The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume I Part 2

If chance some pensive stranger, hither led, His bosom glowing from majestic views, Temple and tower 'mid the bright landscape's hues, Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed?

A maid of sorrow. To the cloistered scene, Unknown and beautiful a mourner came, Seeking with unseen tears to quench the flame Of hapless love: yet was her look serene As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle;-- Her voice was gentle and a charm could lend, Like that which spoke of a departed friend; And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!-- Now, far removed from every earthly ill, Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.

THE RIVER CHERWELL.

Cherwell! how pleased along thy willowed edge Erewhile I strayed, or when the morn began To tinge the distant turret's golden fan, Or evening glimmered o'er the sighing sedge!

And now reposing on thy banks once more, I bid the lute farewell, and that sad lay Whose music on my melancholy way I wooed: beneath thy willows waving h.o.a.r, Seeking a while to rest--till the bright sun Of joy return; as when Heaven's radiant Bow Beams on the night-storm's pa.s.sing wings below: Whate'er betide, yet something have I won Of solace, that may bear me on serene, Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.

ON ENTERING SWITZERLAND.

Languid, and sad, and slow, from day to day I journey on, yet pensive turn to view, Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue, The streams, and vales, and hills, that steal away.

So fares it with the children of the earth: For when life's goodly prospect opens round, Their spirits burn to tread that fairy ground, Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth.

But them, alas! the dream of youth beguiles, And soon a longing look, like me, they cast Back on the mountains of the morning past: Yet Hope still beckons us, and beckoning smiles, And to a brighter world her view extends, When earth's long darkness on her path descends.

DISTANT VIEW OF ENGLAND FROM THE SEA.

Yes! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start, As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white Above the wave, once more my beating heart With eager hope and filial transport hails!

Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring, As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring Joyous awoke amidst your hawthorn vales, And filled with fragrance every village lane: Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave!

Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave That bears me nearer to my home again; If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair, Stranger to Peace, I yet may meet her there.

HOPE.

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard Unmoved the carol of the matin bird Salute his lonely porch; now first at morn Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed; He the green slope and level meadow views, Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews; Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head In varying forms fantastic wander white; Or turns his ear to every random song, Heard the green river's winding marge along, The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight.

So o'er my breast young Summer's breath I feel, Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!

TO A FRIEND.

Go, then, and join the murmuring city's throng!

Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears; To busy phantasies, and boding fears, Lest ill betide thee; but 'twill not be long Ere the hard season shall be past; till then Live happy; sometimes the forsaken shade Remembering, and these trees now left to fade; Nor, 'mid the busy scenes and hum of men, Wilt thou my cares forget: in heaviness To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow, Till mournful autumn past, and all the snow Of winter pale, the glad hour I shall bless That shall restore thee from the crowd again, To the green hamlet on the peaceful plain.

1792.

ABSENCE.

There is strange music in the stirring wind, When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone, Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sere.

If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, Thou late hast pa.s.sed the happier hours of spring, With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year; Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn Or evening thou hast shared, afar shall stray.

O Spring, return! return, auspicious May!

But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn, If she return not with thy cheering ray, Who from these shades is gone, far, far away.

BEREAVEMENT.

Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet, Promised methought long days of bliss sincere!

Soothing it stole on my deluded ear, Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of Hope.

Of love, and social scenes, it seemed to speak, Of truth, of friends.h.i.+p, of affection meek; That, oh! poor friend, might to life's downward slope Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours.

Ah me! the prospect saddened as she sung; Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung; Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers, Whilst Horror, pointing to yon breathless clay, "No peace be thine," exclaimed, "away, away!"

1793.

OXFORD REVISITED.

I never hear the sound of thy glad bells, Oxford, and chime harmonious, but I say, Sighing to think how time has worn away, Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells, Heard after years of absence, from the vale Where Cherwell winds. Most true it speaks the tale Of days departed, and its voice recalls Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide Of life, and many friends now scattered wide By many fates. Peace be within thy walls!

I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet, Denied the joys sought in thy shades,--denied Each better hope, since my poor Harriet died, What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget!

IN MEMORIAM.

How blessed with thee the path could I have trod Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate, (And little wis.h.i.+ng more) nor of the great Envious, or their proud name; but it pleased G.o.d To take thee to his mercy: thou didst go In youth and beauty to thy cold death-bed; Even whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed, Of years to come of comfort! Be it so.

Ere this I have felt sorrow; and even now, Though sometimes the unbidden tear will start, And half unman the miserable heart, The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow, And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain, Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again!

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. WILLIAM BENWELL, M.A.[13]

Thou camest with kind looks, when on the brink Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice, Though smitten sore: Oh, I did little think That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall To the stern King of Terrors! Thou didst fly, By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry; And soon thyself were stretched beneath the pall, Livid infection's prey. The deep distress Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew, To whom thy faith was vowed; thy soul was true, What powers of faltering language shall express?

As friends.h.i.+p bids, I feebly breathe my own, And sorrowing say, Pure spirit, thou art gone!

[13] An accomplished young friend of the author--a poet and a scholar, formerly fellow of Trinity College, Oxford--who died of a typhus fever, caught in administering the sacrament to one of his paris.h.i.+oners. Mr Benwell had only been married eleven weeks when he died.

AT MALVERN.

I shall behold far off thy towering crest, Proud mountain! from thy heights as slow I stray Down through the distant vale my homeward way, I shall behold upon thy rugged breast, The parting sun sit smiling: me the while Escaped the crowd, thoughts full of heaviness May visit, as life's bitter losses press Hard on my bosom; but I shall beguile The thing I am, and think, that ev'n as thou Dost lift in the pale beam thy forehead high, Proud mountain! whilst the scattered vapours fly Unheeded round thy breast,--so, with calm brow, The shades of sorrow I may meet, and wear The smile unchanged of peace, though pressed by care!

NETLEY ABBEY.

Fall'n pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; But when the winds, slow wafted from the main, Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain, Come hollow to my ear, I meditate On this world's pa.s.sing pageant, and the lot Of those who once majestic in their prime Stood smiling at decay, till bowed by time Or injury, their early boast forgot, They may have fall'n like thee! Pale and forlorn, Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow, They lift, still unsubdued, as they would scorn This short-lived scene of vanity and woe; Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear The trace of creeping age, and the pale hue of care!

a.s.sOCIATIONS.

As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds, Still on that vision which is flown I dwell, On images I loved, alas, too well!

Now past, and but remembered like sweet sounds Of yesterday! Yet in my breast I keep Such recollections, painful though they seem, And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream I start, and find them not; then I could weep To think how Fortune blights the fairest flowers; To think how soon life's first endearments fail, And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale, Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours Pa.s.s, and when most we call on her to stay, Will fly, as faithless and as fleet as they!

MUSIC.

O harmony! thou tenderest nurse of pain, If that thy note's sweet magic e'er can heal Griefs which the patient spirit oft may feel, Oh! let me listen to thy songs again; Till memory her fairest tints shall bring; Hope wake with brighter eye, and listening seem With smiles to think on some delightful dream, That waved o'er the charmed sense its gladsome wing!

For when thou leadest all thy soothing strains More smooth along, the silent pa.s.sions meet In one suspended transport, sad and sweet; And nought but sorrow's softest touch remains; That, when the transitory charm is o'er, Just wakes a tear, and then is felt no more.

APPROACH OF SUMMER.