Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's page, As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the fount. Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss, A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. Thou mayest toil far and find no second tree. Drink, Pilgrim, here! Here rest! and if thy heart Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!
An English Scene.
I HAD a little chamber in the house,
As green as any privet-hedge a bird
Might choose to build in, though the nest itself
Could show but dead-brown sticks and straws; the walls
Were green, the carpet was pure green, the straight
Small bed was curtained greenly, and the folds
Hung green about the window which let in
The out-door world with all its greenery. You could not push your head out and escape A dash of dawn-dew from the honeysuckle, But so you were baptized into the grace And privilege of seeing. .
First, the lime, (I had enough there, of the lime, be sure,- My morning-dream was often hummed away By the bees in it ;) past the lime, the lawn, Which, after sweeping broadly round the house, Went trickling through the shrubberies in a stream Of tender turf, and wore and lost itself
Among the acacias, over which you saw
The irregular line of elms by the deep lane
Which stopped the grounds and dammed the overflow Of arbutus and laurel. Out of sight
The lane was; sunk so deep, no foreign tramp Nor drover of wild ponies out of Wales
Could guess if lady's hall or tenant's lodge
Dispensed such odours,-though his stick well-crooked Might reach the lowest trail of blossoming briar
Which dipped upon the wall. Behind the elms, And through their tops, you saw the folded hills Striped up and down with hedges. (burly oaks Projecting from the line to show themselves) Through which my cousin Romney's chimneys smoked As still as when a silent mouth in frost
Freathes, showing where the woodlands hid Leigh Hall; While, far above, a fut of table-land,
A promontory without water, stretched,— You could not catch it if the days were thick, Or took it for a cloud; but, otherwise, The vigorous sun would catch it up at eve And use it for an anvil till he had filled
The shelves of heaven with burning thunderbolts, Protesting against night and darkness:—then, When all his setting trouble was resolved
To a trance of passive glory, you might see In apparition on the golden sky
(Alas, my Giotto's background!) the sheep run Along the fine clear outline, small as mice That run along a witch's scarlet thread.
Not a grand nature. Not my chestnut-woods Of Vallombrosa, cleaving by the spurs To the precipices. Not my headlong leaps Of waters, that cry out for joy or fear In leaping through the palpitating pines, Like a white soul tossed out to eternity With thrills of time upon it. Not indeed My multitudinous mountains, sitting in The magic circle, with the mutual touch Electric, panting from their full deep hearts Beneath the influent heavens, and waiting for Communion and commission. Is one thing, England one.
The Shepherd.
YET, hail to you
Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye hollow vales, Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic's voice, Powers of my native region! Ye that seize
The heart with firmer grasp! Your snows and streams Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds, That howl so dismally for him who treads Companionless your awful solitudes!
There, 'tis the shepherd's task the winter long To wait upon the storms: of their approach Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives His flock, and thither from the homestead bears A toilsome burden up the craggy ways, And deals it out, their regular nourishment Strewn on the frozen snow. And when the spring Looks out, and all the pastures dance with lambs, And when the flock, with warmer weather, climbs Higher and higher, him his office leads
To watch their goings, whatsoever track
The wanderers choose. For this he quits his home At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat, Than he lies down upon some shining rock,
And breakfasts with his dog. When they have stolen, As is their wont, a pittance from strict time, For rest not needed or exchange of love, Then from his couch he starts; and now his feet Crush out a livelier fragrance from the flowers Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill enwrought In the wild turf: the lingering dews of morn Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he hies, His staff protending like a hunter's spear, Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag, And o'er the brawling beds of unbridged streams. Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy's call,
Might deign to follow him through what he does Or sees in his day's march; himself he feels, In those vast regions where his service lies, A freeman, wedded to his life of hope And hazard, and hard labour interchanged With that majestic indolence so dear To native man. A rambling schoolboy, thus I felt his presence in his own domain, As of a lord and master, or a power, Or genius, under Nature, under God, Presiding; and severest solitude
Had more commanding looks when he was there.
When up the lonely brooks on rainy days Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills By mists bewildered, suddenly mine eyes Have glanced upon him distant a few steps, In size a giant, stalking through thick fog, His sheep like Greenland bears; or, as he stepped Beyond the boundary line of some hill-shadow, His form hath flashed upon me, glorified
By the deep radiance of the setting sun : Or him have I descried in distant sky, A solitary object and sublime,
Above all height! like an ærial cross Stationed alone upon a spiry rock
Of the Chartreuse, for worship. Thus was man Ennobled outwardly before my sight, And thus my heart was early introduced To an unconscious love and reverence
Of human nature; hence the human form To me became an index of delight,
Of grace and honour, power and worthiness.
LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbour's creed has lent. All are needed by each one--
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home, in his nest, at even. He sings the song, but it pleases not now; For I did not bring home the river and sky: He sang to my ear--they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam— I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore,
With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid, As 'mid the virgin train she strayed; Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; The gay enchantment was undone-
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, "I covet truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat
I leave it behind with the games of youth." As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird; Beauty through my senses stole-
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
The Art of Narrative.
A STORY, in which native humour reigns, Is often useful, always entertains:
A graver fact, enlisted on your side,
May furnish illustration, well applied;
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