Above the ivies" branchlets gray In glistening cl.u.s.ters shone; While round the base the gra.s.s-blades bright And spiry foxglove sprung.
The brambles clung in graceful bands, Chequering the old gray stone With shining leaflets, whose bright face In autumn"s tinting shone.
Around the fountain"s eastern base A babbling brooklet sped, With sleepy murmur purling soft Adown its gravelly bed.
Within the cell the filmy ferns To woo the clear wave bent; And cushioned mosses to the stone Their quaint embroidery lent.
The fountain"s face lay still as gla.s.s-- Save where the streamlet free Across the basin"s gnarled lip Flowed ever silently.
Above the well a little nook Once held, as rustics tell, All garland-decked, an image of The Lady of the Well.
They tell of tales of mystery, Of darkling deeds of woe; But no! such doings might not brook The holy streamlet"s flow.
Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts, Of melancholy dreams, By that fair fount whose sunny wall Basks in the western beams.
When last I saw that little stream, A form of light there stood, That seemed like a precious gem, Beneath that archway rude:
And as I gazed with love and awe Upon that sylph-like thing, Methought that airy form must be The fairy of the spring.
Helston, 1835.
IN AN ILLUMINATED MISSAL {216}
I would have loved: there are no mates in heaven; I would be great: there is no pride in heaven; I would have sung, as doth the nightingale The summer"s night beneath the moone pale, But Saintes hymnes alone in heaven prevail.
My love, my song, my skill, my high intent, Have I within this seely book y-pent: And all that beauty which from every part I treasured still alway within mine heart, Whether of form or face angelical, Or herb or flower, or lofty cathedral, Upon these sheets below doth lie y-spred, In quaint devices deftly blazoned.
Lord, in this tome to thee I sanctify The sinful fruits of worldly fantasy.
1839.
THE WEIRD LADY
The swevens came up round Harold the Earl, Like motes in the sunnes beam; And over him stood the Weird Lady, In her charmed castle over the sea, Sang "Lie thou still and dream."
"Thy steed is dead in his stall, Earl Harold, Since thou hast been with me; The rust has eaten thy harness bright, And the rats have eaten thy greyhound light, That was so fair and free."
Mary Mother she stooped from heaven; She wakened Earl Harold out of his sweven, To don his harness on; And over the land and over the sea He wended abroad to his own countrie, A weary way to gon.
Oh but his beard was white with eld, Oh but his hair was gray; He stumbled on by stock and stone, And as he journeyed he made his moan Along that weary way.
Earl Harold came to his castle wall; The gate was burnt with fire; Roof and rafter were fallen down, The folk were strangers all in the town, And strangers all in the shire.
Earl Harold came to a house of nuns, And he heard the dead-bell toll; He saw the s.e.xton stand by a grave; "Now Christ have mercy, who did us save, Upon yon fair nun"s soul."
The nuns they came from the convent gate By one, by two, by three; They sang for the soul of a lady bright Who died for the love of a traitor knight: It was his own lady.
He stayed the corpse beside the grave; "A sign, a sign!" quod he.
"Mary Mother who rulest heaven, Send me a sign if I be forgiven By the woman who so loved me."
A white dove out of the coffin flew; Earl Harold"s mouth it kist; He fell on his face, wherever he stood; And the white dove carried his soul to G.o.d Or ever the bearers wist.
Durham, 1840.
PALINODIA
Ye mountains, on whose torrent-furrowed slopes, And bare and silent brows uplift to heaven, I envied oft the soul which fills your wastes Of pure and stern sublime, and still expanse Unbroken by the petty incidents Of noisy life: Oh hear me once again!
Winds, upon whose racked eddies, far aloft, Above the murmur of the uneasy world, My thoughts in exultation held their way: Whose tremulous whispers through the rustling glade Were once to me unearthly tones of love, Joy without object, wordless music, stealing Through all my soul, until my pulse beat fast With aimless hope, and unexpressed desire-- Thou sea, who wast to me a prophet deep Through all thy restless waves, and wasting sh.o.r.es, Of silent labour, and eternal change; First teacher of the dense immensity Of ever-stirring life, in thy strange forms Of fish, and sh.e.l.l, and worm, and oozy weed: To me alike thy frenzy and thy sleep Have been a deep and breathless joy: Oh hear!
Mountains, and winds, and waves, take back your child!
Upon thy balmy bosom, Mother Nature, Where my young spirit dreamt its years away, Give me once more to nestle: I have strayed Far through another world, which is not thine.
Through sunless cities, and the weary haunts Of smoke-grimed labour, and foul revelry My flagging wing has swept. A mateless bird"s My pilgrimage has been; through sin, and doubt, And darkness, seeking love. Oh hear me, Nature!
Receive me once again: but not alone; No more alone, Great Mother! I have brought One who has wandered, yet not sinned, like me.
Upon thy lap, twin children, let us lie; And in the light of thine immortal eyes Let our souls mingle, till The Father calls To some eternal home the charge He gives thee.
Cambridge, 1841.
A HOPE
Twin stars, aloft in ether clear, Around each other roll alway, Within one common atmosphere Of their own mutual light and day.
And myriad happy eyes are bent Upon their changeless love alway; As, strengthened by their one intent, They pour the flood of life and day.
So we through this world"s waning night May, hand in hand, pursue our way; Shed round us order, love, and light, And shine unto the perfect day.
1842.
THE POETRY OF A ROOT CROP
Underneath their eider-robe Russet swede and golden globe, Feathered carrot, burrowing deep, Steadfast wait in charmed sleep; Treasure-houses wherein lie, Locked by angels" alchemy, Milk and hair, and blood, and bone, Children of the barren stone; Children of the flaming Air, With his blue eye keen and bare, Spirit-peopled smiling down On frozen field and toiling town-- Toiling town that will not heed G.o.d His voice for rage and greed; Frozen fields that surpliced lie, Gazing patient at the sky; Like some marble carven nun, With folded hands when work is done, Who mute upon her tomb doth pray, Till the resurrection day.