Coombe-Ellen.[1]

Call the strange spirit that abides unseen     In wilds, and wastes, and shaggy solitudes,     And bid his dim hand lead thee through these scenes     That burst immense around! By mountains, glens,     And solitary cataracts that dash     Through dark ravines; and trees, whose wreathed roots     O'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 lovest     To trace her awful steps, in glade or glen,     Or under covert of the rocking wood,     That sways its murmuring and mossy boughs     Above thy head; now, when the wind at times     Stirs its deep silence round thee, and the shower     Falls on the sighing foliage, hail her here     In these her haunts; and, rapt in musings high,     Think that thou holdest converse with some Power     Invisible and strange; such as of yore     Greece, in the shades of piney Mnalaus,     The abode of Pan, or Ida's hoary caves,     Worshipped; and our old Druids, 'mid the gloom     Of rocks and woods like these, with muttered spell     Invoked, and the loud ring of choral harps.     Hast thou oft mourned the chidings of the world,     The sound of her disquiet, that ascends     For 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 sound     The 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 think     Thou 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 day     Might Meditation listen to the lapse     Of 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 wished     In the clear liquid mirror, ere it fell,     To trace its beauties; o'er the prone cascade,     Airy, and light, and elegant, the birch     Displays its glossy stem, amidst the gloom     Of alders and jagged fern, and evermore     Waves her light pensile foliage, as she wooed     The passing gale to whisper flatteries.     Upon the adverse bank, withered, and stripped     Of all its pleasant leaves, a scathed oak     Hangs 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 enjoy     Your 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 pride     To the swift-hurrying stream of age, like mine.     And so severe Experience oft reproves     The gay and careless children of the world;     They hear the cold rebuke, and then again     Turn to their sport, as likes them, and dance on!     And let them dance; so all their blooming prime     They give not up to vanity, but learn     That wisdom and that virtue which shall best     Avail them, when the evil days draw nigh,     And the brief blossoms of their spring-time fade.     Now wind we up the glen, and hear below     The 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 dream     She saw thee thus bound on from age to age     Unseen of man, whilst awful Nature sat     On the rent rocks, and said: These haunts be mine.     Now Taste has marked thy features; here and there     Touching with tender hand, but injuring not,     Thy beauties; whilst along thy woody verge     Ascends the winding pathway, and the eye     Catches at intervals thy varied falls.     But loftier scenes invite us; pass the hill,     And through the woody hanging, at whose feet     The 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 up     The purple heath is seen, but bare its brow,     And deep-intrenched, and all beneath it spread     With massy fragments riven from its top.     Amidst the crags, and scarce discerned so high,     Hangs here and there a sheep, by its faint bleat     Discovered, whilst the astonished eye looks up,     And marks it on the precipice's brink     Pick its scant food secure: and fares it not     Ev'n so with you, poor orphans, ye who climb     The 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 world     Beat anxiously for you! Oh, yet bear on;     He who sustains the bleating lamb shall feed     And 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 wood     We steal, and mark the old and mossy oaks     Imboss 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 gloom     Its lucid line along; and on its side     The bordering pastures green, where the swinked ox     Lies dreaming, heedless of the numerous flies     That, in the transitory sunshine, hum     Round his broad breast; and further up the cot,     With blue, light smoke ascending; images     Of peace and comfort! The wild rocks around     Endear your smile the more, and the full mind,     Sliding from scenes of dread magnificence,     Sinks on your charms reposing; such repose     The sage may feel, when, filled and half-oppressed     With vast conceptions, smiling he returns     To life's consoling sympathies, and hears,     With heartfelt tenderness, the bells ring out;     Or pipe upon the mountains; or the low     Of herds slow winding down the cottaged vale,     Where day's last sunshine linger. Such repose     He feels, who, following where his SHAKSPEARE leads,     As in a dream, through an enchanted land,     Here, with Macbeth, in the dread cavern hails     The weird sisters, and the dismal deed     Without 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 surge     Singing her smooth air quaintly! Such repose     Steals o'er her spirits, when, through storms at sea,     Fancy has followed some nigh-foundered bark     Full many a league, in ocean's solitude     Tossed far beyond the Cape of utmost Horn,     That stems the roaring deep; her dreary track     Still Fancy follows, and at dead of night     Hears, with strange thunder, the huge fragments fall     Crashing, from mountains of high-drifting ice     That o'er her bows gleam fearful; till at last     She hails the gallant ship in some still bay     Safe moored; or of delightful Tinian;     Smiling, like fairy isle, amid the waste;     Or of New Zealand, where from sheltering rocks     The clear cascades gush beautiful, and high     The woodland scenery towers above the mast,     Whose long and wavy ensign streams beneath.     Far inland, clad in snow, the mountains lift     Their spiry summits, and endear the more     The sylvan scene around; the healing air     Breathes 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, behold     The peasant girl ascend: cheerful her look,     Beneath the umbrage of her broad black hat,     And loose her dark-brown hair; the plodding pad     That bears her panting climbs, and with sure step     Avoids 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 rills     Descending, warns him home: then he rejoins     The social circle, just as the clear moon,     Emerging o'er the sable mountain, sails     Silent, and calm, and beautiful, and sheds     Its solemn grandeur on the shadowy scene.     To music then; and let some chosen strain     Of HANDEL gently recreate the sense,     And give the silent heart to tender joy.     Pass on to the hoar cataract,[2] that foams     Through the dark fissures of the riven rock;     Prone-rushing it descends, and with white whirl,     Save where some silent shady pool receives     Its dash; thence bursting, with collected sweep,     And hollow sound, it hurries, till it falls     Foaming 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 flash     Beneath the incumbent gloom, from ledge to ledge     Shooting its silvery foam, and far within     Wreathing its curve fantastic. If the harp     Of deep poetic inspiration, struck     At times by the pale minstrel, whilst a strange     And 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 wind     That 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 lyre     Pour 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[3] 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 hear     Of those who for their country fight;     O'er the slain     That 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 way     Ascends above the oaks that far below     Shade the rude steep, let Contemplation lead     Our footsteps; from this shady eminence     'Tis pleasant and yet fearful to look down     Upon the river roaring, and far off     To see it stretch in peace, and mark the rocks     One after one, in solemn majesty     Unfolding their wild reaches; here with wood     Mantled, beyond abrupt and bare, and each     As 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 high     The rock's bleak summit[4] frowns above our head,     Looking immediate down, we almost fear     Lest some enormous fragment should descend     With hideous sweep into the vale, and crush     The intruding visitant. No sound is here,     Save of the stream that shrills, and now and then     A cry as of faint wailing, when the kite     Comes sailing o'er the crags, or straggling lamb     Bleats for its mother. Here, remote from man,     And life's discordant roar, might Piety     Lift up her early orisons to Him     Who made the world; who piled up, mighty rocks,     Your huge o'ershadowing summits; who devolved     The mighty rivers on their mazy course;     Who bade the seasons roll, and they rolled on     In 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 waves     Toss fearful at thy bidding. Thou didst speak,     And lo! the great and glorious sun, from night     Tenfold upspringing, through the heavens' wide way     Held his untired career. These, in their course,     As with one shout of acclamation, praise     Thee, LORD! thee, FATHER! thee, ALMIGHTY KING!     Maker of earth and heaven! Nor less the flower     That shakes its purple head, and smiles unseen     Upon the mountain's van; nor less the stream     That 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 fill     With fearful ecstasy and holy trance     The pausing mind! we leave your awful gloom,     And lo! the footway plank, that leads across     The narrow torrent, foaming through the chasm     Below; the rugged stones are washed and worn     Into a thousand shapes, and hollows scooped     By long attrition of the ceaseless surge,     Smooth, deep, and polished as the marble urn,     In their hard forms. Here let us sit, and watch     The struggling current burst its headlong way,     Hearing the noise it makes, and musing much     On the strange changes of this nether world.     How many ages must have swept to dust     The still succeeding multitudes, that "fret     Their little hour" upon this restless scene,     Or ere the sweeping waters could have cut     The solid rock so deep! As now its roar     Comes hollow from below, methinks we hear     The noise of generations, as they pass,     O'er the frail arch of earthly vanity,     To silence and oblivion. The loud coil     Ne'er ceases; as the running river sounds     From age to age, though each particular wave     That 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 ascends     The long, loud murmur of the rolling globe;     Its strife, its toils, its sighs, its shouts, the same!     But lo! upon the hilly croft, and scarce     Distinguished from the crags, the peasant hut     Forth peeping; nor unwelcome is the sight.     It seems to say: Though solitude be sweet,     And sweet are all the images that float     Like summer-clouds before the eye, and charm     The pensive wanderer's way, 'tis sweeter yet     To think that in this world a brother lives.     And lovelier smiles the scene, that, 'mid the wilds     Of rocks and mountains, the bemused thought     Remembers of humanity, and calls     The wildly-roving fancy back to life.     Here, then, I leave my harp, which I have touched     With careless hand, and here I bid farewell     To Fancy's fading pictures, and farewell     The ideal spirit that abides unseen     'Mid rocks, and woods, and solitudes. I hail     Rather the steps of Culture, that ascend     The precipice's side. She bids the wild     Bloom, and adorns with beauty not its own     The ridged mountain's tract; she speaks, and lo!     The yellow harvest nods upon the slope;     And through the dark and matted moss upshoots     The bursting clover, smiling to the sun.     These are thy offspring, Culture! the green herb     Is thine, that decks with rich luxuriance     The pasture's lawny range; the yellow corn,     That waves upon the upland ridge, is thine;     Thine too the elegant abode, that smiles     Amidst the rocky scene, and wakes the thought,     The tender thought, of all life's charities.     And senseless were my heart, could I look back     Upon the varied way my feet have trod,     Without a silent prayer that health and joy,     And love and happiness, may long abide     In the romantic vale where Ellen winds.