Volume I Part 14 (1/2)
IV
Between the two white b.r.e.a.s.t.s of her we love, A dewy blus.h.i.+ng rose will sometimes spring; Thus Nonnenwerth like an enchanted thing Rises mid-stream the crystal depths above.
On either side the waters heave and swell, But all is calm within the little Isle; Content it is to give its holy smile, And bless with peace the lives that in it dwell.
Most dear on the dark gra.s.s beneath its bower Of kindred trees embracing branch and bough, To dream of fairy foot and sudden flower; Or haply with a twilight on the brow, To muse upon the legendary hour, And Roland's lonely love and Hildegard's sad vow.
V
Hark! how the bitter winter breezes blow Round the sharp rocks and o'er the half-lifted wave, While all the rocky woodland branches rave Shrill with the piercing cold, and every cave, Along the icy water-margin low, Rings bubbling with the whirling overflow; And sharp the echoes answer distant cries Of dawning daylight and the dim sunrise, And the gloom-coloured clouds that stain the skies With pictures of a warmth, and frozen glow Spread over endless fields of sheeted snow; And white untrodden mountains s.h.i.+ning cold, And m.u.f.fled footpaths winding thro' the wold, O'er which those wintry gusts cease not to howl and blow.
VI
Rare is the loveliness of slow decay!
With youth and beauty all must be desired, But 'tis the charm of things long past away, They leave, alone, the light they have inspired: The calmness of a picture; Memory now Is the sole life among the ruins grey, And like a phantom in fantastic play She wanders with rank weeds stuck on her brow, Over gra.s.s-hidden caves and turret-tops, Herself almost as tottering as they; While, to the steps of Time, her latest props Fall stone by stone, and in the Sun's hot ray All that remains stands up in rugged pride, And bridal vines drink in his juices on each side.
TO A NIGHTINGALE
O nightingale! how hast thou learnt The note of the nested dove?
While under thy bower the fern hangs burnt And no cloud hovers above!
Rich July has many a sky With splendour dim, that thou mightst hymn, And make rejoice with thy wondrous voice, And the thrill of thy wild pervading tone!
But instead of to woo, thou hast learnt to coo: Thy song is mute at the mellowing fruit, And the dirge of the flowers is sung by the hours In silence and twilight alone.
O nightingale! 'tis this, 'tis this That makes thee mock the dove!
That thou hast past thy marriage bliss, To know a parent's love.
The waves of fern may fade and burn, The gra.s.ses may fall, the flowers and all, And the pine-smells o'er the oak dells Float on their drowsy and odorous wings, But thou wilt do nothing but coo, Br.i.m.m.i.n.g the nest with thy brooding breast, 'Midst that young throng of future song, Round whom the Future sings!
INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY
Now 'tis Spring on wood and wold, Early Spring that s.h.i.+vers with cold, But gladdens, and gathers, day by day, A lovelier hue, a warmer ray, A sweeter song, a dearer ditty; Ouzel and throstle, new-mated and gay, Singing their bridals on every spray - Oh, hear them, deep in the songless City!
Cast off the yoke of toil and smoke, As Spring is casting winter's grey, As serpents cast their skins away: And come, for the Country awaits thee with pity And longs to bathe thee in her delight, And take a new joy in thy kindling sight; And I no less, by day and night, Long for thy coming, and watch for, and wait thee, And wonder what duties can thus berate thee.
Dry-fruited firs are dropping their cones, And vista'd avenues of pines Take richer green, give fresher tones, As morn after morn the glad sun s.h.i.+nes.
Primrose tufts peep over the brooks, Fair faces amid moist decay!
The rivulets run with the dead leaves at play, The leafless elms are alive with the rooks.
Over the meadows the cowslips are springing, The marshes are thick with king-cup gold, Clear is the cry of the lambs in the fold, The skylark is singing, and singing, and singing.