The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 19

Let man, then, walk meek, humble, pure, and just; Though meek, yet dignified; though humble, raised, The heir of life and immortality; Conscious that in this awful world he stands, He only of all living things, ordained To think, and know, and feel, there is a G.o.d! 290 Child of the air, though most I love to hear Thy gentle summons whisper, when the Spring, At the first carol of the village lark, Looks out and smiles, or June is in her car; Not undelightful is the purer air In winter, when the keen north-east is high, When frost fantastic his cold garland weaves Of brittle flowers, or soft-succeeding snows Gather without apace, and heavy load The berried sweetbrier, clinging to my pane. 300 The blackbird, then, that marks the ruddy pods Peep through the snow, though silent is his song, Yet, pressed by cold and hunger, ventures near.

The robin group, familiar, muster round The garden-shed, where, at his dinner set, The laboured hind strews here and there a crumb From his brown bread; then heedless of the winds That blow without, and sweep the s.h.i.+vered snow, Sees from his broken tube the smoke ascend On an inverted barrow, as in state 310 He sits, though poor, the monarch of the scene, As pondering deep the garden's future state, His kingdom; the rude instruments of death Lie at his feet, fas.h.i.+oned with simple skill, With which he hopes to snare the prowling race, The mice, rapacious of his vernal hopes.

So seated, on the spring he ruminates, And solemn as a sophi,[124] moves nor hand, Nor eye, till haply some more venturous bird, (The crumbs exhausted that he lately strewed 320 Upon the groundsill,) with often dipping beak, And sidelong look, as asking larger dole, Comes hopping to his feet: and say, ye great, Ye mighty monarchs of this earthly scene, What n.o.bler views can elevate the heart Of a proud patriot king, than thus to chase The bold rapacious spoilers from the field, And with an eye of merciful regard To look on humble worth, wet from the storm, And chilled by indigence! 330 But thoughts like these Ill suit the radiant summer's rosy prime, And the still temper of the calm blue sky.

The sunny shower is past; at intervals The silent glittering drops descend; and mark, Upon the blue bank of yon western cloud, That looms direct against the emerging orb, How bright, how beautiful the rainbow's hues Steal out, how stately bends the graceful arch Above the hills, and tinging at his foot 340 The mead and trees! Fancy might think young Hope Pants for the vision, and with ardent eye Pursues the unreal shade, and spreads her hands, Weeping to see it fade, as all her dreams Have faded.

These, O Air! are but the toys, That sometimes deck thy fairy element; So oft the eye observant loves to trace The colours, and the shadows, and the forms, That wander o'er the veering atmosphere. 350 See, in the east, the rare parhelia s.h.i.+ne In mimic glory, and so seem to mock (Fixed parallel to the ascending orb) The majesty, the splendour, and the shape, Of the sole luminary that informs The world with light and heat! The halo-ring Bends over all!

With desultory shafts, And long and arrowy glance, the night-lights[125] shoot Pale coruscations o'er the northern sky; 360 Now lancing to the cope, in sheets of flame, Now wavering wild, as the reflected wave, On the arched roof of the umbrageous grot.

Hence Superst.i.tion dreams of armaments, Of fiery conflicts, and of bleeding fields Of slaughter; so on great Jerusalem, Ere yet she fell, the flaming meteor glared; A waving sword ensanguined seemed to point To the devoted city, and a voice Was heard, Depart, depart![126] 370 The atmosphere, That with the ceaseless hurry of its clouds, Encircles the round globe, resembles oft The pa.s.sing suns.h.i.+ne, or the glooms that stray O'er every human spirit.

Thin light streaks Of thought pa.s.s vapoury o'er the vacant mind, And fade to nothing. Now fantastic gleams Play, flas.h.i.+ng or expiring, of gay hope, Or deep despair; then clouds of sadness close 380 In one dark settled gloom, and all the man Droops, in despondence lost.

Aerial tints Please most the pensive poet: and the views He forms, though evanescent, and as vain As the air's mockery, seem to his eye Ev'n as substantial images, and shapes, Till in a hurrying rack they all dissolve.

So in the cloudless sky, amusive s.h.i.+nes The soft and mimic scenery; distant hills 390 That, in refracted light, hang beautiful Beneath the golden car of eve, ere yet The daylight lingering fades.

Hence, on the heights Of Apennine, far stretching to the south, The goat-herd, while the westering sun, far off, Hangs o'er the hazy ocean's brim, beholds In the horizon's faintly-glowing verge A landscape,[127] like the rainbow, rise, with rocks That softened s.h.i.+ne, and sh.o.r.es that trend away, 400 Beneath the winding woods of Sicily, And Etna, smouldering in the still pale sky; And dim Messina, with her spires, and bays That wind among the mountains, and the tower Of Faro, gleaming on the tranquil straits; Unreal all, yet on the air impressed, From light's refracted ray,[128] the shadow seems The certain scene: the hind astonished views, Yet most delighted, till at once the light Changes, and all has vanished! 410 But to him, How different in still air the unreal view, Who wanders in Arabian solitudes, When, faint with thirst, he sees illusive streams[129]

s.h.i.+ne in the arid desert!

All around, A silent waste of dark gray sand is spread, Like ashes; not a speck in heaven appears, But the red sun, high in his burning noon, Shoots down intolerable fire: no sound 420 Of beast, or blast, or moving insect, stirs The horrid stillness. Oh! what hand will guide The pilgrim, panting in the trackless dust, To where the pure and sparkling fountain cheers The green oasis.[130] See, as now his lip Hangs parched and quivering, see before him spread The long and level lake!

He gazes; still He gazes, till he drops upon the sands, And to the vision stretches, as he faints, 430 His feeble hand.

Come, Sylph of Summer, come!

Return to these green pastures, that, remote From fiery blasts, or deadly blistering frosts, Beneath the temperate atmosphere rejoice!

A crown of flame, a javelin in his hand, Like the red arrow that the lightning shoots Through night, impetuous steeds, and burning wheels, That, as they whirl, flash to the cope of heaven, Proclaim the angel of the world of fire! 440 The ocean-king, lord of the waters, rides High on his hissing car, whose concave skirrs The azure deep beneath him, flas.h.i.+ng wide, As to the sun the dark-green wave upturns, And foaming far behind: sea-horses breast The bickering surge, with nostrils sounding far, And eyes that flash above the wave, and necks, Whose mane, like breakers whitening in the wind, Toss through the broken foam: he kingly bears His trident sceptre high; around him play 450 Nereids, and sea-maids, singing as he rides Their choral song: huge Triton, weltering on, With scaly train, at times his wreathed sh.e.l.l Sounds, that the caverns of old ocean shake!

But milder thou, soft daughter of the air, Sylph of the Summer, come! the silent shower Is past, and 'mid the dripping fern, the wren Peeps, till the sun looks through the clouds again.

Oh, come, and breathe thy gentler influence, And send a home-felt quiet to my heart, 460 Soothed as I hear, by fits, thy whisper run, Stirring the tall acacia's pendent leaves, And through yon hazel alley rustling soft Upon the vacant ear!

Yon eastern downs, That weather-fence the blossoms of the vale, Where winds from hill to hill the mighty Dike,[131]

Of Woden named, with many an antique mound, The warrior's grave, bids exercise awake, And health, the breeze of morning to inhale: 470 Meantime, remote from storms, the myrtle blooms Beneath my southern sash.

The hurricane May rend the pines of snowy Labrador, The blasting whirlwinds of the desert sweep The Nubian wilderness--we fear them not; Nor yet, my country, do thy breezes bear, From citrons, or the blooming orange-grove, As in Rousillon's jasmine-bordered vales, Incense at eve. 480 But temperate airs are thine, England; and as thy climate, so thy sons Partake the temper of thine isle; not rude, Nor soft, voluptuous, nor effeminate; Sincere, indeed, and hardy, as becomes Those who can lift their look elate, and say, We strike for injured freedom; and yet mild, And gentle, when the voice of charity Pleads like a voice from heaven: and, thanks to G.o.d, The chain that fettered Afric's groaning race, 490 The murderous chain, that, link by link, dropped blood, Is severed; we have lost that foul reproach To all our virtuous boast!

Humanity, England, is thine! not _that_ false subst.i.tute, That meretricious sadness, which, all sighs For lark or lambkin, yet can hear unmoved The bloodiest orgies of blood-boltered France; Thine is consistent, manly, rational, Nor needing the false glow of sentiment 500 To melt it into sympathy, but mild, And looking with a gentle eye on all; Thy manners open, social, yet refined, Are tempered with reflection; gaiety, In her long-lighted halls, may lead the dance, Or wake the sprightly chord; yet nature, truth, Still warm the ingenuous heart: there is a blush With those most gay, and lovely; and a tear With those most manly!

Temperate Liberty 510 Hath yet the fairest altar on thy sh.o.r.es; Such, and so warm with patriot energy, As raised its arm when a false Stuart fled; Yet mingled with deep wisdom's cautious lore, That when it bade a Papal tyrant pause And tremble, held the undeviating reins On the fierce neck of headlong Anarchy.

Thy Church, (nor here let zealot bigotry, Vaunting, condemn all altars but its own), Thy Church, majestic, but not sumptuous, 520 Sober, but not austere, with lenity Tempering her fair pre-eminence, sustains Her liberal charities, yet decent state.

The tempest is abroad; the fearful sounds Of armament, and gathering tumult, fill The ear of anxious Europe. If, O G.o.d!

It is thy will, that in the storm of death, When we have lifted the brave sword in vain, We too should sink, sustain us in that hour!

Meantime be mine, in cheerful privacy, 530 To wait Thy will, not sanguine, nor depressed; In even course, nor splendid, nor obscure, To steal through life among my villagers!

The hum of the discordant crowd, the buzz Of faction, the poor fly that threads the air Self-pleased, the wasp that points its tiny sting Unfelt, pa.s.s by me like the idle wind That I regard not; while the Summer Sylph, That whispers through the laurels, wakes the thought Of quietude, and home-felt happiness, 540 And independence, in a land I love!

[114] Inscribed to William Sotheby, Esq.

[115] The last point of Cornwall.

[116] Dr Henry Bowles, on the medical staff sent to Gibraltar during the pestilential fever there.

[117] South coast of Portugal.

[118] An urn is erected to his memory in Bremhill Garden.

[119] aeolian harp.

[120] Simoom, Sameel, destructive winds in the deserts of Asia. See Bruce, &c.

[121] Air-pump.

[122] Fixed stars.

[123] So the Arabs say, speaking of the stupendous monuments in the deserts.

[124] t.i.tle of the Persian Emperor.

[125] Aurora Borealis.

[126] From Josephus.

[127] A curious effect of vision in the air from refraction, by which objects appear distinct, and as real, which are below the horizon. This often appears on the coast of Italy, and has been sometimes observed from our sh.o.r.es, where a line of the opposite coast appears.

[128] The Fata Morgana are all explained in books; the effect is ascribed to reflection and refraction, as one alone will not correspond with the effects. The time when they occur is not the evening; but the looming in our country is towards the evening.

[129] The Mirage: see Denon.

[130] Green spots in the desert.

[131] Wandsdike, on the Marlborough Downs, opposite.

THE HARP OF HOEL.[132]

It was a high and holy sight, 1 When Baldwin[133] and his train, With cross and crosier gleaming bright, Came chanting slow the solemn rite, To Gwentland's[134] pleasant plain.

High waved before, in crimson pride, 2 The banner of the Cross; The silver rood was then descried, While deacon youths, from side to side, The fuming censer toss.

The monks went two and two along, 3 And winding through the glade, Sang, as they pa.s.sed, a holy song, And harps and citterns, 'mid the throng, A mingled music made.

They ceased; when lifting high his hand, 4 The white-robed prelate cried: Arise, arise, at Christ's command, To fight for his name in the Holy Land, Where a Saviour lived and died!

With gloves of steel, and good broadsword, 5 And plumed helm of bra.s.s, Hoel, Landoga's youthful lord, To hear the father's holy word, Came riding to the pa.s.s.

More earnestly the prelate spake: 6 Oh, heed no earthly loss!

He who will friends and home forsake, Now let him kneel, and fearless take The sign of the Holy Cross.

Then many a maid her tresses rent, 7 And did her love implore: Oh, go not thou to banishment!

For me, and the pleasant vales of Gwent, Thou never wilt see more.

And many a mother, pale with fears, 8 Did kiss her infant son; Said, Who will s.h.i.+eld thy helpless years, Who dry thy widowed mother's tears, When thy brave father's gone?

G.o.d, with firm voice the prelate cried, 9 G.o.d will the orphan bless; Sustain the widow's heart, and guide Through the hard world, obscure and wild, The poor and fatherless.

Then might you see a shade o'ercast 10 Brave Hoel's ruddy hue, But soon the moment's thought is past:-- Hark, hark, 'tis the trumpet's stirring blast!

And he grasped his bow of yew.

Then might you see a moment's gloom 11 Sit in brave Hoel's eye: Make in the stranger's land my tomb, I follow thee, be it my doom, O CHRIST, to live or die!

No more he thought, though rich in fee, 12 Of any earthly loss, But lighting, on his bended knee, Said, Father, here I take from thee The sign of the Holy Cross.

I have a wife, to me more dear 13 Then is my own heart's blood; I have a child, (a starting tear, Which soon he dried, of love sincere, On his stern eyelid stood);

To them farewell! O G.o.d above, 14 Thine is the fate of war; But oh! reward Gwenlhian's[135] love, And may my son a comfort prove, When I am distant far!