THE lingering lustre of a vernal day
From the dim landscape slowly steals away;
One lovely hour!—and then the stars of Even
Will sparkling hail the apparent Queen of Heaven;
For the tired Sun, now softly sinking down,
To his fair daughter leaves his silent throne.
Almost could I believe with life imbued,
And hushed in dreams, this gentle solitude.
Look where I may, a tranquillising soul
Breathes forth a life-like pleasure o'er the whole.
The shadows settling on the mountain's breast
Recline, as conscious of the hour of rest;
Steadfast as objects in a peaceful dream;
The sleepy trees are bending o'er the stream;
The stream, half veiled in snowy vapour, flows
With sound like silence, motion like repose,
My heart obeys the power of earth and sky,
And 'mid the quiet slumbers quietly!
A wreath of smoke, that feels no breath of air, Melts amid yon fair clouds, itself as fair, And seems to link in beauteousness and love That earthly cottage to the domes above. There my heart rests, as if by magic bound: Blessings be on that plat of orchard-ground! Wreathed round the dwelling like a fairy ring, Its green leaves lost in richest blossoming. Within that ring no creature seems alive; The bees have ceased to hum around the hive; On the tall ash the rooks have roosted long, And the fond dove hath cooed his latest song: Now, shrouded close beneath the holly-bush, Sits on her low-built nest the sleeping thrush,
All do not sleep: behold a spotless lamb
Looks bleating round, as if it sought its dam.
Its restless motion and its piteous moan
Tell that it fears all night to rest alone,
Though heaven's most gracious dew descends in peace
Softly as snow-flakes on its radiant fleece.
That mournful bleat hath touched the watchful ear Of one to whom the little lamb is dear,
As innocent and lovely as itself!
See where with springs she comes, the smiling elf!
Well does the lamb her infant guardian know:
Joy brightening dances o'er her breast of snow,
And light as flying leaf, with sudden glide,
Fondly she presses to the maiden's side.
With kindness quieting its late alarms,
The sweet child folds it in her nursing arms;
And calling it by every gentle name
That happy innocence through love can frame;
With tenderest kisses lavished on its head,
Conducts it frisking to its sheltered bed.
Kind-hearted infant! be thy slumbers bland!
Dream that thy sportive lambkin licks thy hand,
Or, wearied out by races short and fleet,
Basks in the sunshine, resting on thy feet;
That waking from repose, unbroken, deep,
Thou scarce shalt know that thou hast been asleep!
With eyelids trembling through thy golden hair,
I hear thee lisping low thy nightly prayer.
O sweetest voice! what beauty breathes therein !
Ne'er hath its music been impaired by sin.
In all its depths my soul shall carry hence
The air serene born of thy innocence.
To me most awful is thy hour of rest,
For little children sleep in Jesus' breast!
THOU guardian Naiad of this little Lake,
Whose banks in unprofanèd Nature sleep,
(And that in waters lone and beautiful
Dwell spirits radiant as the homes they love,
Have poets still believed), O surely blest
Beyond all genii or of wood or wave,
Or sylphs that in the shooting sunbeams dwell,
Art thou! yea, happier even than summer-cloud
Beloved by air and sky, and floating slow
O'er the still bosom of upholding heaven.
Beauteous as blest, O Naiad, thou must be! For, since thy birth, have all delightful things, Of form and hue, of silence and of sound, Circled thy spirit, as the crowding stars Shine round the placid Moon. Lov'st thou to sink Into thy cell of sleep? The water parts With dimpling smiles around thee, and below, The unsunned verdure, soft as cygnet's down, Meets thy descending feet without a sound. Lov'st thou to sport upon the watery gleam? Lucid as air around thy head it lies Bathing thy sable locks in pearly light, While, all around, the water-lilies strive To shower their blossoms o'er the virgin queen. Or doth the shore allure thee?-well it may : How soft these fields of pastoral beauty melt In the clear water! neither sand nor stone Bars herb or wild-flower from the dewy sound, Like Spring's own voice now rippling round the Tarn. There oft thou liest 'mid the echoing bleat Of lambs, that race amid the sunny gleams; Or bee's wide murmur as it fills the broom That yellows round thy bed. O gentle glades, Amid the tremulous verdure of the woods,
In steadfast smiles of more essential light,
Lying like azure streaks of placid sky
Amid the moving clouds, the Naiad loves
Your glimmering alleys, and your rustling bowers;
For there, in peace reclined, her half-closed eye
Through the long vista sees her darling Lake,
Even like herself, diffused in fair repose.
Not undelightful to the quiet breast
Such solitary dreams as now have filled
My busy fancy; dreams that rise in peace,
And thither lead, partaking in their flight
Of human interests and earthly joys.
Imagination fondly leans on truth,
And sober scenes of dim reality
To her seem lovely as the western sky,
To the rapt Persian worshipping the sun.
Methinks this little lake, to whom my heart
Assigned a guardian spirit, renders back
To me, in tenderest gleams of gratitude,
Profounder beauty to reward my hymn.
Long hast thou been a darling haunt of mine,
And still warm blessings gushed into my heart,
Meeting or parting with thy smiles of peace.
But now, thy mild and gentle character,
More deeply felt than ever, seems to blend
Its essence pure with mine, like some sweet tune
Oft heard before with pleasure, but at last,
In one high moment of inspirèd bliss,
Borne through the spirit like an angel's song.
This is the solitude that reason loves! Even he who yearns for human sympathies, And hears a music in the breath of man, Dearer than voice of mountain or of flood,
Might live a hermit here, and mark the sun
Rising or setting 'mid the beauteous calm,
Devoutly blending in his happy soul
Thoughts both of earth and heaven !-Yon mountain-side, Rejoicing in its clustering cottages,
Appears to me a paradise preserved
From guilt by Nature's hand, and every wreath
Of smoke, that from these hamlets mounts to heaven,
In its straight silence holy as a spire
Reared o'er the house of God.
Thy sanctity
Time yet hath reverenced; and I deeply feel
That innocence her shrine shall here preserve
For ever. The wild vale that lies beyond,
Circled by mountains trod but by the feet
Of venturous shepherd, from all visitants,
Save the free tempests and the fowls of heaven,
Guards thee;-and wooded knolls fantastical
Seclude thy image from the gentler dale,
That by the Brathay's often-varied voice
Cheered as it winds along, in beauty fades
'Mid the green banks of joyful Windermere !
O gentlest Lake! from all unhallowed things
By grandeur guarded in thy loveliness,
Ne'er may thy poet with unwelcome feet
Press thy soft moss embathed in flowery dies,
And shadowed in thy stillness like the heavens.
May innocence for ever lead me here,
To form amid the silence high resolves
For future life; resolves that, born in peace,
Shall live 'mid tumult, and though haply mild
As infants in their play, when brought to bear
On the world's business, shall assert their power
And majesty and lead me boldly on,
Like giants conquering in a noble cause.
This is a holy faith, and full of cheer
To all who worship Nature, that the hours,
Passed tranquilly with her, fade not away
For ever like the clouds, but in the soul
Possess a secret silent dwelling-place,
Where with a smiling visage memory sits,
And startles oft the virtuous, with a show
Of unsuspected treasures. Yea, sweet Lake!
Oft hast thou borne into my grateful heart
Thy lovely presence, with a thousand dreams
Dancing and brightening o'er thy sunny wave,
Though many a dreary mile of mist and snow
Between us interposed. And even now,
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