Peter's Unsung Spheres

ON thy stupendous summit, rock sublime ! 

That o'er the channel rear'd, half way at sea 

The mariner at early morning hails, 

I would recline; while Fancy should go forth, 

And represent the strange and awful hour 

Of vast concussion; when the Omnipotent 

Stretch'd forth his arm, and rent the solid hills, 

Bidding the impetuous main flood rush between 

The rifted shores, and from the continent 

Eternally divided this green isle. 

Imperial lord of the high southern coast ! 

From thy projecting head-land I would mark 

Far in the east the shades of night disperse, 

Melting and thinned, as from the dark blue wave 

Emerging, brilliant rays of arrowy light 

Dart from the horizon; when the glorious sun 

Just lifts above it his resplendent orb. 

Advances now, with feathery silver touched, 

The rippling tide of flood; glisten the sands, 

While, inmates of the chalky clefts that scar 

Thy sides precipitous, with shrill harsh cry, 

Their white wings glancing in the level beam, 

The terns, and gulls, and tarrocks, seek their food, 

And thy rough hollows echo to the voice 

Of the gray choughs, and ever restless daws, 

With clamour, not unlike the chiding hounds, 

While the lone shepherd, and his baying dog, 

Drive to thy turfy crest his bleating flock. 

 

The high meridian of the day is past, 

And Ocean now, reflecting the calm Heaven, 

Is of cerulean hue; and murmurs low 

The tide of ebb, upon the level sands. 

The sloop, her angular canvas shifting still, 

Catches the light and variable airs 

That but a little crisp the summer sea. 

Dimpling its tranquil surface. 

 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Afar off, 

And just emerging from the arch immense 

Where seem to part the elements, a fleet 

Of fishing vessels stretch their lesser sails; 

While more remote, and like a dubious spot 

Just hanging in the horizon, laden deep, 

The ship of commerce richly freighted, makes 

Her slower progress, on her distant voyage, 

Bound to the orient climates, where the sun 

Matures the spice within its odorous shell, 

And, rivalling the gray worm's filmy toil, 

Bursts from its pod the vegetable down; 

Which in long turban'd wreaths, from torrid heat 

Defends the brows of Asia's countless casts. 

There the Earth hides within her glowing breast 

The beamy adamant, and the round pearl 

Enchased in rugged covering; which the slave, 

With perilous and breathless toil, tears off 

From the rough sea-rock, deep beneath the waves. 

These are the toys of Nature; and her sport 

Of little estimate in Reason's eye: 

And they who reason, with abhorrence see 

Man, for such gaudes and baubles, violate 

The sacred freedom of his fellow man­—

Erroneous estimate ! As Heaven's pure air, 

Fresh as it blows on this aërial height, 

Or sound of seas upon the stony strand, 

Or inland, the gay harmony of birds, 

And winds that wander in the leafy woods; 

Are to the unadulterate taste more worth 

Than the elaborate harmony, brought out 

From fretted stop, or modulated airs 

Of vocal science.­So the brightest gems, 

Glancing resplendent on the regal crown, 

Or trembling in the high born beauty's ear, 

Are poor and paltry, to the lovely light 

Of the fair star, that as the day declines, 

Attendant on her queen, the crescent moon, 

Bathes her bright tresses in the eastern wave. 

For now the sun is verging to the sea, 

And as he westward sinks, the floating clouds 

Suspended, move upon the evening gale, 

And gathering round his orb, as if to shade 

The insufferable brightness, they resign 

Their gauzy whiteness; and more warm'd, assume 

All hues of purple. There, transparent gold 

Mingles with ruby tints, and sapphire gleams, 

And colours, such as Nature through her works 

Shews only in the ethereal canopy. 

Thither aspiring Fancy fondly soars, 

Wandering sublime thro' visionary vales, 

Where bright pavilions rise, and trophies, fann'd 

By airs celestial; and adorn'd with wreaths 

Of flowers that bloom amid elysian bowers. 

Now bright, and brighter still the colours glow, 

Till half the lustrous orb within the flood 

Seems to retire: the flood reflecting still 

Its splendor, and in mimic glory drest; 

Till the last ray shot upward, fires the clouds 

With blazing crimson; then in paler light, 

Long lines of tenderer radiance, lingering yield 

To partial darkness; and on the opposing side 

The early moon distinctly rising, throws 

Her pearly brilliance on the trembling tide. 

The fishermen, who at set seasons pass 

Many a league off at sea their toiling night, 

Now hail their comrades, from their daily task 

Returning; and make ready for their own, 

With the night tide commencing:­—The night tide 

Bears a dark vessel on, whose hull and sails 

Mark her a coaster from the north. Her keel 

Now ploughs the sand; and sidelong now she leans, 

While with loud clamours her athletic crew 

Unload her; and resounds the busy hum 

Along the wave-worn rocks. Yet more remote, 

Where the rough cliff hangs beetling o'er its base, 

All breathes repose; the water's rippling sound 

Scarce heard; but now and then the sea-snipe's cry 

Just tells that something living is abroad; 

And sometimes crossing on the moonbright line, 

Glimmers the skiff, faintly discern'd awhile, 

Then lost in shadow. 

 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Contemplation here, 

High on her throne of rock, aloof may sit, 

And bid recording Memory unfold 

Her scroll voluminous­—bid her retrace 

The period, when from Neustria's hostile shore 

The Norman launch'd his galleys, and the bay 

O'er which that mass of ruin frowns even now 

In vain and sullen menace, then received 

The new invaders; a proud martial race, 

Of Scandinavia the undaunted sons, 

Whom Dogon, Fier-a-bras, and Humfroi led 

To conquest: while Trinacria to their power 

Yielded her wheaten garland; and when thou, 

Parthenope ! within thy fertile bay 

Receiv'd the victors­—

 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . In the mailed ranks 

Of Normans landing on the British coast 

Rode Taillefer; and with astounding voice 

Thunder'd the war song daring Roland sang 

First in the fierce contention: vainly brave, 

One not inglorious struggle England made­— 

But failing, saw the Saxon heptarchy 

Finish for ever.——­Then the holy pile, 

Yet seen upon the field of conquest, rose, 

Where to appease heaven's wrath for so much blood, 

The conqueror bade unceasing prayers ascend, 

And requiems for the slayers and the slain. 

But let not modern Gallia form from hence 

Presumptuous hopes, that ever thou again, 

Queen of the isles ! shalt crouch to foreign arms. 

The enervate sons of Italy may yield; 

And the Iberian, all his trophies torn 

And wrapp'd in Superstition's monkish weed, 

May shelter his abasement, and put on 

Degrading fetters. Never, never thou ! 

Imperial mistress of the obedient sea; 

But thou, in thy integrity secure, 

Shalt now undaunted meet a world in arms. 

 

England ! 'twas where this promontory rears 

Its rugged brow above the channel wave, 

Parting the hostile nations, that thy fame, 

Thy naval fame was tarnish'd, at what time 

Thou, leagued with the Batavian, gavest to France 

One day of triumph­—triumph the more loud, 

Because even then so rare. Oh ! well redeem'd, 

Since, by a series of illustrious men, 

Such as no other country ever rear'd, 

To vindicate her cause. It is a list 

Which, as Fame echoes it, blanches the cheek 

Of bold Ambition; while the despot feels 

The extorted sceptre tremble in his grasp. 

 

From even the proudest roll by glory fill'd, 

How gladly the reflecting mind returns 

To simple scenes of peace and industry, 

Where, bosom'd in some valley of the hills 

Stands the lone farm; its gate with tawny ricks 

Surrounded, and with granaries and sheds, 

Roof'd with green mosses, and by elms and ash 

Partially shaded; and not far remov'd 

The hut of sea-flints built; the humble home 

Of one, who sometimes watches on the heights, 

When hid in the cold mist of passing clouds, 

The flock, with dripping fleeces, are dispers'd 

O'er the wide down; then from some ridged point 

That overlooks the sea, his eager eye 

Watches the bark that for his signal waits 

To land its merchandize:­—Quitting for this 

Clandestine traffic his more honest toil, 

The crook abandoning, he braves himself 

The heaviest snow-storm of December's night, 

When with conflicting winds the ocean raves, 

And on the tossing boat, unfearing mounts 

To meet the partners of the perilous trade, 

And share their hazard. Well it were for him, 

If no such commerce of destruction known, 

He were content with what the earth affords 

To human labour; even where she seems 

Reluctant most. More happy is the hind, 

Who, with his own hands rears on some black moor, 

Or turbary, his independent hut 

Cover'd with heather, whence the slow white smoke 

Of smouldering peat arises­­——A few sheep, 

His best possession, with his children share 

The rugged shed when wintry tempests blow; 

But, when with Spring's return the green blades rise 

Amid the russet heath, the household live 

Joint tenants of the waste throughout the day, 

And often, from her nest, among the swamps, 

Where the gemm'd sun-dew grows, or fring'd buck-bean, 

They scare the plover, that with plaintive cries 

Flutters, as sorely wounded, down the wind. 

Rude, and but just remov'd from savage life 

Is the rough dweller among scenes like these, 

(Scenes all unlike the poet's fabling dreams 

Describing Arcady)—­But he is free; 

The dread that follows on illegal acts 

He never feels; and his industrious mate 

Shares in his labour. Where the brook is traced 

By crouding osiers, and the black coot hides 

Among the plashy reeds, her diving brood, 

The matron wades; gathering the long green rush 

That well prepar'd hereafter lends its light 

To her poor cottage, dark and cheerless else 

Thro' the drear hours of Winter. Otherwhile 

She leads her infant group where charlock grows 

'Unprofitably gay,' or to the fields, 

Where congregate the linnet and the finch, 

That on the thistles, so profusely spread, 

Feast in the desert; the poor family 

Early resort, extirpating with care 

These, and the gaudier mischief of the ground; 

Then flames the high rais'd heap; seen afar off 

Like hostile war-fires flashing to the sky. 

Another task is theirs: On fields that shew 

As angry Heaven had rain'd sterility, 

Stony and cold, and hostile to the plough, 

Where clamouring loud, the evening curlew runs 

And drops her spotted eggs among the flints; 

The mother and the children pile the stones 

In rugged pyramids;­—and all this toil 

They patiently encounter; well content 

On their flock bed to slumber undisturb'd 

Beneath the smoky roof they call their own. 

Oh ! little knows the sturdy hind, who stands 

Gazing, with looks where envy and contempt 

Are often strangely mingled, on the car 

Where prosperous Fortune sits; what secret care 

Or sick satiety is often hid, 

Beneath the splendid outside: He knows not 

How frequently the child of Luxury 

Enjoying nothing, flies from place to place 

In chase of pleasure that eludes his grasp; 

And that content is e'en less found by him, 

Than by the labourer, whose pick-axe smooths 

The road before his chariot; and who doffs 

What was an hat; and as the train pass on, 

Thinks how one day's expenditure, like this, 

Would cheer him for long months, when to his toil 

The frozen earth closes her marble breast. 

 

Ah ! who is happy ? Happiness ! a word 

That like false fire, from marsh effluvia born, 

Misleads the wanderer, destin'd to contend 

In the world's wilderness, with want or woe­ 

Yet they are happy, who have never ask'd 

What good or evil means. The boy 

That on the river's margin gaily plays, 

Has heard that Death is there­—He knows not Death, 

And therefore fears it not; and venturing in 

He gains a bullrush, or a minnow­—then, 

At certain peril, for a worthless prize, 

A crow's, or raven's nest, he climbs the boll, 

Of some tall pine; and of his prowess proud, 

Is for a moment happy. Are your cares, 

Ye who despise him, never worse applied ? 

The village girl is happy, who sets forth 

To distant fair, gay in her Sunday suit, 

With cherry colour'd knots, and flourish'd shawl, 

And bonnet newly purchas'd. So is he 

Her little brother, who his mimic drum 

Beats, till he drowns her rural lovers' oaths 

Of constant faith, and still increasing love; 

Ah ! yet a while, and half those oaths believ'd, 

Her happiness is vanish'd; and the boy 

While yet a stripling, finds the sound he lov'd 

Has led him on, till he has given up 

His freedom, and his happiness together. 

I once was happy, when while yet a child, 

I learn'd to love these upland solitudes, 

And, when elastic as the mountain air, 

To my light spirit, care was yet unknown 

And evil unforeseen:—­Early it came, 

And childhood scarcely passed, I was condemned, 

A guiltless exile, silently to sigh, 

While Memory, with faithful pencil, drew 

The contrast; and regretting, I compar'd 

With the polluted smoky atmosphere 

And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills 

That to the setting Sun, their graceful heads 

Rearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks 

With her white rocks, the strong impetuous tide, 

When western winds the vast Atlantic urge 

To thunder on the coast­—Haunts of my youth ! 

Scenes of fond day dreams, I behold ye yet ! 

Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes 

To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft 

By scatter'd thorns: whose spiny branches bore 

Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb 

There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun; 

And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, 

To look beneath upon the hollow way 

While heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain, 

And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind 

To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stone 

The grating wheel. 

 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Advancing higher still 

The prospect widens, and the village church 

But little, o'er the lowly roofs around 

Rears its gray belfry, and its simple vane; 

Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd 

By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring, 

When on each bough, the rosy-tinctur'd bloom 

Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. 

For even those orchards round the Norman farms, 

Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit, 

Console them for the vineyards of the south, 

Surpass not these.

 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Where woods of ash, and beech, 

And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot, 

The upland shepherd rears his modest home, 

There wanders by, a little nameless stream 

That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, 

Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, 

But still refreshing in its shallow course, 

The cottage garden; most for use design'd, 

Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine 

Mantles the little casement; yet the briar 

Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers; 

And pansies rayed, and freak'd and mottled pinks 

Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue: 

There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow 

Almost uncultured: Some with dark green leaves 

Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white; 

Others, like velvet robes of regal state 

Of richest crimson, while in thorny moss 

Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely, wear 

The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.­ 

With fond regret I recollect e'en now 

In Spring and Summer, what delight I felt 

Among these cottage gardens, and how much 

Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush 

By village housewife or her ruddy maid, 

Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleas'd. 

 

An early worshipper at Nature's shrine; 

I loved her rudest scenes—­warrens, and heaths, 

And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, 

And hedge rows, bordering unfrequented lanes 

Bowered with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine 

Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch 

With bittersweet, and bryony inweave, 

And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups—­ 

I loved to trace the brooks whose humid banks 

Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil; 

And stroll among o'ershadowing woods of beech, 

Lending in Summer, from the heats of noon 

A whispering shade; while haply there reclines 

Some pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers, 

Who, from the tumps with bright green mosses clad, 

Plucks the wood sorrel, with its light thin leaves, 

Heart-shaped, and triply folded; and its root 

Creeping like beaded coral; or who there 

Gathers, the copse's pride, anémones, 

With rays like golden studs on ivory laid 

Most delicate: but touch'd with purple clouds, 

Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow. 

 

Ah ! hills so early loved ! in fancy still 

I breathe your pure keen air; and still behold 

Those widely spreading views, mocking alike 

The Poet and the Painter's utmost art. 

And still, observing objects more minute, 

Wondering remark the strange and foreign forms 

Of sea-shells; with the pale calcareous soil 

Mingled, and seeming of resembling substance. 

Tho' surely the blue Ocean (from the heights 

Where the downs westward trend, but dimly seen) 

Here never roll'd its surge. Does Nature then 

Mimic, in wanton mood, fantastic shapes 

Of bivalves, and inwreathed volutes, that cling 

To the dark sea-rock of the wat'ry world ? 

Or did this range of chalky mountains, once 

Form a vast bason, where the Ocean waves 

Swell'd fathomless ? What time these fossil shells, 

Buoy'd on their native element, were thrown 

Among the imbedding calx: when the huge hill 

Its giant bulk heaved, and in strange ferment 

Grew up a guardian barrier, 'twixt the sea 

And the green level of the sylvan weald. 

 

Ah ! very vain is Science' proudest boast, 

And but a little light its flame yet lends 

To its most ardent votaries; since from whence 

These fossil forms are seen, is but conjecture, 

Food for vague theories, or vain dispute, 

While to his daily task the peasant goes, 

Unheeding such inquiry; with no care 

But that the kindly change of sun and shower, 

Fit for his toil the earth he cultivates. 

As little recks the herdsman of the hill, 

Who on some turfy knoll, idly reclined, 

Watches his wether flock; that deep beneath 

Rest the remains of men, of whom is left 

No traces in the records of mankind, 

Save what these half obliterated mounds 

And half fill'd trenches doubtfully impart 

To some lone antiquary; who on times remote, 

Since which two thousand years have roll'd away, 

Loves to contemplate. He perhaps may trace, 

Or fancy he can trace, the oblong square 

Where the mail'd legions, under Claudius, rear'd, 

The rampire, or excavated fossé delved; 

What time the huge unwieldy Elephant 

Auxiliary reluctant, hither led, 

From Afric's forest glooms and tawny sands, 

First felt the Northern blast, and his vast frame 

Sunk useless; whence in after ages found, 

The wondering hinds, on those enormous bones 

Gaz'd; and in giants dwelling on the hills 

Believed and marvell’d--­ 

 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hither, Ambition, come ! 

Come and behold the nothingness of all 

For which you carry thro' the oppressed Earth, 

War, and its train of horrors­—see where tread 

The innumerous hoofs of flocks above the works 

By which the warrior sought to register 

His glory, and immortalize his name­ 

The pirate Dane, who from his circular camp 

Bore in destructive robbery, fire and sword 

Down thro' the vale, sleeps unremember'd here; 

And here, beneath the green sward, rests alike 

The savage native, who his acorn meal 

Shar'd with the herds, that ranged the pathless woods; 

And the centurion, who on these wide hills 

Encamping, planted the Imperial Eagle. 

All, with the lapse of Time, have passed away, 

Even as the clouds, with dark and dragon shapes, 

Or like vast promontories crown'd with towers, 

Cast their broad shadows on the downs: then sail 

Far to the northward, and their transient gloom 

Is soon forgotten. 

 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . But from thoughts like these, 

By human crimes suggested, let us turn 

To where a more attractive study courts 

The wanderer of the hills; while shepherd girls 

Will from among the fescue bring him flowers, 

Of wonderous mockery; some resembling bees 

In velvet vest, intent on their sweet toil, 

While others mimic flies, that lightly sport 

In the green shade, or float along the pool, 

But here seem perch'd upon the slender stalk, 

And gathering honey dew. While in the breeze 

That wafts the thistle's plumed seed along, 

Blue bells wave tremulous. The mountain thyme 

Purples the hassock of the heaving mole, 

And the short turf is gay with tormentil, 

And bird's foot trefoil, and the lesser tribes 

Of hawkweed; spangling it with fringed stars.­—

Near where a richer tract of cultur'd land 

Slopes to the south; and burnished by the sun, 

Bend in the gale of August, floods of corn; 

The guardian of the flock, with watchful care, 

Repels by voice and dog the encroaching sheep­— 

While his boy visits every wired trap 

That scars the turf; and from the pit-falls takes 

The timid migrants, who from distant wilds, 

Warrens, and stone quarries, are destined thus 

To lose their short existence. But unsought 

By Luxury yet, the Shepherd still protects 

The social bird, who from his native haunts 

Of willowy current, or the rushy pool, 

Follows the fleecy croud, and flirts and skims, 

In fellowship among them.

 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Where the knoll 

More elevated takes the changeful winds, 

The windmill rears its vanes; and thitherward 

With his white load, the master travelling, 

Scares the rooks rising slow on whispering wings, 

While o'er his head, before the summer sun 

Lights up the blue expanse, heard more than seen, 

The lark sings matins; and above the clouds 

Floating, embathes his spotted breast in dew. 

Beneath the shadow of a gnarled thorn, 

Bent by the sea blast, from a seat of turf 

With fairy nosegays strewn, how wide the view ! 

Till in the distant north it melts away, 

And mingles indiscriminate with clouds: 

But if the eye could reach so far, the mart 

Of England's capital, its domes and spires 

Might be perceived­—Yet hence the distant range 

Of Kentish hills, appear in purple haze; 

And nearer, undulate the wooded heights, 

And airy summits, that above the mole 

Rise in green beauty; and the beacon'd ridge 

Of Black-down shagg'd with heath, and swelling rude 

Like a dark island from the vale; its brow 

Catching the last rays of the evening sun 

That gleam between the nearer park's old oaks, 

Then lighten up the river, and make prominent 

The portal, and the ruin'd battlements 

Of that dismantled fortress; rais'd what time 

The Conqueror's successors fiercely fought, 

Tearing with civil feuds the desolate land. 

But now a tiller of the soil dwells there, 

And of the turret's loop'd and rafter'd halls 

Has made an humbler homestead­—Where he sees, 

Instead of armed foemen, herds that graze 

Along his yellow meadows; or his flocks 

At evening from the upland driv'n to fold­—

 

In such a castellated mansion once 

A stranger chose his home; and where hard by 

In rude disorder fallen, and hid with brushwood 

Lay fragments gray of towers and buttresses, 

Among the ruins, often he would muse­— 

His rustic meal soon ended, he was wont 

To wander forth, listening the evening sounds 

Of rushing milldam, or the distant team, 

Or night-jar, chasing fern-flies: the tir'd hind 

Pass'd him at nightfall, wondering he should sit 

On the hill top so late: they from the coast 

Who sought bye paths with their clandestine load, 

Saw with suspicious doubt, the lonely man 

Cross on their way: but village maidens thought 

His senses injur'd; and with pity say 

That he, poor youth ! must have been cross'd in love­ 

For often, stretch'd upon the mountain turf 

With folded arms, and eyes intently fix'd 

Where ancient elms and firs obscured a grange, 

Some little space within the vale below, 

They heard him, as complaining of his fate, 

And to the murmuring wind, of cold neglect 

And baffled hope he told.—­The peasant girls 

These plaintive sounds remember, and even now 

Among them may be heard the stranger's songs.

 

———— 

 

Were I a Shepherd on the hill 

 . . And ever as the mists withdrew 

Could see the willows of the rill 

Shading the footway to the mill 

 . . Where once I walk'd with you­— 

 

And as away Night's shadows sail, 

 . . And sounds of birds and brooks arise, 

Believe, that from the woody vale 

I hear your voice upon the gale 

 . . In soothing melodies; 

 

And viewing from the Alpine height, 

 . . The prospect dress'd in hues of air, 

Could say, while transient colours bright 

Touch'd the fair scene with dewy light, 

 . . ’Tis, that her eyes are there ! 

 

I think, I could endure my lot 

 . . And linger on a few short years, 

And then, by all but you forgot, 

Sleep, where the turf that clothes the spot 

 . . May claim some pitying tears. 

 

For 'tis not easy to forget 

 . . One, who thro' life has lov'd you still, 

And you, however late, might yet 

With sighs to Memory giv'n, regret 

 . . The Shepherd of the Hill. 

 

— — — —

 

Yet otherwhile it seem'd as if young Hope 

Her flattering pencil gave to Fancy's hand, 

And in his wanderings, rear'd to sooth his soul 

Ideal bowers of pleasure­—Then, of Solitude 

And of his hermit life, still more enamour'd, 

His home was in the forest; and wild fruits 

And bread sustain'd him. There in early spring 

The Barkmen found him, e'er the sun arose; 

There at their daily toil, the Wedgecutters 

Beheld him thro' the distant thicket move. 

The shaggy dog following the truffle hunter, 

Bark'd at the loiterer; and perchance at night 

Belated villagers from fair or wake, 

While the fresh night-wind let the moonbeams in 

Between the swaying boughs, just saw him pass, 

And then in silence, gliding like a ghost 

He vanish'd ! Lost among the deepening gloom.­— 

But near one ancient tree, whose wreathed roots 

Form'd a rude couch, love-songs and scatter'd rhymes, 

Unfinish'd sentences, or half erased, 

And rhapsodies like this, were sometimes found­— 

­­­­­­ 

— — — —

 

Let us to woodland wilds repair 

 . . While yet the glittering night-dews seem 

To wait the freshly-breathing air, 

 . . Precursive of the morning beam, 

That rising with advancing day, 

Scatters the silver drops away. 

 

An elm, uprooted by the storm, 

 . . The trunk with mosses gray and green, 

Shall make for us a rustic form, 

 . . Where lighter grows the forest scene; 

And far among the bowery shades, 

Are ferny lawns and grassy glades. 

 

Retiring May to lovely June 

 . . Her latest garland now resigns; 

The banks with cuckoo-flowers are strewn, 

 . . The woodwalks blue with columbines, 

And with its reeds, the wandering stream 

Reflects the flag-flower's golden gleam. 

 

There, feathering down the turf to meet, 

 . . Their shadowy arms the beeches spread, 

While high above our sylvan seat, 

 . . Lifts the light ash its airy head; 

And later leaved, the oaks between 

Extend their bows of vernal green. 

 

The slender birch its paper rind 

 . . Seems offering to divided love, 

And shuddering even without a wind 

 . . Aspins, their paler foliage move, 

As if some spirit of the air 

Breath'd a low sigh in passing there. 

 

The Squirrel in his frolic mood, 

 . . Will fearless bound among the boughs; 

Yaffils laugh loudly thro' the wood, 

 . . And murmuring ring-doves tell their vows; 

While we, as sweetest woodscents rise, 

Listen to woodland melodies. 

 

And I'll contrive a sylvan room 

 . . Against the time of summer heat, 

Where leaves, inwoven in Nature's loom, 

 . . Shall canopy our green retreat; 

And gales that 'close the eye of day' 

Shall linger, e'er they die away. 

 

And when a sear and sallow hue 

 . . From early frost the bower receives, 

I'll dress the sand rock cave for you, 

 . . And strew the floor with heath and leaves, 

That you, against the autumnal air 

May find securer shelter there. 

 

The Nightingale will then have ceas'd 

 . . To sing her moonlight serenade; 

But the gay bird with blushing breast, 

 . . And Woodlarks still will haunt the shade, 

And by the borders of the spring 

Reed-wrens will yet be carolling. 

 

The forest hermit's lonely cave 

 . . None but such soothing sounds shall reach, 

Or hardly heard, the distant wave 

 . . Slow breaking on the stony beach; 

Or winds, that now sigh soft and low, 

Now make wild music as they blow. 

 

And then, before the chilling North 

 . . The tawny foliage falling light, 

Seems, as it flits along the earth, 

 . . The footfall of the busy Sprite, 

Who wrapt in pale autumnal gloom, 

Calls up the mist-born Mushroom. 

 

Oh ! could I hear your soft voice there, 

 . . And see you in the forest green 

All beauteous as you are, more fair 

 . . You’ld look, amid the sylvan scene, 

And in a wood-girl's simple guise, 

Be still more lovely in mine eyes. 

 

Ye phantoms of unreal delight, 

 . . Visions of fond delirium born ! 

Rise not on my deluded sight, 

 . . Then leave me drooping and forlorn 

To know, such bliss can never be, 

Unless . . . . . . . . . . . loved like me. 

 

The visionary, nursing dreams like these, 

Is not indeed unhappy. Summer woods 

Wave over him, and whisper as they wave, 

Some future blessings he may yet enjoy. 

And as above him sail the silver clouds, 

He follows them in thought to distant climes, 

Where, far from the cold policy of this, 

Dividing him from her he fondly loves, 

He, in some island of the southern sea, 

May haply build his cane-constructed bower 

Beneath the bread-fruit, or aspiring palm, 

With long green foliage rippling in the gale. 

Oh ! let him cherish his ideal bliss­— 

For what is life, when Hope has ceas'd to strew 

Her fragile flowers along its thorny way ? 

And sad and gloomy are his days, who lives 

Of Hope abandon'd !

 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Just beneath the rock 

Where Beachy overpeers the channel wave, 

Within a cavern mined by wintry tides 

Dwelt one, who long disgusted with the world 

And all its ways, appear'd to suffer life 

Rather than live; the soul-reviving gale, 

Fanning the bean-field, or the thymy heath, 

Had not for many summers breathed on him; 

And nothing mark'd to him the season's change, 

Save that more gently rose the placid sea, 

And that the birds which winter on the coast 

Gave place to other migrants; save that the fog, 

Hovering no more above the beetling cliffs 

Betray'd not then the little careless sheep 

On the brink grazing, while their headlong fall 

Near the lone Hermit's flint-surrounded home, 

Claim'd unavailing pity; for his heart 

Was feelingly alive to all that breath'd; 

And outraged as he was, in sanguine youth, 

By human crimes, he still acutely felt 

For human misery. 

 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Wandering on the beach, 

He learn'd to augur from the clouds of heaven, 

And from the changing colours of the sea, 

And sullen murmurs of the hollow cliffs, 

Or the dark porpoises, that near the shore 

Gambol'd and sported on the level brine 

When tempests were approaching: then at night 

He listen'd to the wind; and as it drove 

The billows with o'erwhelming vehemence 

He, starting from his rugged couch, went forth 

And hazarding a life, too valueless, 

He waded thro' the waves, with plank or pole 

Towards where the mariner in conflict dread 

Was buffeting for life the roaring surge; 

And now just seen, now lost in foaming gulphs, 

The dismal gleaming of the clouded moon 

Shew'd the dire peril. Often he had snatch'd 

From the wild billows, some unhappy man 

Who liv'd to bless the hermit of the rocks. 

But if his generous cares were all in vain, 

And with slow swell the tide of morning bore 

Some blue swol'n cor'se to land; the pale recluse 

Dug in the chalk a sepulchre­—above 

Where the dank sea-wrack mark'd the utmost tide, 

And with his prayers perform'd the obsequies 

For the poor helpless stranger.

 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One dark night 

The equinoctial wind blew south by west, 

Fierce on the shore;—­the bellowing cliffs were shook 

Even to their stony base, and fragments fell 

Flashing and thundering on the angry flood. 

At day-break, anxious for the lonely man, 

His cave the mountain shepherds visited, 

Tho' sand and banks of weeds had choak'd their way­ 

He was not in it; but his drowned cor'se 

By the waves wafted, near his former home 

Receiv'd the rites of burial. Those who read 

Chisel'd within the rock, these mournful lines, 

Memorials of his sufferings, did not grieve, 

That dying in the cause of charity 

His spirit, from its earthly bondage freed, 

Had to some better region fled for ever.