« AnteriorContinuar »
The Buzzard mounted from the rock
Deliberate and slow :
Lord of the air, he took his flight;
Oh! could he on that woeful night
Have lent his wing, my Brother dear,
For one poor moment's space to Thee,
And all who struggled with the Sea,
When safety was so near
Thus in the weakness of my heart
I spoke (but let that pang be still)
When rising from the rock at will,
I saw the Bird depart.
And let me calmly bless the Power
That meets me in this unknown Flower,
Affecting type of him I mourn !
With calmness suffer and believe,
And grieve, and know that I must grieve,
Not cheerless, though forlorn.
Here did we stop; and here looked round
While each into himself descends,
For that last thought of parting Friends
That is not to be found.
Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight,
Our home and his, his heart's delight,
His quiet heart's selected home.
But time before him melts away,
And he hath feeling of a day
Of blessedness to come.
Full soon in sorrow did I weep,
Taught that the mutual hope was dust,
In sorrow, but for higher trust,
How miserably deep!
All vanished in a single word,
A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard.
Sea-Ship--drowned—Shipwreck—so it came,
The meek, the brave, the good, was gone;
He who had been our living John
Was nothing but a name.
That was indeed a parting! oh,
Glad am I, glad that it is past;
For there were some on whom it cast
But they as well as I have gains ;-
From many a humble source, to pains
Like these, there comes a mild release;
Even here I feel it, even this Plant
Is in its beauty ministrant
To comfort and to peace.
He would have loved thy modest grace,
Meek Flower! To Him I would have said,
grows upon its native bed
Beside our Parting-place;
There, cleaving to the ground, it lies
With multitude of purple eyes,
Spangling a cushion green like moss;
But we will see it, joyful tide!
Some day, to see it in its pride,
The mountain will we cross.”
Brother and friend, if verse of mine Have power to make thy virtues known,
Here let a monumental Stone
Stand-sacred as a Shrine;
And to the few who
Traveller or Shepherd, let it say,
Long as these mighty rocks endure,
Oh do not Thou too fondly brood,
Although deserving of all good,
On any earthly hope, however pure !
Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic boy,
For such thou wert ere from our sight removed,
Holy, and ever dutiful-beloved
From day to day with never-ceasing joy,
And hopes as dear as could the heart employ 5
In aught to earth pertaining ? Death has
His might, nor less his mercy, as behoved-
Death conscious that he only could destroy
The bodily frame. That beauty is laid low
To moulder in a far-off field of Rome;
But Heaven is now, blest Child, thy Spirit's
When such divine communion, which we know,
Is felt, thy Roman-burial place will be
Surely a sweet remembrancer of Thee.
1 The plant alluded to is the Moss Campion (Silene acaulis, of Linnæus). See note at the end of the volume. See among the Poems on the “Naming of Places," No. vi.
Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening,
after a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected.
Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up
With which she speaks when storms are gone,
A mighty unison of streams!
Of all her Voices, One!
Loud is the Vale; this inland Depth
In peace is roaring like the Sea ;
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.
Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load!
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;
And many thousands now are sad-
Wait the fulfilment of their fear ;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.
A Power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss ;
But when the great and good depart
What is it more than this-
Importuna e grave salma.
That Man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return?
Such ebb and flow must ever be,
Then wherefore should we mourn?
INVOCATION TO THE EARTH.
“REST, rest, perturbed Earth! O rest, thou doleful Mother of Mankind!" A Spirit sang in tones more plaintive than the
wind : “From regions where no evil thing has birth I come-thy stains to wash away, Thy cherished fetters to unbind, And open thy sad eyes upon a milder day. The Heavens are thronged with martyrs that
From out thy noisome prison ;
The penal caverns groan
With tens of thousands rent from off the tree
Of hopeful life,—by battle's whirlwind blown
Into the deserts of Eternity.
Unpitied havoc! Victims unlamented!
But not on high, where madness is resented, 15
And murder causes some sad tears to flow,
Though, from the widely-sweeping blow,
The choirs of Angels spread, triumphantly
“False Parent of Mankind !
Obdurate, proud, and blind,
I sprinkle thee with soft celestial dews,