Part 8 (1/2)

O! wildest cottage of the wild!

I see thee waking from thy breathless sleep!

Scarcely distinguish'd from the rocky steep, High o'er thy roof in forms fantastic piled.

More beauteous art thou than of yore, With joy all glistering after sorrow's gloom; And they who in that paradise abide, By sadness and misfortune beautified, There brighter walk than o'er yon island-sh.o.r.e, As loveliness wakes lovelier from the tomb.

Long mayst thou stand in sun and dew, And spring thy faded flowers renew, Unharm'd by frost or blight!

Without, the wonder of each eye, Within, as happy as the sky, Encompa.s.s'd with delight.

--May thy old-age be calm and bright, Thou grey-hair'd one!--like some sweet night Of winter, cold, but clear, and s.h.i.+ning far Through mists, with many a melancholy star.

--O fairy child! what can I wish for thee?

Like a perennial flow'ret mayst thou be, That spends its life in beauty and in bliss!

Soft on thee fall the breath of time, And still retain in heavenly clime The bloom that charm'd in this!

O, happy Parents of so sweet a child, Your share of grief already have you known; But long as that fair spirit is your own, To either lot you must be reconciled.

Dear was she in yon palmy grove, When fear and sorrow mingled with your love, And oft you wished that she had ne'er been born; While, in the most delightful air Th' angelic infant sang, at times her voice, That seem'd to make even lifeless things rejoice, Woke, on a sudden, dreams of dim despair, As if it breathed, ”For me, an Orphan, mourn!”

Now can they listen when she sings With mournful voice of mournful things, Almost too sad to hear; And when she chaunts her evening-hymn, Glad smile their eyes, even as they swim With many a gus.h.i.+ng tear.

Each day she seems to them more bright And beautiful,--a gleam of light That plays and dances o'er the shadowy earth!

It fadeth not in gloom or storm,-- For Nature charter'd that aerial form In yonder fair Isle when she bless'd her birth!

The Isle of Palms! whose forests tower again, Darkening with solemn shade the face of heaven.

Now far away they like the clouds are driven, And as the pa.s.sing night-wind dies my strain!

END OF THE ISLE OF PALMS.

THE ANGLER'S TENT.

_The moving accident is not my trade, To curl the blood I have no ready arts; 'Tis my delight alone in summer-shade, To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts._

WORDSWORTH.

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

The following Poem is the narrative of one day, the pleasantest of many pleasant ones, of a little Angling-excursion made three summers ago among the mountains of Westmoreland, Lancas.h.i.+re, and c.u.mberland. A tent, large panniers filled with its furniture, with provisions, &c. were loaded upon horses, and while the anglers, who separated every morning, pursued each his own sport up the torrents, were carried over the mountains to the appointed place by some lake or stream, where they were to meet again in the evening.

In this manner they visited all the wildest and most secluded scenes of the country. On the first Sunday they pa.s.sed among the hills, their tent was pitched on the banks of Wast-Water, at the head of that wild and solitary lake, which they had reached by the mountain-path that pa.s.ses Barn-Moor Tarn from Eskdale. Towards evening the inhabitants of the valley, not exceeding half a dozen families, with some too from the neighbouring glens, drawn by the unusual appearance, came to visit the strangers in their tent.

Without, the evening was calm and beautiful; within, were the gaiety and kindness of simple mirth. At a late hour, their guests departed under a most refulgent moon that lighted them up the surrounding mountains, on which they turned to hail with long-continued shouts and songs the blazing of a huge fire, that was hastily kindled at the door of the tent to bid them a distant farewell.

The images and feelings of these few happy days, and above all, of that delightful evening, the author wished to preserve in poetry. What he has written, while it serves to himself and his friends as a record of past happiness, may, he hopes, without impropriety be offered to the public, since, if at all faithful to its subject, it will have some interest to those who delight in the wilder scenes of Nature, and who have studied with respect and love the character of their simple inhabitants.

THE ANGLER'S TENT.

The hush of bliss was on the sunny hills, The clouds were sleeping on the silent sky, We travelled in the midst of melody Warbled around us from the mountain-rills.

The voice was like the glad voice of a friend Murmuring a welcome to his happy home; We felt its kindness with our spirits blend, And said, ”This day no farther will we roam!”

The coldest heart that ever looked on heaven, Had surely felt the beauty of that day, And, as he paused, a gentle blessing given To the sweet scene that tempted him to stay.

But we, who travelled through that region bright, Were joyful pilgrims under Nature's care, From youth had loved the dreams of pure delight, Descending on us through the lonely air, When Heaven is clothed with smiles, and Earth as Heaven is fair!

Seven lovely days had like a happy dream Died in our spirits silently away, Since Gra.s.smere, waking to the morning ray, Met our last lingering look with farewell gleam.

I may not tell what joy our beings filled, Wand'ring like shadows over plain and steep, What beauteous visions lonely souls can build When 'mid the mountain solitude they sleep.

I may not tell how the deep power of sound Can back to life long-faded dreams recall, When lying mid the noise that lives around Through the hush'd spirit flows a waterfall.

To thee, my WORDSWORTH![1] whose inspired song Comes forth in pomp from Nature's inner shrine, To thee by birth-right such high themes belong, The unseen grandeur of the earth is thine!

One lowlier simple strain of human love be mine.