Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish boy is blest And happy in his flowery cove:
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mean; Like a dead boy, he is serene.
ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER,
ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD ON THAT DAY. -HAST thou then survived,
Mild offspring of infirm humanitv.
Meek Infant! among all forlornest things The most forlorn, one life of that bright star, The second glory of the heavens? Thou hast- Already hast survived that great decay;
That transformation through the wide earth felt, And by all nations. In that Being's sight From whom the race of human kind proceed, A thousand years are but as yesterday; And one day's narrow circuit is to Him Not less capacious than a thousand years.
But what is time? What outward glory? Neither A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend
Through "heaven's eternal year."-Yet hail to thee, Frail, feeble monthling?-by that name, methinks, Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
Not idly. Hadst thou been of Indian birth, Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, Or to the churlish elements exposed
On the blank plains,-the coldness of the night, Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned, Would, with imperious admonition, then Have scored thine age, and punctually timed Thine infant history, on the minds of those
Who might have wandered with thee. Mother's love, Nor less than mother's love in other breasts, Will, among us warm clad and warmly housed, Do for thee what the finger of the heavens
Doth all too often harshly execute
For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds Where fancy hath small liberty to grace Th' affections, to exalt them or refine; And the maternal sympathy itself,
Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie
Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours! Even now-to solemnize thy helpless state, And to enliven in the mind's regard Thy passive beauty-parallels have risen, Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, Within the region of a father's thoughts, Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. And first; thy sinless progress, through a world By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, Apt likeness bears to hers through gathered clouds Moving untouched in silver purity,
And cheering ofttimes their reluctant gloom. Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain : But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn With brightness!-leaving her to post along, And range about-disquieted in change, And still impatient of the shape she wears. Once up, once down the hill, one journey, babe, That will suffice thee; and it seems that now Thou hast foreknowledge that such task is thine; Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon Hath this conception, grateful to behold, Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er By breathing mist; and thine appears to be A mournful labour, while to her is given
Hope and renovation without end.
-That smile forbids the thought;-for on thy face Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn,
To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen,- Tranquil assurances that heaven supports The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers Thy loneliness; or shall those smiles be called Feelers of love,-put forth as if t' explore This untried world, and to prepare thy way Through a strait passage intricate and dim? Such are they,-and the same are tokens, signs, Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; And reason's godlike power be proud to own.
Poems of the Imagination.
THERE was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander! Many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him. And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call,-with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into the bosom of the steady lake.
This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, The vale where he was born: the church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village school;
And there, along that bank, when I have passed At evening, I believe that oftentimes
A long half-hour together I have stood Mute--looking at the grave in which he lies!
O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grass, Thy loud note smites my ear! From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near!
I hear thee babbling to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers;
And unto me thou bring'st a tale Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery.
The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that cry
Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
O blessed bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, fairy place; That is fit home for thee !
-THE sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the moon, Which through that vale is indistinctly seen, A dull contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground, from rock, plant, tree, or tower At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller as he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split Asunder, and above his head he sees The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens There, in a black blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small, And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives. How fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not !-the wind is in the tree But they are silent; still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
THERE is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore, Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands Of Umfraville or Percy, ere they marched To Scotland's heaths: or those that crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary tree !-a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks!-and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved,- Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane; a pillared shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially-beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes May meet at noontide-Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight-Death the skeleton And Time the shadow,-there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.
VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB.
THIS height a ministering angel might select: For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range Of unobstructed prospect may be seen
That British ground commands: low dusky tracts, Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian hills To the south-west, a multitudinous show;
And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these, The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth
To Teviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde;
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