The Bluebell cannot charm me now, The heath has lost its bloom;The violets in the glen below, They yield no sweet perfume.
But, though I mourn the sweet Bluebell, 'Tis better far away;I know how fast my tears would swell To see it smile to-day.
For, oh! when chill the sunbeams fall Adown that dreary sky, And gild yon dank and darkened wall With transient brilliancy;How do I weep, how do I pine For the time of flowers to come, And turn me from that fading shine, To mourn the fields of home!
III.
Loud without the wind was roaring Through th'autumnal sky;Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring, Spoke of winter nigh.
All too like that dreary eve, Did my exiled spirit grieve.
Grieved at first, but grieved not long, Sweet--how softly sweet!--it came;Wild words of an ancient song, Undefined, without a name.
"It was spring, and the skylark was singing:"
Those words they awakened a spell;They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing, Nor absence, nor distance can quell.
In the gloom of a cloudy November They uttered the music of May ;They kindled the perishing ember Into fervour that could not decay.
Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland, West-wind, in thy glory and pride!
Oh! call me from valley and lowland, To walk by the hill-torrent's side!
It is swelled with the first snowy weather;The rocks they are icy and hoar, And sullenly waves the long heather, And the fern leaves are sunny no more.
There are no yellow stars on the mountain The bluebells have long died away From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain--
From the side of the wintry brae.
But lovelier than corn-fields all waving In emerald, and vermeil, and gold, Are the heights where the north-wind is raving, And the crags where I wandered of old.
It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;How sweetly it brought back to me The time when nor labour nor dreaming Broke the sleep of the happy and free!
But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven Was melting to amber and blue, And swift were the wings to our feet given, As we traversed the meadows of dew.
For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass Like velvet beneath us should lie!
For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass Rose sunny against the clear sky!
For the moors, where the linnet was trilling Its song on the old granite stone;Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling Every breast with delight like its own!
What language can utter the feeling Which rose, when in exile afar, On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling, I saw the brown heath growing there?
It was scattered and stunted, and told me That soon even that would be gone:
It whispered, "The grim walls enfold me, I have bloomed in my last summer's sun."
But not the loved music, whose waking Makes the soul of the Swiss die away, Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.
The spirit which bent 'neath its power, How it longed--how it burned to be free!
If I could have wept in that hour, Those tears had been heaven to me.
Well--well; the sad minutes are moving, Though loaded with trouble and pain;And some time the loved and the loving Shall meet on the mountains again!
The following little piece has no title; but in it the Genius of a solitary region seems to address his wandering and wayward votary, and to recall within his influence the proud mind which rebelled at times even against what it most loved.
Shall earth no more inspire thee, Thou lonely dreamer now?
Since passion may not fire thee, Shall nature cease to bow?
Thy mind is ever moving, In regions dark to thee;Recall its useless roving, Come back, and dwell with me.
I know my mountain breezes Enchant and soothe thee still, I know my sunshine pleases, Despite thy wayward will.
When day with evening blending, Sinks from the summer sky, I've seen thy spirit bending In fond idolatry.
I've watched thee every hour;I know my mighty sway:
I know my magic power To drive thy griefs away.
Few hearts to mortals given, On earth so wildly pine;Yet few would ask a heaven More like this earth than thine.
Then let my winds caress thee Thy comrade let me be:
Since nought beside can bless thee, Return--and dwell with me.
Here again is the same mind in converse with a like abstraction.
"The Night-Wind," breathing through an open window, has visited an ear which discerned language in its whispers.
THE NIGHT-WIND.
In summer's mellow midnight, A cloudless moon shone through Our open parlour window, And rose-trees wet with dew.
I sat in silent musing;The soft wind waved my hair;It told me heaven was glorious, And sleeping earth was fair.
I needed not its breathing To bring such thoughts to me;But still it whispered lowly, How dark the woods will be!
"The thick leaves in my murmur Are rustling like a dream, And all their myriad voices Instinct with spirit seem."
I said, "Go, gentle singer, Thy wooing voice is kind:
But do not think its music Has power to reach my mind.
"Play with the scented flower, The young tree's supple bough, And leave my human feelings In their own course to flow."
The wanderer would not heed me;Its kiss grew warmer still.
"O come!" it sighed so sweetly;"I'll win thee 'gainst thy will.
"Were we not friends from childhood?
Have I not loved thee long?
As long as thou, the solemn night, Whose silence wakes my song.
"And when thy heart is resting Beneath the church-aisle stone, I shall have time for mourning, And THOU for being alone."
In these stanzas a louder gale has roused the sleeper on her pillow: the wakened soul struggles to blend with the storm by which it is swayed:--
Ay--there it is! it wakes to-night Deep feelings I thought dead;Strong in the blast--quick gathering light--
The heart's flame kindles red.
"Now I can tell by thine altered cheek, And by thine eyes' full gaze, And by the words thou scarce dost speak, How wildly fancy plays.
"Yes--I could swear that glorious wind Has swept the world aside, Has dashed its memory from thy mind Like foam-bells from the tide:
"And thou art now a spirit pouring Thy presence into all:
The thunder of the tempest's roaring, The whisper of its fall:
