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Needwood Forest

Chapter 13: MY GRAND CLIMACTERIC. 1802.
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About This Book

A long pastoral ode that celebrates a particular woodland through vivid natural description and mythic personification. It moves between close observation of trees, flowers, birds, and seasonal changes and imaginative scenes where nymphs, sylvan deities, and the Genius of the place animate the landscape. The poem praises rural leisure, hunting, and traditional country life while mourning legal enclosure and human encroachment that diminish the forest. Interwoven reflections consider beauty, fidelity, and the mingling of joy and loss, ending in elegiac remembrance.

MY GRAND CLIMACTERIC. 1802.

As one, who journeys over unknown lands,
Ere yet the sun withdraws his western ray,
Stops on some mountain’s brow, whose site commands
The shifting scenes and labyrinths of the way;
With fond reverted look his thoughts retrace,
Where flowers their sweets, and wild-birds gave their song,
And dwell, long dwell! on many a favourite space,
Where prodigal of time he loiter’d long;
Lovers and friends in bright perspective rise,
Companions of his morn, on yon blue hill;
Down that blank plain he drops a look, and sighs,
Whence seem their parting words to reach him still;
Here his pain’d eyes unkindly districts mark,
Where faint heats smote him or fierce storms o’ertook;
There strain o’er deep’ning woods at noonday dark,
Where his false steps their destin’d course forsook;
Pond’ring the change and chances of the day,
As warning eve prepares her veil to close,
Serious, he now proceeds with short survey,
Expecting night’s dark hour, and hoping calm repose:
So I look back on more than sixty years,
In life’s sequester’d walks obscurely spent,
Where tho’ its trophied head no column rears,
Inscrib’d with mighty deed, or proud event,
Yet, on some few small eminencies, glow
The heart’s rejoicing-lights of self-applause;
Some generous claims surmount the gloom below,
And shame and sharp regrets a moment pause;
Yet these prevail—ah! might my wish prevail
That Time would turn my near exhausted glass;
Then not a grain should of its harvest fail;—
Seeds are but sands when unimprov’d they pass.
Vain wish! vain promise! what dost thou presume,
O weak Humanity? thyself but dust!
Since from the cradle, hourly, to the tomb,
Toil, trifle, err and grieve, frail thing! thou must.
But pleasures, passions lose their dangerous force;
And the world’s business shrinks as age descends:
O spare Adversity! my evening course;
My little part is play’d, my small importance ends.