Part 6

A rich refreshment, grateful to the heart. Deep shadows spread, as if from heaven’s high arch, Night, like a purple curtain, slowly fell, Enfringed with gold, and richly ’broidered o’er With sparkling gems, all scintillating bright. The purple deepens, and one star-filled dome, Circles with lustre all the earth around So calm and peaceful, so serenely fair, That earth’s wild passions at the glorious sight Seem awed into repose; and man, brought forth Amid a solitude sublime, to muse With elevated thoughts, and higher aims, Infused from heaven, and kindled by the glance Of those far orbs, so lucid soft and clear, Till all his soul in humble worship melts, And holy reverence before the high, Majestic presence of the starry worlds. Ye gleaming lights, how beautiful ye shine, Filling the night with loveliness. Not one, Of all your myriads, but reveals a tale Of ages so remote and vast, they seem As an eternity to short-lived man. Thus calmly shone ye when the formless deep Heaved with the birth-throes of this present world, And mountain summits forced their jagged heads Through the dark surges of the boiling main. Slow spread the continents beneath your light In fearful desolation. Turbid flowed

The new-born rivers through the wilderness, Herbless and treeless their wild, dreary banks. But soon the life-touch of Creative breath Passed o’er this desert, and it swiftly bloomed, In verdant beauty. Herb and fruit and flower Mingled their loveliness beneath the shade Of trees umbrageous. The wide waters teemed With pregnant life, the groves were filled with song, And hill and valley echoed to the cry Of new-formed creatures sporting in delight. When earth was fitted to receive her guest, After long ages of successive change And wondrous preparation, man appeared, Creation’s crown, the culminating point Where finite and where infinite unite; Where thought could dwell, and with sublime ascent, Rise from all creatures to their Living Cause. How fearful and how wonderful is mind! A mystic mirror, fitted to reflect The universe with all its varied forms, In pure unsullied beauty; thence to pierce Through the rich vision, and the fair array, And deeply search each hidden spring and cause Till, link by link, the golden chain is found That binds creation to the Throne of Power. How full of wonder man’s first ardent gaze Around the earth, in daylight beauty bright; But higher wonder must have stirred his soul—

More deep religious awe—when first the night Revealed the glories of her ebon shade, With thousand lamps attendant. Soon his mind Would strive to learn the mystery immense Of all their fair array. “Are ye mere lights Amid the azure canopy of heaven, In order marshalled, to redeem the night From utter desolation? Oh! ye move In wondrous sequence, and keep up a march O’er the same pathway that the sun hath trod. How godlike is your aspect, ye must rule The destinies of man. Your varied fires Control the life within him and around, And make the kingdoms of the earth your own.” Thus, in the infancy of mind, the stars, Bright realms of light, by erring thought, were made To shed a darkness on the human soul, And bind its free-born energies. But now, When thought, through centuries its march sublime Hath onward held, and Science hath enlarged Her bounds as ocean: to man’s questionings The heavens unfold their secrets, and send down Their revelations to astound his soul. Her magic tube Astronomy hath held With power aloft, and pierced the hidden depths, Then turned to earth again, and told the tale, The mighty tale, most wonderful yet true— That yon bright specks are gorgeous worlds and suns, In countless millions, far apart and spread Throughout immensity, in ordered clans, Harmonious systems, moving swiftly on With power past utt’rance, through the aweful, vast, Infinitude of space, and had their birth Or first commenced their race sublime amid Such deep profundity of ancient Time It seems Eternity. Ye mighty worlds, Like them of old, still would I fondly think That on your orbs man’s destiny is writ In brighter, fairer characters than e’er Chaldean sage decyphered. Tell ye not The greatness of that essence that can link Itself by thought with ye? And are ye not The cradles of his being, the primal worlds Where his immortal destiny begins, From whence ascending, into higher spheres, His growing spirit may at length find rest In spiritual realms? Your numbers tell Of “numbers numberless” of finite minds, Created likenesses of God most High, In whose full myriads he may image forth His own infinity, and fill their souls With heavenly goodness, wisdom high and pure, That thus receiving from the fount of Life The living stream, their natures may become Divine, angelical, prepared to form A still increasing universe of bliss.

Oh thought ennobling, destiny sublime! Happy the man who marks the canons writ On his own being, on the sacred page Of revelation, and the ordered frame Of this fair world, and with an effort firm And persevering, strives to win the prize! How grand the lessons of creation’s book, How mighty every page, when read aright, To teach humility to man, and fill His breast with sacred confidence and love And holy fear. Then, bow ye, and adore, The infinite of Love whence all things are, The infinite of Truth that gave them frame, The infinite of Power wherein they dwell, The one Creating and Redeeming God!

The Sailor’s Bride.

The stars they shone keen in the deep blue sky, And the moonlight softly slept O’er the frozen earth, and the pale cold snow That chirped as the traveller stept.

Poor Mary sat chilled by her lonely fire, Her babe in its cradle lay, As she watched its slumbers with cheerless breast, On the eve of Christmas day.

“Thy father is yet on the wide, wide sea,”— Her mournful heart thus sung,— “I hoped he’d have been in our home, baby, Ere the Christmas bells had rung.

“This time, so full of affection’s delights, Of pure and innocent mirth, Is lonely and sad, since he is not here To joy with me o’er thy birth.

“When last he sailed forth, all the bright green buds Just peeped on the branches bare; And thou, my child, like the beautiful flowers, Hadst breathed not the spring’s sweet air.

“Since then, fearful storms have darkened the sky, And tempests disturbed the main, And the sprightly glance of his loving eye I ne’er may behold again!

“He never has looked on thy cherub form, Or seen thy soft curling hair; Or watched the quick smile, on thy rosy cheek, Like a bright wave rippling there.

“To place thee, with joy, in thy father’s arms, How my ardent soul doth yearn; But still disappointed, each anxious day, In solitude drear I mourn.

“But hark! do I dream? or a sharp quick step Approaches our cottage door? A well-known hand, lifts the opening latch,— I clasp thee, my husband, once more!”

She’s pressed to the heart, of her sailor bold, Their child in his arms he rears; The sound of his kiss on its pure soft cheek, Like a spell dispersed her tears!

The gloom from that dwelling hath passed away; The hearth hath a glow more bright; And the glorious sun next morning shone For them with a richer light.

They love the sweet sounds from yon grey church tower, Recalling their bridal day; And thither they wend, with most grateful hearts, Their tribute of thanks to pay.

Then in their own home, with its glowing fire, And neighbours and friends around, That loving pair hark with intense delight To the Christmas bells’ glad sound.

Birth of the First-Born.

Beloved Eva! fain would I impart The fervent feelings of a poet’s heart, And in sweet-numbered melody make known How glad I hail thee, and thy first-born son! Thou art a mother! and thou now wilt share All the rich pleasures of a mother’s care; Wilt clasp thine infant to thy raptured breast, And know on earth the feelings of the blest. How kindly has the Author of our frame Lit in our souls affection’s holy flame; Bound heart to heart by kindred’s golden ties, Fond links of love, delightful sympathies, Whence deeper, richer, purer pleasures flow Than all but those celestial joys bestow. Of all deep chords within the human breast One sounds with harmonies beyond the rest, In sweeter music, more ecstatic tone, And dwells in woman’s gentle heart alone. Then first its thrilling melody was heard, Surpassing Eden’s most enchanting bird, When loving Eve, with silent rapture smiled, On smiles returned her by her infant child. Since that sweet hour what myriad hearts have glowed With like soft gladness, and what eyes have flowed With sparkling tears, that were by joy distilled, From minds maternal happiness hath filled. Such be thine ecstacy, such be thy joy, Thy tender pleasure o’er thine infant boy; Be it thy rich felicity to prove The deepest raptures of maternal love. ’Tis sweet to cultivate some simple flower, And watch its form expanding every hour, From the green bud that swells upon the spray Till full-blown petals meet the sunny ray, Unfold bright tints, disclose surpassing bloom, And shed around their delicate perfume. But higher, nobler is the task assigned To tend the first unfoldings of the mind, And cultivate the young expanding heart, The task which falls to every mother’s part. Such sacred duty thou canst well fulfil, Wake softest feeling, richest truth instil, Raise latent thought, and evil’s growth arrest Within thine infant’s slowly opening breast; And as a flower erects its head on high To meet the bright refulgence of the sky, And gain refreshment from the dewy morn, That fairer beauties may its form adorn, So wilt thou teach, unceasingly, thy child With gentle precept and instruction mild, To look to heaven, fix its affections there, And raise the incense of aspiring prayer. From thy kind hand I know he will receive All that a mother’s tenderness can give, A ready help preventing every need, The fond intention, and the kindly deed; The watchful eye, the prompt protection share, And constant efforts of unwearied care. Thus taught by thee, to manhood may he rise, Through childhood’s innocent and simple guise; Through virtuous youth, improving year by year, In all perfections which the heart endear; Till strong in truth, of every good possessed, A generous spirit and a candid breast, A soul enlarged, a great and noble mind; With feelings fervent, delicate, refined, And that unspotted purity of heart Which Heavenly blessing can alone impart, He shall thy cares abundantly repay, A constant solace to thy latest day: Yielding rich happiness, like grateful soil Returning harvest for the tillers toil, Fruitful and rich, inviting to his hand, In golden ripeness teeming o’er the land.

Lines to a Great Philanthropist.

Oh Wilderspin! I would attune the harp Of sweetest poesy to tell thee how, With heart and spirit, I esteem the work And labour of thy life! no harsher sound Than softest music will befit the theme— No tone less ’trancing than the poet’s lyre. Kind friend of Infants! who in early life, Amidst the haunts and dwellings of the poor, Looking around thee, saw them left to roam In paths of wickedness, untrained, untaught, Save in the deeds of ill; and with a heart Of tender care, a mind resolved to act, Didst love and pity them;—with deepest thought And observation piercing and intense, Didst keenly study all the mystic laws Of mind unfolding in the infant breast, And feeling rising in each little heart, That to the one thou mightest know aright Sweet simple truth in fitting form to give, And train the other in all moral good, Beneath the blessing of that God who gives Full oft a life to truth within the mind, As to the seeds we scatter in the ground. By simple stories from the sacred page, By parables and life-informing texts, And milk sincere, pure from the Word Divine, It was thy wish to lead them on to Christ, And teach them of His love. Woe lies on those Who with a wilful hand would force strong meat On minds of delicate and tender age, And thereby cause offence. The warning kind, The simple precept, and the promise sweet, The perfect picture of a holy life, The lovely prospect of a world of light, And joy and happiness, with God on high, Are food for little ones, and cords of love Whereby the Spirit may draw hearts to Him. Teacher of babes! thy cause, when in its rise, Drew friends around, who fostered it with care, Endured a little time, and then fell off. Alone, undaunted, in the face of scorn, Of opposition, slander, ridicule, And all that most can sink the heart of man And baffle perseverance, thou didst still, Upheld by strength imparted from on high, With boldness persevere, and plead the cause Of helpless infancy around the land, And work unceasing for its lasting good With untired ardour. Others now would reap The fields which thou hast sown, and cast aside Thy name into oblivion; would avail Themselves of all thy labours; would forget The mind from which they sprung, and leave thee now, When the chill winter of old age comes on, In dim obscurity. Nay, more than this— Some would traduce thee, and use slander’s tongue: But let the sinless cast a stone at thee! And let all judge thee by thy noble works, Thy deeds of true philanthropy, then all Would look upon thee with a heart of love, Of wonder, of astonishment and joy. And oh may “He who doth the ravens feed, Yea providently caters for the sparrow, Be comfort to thine age.” May He who said, A cup of water given in his name To little ones should have a full reward, Give thee the riches of eternal life, A spirit pure, a heart prepared and meet, For joy and glory in the worlds above!

1845

Wye Dale, Buxton.

Here Nature, with a lavish bounty, pours Her grandest beauties from her richest stores; On either hand high rifted rocks uprear Their summits proud that touching heaven appear, Whilst on their shelves soft mountain herbage grows, Fresh moss springs green, the pretty wild flower blows, And many a tree, on their steep sides, is seen Stretching broad branches, decked in living green, ’Mongst which the yew its gloomy boughs extends, Where the grey crag’s terrific form impends; Here the gay warbler’s sweetly carolled song Resounds reverberating rocks among, Whilst o’er mossed stones Wye’s new-born waters wail Spreading their murmurs through this lonely dale.

Rydal Water.

Addressed to Wordsworth.

How fair beneath the noontide light, In splendour rests this silver lake, Engirt by many a mountain height, High soaring rock, and purple peak.

Yon central isle, of sombre pines, With dark green hue, and spreading bough, Reflected in the water shines, A softer vision seen below!

Around, unnumbered fairy isles In rich luxuriant verdure lie, Like gems amidst the waters’ smiles, Or bright clouds on a summer sky.

Fair, spreading trees along the shore Adorn each lofty headland steep; Or on the marge their branches lave Amidst the shining crystal deep.

Woods, rocks, and fells, and mountain peaks, Sublime in hue, or rich and bright As through the clouds the sunbeam breaks, Reveal a vision of delight;

A scene so glorious and grand, We well might deem that He whose word Created all things, o’er this land Had primal paradise restored.

Can man such loveliness behold, So wondrous fair in every part, And not as incense give to heaven The adoration of his heart.

O! Lake, so beautiful and bright, How oft the Rydal Bard on thee Hath glanced his eye’s poetic light, Till song gushed forth like torrents free.

The soft and gentle summer breeze, As fairy-like it wanders round, With deep-toned music midst the trees, Gives forth his harp’s entrancing sound.

Each mountain soars in richer hues, Each rock gives forth a sound of fame, And streams in murmurs sweet diffuse The gentle sound of Wordsworth’s name.

O could Parnassus’ far famed peak, Or Castalie’s resplendent spring, More glorious feeling in us wake Or brighter dreams to fancy bring?

Amid a scene so rich and fair How does my spirit long to dwell, And quit the world, with all its care, And bid its noisy haunts farewell.

My heart was never framed to toil With Commerce on his crowded mart, From his rough tasks my thoughts recoil, But, oh! they love the poets’ art.

How sweet to me the woodland glade, The wild-flower pearled with morning dew, The noontide sun, the evening shade, And all that nature gives to view.

And sweet to see them pictured bright Upon the bard’s immortal page, Enshrined in pure and heavenly light, To charm the world from age to age.

Harp of the ancient British Bards! Had I but skill to tune thy strings, Entranced by thy delicious notes, My heart would leave all meaner things.

Thy music owns a magic spell To thrill my breast with glowing love; Each rising throb of anguish quell And make my pulse enraptured move!

No hoards of classic lore are mine; Few treasures of historic truth; No ancient themes my thoughts refine, And past’s the sunshine of my youth.

Thus boding sadness chills my heart, And bows my hopeless spirit down; In vain I woo the poets’ art,— The laurel wreath I ne’er shall own!

Sonnet to Elfrida.

Immortal being, whose career of time Hath just begun, with holy hope we bring Thee to the Temple of our Heavenly King, To ask his gracious blessing in the prime Of life’s fair infancy, ere earthly crime Hath cast its stains upon thee; and whilst now We sprinkle o’er thee, mid deep prayer and vow, Baptismal water, emblem most sublime, Of God’s eternal sanctifying Truth: Oh may his goodness, and restoring grace, Renew thy spirit, and from earliest youth Sustain thee onwards in a heavenly race And glorious fight of faith, till thou shaft rise By death to blissful life beyond the skies.

The Mountain Height.

Come with me, and climb the proud mountain’s brow, To view with high wonder the scene below, Where huge hills heave like a foaming sea By enchantment struck to tranquility.

Oh naught can depict to the mind’s deep sight The terrible view from a mountain height, As to fancy that ocean in awful storm Had been turned to stone, with each wave in form.

In vallies beneath, calm lakes glitter bright With radiant gleams of silvery light, As they sweetly lie mid fair woodland shores, Whence the purple peak of the mountain soars.

The hollow wind moans round these lofty rocks, Whence the waterfalls gush with echoing shocks, As they bound from their steeps with sparkling glee To sweep in bright streams to their parent sea.

Here slender blue bells, and the purple heath With flowery thyme, sweet fragrance breathe; And the rush, and the moss, and the short soft grass Spread a verdant pathway inviting to pass.

Oh! come let us climb the wild mountain brow, Where Solitude dwells mid the trickling flow Of rock-channelled rills, and desolate winds, And the strong winged eagle an eyrie finds.

Farewell to Elloughton.

This fair and sunny afternoon, Upon the green hill’s side Reclined, beneath a shady tree, To view the prospect wide, In varied beauty spread beneath Of woodland, corn-field, dell— I would invoke the Muse to give A poet’s warm farewell!

Farewell to all the rural walks I’ve ta’en with calm delight; Farewell to landscapes richly seen In evening’s golden light; Farewell—the deep dark woodland shade, The meadow’s flowery plain; But yet a farewell full of hope, The hope to meet again.

When man forsakes the crowded town, The loud and bustling mart, Amid the calm of rural scenes To renovate his heart, So peaceful, pure, and sweet around The lovely prospect lies, He feels as if his footsteps trod Again in paradise.

In childhood how we love to play Mid fields and woods and flowers, And ’neath the sunshine wile away Our infancy’s glad hours; And when such scenes in after years Can purest joy impart, It haply proves we yet retain Like innocence of heart!

How fair is Nature’s every scene, Viewed as a work Divine, When pious thought, and filial love, Make each green nook a shrine; The sunlight spreading o’er the land, Seems smiles from Heaven above, The gentle breeze a “still small voice” That whispers of His Love.

And where, to waken pure delight, Or elevate the thought, Can fairer, brighter charms be found, Or more with beauty fraught, Than here, where high and breezy hills O’er look Old Humber’s wave, And view the rich, green, wooded shores That His broad waters lave?

Far o’er the ample plain beneath, Lanes, corn-fields, woodlands lie, Till lost in distant purple hues They mingle with the sky. The lordly seat, the village church, The hamlet, cot and farm, ’Mid shady trees, or open grounds, With varied beauty charm.

O’er Humber’s wide-spread flowing stream, White, gliding sails are seen, Illumined by the sun’s bright rays, Or ’neath some cloudy screen; Whilst all His further shores repeat The brighter, nearer view— More faintly touched, more dimly seen— Arrayed in softest blue.

Here Welton’s richly wooded dale, Or Elloughton’s dark dell, Or Brantingham’s romantic vale, Charm as by magic spell! The song-bird’s note, the bee’s rich hum, The insect’s merry flight, The wild-flowers and the fragrant pines Must all enhance delight!

He who would choose the deep lone wood, Or forest’s tangled shade, The mingled prospect far and wide O’er distant lands displayed; The rural lane, the rustic walk, The cultivated plain, The woodbine or the wild-rose path— His every wish may gain.

In years long gone, I’ve wandered o’er Each nook of this sweet spot, To fill the mind with pictures fair That memory ne’er forgot; And now when all has been reviewed, It glows more fresh and bright And beauteous than in those first hours Of innocent delight.

Farewell, then, rural Elloughton, And each rich scene around! Full oft on Fancy’s pictured page Will all be clearly found; And oft these hours of pleasure pure O’er thought will fondly reign;— Farewell, until thy much-loved walks My footsteps trace again!

Killiney Bay.

The sunset lights are streaming Along Killiney Bay, And o’er its gentle ripples Like gems of splendour play.

Upon the distant mountains Soft hues of purple rest; And deeper shades of evening The sombre vales invest.

O’er all the varied landscape The richest beauty glows; And light and shade are mingling In calmness and repose.

Whilst thus sublimely roving The mountain’s lofty brow, We hear the calm sea murmur Amid the rocks below.

Around the thyme and heather, Bloom fragrant, fresh and fair, And health and joy seem floating Upon the breezy air.

The insect’s happy murmur, The wild bird’s rapid flight, The distant vessel gliding, All give the heart delight!

From scenes so rife with beauty, Sweet thoughts of gladness rise All calm and pure and peaceful, Like dreams of paradise.

But that which adds a sweetness, These circling joys above, Is this our happy meeting Of kindred—friendship—love!

This hour must gain a record On memory’s brightest page, And live in hues most lovely To life’s remotest age.

That scene hath swiftly faded, That time hath passed away, But oft is re-illumined By fancy’s kindling ray.

Whilst now in peace enjoying An English hearth and home, The mountain scenes of Erin In glorious vision come;

And thoughts and fancies flutter To prove this truth most sweet, That friends by distance parted Can yet in spirit meet!

Descent of the Dove.