THE CONVICT.
The glory of evening was spread through the west; --On the slope of a mountain I stood; While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest Rang loud through the meadow and wood.
"And must we then part from a dwelling so fair?"
In the pain of my spirit I said, And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair To the cell where the convict is laid.
The thick-ribbed walls that o"ershadow the gate Resound; and the dungeons unfold: I pause; and at length, through the glimmering grate, That outcast of pity behold.
His black matted head on his shoulder is bent, And deep is the sigh of his breath, And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent On the fetters that link him to death.
"Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze.
That body dismiss"d from his care; Yet my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pourtrays More terrible images there.
His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried, With wishes the past to undo; And his crime, through the pains that o"erwhelm him, descried, Still blackens and grows on his view.
When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking field, To his chamber the monarch is led, All soothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield, And quietness pillow his head.
But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze, And conscience her tortures appease, "Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose; In the comfortless vault of disease.
When his fetters at night have so press"d on his limbs, That the weight can no longer be borne, If, while a half-slumber his memory bedims, The wretch on his pallet should turn,
While the jail-mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain, From the roots of his hair there shall start A thousand sharp punctures of cold-sweating pain, And terror shall leap at his heart.
But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye, And the motion unsettles a tear; The silence of sorrow it seems to supply, And asks of me why I am here.
"Poor victim! no idle intruder has stood "With o"erweening complacence our state to compare, "But one, whose first wish is the wish to be good, "Is come as a brother thy sorrows to share.
"At thy name though compa.s.sion her nature resign, "Though in virtue"s proud mouth thy report be a stain, "My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine, "Would plant thee where yet thou might"st blossom again."
LINES WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, July 13, 1798.
Five years have pa.s.sed; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a sweet inland murmur.[4]--Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 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 wreathes of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among 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 owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, And pa.s.sing even into my purer mind With tranquil restoration:--feelings too Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, As 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 owed 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 lighten"d:--that serene and blessed mood, In which the 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.
If this 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 turned to thee O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods, How often has my spirit turned 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 Though 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 loved. For nature then (The coa.r.s.er pleasures 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 pa.s.sion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appet.i.te: a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed 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 followed, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned 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 interfused, 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 all 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,[5]
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.
Nor, perchance, 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 in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; "tis her privilege, Through 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, nor 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 chearful 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 matured 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, 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 wanderings, 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.
[4] The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern.
[5] This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young, the exact expression of which I cannot recollect.
END.