XV.
=The Streams.=
A volume of general selections from English rural verse would be incomplete without some passage from Denham’s poem of “Cooper’s Hill”—a poem so highly lauded by past generations, and which we still read to-day with admiration. Sir John Denham is one of those poets who have met with very opposite treatment from critics of different generations; after receiving the highest commendations from Dryden, from Johnson, from Pope, from Somerville, his bays have been very severely handled in our own time. But allowing him to have been over-praised at one period, shall we for that reason refuse ourselves the pleasure he is assuredly capable of affording us? Is not “Cooper’s Hill” a fine old poem of the second class, which the nineteenth century does well to read once in a while? The celebrated lines, quoted a thousand times,
“Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull, Strong without rage; without o’erflowing, full,”
were amusingly parodied some fifty years ago by Mr. Soame Jenyns, in his satire upon an unfledged, ignorant memberling of Parliament:
“Without experience, honesty, or sense, Unknowing in her interests, trade, or laws, He vainly undertakes his country’s cause; Forth from his lips, prepared at all to rail, Torrents of nonsense flow like bottled ale; Though shallow, muddy; brisk, though mighty dull; Fierce without strength; o’erflowing, though not full.”
THE STREAMS.
ARIEL’S SONG.
Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands; Curt’sied when you have, and kind (The wild waves whist), Foot it featly, here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burden bear! Hark! hark! The watch-dogs bark; Hark! hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry cock-a-doodle-doo! SHAKSPEARE.
THE THAMES.
FROM “COOPER’S HILL.”
Thames, the most lov’d of all the Ocean’s sons, By his old sire, to his embraces runs; Hasty to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity, Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold, His genuine and less guilty wealth t’ explore, Search not his bottoms, but survey his shore, O’er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring; Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, Like mothers who their infants overlay;
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. No unexpected inundations spoil The mower’s hopes, or mock the plowman’s toil; But God-like his unwearied bounty flows; First loves to do, then loves the good he does. Nor are his blessings to his banks confin’d, But free and common, as the sea or wind; When he to boast or to disperse his stores, Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, Visits the world, and in his flying tow’rs Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours; Finds wealth where ’tis, bestows it where it wants— Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants. So that to us no thing, no place is strange, While his fair bosom is the world’s exchange. O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme! Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; Strong without rage; without o’erflowing, full. Heaven her Eridanus no more shall boast, Whose fame in thine, like lesser current, lost; Thy nobler streams shall visit Jove’s abodes, To shine among the stars and bathe the gods. Here nature, whether more intent to please Us or herself, with strange varieties, (For things of wonder give no less delight To the wise Maker’s than beholders’ sight; Though these delights from sev’ral causes move, For so our children, thus our friends we love), Wisely she knew the harmony of things, As well as that of sounds, from discord springs. Such was the discord which did first disperse Form, order, beauty, through the universe; While dryness moisture, coldness heat resists, All that we have, and that we are, subsists; While the steep, horrid roughness of the wood Strives with the gentle calmness of the flood, Such huge extremes, when Nature doth unite, Wonder from thence results, from thence delight. The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear, That had the self-enamor’d youth gaz’d here, So fatally deceiv’d he had not been, While he the bottom, not his face, had seen. But his proud head the airy mountain hides
Among the clouds; his shoulders and his side A shady mantle clothes; his curled brows Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows; While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat, The common fate of all that’s high or great. Low at his foot a spacious plain is plac’d, Between the mountain and the stream embrac’d; Which shade and shelter from the hill derives, While the kind river wealth and beauty gives; And in the mixture of all these appears Variety, which all the rest endears. SIR JOHN DENHAM, 1618–1668.
RIVER AND SONG.
It is no little recommendation of the rivers we met with here, that almost every one of them is the subject of some pleasing Scotch ditty, which the scene brings to the memory of those who are versed in the lyrics of the country. The elegant simplicity of the verse, and the soothing melody of the music, in almost all the Scotch songs, is universally acknowledged: “_Tweed-side_, and _Ettrick’s Banks_,” are not among the least pleasing.
GILPIN’S “_Highlands of Scotland_,” 1789.
ODE TO LEVEN-WATER.
On Leven’s banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod the Arcadian plain. Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o’er its bed, With white, round, polish’d pebbles spread; While, lightly pois’d, the scaly brood, In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; The springing trout in speckled pride; The salmon, monarch of the tide; The ruthless pike, intent on war; The silver eel, and mottled par, Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birds, and groves of pine, And hedges flower’d with eglantine. Still on thy banks so gayly green, May num’rous herds and flocks be seen, And lasses chanting o’er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale, And ancient Faith, that knows no guile, And Industry embrown’d with toil, And hearts resolved, and hands prepar’d, The blessings they enjoy to guard. TOBIAS SMOLLETT, 1720–1771.
SONG.
FROM THE GERMAN.
See the rocky spring, Clear as joy, Like a sweet star gleaming! O’er the clouds, he In his youth was cradled By good spirits, 'Neath the bushes in the cliffs.
Fresh with youth From the cloud he dances Down upon the rocky pavement; Thence, exulting, Leaps to heaven.
For a while he dallies Round the summit, Through its little channels chasing Motley pebbles round and round; Quick, then, like determined leader, Hurries all his brother streamlets Off with him.
There, all round him in the vale, Flowers spring up beneath his footstep, And the meadow Wakes to feel his breath. But him holds no shady vale—
No cool blossoms, Which around his knees are clinging, And with loving eyes entreating Passing notice; on he speeds, Winding snake-like.
Social brooklets Add their waters. Now he rolls O’er the plain in silvery splendor, And the plain his splendor borrows; And the rivulets from the plain, And the brooklets from the hill-sides, All are shouting to him, “Brother, Brother, take thy brothers too— Take us to thy ancient Father, To the everlasting Ocean, Who, e’en now, with outstretched arms, Waits for us— Arms outstretched, alas! in vain, To embrace his longing ones; For the greedy sand devours us; Or the burning sun above us Sucks our life-blood; or some hillock Hems us into ponds. Ah! brother, Take thy brothers from the plain— Take thy brothers from the hill-sides With thee, to our Sire with thee!” “Come ye all, then!” Now, more proudly, On he swells; a countless race, they Bear their glorious prince aloft! On he rolls triumphantly Giving names to countries; cities Spring to being 'neath his feet.
Onward with incessant roaring, See! he passes proudly by Flaming turrets, marble mansions— Creatures of his fullness, all!
Cedar houses bears this Atlas On his giant shoulders; rustling, Flapping in the playful breezes, Thousand flags about his head are Telling of his majesty.
And so bears he all his brothers, And his treasures, and his children, To their Sire, all joyous roaring— Pressing to his mighty heart. _Translation of_ J. S. DWIGHT. JOHANN WOLFGANG V. GOETHE, 1749–1832.
THE RIVULET.
FROM THE SPANISH.
Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave The lovely vale that lies around thee! Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve, When but a fount the morning found thee?
Born when the skies began to glow, Humblest of all the rock’s cold daughters, No blossom bowed its stalk to show Where stole thy still and scanty waters.
Now on thy stream the moonbeams look, Usurping, as thou downward driftest, Its crystal from the clearest brook, Its rushing current from the swiftest.
Ah! what wild haste—and all to be A river, and expire in ocean! Each fountain’s tribute hurries thee To that vast grave with quicker motion.
Far better ’twere to linger still In this green vale these flowers to cherish, And die in peace, an aged rill, Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish. _Translation of_ W. C. BRYANT. PEDRO DE CASTRO, _17th Century_.
THE STREAM OF THE ROCK.
FROM THE GERMAN.
Unperishing youth! Thou leapest from forth The cleft of the rock; No mortal eye saw The mighty one’s cradle; No ear ever heard The lofty one’s lisp in the murmuring spring
How beautiful art thou, In silvery locks! How terrible art thou, When the cliffs are resounding in thunder around! Thee feareth the fir-tree; Thou crushest the fir-tree From its root to its crown. The cliffs flee before thee; The cliffs thou engraspest, And hurlest them, scornful, like pebbles adown.
The sun weaves around thee The beams of its splendor; It painteth with hues of the heavenly iris, The uprolling clouds of the silvery spray.
Why speedest thou downward, Toward the green sea? Is it not well by the nearer heaven? Not well by the sounding cliff? Not well by the o’erhanging forest of oaks? O hasten not so Toward the green sea! Youth! O now thou art strong, like a god! Free like a god! Beneath thee is smiling the peacefullest stillness, The tremulous swell of the slumberous sea; Now silvered o’er by the swimming moonshine; Now golden and red in the light of the west.
Youth, O what is this silken quiet; What is the smile of the friendly moonlight— The purple and gold of the evening sun, To him whom the feeling of bondage oppresses? Now streamest thou wild As thy heart may prompt! But below oft ruleth the fickle tempest, Oft the stillness of death, in the subject sea!
O hasten not so Toward the green sea! Youth, O now thou art strong, like a god, Free, like a god! _Translation of_ W. W. STORY. FR. LEOP. STOLBERG, 1750–1819.
[Illustration: [Pastoral Scene]]
A RIVER.
FROM “SALMONIA.”
_Hal._ I think I can promise you green meadows, shady trees, the song of the nightingale, and a full, clear river.
_Poiet._ This last is, in my opinion, the most poetical object in nature. I will not fail to obey your summons. Pliny has, as well as I recollect, compared a river to human life. I have never read the passage in his works but I have been a hundred times struck with the analogy, particularly amid mountain scenery. The river, small and clear at its origin, gushes forth from rocks, falls into deep glens, and wantons and meanders through a wild and picturesque country, nourishing only the uncultivated tree or flower by its dew or spray. In this, its state of infancy and youth, it may be compared to the human mind, in which fancy and strength of imagination are predominant—it is more beautiful than useful. When the different rills or torrents join, and descend into the plain, it becomes slow and stately in its motions; it is applied to move machinery, to irrigate meadows, and to bear upon its bosom the stately barge; in this mature state it is deep, strong, useful. As it flows on toward the sea, it loses its force and its motion, and at last, as it were, becomes lost, and mingled with the mighty abyss of waters.
_Hal._ One might pursue the metaphor still further, and say that in its origin—its thundering and foam, when it carries down clay from the bank, and becomes impure—it resembles the youthful mind affected by dangerous passions. And the influence of a lake, in calming and clearing the turbid water, may be compared to the effect of reason in more mature life, when the tranquil, deep, cool, and unimpassioned mind is freed from its fever, its troubles, bubbles, noise, and foam. And, above all, the sources of a river—which may be considered as belonging to the atmosphere—and its termination in the ocean, may be regarded as imaging the divine origin of the human mind, and its being ultimately returned to, and lost in, the Infinite and Eternal Intelligence from which it originally sprung.
SIR HUMPHREY DAVY.
LIFE COMPARED TO A STREAM.
Life glides away, Lorenzo, like a brook; Forever changing, unperceiv’d the change. In the same brook none ever bathed him twice: To the same life none ever twice awoke. We call the brook the same; the same we think
Our life, though still more rapid in its flow; Nor mark the much irrevocably laps’d, And mingled with the sea; or shall we say (Retaining still the brook to bear us on) That life is like a vessel on the stream? In life embark’d, we smoothly down the tide Of time descend, but not on time intent; Amus’d, unconscious of the gliding wave; Till on a sudden we perceive a shock; We start, awake, look out; our bark is burst! EDWARD YOUNG, 1681–1755
ON THE BRONZE IMAGE OF A FROG.
FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.
A traveler, when nearly exhausted by thirst, being guided by the croaking of a frog to a spring of water, afterward vowed to the Nymphs a bronze image of the little creature.
The servant of the Nymphs, the singer dank, Pleased with clear fountains—the shower-loving frog, Imaged in brass—hath a wayfaring man Placed here, a votive gift—because it served To quench the fever of the traveler’s thirst. For the amphibious creature’s well-timed song, Croaked from its dewy grot, the wandering steps Of him who searched for water hither drew; Not heedless of the guiding voice, he found The longed-for draught from the sweet cooling spring. _Translation of_ W. HAY.
LITTLE STREAMS.
Little streams are light and shadow, Flowing through the pasture meadow— Flowing by the green way-side, Through the forest dim and wild, Through the hamlet still and small, By the cottage, by the hall, By the ruin’d abbey still, Turning here and there a mill, Bearing tribute to the river— Little streams, I love you ever.
Summer music is there flowing— Flowering plants in them are growing;
Happy life is in them all, Creatures innocent and small; Little birds come down to drink, Fearless of their leafy brink; Noble trees beside them grow, Glooming them with branches low; And between the sunshine glancing In their little waves is dancing.
Little streams have flowers a many, Beautiful and fair as any; Typha strong, and green bur-reed, Willow-herb, with cotton-seed; Arrow-head, with eye of jet, And the water-violet. There the flowering rush you meet, And the plumy meadow sweet; And in places deep and stilly, Marble-like, the water-lily.
Little streams, their voices cheery, Sound forth welcomes to the weary; Flowing on from day to day, Without stint and without stay; Here, upon their flowery bank, In the old time pilgrims drank; Here have seen, as now, pass by, King-fisher, and dragon-fly; Those bright things that have their dwelling, Where the little streams are welling.
Down in valleys green and lowly, Murmuring not and gliding slowly, Up in mountain-hollows wild, Fretting like a peevish child; Through the hamlet, where all day In their waves the children play; Running west, or running east, Doing good to man and beast— Always giving, weary never, Little streams, I love you ever. MARY HOWITT.
FROGS.
FROM THE GREEK OF ARISTOPHANES.
_Bacchus._ * * * * * * Hold your tongues, you tuneful creatures
_Frogs._ Cease with your profane entreaties, All in vain forever stirring; Silence is against our natures. With the vernal heat reviving, Our aquatic crew repair From their periodic sleep, In the dark and chilly deep, To the cheerful upper air; Then we frolic here and there, All amid the meadows fair; Shady plants of asphodel, Are the lodges where we dwell, Chanting in the leafy bowers, All the livelong summer hours, Till the sudden, gusty showers Send us headlong, helter-skelter, To the pool to seek for shelter; Meager, eager, leaping, lunging, From the sedgy wharfage plunging To the tranquil depth below, Then we muster all a-row, Where, secure from toil and trouble, With a tuneful bubble-bubble, Our symphonious accents flow. Brikake-kesh, koàsh, koàsh.
* * * * *
_Translation of_ J. H. FRERE.
THE RIVULETS.
Go up and mark the new-born rill, Just trickling from its mossy bed; Streaking the heath-clad hill With a bright emerald thread.
Canst thou her bold career foretell, What rocks she shall o’erleap or rend, How far in ocean’s swell, Her freshening billows send?
Perchance that little brook shall flow The bulwark of some mighty realm, Bear navies to and fro, With monarchs at their helm.
Or canst thou guess how far away Some sister nymph, beside her urn, Reclining night and day, 'Mid reeds and mountain fern,
Nurses her store, with thine to blend, When many a moor and glen are past; Then in the wide sea end Their spotless lives at last?
Even so the course of prayer who knows? It springs in silence when it will— Springs out of sight, and flows At first a lonely rill.
But streams shall meet it by-and-by, From thousand sympathetic hearts— Together swelling high, Their chant of many parts.
* * * * *
JOHN KEBLE.
LINES.
I wander’d in the woodland; My heart beat cold and slow, And not a tear of sorrow, To ease its weight, would flow.
But soft a brook sang by me, “Ah! give thy grief to me, And I will bear it lightly, Far, far away from thee!”
So sweet that lulling murmur, Its music thrill’d my heart, And, o’er the glad wave weeping, I felt my grief depart. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.
THE WAY-SIDE SPRING.
Fair dweller by the dusty way, Bright saint within a mossy shrine, The tribute of a heart to-day, Weary and worn, is thine.
The earliest blossoms of the year, The sweet-brier and the violet, The pious hand of spring has here Upon thy altar set.
And not alone to thee is given The homage of the pilgrim’s knee; But oft the sweetest birds of heaven Glide down and sing to thee.
Here daily from his beechen cell, The hermit squirrel steals to drink, And flocks which cluster to their bell, Recline along thy brink.
And here the wagoner blocks his wheels, To quaff the cool and generous boon; Here from the sultry harvest fields The reapers rest at noon.
And oft the beggar masked with tan, In rusty garments gray with dust, Here sits and dips his little can, And breaks his scanty crust.
And lulled beside thy whispering stream, Oft drops to slumber unawares, And sees the angel of his dream Upon celestial stairs.
Dear dweller by the dusty way, Thou saint within a mossy shrine. The tribute of a heart to day, Weary and worn, is thine! THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
GULLS.
Pleasant it was to view the sea-gulls strive Against the storm, or in the ocean dive, With eager scream, or when they dropping gave Their closing wings to sail upon the wave; Then as the winds and waters raged around, And breaking billows mix’d their deafening sound, They on the rolling deep securely hung, And calmly rode the restless waves among. Nor pleas’d it less around me to behold, Far up the beach the yesty sea-foam roll’d; Or from the shore upborne, to see on high Its frothy flakes in wild confusion fly; While the salt spray, that clashing billows form, Gave to the taste a feeling of the storm. GEORGE CRABBE, 1754–1832.
THE FOUNTAIN.
Into the sunshine, Full of light, Leaping and flashing, From morn till night.
Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like, When the winds blow!
Into the starlight, Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight— Happy by day!
Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary;
Glad of all weathers, Still seeming best, Upward or downward, Motion thy rest;
Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Changed every moment— Ever the same;
Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine, Thy element;
Glorious fountain! Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant Upward, like thee! J. R. LOWELL.