Silent, and steadfast as the vaulted sky, Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke For the brief course that must for me remain, Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace, 1833. III. (BY THE SEA-SIDE.) THE sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest, And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest; Air slumbers, wave with wave no longer strives, Only a heaving of the deep survives, A telltale motion! soon will it be laid, And by the tide alone the water swayed. Stealthy withdrawings, interminglings mild Of light with shade in beauty reconciled, — Such is the prospect far as sight can range, The soothing recompense, the welcome change. Where now the ships that drove before the blast, Threatened by angry breakers as they passed, And by a train of flying clouds bemocked, Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked As on a bed of death? Some lodge in peace, Saved by His care who bade the tempest cease; And some, too heedless of past danger, court Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port; But near, or hanging sea and sky between, Not one of all those wingèd powers is seen, Seen in her course, nor 'mid this quiet heard; Yet oh! how gladly would the air be stirred By some acknowledgment of thanks and praise, Soft in its temper as those vesper lays Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores ; A sea-born service through the mountains felt Till into one loved vision all things melt! Or like those hymns that soothe with graver sound The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound; And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies! Hush, not a voice is here! but why repine, IV. 1833. NOT in the lucid intervals of life That come but as a curse to party-strife ; The soul of Genius, if he dare to take Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake; Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent Of all the truly great and all the innocent. But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise, O Nature! we are thine, Through good and evil thine, in just degree Of rational and manly sympathy. To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing, 1834. (BY THE SIDE OF RYDAL MERE.) THE linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest The throng of rooks, that now, from twig or nest, (After a steady flight on home-bound wings, And a last game of mazy hoverings Around their ancient grove,) with cawing noise Disturb the liquid music's equipoise. O Nightingale! Who ever heard thy song And lays as prompt would hail the dawn of Night: Wanderer by spring with gradual progress led, For sway profoundly felt as widely spread; To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear, And to the soldier's trumpet-wearied ear; How welcome wouldst thou be to this green Vale Fairer than Tempe! Yet, sweet Nightingale ! From the warm breeze that bears thee on, alight At will, and stay thy migratory flight; |