These plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts,
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Among the woods and copses lose themselves;
Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedge rows, hardly hedge rows, little lines,
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,
And the low copses-coming from the trees
With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.
Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have ow'd to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration :-feelings, too,
Of unremember'd pleasure; such, perhaps,
may have had no trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life;
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have ow'd another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lightened that serene and blessed mood,
In which th' affections gently lead us on,
Until the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul;
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
Be but a vain belief; yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless day-light, when the fretful stir,
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turn'd to thee,
O Sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods,
How often has my spirit turn'd to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts,
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Tho' changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first
I came among these hills; when, like a roe,
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led; more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he lov'd. For nature then
(The coarser pleasure of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by,)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrow'd from the eye. That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur: other gifts
Have follow'd, for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learn'd
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Not harsh, nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfus'd,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and, in the mind of man,
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye
and ear, both what they half-create*,
And what perceive; well pleas'd to recognize,
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardiau of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay;
For thou art with me, here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend,
My dear, dear, friend, and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold thee what I was once,
My dear, dear sister! and this pray'r I make,
Knowing that nature never did betray
The heart that lov'd her; 'tis her privilege,
Thro' all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, or the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee; and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matur'd
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, ›
*This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young, the exact
expression of which I do not recollect.
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together, and that I, so long
A worshipper of nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service; rather say,
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That, after many wand'rings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.
Written on a Visit to Stowe, the Seat of the MARQUIS of BUCKINGHam, in 1801. By E. N. Esq. (Never published.)
HO' Stowe, long known as classic ground, contains
A splendid palace, 'midst its vast domains;
Its owner's grateful friends can only find
A scat just suited to his lib'ral mind;
Where bounteous nature trac'd the great outline,
And choicest culture fill'd up the design.
Account of Books for the Year 1803.
ters, Camden, Usher, and Ware, had turned the attention of the learned to the ancient annals of Ireland, as to a fund of interesting knowledge respecting the religion, laws, government, manners, lan. guage, and general history of a people, who were supposed to have retained distinctions in all these matters, long after their neighbours had, in most of those points, been amalgamated to a certain extent. The references made by these writers to Irish documents, had induced the literati of Europe, and more particularly those of the British isles, who
* Although it vary from our usual mode to review an article yet unpublished, we are confident, that, in the present deviation from an established rule, our readers will acknowledge, that it has been “more honoured in the breach than in the observance." By a reference to page 820 of our last vol. it will be found, in an original letter of the illustrious Burke's (there preserved) to col. Valancey, that he earnestly expresses himself on the subject of what yet remains of the antient literature of Ireland, in the following terms:-" Will you pardon me for reminding you of what I once before took the liberty to mention; my earnest wish that some of the antient Irish historical monuments should be published as they stand, with a translation in Latin or English. Until something of this kind be done, criticism can have no secure anchorage. How should we be enabled to judge of histories, or historical discussion on English affairs, where references are had to Bede, to the Saxon Chronicle, to Ingulphus, and the rest, whilst those authors lurked in libraries, or what is worse, lay in the hands of individuals?" A little farther he adds, "There is no doubt of a subscription sufficient to pay the expence the ability to undertake it has been found: But if any acci dent should happen to you and to Mr. O'Conor, what security have we that any other like you should start up?"
|