Which the slow-winning sea, in distant times,
Shall bare to unborn gazers.
Grow too fantastic for thy pensive thought,
Climb either swelling down, and gaze with joy
On the blue ocean, poured around the heights,
As it embraced the wonders of that shield
Which the vowed Friend of slain Patroclus wore,
To grace his fated valor; nor disdain
The quiet of the vale, though not endowed
With such luxurious beauty as the coast
Of Undercliff embosoms; - mid those lines
Of scanty foliage, thoughtful lanes and paths,
And cottage roofs, find shelter; the blue stream,
That with its brief vein almost threads the isle,
Flows blest with two gray towers, beneath whose shade
The village life sleeps trustfully, — whose rites
Touch the old weather-hardened fisher's heart
With childlike softness, and shall teach the boy
Who kneels, a sturdy grandson, at his side,
When his frail boat amidst the breakers pants,
To cast the anchor of a Christian hope
In an unrippled haven. Then rejoice,
That in remotest point of this sweet isle,
Which with fond mimicry combines each shape
Of the Great Land that, by the ancient bond
(Sea-parted once, and sea-united now),
Binds her in unity, a Spirit breathes
On cliff and tower and valley, by the side
Of cottage-fire, and the low grass-grown grave,
Of home on English earth, and home in heaven!
Thomas Noon Talfourd.
UEEN GUINEVERE had fled the court, and sat
There in the holy house at Almesbury
Weeping, none with her save a little maid,
A novice one low light betwixt them burned
Blurred by the creeping mist, for all abroad,
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full,
The white mist like a face-cloth to the face
Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still.
"You know me, then, that wicked one, who broke The vast design and purpose of the King. O shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls, Meek maidens, from the voices crying 'Shame.' I must not scorn myself: he loves me still. Let no one dream but that he loves me still. So let me, if you do not shudder at me Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you, Wear black and white, and be a nun like you, Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts, Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys, But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites; Pray and be prayed for, lie before your shrines, Do each low office of your holy house,
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole
To poor sick people, richer in His eyes
Who ransomed us, and haler too than I,
And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own,
And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer
The sombre close of that voluptuous day,
Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King."
She said: they took her to themselves; and she
Still hoping, fearing, "Is it yet too late?"
Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died,
Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life,
And for the power of ministration in her,
And likewise for the high rank she had borne,
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived
For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past
To where beyond these voices there is peace.
WRITTEN AT AMPTON, SUFFOLK.
ELCOME, stern Winter, though thy brows are
With no fresh flowers, and ditties none thou hast
But the wild music of the sweeping blast;
Welcome this chilly wind that snatches round
The brown leaves in quaint eddies; we have long
Panted in wearying heat; skies always bright,
And dull return of never-clouded light,
Sort not with hearts that gather food for song.
Rather, dear Winter, I would forth with thee,
Watching thee disattire the earth; and roam
On the bleak heaths that stretch about my home,
Till round the flat horizon I can see
The purple frost-belt; then to fireside-chair,
And sweetest labor of poetic care.
WRITTEN AT AMPTON, SUFFOLK, JANUARY, 1838.
NCE more I stray among this wilderness
Of ancient trees, and through the rustling fern, Golden and sere, brush forward; at each turn Meeting fresh avenues in winter dress
Of long gray moss, or yellow lichen bright;
While the long lines of intercepted shade,
Spread into distance through the turfy glade,
Checkered with rosy paths of evening light.
Here first I learned to tune my youthful thoughts
To themes of blessed import: woods and sky,
And waters, as they rushed or slumbered by,
For my poetic soul refreshment brought;
And now within me rise, unbidden long,
Fresh springs of life, fresh themes of earnest song.
E the proud Thames of trade the busy mart;
Arun, to thee will other praise belong :
Dear to the lover's and the mourner's heart,
And ever sacred to the sons of song.
Thy banks romantic hopeless Love shall seek,
Where o'er the rocks the mantling bind-weed flaunts;
And Sorrow's drooping form and faded cheek
Choose on thy willowed shore her lonely haunts.
Banks, which inspired thy Otway's plaintive strain!
Wilds, whose lorn echoes learned the deeper tone
Of Collins, powerful shade! yet once again
Another poet, Hayley, is thine own.
Thy classic stream again shall hear a lay
Bright as its waves and various as its way.
N thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn,
No glittering fanes or marble domes appear:
Yet shall the weeping muse thy course adorn,
And still to her thy rustic waves be dear.
For with the infant Otway lingering here
Of early woes she bade her votary dream,
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