POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION.
THERE WAS A BOY.
THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander!—many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rang or setting, would he stand alone, Beath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Hey mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him.-And they would shout Are the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call,-with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Roccabled and redoubled; concourse wild Of and din! And, when there came a pause Ofence such as baffled his best skill:
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Lastening, a gentle shock of mild surprise fias carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene World enter unawares into his mind
Wall its solemn imagery, its rocks,
In woods, and that uncertain heaven received Is the bosom of the steady lake.
The boy was taken from his mates, and died la muihood, ere he was full twelve years old. Pent in beauty is the vale
Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs [pm a slope above the village-school;
And, through that church-yard when my way has led O zamer-evenings, I believe, that there Ang half-hour together I have stood X-looking at the grave in which he lies!
TO THE CUCKOO.
O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
I bear thee and rejoice.
0 Cuckoo shall I call thee Bird,
Or bat a wandering Voice!
With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground-from rock, plant, tree, or
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary Tree! a living thing
Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Asunder, and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!-the wind is in the tree, But they are silent;-still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
Nor a breath of air
Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen.
From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees Are stedfast as the rocks; the brook itself,
Old as the hills that feed it from afar, Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm Where all things else are still and motionless. And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without, Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt, But to its gentle touch how sensitive
Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs,
Powerful almost as vocal harmony
Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane ;—a pillared shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially-beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked With unrejoicing berries-ghostly Shapes May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton And Time the Shadow;-there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.
A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,
To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his thoughts. Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore: Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal Dame
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,-and, in truth, More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,
A virgin scene!-A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Valuptaons, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet ;-or beneath the trees I sate
Ang the flowers, and with the flowers I played; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And-with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep- I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
Lad dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash
And merciless ravage and the shady nook
Of bands, and the green and mossy bower, man as Defamed and sullied, patiently gave up the ravage, The quiet being: and, unless I now intruder Cand my present feelings with the past; Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The ant trees, and saw the intruding sky.— Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades la gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Tourh-for there is a spirit in the woods.
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light- Were all like workings of one mind, the features Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, Characters of the great Apocalypse, The types and symbols of Eternity, Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.
SHE was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art A creature of a 'fiery heart' :- These notes of thine-they pierce and pierce; Tumultuous harmony and fierce! Thou sing'st as if the God of wine Had helped thee to a Valentine;
My fash upon that inward eye
is the bliss of solitude;
dad en my heart with pleasure fills,
And cances with the daffodils.
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
It the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Has a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Paz Suan has passed by the spot, and has heard sience of morning the song of the Bird.
note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees Atain ascending, a vision of trees;
As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
So He, where he stands, is a centre of light; It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack, And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.
That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in hasteWhat matter! he's caught-and his time runs to waste;
The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret;
And the half-breathless Lamplighter-he's in the net!
The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore; The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ;If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease; She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees!
Orge volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, He stands, backed by the wall;—he abates not his
Avrbes' an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold, Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch; like a
At the to herself all the wonders of old ;
the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same set that from Oxford hath borrowed its
That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!
That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound, While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound.
Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream; Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream: They are deaf to your murmurs-they care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!
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