Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

EMONT (EAMONT), THE RIVER.
These only, twin-archangels, stand

Above the abyss of common doom,
These only stretch the tender hand

To us descending to the tomb,
Thus making it a bed of rest
With spices and with odors drest.

So, like one weary and worn, who sinks
To sleep beneath long faithful eyes,
Who asks no word of love, but drinks
The silence which is paradise,
We only cry, "Keep angelward,

And give us good rest, O good Lord!"

233

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

Emont (Eamont), the River.

MONASTIC RUINS.

THE varied banks

Of Emont, hitherto unnamed in song,
And that monastic castle, mid tall trees,
Low standing by the margin of the stream,
A mansion visited (as fame reports)
By Sidney, where, in sight of our Helvellyn,
Or stormy Cross-fell, snatches he might pen
Of his Arcadia, by fraternal love

Inspired, that river and those mouldering towers Have seen us side by side, when, having clomb

The darksome windings of a broken stair,
And crept along a ridge of fractured wall,
Not without trembling, we in safety looked
Forth, through some Gothic window's open space,
And gathered with one mind a rich reward
From the far-stretching landscape, by the light
Of morning beautified, or purple eve;

Or, not less pleased, lay on some turret's head,
Catching from tufts of grass and hare-bell flowers
Their faintest whisper to the passing breeze,
Given out while midday heat oppressed the plains.

William Wordsworth.

Esthwaite.

LINES

LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.

[AY, traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands

NAY,

Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? What if the bee love not these barren boughs? Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

Who he was That piled these stones and with the mossy sod

First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree
With its dark arms to form a circling bower,
I well remember. He was one who owned

No common soul. In youth by science nursed,
And led by nature into a wild scene

Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth
A favored being, knowing no desire

Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, against all enemies prepared,

All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service; wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself away,

And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude. Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath
And juniper and thistle sprinkled o'er,
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life;

And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene,

[ocr errors]

- how lovely 't is

Thou seest! — and he would gaze till it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time
When Nature had subdued him to herself,

Would he forget those beings to whose minds,
Warm from the labors of benevolence,

The world and human life appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness; then he would sigh,
With mournful joy, to think that others felt
What he must never feel; and so, lost man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,

Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died, this seat his only monument.

If thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure,

Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,

Is littleness, that he who feels contempt
For any living thing hath faculties

Which he has never used, that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye

Is ever on himself doth look on one

The least of nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds

Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser, thou!

Instructed that true knowledge leads to love;
True dignity abides with him alone

Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.

William Wordsworth.

Eton.

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

E distant spires, ye antique towers,

YE

That crown the watery glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights the expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain!

Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow

A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race

Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace;

« AnteriorContinuar »