WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE HARTZ FOREST.
I STOOD on Brocken's1 sovran height, and saw Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore, Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard, The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound; And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly, Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on In low and languid mood: for I had found
'The highest mountain in the Hartz, and indeed in North Germany.
From some high eminence on goodly vales,
And cots and villages embowered below,
The thought would rise that all to me was strange Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot
Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home.
Southey's Hymn to the Penates.
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive Their finer influence from the Life within ;- Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import vague Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds History or prophecy of friend, or child, Or gentle maid, our first and early love, Or father, or the venerable name Of our adored country! O thou Queen, Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
O dear, dear England! how my longing eye Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds Thy sands and high white cliffs!
Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud, Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, Floated away, like a departing dream, Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane, With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel That God is everywhere! the God who framed Mankind to be one mighty family,
Himself our Father, and the World our Home.
ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY,
SWEET Flower! that peeping from thy russet stem Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month
Hath borrowed Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower! These are but flatteries of the faithless year. Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave, E'en now the keen North-East is on its way. Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth Nipped by consumption mid untimely charms? Or to Bristowa's bard,' the wondrous boy! An amaranth, which Earth scarce seemed to own, Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong Beat it to Earth? or with indignant grief Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope, Bright flower of Hope killed in the opening bud? Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine And mock my boding! Dim similitudes Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour From anxious self, Life's cruel task-master!
And the warm wooings of this sunny day Tremble along my frame, and harmonize
The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes Played deftly on a soft-toned instrument.
COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE.
My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown With white-flowered jasmin, and the broad-leaved myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!) And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed!
The stilly murmur of the distant sea
Tells us of silence.
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!
How by the desultory breeze caressed,
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes Over delicious surges sink and rise, Such a soft floating witchery of sound As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers, Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing! O the one life within us and abroad,
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, A light in sound, a sound-like power in light Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where- Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world so filled; Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air Is Music slumbering on her instrument.
And thus, my love! as on the midway slope Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, And tranquil muse upon tranquillity ;
Full many a thought uncalled and undetained, And many idle flitting phantasies,
Traverse my indolent and passive brain, As wild and various as the random gales That swell and flutter on this subject lute!
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