin'd year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear: To shuddering Want's unmantled bed Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, And gently on the orphan head Of Innocence descend.

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! The sailor on his airy shrouds, When wrecks and beacons strew the deep And spectres walk along the deep. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark-brown Danube roars. O winds of Winter! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan? Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own? Alas! e'en your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim fallen low; But Man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woe.

T. CAMPBELL.

257. YARROW UNVISITED.

1803.

From Stirling castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravell'd, Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, And with the Tweed had travell'd; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my "winsome Marrow." "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, Who have been buying, selling, Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own, Each maiden to her dwelling! On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow, But we will downward with the Tweed, Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus; There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land Made blythe with plough and harrow: Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow?

"What's Yarrow but a river bare That glides the dark hills under? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder." --Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn; My true-love sighed for sorrow, And look'd me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow!

"O green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path, and open strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow.

"Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow! We will not see them; will not go To-day, nor yet to-morrow; Enough if in our hearts we know There's such a place as Yarrow.

"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown; It must, or we shall rue it: We have a vision of our own; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, We'll keep them, winsome Marrow! For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 'Twill be another Yarrow.

"If care with freezing years should come And wandering seem but folly,-- Should we be loth to stir from home, And yet be melancholy; Should life be dull, and spirits low, 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow That earth has something yet to show, The bonny Holms of Yarrow!"

W. WORDSWORTH.

258. YARROW VISITED.

_September_, 1814.

And is this--Yarrow?--This is the Stream Of which my fancy cherish'd So faithfully, a waking dream, An image that hath perish'd? O that some minstrel's harp were near To utter notes of gladness And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness!

Yet why?--a silvery current flows With uncontroll'd meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness; Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding: And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning, The water-Wraith ascended thrice, And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy lovers, The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers: And pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation: Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy: The grace of forest charms decay'd, And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated Nature; And rising from those lofty groves Behold a ruin hoary, The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers, Renown'd in Border story.

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in, For manhood to enjoy his strength, And age to wear away in! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of studious ease and generous cares, And every chaste affection!

How sweet on this autumnal day The wild-wood fruits to gather, And on my true-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather! And what if I enwreathed my own? 'Twere no offence to reason; The sober hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season.

I see--but not by sight alone Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; A ray of Fancy still survives-- Her sunshine plays upon thee! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the heights, They melt, and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine-- Sad thought! which I would banish, But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me, to heighten joy And cheer my mind in sorrow.

W. WORDSWORTH.

259. THE INVITATION.

Best and Brightest, come away, Fairer far than this fair day, Which, like thee, to those in sorrow Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon morn To hoar February born; Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, It kiss'd the forehead of the earth, And smiled upon the silent sea, And bade the frozen streams be free, And waked to music all their fountains, And breathed upon the frozen mountains, And like a prophetess of May Strew'd flowers upon the barren way, Making the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.

Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs-- To the silent wilderness Where the soul need not repress Its music, lest it should not find An echo in another's mind, While the touch of Nature's art Harmonises heart to heart.

Radiant Sister of the Day Awake! arise! and come away! To the wild woods and the plains, And the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves, Where the pine its garland weaves Of sapless green, and ivy dun, Round stems that never kiss the sun, Where the lawns and pastures be And the sandhills of the sea, Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy-star that never sets, And wind-flowers and violets Which yet join not scent to hue Crown the pale year weak and new; When the night is left behind In the deep east, dim and blind, And the blue noon is over us, And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet, Where the earth and ocean meet, And all things seem only one In the universal Sun.

P.B. SHELLEY.

260. THE RECOLLECTION.

Now the last day of many days All beautiful and bright as thou, The loveliest and the last, is dead, Rise, Memory, and write its praise! Up, do thy wonted work! come, trace The epitaph of glory fled, For now the Earth has changed its face, A frown is on the Heaven's brow.

We wander'd to the Pine Forest That skirts the Ocean's foam; The lightest wind was in its nest, The tempest in its home. The whispering waves were half asleep, The clouds were gone to play, And on the bosom of the deep The smile of Heaven lay; It seem'd as if the hour were one Sent from beyond the skies Which scatter'd from above the sun A light of Paradise!

We paused amid the pines that stood The giants of the waste, Tortured by storms to shapes as rude As serpents interlaced,-- And soothed by every azure breath That under heaven is blown To harmonies and hues beneath, As tender as its own: Now all the tree-tops lay asleep Like green waves on the sea, As still as in the silent deep The ocean-woods may be.

How calm it was!--the silence there By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness; The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less The calm that round us grew. There seem'd from the remotest seat Of the wide mountain waste To the soft flower beneath our feet A magic circle traced A spirit interfused around, A thrilling silent life; To momentary peace it bound Our mortal nature's strife;-- And still I felt the centre of The magic circle there Was one fair Form that fill'd with love The lifeless atmosphere.

We paused beside the pools that lie Under the forest bough; Each seemed as 'twere a little sky Gulf'd in a world below; A firmament of purple light Which in the dark earth lay, More boundless than the depth of night And purer than the day-- In which the lovely forests grew As in the upper air, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any spreading there. There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, And through the dark green wood The white sun twinkling like the dawn Out of a speckled cloud. Sweet views which in our world above Can never well be seen Were imaged by the water's love Of that fair forest green: And all was interfused beneath With an Elysian glow, An atmosphere without a breath, A softer day below. Like one beloved the scene had lent To the dark water's breast Its very leaf and lineament With more than truth exprest; Until an envious wind crept by, Like an unwelcome thought Which from the mind's too faithful eye Blots one dear image out. --Though Thou art ever fair and kind, The forests ever green, Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind, Than calm in waters seen!

P.B. SHELLEY.

261. BY THE SEA.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder--everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.

W. WORDSWORTH.

262. TO THE EVENING STAR.

Star that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary labourer free! If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou That send'st it from above, Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape's odours rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard And songs when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse; Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou art, Too delicious to be riven By absence from the heart.

T. CAMPBELL.

263. DATUR HORA QUIETI.

The sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair Each to the loved one's side.

The noble dame on turret high, Who waits her gallant knight, Looks to the western beam to spy The flash of armour bright. The village maid, with hand on brow The level ray to shade, Upon the footpath watches now For Colin's darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart, And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart. The woodlark at his partner's side Twitters his closing song-- All meet whom day and care divide, But Leonard tarries long!

SIR W. SCOTT.

264. TO THE MOON.

Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth,-- And ever-changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy?

P.B. SHELLEY.

265.

A widow bird sate mourning for her Love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound.

P.B. SHELLEY.

266. TO SLEEP.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;--

I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away:

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blesséd barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

W. WORDSWORTH.

267. THE SOLDIERS DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas Autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

"Stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!"-- And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;-- But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

T. CAMPBELL.

268. A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN.

I dream'd that, as I wander'd by the way Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, And gentle odours led my steps astray, Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold, Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.

And nearer to the rivers trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues, which in their natural bowers Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours Within my hand;--and then, elate and gay, I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come That I might there present it--O! to Whom?

P.B. SHELLEY.

269. THE INNER VISION.

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path there be or none, While a fair region round the Traveller lies Which he forbears again to look upon;

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene The work of Fancy, or some happy tone Of meditation, slipping in between The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

--If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: With Thought and Love companions of our way--

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,-- The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

W. WORDSWORTH.

270. THE REALM OF FANCY.