Thou lonely spring of waters undefiled!
Silently slumbering in thy mossy cell,
Yea, moveless as the hillock's verdant side
From whom thou hast thy birth, I bless thy gleam
Of clearest coldness, with as deep-felt love
As pilgrim kneeling at his far-sought shrine;
And as I bow to bathe my freshen'd heart
In thy restoring radiance, from my lips
A breathing prayer sheds o'er thy glassy sleep
A gentle tremor!
Nor must I forget
A benison for the departed soul
Of him, who, many a year ago, first shaped
This little Font,—emprisoning the spring
Not wishing to be free, with smooth slate-stone,
Now in the beauteous colouring of age
Scarcely distinguished from the natural rock.
In blessed hour the solitary man
Laid the first stone,—and in his native vale
It serves him for a peaceful monument,
'Mid the hill-silence.
Renovated life
Now flows through all my veins:—old dreams revive;
And while an airy pleasure in my brain
Dances unbidden, I have time to gaze,
Even with a happy lover's kindest looks,
On Thee, delicious Fountain!
Thou dost shed
(Though sultry stillness fill the summer air
And parch the yellow hills,) all round thy cave,
A smile of beauty lovely as the Spring
Breathes with his April showers. The narrow lane
On either hand ridged with low shelving rocks,
That from the road-side gently lead the eye
Up to thy bed,—Ah me! how rich a green,
Still brightening, wantons o'er its moisten'd grass!
With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze,
Now that my thirsty soul is gratified,
Live on the little cell! The water there,
Variously dappled by the wreathed sand
That sleeps below in many an antic shape,
Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-hen
Soothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless drip
From the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's hand
Vaulted most beautiful, even like a pulse
Tells of the living principle within,—
A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild.
Yea, seldom heard: there is but one lone cot
Beyond this well:—it is inhabited
By an old shepherd during summer months,
And haply he may drink of the pure spring,
To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath-morn
Going to pray,—or as he home returns
At silent eve: or traveller such as I,
Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills,
Thankfully here may slake his burning thirst
Once in a season. Other visitants
It hath not; save perchance the mountain-crow,
When ice hath lock'd the rills, or wandering colt
Leaving its pasture for the shady lane.
Methinks, in such a solitary cave,
The fairy forms belated peasant sees,
Oft nightly dancing in a glittering ring,
On the smooth mountain sward, might here retire
To lead their noon-tide revels, or to bathe
Their tiny limbs in this transparent well.
A fitter spot there is not: flowers are here
Of loveliest colours and of sweetest smell,
Native to these our hills, and ever seen
A fairest family by the happy side
Of their own parent spring;—and others too,
Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joy,
Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth,
Here smile like strangers in a novel scene.
Lo! a tall rose-tree with its clustering bloom,
Brightening the mossy wall on which it leans
Its arching beauty, to my gladsome heart
Seems, with its smiles of lonely loveliness,
Like some fair virgin at the humble door
Of her dear mountain-cot, standing to greet
The way-bewildered traveller.
But my soul
Long pleased to linger by this silent cave,
Nursing its wild and playful fantasies,
Pants for a loftier pleasure,—and forsakes,
Though surely with no cold ingratitude,
The flowers and verdure round the sparkling well.
A voice calls on me from the mountain-depths,
And it must be obey'd: Yon ledge of rocks,
Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow,
Is ready for my footsteps, and even now,
Wast-water blackens far beneath my feet,
She the storm-loving Lake.
Sweet Fount!—Farewell!
Poor wretch! that blasted leafless tree,
More frail and death-like even than thee,
Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form;
The sleet, the rain, the wind of Heaven,
Full in thy face are coldly driven,
As if thou wert alone the object of the storm.
Yet, chill'd with cold, and drench'd with rain,
Mild creature, thou dost not complain
By sound or look of these ungracious skies;
Calmly as if in friendly shed,
There stand'st thou, with unmoving head,
And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-closed eyes.
Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze
On thee; nor am I loth to praise
Him who in moral mood this image drew;
And yet, methinks, that I could frame
An image different, yet the same,
More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature true.
Behold a lane retired and green,
Winding amid a forest-scene
With blooming furze in many a radiant heap;
There is a browsing ass espied
One colt is frisking by her side,
And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep.
And lo! a little maiden stands,
With thistles in her tender hands,
Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat;
Or gently down before him lays,
With words of solace and of praise,
Pluck'd from th' untrodden turf the herbage soft and sweet.
The summer sun is sinking down,
And the peasants from the market town
With chearful hearts are to their homes returning;
Groupes of gay children too are there,
Stirring with mirth the silent air,
O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning.
The ass hath got his burthen still!
The merry elves the panniers fill;
Delighted there from side to side they swing.
The creature heeds nor shout nor call,
But jogs on careless of them all,
Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing.
A gipsey-groupe! the secret wood
Stirs through its leafy solitude,
As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune;
Th' unpannier'd ass slowly retires
From the brown tents, and sparkling fires,
And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon.
The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree,
More pensive 'mid this scene of glee
That mocks the hour of beauty and of rest;
The soul of all her softest rays
On yonder placid creature plays,
As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the opprest.
But now the silver moonbeams fade,
And, peeping through a flowery glade,
Hush'd as a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies:
An ass stands meek and patient there,
And by her side a spectre fair,
To drink the balmy cup once more before she dies.
With tenderest care the pitying dame
Supports the dying maiden's frame,
And strives with laughing looks her heart to chear;
While playful children crowd around
To catch her eye by smile or sound,
Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady dear!
I feel this mournful dream impart
A holier image to my heart,
For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth:—
Blest creature! through the solemn night,
I see thee bath'd in heavenly light,
Shed from that wond'rous child—The Saviour of the Earth.
When, flying Herod's murd'rous rage,
Thou on that wretched pilgrimage
Didst gently near the virgin-mother lie;
On thee the humble Jesus sate,
When thousands rush'd to Salem's gate
To see 'mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by.
Happy thou wert,—nor low thy praise,
In peaceful patriarchal days,
When countless tents slow passed from land to land
Like clouds o'er heaven:—the gentle race
Such quiet scene did meetly grace,—
Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately band.
Poor wretch!—my musing dream is o'er;
Thy shivering form I view once more,
And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove.
But they whose thoughtful spirits see
The truth of life, will pause with me,
And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and love!
Once, on the very gentlest stillest day
That ever Spring did in her gladness breathe
O'er this delightful earth, I left my home
With a beloved friend, who ne'er before
Had been among these mountains,—but whose heart,
Led by the famous poets, through the air
Serene of Nature oft had voyaged,
On fancy's wing, and in her magic bowers
Reposed, by wildest music sung to sleep:—
So that, enamour'd of the imaged forms
Of beauty in his soul, with holiest zeal
He longed to hail the fair original,
And do her spiritual homage.
That his love
Might, consonant to Nature's dictate wise,
From quiet impulse grow, and to the power
Of meditation and connecting thought,
Rather than startling glories of the eye,
Owe its enthronement in his inmost heart,
I led him to behold a little lake,
Which I so often in my lonely walks
Had visited, but never yet had seen
One human being on its banks, that I
Thought it mine own almost, so thither took
My friend, assured he could not chuse but love
A scene so loved by me!
Before we reached
The dell wherein this little lake doth sleep,
Into involuntary praise of all
Its pensive loveliness, my happy heart
Would frequent burst, and from those lyric songs,
That, sweetly warbling round the pastoral banks
Of Grassmere, on its silver waves have shed
The undying sunshine of a poet's soul,
I breathed such touching strains as suited well
The mild spring-day, and that secluded scene,
Towards which, in full assurance of delight,
We two then walked in peace.
On the green slope
Of a romantic glade, we sat us down,
Amid the fragrance of the yellow broom,
While o'er our heads the weeping birch-tree stream'd
Its branches arching like a fountain-shower,
Then look'd towards the lake,—with hearts prepared
For the warm reception of all lovely forms
Enrobed in loveliest radiance, such as oft
Had steep'd my spirit in a holy calm,
And made it by the touch of purest joy
Still as an infant's dream.
But where had fled
The paradise beloved in former days!
I look'd upon the countenance of my friend,
Who, lost in strange and sorrowful surprise,
Could scarce forbear to smile. Is this, he cried,
The lone retreat, where from the secret top
Of Helicon, the wild-eyed muse descends
To bless thy slumbers? this the virgin scene
Where beauty smiles in undisturbed peace?
I look'd again: but ne'er did lover gaze,
At last returning from some foreign clime,
With more affectionate sorrow on the face
That he left fair in youth, than I did gaze
On the alter'd features of my darling vale,
That, 'mid the barbarous outrages of art,
Retained, I ween, a heavenly character
That nothing could destroy. Yet much was lost
Of its original brightness: Much was there,
Marring the spirit I remembered once
Perfectly beautiful. The meadow field,
That with its rich and placid verdure lay
Even like a sister-lake, with nought to break
The smoothness of its bosom, save the swing
Of the hoar Canna, or, more snowy white,
The young lamb frisking in the joy of life,—
Oh! grief! a garden, all unlike, I ween,
To that where bloom'd the fair Hesperides,
Usurped the seat of Nature, while a wall
Of most bedazzling splendour, o'er whose height,
The little birds, content to flit along
From bush to bush, could never dare to fly,
Preserved from those who knew no ill intent,
Fruit-trees exotic, and flowers passing rare,
Less lovely far than many a one that bloom'd
Unnoticed in the woods.
And lo! a house,
An elegant villa! in the Grecian style!
Doubtless contrived by some great architect
Who had an Attic soul; and in the shade
Of Academe or the Lyceum walk'd,
Forming conceptions fair and beautiful.
Blessed for ever be the sculptor's art!
It hath created guardian deities
To shield the holy building,—heathen gods
And goddesses, at which the peasant stares
With most perplexing wonder; and light Fauns,
That the good owner's unpoetic soul
Could not, among the umbrage of the groves,
Imagine, here, for ever in his sight,
In one unwearied posture frisk in stone.
My friend, quoth I, forgive these words of mine,
That haply seem more sportive than becomes
A soul that feels for Nature's sanctity
Thus blindly outraged; but when evil work
Admits no remedy, we then are glad
Even from ourselves to hide, in mirth constrain'd,
An unavailing sorrow. Oh! my friend,
Had'st thou beheld, as I, the glorious rock
By that audacious mansion hid for ever,
—Glorious I well might call it, with bright bands
Of flowers, and weeds as beautiful as flowers,
Refulgent,—crown'd, as with a diadem,
With oaks that loved their birth-place, and alive
With the wild tones of echo, bird, and bee,—
Thou couldst have wept to think that paltry Art
Could so prevail o'er Nature, and weak man
Thus stand between thee and the works of God.
Well might the Naiad of that stream complain!
The glare of day hath driven her from her haunts,
Shady no more: The woodman's ax hath clear'd
The useless hazels where the linnet hung
Her secret nest; and you hoar waterfall,
Whose misty spray rose through the freshen'd leaves
To heaven, like Nature's incense, and whose sound
Came deaden'd through the multitude of boughs,
Like a wild anthem by some spirit sung,
Now looks as cheerless as the late-left snow
Upon the mountain's breast, and sends a voice,
From the bare rocks, of dreariness and woe!
See! farther down the streamlet, art hath framed
A delicate cascade! The channel stones
Hollow'd by rushing waters, and more green
Even than the thought of greenness in the soul,
Are gone; and pebbles, carefully arranged
By size and colour, at the bottom lie
Imprison'd; while a smooth and shaven lawn,
With graceful gravel walks most serpentine,
Surrounds the noisy wonder, and sends up
A smile of scorn unto the rocky fells,
Where, 'mid the rough fern, bleat the shelter'd sheep.
Oft hath the poet's eye on these wild fells
Beheld entrancing visions;—but the cliffs,
In unscaled majesty, must frown no more;
No more the coves profound draw down the soul
Into their stern dominion: even the clouds,
Floating or settling on the mountain's breast,
Must be adored no more:—far other forms
Delight his gaze, to whom, alas, belongs
This luckless vale!—On every eminence,
Smiles some gay image of the builder's soul,
Watch-tower or summer-house, where oft, at eve,
He meditates to go, with book in hand,
And read in solitude; or weather-cock,
To tell which way the wind doth blow; or fort,
Commanding every station in the vale
Where enemy might encamp, and from whose height
A gaudy flag might flutter, when he hears
With a true British pride of Frenchmen slain,
Ten thousand in one battle, lying grim
By the brave English, their dead conquerors!
Such was the spirit of the words I used
On witnessing such sacrilege. We turned
Homewards in silence, even as from the grave
Of one in early youth untimely slain,
And all that to my pensive friend I said
Upon our walk, were some few words of grief,
That thoughtlessness and folly, in one day,
Could render vain the mystic processes
Of Nature, working for a thousand years
The work of love and beauty; so that Heaven
Might shed its gracious dews upon the earth,
Its sunshine and its rain, till living flowers
Rose up in myriads to attest its power,
But, in the midst of this glad jubilee,
A blinded mortal come, and with a nod,
Thus rendering ignorance worse than wickedness,
Bid his base servants "tear from Nature's book
A blissful leaf with worst impiety."
If thou, whose heart has listen'd to my song,
From Nature hold'st some fair inheritance
Like that whose mournful ruins I deplore,
Remember that thy birth-right doth impose
High duties on thee, that must be perform'd,
Else thou canst not be happy. Thou must watch
With holy zeal o'er Nature while she sleeps,
That nought may break her rest; her waking smiles
Thou must preserve and worship; and the gloom
That sometimes lies like night upon her face,
Creating awful thoughts, that gloom must hush
The beatings of thy heart, as if it lay
Like the dread shadow of eternity.
Beauteous thy home upon this beauteous earth,
And God hath given it to thee: therefore, learn
The laws by which the Eternal doth sublime
And sanctify his works, that thou mayest see
The hidden glory veiled from vulgar eyes,
And by the homage of enlighten'd love,
Repay the power that blest thee. Thou should'st stand
Oft-times amid thy dwelling-place, with awe
Stronger than love, even like a pious man
Who in some great cathedral, while the chaunt
Of hymns is in his soul, no more beholds
The pillars rise august and beautiful,
Nor the dim grandeur of the roof that hangs
Far, far above his head, but only sees
The opening heaven-gates, and the white-robed bands
Of spirits prostrate in adoring praise.
So shalt thou to thy death-hour find a friend,
A gracious friend in Nature, and thy name,
As the rapt traveller through thy fair domains
Oft-lingering journeys, shall with gentle voice
Be breathed amid the solitude, and link'd
With those enlighten'd spirits that promote
The happiness of others by their own,
The consummation of all earthly joy.