(Composed at Loch-Lomond.)
THOUGH joy attend thee orient at the birth
Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most
To watch thy course when daylight, fled from earth,
In the gray sky hath left his lingering ghost,
Perplexed, as if between a splendor lost
And splendor slowly mustering. Since the sun,
The absolute, the world-absorbing one,
Relinquished half his empire to the host,
Emboldened by thy guidance, holy star,
Holy as princely, who that looks on thee,
Touching, as now, in thy humility
The mountain borders of this seat of care,
Can question that thy countenance is bright,
Celestial Power! as much with love as light.
AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
A WINGED Goddess, clothed in vesture wrought
Of rainbow colors, – one whose port was bold,
Whose overburdened hand could scarcely hold
The glittering crowns and garlands which it brought,
Hovered in air above the far-famed spot.
She vanished, leaving prospect blank and cold
Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled
In dreary billows, wood, and meagre cot,
And monuments that soon must disappear;
Yet a dread local recompense we found ;
While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot zeal
Sank in our hearts, we felt as men should feel
With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near;
And horror breathing from the silent ground.*
* Yet in another poem on this subject, he says that "Carnage" is God's "daughter"! Such perilous inconsistency is there in playing with the edge-tools of theological metaphysics.
THE WORST PANGS OF SORROW.
SURPRISED by joy, impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport - oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind,
But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
DEATH CONQUERING AND DEATH CONQUERED.
METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapors from mine eyes did shroud, —
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on ; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our King, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave ! *
* I hope I am doing no injustice to Wordsworth. If so, the plenitude of his genius can afford it. But I have an impression of having met with this sonnet, or something very like it, before; I think, in Italian.
O THOU Sweet lark, who in the heaven so high
Twinkling thy wings, dost sing so joyfully,
I watch thee soaring with a deep delight,
And when at last I turn mine aching eye
That lags below thee in the infinite,
Still in my heart receive thy melody.
O thou sweet lark, that I had wings like thee!
Not for the joy it were in yon blue light
Upward to mount, and from my heavenly height
Gaze on the creeping multitude below;
But that I soon would wing my eager flight
To that loved home, where Fancy even now
Hath fled, and Hope looks onward through a tear,
Counting the weary hours that hold her here!
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