With long-swept rise and swiftly gathering sweep,
That seems to rake the bosom of the deep;
With curling crest and tint of lucid blue,
That glows with innate specks of snowy hue;
With pendent pause and darkly swelling breast,
That heaves as lovely woman’s in her rest;
The mighty eastern wave with booming roar
Falls thund’ring on old Afric’s rocky shore.
With busy spread he swamps the crannied rocks,
And now refills a thousand puny locks,
In seething eddies swirls and frets about,
Then shrinking back, he sinks, and hurries out.
Recalled, I ween, by some internal power
That guides his motion and directs his hour;
As does the heart, withdrawing in its turn,
The drop it late emitted from its urn.
Now further down along the sandy beach
The waves seem stretching to their utmost reach,
Then swift receding with the grating sand,
They curl in little rills along the strand,
While myriad tribes of sea-born insect life
Pursue their exit and enjoy their strife;
The fresh’ning sea-breeze spreads her airy wings,
And health and coolness to the seashore brings;
The tumbling porpoise bowl along the tide,
And now aloft, now down the billow glide,
And shrieking sea-birds swooping round the steep,
Skim the gay surface of the cresting deep;
The distant ship, as viewed from Komo’s cliff,
Seems almost dwindled to a fisher’s skiff;
As swiftly gliding o’er the seething surge,
She sinks beyond the horizon’s dusky verge;
While flaming in the painted west again,
“The sun’s last splendour lights the dazzling main.”
Lo! on the flushed horizon rolled along
Dark mountain lines of clouds embattling throng,
Mid blood-tipt peaks of fiercest fiery hue
Intensely sleeps th’ unutterable blue;
While gentle Hesperus from the empurpled sky,
Serenely lustrous as repose draws nigh,
Sinks sweetly smiling to her silken bed,
Where gorgeous robes and pillowing folds are spread,
And darkened Day leaves stretching o’er his grave
Deep crimson stains along the dark-blue wave.
My song has wandered from the mountain stream,
And Ocean’s wonders still employ my dream,
And here the cherished image of the brain
In pensive beauty shades the heart again;
Fond, foolish fancy, ever hov’ring nigh,
Paints her own idol on the wistful eye,
And breeds an atrophy’s insatiate ill,
Which though with nectar slaked, is cheerless still.
Oh, for the witching arts of ancient days,
When mortals, oft transmuted into fays,
Were given to guide the streamlet’s winding course,
And dwell enchanted at its bubbling source,
That I an Oread of my love might make,
To bless my steps through hunting glade or brake,
And roam with her where mountain cascades roll,
The guiding star, the Beatrice of my soul.
But to my theme—the sunny hours flow by,
And still unnumbered objects please the eye;
I watch the bubbles in their endless race,
For ever glancing o’er the brooklet’s face;
Oft at some sailing bud there sudden leaps
The finny darter of the glassy deeps;
While quiv’ring lilies in the current’s sweep,
In dancing movement, ceaseless motion keep;
I watch the butterflies in giddy flights,
Intensely mad, enjoying noon’s delights;
They meet, they turn, they hover here and there,
Then wildly scatter through the heated air.
The sun declines, behind the clouds he steals;
Loud o’er my head the sudden thunder peals,
And winged with lightning, awful echoes wakes
In caves rebellowing to the din it makes—
Dies on the breathless air, the song of birds,
And distant low the homeward wending herds;
The twitt’ring birds now seek the leafy brakes,
The lofty eagle now his perch forsakes,—
Forth from his castled rock he sudden flies,
And shuns in caves the fury of the skies.
Now heavy clouds o’ershade the verdant plain,
Then on the thirsty earth descend in rain;
And now the snowy hail, with rushing sound
Falls from its crystal quarries to the ground.
’Tis past! the sun a moment smiles in joy,
And rides his parting course without alloy;
While Zephyrs coy compound a gentle breeze,
And fan the air, and play among the trees.
Sunk o’er the mount, far in the tinted west,
The hidden sun has now declined to rest;
And ling’ring twilight, gloaming o’er the hill,
Sheds softest influence on the evening still.
I fain would cease, yet many thoughts still flow
Upon my mind, though ever waning low,
As when old Ocean’s billow-beaten shore
Has echoed to the wakened waters’ roar;
The o’erflown storm an agitation leaves
That still the less’ning wavelet on him heaves—
And still these little waves will ceaseless play
As ruling passions ever hold their sway;
Our primal thoughts will ever flow toward
Their consummation of their own accord,
As fountains, scattered o’er a mountain’s side
Will still, unto a point, converging, glide.
High on this hill I sound my rugged shell,
And sweep th’ untutored lyre; and should I swell
A strain of feelings purer than I feel
In th’ envenomed world below, and steal
The precepts of the Ethic muse to sing
Of that I practise not, forgive my string.
For still with joy is hailed the welcome hour
That bears respite from frequent trials’ power;
And all the puling prate of fashion’s twang,
And jarring accents of the city’s clang;
Releasing from the weary humdrum prose
That marks each dreary day’s monot’nous close;
And lifts us from the plain of low desires
To where Imagination never tires,
Where Contemplation plumes her ruffled wings,
And th’ untrammelled mind beholds all things,
As through a stained and softly coloured glass
One views the dream-like trees and waving grass,
And transports where kind Nature oft bestows
A soothing cup—nepenthe of our woes—
And though the harp be swept by bard profane,
If good the theme, the song is ne’er in vain;
For should his simple lay be nursed by fame,
Old Time forgets the follies of his name,
Effaces all the failings of his life,
And rears the strain that softens earthly strife.
And now, farewell!—dark shades enwrap the hill,
O’er dying day the dews in tears distil,
To shine again when with the morrow’s dawn
The golden light and joyous sun are born,
As gathered tears called forth by sorrow’s night,
In Beauty’s eyes, when lit by joy, are bright—
The sable Night, with dusky wings on high,
With silent pace invades the spangling sky—
And distant gleaming on th’ horizon’s verge,
The parting storm rolls out its solemn dirge—
And should this artless strain a thought afford
That strikes in gen’rous breasts a fellow chord,
Then, oh! forgive, that thus I rashly dare
From Nature’s hallowed charms the veil to tear—
But ever with her changing scenes imbued,
Her pleading beauties urge me to intrude.
——Moodie.
Melsetter, January 1868.
