To Contemplation

Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwellIn some retired Lapponian cell,Where, far from noise and riot rude,Besides sequester'd solitude.Come, and o'er my longing soulThrow thy dark and russet stole,And open to my duteous eyesThe volume of thy mysteries.

I will meet thee on the hill,Where, with printless footsteps still,The morning in her buskin graySprings upon her eastern way;While the frolic zephyrs stir,Playing with the gossamer,And, on ruder pinions borne,Shake the dewdrops from the thorn.There, as o'er the fields we pass,Brushing with hasty feet the grass,We will startle from her nestThe lively lark with speckled breast,And hear the floating clouds amongHer gale-transported matin song,Or on the upland stile, embower'dWith fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd,Will sauntering sit, and listen stillTo the herdsman's oaten quill,Wafted from the plain below;Or the heifer's frequent low;Or the milkmaid in the grove,Singing of one that died for love.Or when the noontide heats oppress,We will seek the dark recess,Where, in the embower'd translucent stream,The cattle shun the sultry beam,And o'er us on the marge reclined,The drowsy fly her horn shall wind,While echo, from her ancient oak,Shall answer to the woodman's stroke;Or the little peasant's song,Wandering lone the glens among,His artless lip with berries dyed,And feet through ragged shoes descried.

But oh! when evening's virgin queenSits on her fringed throne serene,And mingling whispers rising nearSteal on the still reposing ear;While distant brooks decaying round,Augment the mix'd dissolving sound,And the zephyr flitting byWhispers mystic harmony,We will seek the woody lane,By the hamlet, on the plain,Where the weary rustic nighShall whistle his wild melody,And the croaking wicket oftShall echo from the neighbouring croft;And as we trace the green path lone,With moss and rank weeds overgrown,We will muse on penbive lore?Till the full soul, brimming o'er,Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear,Embodied in a quivering tear.Or else, serenely silent, sitBy the brawling rivulet,Which on its calm unruffled breastRears the old mossy arch impressed,That clasps its secret stream of glass,Half hid in shrubs and waving grass,The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat,Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet,We'll watch in eve's ethereal braidThe rich vermilion slowly fade;Or catch, faint twinkling from afarThe first glimpse of the eastern star;Fair vesper, mildest lamp of light,That heralds in imperial night:Meanwhile, upon our wondering ear,Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear,The distant sounds of pastoral lute,Invoking soft the sober suitOf dimmest darkness--fitting wellWith love, or sorrow's pensive spell,(So erst did music's silver toneWake slumbering chaos on his throne).And haply then, with sudden swell,Shall roar the distant curfew bell,While in the castle's mouldering towerThe hooting owl is heard to pourHer melancholy song, and scareDull silence brooding in the air.Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering carBlack-suited night drives on from far,And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear,Arrests the waxing darkness drear,And summons to her silent call,Sweeping, in their airy pall,The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance,To join her moonshine morris-dance;While around the mystic ringThe shadowy shapes elastic spring,Then with a passing shriek they fly,Wrapt in mists, along the sky,And oft are by the shepherd seenIn his lone night-watch on the green.

Then, hermit, let us turn our feetTo the low abbey's still retreat,Embower'd in the distant glen,Far from the haunts of busy men,Where as we sit upon the tomb,The glowworm's light may gild the gloom,And show to fancy's saddest eyeWhere some lost hero's ashes lie.And oh, as through the mouldering arch,With ivy fill'd and weeping larch,The night gale whispers sadly clear,Speaking dear things to fancy's ear,We'll hold communion with the shadeOf some deep wailing, ruin'd maid--Or call the ghost of Spenser down,To tell of woe and fortune's frown;And bid us cast the eye of hopeBeyond this bad world's narrow scope.Or if these joys, to us denied,To linger by the forest's side;Or in the meadow, or the wood,Or by the lone, romantic flood;Let us in the busy town,When sleep's dull streams the people drown,Far from drowsy pillows flee,And turn the church's massy key;Then, as through the painted glassThe moon's faint beams obscurely pass,And darkly on the trophied wallHer faint, ambiguous shadows fall,Let us, while the faint winds wailThrough the long reluctant aisle,As we pace with reverence meet,Count the echoings of our feet,While from the tombs, with confess'd breath,Distinct responds the voice of death.If thou, mild sage, wilt condescendThus on my footsteps to attend,To thee my lonely lamp shall burnBy fallen Genius' sainted urn,As o'er the scroll of Time I pore,And sagely spell of ancient lore,Till I can rightly guess of allThat Plato could to memory call,And scan the formless views of things;Or, with old Egypt's fetter'd kings,Arrange the mystic trains that shineIn night's high philosophic mine;And to thy name shall e'er belongThe honours of undying song.