THE JUNG-FRAU AND THE FALL OF THE RHINE NEAR SCHAFFHAUSEN.
THE Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen A brilliant crown of everlasting snow, Sheds ruin from her sides; and men below Wonder that aught of aspect so serene Can link with desolation. Smooth and green, And seeming, at a little distance, slow, The waters of the Rhine; but on they go Fretting and whitening, keener and more keen; Till madness seizes on the whole wide Flood, Turned to a fearful Thing whose nostrils breathe Blasts of tempestuous smoke-wherewith he tries To hide himself, but only magnifies;
And doth in more conspicuous torment writhe, Deafening the region in his ireful mood.
TROUBLES OF CHARLES THE FIRST.
EVEN such the contrast that, where'er we move, To the mind's eye Religion doth present; Now with her own deep quietness content; Then, like the mountain, thundering from above
Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove
And the Land's humblest comforts. Now her mood Recals the transformation of the flood,
Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove,; Earth cannot check. O terrible excess Of headstrong will! Can this be Piety? No-some fierce Maniac hath usurped her name; And scourges England struggling to be free: Her peace destroyed! her hopes a wilderness! Her blessings cursed-her glory turned to shame!
PREJUDGED by foes determined not to spare, An old weak Man for vengeance thrown aside, Laud, 'in the painful art of dying' tried, (Like a poor bird entangled in a snare
Whose heart still flutters, though his wings forbear To stir in useless struggle) hath relied
On hope that conscious innocence supplied, And in his prison breathes celestial air.
Why tarries then thy chariot ? Wherefore stay, O Death! the ensanguined yet triumphant wheels, Which thou prepar'st, full often, to convey (What time a State with madding faction reels) The Saint or Patriot to the world that heals All wounds, all perturbations doth allay ?
HARP! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest string, The faintest note to echo which the blast Caught from the hand of Moses as it passed O'er Sinai's top, or from the Shepherd-king, Early awake, by Siloa's brook, to sing
Of dread Jehovah; then, should wood and waste Hear also of that name, and mercy cast Off to the mountains, like a covering Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, Weep with the good, beholding King and Priest Despised by that stern God to whom they raise Their suppliant hands; but holy is the feast He keepeth; like the firmament his ways: His statutes like the chambers of the deep.
FROM THE RESTORATION TO THE PRESENT TIMES.
[WHEN I came to this part of the series I had the dream described in this Sonnet. The figure was that of my daughter, and the whole passed exactly as here represented. The Sonnet was composed on the middle road leading from Grasmere to Ambleside it was begun as I left the last house of the vale, and finished, word for word as it now stands, before I came in view of Rydal. I wish I could say the same of the five or six hundred I have written: most of them were frequently retouched in the course of composition, and, not a few, laboriously.
I have only further to observe that the intended Church which prompted these Sonnets was erected on Coleorton Moor towards the centre of a very populous parish between three and four miles from Ashby-de-la-Zouch, on the road to Loughborough, and has proved, I believe, a great benefit to the neighbourhood.]
I SAW the figure of a lovely Maid
Seated alone beneath a darksome tree, Whose fondly-overhanging canopy
Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade. No Spirit was she; that my heart betrayed, For she was one I loved exceedingly;
But while I gazed in tender reverie
(Or was it sleep that with my Fancy played ?) The bright corporeal presence-form and face- Remaining still distinct grew thin and rare, Like sunny mist;-at length the golden hair, Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, keeping pace Each with the other in a lingering race Of dissolution, melted into air.
LAST night, without a voice, that Vision spake Fear to my Soul, and sadness which might seem Wholly dissevered from our present theme; Yet, my beloved Country! I partake Of kindred agitations for thy sake;
Thou, too, dost visit oft my midnight dream; Thy glory meets me with the earliest beam Of light, which tells that Morning is awake. If aught impair thy beauty or destroy, Or but forebode destruction, I deplore With filial love the sad vicissitude;
If thou hast fallen, and righteous Heaven restore The prostrate, then my spring-time is renewed, And sorrow bartered for exceeding joy.
WHO comes-with rapture greeted, and caressed With frantic love-his kingdom to regain?
Him Virtue's Nurse, Adversity, in vain Received, and fostered in her iron breast:
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