Part 20

Along the brooks and meads, the daffodil Its yellow richness spreads, And by the fountain-heads Of rivers, cowslips cluster round, and over every hill.

The crocus and the primrose may have gone, The snowdrop may be low, But soon the purple glow Of hyacinths will fill the copse, and lilies watch the dawn.

And in the sweetness of the budding year, The cuckoo’s woodland call, The skylark over all, And then at eve, the nightingale, is doubly sweet and dear.

My soul is singing with the happy birds, And all my human powers Are blooming with the flowers, My foot is on the fields and downs, among the flocks and herds.

Deep in the forest where the foliage droops, I wander, fill’d with joy. Again as when a boy, The sunny vistas tempt me on with dim delicious hopes.

The sunny vistas, dim with hurrying shade, And old romantic haze:— Again as in past days, The spirit of immortal Spring doth every sense pervade.

Oh! do not say that this will ever cease;— This joy of woods and fields, This youth that nature yields, Will never speak to me in vain, tho’ soundly rapt in peace.

SUNRISE

THE clouds are withdrawn And their thin-rippled mist, That stream’d o’er the lawn To the drowsy-eyed west. Cold and grey They slept in the way, And shrank from the ray Of the chariot East: But now they are gone, And the bounding light Leaps thro’ the bars Of doubtful dawn; Blinding the stars, And blessing the sight; Shedding delight On all below; Glimmering fields, And wakening wealds, And rising lark, And meadows dark, And idle rills, And labouring mills, And far-distant hills Of the fawn and the doe. The sun is cheered And his path is cleared, As he steps to the air From his emerald cave, His heel in the wave, Most bright and bare; In the tide of the sky His radiant hair From his temples fair Blown back on high; As forward he bends, And upward ascends, Timely and true, To the breast of the blue; His warm red lips Kissing the dew, Which sweetened drips On his flower cupholders; Every hue From his gleaming shoulders Shining anew With colour sky-born, As it washes and dips In the pride of the morn. Robes of azure, Fringed with amber, Fold upon fold Of purple and gold, Vine-leaf bloom, And the grape’s ripe gloom, When season deep In noontide leisure, With clustering heap The tendrils clamber Full in the face Of his hot embrace, Fill’d with the gleams Of his firmest beams. Autumn flushes, Roseate blushes, Vermeil tinges, Violet fringes, Every hue Of his flower cupholders, O’er the clear ether Mingled together, Shining anew From his gleaming shoulders! Circling about In a coronal rout, And floating behind, The way of the wind, As forward he bends, And upward ascends, Timely and true, To the breast of the blue. His bright neck curved, His clear limbs nerved, Diamond keen On his front serene, While each white arm strains To the racing reins, As plunging, eyes flashing, Dripping, and dashing, His steeds triple grown Rear up to his throne, Ruffling the rest Of the sea’s blue breast, From his flooding, flaming crimson crest!

PICTURES OF THE RHINE

THE spirit of Romance dies not to those Who hold a kindred spirit in their souls: Even as the odorous life within the rose Lives in the scattered leaflets and controls Mysterious adoration, so there glows Above dead things a thing that cannot die; Faint as the glimmer of a tearful eye, Ere the orb fills and all the sorrow flows. Beauty renews itself in many ways; The flower is fading while the new bud blows; And this dear land as true a symbol shows, While o’er it like a mellow sunset strays The legendary splendour of old days, In visible, inviolate repose.

About a mile behind the viny banks, How sweet it was, upon a sloping green, Sunspread, and shaded with a branching screen, To lie in peace half-murmuring words of thanks! To see the mountains on each other climb, With spaces for rich meadows flowery bright; The winding river freshening the sight At intervals, the trees in leafy prime; The distant village-roofs of blue and white, With intersections of quaint-fashioned beams All slanting crosswise, and the feudal gleams Of ruined turrets, barren in the light;— To watch the changing clouds, like clime in clime; Oh sweet to lie and bless the luxury of time.

III

Fresh blows the early breeze, our sail is full; A merry morning and a mighty tide. Cheerily O! and past St. Goar we glide, Half hid in misty dawn and mountain cool. The river is our own! and now the sun In saffron clothes the warming atmosphere; The sky lifts up her white veil like a nun, And looks upon the landscape blue and clear;— The lark is up; the hills, the vines in sight; The river broadens with his waking bliss And throws up islands to behold the light; Voices begin to rise, all hues to kiss;— Was ever such a happy morn as this! Birds sing, we shout, flowers breathe, trees shine with one delight!

Between the two white breasts of her we love, A dewy blushing rose will sometimes spring; Thus Nonnenwerth like an enchanted thing Rises mid-stream the crystal depths above. On either side the waters heave and swell, But all is calm within the little Isle; Content it is to give its holy smile, And bless with peace the lives that in it dwell. Most dear on the dark grass beneath its bower Of kindred trees embracing branch and bough, To dream of fairy foot and sudden flower; Or haply with a twilight on the brow, To muse upon the legendary hour, And Roland’s lonely love and Hildegard’s sad vow.

Hark! how the bitter winter breezes blow Round the sharp rocks and o’er the half-lifted wave, While all the rocky woodland branches rave Shrill with the piercing cold, and every cave, Along the icy water-margin low, Rings bubbling with the whirling overflow; And sharp the echoes answer distant cries Of dawning daylight and the dim sunrise, And the gloom-coloured clouds that stain the skies With pictures of a warmth, and frozen glow Spread over endless fields of sheeted snow; And white untrodden mountains shining cold, And muffled footpaths winding thro’ the wold, O’er which those wintry gusts cease not to howl and blow.

Rare is the loveliness of slow decay! With youth and beauty all must be desired, But ’tis the charm of things long past away, They leave, alone, the light they have inspired: The calmness of a picture; Memory now Is the sole life among the ruins grey, And like a phantom in fantastic play She wanders with rank weeds stuck on her brow, Over grass-hidden caves and turret-tops, Herself almost as tottering as they; While, to the steps of Time, her latest props Fall stone by stone, and in the Sun’s hot ray All that remains stands up in rugged pride, And bridal vines drink in his juices on each side.

TO A NIGHTINGALE

O NIGHTINGALE! how hast thou learnt The note of the nested dove? While under thy bower the fern hangs burnt And no cloud hovers above! Rich July has many a sky With splendour dim, that thou mightst hymn, And make rejoice with thy wondrous voice, And the thrill of thy wild pervading tone! But instead of to woo, thou hast learnt to coo: Thy song is mute at the mellowing fruit, And the dirge of the flowers is sung by the hours In silence and twilight alone.

O nightingale! ’tis this, ’tis this That makes thee mock the dove! That thou hast past thy marriage bliss, To know a parent’s love. The waves of fern may fade and burn, The grasses may fall, the flowers and all, And the pine-smells o’er the oak dells Float on their drowsy and odorous wings, But thou wilt do nothing but coo, Brimming the nest with thy brooding breast, ’Midst that young throng of future song, Round whom the Future sings!

INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY

NOW ’tis Spring on wood and wold, Early Spring that shivers with cold, But gladdens, and gathers, day by day, A lovelier hue, a warmer ray, A sweeter song, a dearer ditty; Ouzel and throstle, new-mated and gay, Singing their bridals on every spray— Oh, hear them, deep in the songless City! Cast off the yoke of toil and smoke, As Spring is casting winter’s grey, As serpents cast their skins away: And come, for the Country awaits thee with pity And longs to bathe thee in her delight, And take a new joy in thy kindling sight; And I no less, by day and night, Long for thy coming, and watch for, and wait thee, And wonder what duties can thus berate thee.

Dry-fruited firs are dropping their cones, And vista’d avenues of pines Take richer green, give fresher tones, As morn after morn the glad sun shines.

Primrose tufts peep over the brooks, Fair faces amid moist decay! The rivulets run with the dead leaves at play, The leafless elms are alive with the rooks.

Over the meadows the cowslips are springing, The marshes are thick with king-cup gold, Clear is the cry of the lambs in the fold, The skylark is singing, and singing, and singing.

Soon comes the cuckoo when April is fair, And her blue eye the brighter the more it may weep: The frog and the butterfly wake from their sleep, Each to its element, water and air.

Mist hangs still on every hill, And curls up the valleys at eve; but noon Is fullest of Spring; and at midnight the moon Gives her westering throne to Orion’s bright zone, As he slopes o’er the darkened world’s repose; And a lustre in eastern Sirius glows.

Come, in the season of opening buds; Come, and molest not the otter that whistles Unlit by the moon, ’mid the wet winter bristles Of willow, half-drowned in the fattening floods. Let him catch his cold fish without fear of a gun, And the stars shall shield him, and thou wilt shun! And every little bird under the sun Shall know that the bounty of Spring doth dwell In the winds that blow, in the waters that run, And in the breast of man as well.