Coombe-Ellen

Call the strange spirit that abides unseenIn wilds, and wastes, and shaggy solitudes,And bid his dim hand lead thee through these scenesThat burst immense around! By mountains, glens,And solitary cataracts that dashThrough dark ravines; and trees, whose wreathed rootsO'erhang the torrent's channelled course; and streams,That far below, along the narrow vale,Upon their rocky way wind musical.Stranger! if Nature charm thee, if thou lovestTo trace her awful steps, in glade or glen,Or under covert of the rocking wood,That sways its murmuring and mossy boughsAbove thy head; now, when the wind at timesStirs its deep silence round thee, and the showerFalls on the sighing foliage, hail her hereIn these her haunts; and, rapt in musings high,Think that thou holdest converse with some PowerInvisible and strange; such as of yoreGreece, in the shades of piney MÊnalaus,The abode of Pan, or Ida's hoary caves,Worshipped; and our old Druids, 'mid the gloomOf rocks and woods like these, with muttered spellInvoked, and the loud ring of choral harps.Hast thou oft mourned the chidings of the world,The sound of her disquiet, that ascendsFor ever, mocking the high throne of GOD!Hast thou in youth known sorrow! Hast thou drooped,Heart-stricken, over youth's and beauty's grave,And ever after thought on the sad soundThe cold earth made, which, cast into the vault,Consigned thy heart's best treasure--dust to dust!Here, lapped into a sweet forgetfulness,Hang o'er the wreathed waterfall, and thinkThou art alone in this dark world and wide!Here Melancholy, on the pale crags laid,Might muse herself to sleep; or Fancy come,Witching the mind with tender cozenage,And shaping things that are not; here all dayMight Meditation listen to the lapseOf the white waters, flashing through the cleft,And, gazing on the many shadowing trees,Mingle a pensive moral as she gazed.High o'er thy head, amidst the shivered slate,Behold, a sapling yet, the wild ash bend,Its dark red berries clustering, as it wishedIn the clear liquid mirror, ere it fell,To trace its beauties; o'er the prone cascade,Airy, and light, and elegant, the birchDisplays its glossy stem, amidst the gloomOf alders and jagged fern, and evermoreWaves her light pensile foliage, as she wooedThe passing gale to whisper flatteries.Upon the adverse bank, withered, and strippedOf all its pleasant leaves, a scathed oakHangs desolate, once sovereign of the scene,Perhaps, proud of its beauty and its strength,And branching its broad arms along the glen:Oh, speaks it no remonstrance to the heart!It seems to say: So shall the spoiler come,The season that shall shatter your fair leaves,Gay children of the summer! yet enjoyYour pleasant prime, and lift your green heads high,Exulting; but the storm will come at last,That shall lay low your strength, and give your prideTo the swift-hurrying stream of age, like mine.And so severe Experience oft reprovesThe gay and careless children of the world;They hear the cold rebuke, and then againTurn to their sport, as likes them, and dance on!And let them dance; so all their blooming primeThey give not up to vanity, but learnThat wisdom and that virtue which shall bestAvail them, when the evil days draw nigh,And the brief blossoms of their spring-time fade.Now wind we up the glen, and hear belowThe dashing torrent, in deep woods concealed,And now again white-flashing on the view,O'er the huge craggy fragments. Ancient stream,That murmurest through the mountain solitudes,The time has been when no eye marked thy course,Save His who made the world! Fancy might dreamShe saw thee thus bound on from age to ageUnseen of man, whilst awful Nature satOn the rent rocks, and said: These haunts be mine.Now Taste has marked thy features; here and thereTouching with tender hand, but injuring not,Thy beauties; whilst along thy woody vergeAscends the winding pathway, and the eyeCatches at intervals thy varied falls.But loftier scenes invite us; pass the hill,And through the woody hanging, at whose feetThe tinkling Ellen winds, pursue thy way.Yon bleak and weather-whitened rock, immense,Upshoots amidst the scene, craggy and steep,And like some high-embattled citadel,That awes the low plain shadowing. Half-way upThe purple heath is seen, but bare its brow,And deep-intrenched, and all beneath it spreadWith massy fragments riven from its top.Amidst the crags, and scarce discerned so high,Hangs here and there a sheep, by its faint bleatDiscovered, whilst the astonished eye looks up,And marks it on the precipice's brinkPick its scant food secure:--and fares it notEv'n so with you, poor orphans, ye who climbThe rugged path of life without a friend;And over broken crags bear hardly on,With pale imploring looks, that seem to say,My mother! she is buried, and at rest,Laid in her grave-clothes; and the heart is still,The only heart that throughout all the worldBeat anxiously for you! Oh, yet bear on;He who sustains the bleating lamb shall feedAnd comfort you: meantime the heaven's pure beam,That breaks above the sable mountain's brow,Lighting, one after one, the sunless crags,Awakes the blissful confidence, that here,Or in a world where sorrow never comes,All shall be well.Now through the whispering woodWe steal, and mark the old and mossy oaksImboss the mountain slope; or the wild ash,With rich red clusters mantling; or the birch,In lonely glens light-wavering; till behold!The rapid river shooting through the gloomIts lucid line along; and on its sideThe bordering pastures green, where the swinked oxLies dreaming, heedless of the numerous fliesThat, in the transitory sunshine, humRound his broad breast; and further up the cot,With blue, light smoke ascending; imagesOf peace and comfort! The wild rocks aroundEndear your smile the more, and the full mind,Sliding from scenes of dread magnificence,Sinks on your charms reposing; such reposeThe sage may feel, when, filled and half-oppressedWith vast conceptions, smiling he returnsTo life's consoling sympathies, and hears,With heartfelt tenderness, the bells ring out;Or pipe upon the mountains; or the lowOf herds slow winding down the cottaged vale,Where day's last sunshine linger. Such reposeHe feels, who, following where his SHAKSPEARE leads,As in a dream, through an enchanted land,Here, with Macbeth, in the dread cavern hailsThe weird sisters, and the dismal deedWithout a name; there sees the charmed isle,The lone domain of Prospero; and, hark!Wild music, such as earth scarce seems to own,And Ariel o'er the slow-subsiding surgeSinging her smooth air quaintly! Such reposeSteals o'er her spirits, when, through storms at sea,Fancy has followed some nigh-foundered barkFull many a league, in ocean's solitudeTossed far beyond the Cape of utmost Horn,That stems the roaring deep; her dreary trackStill Fancy follows, and at dead of nightHears, with strange thunder, the huge fragments fallCrashing, from mountains of high-drifting iceThat o'er her bows gleam fearful; till at lastShe hails the gallant ship in some still baySafe moored; or of delightful Tinian;Smiling, like fairy isle, amid the waste;Or of New Zealand, where from sheltering rocksThe clear cascades gush beautiful, and highThe woodland scenery towers above the mast,Whose long and wavy ensign streams beneath.Far inland, clad in snow, the mountains liftTheir spiry summits, and endear the moreThe sylvan scene around; the healing airBreathes o'er green myrtles, and the poe-bird flits,Amid the shade of aromatic shrubs,With silver neck and blue enamelled wing.Now cross the stream, and up the narrow track,That winds along the mountain's edge, beholdThe peasant girl ascend: cheerful her look,Beneath the umbrage of her broad black hat,And loose her dark-brown hair; the plodding padThat bears her panting climbs, and with sure stepAvoids the jutting fragments; she, meantime,Sits unconcerned, till, lessening from the view,She gains the summit and is seen no more.All day, along that mountain's heathy waste,Booted and strapped, and in rough coat succinct,His small shrill whistle pendent at his breast,With dogs and gun, untired the sportsman roams;Nor quits his wildly-devious range, till eve,Upon the woods, the rocks, and mazy rillsDescending, warns him home: then he rejoinsThe social circle, just as the clear moon,Emerging o'er the sable mountain, sailsSilent, and calm, and beautiful, and shedsIts solemn grandeur on the shadowy scene.To music then; and let some chosen strainOf HANDEL gently recreate the sense,And give the silent heart to tender joy.Pass on to the hoar cataract, that foamsThrough the dark fissures of the riven rock;Prone-rushing it descends, and with white whirl,Save where some silent shady pool receivesIts dash; thence bursting, with collected sweep,And hollow sound, it hurries, till it fallsFoaming in the wild stream that winds below.Dark trees, that to the mountain's height ascend,O'ershade with pendent boughs its mossy course,And, looking up, the eye beholds it flashBeneath the incumbent gloom, from ledge to ledgeShooting its silvery foam, and far withinWreathing its curve fantastic. If the harpOf deep poetic inspiration, struckAt times by the pale minstrel, whilst a strangeAnd beauteous light filled his uplifted eye,Hath ever sounded into mortal ears,Here I might think I heard its tones, and saw,Sublime amidst the solitary scene,With dimly-gleaming harp, and snowy stole,And cheek in momentary frenzy flushed,The great musician stand. Hush, every windThat shakes the murmuring branches! and thou stream,Descending still with hollow-sounding sweep,Hush! 'Twas the bard struck the loud strings: Arise,Son of the magic song, arise!And bid the deep-toned lyrePour forth its manly melodies.With eyes on fire,CARADOC rushed upon the foe;He reared his arm--he laid the mighty low!O'er the plain see him urge his gore-bathed steed!They bleed, the Romans bleed!He lifts his lance on high,They fly! the fierce invaders fly!Fear not now the horse or spear,Fear not now the foeman's might;Victory the cry shall hearOf those who for their country fight;O'er the slainThat strew the plain,Stern on her sable war-horse shall she ride,And lift her red right hand, in their heart's blood deep dyed!Return, my Muse! the fearful sound is past;And now a little onward, where the wayAscends above the oaks that far belowShade the rude steep, let Contemplation leadOur footsteps; from this shady eminence'Tis pleasant and yet fearful to look downUpon the river roaring, and far offTo see it stretch in peace, and mark the rocksOne after one, in solemn majestyUnfolding their wild reaches; here with woodMantled, beyond abrupt and bare, and eachAs if it strove, with emulous disdain,To tower in ruder, darker amplitude.Pause, ere we enter the long craggy vale;It seems the abode of Solitude. So highThe rock's bleak summit frowns above our head,Looking immediate down, we almost fearLest some enormous fragment should descendWith hideous sweep into the vale, and crushThe intruding visitant. No sound is here,Save of the stream that shrills, and now and thenA cry as of faint wailing, when the kiteComes sailing o'er the crags, or straggling lambBleats for its mother. Here, remote from man,And life's discordant roar, might PietyLift up her early orisons to HimWho made the world; who piled up, mighty rocks,Your huge o'ershadowing summits; who devolvedThe mighty rivers on their mazy course;Who bade the seasons roll, and they rolled onIn harmony; who filled the earth with joy,And spread it in magnificence. O GOD!Thou also madest the great water-flood,The deep that uttereth thy voice; whose wavesToss fearful at thy bidding. Thou didst speak,And lo! the great and glorious sun, from nightTenfold upspringing, through the heavens' wide wayHeld his untired career. These, in their course,As with one shout of acclamation, praiseThee, LORD! thee, FATHER! thee, ALMIGHTY KING!Maker of earth and heaven! Nor less the flowerThat shakes its purple head, and smiles unseenUpon the mountain's van; nor less the streamThat tinkles through the cliff-encircled bourne,Cheering with music the lone place, proclaim:In wisdom, Father, hast thou made them all!Scenes of retired sublimity, that fillWith fearful ecstasy and holy tranceThe pausing mind! we leave your awful gloom,And lo! the footway plank, that leads acrossThe narrow torrent, foaming through the chasmBelow; the rugged stones are washed and wornInto a thousand shapes, and hollows scoopedBy long attrition of the ceaseless surge,Smooth, deep, and polished as the marble urn,In their hard forms. Here let us sit, and watchThe struggling current burst its headlong way,Hearing the noise it makes, and musing muchOn the strange changes of this nether world.How many ages must have swept to dustThe still succeeding multitudes, that "fretTheir little hour" upon this restless scene,Or ere the sweeping waters could have cutThe solid rock so deep! As now its roarComes hollow from below, methinks we hearThe noise of generations, as they pass,O'er the frail arch of earthly vanity,To silence and oblivion. The loud coilNe'er ceases; as the running river soundsFrom age to age, though each particular waveThat made its brief noise, as it hurried on,Ev'n whilst we speak, is past, and heard no more;So ever to the ear of Heaven ascendsThe long, loud murmur of the rolling globe;Its strife, its toils, its sighs, its shouts, the same!But lo! upon the hilly croft, and scarceDistinguished from the crags, the peasant hutForth peeping; nor unwelcome is the sight.It seems to say: Though solitude be sweet,And sweet are all the images that floatLike summer-clouds before the eye, and charmThe pensive wanderer's way, 'tis sweeter yetTo think that in this world a brother lives.And lovelier smiles the scene, that, 'mid the wildsOf rocks and mountains, the bemused thoughtRemembers of humanity, and callsThe wildly-roving fancy back to life.Here, then, I leave my harp, which I have touchedWith careless hand, and here I bid farewellTo Fancy's fading pictures, and farewellThe ideal spirit that abides unseen'Mid rocks, and woods, and solitudes. I hailRather the steps of Culture, that ascendThe precipice's side. She bids the wildBloom, and adorns with beauty not its ownThe ridged mountain's tract; she speaks, and lo!The yellow harvest nods upon the slope;And through the dark and matted moss upshootsThe bursting clover, smiling to the sun.These are thy offspring, Culture! the green herbIs thine, that decks with rich luxurianceThe pasture's lawny range; the yellow corn,That waves upon the upland ridge, is thine;Thine too the elegant abode, that smilesAmidst the rocky scene, and wakes the thought,The tender thought, of all life's charities.And senseless were my heart, could I look backUpon the varied way my feet have trod,Without a silent prayer that health and joy,And love and happiness, may long abideIn the romantic vale where Ellen winds.