« AnkstesnisTęsti »
No sound is uttered, but a deep
Herds range along the mountain side;
Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve!
A portion of the gift is won;
An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread On ground which British shepherds tread!
And, if there be whom broken ties
Afflict, or injuries assail,
Yon hazy ridges to their eyes
Present a glorious scale,
Climbing suffused with sunny air,
On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise
Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad,
And wake him with such gentle heed
As may attune his soul to meet the dower
Such hues from their celestial Urn
Were wont to stream before mine eye,
This glimpse of glory, why renewed?
For, if a vestige of those gleams
Survived, 'twas only in my dreams.
Dread Power! whom peace and calmness serve
No less than Nature's threatening voice,
If aught unworthy be my choice,
From THEE if I would swerve;
Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light
'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades ; And night approaches with her shades.
NOTE. The multiplication of mountain-ridges, described at the commencement of the third Stanza of this Ode, as a kind of Jacob's Ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced either by watery vapours, or sunny haze;-in the present instance by the latter cause. Allusions to the Ode, entitled 'Intimations of Immortality,' at the conclusion of this volume, pervade the last stanza of the foregoing Poem.
TO THE MOON.
(COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, ON THE COAST OF
WANDERER! that stoop'st so low, and com'st so near
Who lov'st with Night and Silence to partake,
An idolizing dreamer as of yore !—
I slight them all; and, on this sea-beat shore
That bid me hail thee as the SAILOR'S FRIEND ;
So call thee for heaven's grace through thee made known
When not a twinkling star or beacon's light
And for less obvious benefits, that find
Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind;
And wounds and weakness oft his labour's sole remains.
The aspiring Mountains and the winding Streams
One, who has watched thee at some quiet hour
Or crossed by vapoury streaks and clouds that move
Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway
Yes, lovely Moon! if thou so mildly bright Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite, To fiercer mood the phrenzy-stricken brain, Let me a compensating faith maintain ; That there's a sensitive, a tender, part Which thou canst touch in every human heart, For healing and composure.-But, as least And mightiest billows ever have confessed Thy domination; as the whole vast Sea Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty; So shines that countenance with especial grace On them who urge the keel her plains to trace Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude, Cut off from home and country, may have stood-Even till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye, Or the mute rapture ended in a sighTouched by accordance of thy placid cheer, With some internal lights to memory dear, Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast Tired with its daily share of earth's unrest,Gentle awakenings, visitations meek; A kindly influence whereof few will speak, Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek.
And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave;