WHEN breezes are soft and skies are fair, I steal an hour from study and care,
And hie me away to the woodland scene, Where wanders the stream with waters of green; As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink Had given their stain to the waters they drink: And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, Have named the stream from its own fair hue.
Yet pure its waters-its shallows are bright With coloured pebbles and sparkles of light- And clear the depths where its eddies play, And dimples deepen and whirl away;
And the plane-trees speckled arms overshoot The swifter current that mines its root,
Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,
Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone. Oh! loveliest there the spring days come, With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum;
The flowers of summer are fairest there, And freshest the breath of the summer air; And sweetest the golden autumn day
In silence and sunshine glides away.
Yet fair as thou art thou shun'st to glide, Beautiful stream! by the village side; But windest away from the haunts of men, To quiet valley and shaded glen ;
And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, Around thee are lonely, lovely, and still. Lonely-save when, by the rippling tides, From thicket to thicket the angler glides; Or the simpler comes with basket and book, For herbs of power on thy banks to look; Or haply some idle dreamer, like me, To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. Still save the chirp of birds that feed On the river cherry and seedy reed, And thy own wild music gushing out With mellow murmur and fairy shout, From dawn to the blush of another day, Like traveller singing along his way.
That fairy music I never hear,
Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, And mark them winding away from sight, Darkened with shade or flashing with lightWhile o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings
But I wish that fate had left me free
To wander these quiet haunts with thee- Till the eating cares of earth should depart And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; And envy thy stream, as it glides along, Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song.
Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, And mingle among the jostling crowd, Where the sons of earth are subtle and loud— I often come to this quiet place,
To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face,
And gaze upon thee in silent dream; For in thy lonely and lovely stream An image of that calm life appears That won my heart in my greener years.
On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale.
On thy fair bosom, waveless stream! The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star.
The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north wind, heave their foam
And curl around the dashing oar
As late the boatman hies him home.
How sweet, at set of sun, to view
The golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's side.
At midnight hour, as shines the moon A sheet of silver spreads below, And swift she cuts, at highest noon, Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.
On thy fair bosom, silver lake! O! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er.
MOUNTAIN,-who reignest o'er thine Alpine peers Transcendently, and from thy massive crown Of arrowy brightness dartest down thy beams Upon their lesser coronets,-all hail! Unto the soul in hallowed musing wrapt, Spirits in which creation's glorious forms Do shadow forth and speak the invisible, The etherial, the eternal thou dost shine With emblematic brightness. Those untrod And matchless domes, through many a weary league
Beyond the gazer, when the misty veil
Dies round them, start upon his dazzled sigh* In vastness almost tangible; thy smooth
And bold convexity of silent snows
Raised on the still and dark blue firmament!
Mountain,-thou image of eternity!— Oh, let not foreign feet, inquisitive, Swift in untrained aspirings, proudly tempt Thy searchless waste!-- What half-taught fortitude Can balance unperturbed above the clefts
Of yawning and unfathomable ice
That moat thee round; or wind the giddy ledge Of thy sheer granite! Hath he won his way, That young investigator? Yes; but now,
« ForrigeFortsæt » |