And should she die, her grave should be Upon the bare top of a sunny hill, Among the moorlands of her own fair land, Amid a ring of old and moss-grown stones In gorse and heather all embosomed. There should be no tall stone, no marble tomb Above her gentle corse;—the ponderous pile Would press too rudely on those fairy limbs. The turf should lightly he, that marked her home. A sacred spot it would be—every bird That came to watch her lone grave should be holy. The deer should browse around her undisturbed; The whin bird by, her lonely nest should build All fearless; for in life she loved to see Happiness in all things— And we would come on summer days When all around was bright, and set us down And think of all that lay beneath that turf On which the heedless moor-bird sits, and whistles His long, shrill, painful song, as though he plained For her that loved him and his pleasant hills; And we would dream again of bygone days Until our eyes should swell with natural tears For brilliant hopes—all faded into air! As, on the sands of Irak, near approach Destroys the traveller’s vision of still lakes, And goodly streams reed-clad, and meadows green; And leaves behind the drear reality Of shadeless, same, yet ever-changing sand! And when the sullen clouds rose thick on high Mountains on mountains rolling—and dark mist Wrapped itself round the hill-tops like a shroud, When on her grave swept by the moaning wind Bending the heather-bells—then would I come And watch by her, in silent loneliness, And smile upon the storm—as knowing well The lightning’s flash would surely turn aside, Nor mar the lowly mound, where peaceful sleeps All that gave life and love to one fond heart! I talk of things that are not; and if prayers By night and day availed from my weak lips, Then should they never be! till I was gone, Before the friends I loved, to my long home. Oh pardon me, if e’er I say too much; my mind Too often strangely turns to ribald mirth, As though I had no doubt nor hope beyond— Or brooding melancholy cloys my soul With thoughts of days misspent, of wasted time And bitter feelings swallowed up in jests. Then strange and fearful thoughts flit o’er my brain By indistinctness made more terrible, And incubi mock at me with fierce eyes Upon my couch: and visions, crude and dire, Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity, Space, time, thought, being, blank nonentity, Things incorporeal, fancies of the brain, Seen, heard, as though they were material, All mixed in sickening mazes, trouble me, And lead my soul away from earth and heaven Until I doubt whether I be or not! And then I see all frightful shapes—lank ghosts, Hydras, chimeras, krakens, wastes of sand, Herbless and void of living voice—tall mountains Cleaving the skies with height immeasurable, On which perchance I climb for infinite years; broad seas, Studded with islands numberless, that stretch Beyond the regions of the sun, and fade Away in distance vast, or dreary clouds, Cold, dark, and watery, where wander I for ever! Or space of ether, where I hang for aye! A speck, an atom—inconsumable— Immortal, hopeless, voiceless, powerless! And oft I fancy, I am weak and old, And all who loved me, one by one, are dead, And I am left alone—and cannot die! Surely there is no rest on earth for souls Whose dreams are like a madman’s! I am young And much is yet before me—after years May bring peace with them to my weary heart!

Helston, 1835.

TREHILL WELL

There stood a low and ivied roof, As gazing rustics tell, In times of chivalry and song ‘Yclept the holy well. Above the ivies’ branchlets gray In glistening clusters shone; While round the base the grass-blades bright And spiry foxglove sprung. The brambles clung in graceful bands, Chequering the old gray stone With shining leaflets, whose bright face In autumn’s tinting shone. Around the fountain’s eastern base A babbling brooklet sped, With sleepy murmur purling soft Adown its gravelly bed. Within the cell the filmy ferns To woo the clear wave bent; And cushioned mosses to the stone Their quaint embroidery lent. The fountain’s face lay still as glass— Save where the streamlet free Across the basin’s gnarled lip Flowed ever silently. Above the well a little nook Once held, as rustics tell, All garland-decked, an image of The Lady of the Well. They tell of tales of mystery, Of darkling deeds of woe; But no! such doings might not brook The holy streamlet’s flow. Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts, Of melancholy dreams, By that fair fount whose sunny wall Basks in the western beams. When last I saw that little stream, A form of light there stood, That seemed like a precious gem, Beneath that archway rude: And as I gazed with love and awe Upon that sylph-like thing, Methought that airy form must be The fairy of the spring.

Helston, 1835.

Страница 2 из 21

Назад 1 2 3…21 Далее