XVII.

=Medley.=

OF BEAUTY.

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There is beauty in the rolling clouds, and placid shingle beach, In feathery snows and whistling winds, and dim electric skies; There is beauty in the rounded woods dank with heavy foliage, In laughing fields and dented hills, the valley and its lake; There is beauty in the gullies, beauty on the cliffs, beauty in sun and shade, In rocks and rivers, seas and plains—the earth is drowned in beauty!

Beauty coileth with the water-snake, and is cradled in the shrew-mouse’s nest; She flitteth out with evening bats, and the soft mole hid her in his tunnel; The limpet is encamped upon the shore, and beauty not a stranger to his tent; The silvery dace and golden carp thread the rushes with her. She saileth into clouds with an eagle, she fluttereth into tulips with a humming-bird; The pasturing kine are of her company, and she prowleth with the leopard in his jungle. MARTIN F. TUPPER.

FRAGMENT.

Thy walks are ever pleasant; every scene Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene— Rich is that varied view with woods around, Seen from the seat, within the shrubb’ry bound; Where shines the distant lake, and where appear, From ruins bolting, unmolested deer; Lively—the village-green, the inn, the place, Where the good widow schools her infant race. Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw, And village-pleasures unreproved by law. Then how serene, when in your favorite room, Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom; And when from upland paddock you look down. And just perceive the smoke which hides the town; When weary peasants at the close of day Walk to their cots, and part upon the way; When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook, And shepherds pen their folds, and rest upon their crook. GEO. CRABBE, 1754–1832.

THE MEMORY OF A WALK.

I have taken, since you went away, many of the walks which we have taken together; and none of them, I believe, without thoughts of you. I have, though not a good memory in general, yet a good local memory, and can recollect, by the help of a tree or a stile, what you said on that particular spot. For this reason I purpose, when the summer is come, to walk with a book in my pocket; what I read at my fireside I forget, but what I read under a hedge or at the side of a pond, that pond and that hedge will always bring to remembrance; and this is a sort of _memoria technica_ which I would recommend to you, if I did not know that you have no occasion for it.

W. COWPER.—_Letter to S. Rose, Esq., Jan. 19, 1789._

A BOWER.

In the pleasant orchard closes, “God bless all our gains,” say we; But, “May God bless all our losses,” Better suits with our degree. Listen, gentle—ay, and simple!—Listen, children, on the kine!

Green the land is where my daily Steps in jocund childhood played— Dimpled close with hill and valley, Dappled very close with shade; Summer-snow of apple-blossoms, running up from glade to glade.

There is one hill I see nearer In my vision of the rest; And a little wood seems clearer, As it climbeth from the west, Sideway from the tree-locked valley to the airy upland crest.

Small the wood is, green with hazels, And, completing the ascent, Where the wind blows and sun dazzles, Thrills, in leafy tremblement, Like a heart that after climbing beateth quickly through content.

Not a step the wood advances O’er the open hill-top’s bound; There in green arrest the branches See their image on the ground: You may walk beneath them smiling, glad with sight and glad with sound.

For you hearken on your right hand How the birds do leap and call In the greenwood, out of sight and Out of reach and fear of all, And the squirrels crack the filberts, through their cheerful madrigal.

On your left the sheep are cropping The slant grass and daisies pale; And fine apple-trees stand dropping Separate shadows toward the vale, Over which, in choral silence, the hills look you their “All hail!”

Far out, kindled by each other, Shining hills on hills arise; Close as brother leans to brother, When they press beneath the eyes Of some father praying blessings from the gifts of paradise.

While beyond, above them mounted, And above their woods also, Malvern hills, for mountains counted Not unduly, loom a row— Keepers of Piers Plowman’s visions, through the sunshine and the snow.

Yet in childhood little prized I That fair walk and far survey; ’Twas a straight walk, unadvised by The least mischief worth a nay— Up and down—as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday!

But the wood, all close and clenching, Bough in bough, and root in root— No more sky, for over-branching, At your head than at your foot— Oh! the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute.

Few and broken paths showed through it Where the sheep had tried to run— Forced with snowy wool to strew it Round the thickets, when anon They with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back unto the sun.

But my childish heart beat stronger Than those thickets dared to grow: I could pierce them! I could longer Travel on, methought, than so! Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they would go.

And the poets wander, said I, Over places all as rude! Bold Rinaldo’s lovely lady Sat to meet him in a wood— Rosalinda, like a fountain, laughed out pure with solitude.

And if Chaucer had not traveled Through a forest by a well, He had never dream’d nor marveled At those ladies fair and fell Who lived smiling, without loving, in their island citadel.

Thus I thought of the old singers, And took courage from their song, Till my little struggling fingers Tore asunder gyve and thong Of the lichens which entrapped me, and the barrier branches strong.

On a day, such pastime keeping, With a fawn’s heart debonnaire, Under-crawling, over-leaping Thorns that prick and boughs that bear, I stood suddenly astonished—I was gladdened unaware!

From the place I stood in floated Back the covert dim and close, And the open ground was coated Carpet-smooth with grass and moss, And the blue-bell’s purple presence signed it worthily across.

Here a linden-tree stood brightening All adown its silver rind; For as some trees draw the lightning, So this tree, unto my mind, Drew to earth the blessed sunshine, from the sky where it was shrined.

Tall the linden-tree, and near it An old hawthorn also grew; And wood-ivy, like a spirit, Hovered dimly round the two, Shaping thence that bower of beauty, which I sing of thus to you.

’Twas a bower for garden fitter Than for any woodland wide! Though a fresh and dewy glitter Struck it through, from side to side, Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied.

Oh, a lady might have come there, Hooded fairly, like her hawk, With a book or lute in summer, And a hope of sweeter talk— Listening less to her own music, than for footsteps on the walk. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

[Illustration: [Pastoral Scene]]

MIST OF THE MOUNTAIN-TOP.

Like mist on a mountain-top broken and gray, The dream of my early day fleeted away; Now the evening of life with its shadows steal on, And memory reposes on years that are gone!

Wild youth with strange fruitage of errors and tears— A midday of bliss and a midnight of fears— Though checker’d and sad, and mistaken you’ve been, Still love I to muse on the hours we have seen!

With those long-vanished hours fair visions are flown, And the soul of the minstrel sinks pensive and lone; In vain would I ask of the future to bring The verdure that gladden’d my life in its spring!

I think of the glen where the hazel-nut grew— The pine-crowned hill where the heather-bells blew— The trout-burn which soothed with its murmuring sweet, The wild flowers that gleamed on the red-deer’s retreat!

I look for the mates full of ardor and truth, Whose joys, like my own, were the sunbeams of youth— They passed ere the morning of hope knew its close— They left me to sleep where our fathers repose!

Where is now the wide hearth with the big fagot’s blaze, Where circled the legend and song of old days? The legend’s forgotten, the hearth is grown cold, The home of my childhood to strangers is sold!

Like a pilgrim who speeds on a perilous way, I pause, ere I part, oft again to survey Those scenes ever dear to the friends I deplore, Whose feast of young smiles I may never share more! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 1798–1835.

EMBLEM.

A FLOWER GARDEN WITH SUNSHINE AND RAIN.

When all the year our fields are fresh and green, And while sweet flowers and sunshine every day, As oft as need requireth, come between The heav’ns and earth, they heedless pass away. The fullness and continuance of a blessing Do make us to be senseless of the good; And if it sometime fly not our possessing, The sweetness of it is not understood. Had we no winter, summer would be thought Not half so pleasing; and if tempests were not, Such comforts could not by a calm be brought; For things, save by their opposites, appear not. Both health and wealth are tasteless unto some; And so is ease, and every other pleasure, Till poor, or rich, or grieved they become; And then they relish these in ampler measure. God, therefore, full as kind as he is wise, So tempereth all the favors he will do us, That we his bounties may the better prize, And make his chastisements less bitter to us.

One while a scorching indignation burns The flowers and blossoms of our hopes away, Which into scarcity our plenty turns, And changeth unmown grass to parched hay; Anon his fruitful showers and pleasing dews, Commixt with cheerful rays, he sendeth down; And then the barren earth her crop renews, Which with rich harvests hills and valleys crown: For, as to relish joys he sorrow sends, So comfort on temptation still attends. GEORGE WITHER, 1588–1667.

SONG.

Composed by Robert Duke of Normandy, when a prisoner in Cardiff Castle, and addressed to an old oak, growing in an ancient camp within view from the tower in which he was confined. Imitated by Bishop Heber.

Oak, that stately and alone On the war-worn mound hast grown, The blood of man thy sapling fed, And dyed thy tender root in red; Woe to the feast where foes combine, Woe to the strife of words and wine!

Oak, thou hast sprung for many a year, 'Mid whisp’ring rye-grass tall and sere, The coarse rank herb, which seems to show That bones unbless’d are laid below; Woe to the sword that hates its sheath, Woe to th’ unholy trade of death!

Oak, from the mountain’s airy brow, Thou view’st the subject woods below, And merchants hail the well-known tree, Returning o’er the Severn sea. Woe, woe to him whose birth is high, For peril waits on royalty!

Now storms have bent thee to the ground, And envious ivy clips thee round; And shepherd hinds in wanton play Have stripped thy needful bark away; Woe to the man whose foes are strong, Thrice woe to him who lives too long! REGINALD HEBER. ROBERT OF NORMANDY, _about 1107_.

TO A MOUNTAIN-DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW, APRIL, 1786.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r, Thou’s met met me in an evil hour, For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow’r, Thou bonnie gem!

Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewie weet, Wi’ speckled breast, When upward springing, blythe to greet The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth, Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm— Scarce rear’d above the parent earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield, High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield, O’ clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.

There in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade! By love’s simplicity betray’d, And guileless breast; Till she, like thee, all soil’d is laid Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d, Unskillful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o’er.

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n, Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, By human pride or cunning driv’n, To mis’ry’s brink; Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n, He ruin’d sink.

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the daisy’s fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; Stern ruin’s plowshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till, crush’d beneath the furious weight, Shall be thy doom! ROBERT BURNS, 1750–1796.

MOSSGIEL.

“There,” said a stripling, pointing with much pride Toward a low roof, with green trees half conceal’d, “Is Mossgiel farm; and that’s the very field Where Burns plow’d up the daisy!” Far and wide A plain below stretch’d seaward; while, descried, Above sea-clouds, the peaks of Arran rose; And, by that simple notice, the repose Of earth, sky, sea, and air was vivified. Beneath the random field of clod or stone, Myriads of daisies here shone forth in flower, Near the lark’s nest, and in their natural hour Have pass’d away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling plowshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770–1850.

THE FOREST-LEAVES IN AUTUMN.

FROM “THE CHRISTIAN YEAR.”

Red o’er the forest peers the setting sun; The line of yellow light dies fast away That crown’d the eastern copse; and chill and dun Falls on the moor the brief November day.

Now the tir’d hunter winds a parting note, And Echo bids good-night from every glade; Yet wait awhile, and on the calm leaves float Each to his rest beneath the parent shade.

How like decaying life they seem to glide! And yet no second spring have they in store; But where they fall forgotten, to abide Is all their portion, and they ask no more.

Soon o’er their heads blithe April airs shall sing; A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold; The green buds glisten in the dews of spring, And all be vernal rapture as of old.

Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, In all the world of busy life around No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky, No drop, for them, of kindly influence found.

Man’s portion is to die and rise again— Yet he complains; while these unmurmuring part With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain As his when Eden held his virgin heart.

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JOHN KEBLE.

BOHEMIAN

ANCIENT SONG.

O ye forests, dark-green forests, Miletinish forests! Why in summer, and in winter, Are ye green and blooming? O! I would not weep and cry, Nor torment my heart.

But now tell me, good folk, tell me, How should not I cry? Ah! where is my dear father? Woe! he lies deep buried. Where my mother? O good mother! O’er her grows the grass! Brothers have I not, nor sisters, And my lad is gone! _Translated by_ TALVI.

LANDSCAPE AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS.

I wake, I rise; from end to end, Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that doth not breathe Some gracious memory of my friend;

No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Or low morass and whispering reed, Or simple stile from mead to mead, Or sheep-walk up the windy wold;

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw, That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor quarry trench’d along the hill, And haunted by the wrangling daw;

Nor rivulet trickling from the rock, Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves From left to right through meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock;

But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day; And leaving these, to pass away I think once more he seems to die. ALFRED TENNYSON.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played; And thine is, too, the last green field That Lucy’s eyes surveyed! W. WORDSWORTH, 1770–1850.