The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound
In my lone being, made thy restless plain
As the vast shining floor of some dread fane,
All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep!
Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep,
Never to thee did love with silvery chain
Draw my soul's dream, which through all nature sought
What waves deny;- some bower of steadfast bliss,
A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought,
As with sweet flowers:—But chasten'd hope for this
Now turns from earth's green valleys, as from thee,
To that sole changeless world, where "there is no
more sea."
VI.-DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT
EVENING.
YET, rolling far up some green mountain dale,
Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard,
Thy swell, thou deep! when evening calls the bird
And bee to rest; when summer tints grow pale,
Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil,
And peasant steps are hastening to repose,
And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close
To the last whisper of the falling gale.
Then, 'midst the dying of all other sound,
When the soul hears thy distant voice profound,
Lone-worshipping, and knows that through the night
'Twill worship still, then most its anthem tone
Speaks to our being of the Eternal One,
Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might.
VOL. VII.
VII. THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES.
O CAMBRIAN river, with slow music gliding
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin'd towers;
Now 'midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding,
Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers;
Long flow'd the current of my life's clear hours
Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my dream,
Though time and change, and other mightier powers,
Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth
Art winding still thy sunny meads along,
Murm'ring to cottage and grey hall thy song,
Low, sweet, unchanged. My being's tide hath pass'd
Through rocks and storms; yet will I not complain,
If thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain,
Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at
last.
DоTH thy heart, stir within thee at the sight
Of orchard blooms upon the mossy bough?
Doth their sweet household smile waft back the glow
Of childhood's morn?-the wondering fresh delight
In earth's new colouring, then all strangely bright,
A joy of fairyland?-Doth some old nook,
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book,
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak'd blossoms white,
Shower'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose knot, And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot,
And the bee's dreamy chime?-O gentle friend! The world's cold breath, not Time's, this life bereaves Of vernal gifts-Time hallows what he leaves, And will for us endear spring-memories to the end. May 8th.
STILL are the cowslips from thy bosom springing,
O far-off grassy dell?-and dost thou see,
When southern winds first wake the vernal singing,
The star-gleam of the wood anemone?
Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee yet-the bee
Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell
To their wild blooms? and round my beechen tree
Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell?
-Oh! strange illusion by the fond heart wrought,
Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face!
-My being's tide of many-coloured thought Hath pass'd from thee, and now, rich, leafy place! I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow'd by what hath been.
X.-A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE.
O VALE and lake, within your mountain-urn
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep!
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,
Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep
With light Elysian; for the hues that steep
Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote,
Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep
Their place with holiest harmonies: fair scene,
Most loved by evening and her dewy star!
Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar
The perfect music of thy charm serene!
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer.
XI.-THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES.
TREES, gracious trees! how rich a gift ye are,
Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes!
How doth the thought of home, in lands afar,
Link'd with your forms and kindly whisperings rise!
How the whole picture of a childhood lies
Oft 'midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep!
Till gazing through them up the summer skies
As hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep
And old sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world
Where memory coils-and lo! at once unfurl'd
The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight,
Spreads clear! while gushing from their long-seal'd urn
Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers
return,
And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light.
AND ye are strong to shelter!-all meek things,
All that need home and covert, love your shade!
Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs,
And nun-like violets, by the wind betray'd.
Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath play'd,
With his first primrose wealth: there love hath sought
A veiling gloom for his unutter'd thought;
And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid,
A refuge for her tears; and ofttimes there
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer,
A native temple, solemn, hush'd, and dim;
For wheresoe'er your murm'ring tremors thrill
The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still
Confess'd a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.
XIII.-ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILDHOOD.
O GENTLE story of the Indian isle!
I loved thee in my lonely childhood well
On the sea-shore, when day's last purple smile
Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell
And dying cadence lent a deeper spell
Unto thine ocean-pictures. 'Midst thy palms
And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to dwell,
And watch the southern cross through midnight calms,
And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless'd
Thy vision of sweet love; kind, trustful, true,
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